THE EASTERN ORTHODOX CHURCH

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For the Family of Saint Gregory’s Orthodox Chaplaincy, Manhattan
 Contents

PRELUDE. The Naming of Parts

ONE. Ecclesial Foundations: Proto- and Post-Apostolic Times

TWO. Shaping Orthodoxy, Mapping Heresy

THREE. The Classical Patristic Period

FOUR. The Byzantine Imperial Church

FIVE. The Church’s Expansion

SIX. Orthodox Life under and after Islamic Dominion

SEVEN. Orthodoxy under the Communists

EIGHT. The Twentieth-Century Orthodox Diaspora

NINE. Recent Outstanding Orthodox Figures

TEN. Day-to-Day Life in an Orthodox Church

POSTLUDE. What Role for Orthodoxy in a Postmodern Environment?

Appendix: A Brief Commentary on the Nicene Creed (A.D. 325)

Notes

Bibliography

Index
 PRELUDE

The Naming of Parts

H ENRY REED (1914–1986), a friend of the poets W. H. Auden and Louis

MacNeice, was a witty and acutely intelligent twenty-seven-year-old
when he was conscripted into the British armed forces during World War II.
He was set to work (with no previous facility or experience) to serve as a
translator of Japanese, and would later quip that the brightest benefit of
peacetime was that he would never have to study another word of the
language as long as he lived. His most famous poem is his satire on British
Army officious inefficiency, “Naming of Parts.” Even when the recruits had
no actual equipment with which to fight, they were required, in a formal
daily drill, to learn names of all the broken-down parts of their (nonexistent)
guns, from the example of the one weapon the drill sergeant showed to
them: “Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday, / We had daily cleaning.
And tomorrow morning, / We shall have what to do after firing.”
The naming of parts is a tedious business at the best of times, and the
mind would always prefer to flit to more glistening bits—Japonica, coral,
gardens with fragile blossoms, which Reed immediately goes on to talk
about in his poem—but when it comes to highly controverted terms and
concepts, it is maybe a good place to start.
Even the title of The Eastern Orthodox Church: A New History will
introduce several such parts. Ninety-six thousand words may not be short
enough for some, but we must let that pass. A workably brief history of
something as old as two millennia in so short a space may be inconceivable
for others. The designation “Eastern” may itself be confusing; when I, for
example, who am a member of the Eastern Church, come from Wallsend in
the North of England and formerly served a community in New York’s
Harlem neighborhood. I myself was much confused when, dressed in the
robes of an Orthodox archpriest at an ecumenical convention, I was
approached by some well-meaning Protestant minister delegate who wished
me Happy Passover and wondered why I was not wearing payot sidelocks
and a hat. It took me a few moments to realize he had confused his
Orthodoxes. But today we have the naming of parts—for what I wish to
begin with is a few comments on what that last little word “Church” might
mean; and that is a question that underlies both the logic of how I might
make a short historical account of Orthodox Christianity in the first place,
and also how the Orthodox Church can be rightly placed among the other,
perhaps more well-known, forms of Christian tradition.
Why I think it is necessary to have this shuffling of feet at the very
outset is because Eastern Orthodoxy refuses to call itself, or see itself, as a
denomination. I used to have regular fun at faculty meetings when the dean
would turn the discussion around to ecumenism and ask how we might all
contribute to an interdenominational approach to various questions. My
hand raised to register a point of order became a regular moment of humor.1
But the serious aspect to it was that a very common modern approach to the
history of the Christian Church takes its beginnings from the present-day
great diversity of churches. Denominationalism is a preferred way in our
time of dealing with the fractions of Christendom that occurred especially
after (but existing long before) the era of the Reformation. Today, without
the notion of denominations and the idea that there are multiplicities of
Christian churches, most can hardly comprehend the idea of what the word
“church” might mean. The fundamental creed of Christendom, the Nicene-
Constantinopolitan statement of faith that most Christians acknowledge,
and some churches recite regularly at worship, states as one of its articles of
faith that the Church of Christ is: “One, holy, catholic, and apostolic.” But
even those Christians who publicly profess those words, week after week,
would be hard put to say how Christianity reconciles the concept of
fundamental unity (that the church is one) with the multiplicity we see with
our eyes. So Orthodoxy’s claim not to be “one of” the Christian churches
but rather “the Church” of Christ is a rather big one that needs addressing
up front.
So let me state up front that this will be a focused history of the
Byzantine Orthodox tradition—the definition of Eastern Orthodox
Christianity that includes, today, the Greek, Russian, and Romanian
Orthodox Churches (the big communities), as well as the Serbs, the
Bulgarians, the Georgians, the Orthodox churches of Antioch and
Jerusalem, of Poland, of the Czech lands and Slovakia, of Albania, the
churches of Cyprus and Sinai, and the Orthodox churches in communion
with these in Finland, China, and Japan. This is not to mention the large
communities of the diaspora: those faithful originally from these Eastern
European and Eastern Mediterranean countries who by dint of centuries of
immigration have now moved all over the globe in significant Orthodox
communities even in such places (which could hardly be called Eastern any
more) as England, America, and Oceania, for example. For ready-reckoner
recognition: this is the Orthodox Church that recognizes the high doctrinal
authority (as do the Roman Catholics and Episcopalians) of the seven
Ecumenical Councils.2 For this reason the present account looks only very
cursorily at the so-called Oriental Orthodox churches. In the latter case the
word “Oriental” refers to the Provincia Orientalis of the late Roman
Empire (not the manner in which English language used to use the word
“Orientalism” pejoratively), because these churches in ancient times used to
be located mainly there, in what is now Syria, Egypt, and Ethiopia, and
nowadays we would add to that communion the Armenian Church. These
are collectively also described as the Non-Chalcedonian Orthodox
churches, for they recognize the high authority only of the first three
Ecumenical Councils.
To tell the story of the ancient Eastern Orthodox Church, incarnated in a
scintillating array of local churches of different language groups and
national traditions, is a task of no small order. But as the old saying goes,
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a small step,” and this book is
best begun by walking down the road that takes us from Jesus to the
classical patristic age in the fourth and fifth centuries. By that time many of
the more recognizable forms of Eastern Orthodox tradition are set in place
and become familiar. Western Catholicism, after Cardinal Newman, often
likes to talk about its history and culture in developmental terms and
images. Orthodoxy prefers to understand itself in terms of organic
wholeness. If we compare the church to a piece of great music, the early
centuries within the first half of the first millennium are like the
establishment of the major themes: subthemes commenting on the primary
themes of the Gospels. The later centuries are like the variations, all trying
to be faithful to the spirit and intelligence (the ethos) set up by the primary
inspiration—but carried on with equal inspiration (the music endures with
authority) even to the end that is still to come.
Anyway, let us begin that task, since it is a long journey, with a
protohistory of the church, as it were, for a commonly held theory among
some scholars today is that the church never existed as a single coherent
unit or factor; such was its diversity that unity and uniformity had to be an
anachronistic concept foisted on it retrospectively, and so Orthodoxy’s
claim to be this church is impossible. This is a view partly behind the great
delight in reclaiming suspiciously lost Gospels: as if they represented viable
forms of alternative Christianity pushed aside by an oppressive orthodoxy.
Where this supposed oppressive power came from in the pre-third-century
church is never explained, of course. Against the myth that these allegedly
lost Gospels (which the church had generally preserved in its record
anyway) were of fundamental significance and offered a powerful
alternative, I always used to say to students: “Read them for yourselves and
then tell me which, if you had to buy one, would you prefer: the Gospel of
John or the Gospel of Truth?” The Gnostic literature and the apocryphal
literature were rejected by the church at large well before there was any
universal authority structure in place to ostracize them. They were rejected
for exactly the same reasons our contemporary bookshops carrying
remaindered books are able to find their stock. They are, in short, the
remaindered literature of Christian antiquity and (as is generally the case)
remaindered for good reason. To the claim that there never was a single
Christian Church with coherent unified doctrinal positions, Orthodoxy
answers, of course: “Yes there was, and we are it; and our history
demonstrates that core and essential history of the unified church.” This
attitude, I would maintain, is universally typical of Orthodox churchmen
and -women when asked to characterize or discuss their church. Such a
stance often causes confusion and maybe even some degree of offense
among other Christians who hear it; thinking, perhaps, that this claim that
they themselves “are the church” somehow implies that all others are not
recognized as Christians in their own right; as Roman Catholics or
Protestants, for example. But this latter implication is not intended by most
Orthodox, who in this robust and singular sense of being church, and
professing to be the direct and unbroken continuance of the early church,
are more concerned with maintaining and stating what they regard
themselves as being, rather than defining, what a widely differentiated
Western Christianity has become.
On the issue of the modern relations of churches, Orthodoxy currently
has no universally agreed answer to offer: a result, mainly, of its profound
isolation from Western Christendom over most of the formative centuries
that saw contemporary church relations being formed in the years after the
Western Reformation. Orthodoxy regards the Great Church in antiquity (for
most of the first millennium) as comprising, on one side, the Eastern
Orthodox world (the Byzantine patriarchates presided over by the hierarch
of the Church of Constantinople together with the Slavic Orthodox
churches); and, on the other side, the Western Catholic Church, presided
over by the hierarch of the Church of Rome. To define what is meant by
authenticity as a church, Orthodoxy raises up as a canon (or set of tick
boxes) a synopsis of a whole set of characteristics that once defined the
church of old and have been maintained intact into the present. We can look
at these later in more detail, but briefly stated they would include being
closely attentive to biblical prescripts, especially the evangelical charter,
observant of the decrees and creedal definitions of the Ecumenical
Councils, careful of the spirit and forms of the ancient liturgical life of the
Christians, reverent toward the practices and teachings of the great saints of
its foundational history; and perhaps in a most homely statement of the crux
of the matter: being contemporaneously demonstrative of the radiant life of
the Spirit of God in the church’s ongoing quest for purification and holiness
of life.
The lack of a common agreement among the Eastern churches on
matters of present-day ecumenicity is why today one sees many Orthodox
leaders happy to engage in ecumenical dialogues with institutions such as
the World Council of Churches, but others who are vehemently opposed to
such engagement, some of whom have labeled even the slightest form of
ecumenical rapprochement with other Christians as the “pan-heresy of the
age.”3 The latter leaders often tend to be zealous monastics, and they
represent some of the most conservative and literalist forces of the
Orthodox world. For some of them, their very deep conservatism leads
them to believe that they thereby speak for all of world Orthodoxy, which is
a delusion. But at the heart of this strong division of opinion lies the crux of
the Orthodox conception of what church means, and who represents it
within the present world order.
There were, roughly speaking, two practical systems of identifying
church belonging in the ancient Christian world. One was an exclusionist
one, identified with Saint Cyprian of Carthage: arguing that the church is
one, and if you are not identified with it by being in that oneness, then you
are not in it at all. Cyprian summed up this sharp no-nonsense view in
lawyer’s Latin as: Extra Ecclesiam nulla salus. It is often translated (by
those who wish to overstress its exclusionist qualities) as “Outside the
Church there is no salvation.” But it equally, and properly, translates as:
“Outside the Church there is no safety,” which is a very different matter and
highlights what Cyprian wanted to insist on in his own time and from
within his own bitterly divided Christian environment: that schisms among
Christian believers are a very serious and sobering matter in relation to the
spiritual life.4 The other practical system was represented by, among others,
Saints Dionysius the Great of Alexandria and Basil the Great of Caesarea,
who both produced what are now known as “canonical epistles” in an
attempt to reconcile the schismatic groups of dissidents that had already
risen up in the early centuries; groups we know from history, such as
Gnostics, Marcionites, Arians, Novatians, Photinians, and others. Working
from a very practical emphasis on restoring Christians to communion
around one bishop presiding over one priestly council that celebrated the
Eucharist in the local churches, these pastorally minded leaders simply
reverted to the question: How close are these divided believers to the
central confession of Orthodox faith? What would be necessary to restore
them to communion? Would it require simply a statement of proper faith? A
blessing ritual of forgiveness? Or (for those who differed in great matters of
substance) a new—and first—baptismal ceremony, one that clearly did not
accept them as having been “really baptized” at all in their prior liturgical
ceremonies.
Perhaps this issue of why the Orthodox see themselves as the church,
simply stated, might be better clarified if we simply start to narrate the
story, because Orthodox tradition gives great weight to the Roman legal
concepts of tradition and authoritative precedent. So, let us begin to chart
the history, then, of what the Great Church, or the Orthodox Church, or the
Church Catholic and the Apostolic Church (for all these titles are claimed
as propria, that is, as defining identifier marks by the Eastern Orthodox),
looked like in its earliest iterations. In that case we need to begin, now, with
the Apostolic Age, before our story can pick up with increasingly fuller sets
of identifying ecclesial characteristics in the so-called patristic age, which
will be the focus of chapters 2 and 3.5 The later ages of Christian history
called for increasingly explicit qualifications of important things that had to
be witnessed if the church was to be authentically the Great Church. Many
of these issues were determined at the highest level of episcopal and
imperial consultation, and so they were much more in the light of public
debate than the earliest formulations of Christian faith we find in the New
Testament and the apostolic fathers in the first two centuries. These later
meetings, from the fourth century onward, have come to be known as the
Ecumenical Councils and form a later part of this book.6

THE RESURRECTION ORIGIN OF THE CHURCH

To understand how Orthodoxy defines itself as church, it is necessary to

begin with the Gospels. It might be thought, as an initial reflection, that the
Christian movement began with the preaching ministry of Jesus, when he
assembled apostles (shaliachim) as missionaries and began to gather around
him crowds to hear the message, attended by an inner circle of followers
(other than the apostles) who were called disciples (mathetai, or students).7
This would clearly make sense; even if the movement in the lifetime of
Jesus should more or less be seen as entirely enclosed within the confines of
Jewish geography, culture, and theological precedent.8 So we could say that
the church begins with Jesus’s calling (vocation) of the apostles. This is
exactly why the Gospel of Mark begins its account of the Good News with
the vocational stories of the chief apostles (Mk. 1.14–20).
It has, however, been customary among Christians from ancient times to
say that the church, in a fuller sense, began at Pentecost. The classic
account of this is given in the prelude to Luke-Acts. Here the apostle tells
the story of how the resurrection power of Jesus was extended in two
dramatic acts that had the effect of establishing his earthly congregation.9
The first of these events was the Ascension; the second was the descent of
the Spirit in the form of tongues of fire (Acts 1.1–11; Acts 2.1–4). The first
event, Jesus’s triumphal ascent to the right-hand side of the Father’s throne
is one of the biblical ways of speaking about his posthumous glorification,
or exaltation. The scriptural words to denote this glory are manifold. Chief
among them are: doxa, anastasis, hypsosis, anabasis: New Testament
words for: glory, rising up, being lifted up, and ascending. These are
collectively words that connote the exaltation of the triumphant hero. Most
modern readers of the New Testament tend to speak collectively about this
aspect simply as the Resurrection story—understanding that the term
“resurrection” means more than just the literal semantic of the rising up of
the dead body but expands to include all the various motifs of glorification
which the New Testament refers to in regard to Jesus’s post-Crucifixion
state.
But so to focus on the Resurrection word alone, to collate the whole
complex of biblical narratives of Jesus’s post-death glorification, misreads
the New Testament teaching. This is because even the events of
Transfiguration (metamorphosis, Mk. 9.1–10), Ascension (analêpsis,
anabasis, Acts 1.2–11), and Pentecostal outpouring of the Spirit (ekpempsis
pneumatos, Acts 2.1–36) are meant, in the New Testament writings, to be
understood as the wider nexus of the glorification events following on
Jesus’s sacrifice.10 It would take a much longer book to go through the New
Testament theology and show how this is the case: so let me take but one
example. What Saint Luke, for example, in his typical historicizing style of
Gospel writing, presents as a linear sequence of post-Crucifixion glory
events (first the Resurrection, then the appearances of the risen Jesus, then
the Ascension, and then the descent of the Spirit), Saint John’s Gospel
offers to the reader distinctively differently all as radiant aspects of the self-
same event: the return of Jesus to the Father after his death. So in the hands
of the Fourth Gospel theologian, Jesus rises from the dead on the first
paschal Sunday, appears to the disciples that same day, tells Mary
Magdalene in the garden that he is “ascending” to the Father, and again on
the same day bestows the gift of the Spirit on his apostles with the
command to reconcile the world (the church’s foundational mission, Jn.
20.1–23). Everything that Luke has tried to spread out on the table in a
linear way, so that one could consider the historical sequencing of the parts,
John has compressed in a manner that insists they are all aspect events of
one and the same “eschatological mystery”: that is, a primary event that is
not bound within the sequence of time limitations but rather stands as the
cause or explanation of that very sequence.
New Testament eschatology is a profound theory, or philosophy, of time
transcendence that permeates the Gospel and apostolic writings. It sees in
the sacred events of Christ’s life and death and glory the definitive
movements that have given time its meaning, and thus in a real sense
transcended it—given it an end, a telos in the Greek—a word that English
finds difficult to evoke, insofar as it means both a terminal end and a goal,
or end object, that is, a fulfillment. The New Testament writers consider
eschatology as a completion (teleiosis) of history, and this is why John
cannot agree with Luke’s linearization and fragmentation into history of
what is more rightly understood as an eschatological mystery. In short,
rather than talk about the Resurrection of Jesus, which is but one part of a
wider nexus of events, the New Testament would have us think about the
collective of those events that together form the divine Glorification (doxa,
hypsosis) of Jesus. These are difficult ideas to convey quickly, but as the
Gospel writings are the foundation of Christian ideas about the church, and
especially crucial to the Orthodox understanding of the authoritative
sources of Christian consciousness, it is important to try to bring one’s mind
around to the fact that the New Testament theologians were generally a lot
more sophisticated than we have often given them credit for being; and that
they speak in idioms and analogies that are Semitic and often alien to our
presuppositions.
The overall sense among the earliest canonical writers about the death
and exaltation of Jesus is that there is an antithesis of response from God
the Father to the sacrificial witness of Jesus’s life. Just as Jesus poured
himself out in self-sacrificing obedience to the Father’s will in a bitter
kenosis (a word that means “emptying out”), so too God gave him in return
the fullness (pleroma) of glory after his sufferings, raised him up to the
right-hand side of the heavenly throne, and acclaimed him with the
inexpressible (divine) name of “Lord.” The New Testament writers
customarily use images of a royal throne to express this, with its power and
glory now being manifested as shared. The Resurrected and Glorified Jesus
is now shown to the whole cosmos as Lord, who was once regarded as a
slave. The clearest example of this way of thinking and writing is given in a
very early Christian hymn, possibly written within two decades of the
Crucifixion, which Saint Paul himself quotes (he does not compose it) in
Philippians 2.1–11: “Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in
Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality
with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a
servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form
he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross.
Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name
which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should
bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess
that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.”11 Here the
emptiness of kenosis is clearly balanced antithetically against the glorious
fullness (pleroma) of exaltation Jesus received.
What, then, does this woefully brief synopsis of New Testament
teaching on the glory of Christ tell us about church? In short, I would say,
this: We are meant to deduce that the Apostolic preaching that flows from
the Pentecostal Spirit, and that first initiates the church’s mission of
reconciliation on earth, is itself presented by the New Testament as a
fundamental part of Jesus’s resurrectional glory.12 This is partly because the
prime arena of where the dominion of Jesus as Lord (his doxa) is
manifested in history is the church, his special communion of followers and
disciples, who thus form an abiding presence in this world of the dawning
Kingdom of righteousness and peace he promised throughout his preaching.
The New Testament teaches, then, two significant things in relation to the
church. The first is that it is a mysterious and transcendent part of Jesus’s
Lordly glory: an eschatological reality, not entirely reducible to a historical
or sociological phenomenon (the number of people at any given time who
claim to be Christians). The second is that it is per se the fundamental sign,
or witness, of the dawning advent of the Kingdom of God on earth: that
Kingdom of God’s perfected will that would one day accomplish history
and terminate it, when God’s intent for his creation would be all in all. This
latter aspect could be summed up as concluding that the New Testament
doctrine of church defines the church community as an extension of the
Risen Lord’s exalted body. It is often called, especially as based on the
formative writings of the apostle Paul, the “Mystical Body of Christ”; and
just as Christ was himself a sign, or sacrament, of the Kingdom in the world
throughout his ministry, the church too has the destiny to be a sacrament of
reconciliation and hope in its own historical journey through the ages.

A SPECIFIC PHILOSOPHY OF CHURCH HISTORY

What does it mean, then, to consider church as first and foremost a part of
the resurrection glory given to Jesus? Like the divine doxa itself, which in
part we can see and feel, and which in larger part escapes our grasp because
it is an ineffable mystery, the church shares in that character of being visible
and approachable, and yet also mysterious and ungraspable. It is like the
Risen Jesus himself, who appears to his disciples, speaks and drinks with
them—but then mysteriously disappears; or having proved his embodiment
by eating fish before their eyes, then walks through the door of the Upper
Room and disappears as mysteriously as he came. He cannot quite be
grasped even when he reveals himself to Mary in the garden. The Orthodox
have always understood the church, therefore, to be fundamentally a
mystery (mysterion), an energy in the world of Jesus as Risen Lord, the
active grace of his presence (parousia) in history, made present there by the
divine Spirit; but not primarily an association of people (like a club, a
philosophical or philanthropic society) who align themselves with Jesus’s
values. It is an earthly and mystical sacrament (for this is the deeper sense
of what the Orthodox mean when they speak of mystery—not a conundrum
but a sacramental sign that has deeper connotations than appear). It is a
sacrament of the presence of Christ in the world by virtue of the ever-active
working of the Spirit, still being outpoured among men and women for their
restoration to life.
 And so, where the spirit of the Risen Jesus is present and active, there is
either the seed or the deep root of the church; a perennial aspect of the glory
of Christ and his outpouring of the Spirit on the world. This is why Jesus
promised that his church would last until the end of time (Mt. 16.18; Mt.
28.19–20). It is also why the Orthodox see the church as essentially
“catholic” in character: katholike is a Greek word that means universal:
having universal extension, worldwide recognizability, and all-embracing
significance for the salvation of the world.13 The term “catholic” has often
been used in the media to denote Roman Catholicism simply put, but this is
a misuse of the word. Roman (a localizing adjective) sits ill with the
concept of catholicity, which it here qualifies. “Roman Catholic” arose as a
nomenclature especially after the Reformation divides of Western
Christendom. But catholicity does not belong to a denomination, it belongs
to the whole Church of Christ wherever catholicity of belief and its
concomitant practices are represented.
I have written another, much larger book about the Orthodox Church,
and in that volume such theological notions as these have had pride of
place.14 This book, being a short history in its scope, is not the place to
develop profound theological discussions as such. But this very brief review
of what the New Testament writers suggest about the nature of the church
as a sign of the glory of the Risen Lord explains a very characteristic thing
about how Orthodox Christians have approached the nature of church from
the beginning to the present day; and in this they tend to appear as quite
different from most other Christians in the West. This is because the
Orthodox approach the concept of church transcendentally before they do
so sociologically. Orthodox writers throughout history have seen the church
as a congregation of the living that includes, as still active participants, the
angels and the saints of earlier ages, as well as the believers who are
currently alive on earth. The living faithful are seen, therefore, not as the
owners of the corporation but rather as junior members of a communion
that extends far beyond them in space and time, and that is only partially
embodied within time and space in any historical locality.
Christians of the present age, then, are not seen as having either the
power or the ability to alter the charter of what the church is, in order, for
example, to update the scriptures’ prescripts to modern conditions and
attitudes. The Orthodox take seriously the apostolic injunction “Do not
conform yourselves to this present age but be transformed by the renewal of
your mind, that you may prove what is the will of God, what is good and
acceptable and perfect” (Rom. 12.2). The Orthodox Church is not worried
that it might not be sufficiently adapted to modern attitudes: it worries only
that it might not fulfill its core mission of adapting society’s disparate
values to those of the Gospel it has been commissioned to preach to the
world. This goes a long way to explaining the deeply conservative nature of
Orthodox theological, moral, and institutional teachings. But it also raises
another significant question for us at the outset of this book: What
characterizes the division, or distinction, between what is a theological fact
and what is a historical fact?
Christians would surely proclaim the Resurrection of Jesus as a
historical fact. But it is also quite clearly an event that stands above history,
not contained within it. Being that which Christians apply as the central
point explaining history (the salvific Incarnation of the Son of God on
earth), the Resurrection is not exactly a simple event, or a happening, inside
the linear progression of a lot of other facts about Jesus: his height, his
arrest and execution, for example. To say “Jesus died for the sins of the
world” is a theological interpretation of a historical fact (Jesus was
executed). One of the Jewish priests present at the Crucifixion, and hostile
to what Jesus stood for, would surely be able to bear witness to the
historicity of the death of Jesus but equally would surely not have confessed
that this rather brutal execution was the core event of the covenant with the
God of Israel. Only Christian believers would admit the latter. What divides
them is the interpretation of the event. But evidently, neither friend nor foe
can here avoid making an interpretation of the event of Jesus: the Christ
event that stands at the very heart of what the church is too. Believers
confess that their interpretation of the life of Jesus (making the Cross and
Resurrection literally the crux of world history) is the correct interpretation
(the Greek word for which is Orthodoxy, meaning “right opinion”) and thus
the essential truth of that moment in history. Nonbelievers will say that this
is not the correct interpretation, and they might substitute a range of other
possible ones.
One recent author expressed this issue starkly when he subtitled his
study of the history of Jesus “The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish
Peasant.”15 An Orthodox believer would find such an approach not only
objectionable but also fundamentally misguided in the radical separation it
makes between Jesus in his earthly, kenotic ministry up to his death, and
Jesus in his heavenly glory after his Resurrection. Central to all Orthodox
thought about Jesus (Christology as it has come to be called today) is the
insistence on the hypostatic unity of the person of Jesus: at once Lord of the
Ages and Suffering Servant of God; the same person simultaneously One of
the Trinity and a suffering human teacher.16
Writers who like to dismiss all theological notions, or banish them from
the field of history proper, of course like to believe that only they can get to
the “real history” of events or people whom religious sentiment has
smothered under layers of pious fancies. Cut away the theology and get
back to real history is the order of their day. But in making this
presupposition the dismissers too have already supplied their predetermined
interpretation of Jesus while pretending this is a balanced or neutral
analysis: in their case a heavily secularized non-theology. And they too,
proceeding from such presuppositions, have then to excise all (and it is a
great deal, most in fact) that is theological from the New Testament
narratives (our primary sources of knowledge about the history of Jesus).
Their method, of excising from the account all that has any appearance of
the transcendent about it, leads the dismissers not to the simple evidential
core of the narratives they pretend to expose as objective historians but
rather to the heavily bowdlerized version of the events they are willing to
read out of the partialized whole cloth of the material. At worst, they decide
what they will find (according to set-out prescripts) and then they put it out
on display with the panache of a magician pulling a bunch of flowers from
a hat. But all the while the flowers were here, prepared in advance, as it
were. The method is circular, and this is exactly why the so-called quest for
the historical Jesus has, over two centuries of pursuit, with each generation
of scholars claiming at last to be free from prejudice and presupposition,
turned up so very different, and such thin, pictures of the alleged real Jesus
of Nazareth.17
And so it is necessary from the beginning to admit that the Orthodox
insist that church history is quintessentially a theological reading of
historical events. It begins (as do the foundational sources) with Jesus of
Nazareth, who is not taken as a Mediterranean peasant but rather taken as
the Son of God. It focuses on his birth, which it reads as the Incarnation of
the divine in history, it studies his Cross and Resurrection as one event of
sacrificial death and glorious exaltation, and likewise it reviews the ongoing
life of his church as the unfolding manifestation of a supreme
eschatological action within the vehicle of linear history: that tension of the
ekklesia, the church, acting within history and yet called to transcend it. In
short, an Orthodox approach to the church works off the presupposition that
God is Lord of world history; that Jesus is the divine Lord; that his Spirit
continues his work of grace among humans; that his church represents the
destiny of the human race—insofar as a particular material species of life—
humanity—is called out of its natural limit (death and impermanence) to
rise into immortality. These are absolute givens of any Orthodox theology,
or of history for that matter. It amounts to what can be called a prophetic
reading of history—and to this extent Orthodox church history is
fundamentally shaped in its character by the selfsame motives and methods
that created and developed the biblical narratives: that is, reading the world
events as part of the teleotic acts of God within the cosmos.
All Christian Church historians in antiquity shared this biblicist view of
history and seamlessly combined their historical statements with the
interpretation of how this story of the church’s life manifested its accord
with God’s plan. This was true among Christians from the first evangelists,
of course, but applies clearly and explicitly from the writer of Acts onward
(arguably the first church historian), who certainly designed his account as a
sacred history. That commission then passed to the earliest writers of the
Orthodox Church: historians such as Eusebius of Caesarea, Socrates
Scholastikos, and Theodoret, and the great exegetes and philosophers such
as Origen, Athanasius, and Augustine, who each saw the unfolding of the
church’s history as the manner in which God’s plan of salvation was
continually offered to the world, generation after generation, and who each
recognized that this Jesus who came from the most humble origins in
Nazareth was also the Chosen One, the Son of God, the Exalted Messiah,
and the High Priest of Humanity. Like the very first disciples who knew
Jesus personally, the Orthodox Church, in its writings and its confessions of
prayer, maintains that this Son of Mary was also the Lord of Glory whom
Peter spoke of at Pentecost (Acts 2.36): “Let all the house of Israel
therefore know assuredly that God has made him both Lord and Christ, this
Jesus whom you crucified.”
But now that I have explained where I stand in terms of the philosophy
of the history of the church, and how Orthodoxy sees the story of the church
as simply, and straightforwardly, its own story, let us make a beginning with
the actual narrative of events. As this will deal predominantly with New
Testament evidences about the church (what the Orthodox see as their
foundational charter), let us divide this next chapter into two parts: the first
about proto-apostolic times, and the second about the immediate post-
apostolic developments. This material is embedded first in the evangelical
traditions and then in the epistolary literature and the second-century
Christian writings that show two different stages of the life of the church,
one overlaying and absorbing the earlier. This pattern of adoption and
development becomes constitutive of the ongoing experience of
Christianity: it stores a vast amount of things, uses much of it but not all in
every age, and adds to its store from new wisdoms learned in bitter troubles.
 CHAPTER ONE

Ecclesial Foundations:
Proto- and Post-Apostolic Times

JESUS AND THE APOSTOLIC CHARTER OF THE CHURCH

The past two centuries have seen massive and unprecedented levels of
research on the history and teachings of Jesus. As a result, the texts
composing the New Testament have received more, and closer, attention
than at any previous time in the church’s history. This is not to say that the
scriptures were not attended to in former ages—far from it. There is not a
single verse of the Bible that had not already received massive amounts of
comment from the writers of antiquity, the Middle Ages, and early
modernity; but the manner of approach followed the customs and prescripts
of ancient literary criticism. Modern historical research, growing ever more
sophisticated in its deductive methods, follows a very different set of
prescripts and methods.
The ancient writers, to paint a picture in large brush strokes, tended to
read the text symbolically: stories and things very often “stood for”
something else. The escape of Israel through the Red Sea, for example, was
a macro symbol of salvation. The Promised Land became, for Christians, a
stand-in for Paradise. The physical Temple building (in John’s Gospel)
becomes an overarching symbol of Christ’s person as a center of life-giving
divine presence. The tendency of certain things standing in for other
realities (an aspect more of Hellenistic literary interpretation than of
Aramaic storytelling) can be seen at its most acute in what is often seen as
Mark’s own interpretation (Mk. 4.10–20) of the Parable of the Sower,
which has just preceded it (Mk. 4.3–9).1
Like the biblical writers of even earlier ages, the evangelists and the
patristic exegetes also preferred to speak in symbolic forms, often through
the medium of the story. Storytelling, of course, demands (or usually did
before the plotless novel arrived) a few core images and events around
which the tale could be folded, intimated, and developed. Certain symbolic
episodes are given priority over more standardized fill-in narratives. The
Gospel texts, for example, show a relatively simple literary structure:
though it is different in each case for the four canonical writers: Mark,
Matthew, Luke, and John. John builds his narrative around seven great
“signs” (selected representative miracles) to encapsulate the ministry of
Jesus and his theological significance, and also builds up a series of grand
symbols and themes (such as Jesus and the Temple, and Israel’s great cycle
of festivals) to advance his teachings. Mark has a simple literary structure
where he bookends the narratives about Jesus into five sections, each begun
with an episode that either is repeated shortly afterward or starts with half
the narrative and completes that same story shortly afterward. The five
chosen bookends are symbolic summations of the teaching and status of
Jesus and set the tone of the material that he assembles within each section,
moving from his parables and miracles toward a deepening sense of
foreboding as the meaning of his death is adumbrated. In this way Mark
cuts up his entire Gospel into five teuchoi, or books.2 These are
immediately obvious (and necessary) to a reader of a scroll.3 Mark’s
subliminal message is that just as Moses offered five volumes to the Jews
(Penta-Teuchoi in Greek), so Jesus is now offering a new covenant to
Gentiles, in his five Greek volumes (the new Pentateuch) of the Gospel.4 In
his Gospel Luke structures his text around a great Journey of Jesus, making
it that all of Jesus’s life was set on reaching its Exodus at Jerusalem.5 He
also has sophisticated ideas of Jesus as the midpoint of time, helping him to
assemble the teachings of Jesus with a particular slant.6 Like Mark, but in a
more overtly traditional way, Matthew also sets Jesus’s teaching in forms
that parallel it with the teachings of Moses, but with a heavy stress on new
fulfillments: “You have heard it said . . . but I say to you” (e.g., Mt. 5.21–
22).
Because of this great labor expended on patterns of biblical
interpretation over the past century in particular, today’s generation of
interpreters have gained greater confidence in being able to distinguish
between, on the one hand, the forms of the Aramaic preaching of Jesus and
his apostles in the first generation and, on the other, that of the more overtly
Greek disciples of the second apostolic age, which we might, for brevity’s
sake, classify as (a) the era of Paul and the first Greek evangelists,7 (b) the
time of the New Testament Epistles other than Paul, and (c) that of the
apostolic fathers of the late first century.8 It is to be understood, of course,
that one has access only to the preaching of Jesus and the very first
disciples through the medium of (a) onward, there being no direct,
unmediated, testimony from the hand or voice of Jesus. While some
commentators seem to lament this fact, what the Orthodox would deduce
from this is that Jesus comes to the world only from the Spirit through the
church. The experience of the disciple’s illumined faith is the seed bed from
which all testimony, beginning with the written Gospels themselves, arises
as an act of confession. As the Word is incarnated in the flesh of Jesus, just
so is the Spirit articulated in the illumined medium of the church: that body
of believers whom the Spirit lifts to confess Jesus as Lord (1 Cor. 12.3b).
For Orthodoxy, there is no great chasm to be found between the teachings
of Jesus and the manner in which his first disciples, the apostles, and the
evangelists passed on those teachings. They may well have nuanced them
for their various audiences; they did not make them up out of thin air. Just
so, for the Orthodox, therefore, the fidelity of the later believers, in matters
of the transmission of the teachings, needs to match the fidelity and
carefulness of the first. There is, then, not a decisive differentiation in the
Orthodox Church’s understanding between scripture and tradition in the
theology of revelation—a much controverted point of dispute between the
Roman Catholic and Reformed theologians—there is only the single sense
of the Sacred Tradition of Revelation given in the formation of the church.9
Although that sacred tradition (Paradosis) is first manifested, and given its
most authoritative and governing expression, in the New Testament itself, it
is not restricted to it, insofar as it is ever continued in the ongoing life of the
church, in its saints’ lives and teachings, and in its sacramental mysteries,
even to the ages to come.10

THE APOSTLES’ RECEPTION OF THE TEACHING OF JESUS

The recent scholarly distinctions of the first levels of the history of the
church have made it possible now to consider how the message of Jesus
himself was transmitted in the very first generation of the church. They
have also, because the detail is very sparse and highly controvertible in its
interpretation, given rise to a flourishing of speculation passing off as
history. But it is important to know that the record is very patchy and one
can only make deductions, from the reports that do survive, about the
conditions that “might have” applied elsewhere. In relation to the life and
teachings of Jesus, however, it is generally agreed that the burden of the
Lord’s own preaching was the message of the proximity of the Kingdom of
God, and the need for a readjustment of attitude among the men and women
of Israel in the light of that news.11 This can be classed as an eschatological
message in the sense that the late prophetic idiom of eschatology chose a
dramatic incident of the advent of God’s power felt in the world to focus the
issue of repentance for Israel.12
This was a sharpened form of the traditional prophetic call for the
people to renew their covenant fidelity. Many modern German- and
English-speaking commentators had been led astray by Albert Schweitzer,
writing in the early decades of the twentieth century, to overstate Jesus’s
messianic apocalypticism.13 But that influence has fast been waning, and
rightly so, for it is equally clear from abundant evangelical evidence that
Jesus was more than a preacher of end times, and very much a teacher of
repentance as the way to covenant restoration, as well as an interpreter of
the Torah in the Wisdom (sophianic) tradition of the Old Testament.
Repentance (metanoia) was the first recorded word spoken by Jesus (Mk.
1.15) and reappears throughout all his teachings in a variety of images and
stories.14 It is characterized, perhaps, most of all by that change of heart
witnessed in the famed Parable of the Prodigal Son (Lk. 115.11–32).
Mid-twentieth-century approaches massively overstressed the identity
of Jesus as an apocalyptic prophet, but it is clear from the whole cloth of his
recorded life and teachings that moral exhortation, exorcism, healings and
other great prophetic signs, and a good deal of sophianic material, were
equally a constitutive part of Jesus’s deliberate ministry.15 Recent studies
have also drawn attention to the manner in which the Greek Gospel writers
highlight Jesus’s role as moral teacher, comparable to the Greek sages of
old.16 What looms over it all, of course, in the way the evangelists received
and re-presented the Jesus story in their various Gospels, is the great
Passion and Resurrection account. In Mark it casts its shadow over the
entire narrative. Twenty percent of the whole story of the life of Jesus is
given over to his last week on earth, and in all the other Gospels the Passion
story looms almost as large.
The message Jesus preached of the advent of the Kingdom called on his
contemporary Jewish listeners to return (Hebrew shub) to the God of the
covenant in a renewed dedication. He offered signs of his authority to be the
one who called Israel back to God’s favor, in the style of the great prophet
Elijah. In his day illness was seen as a demonic assault on the well-being of
a trapped soul. So it was not healings and exorcisms Jesus offered as signs
of his theology; it was rather a consistent set of exorcisms (the healings to
be included within that category) acting out the overall message that as God
had once more, and wondrously, drawn near to Israel to call out to it, just so
Israel needed to soften its heart and find forgiveness. This return to God
would be like a return to life, a recovery from paralysis, a gaining of sight
from former blindness. The powerful acts of Jesus (pace Morton Smith)
were not done in the mode of a Hellenistic Magus, a magician who wanted
to dazzle and impress an audience by superhuman power, but rather in the
manner of a teacher of virtue showing how much a life turned away from
God was a living death.17 There is a great and humble understatement in the
works of Jesus that is wholly missing in the (vast) surviving records of
Hellenistic magic, and always an underlying theological pointing to the way
the deeds reminisce the presence of God as felt in the earlier prophets
(especially Elijah). The deeds support the message. The message is
encapsulated in the healing and liberation that are effected in the deed.
The parables of the Kingdom show this message more expansively in
narrative form. All turn on the surprise of God’s advent: that it is so close,
and that it is so generously abundant in its promise. Many of the stories
Jesus tells revolve around the theme of the wedding banquet, one of the few
times in a year, in a typical Galilean village, when most of his first hearers
would ever have more than enough to eat and drink. Core to Christ’s own
theology of the Kingdom was the idea of the great joy one found in
discovering God’s reconciliation. It was like finding out to one’s great
surprise that God was a prodigally generous father, ready to throw a rich
robe over the wastrel son, or a giver of harvests that offered a hundredfold
return for the small capital expended.
Clearly, toward the end of what was possibly only his second year of
preaching this kerygma (or proclamation) of joyful repentance that was the
“one thing that mattered,” Jesus learned that many of the leaders of the
people (especially the Temple priesthood) rejected his view of God’s
benevolently merciful fatherhood (and a need to establish reconciliation that
went above and beyond any sacrificial cult) and instead insisted that the
only way to God’s favor was the established path of the Torah regulations,
in particular the expensive Temple sacrifices. These legal regulations had
accumulated over centuries to become increasingly burdensome for an
observant Jew in Jesus’s day, but this path was represented by the Pharisees,
who generally found the doctrines of Jesus, and his attitude to God’s
merciful benevolence, to be dangerously lax and disrespectful of the Law.
As Jesus moved toward Jerusalem for his final Passover there, his
sensibility that he was risking his life for his teaching grew ever stronger.18
Even so he was driven onward by his sense that he was God’s chosen agent,
or Shaliach, the Apostle of the Father, sent directly by him just as he
himself had selected the disciples to be his own apostles (shaliachim).19 For
Jesus, this sending contained within it the authority (exousia) of God
himself. His sense of being the messenger of God was distinctly different
from a sense of hired servant (although his obedience to the Father was
profoundly marked): it was colored through and through by his awareness
that he was the Beloved Son of the Merciful Father, and the essence of the
faith the disciples had in him from the very outset (and have retained
through all subsequent history) is that this insight was not only true but
truer in a fuller sense than they had realized before his death, and it was
shown, in his resurrection glory, to be the quintessential summing up of his
doctrine of the reconciling Kingdom. In short, Jesus glorified was proven to
be the message itself: his death and glorification were the deeds that made
the new covenant of reconciliation. His Cross opened the gate of Paradise.
The symbolic sign that Jesus decided on when he arrived in Jerusalem
was the turning over of the tables in the underground passages of the
Temple (the Hoddayot, where the animals were sold for sacrifice). It
underscored his radical doctrine that God’s forgiveness did not need to be
bought (“What I want is mercy not sacrifice,” Mt. 9.13), but it was a direct
challenge to the Temple priests and their theology that the sacrifices were
the essential sustenance of the covenant. It was the priesthood that very
quickly afterward, using the Roman authorities, arranged Jesus’s execution.
This brief discussion hardly does justice to the whole doctrine of Jesus
as recounted in the New Testament, but it is important at least to try to give
a synopsis of the baseline teachings. Now, before we turn our attention
momentarily from what the Lord himself was saying and enacting, and
move on to how the first apostles heard and interpreted him in their oral
preaching that founded the apostolic church, it will be useful to pause for a
moment and ask what this core proclamation of Jesus serves to do in
defining that church that is born from it. And here I would suggest that this
nexus of his own theology sets the charter for his church, under his aegis, to
be essentially: the locus of the encounter with God; the arena of finding
forgiveness and grace; the company entrusted with repeating the message
that there is a great joy of salvation near at hand; the body of those who
have believed that there is one thing that matters in reference to God—and
that is the rightness of the heart, against which all other things fade in
significance, since God “looks at the heart”; the family of those who
venerate the Son in his glory, knowing that this is the gift of sonship given
out as a new inheritance; the communion of those who wish to bring God’s
just mercy into play in the immediacy of their society.20 These things, then,
devolve directly from Jesus’s own preaching of the Kingdom. Together with
his ever-implicit profession that he himself is the Chosen Son of God, they
served as that doctrine and presence first delivered to the apostles as their
basic paideia, or instructional formation, to be passed on to the church as its
first apostolic foundation.
The church, if it is to remain faithful to its evangelical charter, must
always check itself against such foundational principles. This is the earliest
and classic formulation of what Orthodoxy is. The meaning of “correct
opinion” is the definition of the word “Orthodoxy,” and it is this theology
sketched out above that is the core system that all other Orthodox teachings
—those about the church itself, or about a canon of scripture, or any other
dogmatic matter—must defer to. It can be summed up in four simple words
that can hardly be exegeted: the Mystery of Christ.
One important thing still needs to be mentioned in relation to the
ministry of Jesus. For, “on the night before he died,” as the liturgical
tradition of the Orthodox Church never tires of repeating at its eucharists,
Jesus knew that the whole topography of his ministry was turning on a new
axis. His bold claim that God was renewing the covenant with Israel gave
way to a sense that somehow in his own death and suffering (for in that last
week in Jerusalem he now saw his arrest as imminently forthcoming) was
the sacrificial event to end all sacrifice: to make a new covenant with God
and his followers on the basis of his fidelity to the Father. Seeing the
Passover meal set before him, he thinks no longer of the bread and wine of
joyous feasting but now of the bread that has to be broken apart in order to
be of use; and the wine that is the ominous color of blood. The New
Passover meal now becomes a commemoration of his death and his hopes
for the continuing overshadowing of the hand of God: “He took some bread
and when he had said the blessing he broke it and gave it to them. Take this,
he said, It is my body. Then he took a cup and when he had returned thanks
he gave it to them. . . . This is my blood, the blood of the Covenant, which
is to be poured out for many” (Mk. 14.22–25).

THE FIRST-GENERATION APOSTOLIC TRADITION

It was this moment (underscored by the subsequent reflection that they had
all abandoned him in his hour of need in Gethsemane) that sobered the
theologies of the apostles in the time after the death of Jesus, that time when
they first began to muse on his teachings, the import of his miracles—but
most of all, the significance and meaning of his death and its aftermath.
This Last Supper, which is called in the Orthodox world the Mystical
Supper, was the pristine lens through which all of Jesus’s life, acts and
teachings were now to be focused for the apostolic generation. It is this
apostolic tradition that is eventually crystallized in the New Testament texts
by the time the next generation comes. Then it moves from Aramaic to
Greek. But more essentially than that, it has moved from being a simple
record of what Jesus said and did (as if he were just an example of moral
sage or rabbinic Torah interpreter) and has become a matter of how his
death and resurrection informed and synopsized everything the Lord meant
about the coming Kingdom of God. If Jesus preached the Kingdom, then
the apostles clearly preached Jesus as the potent sacrament of that
Kingdom.
This first level of apostolic doctrine, then, shifts Christologically:
toward the fuller meditation on the significance of the status of Jesus as
redeeming Son of God; bringer of salvation to the world. This constant
pushing of the Christological question, first elicited from the apostles by
Jesus himself (Mk. 8.27–29), becomes the leitmotif of the first-generational
apostolic teachings that become enshrined, subsequently, in the form of the
Greek text of the New Testament. It is given a synoptic account in the Acts
of the Apostles, in the style of an ancient historian (Luke) making a great
leader (Peter) give voice to the essential philosophy at stake in a decisive
moment of the historical narrative. Though Luke has, as it were,
rhetorically shaped the Petrine sermon on Pentecost Day, we have no reason
to think he has substantially misrepresented the generic character of Peter’s
preaching of Jesus’s Kingdom, since this is also abundantly witnessed in the
Gospels of Mark and Matthew. In that classic Petrine sermon in Acts 2.14–
40 we see the shape of the earliest Christian sermons of the late first
century, much illustrated by biblical proof-texts, and we note how the
Christology of glorification is the axis around which the understanding of
salvation turns: “This Jesus you crucified . . . but God raised him up,
undoing the punishments of death.” “Repent and be baptized . . . in the
Name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of sins, and you shall receive the
Holy Spirit.”

THE SECOND-GENERATION APOSTOLIC TRADITION

By the time of the transition from the first to the second century, and
increasingly enriched by Saint Paul’s teachings on the implications of the
glorification of Christ, the apostolic kerygma begins to reflect more and
more on the cosmic significance of the Glorified Christ. The pressure for
this is most likely the manner in which that kerygma is being more and
more picked up by Gentiles who are not as bound up in the chains of
biblical proof-citations that were familiar to the first Hebrew and Aramaic
speakers who had grown up in the synagogues. The Greek culture is not as
alien to the generation of Jesus’s first disciples as was customarily thought
up to the middle of the twentieth century; but it is clear that the Christian
movement, with Saint Paul as its great advocate, moves more and more
toward a Gentile audience in the late first century: so much so that even by
the time of Mark’s Gospel in the seventies the evangelist has to explain
basic Jewish customs (Mk. 7.3–4). The Epistles to the Ephesians and the
Colossians, two closely related letters, represent the fruit of this second-
stage apostolic reflection on the glory of Christ and the nature of his church.
Their theology, summing up all of Paul’s mystical doctrine of redemption,
is conveyed in a spirit of liturgical hymnody, the crucible in which all
authentic Orthodox theology has developed ever since; for if one wishes to
find what Orthodoxy really represents, one needs to immerse oneself in its
worship before studying its theology manuals. The election of the church is
stated in Ephesians to predate history, since it is vested in that eternal love
which co-inheres in the divine Trinity: “Blessed be the God and Father of
Our Lord Jesus Christ who blessed us with all the spiritual blessings of
heaven in Christ. Before the world was made he chose us, chose us in
Christ, to be holy and spotless and to live through love in his presence”
(Eph. 1.3–4). The church is a profound mystery of Christ’s own being: it is
life “in Christ.” The glorified Christ, through his church, is manifested as
the axis of cosmic reconciliation: an anakephalaiosis of all things: “The
mystery of his purpose . . . to bring all things together under Christ as the
Head” (Eph. 1.9–10).21
This glorification in Christ is now seen as part of the divine glory that
shines out in the person of Christ: “This you can tell from the strength of
[the Father’s] power at work in Christ, when he used it to raise him from the
dead and to make him sit at his right hand in heaven: far above every
Sovereignty, Power, or Domination, or any other name that can be named;
not only in this age but also in the age to come” (Eph. 1.19–22).22 The glory
in which God has manifested the fulfillment (teleiosis) of Christ’s work is
that he is exalted as head of the church: “He has put all things under his
feet, and made him, as the Ruler of Everything, the Head of the Church,
which is his body, the fullness of him who fulfills the whole creation” (Eph.
1.22–23). In Colossians, which contains a shorter, more creed-like version
of the Ephesians’ hymn to Christ, the apostolic reflection elaborates how, if
this cosmic fulfillment is perfected in history, it must echo the intent of
God’s plan prepared from before time (as in Eph. 1.9); and so Christ’s
primary role in fashioning the very structures of creation is affirmed, just as
it is in the Johannine Gospel (Jn. 8.58): “He is the Icon of the Unseen God,
the firstborn of all creation; for in him were created all things in heaven and
on earth . . . all things were created through him and for him. And before
anything was created He existed, and he holds all things in unity. And the
Church is his body, and he is its head” (Col. 1.15–18).
From this point onward, we have more or less all the fundamental
statements of the Nicene Creed; for almost every line of that fourth-century
liturgical song is collated from New Testament citations. The church,
therefore, if not the selfsame mystery as the Kingdom that is to come (when
God’s times are fulfilled) is at least the present radiance of the Kingdom
promised, and a sign of its continued working within history. Over the
church, Christ presides in glory, continuing the task of reconciliation, which
is what binds the cosmos in unity. For the Orthodox this is fundamentally
what the term “church” signifies, before it means any sociological
phenomenon: the mystery of salvation that shines out in the power of the
Spirit.
These are lofty and difficult reflections to state, let alone to grasp. They
give evidence of the high spiritual insight of the first apostolic generation.
Theologians that came after it were not always so skilled, and certainly in
the second century we see something of a dip in the vigor and profundity of
Christian literature after the age of apostles. It is a slight depression, as it
were, that lasts for a century and a half before the quality of Christian
literature begins once more to pick up in the writings of the great fathers. In
that transitional time we see certain things happening in the ongoing
formation of the church. The first is that a fair deal of flimsy and fanciful
literature starts being produced. Eager for more stories about Jesus—his
childhood and alleged secret sayings—writers start inventing very
Hellenized accounts. Jesus begins to be drawn in the style of a Hellenistic
magician. His miracles become mere show-off feats. He is easily angered
by those who do not show him respect. It is all a world away from what
clearly was becoming a difficult idea to accept for the wider Greek world:
that the real Jesus of the Gospel picture was profoundly humble and non-
self-referential.
In the face of this rise of extraneous materials, the church leaders were
called on to make quality-control judgments. Eventually this is why the so-
called Gnostic literature and the apocryphal Gospels, almost all postdating
the New Testament by at least a century, were soon set aside as
noncanonical. This means that the early church leaders of worship generally
did not want them read out at the Eucharist. This process of what should
and should not be read out at common worship is fundamentally what now
determines a “canon,” a Greek word for the accepted standard list of
scripture texts. We see in this the formation of the larger New Testament
considered as a collection of authoritative apostolic instructions. The
completion of this canon of scripture is a process that would continue more
slowly from this point onward, in one form or another, until the
internationally spread communities that now constituted the early church
began to work on the principle of mutual acceptance of good practice and
settled on an agreed canon of scripture.23 This would not be until the middle
of the fourth century. The noncanonical literature, however, was not
proscribed by some form of oppressive censorship. There was no one in the
church at this period who held such coercive power. The failure of the
apocryphal literature to gain hold was more the death process of a
remaindered literature. And, unlike the Gospels, this never was a literature
for the people. It was obscure and elitist and demanded a high reliance on
skilled interpreters to access its hidden meanings. It has little in it that
smacks of common sense. It was not so much proscribed out of existence as
not wanted. And literature that is not particularly wanted (not particularly
good) does not travel. The four Gospels traveled to the ends of the earth
because they were fresh and alive by comparison.
But although the agreement over the canon was a highly important
aspect of church life, it was not the only thing that was being shaped and
developed so as to give the historical experience of the church some
concrete forms and structures. Much that went on in this respect can be said
to be hidden: the quality of the faith and holiness of believers, for example.
We know of the likes of the martyrs, but rare is any outward expression, at
this period, of the inner life of believers. How could it be expressed except
through literary form—and at this stage the genres of Christian hagiography
had not been fully explored.24 What does become more settled is the style
of Christian worship. The Psalms are soon adopted as the prayer book of
the church, and several early treatises begin to invite the Christians to read
them as the living voice of Christ himself, not simply the prayers of ancient
Israelite priests and Levites. The ritual of the Eucharist also becomes the
central act of worship in the church. Around the central affirmation of what
the Lord did “on the night before he died” the church gathers Old Testament
texts of prophecy that show how these things were foretold in symbols. And
equally, against the Old Testament symbols, evangelical passages are
selected out from the whole narratives and set against the old stories in
patterns of prediction and fulfillment. So, even as early as the Greek
Gospels we can see Old Testament motifs juxtaposing things like Isaiah’s
Suffering Servant with the Passion narratives; and symbols like Jonah in the
Whale with Christ’s burial; or the Crossing of the Red Sea with baptismal
and paschal rituals in the church. The surviving homily of Bishop Melito of
Sardis entitled On the Passover, which was his speech during the Eucharist
of Easter Night sometime around the middle of the second century, is a fine
example of this style of approach; and it shows how the church’s
understanding of scripture went hand in hand with ongoing formation of
worship structures. Liturgy is the engine of development in all this.

THE AGE OF THE APOSTOLIC FATHERS

This is certainly why the leadership of the Christian congregations soon

settles down after the apostolic age to be represented by the persons who
led worship: the presiders over the Eucharist. It was their function, rarely
shared out in any democratic sense until the modern age, to deliver the
interpretation of the sacred texts that had been read out before the bread and
wine were consecrated. Their homily was an integral part of the Eucharist: a
way of showing how the Passion and Resurrection of Jesus (summated in
the bread and wine now being offered) stood as the fulfillment of the
salvation narratives that were being read aloud. The president of the
worship was thus the one who had to link Word and Sacrament. Such a
leader required not only a rhetorical gift (in an age that held rhetoric in high
esteem) but also some degree of character, for the one who offered the great
eucharist prayer to God, in Christ, was expected to demonstrate high
spiritual acumen too. Such preachers, exegetes, public speakers, and
ceremonial prayer presiders, all rolled into one, lived in an age where we
know there were, as yet, no formal books of Christian prayers. These were
made up, composed in a free spirit, as the leader presided, which, being
repeated week after week, called for some degree of creativity. Accordingly,
these liturgical officers, expected to be multitaskers from the outset, quickly
acquired the role of supervisors over the general conduct of the community.
Evidence from the earliest centuries of the churches in cities tends to
suggest that they were drawn from the more wealthy and educated members
of the church. This would mean they already had some rhetorical and
leadership training, and also had property in which the community might
gather. Very rarely surviving church buildings from this era, such as the
second-century church at Dura Europos and the fourth-century shrine of
Santi Giovanni e Paolo on Rome’s Caelian Hill, show that these large
houses were probably bequeathed to the community as permanent places of
worship. Of course, in smaller villages a more modest “house church”
arrangement might be expected; but one should not underestimate how
quickly a community would want a building of its own. At this time there
was no overarching authority structure to compel uniformity. It seems to
have been generally agreed that those who knew the apostles, or could trace
their lineage back to them, were held in very high esteem. Wandering
ascetics, lifelong celibates, and inspired Christian prophets were also given
high standing in the communities. A very early liturgical treatise called The
Didache says that the local eucharistic presider should give way to one of
these when they come through the town; but it also adds a cautionary note
that the wandering prophets should never stay more than a few days in any
one place. Their function is to move around and serve as missionaries of
renewal.
As there was no single source of compulsive power in the early church,
how was it that by the third century a fair degree of uniform conformity
starts being witnessed in the various churches across a wide remit of the
Roman Empire? It was surely that principle at work once more that
determines the progress of most human groups: the innate instinct to watch
over the garden fence and to copy the successful practice of others. So it
was that the Letters of Saint Paul, first read in the churches to which they
were addressed by that now legendary hero, came to be bundled together
and read in many more churches, and eventually in all the churches. So too
letters from famous martyrs such as Ignatius of Antioch started to be read in
more churches than just those of Asia Minor; and so his teachings gained in
international stature. Forms of worship—how psalms were assigned, or
what poems were useful in liturgical intervals; what was a “really good”
eucharistic prayer to use if one really did not feel up to making up a new
one week by week—all these things started to spread throughout the second
century, so as to become an established international practice by the third.
One of the offices most instrumental in all this was the church liturgical
president, the episcopos, or overseer/superintendent. His office began to
reach out over and across a range of other spiritual and institutional offices
that we find witnessed in the very early Church (prophets, exorcists,
healers, virgins, widows, deacons, gatekeepers, grave-keepers) and served
to coordinate them. This very soon meant the episcopos had authority to
exercise over them. The first instance of this is that the overseer of the
Eucharist begins to emerge in the second and third centuries from the
congregation of elders (presbyteroi) who formerly had all concelebrated
together. The elders, or presbyters, retained their spiritual standing but gave
way when it came to preaching scripture. This was reserved as the function
of the episcopos. Old English gives us a mutated form of this word: bishop.
In the earliest city churches the three leading offices were bishop, presbyter,
and deacon. The deacon took charge of the social outreach of the church
and its finances, and thus had the potential to be a powerful agent in the
church. But as the number of Christians extended, it was no longer possible
to retain the simpler pattern of one town, one church, one bishop with his
presbyters around one altar. Other suburban churches had to be built, and to
these outlying edifices a presbyter was sent. So it was that it eventually
became standard for the bishop to preside in the main city church with his
deacons, while the presbyters went out independently to sanctuaries farther
afield in suburbs and villages. The deacon retained an influential position
but was now heavily subordinated to the bishop, who was so close at hand.
When a bishop died and needed to be replaced, it was often the senior
deacon who succeeded. But the presbyters retained their established rights,
that only they and the bishop could preside over the Eucharist.
At first, as their very title suggests, the elders were probably the senior
members of the Christian community whose quality of spirituality had
recommended itself to the larger body of faithful. Confessors, those who
had shown bravery and had survived persecution times, were also regarded
as highly authoritative in the earliest communities. What was happening
more and more across the international church in the second century was
that the earliest traveling charismatic offices were giving way to a more
locally established institution of offices. Because so many of the largest
Christian communities were to be found in the maritime cities of the Roman
Empire, where trade entailed regular passage of personnel from one zone to
the other, what worked institutionally in one Christian church was soon
found to be passed on to another. Establishment of structure and order grew
by the spread of good, observed practice. By the end of the second century
that establishment of an international pattern spread into the inland
hinterlands too, a process that continued into the early fourth century and
was fixed by the clear and widespread rise of the monarchical episcopate by
the end of the third century. By the fourth century, in the Constantinian
establishment of the church, bishops (at least those of the larger cities) were
elevated to a status equivalent to that of imperial magistrates, and this
sealed their position as the most notable persons of the region. By the end
of the fourth century the rule of the bishop in his local diocese, subject more
regionally to the supervision of the province’s synod of other bishops (who
submitted themselves to a collegial responsibility), served to set the local
charters of the Christian communities across large zones of the empire.
When truly international disputes and crises began to arise after the end of
the third century the favor of the newly Christianized emperors brought in a
system of super-synods, meetings of bishops greater than those of a
particular province, which were accordingly called “ecumenical.”25
By the third century bishops and presbyters, at least in the cities, were
increasingly drawn from the more educated classes, and so we then see the
rise of a theologically literate leadership. It is an age of more rapid
developments, for once text was used as a medium of transmission of ideas,
change happened more quickly than when one community looked over the
shoulder of another to see what was best practice. The style of the
development of the church in the third-century patristic age is the subject of
a later chapter. For the moment let us return briefly to looking in at the
window of the late first century, with a short review of a very remarkable
set of letters that have survived from this time, the so-called Ignatian
dossier.
This series of epistles tells us much about how this episcopal system of
establishing an international order in Christian affairs gelled into place from
the end of the first century onward. Ignatius was the eucharistic president,
the episcopos, of the great city of Antioch. In the year 105 he was
denounced to the authorities as a Christian leader, arrested, and taken under
a guard of ten soldiers to Trajan’s Rome. His guards disliked the whole idea
of the journey, and they often bullied him. It was also Ignatius’s
responsibility to pay all the ex-penses as they journeyed from one city to
another on the way to Rome. Trying to facilitate his passage as best he
could, Ignatius wrote to the other bishop-episcopoi of the Asia Minor cities
that lay along his path, asking them for food and accommodation. The
bishop of Smyrna (Izmir), named Polycarp, became a champion of Ignatius,
whom he saw as a martyr and confessor, and he not only arranged his
reception by the other bishops of Asia Minor but also collected all the
letters he wrote and circulated them. These writings of Ignatius and the late
letters of Paul that speak of the establishment of the bishop-successor to the
apostles are major factors in both witnessing the rise of the monarchical
episcopate and ensuring its widespread adoption in the churches.
Ignatius projects the bishop as the source of unity in the local church
insofar as he presides over the council of presbyters and the deacons,
holding together in unity the celebration of the whole church’s Eucharist.
For Ignatius, the bishop stands as the iconic image of Jesus himself. His
role as teacher of doctrine is underlined. In this respect Ignatius’s letters
witness how these earliest bishops often wrote to one another to give
reports of what was happening in their churches. We have instances of other
bishops sending one another letters to keep one another up to date. They are
collectively known as Eirenika, or letters of peace. It seems to have been a
primary way by which bishops tried to maintain lines of contact, creating a
commonality between the city churches on the basis of the communion they
established with brother bishops in the surrounding region. This would
grow in later ages to become the principle of the synodical governance of
all the ancient Eastern and Western Churches.
Ignatius writes conscious that he is the leader of the great church of
Antioch. He warns his brother bishops in Asia Minor of alarming
developments there: namely, that some believers had so glorified the
spiritual stature of Christ that they had felt it necessary to deny that he was
a fleshly being too.26 In his letters we see certain characteristics that recur
in the later principle of the episcopal governance of the Great Church: that
the bishop is the successor of the apostles’ authority; that he has this
authority as a senior and spirit-filled Christian who continues the apostolic
tradition of teachings (the scriptural consensus) and does not deflect from it;
that he has the right to warn as well as teach; that he governs and keeps
good order in the public worship of the church (by including or excluding
extraneous texts or dissident teachers); that he ensures the connectivity of
the churches and their staying in harmony with one another in terms of faith
and order. The presbyters and deacons become his eucharistic collaborators.
This hierarchy, a Greek word that means “sacred order of leadership” is
appointed by God to stabilize the church after the age of the apostles has
passed. Together with the writings of the second-century bishop Irenaeus of
Lyons, this notion of the episcopal order representing the apostolic
succession in the church is a foundational element of the age of transition
from the New Testament era to that of the formative ages of the second and
third centuries when many other aspects of common governance and
structure were then set in place. These centuries are in many ways the
embryonic age when the recognizable practices that make up much of the
Orthodox practice even today are brought into the light, commonly agreed
across a wide range of the ancient churches, and refined in their
development: things such as patterns of daily prayer, repeated styles that
become the internationally accepted liturgical forms (with enduring
variations in Eastern and Western customs), and orders for festivals and
other sacraments, such as baptism, marriage, ordination, confession, and
healing rituals.
Like young and vigorous seedlings, many of the structures laid down by
the end of the first century (and designed to incardinate the apostolic
teachings of the New Testament) were going to grow in stability and
refinement over the next two centuries. In doing so they also become more
visible to the historian. Contrary to what several European (mainly
Protestant) commentators often used to say in the mid-twentieth century,
there is next to no real evidence at all that there was some common form of
culture shock among Christians of the late first century when Jesus’s
supposed imminent Second Coming did not materialize. This has
increasingly come to be exposed as the invented hypothesis of the followers
of Albert Schweitzer, an intellectual structure wholly superimposed on the
earliest church evidences.27 What is more fully witnessed everywhere is a
strong and continuing development of the principles of the apostolic
teaching in ever more settled urban environments of church communities
clustered around the local celebrations of the Eucharist, each with a close
eye on what neighboring brotherhoods were up to. The second and third
centuries, if the first is an embryonic stage, are more and more recognizable
in their classical lineaments.
 CHAPTER TWO

Shaping Orthodoxy, Mapping Heresy

THE SECOND-CENTURY CHURCH THEOLOGIANS

It is the period of the second to third centuries where we first find

individual Christian theologians standing out of the crowd.1 It is the
beginning of the age of theological treatises, and accordingly our
knowledge of the life of the various churches of the Eastern and Western
Roman Empire (what will eventually become the domains of the Greek
Orthodox and Latin Churches) becomes more sharply clarified.2 Most of
the writers of these treatises are officeholders in the early communities:
bishops or presbyters. Some, like Tertullian the North African lawyer
(active circa 155–240), are moved to write in outrage against the unjust
persecutions the church was facing. Under ancient Roman law a refusal to
honor the gods of Rome was classed as not only a sacrilegious offense but
also (on the grounds that the Roman pantheon assured the security of the
empire) a treasonable affair of the highest order. In law, therefore, religious
dissidence such as that ascribed to Christians was punishable by the most
severe penalties without judges having to go through the full legal process.
Tertullian became a vigorous defender of the church’s institutions. He
witnesses how Christianity was beginning to attract intellectuals to itself.
He was the well-educated son of a pagan centurion and used his polished
rhetorical skills in the service of the church. A very robust and able
apologist against pagan cruelties, he also turned his fire on dissident
elements that disrupted the unity of the churches in a sectarian way. In an
influential treatise called On the Prescription of Heretics, written at the end
of the second century, he developed the arguments against dissidence found
in the late Johannine Letters and stood against the claims that anyone could
speak for the church, insisting that one had to truly belong to it first, and to
have absorbed its inner traditions.3 In this work he systematically drew up
arguments that clarified how apostolic tradition was to be recognized, not
only by its content, but also by its widespread adoption among the great
churches.4 He mentioned with approval that already by the middle of the
second century the bishops of the Eastern Church had agreed to meet
regularly in synods, a word that means conventions, to regulate doctrine and
practice. Several of his other works made a more detailed attack against
specific dissident groups. His book Against Marcion argued that the
eponymous Pontic theologian had falsified the Christian tradition by
refusing to acknowledge the Old Testament as a legitimate and authoritative
source of Christian theology.5 In his work On the Flesh of Christ he argued
that docetic believers who resisted the idea of Jesus truly inhabiting a
fleshly body and earthly life had equally voided the idea of the redemptive
incarnation of the Word of God. In early Greek philosophy hairesis, or
heresy, had chiefly meant a divergent point of view within a philosophical
school: whether one thought the world was round or flat, for example.
Though often bitterly disputed, such divergent views were accepted as part
of the intellectual process of questing after the truth. Tertullian marks a
watershed moment in Christian affairs. Having reflected deeply on the anti-
secessionist views found in the late apostolic letters, he shows that if
apostolic tradition is seriously compromised by any group, those who
profess that position have lost the claim to belong to the church.6 Reflecting
the apostolic warnings, he gives a legal force to that argument: belonging to
the church demands a consensus of agreement to the moral and doctrinal
teachings passed on from the apostles. Beyond this is myth, and allegiance
to myths does not carry the blessing of the Spirit of God. From this time
onward the church adopts the view that heresy (now defined as a significant
intellectual and affective departure from apostolic tradition) places one
outside the church altogether. Hairesis has become a term no longer
signifying a dissident opinion within a school but instead signifying a
concept that denotes a cultural loss of membership.
This decision, whether to tolerate or exclude, was more and more given
to the elders and bishops who presided over the eucharistic community.
This is why such exclusion became known as excommunication: dissidents
were no longer allowed to share communion with the main body of faithful.
In modern times many Protestant Christians like to proclaim that their
churches are open to all persuasions or none, and that their altars are free to
all communicants. Not so the early church. The earliest rituals of Christian
baptism show that the first communities stuck to a rigid code of morals and
were always anxious about any dilution of the code, although they knew
that human nature meant that there was a perennial temptation to drift.
Before one was baptized there was a long period of instruction and close
attention paid to lifestyle changes.
Justin, a philosopher from Nablus in Palestine (active circa 100–165),
was also a pagan thinker, who converted to the Christian faith after, he tells
us, having tried out a wide range of other philosophical lifestyles. His
writings give us some of the earliest glimpses into the manner in which the
earliest eucharists were being celebrated. He also engaged in a debate with
a Jewish theologian named Trypho and records the results.7 The debate
largely centers on who has the right to interpret the Old Testament texts.
The Christians now propose their most striking claim: that these texts can
only be rightly understood, not in a historical, but in an eschatological
sense. Jesus is the center to which the Old Testament runs, and back toward
which the New Testament and lifestyle of the church always look. As Luke
had already intimated in his Gospel: Christ is the “Midpoint of Time.” From
this period onward (and aided by the principles of Roman law) Christian
thinking canonizes precedent in a strong way.8 Justin in some ways
symbolizes something that becomes a strong trend in this period: the first
serious encounter of the Greek-speaking Christian world with Hellenistic
philosophy. When Tertullian was in full voice against dissident teachers,
whom he regarded as dangerously subversive to church order, since they
preferred their own speculations to any check or balance the received
tradition might impose on them, he uttered a famed warning against
Christians becoming involved with secular philosophy:
Take heed lest any one beguile you through philosophy or vain deceit, according to the
tradition of men, beyond the providence of the Holy Spirit. The Apostle had been at Athens
and in his argumentative encounters there he became acquainted with that human wisdom
which affects and corrupts the Truth, and is itself many times divided into its own heresies
by the profusion of its mutually antagonistic sects. Accordingly, what has Athens in common
with Jerusalem? What has the Academy in common with the Church? What have heretics in
common with Christians? Our principles are derived from the Portico of Solomon, who
himself handed down that the Lord must be sought in simplicity of heart.9

But this warning against worldly wisdom was, of course, couched in

very learned rhetoric all the same. Justin has no such fear. He tells his
readers that he quested long and hard through all the different schools of
philosophy, always looking for the truth that would carry its own imprint of
authority to command his life’s direction. Nowhere could he find it, he says,
until he found it in Christ, whose church gave him a living truth that
satisfied all his mind’s questions, all his heart’s desires, and all his moral
aspirations. Lactantius the philosopher makes the same case in a much more
elegant and systematic fashion in his treatise Divine Institutes, two centuries
later, where he says that the school of Christ uniquely combines all the
aspirations of the ancient world for true religion, which is also pure
wisdom, whereas all pagan religion proved to be brutal in its sacrificial
instincts that were devoid of sense, and all its wisdom traditions fruitless in
their divorce of reverence from understanding. Christ, Lactantius argues,
was the Incarnate Wisdom who was also High Priest. His religion was the
ultimate school of philosophy that society (Jewish and pagan) had been
waiting for.
This much more positive view of philosophy, as a way to explain
religious truth more coherently, continued to gain ground into the third-
century church, partly because more of the Christian leaders were better
educated and less afraid of looking at their biblical and apostolic traditions
through the lens of philosophy. One thing noticeable about this time,
however, is that the church never committed itself to any particular school
of thought. It used elements of everything it could find that aided its quest
for deeper understanding. It was profoundly eclectic in the use it made of
secular learning. At every instance its choice of what to take or what to
reject was dominated by its prior allegiance given to the biblical mind-set
already established in the apostolic tradition it had received. One of the
most renowned examples of this approach was the theologian Origen of
Alexandria, who bridged the worlds of the second- and third-century
church, and tried to harmonize philosophy and biblical revelation.

THE THIRD-CENTURY CHURCH THEOLOGIANS

Origen has rightly been described as the greatest theologian in the early
church after Saint John the Evangelist. His readership has always been
among the most intellectual of the church circles, and because he was so
deeply versed in philosophical ways of expression and so consistently
approached the scriptures as symbolic literature, he earned the enmity of
many sections of church society. At three different periods (in his own
lifetime in the mid-third century, then in the time of Theophilus of
Alexandria in the fifth century, and finally in the time of the emperor
Justinian in the sixth) his work came under hostile scrutiny each time he
was crudely and carelessly read. It was an easy thing, in the later centuries,
to hold up parts of an early writer and find fault with hindsight. So it was
that the Orthodox Church set his works and his name aside as not being an
author that the church would canonize. Even so, his teachings had by then
been sifted, clarified, reordered, and heavily adapted by a series of the
greatest saints of Orthodoxy, some of the leading fourth- and fifth-century
fathers: Saint Gregory the Theologian, Saint Gregory of Nyssa, Saint
Maximus the Confessor. Even Theophilus of Alexandria and Jerome, who
both censured and anathematized Origen, continued to use his works and
theories extensively—but simply unacknowledged. Saint John
Chrysostom’s exegetical writings used him so much that Origen’s biblical
achievements were never lost to the wider world of Orthodoxy. This is why
Origen must be considered in this present section, for he is, in many ways,
one of the great architects of the systematic theology of the church in the
following, fourth, century, which emerges as classical Orthodoxy.
His real problem was his great fertility of thought. Origen set out so
many different opinions (in his own era he taught and envisaged speaking to
what we would now call a graduate seminar audience) that he could not
foresee that this would not be a good idea in terms of the wider reception of
his writings as they were simplified and reduced to propositions across a
much larger, and often less educated, audience. What was suitable in a
university seminar context was not often appropriate in the greater audience
of the church congregations, or for the less educated desert monks who
were often scandalized by his nonliteral readings of the Bible. The main
tenor of his thought, however, is generally on target in terms of Orthodoxy.
In terms of the divinity of Christ, Origen was a faithful and strong advocate
of the Lord’s eternal status; though his Christological statements often were
so colored with subordinationism that he was significantly corrected by the
later bishops who used him, such as Saint Athanasius and the Cappadocian
fathers.10 Origen’s speculations on the preincarnate existence of souls and
their lapse to this material cosmos as a penance for prior failures (a theory
much exaggerated by later critics) were issues the church did not wish to
pursue, feeling they had little biblical, and thus apostolic, sanction. But
Origen’s overall biblical theology set a tone that was extensively followed
after the third century. We can now look at the solidifying character of the
early standard of church Orthodoxy in this period in four different, but
representative, areas: the self-definition of the church through the Bible; its
approach to the understanding of the Person of Christ; its growing
articulation of the mystery of God as Trinity; and its understanding of its
own role in the world. These are the cardinal foundation stones of ancient
Orthodoxy.

THE CHURCH AND SCRIPTURE

Wherever Origen was taken up in the subsequent generation, and

reexpressed by the great fathers, his thought provided a major structure for
the later church, for approaching the issue of how the biblical material
might be read in the light of modern questions. To this day the Orthodox
Church follows his principles of spiritual interpretation of the scripture: that
there are levels of meaning contained in the sacred text(s) and that they all
relate back to the centrality of the Christ event. This means, of course, a
fairly deep-seated departure in the church’s approach to sacred scripture
from that of the academy or the disinterested reader who approaches it from
a literal-historical angle. It means that the church, from earliest times, was
committed to reading the texts (both those of the New and those of the Old
Testaments) Christologically. It read the Psalter as if it were the direct
teaching of the Word of God himself, the preincarnate Savior, Logos of the
Father, Second Person of the Trinity, and not the historically grounded
sayings of this or that Levite or Temple servant composing hymns for use in
Israelite worship—though of course the latter reality is not denied at
another level either. So there are different levels of meaning. When the
psalmist cries out “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Ps.
21.1), the church in its prayerful reflection on the text refers it to the
mystery of the Passion (as the evangelists have already suggested in Mk.
15.34 and Mt. 27.46).11 This Christocentric reading of the Psalms, Origen
argued, made the Psalter one of the most valuable books of scripture,
ranked alongside the Johannine Gospel and Pauline theology for its richness
of insight. Saint Athanasius of Alexandria, in his short treatise To
Marcellinus on the Psalms, made this approach classically standard for the
Orthodox Church. Modern so-called critical approaches to biblical
interpretation massively favor the historical or literal meaning of a text.
This is the “pearl of price” that the exegete is trained to excavate, or
deduce, from the reading. But in the church a different approach is taken.
Historical study is honored and valued, but the text is first of all regarded
sacramentally. Since it is the word of the Divine Word, the church senses it
is not fully grasped when only exegeted historically. This is because it is
possessed of transtemporal (metahistorical) significance. It is best
approached within its own genre: eschatological message, having to be read
eschatologically. The manner in which this is best facilitated is to recognize
(as Origen first had argued and generations of later fathers of the church
agreed) that one may deduce multiple layers of meaning in a given text of
scripture: the historical or literal meaning of what it meant in its immediate
context; the moral level it might have as an encouraging or corrective
exhortation, the more secret meaning it might have to those souls who were
spiritually purified and more acutely aware that through the prayerful
reading of sacred scripture the Spirit of God often moved their minds and
hearts to deep insights and understandings: the message, as it were, of
divine love made new in every generation.12 This inspired nature of the
text, suffused in all ages by the living Spirit of God communicating with his
church, made the scriptures ever fresh, ever relevant—not merely a dead
letter. In this way the Orthodox Church’s exegesis is always Christ-
centered, meant to bring the resurrection presence of its Lord to immediate
effect. And this applies equally to its preaching too. Indeed, the proper
context for the church’s preaching is the eucharistic liturgy. Other forms of
preaching (such as evangelism, moral instruction, and apologetics) are not
the celebration of the church’s kerygmatic mystery as such but rather a
preparation for it. The early church strongly held to the view that the
mystery is reserved for those who are already initiated, and this runs on into
contemporary Orthodoxy too. Orthodoxy never endorsed a hard doctrine of
predestination as did some parts of Western Christianity, but it held, and
still holds, to a strong sense of the mystery and grace of divine election,
which makes the church never reducible to a simple matter of sociological
analysis.
It was this deeply sacramental approach to scripture that brought the
third-century theologians of the church into sharp conflict with two
predominant sets of religious thinkers around them. On the one hand it
made the church clash with Jewish exegetes who resisted the Jesus-centered
reading of what it saw as its own bible. The synagogue resisted the way the
Orthodox Church insisted the Old Testament had to be read in the light of
the New, which illumined it. Accordingly, it tended to resist the practice of
attributing symbolic meanings to passages and preferred a literal and moral
reading, a movement that was deepened by the Rabbinic schools after the
third century.13 On the other hand, the church also resisted the various
Gnostic teachers (didaskaloi), or philosophically inclined rhetoricians with
private schools in the larger cities, who wished to approach and exegete the
scriptural texts (and other mystical texts of their own composing set
alongside them) as a set of ciphers of deeper truths that had to be
interpreted by the specialist professor. The third-century church theologians
set the Orthodox tradition firmly on the path of reading between these two
extreme poles. They described the preference for the literal-moral reading
alone as a very limited scope but also saw that the highly symbolic reading
veered too often into a mythical approach. By the end of the third century
the Orthodox Church had adopted a complex set of values that used the
scriptural library of texts as its own moderating safety net. It read one text
in the light of several others, on the grounds that the entirety of scripture
emanated from a single source: the merciful mind of the Savior-Logos, now
incarnate, who mediated his message of joy to the world through his living
Spirit. This was the principle of consonance.14 If one text seemed, on its
own, to be rather unpalatable in a literal sense, it ought to be read in a
higher symbolic sense.15 As Origen had summed it up succinctly:
interpretation must be guided by one supreme principle: “Nothing unworthy
of God’s majesty.”16 Above all it applied the concept of seeking the mind-
set of Christ (phronema: Phil. 2.5) in all things; seeing as the skopos, or
overarching “intentionality,” of the scripture principle, the offer of merciful
redemption to the world in Christ. The scriptures were approached as a tool
of spiritual ascent. But for their right understanding a certain level of
maturity of soul was required. The dim-witted and the soul-starved could
certainly make a disaster out of them. This catastrophic (mis)use of
scriptural texts, aphorisms, and injunctions has often been the bane of the
church in later ages. Saint Athanasius of Alexandria would sum this up very
neatly in the fourth century when he said: “But for the searching of the
Scriptures and for true knowledge of them, an honourable life and a pure
soul are necessary, along with fitting Christian virtue. Only then, when the
mind guides its path this way, can it attain what it desires, and comprehend
[scripture], in so far as it is permitted to human nature to learn the things of
the Divine Word. But without a pure mind and a modeling of one’s life after
the saints, a person cannot possibly comprehend the words of those
saints.”17
In short, the Orthodox Church from the third century onward, and into
the present, has produced, from the writings of its saints, a massive amount
of biblical commentary. It has shaped all its preaching around sacred
scripture, and its mind-set and doctrines are formed in this crucible. Its
monastics and lay people use the Psalter as their daily prayer book. The
monks recite the entirety of the Psalter each week before beginning over
once again; and they have done so since the earliest centuries. A massive
amount of scripture is found in active use in all of the church’s liturgical
and prayer services. Someone regularly attending Orthodox Church services
will be exposed to the Bible in a profoundly deep and broad immersion
experience but will also find that this is one that is poetically shaped, not
syllogistically; mystically suggested, not apologetically argued.
 The third-century theologians provided many other foundations for
what would later be more systematically elaborated in the following
patristic centuries. For brevity’s sake I would like to summarize this aspect
of foundations in the form of three major positions or inheritances that the
third century left as a legacy. In all three instances (I offer them as
representative) the church leaders were faced with a particular controversy
that led them to formulate a much larger point out of the argument.
Typically a dissident opinion had been aired that caused the faithful at large
some anxiety as they sensed that it challenged or contradicted the received
tradition in some deep sense. In these cases the church leadership typically
reacted with a (paradoxically) progressive conservatism so as to offer the
faithful guidance as to what the church’s main doctrine was, as distinct from
hairesis. They offered solutions that were in the spirit of the tradition:
demonstrating the principle in each case that the Orthodox tradition was not
a dead letter but a living sense of how the Gospel reasserted itself in new
environments.18 Our remaining three demonstrations of the cardinal
foundations of Orthodoxy lead us now to look at how the third century dealt
with discussions on the nature and person of Jesus: namely, its Christology;
how it articulated its metaphysical and soteriological doctrine of God, in
other words, its sense of Trinity; and finally how it reflected on itself and its
own role in society, that is, its ecclesiology.19

THE PRE-NICENE CHURCH ON THE PERSON OF JESUS

The Orthodox Church was faced with many contesting views about Jesus in
the earliest centuries. Its core tradition was clear enough. He was not just
another prophet.20 He was the subject of the prophets’ hopes.21 He was
higher than the angels.22 He was the Lord and the Son of God.23 He
suffered for a while but was exalted to the side of God the Father.24 He was
the High Priest and mediator of all creation with God.25 He had been
chosen as God’s agent of creation before the world was made.26 This was so
clear that it was abridged as a “biblical confession,” a kind of synopsis of
the whole scriptural attestation of Jesus’s exalted status, so as to serve as a
hymn that baptismal candidates could recite as their statement of faith and
repentance. This by the mid-fourth century would become known the world
over as the “Creed”; but at first it was a liturgical hymn that simply
synopsized the scriptural affirmations about the Lord Jesus: born of the
Father before time, born of a virgin within time, so as to call the world to
salvation and glorify it within his own exalted glory, thus restoring it, in
himself, to communion with the Father, and manifesting this at his Second
Coming. This is the very essence of the apostolic tradition. To preface it the
church added its faith in the One Father as Lord and Maker of all things,
visible and invisible, in order to refute the teachings of the Gnostics, who
regarded the God and Father of Jesus as a different deity to the “God of this
world,” the Demiurgic god of the Old Testament. And to complete it, the
church later added other phrases it felt necessary to amplify the apostolic
tradition beyond the central core affirmation of the soteriological
Christology: in other words, it added its belief in “the Holy Spirit who has
spoken through the prophets” (a bare statement that would be expanded in
the fourth century with more explicitly divine titles for the Spirit) and its
belief in the unity of the church which that Spirit inspired.
This is the fundamental structure of the Creed which the Nicene fathers
turned to in the next century to give a clear statement of the apostolic faith
when tested by the Arian heresy. So, the Christology is relatively simple
and hardly difficult to find, being imprinted consistently throughout the
New Testament. Even so, the third-century church was faced with
difficulties. Because if Jesus was exalted as eternal Lord alongside the
Father, who was the one and only God: how could the Christians explain
their sense of the unicity of God to outsiders—let alone themselves? One
way would have been to insist strongly on the subordination of the Son to
the Father: their distinct difference and separation from one another. One as
Lord and one as Servant. The confessions of the early Church, however, are
all concerned with Jesus being a servant in his humble and suffering
ministry but being exalted alongside God as his most intimate Son and
companion. In the apostolic statements there is a high insistence on Jesus
being one in the glory of the Father: not being merely a creature and servant
alongside the unapproachability of the Divine Oneness. The church’s
earliest Christology sustained this in praise and prayers. And yet the church
retained, equally strongly, its confession of the total unity of God. There is
one and there is no other. So how could the position of Jesus “within the
deity” be reconciled with the absolute unity of God if one side-stepped a
strong confession of Jesus’s, or the Son’s, subordinate status? For a time the
second-century Roman church leaders suggested that one way would be to
stress that the Son was different from the Father in terms of Person but not
in terms of Monarchy. There would be one single active “power” in God:
and this must be seen as shared between the Father and his Plenipotentiary
Son. This had some mileage in the preaching of the church leaders, such as
Pope Callixtus, but certain lay teachers approached the same idea from a
different, more metaphysical, angle and argued that either the Son and
Father and Spirit were interchangeable names of the same reality or Jesus
was a simple Man who had been supremely lifted up into communion with
God the Father in order to accomplish a salvific mission (but at the end of
the day was no more than a God-filled man).
The more reflective theologians of the church found these positions
deeply out of harmony with the apostolic tradition and launched a massive
attack on Monarchianism’s imaginations. To do so they elevated the
testimony of the Fourth Gospel to a high place and approached the issue of
divine unity from the perspective of the title the evangelist used in his
Prologue: “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and
the Word was God.” The term logos, or Word had a pre-history in Greek
religious philosophy, and had already been identified, by John, with the
Wisdom (Sophia) tradition of the Old Testament, which saw the Word and
Wisdom (Heb. Dabar and Hokhma) as a single creative divine power.
Accordingly, not least because the approach had apostolic sanction, Logos
theology began to dominate the Church’s preaching from the late second
century onward. Christ Jesus was described, in this image, as the eternal
Word who existed from all time with the Father, and was spoken out from
the Father’s own being in the expressive act of the creation. The word of
creation was the Logos himself. This was why the Logos also assumed the
task of repairing the creation once it had fallen away from the knowledge of
God. On the terms of the Logos theology, the “Word became flesh” to
accomplish the mission in time, but this lowliness masked the metaphysical
unity of the Word and the Father, which was composed of oneness of being:
an ontological oneness. Searching around for a clear enough semantic that
could get their point across, the early Logos theologians insisted that the
Word was one in being, and one in power with the Father, but differentiated
in person and mission. They believed that this manner of speaking alone
could reconcile the metaphysical problems they had encountered as to the
unicity of God with the apostolic deposit of the scriptural faith they had
received. Their solution remains to this day the basis of the Orthodox
Church’s faith in Christ’s divine person. But it clearly put further pressure
on the theologians to explain more about the differentiated unity of God it
thus professed.

THE ANCIENT CHURCH ON THE TRINITY

This was why the third and fourth centuries become the arena for a great
deal of affirmation about God as Trinity.27 It is a Christian neologism
meaning a three-oneness. It would take more than a great book to
extrapolate all this; but suffice it so say here that the early church
theologians, again looking back to the inspiration of the apostolic biblical
evidence, affirmed that the unity of God was not a bare and undifferentiated
monolithism but rather a complex unity; not a mathematical singularity but
rather a notion of oneness that derives from the idea of absolute
communion; and in its ideal of communion offers to the cosmos its hope for
salvific union with God. In other words, the union-communion that is God
reaches out to the world to draw the believers into its scope. The trinitarian
communion of God’s energy creates the world in a foundational pattern that
both seeks ever to be reunited with its Maker and senses always that in
loving communion it comes closest to that realization, since that was the
creative energy that first fashioned it. The Trinity, therefore, is no less than
God’s outreach of being: from the Father, through the Son-Word, in the
Holy Spirit, to the world. Then from the inspiration of the Holy Spirit in the
heart of the believer to the ever-increasing divine reality of the Son, and
through him (as light passes directly through limpid clarity) back to the
Unapproachable Father. He who is unapproachable in himself becomes
accessible through the Son in the gift of the Spirit. The doctrine of Trinity is
no abstract or idle speculation, therefore; it is simply the shorthand for the
entire apostolic doctrine of salvation in Christ. The Trinity is the power of
God’s own outreach, his synkatabasis, or loving condescension.28 Just as
the divine outreach to humanity is triadic, so too is the same energy
returned as humanity’s movement back to God. The Trinity is thus an
explanation of the apostolic teaching that in Christ, God is our salvation.
 This notion of complex and living unity was a stunning and new insight
into God, an idea of Divine Oneness unique to Christianity, and one that is
faithful to Jesus’s tradition that God was closer to us than we are to
ourselves. The unity of the Son and Father thus becomes more than a moral
notion: it is a metaphysical reality. We can see later how the fourth-century
fathers finally clarified what they meant by this ontological unity in essence
(ousia) and differentiation in person (hypostasis); but for the moment, so as
to follow on the line of inquiry as to what constituted the apostolic tradition
in the mind-set of the early church, it is worth noting how, over and against
the Monarchians who wanted to follow the logical line of their own linear
deductions (about mathematical unity, or the supremacy of the monist
Yahwism of the Torah), the church’s larger tradition of worship held fast to
its instinct of divine acclamation of Jesus even before it had a technical
theological vocabulary to express it. Once it was assured that this form of
words (and not a range of other forms of words) caught the essence of its
scriptural creeds, then it affirmed the doctrine universally in its episcopal
preaching. Much the same thing can be seen time after time afterward;
especially in the fourth century, when many more doctrinal controversies
sprang up and the broader church tradition applied the same principles to
refining its teaching and setting aside as heresy those formulations that did
not conform to it.
Some scholars today write as if any Christian teacher of the early
centuries has just as much right as any other to speak for the early church.
They often argue this point to make a further claim that the notions of
heresy and orthodoxy are themselves anachronistic (inapplicable in the
early centuries) or even irrelevant. Many of the ancient Gnostics held the
same opinion. But the apostolic tradition of the church did not have such a
postmodern view. It knew what it was and it affirmed itself, even through
changing conditions and new controversies, because it was able to apply the
canon (yardstick) of apostolicity with almost a systematic rationale. Just as
it knew who and what it was, it was able to state very clearly who and what
were not it. By the end of the second century this had already been
elaborated in the work of the great anti-Gnostic theologian Irenaeus of
Lyons into a fourfold principle of determining the apostolicity of the
church. For him (and for the greater Orthodox catholic tradition following
after him), the four testing points of anything claiming to be authentically
Christian Orthodoxy were: first, correspondence with the apostolic tradition
set out in the New Testament and through it to the Old.29 Second, that this
should be recognized in shorthand in the baptismal creed each one had
professed at baptism—that received “rule of faith” which was clear to the
simple-hearted as well as the sophisticated.30 Third, that a given set of
teachings should confirm to the preaching established in the church by the
collective of bishops, whose conformity with the tradition and with each
other demonstrated their “apostolic succession.”31 And fourth, Irenaeus
adds, that the entire Christian tradition of Orthodoxy should demonstrate a
fundamental skopos, or tendency (what we might call a giveaway character
or genetic imprint), and that was how it all coinhered in Christ—ran to
Christ from every point. This Christocentricity (of salvation, of the
knowledge of God, of creation, of anthropology, or whatever else) was the
hallmark of the Orthodox Church’s mind-set. The application of these four
testers (canons) has always been the foundation of the claim to apostolic
catholicity. They are thus the quintessential definition or proof of what
Christian Orthodoxy is; and the Orthodox Church still holds to these
foundational principles as the litmus paper of its identity. It was the Greek
theologians of the early church who first clarified this after their many
encounters with versions of the Gospel they considered to be deeply flawed
or simply fake: the many heresies the church labeled in its early centuries,
most of which are still alive and kicking in today’s world. It was the Greek
theologians, in the main, who showed how such a system of authenticating
church identity might work in the practical diocesan structure of the local
churches.32 To this day Orthodoxy still adheres to these principles, which it
first outlined in the early centuries.

THE CHURCH ON ITS SOCIETAL ROLE

Our third representative example of how the Orthodox Church clarified its
identity in these early centuries is taken from its reflection on its own
social-moral role. From the very outset, not least because Jesus himself
insisted on it, Christianity understood that the Good News was not merely a
message but a plan of action—and one that required commitment and life-
changing decisions from its adherents.33 Soon after this period, many of the
church fathers would customarily call Christianity “Our Philosophy”;
though that, of course, was in an era when philosophy itself was seen as a
life orientation, not simply a set of intellectual presuppositions.34 Knowing
that it was the witness of the Kingdom of God on earth, the early church
strongly felt its duty to represent a high standard of ethics. Had not Jesus
challenged them from the outset? “For I tell you, unless your righteousness
exceeds that of the Scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom
of heaven” (Mt. 5.20). And though today centuries of reading the Gospel
accounts have presented to us the Scribes and Pharisees as rather carping
critics, and even hypocrites, in Jesus’s time they were widely regarded as
the most reverent and morally observant class of society. This is the whole
point of Jesus’s aphorism. The earliest apostolic teachings on Christian
morals are found in the New Testament, sources that are replete with moral
injunctions from the time of Jesus himself, to that of the first and second
generations of the apostles.35 The writings of the apostolic fathers of the
church dating to the first and early second centuries continue this style of
moral injunction; often using genres of Stoic moral exhortation (encomia)
to encourage the believers to persevere in an exemplary lifestyle. The
powerful sense also given to members of the early church that they had
been redeemed in Christ, and given redemption in his blood, seems to have
led some communities to think that they were “the saints” of God (a title
that is conferred on them in the Pauline literature).36 Paul had even
suggested that because they were the redeemed saints the Christians would
serve as Judges of the World when the Final Days came (1 Cor. 6.2). This
sense of self-importance seems to have clashed with Jesus’s own command
for the heart to be always ready to repent its tendency to wickedness; and in
parts of Asia Minor, as we might deduce from the Johannine Letters, the
apostolic author writes to rebuke congregations who had convinced
themselves that the church was now beyond sin (1 Jn. 1.8–2.6). The apostle
John reasserts realism: the destiny to holiness is a real Christian experience,
sensed in the Spirit and already to be touched, and yet, even so, the
individual believer is never exempt from the need for personal repentance.
This paradoxical tension (between the perfection of grace Christ had
conferred on his church and the moral failings that were still manifested in
individual lives) was something the church could never quite resolve. To
this day it still cannot. News of deep moral failings within the church comes
always as a shock and with a sense of disorientation. Christ’s command
was: “Be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Mt. 5.48), not just
“fairly good,” and certainly not be worse than the worst. Some movements
in the early communities tried to resolve the tension by defining the church
as the society of the morally pure. In this understanding, those whose lives
did not measure up had ceased to be members of the church. They were no
longer held to be “in communion” with the saints. Soon this lack of spiritual
communion manifested itself quite physically: such people were prevented
from attending the Eucharist; they were not given Communion—hence
excommunicated by the leadership. This pattern of exclusivity in the face of
recalcitrant members of the church was given a precedent as early as Saint
Paul, who had cut off the (presumably Gentile) believer who had not
observed the marriage degrees of consanguinity and had, in Jewish eyes,
committed incest by marrying his late father’s wife, who was not his mother
(1 Cor. 5.1–5).
There is a severity of tone in these earliest moral injunctions that needs
to be set in the context of what we may surmise “really happened” in the
ongoing life of the churches, where pastoral discretion is usually not
recorded at all, precisely because it is discretional. Anyone who has had the
governance of a congregation, however, knows that there is often a
considerable shortfall between expectation and performance; and the
pastoral leader has to deal with it; be seen to deal with it; as well as be seen
to have an overarching compassion for all the people. Some of the earliest
rules (now called canons) that were instituted by the bishops were
concerned with this keeping of moral standards. To us moderns they seem
quite harsh; again because the rules presume discretion on the part of the
bishop but do not state how this is to be exercised. Sexual morality was
high on these agendas. Although baptism was the sacrament of repentance
par excellence, the earliest rules prohibited actresses, soldiers, magicians,
soothsayers, and prostitutes from even applying for admission to the
church. These rules did not even start to be relaxed until late into the fourth
century. Baptism was, at first, regarded as a once-for-all remission of sin; a
rebirth into a totally new life. As the century wore on, however, the reality
of baptized Christians falling once more into their old sinful pagan ways
became more and more an issue. At first this issue was resolved by
admitting the power of repentance and spiritual cleansing through
almsgiving, fasting, and redoubled prayer; but it was affirmed that there
were three sins that, if committed, were unforgivable. The church had no
power to remit them, and the guilty person no longer had any place in the
church. These were the sins of murder, adultery, and apostasy. Again it
would not be until much later that the church’s sense of its powers of
granting forgiveness would be stretched to cover these offenses too.
What really focused the mind of the early communities, however, was
the crisis of the persecutions. Our image today is that these early centuries
were the age of the martyrs. And this is true of course, insofar as the early
church made it its business to record those unjust deaths and place them
before the eyes of believers ever afterward as high examples of fidelity and
courage. What is equally true, judging from the episcopal canons that have
survived from this period, is that the persecutions produced more than a
sheaf of martyrs: they also created a tidal wave of believers who had either
run away from the test of martyrdom, denied Christ before the authorities,
or willingly sacrificed to the old gods while holding their fingers crossed
behind their backs, as it were. How to deal with these lapsed believers
became a lively issue for the bishops once peace was reestablished in the
communities. Even those who had only handed over the sacred vessels and
scriptural books to the demanding secular authorities were regarded as
“handers-over.” The word in Latin is traditor, and it gave us our word for
traitor.
What emerged up to the end of the third century was a system of
penance that was very strict in relation to the conduct of the clergy. If
members of the clergy had lapsed, they were never to offer the eucharistic
oblation again. If they had been tortured beyond endurance and had lapsed
in their weakness, then they could retain some standing in the church but
were still never to offer the oblation. If clergy exhibited shameful sexual or
other moral lapses, they were to be deposed from office on account of them.
Lay people could be treated more leniently. But if they exhibited serious
moral lapses, especially sexual, or if they had denied Christ in time of
persecution and wanted readmission in time of peace, then they were to be
made to undergo public humility (not to say humiliation) in the lobbies of
the church buildings: to kneel down as sinners while the rest of the
community stood in prayer and not allowed to take Communion until many
years had passed. Sometimes they were only to be allowed to take
Communion once more on their deathbeds. It was the bishops and
presbyters who had the charge of administering this system. It seems to
have had some force in the early post-persecution years but to have
increasingly fallen out of use (doubtless because of its severity), until it was
more or less abolished as a redundant relic in the late fourth century.
One other thing the age of persecutions produced, however, was the
sense of betrayal when one set of believers lapsed and abandoned those
who had to suffer. Often, of course, the lapsed were only too ready to show
their willingness to the persecuting authorities to supply names and
addresses of those they should arrest. Deep feelings resulted from this—as
has been the case in every age of persecution since then. It takes more than
one generation for a community to get over such bloody betrayals, as the
post-Communist Russian Church has shown. Two African groups who
came through the persecutions with a kind of fiery spirit of resistance were
the Novatians and the Donatists.37 Both regarded the issue of the lapsed and
the faithful as a kind of apocalyptic challenge to the identity of the church.
As the New Testament had prophesied, persecution would be the destiny of
the true church in history.38 The spirit of resistance it required marked it
essentially as a community of resistance. Compromise with the secular and
corrupt world, they went on to argue, could only defile the nature of the
church.
This hardline and exclusionist approach to the nature of the church—the
congregation of the pure who must distance themselves from the sinful
mass—picked up and exacerbated one strand of the late New Testament
apocalyptic message. The era of persecutions seemed to underline that this
view of the world was true: that there could be no safety in the larger pagan
society that surrounded the church, and was so ready, with so little excuse,
to condemn the innocent to such bitter tortures. In the peaceful aftermath of
the African and Roman persecutions there grew up immense problems
within the churches’ day-to-day life. The Novatianists demanded that those
who had lapsed from the confession of Christ in the persecutions had utterly
lost the ability to number themselves among the faithful and had to be
excluded from the church’s worship. Bishops who tried to reconcile the
fallen and readmit them in various forms had to be denounced as laxists.
The Donatists insisted that any cleric who had collaborated in any way—
even to the extent of handing over the books or vessels—had automatically
lost the right to be a minister of the church. The sacraments that they
celebrated afterward were null and void. This specifically meant that the
ordinations they conducted were invalid, of course. And with a welter of
cross-recriminations among the African churches as to who had
collaborated or not, the whole issue of which community represented the
“real church” and which was a pseudo-community with false sacraments
tore the congregations apart, despite Rome’s attempt to offer a message of
reconciliation. The schisms caused by these recriminations lasted until the
collapse of Christianity in Africa before the advent of Islam in the eighth
century.
The core issue in both these movements threw light on the very nature
of the church. Was it by definition a congregation of the pure that could not
stand the admixture of any defiled elements? Or was it a family that was
made up of many elements: some zealous, others less so; some serving as
examples, and others needing to be encouraged to reform? In the end the
larger Orthodox tradition, while never losing sight of the church’s destiny
and definition to be the sacrament of God’s pure elect, the icon of the
Kingdom of God on earth, fell decidedly in favor of the concept of the
family that had many elements. It retained the concept of the pure elect not
only in an abstract, metaphysical sense (the ideal identity of Christians as
saints) but also in the very practical local sense: for it determined that if a
schismatic group resisted the apostolic consensus and significantly departed
from the tradition, then its sacramental worship was rendered devoid of
power. The loss of power was proportionate to the degree of departure: a
factor that has made modern-day ecumenism a difficult matter to adjudicate
for contemporary Orthodoxy. In lapsing from the communion of the church
a dissident group was felt to have fallen away from the full vigor of the
Spirit’s energy operative within the church.
To keep the family morally alert, the church of this era placed a great
stress, therefore, on the necessary holiness of the clergy. They were to be
expected to manifest a specially dedicated and pure lifestyle. If they did not,
they deserved to be sidelined: suspended for correction or deposed
permanently. Many of the synodical canons of this time turned their focus
to the reform of clergy. But laity who faltered in the moral life were to be
encouraged toward repentance, not cast out from the church, unless the fault
was so heinous that some form of public statement of exclusion was felt
necessary—an exclusion, however, that should never be absolutized. In this
way Orthodoxy felt a balance had been achieved that was listing toward
mercy and the principles of reconciliation in a fallible family of people
trying to live the Christ life. Accordingly, the principles of mercy and
reconciliation can, to this day, stand as genuine and accurate adjudicators of
how well the church continues to be itself, by measuring how it performs its
quintessential ministry of reconciliation.

THE CHARACTER OF THE CHURCH AT THE END OF THE THIRD CENTURY

Our attention so far has been on the Orthodox Church in the period of its
gestation, as it were. We have seen how it absorbed the teaching of Jesus
and the first apostles and out of them wove together the fabrics of what we
now know as the New Testament. It learned, over the course of the late first
and early second centuries, despite temptations offered by Marcion and his
like, not to cast aside the Old Testament or to exalt it literalistically, but to
read the Old through the lens of the New. It faced many examples of
individuals claiming to speak for it collectively, especially leaders of elite
philosophical schools who heavily allegorized New Testament ideas,
sometimes to the point of obscure mythology. In these cases it fell back on
the traditional creeds it had used in its baptismal rituals, the simple
enunciation of the Gospel history as being paradigmatic for every age. It
exalted the apostolic tradition, which it distilled from the totality of the New
Testament ethos, and it brought forward its system of local governance: the
men it had selected to lead it in prayer, to be the guardians of that principle
of apostolic tradition. At first the churches were governed by a council of
elders, but very soon (and undoubtedly on the basis of best practice and
common wisdom) the collective pattern gave way widely toward the
principle of single governance of the college of presbyters by one leader. He
was to be known as the episcopos, or bishop, and by the third century the
burden of representing and defending the apostolic tradition fell to him
primarily, though never exclusively. The vagaries of whether the local
bishop was up to it or not was settled by the principle of synodical
governance of the bishops collectively, each one helping, informing, and
maintaining consensus with the others and with other provinces of bishops.
So it was that by the end of the third century the whole system of how the
church recognized and maintained itself was in place. There were numerous
examples of the refusal of this system: largely individuals who knew better,
who propagated a tendentious doctrine, seized on an aspect of the wider
tradition, and bent the whole out of shape to prioritize it. These the
Orthodox Church classed as hairesis: a belief system that departed from the
church and could no longer claim its identity or its powers. What also grew
as the church of the fourth century began to dawn, in an era of social peace
and acceptance, was an ability to look back on two great periods of
theological creativity that were behind it: the New Testament library and the
writings of the theologians stretching over three centuries. The church now
had a significant library, and Christian intellectuals were reflecting on it
more and more deeply, producing commentaries and refinements on its
basis. What emerged from this was an international drawing up of a short
list of great figures from the Christian past. Some of the names on it were
controversial: such as that of Origen of Alexandria, whose writings in any
case set examples that were to become classical; but others, especially
episcopal martyr theologians, were given a high status; and their decisions
were referred to as solid precedents. Such names show already the evolving
notion of the “father of the church.” The age of the fathers, however, was
especially that golden age, for the Orthodox world, of the fourth and fifth
centuries when Christian emperors not only established peace for the
church but also gave it assistance in bringing its philosophy of mercy to
apply to a new social order. To this age we shall now turn.
 CHAPTER THREE

The Classical Patristic Period

ORTHODOX ECUMENE

The fourth century saw a sea change in the affairs of the Christian Church.
If the second and third centuries were its adolescence (learning to react to
changes, intellectual challenge, and bitter political oppression), then the
fourth century was, in many ways, its coming of age: the period when the
Orthodox Church (its foundational constitution now internationally
established on the basis of the apostolic tradition founded on scripture)
emerges in most of its classical and enduring lineaments.1 This time of
peace and rich intellectual life has often been called the Pax
Constantiniana: Constantine’s peace. It is useful, then, to record
Constantine’s story very briefly. The dawn of the fourth century coincides
with the growing visibility of the Christians in all walks of life, now
including the army. At first, belonging to the military profession was a
cause of exclusion from baptism. But by the beginning of the third century
Christians were obviously serving in the military and still seemed at home
in the church. There were moments of crisis (each time a serving soldier
collected his wages he was supposed to offer incense to the genius of the
emperor), but already many were regarding such things as examples of
civic respect rather than religious affiliation. They had the authority of Saint
Paul behind them when he dealt liberally with the crisis of whether it was
legitimate to eat sanctified meat that had been offered to the idols in pagan
temples (1 Cor. 8.1–3).2
This growing spread of Christians into state structures was to suffer a
shock. A new upsurge of anti-Christian persecution of the early fourth
century, in the time of the emperor Diocletian and his caesar Galerius,
marked a new element in the state’s awareness of the church. Previously the
existence of Christians had been a cause of distaste because of their
exclusionist attitudes. But now, it seems, they were marked out because
they were feared as a threat to the security of the political system. The story,
as Christian historians recorded it, was that Diocletian was engaged in the
official imperial ritual of the performing of auspices, and the assistant
priests with him claimed that the rite had been frustrated by evil powers.3
What seems to have happened was that Christians among the high courtiers
present for the occasion made the sign of the cross during the rites to avert
the presence of the old gods from themselves. These old gods were already
widely classified among the Christians as “demons.”4 In the aftermath of
this a serious purge was conducted, removing Christian officials from the
imperial household. Under the stimulus of Galerius, this soon expanded into
a wider purge of Christians from the capital at Nicomedia. The great church
there was set on fire by the troops, and it inaugurated a wave of
denunciations of believers.5 The purge has gone down in history as the
Great Persecution (303–313). Living in Nicomedia at the time, and held
hostage there because his father, Constantius Chlorus, was the caesar of the
western provinces, was the young noble Constantine.6 He was being
educated in rhetoric and political theory by the renowned Christian
theologian Lactantius, and many of his later ideas about the golden age of
Roman justice reflect the Christian philosophy that Lactantius demonstrates
in his masterwork The Divine Institutes. It is possible that Constantine
already had a much earlier immersion in Christian culture, from his
Christian mother, Helena, whom Constantius was commanded to set aside
on his elevation to the purple, but whom Constantine brought back to high
eminence on his own accession: a time when she acted as an extremely
generous patron of the churches.
 Although in 303 Constantius’s son had been envisaged as likely to be
promoted to the role of caesar, by 304 Diocletian seems to have followed
Galerius’s advice and to have barred Constantine from accession to the
throne. It is possible this was related to the issue of the Christian purges,
which Galerius was continuing with ferocity. On Diocletian’s retirement in
305, Constantius and Galerius were both elevated to the rank of supreme
emperor. Constantine’s father assumed the rule of the Western Empire at
Milan. At this time Constantine and Lactantius fled from the hostile
environment of Nicomedia and made their way westward. Constantius,
becoming seriously ill in Britain in 306, proclaimed to his troops that his
son would be a worthy successor and, with enthusiasm, the garrison at York
raised Constantine on the shield and acclaimed him as the new augustus of
the West.7 This canceled all the legal plans for a process of accession made
by Diocletian and agreed by the other senior emperors, and was effectively
the inauguration of the long Roman Civil War (306–324) that would finally
see Constantine emerge as the supreme monarchical emperor of both East
and West. His first major act as politician was to force his eastern ally
Licinius to legislate for a toleration of Christianity, with the Edict of Milan,
issued in 313.8
This decisive abjection of Galerius’s religious policy of oppression
followed soon after one of Constantine’s major military successes in Italy:
the battle of the Milvian Bridge. This was the moment when the forces of
Constantine took command of Rome from the legions of his western
imperial rival Maxentius, and when he secured his power as single ruler of
the West. The event has assumed monumental significance in the annals of
the Orthodox Church. Lactantius and Bishop Eusebius of Caesarea give
varying accounts of it (one as a dream, one as a vision), but the core of the
account is that, on the eve of his battle with Maxentius, Constantine,
claiming a divine intervention, commanded his troops to inscribe a mystical
sign, a labarum, on their shields, which would secure them victory.9 This
was a cross-shaped figure with a looped upper part. It spread like wildfire
through the Christian sections of the army (and there must have been quite a
few of them already allied to Constantine) that this was either the Cross
itself or the Christian cipher of the Chi-Rho (a cross intersected by an
elongated letter rho standing for the name of Christ), and so the god that
had appeared to Constantine must have been Jesus.10 The dramatic and
decisive victory that followed, on October 28, 312, ousting Maxentius from
a city that had seemed all but impregnable the day before, and on the
supposedly auspicious occasion of his own anniversary of accession,
seemed to the Christians a decisive intervention on their behalf by Christ. It
is an aspect of history that has long been argued over, but it is not at all
improbable that the Christians’ conviction also impressed itself on the
consciousness of Constantine himself. Forever afterward he definitely
favored the church above all other forms of religiosity in the empire, even
though for a long time he continued to serve as a president for all religions
or, in his preferred terms, bishop of those outside the church. When the
reluctant, and wholly pagan, Senate of Rome ordered him a triumphal arch
to celebrate this victory, it is of note that the emperor seems to have ordered
a change in the traditional religious terminology inscribed on it. Instead of
attributing Constantine’s victory to the Roman gods, the arch (still to this
day) records rather that he was led to victory instinctu divinitatis: by the
guidance of “a” divinity (unnamed and in the singular).11
When Constantine assumed sole power across the Roman Empire, after
defeating Licinius in 324, who had instituted new purges against Christians,
he began to develop his political administration with a decided favoring of
Christians. He began by offering the church restitutions for much of what it
had lost in the years of persecution and confiscation. He offered grand
buildings as churches (the Lateran basilica and palace complex to raise the
profile of the popes in Rome) as well as building many new prestigious
Christian shrines (Saint Peter’s in the Vatican, the Church of the
Resurrection at Jerusalem, and others). He advanced Christian courtiers,
taking learned bishops as his close advisers, chief among them the Roman
and Alexandrian popes, Eusebius of Caesarea, Eusebius of Nicomedia, and
Ossius of Cordoba. He abolished crucifixion as a legal penalty under
Roman law and adopted other measures influenced by the church. What had
the most impact internationally, however, was the way he elevated Christian
bishops to the rank of a parallel magistracy. In this way he opened up the
system of justice to the poorer classes of people. Now when a litigious
matter arose Christians could opt to have the case heard in the episcopal
court, rather than by the state magistrate. Bishops now became important
legal personages, not simply leaders of the common worship. The legal
system that directed their minds was primarily that of the ecclesiastical
canons, highly moral in tone, that took evangelical justice as its direction
rather than casuistry.
This manner in which Constantine had amplified episcopal power took
the synodical principle we have already witnessed as being a chief factor in
the international establishment of the apostolic tradition and gave it much
greater prominence. Constantine, and soon others across the empire, began
to see the larger gatherings of bishops to adjudicate matters of significance
in terms of a parallel Senate. Like the Senate, the episcopal meetings issued
laws (canons), and with the ascent of a Christian-leaning imperator those
episcopal canons were soon to be given a status in law, just as the
magisterial decisions of the bishops in their day courts held the power of
law. But the church, in both western and eastern provinces, having just
emerged from civil war with the added oppression of persecutions, was in a
highly disrupted state. It had to deal with lapses, betrayals, requests for
reconciliation, and demands for just punishments of traitors. Many deeply
divided factions were seeking redress. Constantine applied pressure on the
Christians (looking to the bishops of the great cities to take the lead) to
organize themselves quickly and resolve their conflicts. Two of those deep
divisions had already been brought to his notice. The first, the Donatist
crisis in North Africa, was based upon the argument that if anyone had
lapsed in the persecution he or she was no longer part of the church, and so
if any cleric had fallen, his ordination was utterly voided and he could not
appoint anyone else through ordination. This resulted in the African
churches being split into two hierarchies of bishops who refused to
recognize the legitimacy of the other. Constantine answered the plea for
redress by transferring the case to the adjudication of the bishop of Rome.
The second crisis was a more intellectual matter. It too arose out of a
context of schismatic factions in the aftermath of the persecutions in
Egypt.12 Clergy loyalties were divided in the great city of Alexandria. The
school of Origen (died 253) had left unresolved questions among the
intelligentsia about the eternity of the Word of God and the precise status of
the doctrine of the divine Trinity. The bishop Alexander taught a clergy
meeting that the Son being eternal had no time when he did not exist, and
thus was coeternal with the Father. One of Bishop Alexander’s clergy, the
presbyter Arius, dissented from the teaching and claimed that if the Son was
eternal as the Father is, the doctrine of monotheism was compromised,
because to attribute the title “Son” implicitly implied a concept of
subordination. When it became clear that this matter was too large a
difference to be contained by the “let’s agree to differ” principle applied in a
university seminar, but rather touched the whole structure of Christian
belief (was the Son truly divine or only notionally divine?), Bishop
Alexander suspended Arius from his presbyteral duties. Arius appealed to
high-ranking bishops he had known of old, whom he knew supported his
teachings, and so it was that his appeal came to the ears of Bishop Eusebius
of Nicomedia, an intimate adviser of the Constantinian court.
In previous times, such questions as this would be sure to call for a
large-scale meeting of bishops of a particular province to hammer out what
all sensed to be in accord with the apostolic traditions of the past. But now
things had substantively changed. The emperor was in something of a hurry
to get the church organized and peaceful so that it could function as a
coherent vehicle of moral and eirenic governance in all the towns of the
empire. In the eastern provinces where Licinius had so recently been
oppressing it, it did not have the same stable structure it enjoyed in the
western provinces. But Constantine needed the church to establish a new set
of principles organized around monotheism, to offer a new vision for a new
age. Accordingly, he found the dissensions over this issue Arius had raised
highly irksome. And so began a new era, for Constantine planned to
celebrate the twentieth year of his royal accession (325) with a series of
great celebrations. One of those would be an international gathering of
bishops; for the first time in Christian history a truly worldwide (oecumene
in Greek) representative synod. Constantine himself would summon it, pay
all expenses for it, and sit to listen to its adjudications, before accepting its
results and seeing to it that they were enforced. This was the birth of the
notion of the Ecumenical Council: a synod of bishops that was super-
provincial in size and scope—and thus seen as a truly momentous gathering
of the most senior pastors and intellectuals of the Christian world.
What had happened in this apparently logical extrapolation of the old
principle of synodical governance was that the issues had been placed under
a great magnifying glass. It may well have been the case that only bishops
were allowed to sit and make the decisions (on the grounds that the high
priests of the church would be guided to a unanimously correct decision on
all matters).13 Imperial officials were able to publish the decrees, and even
enforce them to some extent, but not to formulate them. Even so, the public
attention that this system was to give to the intellectual matters under
debate opened up a wholly new window onto the scrutiny of Christian
doctrine. A problem of a bishop and presbyter in Egypt now became a
matter of concern for the entire Christian world. It was something like the
church now having an amplified sound system. The squeaks and rustles of
an earlier age suddenly become loudly broadcast. The result is that we have
much clearer knowledge of, and much more extensive texts preserved from,
this period. It has also, at least for the Orthodox and Roman Catholic
worlds, become a classically constitutive period of formation for the
church. It is the heritage, other than the New Testament itself, that the
Western Latin and Eastern Orthodox worlds still have in common: the
patristic age.
The massively increased status of these super-synods, and the
difficulties that ensued when rival synods started to contradict others and
claim a paradoxical ecumenical status for themselves, would eventually
lead to the principle being enunciated that unless the wider church received
(generally accepted) the conciliar doctrines, the council could not claim the
status of ecumenicity, thus reserving a critical role for the larger body of
faithful in recognizing and validating the teaching role of the bishops. But
this was to follow later. What was in the process of arising now was the
system of the Ecumenical Councils as the highest legislative authority in the
Orthodox Church.14 At each of these meetings there also seemed to be a
great Christian hero (a father of the church) fighting for the truth that the
council eventually confirmed. This system of securing doctrine served to
extend the earlier concept of the apostolic tradition, with the respective
refinements of conciliar and patristic theology as part of it. This is now
constitutive of the particular way Orthodoxy sees how Christian doctrine is
maintained and repristinated from age to age.15 There are now seven of
these great councils that the Orthodox Church recognizes and accepts as a
quintessential summation of major aspects of its teaching. All of them in
different ways turn around the axis of the understanding of the divine role
of Christ, especially his saving dynamic as operative in the world.
In the remaining sections of this chapter I concentrate on four symbolic
moments in that story; not giving a blow-by-blow account of all the
individual councils (though in a sense that is a digested course in
fundamental Orthodox theology) but rather choosing the great personalities,
most of them bishops, who were responsible for the outcomes of four major
moments in that ecumenical period: the bishops Athanasius of Alexandria,
Gregory of Nazianzus, and Cyril of Alexandria and the monk Maximus the
Confessor.16 Because of the major role they each played, all of them have
come to be acclaimed as major fathers of the church; saints, so the
Orthodox world confesses, in whom the Spirit of God dwelt deeply, and
who were each given the destiny of having their hand on the tiller of the
ship in times of crisis, so as to keep it sailing in the way of truth. It is a
consideration, in short, of four brilliant and illuminated minds and the
ecumenical settlement their work led to, or defended. It is also an exercise
in studying four theologians who stand at the very heart of the identity of
the Eastern Orthodox Church.

FOUR BRILLIANT MINDS AND THEIR ECUMENICAL SETTLEMENT

Athanasius of Alexandria and the Council of Nicaea (325)

Soon after executing his imperial rival in the east, Licinius, Constantine set
out to bring peaceful order into church affairs there. Knowing that the
theological dispute in Alexandria between Bishop Alexander and Arius was
a serious matter of bitter division, he summoned a trusted Latin theologian,
Ossius of Cordoba, to research ways to resolve it. In 324 Ossius tested the
waters at a large synod in Antioch, which met to resolve the ongoing
disputes over the legitimate episcopal succession of that see, and the result
of that sounding was an imperial summons for all the bishops to assemble at
his temporary palace at Nikaia, or Nicaea (victory city), modern-day Iznik
in Turkey. Constantine put the imperial transport system at the service of
the traveling bishops, and he managed to get one of the largest assemblies
of senior clergy the Christian world had ever known. The pope at Rome
sent delegates but did not attend in person. Attendance was mainly from the
eastern provinces, with even British bishops rumored to be present.
 After days of public and open debates where rhetorician-philosophers
expounded opinions, the sessions of episcopal deliberation commenced.
The question was seen, even then, as fundamental to Christian faith. Was
Arius right, and therefore should Bishop Alexander be censured for false
teachings? Or was it the other way around? On a matter so basic, the
question “Was the Logos of God fully divine or not?” was sensed to involve
a whole array of subsidiaries: How to read the scriptural evidence? How to
synopsize the apostolic tradition? What status did episcopal synods have in
the doctrinal tradition of the church? The Council of Nicaea has been seen,
almost from the moment it concluded, as the touchstone of Orthodoxy. This
is why its creed, or at least a version of it, has become the archetypal
symbol of what Christian catholicity is.17 The Council of Nicaea is, as it
were, the sharpest summative digest of the entire apostolic tradition—and
this because every line is more or less entirely constructed out of the New
Testament itself.18 The difference between the Nicene Creed, however, and
a purely New Testament recitative (lines pasted together) is twofold: first, in
the creed it is now the New Testament that is used in a liturgical and
doxological setting (the creed began life as a confessional hymn for
baptismal candidates), and so the creed represents the scripture as
interpreted through the lens of the broader church tradition (its life of
prayer, mysticism, exegetical customs, and so on) as supervised by the
presiding bishops; second, the creed is the New Testament with the addition
of a single, but important, philosophical term added in as a clarification of
what the Hebraic idiom of the scriptural poetry meant in a contemporary
Greek setting. The word “homoousion” (or “of the same essence as”) was
added (to be understood in the light of the scriptures surrounding it) as a
definitive answer to the particular philosophical question raised by the
Arius controversy: namely, was the Divine Word of God, Son of the Father,
really divine, or only honorifically divine? Was he God of God, truly God
from true God, or was he a subordinate god? Or just a very exalted
creature?
The Nicene Creed was agreed by the council largely because it was
founded on the substrate of one of the old baptismal creeds that rehearsed
the traditional apostolic confession demanded of baptismal candidates. In
other words, the conciliar fathers were making a very conservative reaction
to the issue of Arius’s questions. They were stating the faith received, not
trying to speculate on anything new. But Arius had posed the question in an
acutely new way. Was the Word of God fully divine or was he a subordinate
creature, albeit a highly exalted one like an angel? Arius and his school had
already assembled a dossier of scripture texts that seemed to them to
support that latter idea. The Alexandrian theologians, led by Alexander the
bishop and his deacon Athanasius, had assembled a body of scripture texts
that supported the opposite. Arius took his stand on logic and argued that
the Son of God could not possibly be called Unoriginate (an essential
attribute of God) if he originated from the Father and so must be a creature.
Alexander and Athanasius countered that if the Son’s origination was a
divine act outside time (as it had to be, since all acts of the Eternal Father
were timeless), then such an origination carried with it no implication of
subordination or difference of stature and certainly did not imply any before
or after, since such terms only worked within time and the created order.
Outside time meant outside the created order, and thus the birth of the Son
from the Father was a begetting of the Son of God, which was outside
human comprehension though clearly a divine act: God from God, true God
from true God.
One of Arius’s main points of objection to the affirmation of the divine
status of the Word and Son of God was that it seemed to compromise
Christian monotheism. If the Son was God and the Father was God, were
there not inevitably two gods? Again Alexander and Athanasius argued that
mathematical enumeration, indicating separateness of things, was a concept
that applied only to material—that is, created—realities. The conception of
how the Father and the Son were related could not be reduced to a
mathematical notion, since it was outside time and space. In the time of the
council, Athanasius was satisfied that, with the assistance of Ossius of
Cordoba, the creed was adopted that refuted Arian propositions, but as the
years followed 325, many of the bishops increasingly found the Nicene
statement difficult to accept because this matter of mathematical logic
seemed to them very troubling. This was where Athanasius came into his
own as a theologian. Bishop Alexander died in April 326, and Athanasius
succeeded him in a troubled domestic situation. Between internal problems
and external imperial pressures Athanasius would have to undergo no fewer
than five political exiles for his defense of the Nicene faith in an era that
often seemed to have a wish to bypass it. His faithfulness to Nicaea as the
cardinal point of defending the apostolic tradition caused the great Saint
Gregory of Nazianzus, in the next generation, to acclaim him as “the true
pillar of the Church; for his life and conduct set a standard for bishops, and
his doctrine set the standard of the Orthodox faith.”19
Athanasius made several great contributions for the secure
establishment of patristic theology and was afterward regarded by the
Orthodox Church as one of the greatest of the authoritative fathers:
theologians who were episcopal teachers, inspired saints, and defenders of
the apostolic tradition in their own generation. First of all, he was schooled
in the advanced theological traditions of Alexandria and was able to
understand the issues raised all around him. He did not bury his head in the
sands of antiquarianism or mere repetition of past utterances as many lesser
churchmen and women have tended to do. But more important, he was also
able to distinguish between the speculations of learned thinkers and the
authentic expression of the apostolic tradition: that core of the evangelical
faith that the Orthodox Church had corporately inherited and was duty
bound to pass on to later generations. He was thus able to sift the
theological inheritance of Origen of Alexandria (died 253), which was
standing behind the current Arian dispute, and to resolve the matter by
pointing out the assonances and dissonances of each school.
Though Athanasius’s Christological thought tacitly admitted the
profound weight of Origen’s ideas, Athanasius struck out boldly to say that
the inherent subordinationism he also found there had to be removed: for if
the Son was of the essence of the Father, then that essence in which the Son
personally subsisted was in ancient terms none other than the Father’s own,
and in this case everything that the Father was by essence (that is, by
nature) was attributable to the Son.20 Accordingly, Origen was wrong to
suggest that the Son was “less than” the Father. Everything that was in the
scriptures that suggested otherwise (“The Father is greater than I” [Jn.
14.28] and suchlike) was meant to refer to the state of the Son in his earthly
incarnate state, where he had “emptied himself out” “in the form of a slave”
(Phil. 2. 5–11) in order to work the salvific restoration of the human race,
which he himself, as Divine Word, had first designed for divine glory.
 The second great advance Athanasius achieved was, once again, to
simplify the deep subtleties of the earlier Alexandrian and bring to a
coherent and teachable form his doctrine that the Incarnation of God the
Word was meant for the restoration of the human nature to divine
communion. Athanasius brilliantly expounded the view that the Incarnation
was not merely an isolated act that the Word undertook (the assumption of
human flesh) for a limited time in history. On the contrary, it was no less
than a second creation. The Incarnation was the major act of divine
redemption of the cosmos. It was the decision by God himself, Second
Person of the Trinity, to enter into the most profound communion with
humanity as a whole, by becoming no less than the God-Man. This union
(the exact terms of the conception would be refined over many years to
come) was a most profound one that allowed the Immutable Word to be
within history, and to suffer; but it also had a reciprocal effect, for it took
what was mortal by condition (humanity) and rendered it immortal by its
intimate association with the immortal deity. What Athanasius then stressed
was that what thus happened in the case of the body of the Incarnate Word
Jesus (the divine suffusion of his flesh to make it radiant and life-giving)
also happened in the body of his believers, the church. Their own mortal
bodies were lifted up into the mystery of the Incarnation, and even their
flesh was rendered grace-filled by their union with Christ. As a pastoral
archbishop, Athanasius was able to draw the practical connection here,
between the deep theory of redemption and daily church life, for he said
that this particularly took place in the encounter with Christ in the
Eucharist. With a brilliant eye for succinctness in preaching, he expressed
this in his most famous aphorism: “He [the Word] became Man that Man
might become god.” This was provocatively expressed. One needs to
understand it in terms of “deification by grace,” or what the Reformers
would call “the sanctification of the righteous by grace”; but there is no
doubt that the commentators were right in saying that Athanasius brought a
robustly physical and transformative theory of atonement into play by this
approach, and it is one that has informed and illumined much of Orthodox
thinking ever since.
Toward the end of his life, the staunch defense Athanasius gave of the
necessity for holding fast to the Nicene Creed, despite all the pressures of
an increasingly Arianized court pushing in the opposite direction, allowed
the Nicene faith not only to endure but also to shine in the eastern
provinces. His fight at so many times appeared so hopeless (though the
Latin Church was steadfast in its support of him) that he has attracted the
descriptive phrase Athanasius contra mundum: Athanasius standing alone
against the world—for the defense of Christianity. Again in his last years he
set the tone for future theological development by seeing that his earlier
works had so emphasized the “divine flesh” of Jesus that he had somewhat
neglected the equally necessary truth that the humanity of Jesus was like
ours in all respects other than sin, particularly that he was an ensouled being
—a real human being, not simply a divinity appearing in a fleshly epiphany
as some had suggested.
Again toward the end of his life Athanasius was faced with a question
about something that had, until then, largely been unspoken in Christian
tradition: the precise status of the Holy Spirit. One of his country suffragan
bishops, Serapion of Thmuis, asked him about this specifically, and this
occasioned his Letters to Serapion, which deal with pneumatology. It used
to be thought that this was when he first turned his mind to the issue, but
recent scholarly work has shown, to the contrary, that his late doctrine is
simply an expression of what he had always taught as a bishop.21 It was not
as if the Holy Spirit had been an unknown factor in earlier Christian
teaching and liturgical prayer. The Spirit was invoked and honored in so
many avenues of life, not least the baptismal and eucharistic sanctifications
that constituted the mainframe of Christian liturgy. Nevertheless, in early
Christian practice there was a robust tradition of arcana sacra: sacred
secrets, some things too holy to be spoken of in ordinary discourse. The
tradition of keeping the sacred mysteries (liturgical prayers and services)
hidden from pagan outsiders was extensive in the earliest communities.
Bishops who were baptizing candidates delivered the Christian doctrine of
the Holy Spirit’s work and graces to them on the eve of, or during, their
actual baptismal ceremony. This was something not ever to be shared with
those who were not allowed to communicate at the Eucharist, and to have it
was an essential prerequisite for anyone who wished to communicate. This
custom of the early church meant that by the fourth century there was not
an established body of texts and discussions about the Spirit comparable to
what was available about God the Father’s role in creation, and God the
Son’s role in redemption. It was generally understood that the Spirit was
involved in both acts of the Godhead, but it was understood too that it was
in the process of sanctification (the ongoing life of Christian ethics and
prayer) and in inspiration (the revelations given in scripture and spiritual
insight) that the Spirit was most intimately involved. In the Arian period,
when Christology was being so radically scrutinized and energetically
discussed, it was inevitable that the Christological question reopened the
ancient confession of God as Trinity and thus put pressure on for a more
extensively elaborated treatment of the nature and work of the Spirit.
This ran against the grain of many conservative churchmen, who
preferred a pious obscurity, content to remain within the limits of the great
discourse on the Spirit of God set out at the end of John’s Gospel and in the
Pauline Letters. But Athanasius once again had an eye to the need of the
contemporary church and spoke up for greater clarity. Both in his early
writings and in the more extensively argued Letters to Serapion he plainly
taught that the Holy Spirit is: uncreated (that is, divine), eternal, intimately
united to the Son and his salvific mission as its energy in the world, inspirer
and heart of all scriptural revelation, and therefore worthy of all worship
and essential for salvation in Christ.22 In his monumental teachings on the
significance of the Incarnation as the primary redemptive act of God in
Christ, and in his teachings on the Holy Spirit as God’s energization of
holiness in the church, Athanasius set the agenda for the church’s next
generation of theologians to more clearly state the doctrine of the Holy
Trinity. What is more, he set the example and standard of what a theologian
was who stood for Orthodoxy. In this way he became an archetypal father
of the church. The Orthodox Church ever afterward took to its heart that
select group of theologians whom it acclaimed as specially and
energetically defending the content of the apostolic tradition and how it
could be renovated, more clearly expressed, and closely defended in
passing generations with new issues. One of Athanasius’s admirers in that
next generation (who composed an acclamation of him as a great saint) was
Gregory the Theologian, to whom we shall now turn.

Gregory the Theologian and the First Council of Constantinople (381)

Saint Gregory (329–391) was born in the small Cappadocian town of
Nazianzus, where his immensely wealthy father was both the local archon,
or ruling squire, and the church’s bishop.23 Gregory received the most
refined education money could then buy, studying philosophy for ten years
at Athens before returning to Cappadocia and assuming the duties of a
priest assisting his father, while also living out the studious and retired
lifestyle of an ascetic. In 372 he was consecrated bishop to assist Saint Basil
the Great in his struggle with the Arian court of the emperor Valens, but
disgusted by the party politics at play among senior clerics, he retired back
to Nazianzus. Saint Basil had been one of the leading pro-Nicene
theologians and apologists in the generation after Athanasius. After Basil’s
death in 379 the leading Nicene theologians called upon Gregory to leave
his life of seclusion and come in haste to Constantinople. The Arian
emperor Valens had recently been killed, and the capital city (then fully
occupied by Arian clergy in all the churches) was awaiting the appointment
of a new emperor. Gregory was petitioned to go there and preach the
Orthodox faith. He took up residence in a large villa in the heart of the
capital and consecrated it as a small church. In this, known as the
Resurrection Chapel, he gave a series of orations on God, Christ, and the
Holy Spirit, which have since been accepted as the core theological
teachings of the Orthodox Church on the Holy Trinity.24
Gregory offered this series of dogmatic sermons in order to preface, and
prepare for, what he hoped would be a second great and ecumenical council
that would definitively end fifty years of Arian ascendancy, during which
the Council of Nicaea had been systematically disparaged by the court and
its favored bishops. He starts his series of lectures with a discussion of what
it is to do theology correctly and in accordance with the apostolic tradition.
“Not to all men is it given to philosophize about the things of God,” he
argues, only to those whose hearts and minds have been purified by the
Spirit of holiness, so that the eyes of their spirit are enabled to perceive the
mysteries of the Spirit.25 He sets out to censure “people whose ears and
tongues itch for the delight of profane words and pseudo-scientific
paradoxes.”26 If one’s life is not illumined by the grace of the Spirit, then
one cannot hope to approach the great mystery of the faith, he argues. As
the apostle Paul was lifted up into heaven, in order to be able to receive the
capacity for such great insights into the nature and work of God, so too the
one who expounds the Orthodox faith must share in the intimate grace of
the Spirit by a life that is both pure and seriously dedicated to the careful
study of the church’s life. Gregory has in his gunsights the leaders of the
Arian movement who were, by and large, city bishops enjoying state
patronage but who often displayed little theological refinement; and also a
particular theologian called Eunomius, one of the most radical Arian
theologians of the day, who had argued the heterousiast position: namely,
that the Son of God was a being wholly different from God; that both the
Son and the Holy Spirit were nothing other than creatures, angels if one
liked, called into service by the single and monolithically separate God the
Father.
Gregory’s theology, therefore, goes back to the foundations, to restate
the Nicene doctrine in a manner that takes cognizance of another generation
of church controversies. This is why it stands as such a dense, magisterial,
and succinct statement of Orthodoxy, and why the Eastern Church calls
Gregory “the” theologian. Speaking of God, he says, is a great and mystical
ascent, like that of Moses climbing Sinai to see a glimpse of God’s power
passing by.27 Plato had famously said that to conceive of God was difficult,
but to express him in words, impossible. Gregory cites the opinion and
mockingly contradicts it. God’s nature is so mystically beyond the powers
of human cognition, he says, “that it is impossible to express him in words,
but even more impossible to conceive of him in the mind.”28 From that time
onward this approach—the very tentative ascent toward saying anything
about the God who truly transcends all thought and perception—has
dominated the ethos, theology, and spirituality of the Orthodox Church,
giving it a mystical character that shows in all its formal and more personal
aspects of life.29
Gregory defines God as the point of ascent to which all life, especially
all consciousness, turns by an inward longing. Since God made us in his
image, all humans have an innate affinity with the divine: all are mystical
sacraments, not merely ignorant animals. The sense of God is native to us,
and the destiny this gives to humanity is unique, for it calls to human nature
to extend beyond itself, to transcend the limits of a mortal nature that is
doomed to death and corruption within this time and order of reality. For
Gregory, the Incarnation of the Divine Word was the major act (a second
creation) of God reinviting his own people back to their true nature: a
moral, intellectual and spiritual (noetic) ascent that will be completed (for
those who have advanced along its path in this life) in the form of full
communion with the Word in the afterlife.30 As did Athanasius, Gregory
saw the Christ as the Word-Enfleshed. God had assumed humanity into
such a close union with himself that it had rendered the humanity of the
Lord radiant with power: even in his Passion and death he worked divine
transfiguration. His Passion was the universal forgiveness of sins, and his
death was the gift of immortality to the human race, through the grace of
resurrection given in place of mortality. Against those who were trying in
his time to suggest Jesus was some form of divinity transiently passing
through history, Gregory countered: “What he did not assume, he did not
heal.”31 He went on to argue that in Christ the Divine Word took on himself
every aspect of human life (its joys and sufferings and limitations) in order
to suffuse everything with the divine grace of freedom and joy. His
Incarnation, for Gregory, becomes the doorway to true human fulfillment: a
fulfillment that eventually expresses itself in a fullness of life that will dawn
on it in its divine transfiguration alongside the Word, but that truly begins
here and now in the manner of life one lives on earth. The Incarnate Christ
becomes, therefore, the paradigm of all discipleship and the vehicle of
human transformation.
Some in Gregory’s day were beginning to turn to biblical
fundamentalism as a presumed safe haven in times of confusion. Gregory
warns them consistently against such a false turn. They had argued that
since scripture does not explicitly call the Holy Spirit “God,” the church
should not continue to speak of him in divine terms. In his Oration 31
Gregory speaks boldly of how the Spirit is God from God, like the Word,
consubstantial with the Father, as is the Son, and just as divine as he is, by
virtue of having the same divine essence. The Spirit comes from the Father
by procession (ekporeusis), as scripture says (Jn. 15.26), just as the Son
comes from the Father by begetting (gennesis). This is why the person of
the One God is trinitarian. For Gregory this was not a peculiar conundrum
that was to be rehearsed but not seriously considered: rather, he brings it to
the center and forefront of the Christian confession. The Trinity is the
unapproachable mystery of God’s own being as a communion of love. It is
known to us only in small part insofar as it is also God’s energy of salvation
outreach—God’s stretching out to the world, first in creation, through the
Logos, and then in that energy of the restoring of the original created design
—redemption through the Logos’s Incarnation. In his theology, Gregory
insisted that the whole Orthodox world should confess that the Son was
begotten of the Father, and that the Spirit proceeded from the Father; and
this was effectively the profession of faith adopted at the First Council of
Constantinople (381), where Gregory presided as archbishop of the capital
city. This was the trinitarian faith of the early church, shared with the
Western churches across most of the first millennium, until later popes
inserted into the creed—which originally read: “And we believe in the Holy
Spirit who proceeds from the Father”—the addendum that made it then
read: “Who proceeds from the Father and from the Son (filioque).” Western
Christian trinitarianism thus departed significantly (and some Orthodox
would say substantively) from that of the Nicene fathers. The Orthodox
world still maintains that the procession of the Spirit and the begetting of
the Son, both from the single source of the Father’s own being, as two
hypostases of his single Ousia is the only way to ensure that Christian
Trinitarianism sustains the Unity of the Godhead, and the proper order
(taxis) of the divine outreach of salvation to the world.
Many people today seem to regard the Trinity as a dead letter and are
apparently not so concerned about this: often they cannot see why the
Orthodox get bothered by it at all. But the filioque controversy reveals two
things the Orthodox think are fundamentally damaging to Christian faith. In
the first place, the insertion of this clause into the basic creed of
Christendom on the authority of the pope alone (for the West) augured bad
things to come in the perspective of the Orthodox. The Eastern Church
never would allow any single bishop, however exalted his role or his city, to
stand alone as the arbiter of Christian apostolic tradition. That role belonged
to the collective mentality of the church articulated in the larger episcopal
synods, whose results had then to be presented to the faithful for
acceptance. Allowing a single bishop to adjudicate such matters on his own
authority, so the Orthodox thought (and still think), would lead to problems.
The Reformation-era fragmentation of Christendom in the West was one
such example of this (still to be resolved). The second issue was more
important. Several theologians in the early Western Church had suggested
that God was one and three because he had one single essence (or nature)
and three distinct persons all possessing that nature equally. Seizing on this
model, the medieval theologians who taught the filioque clause did so as a
way of teaching the “full divinity” of the Son and the Spirit and how all was
shared within the life of the Trinity. As Gregory had pointed out, however,
God does not have a nature in the sense of possessing one in the manner in
which all creaturely things have a nature. A nature in this sense is a set of
existential limits that border and thus define a quantifiable reality. God is
not of the created order, and one cannot suggest that he has a nature that so
limits him in the sense that he could be said to “possess” it. In short, this
model was an unjustifiable diminution of the inexpressible and
unapproachable essence of God. Gregory the Theologian taught, by
contrast, that God the Father is (as the scripture first described him at Sinai)
“I am who I am.” He is. He does not exist in the manner of created beings.
He simply self-subsists as himself, the All-Powerful Father. He alone has
being: all things other have dependent existences out of that being.
So how did Gregory conceive of the Trinity? The Father, before all time
and all created beings, begets the Son. This does not mean, as Gregory
hastens to point out, that there is scission or any separation involved. God
begets his own Son in order to reveal himself to the world; through the Son-
Logos, the Father will create all existent things. What this begetting is,
however, is beyond our conception, though we know scripture uses the term
as a reserved analogy for the relation of Son and Father. But what we do
know about it is that the Father gifts his own being to the Son, who now
personally exemplifies that selfsame being in his own identity as Son and
Word and agent of the Father. The Son does not possess a share in the
Father’s being. Nor does he happen simply to have an identically
quantifiable nature (as two members of a family could each be said to be
human) in a way that suggests there is a common nature to which both
belong. On the contrary, the Son inhabits the Father’s own nature: subsists
in the Father’s singleness of nature. In the way God qualifies and extends
the divine outreach to the world we also learn that the Father has similarly
gifted his own divine nature to the Holy Spirit. Not by begetting but by a
manner scripture calls “procession.” This means that both the Son and the
Spirit now each subsist in the same singleness of the Father’s unique being.
They each have his being, or are his being; each individually (or
hypostatically) instantiating that being of the Father. For Gregory, this is
why Christians can say there is only one God, but that the One God is three
personed. Gregory is the thinker who chiefly insists on the church clarifying
its language to use in relation to the Trinity: three hypostases (or
individuations) and one essence or nature (ousia).32
One can see, therefore, how the filioque radically disrupts what Gregory
was teaching about the Trinitarian reality of God: how this giftedness of his
being reaches out in a vast energy of communication. The divine outreach
of the Trinitarian persons to the world is only an image, or shadow, of this
more fundamental, transcendent communication by gift of the Father
himself to the Son and Spirit. The filioque stops the Trinity from being a
great outrush to the world; stops it also from being a model of how the
world is saved. For Gregory also went on to suggest that as the Father
moved out through the Son and the Spirit so the Church was brought, in the
Spirit, to the Son and through the Son to the Father. The whole Christian
energy of salvation was thus an intimate expression of the inner life of the
Trinity becoming the inner dynamic of the Christian’s life of grace. In the
Western filioque version, the Trinity became static, a deadened image
connoting nothing of much force. This is precisely why the Trinity lost the
devotion and attachment of the Western Christian mind: it ceased to mean
much to later Western believers, and so (to all real intent) fell into being a
dead letter. For the Orthodox world the Trinity is a dynamic progression of
grace experienced every day: to the Father through the Son in the Holy
Spirit; and there is no Orthodox prayer, from the most exalted liturgy down
to the humblest forms of individual devotion, that does not celebrate that
mystery in numerous trinitarian doxologies each day.
One cannot stay too long with such an exalted mind as Saint Gregory’s.
But Gregory was not always stretching one’s understanding this way. He
was one of the most advanced intelligences of the ancient world, and also
one of its great litterateurs. He composed many very beautiful and
comparatively simple hymns to the Trinitarian Godhead, many of which are
still sung in the Orthodox liturgies. It was he who, in his Oration 21, first
called some of his predecessors “the Great.” He named Bishops Athanasius
of Alexandria and Basil of Caesarea “the Great,” and these titles have
remained with them to this day. There are many others to whom the church
has affixed this honor. What Gregory was doing in this instance was to
canonize some of his predecessors: name them as great saints. What he had
in mind was not simply to commend them for their purity and holiness of
life but more precisely to identity them as bearers of the Spirit of God. Such
spirit bearers (pneumatophoroi) he saw as those men and women who
through the ages carried the purity of the apostolic tradition most closely in
their teaching. Many Christians can exemplify this by their fidelity, but
these great souls were gifted with the teaching office. If a teacher goes
wrong, he or she can lead many others astray. This is why Gregory felt that
the only safe guides were those whom the church identified, retrospectively,
as truly authentic and inspired teachers. Follow these, he argued, and do not
listen to every voice, as the Apostle himself had first instructed (1 Jn. 4.2).
This was, in effect, the formal identification of the principle of patristic
theology. Patristic is a Latin word meaning “pertaining to the fathers.”
Gregory had put his finger on what the church had tended to do for a long
time beforehand but was now going to do on a more systematic basis. Both
the Latin and the Eastern Church followed the same path for a very long
time afterward, though it tended to fade somewhat in the West. For
Orthodoxy, however, this notion, that there are some theologians who are
specially graced by the quality of their inspiration—the depth of their
possession of the Spirit of God, the closeness of their hidden life in Christ,
and thus the quality of their apprehension of the Father—that they have a
privileged position in the ranks of Christian teachers, was one that took hold
strongly.
The idea that there were noted fathers of the church whose teachings
guided the church in each generation was a dramatic insistence that the
apostolic tradition was not a dead thing but was renewed in every
generation as the Spirit gave voice to inspired saints. Orthodoxy to this day
prizes the ranks of those it calls the fathers, and it accumulates their wisdom
in a careful collection and study of their work. It places less reliance on
contemporary, living theologians and in each instance demands of its
theological teachers that they conform their lives to the Gospel and to the
preceding ranks of earlier teachers, so that the whole consensus of
Orthodox theology will be organically linked in a tight communion of the
Spirit. This is why Orthodox thought is dominated by the idea of precedent:
Has this idea, whatever it is, been exemplified elsewhere in scripture? Or in
the prayer and liturgical traditions of the church? Or in the teachings of its
great theologians? Or in the lives of its holiest saints? If not, then how can it
be seen as a positive aspect of the apostolic tradition? This is why patristic
theology occupies a pride of place in Orthodox thinking, alongside the
preeminent place of the scriptures. It does not preclude all other forms of
thinking, especially about contemporary problems, but it is an approach that
gives the Orthodox world great stability in its teaching ministry. What it
teaches, it feels, has to be exemplified first: lived-out truths are more
important than mere speculations. Gregory himself was soon adopted into
the ranks of the greatest of the fathers of the church.

Saint Cyril of Alexandria and the Council of Ephesus (431)

Another major father of the Eastern Church is Saint Cyril, archbishop of
Alexandria (378–444). I have chosen to list him in particular among our
four great minds because if Saint Athanasius represents essential Orthodox
thinking on the Incarnation and Saint Gregory represents its doctrine of the
Trinity, then Cyril stands as someone who most acutely represents its
theology of redemption by deifying grace. Anastasius of Sinai (died 700)
expressed the sentiment of all the Orthodox churches when he called Cyril
“the seal (sphragis) of the Fathers,” in the sense that he set a royal seal on
all that had gone before him. Cyril had closely read Saint Athanasius, Saint
John Chrysostom, and Saint Gregory the Theologian, as well as the
philosophers of the school of Damascius. His knowledge of the scripture is
both subtle and deep: his theology being discursive and deeply engaged in a
scriptural mesh long before he was drawn into more precise dogmatic
arguments with his opponents. Chief among these were theologians who
wanted to establish precision and order in Christian discourse, and who
accused him of muddying the waters.
What had happened was that a new Syrian archbishop, named
Nestorius, had been appointed in the capital city of Constantinople in the
year 428. The capital had been for many years past the Christian city that
was claiming the ascendancy in church affairs. What it taught in its schools
had a wide influence. When Nestorius began teaching that the church’s
language about Christ needed reform, Cyril sat up and paid attention with
some anxiety because he recognized in the series of sermons issuing from
Constantinople that he himself was a primary target of criticism. Nestorius
had heard that the city he had inherited had a deep devotion to the Virgin
Mary and acclaimed her in its prayers and litanies as the “Mother of God”
(Theotokos in Greek).33 This was something new to him, and he found it
distasteful. Mary, he argued publicly, ought not to be called the Mother of
God, since God, strictly speaking (akribos), had no mother but was eternal.
So Mary should only be called the Mother of Christ, or the Mother of Jesus.
What Nestorius meant to do by this was to institute a thoroughgoing reform
of Christian discourse to eradicate what he saw as confusions. He felt that
every time someone attributed to Jesus a divine characteristic this made for
a terribly confused and mixed-up sense of how God was in Christ. He felt
the language of piety that used such titles as Mother of God, or ideas like
the sufferings of God on the Cross, was hopelessly wrong-headed. For
Nestorius the main thing was to clarify and make exact (akribeia)
Christological language. He argued that when one referred divine things to
the Savior one ought to use the title “Word,” or “Son of God.” When one
referred to things that applied to both the divine and the human reality of
the Lord (miraculous powers, for example), one had to use the subject title
“Christ,” and when one referred to particularly human limitations (eating,
ignorance, or suffering, for example), one had always to use the subject
designation “Jesus.” So, one should never say “God wept,” only “Jesus
wept,” and so on for all the scriptural stories about Christ. In this way one
could safely avoid two clashing rocks that would be disastrous for Christian
thought: the Scylla of Arianism that was scandalized by any attribution of
suffering or limitation if applied to a divine Christ, and the Charybdis of a
pietistic view of a divine Jesus where his humanity was so mixed up in the
divinity that it more or less disappeared into a picture of a divine Lord
walking the earth like a god possessed of all superhuman powers.
Cyril was deeply puzzled by this attack on traditional piety and
language. It seemed to him entirely an innovation, one that struck at the
very heart of Orthodox theology. He put the idea simply at first, reversing
the logic of Nestorius: “If Mary is not, strictly speaking (akribos), the
Mother of God, then the One who was born from her is not, strictly
speaking, God.” When Nestorius protested that he was not attacking the
concept of the divinity of Jesus, only the notion that some theological
statements confused the divine and human in Jesus in such a way that they
attributed suffering to the Godhead, and impassibility to the Manhood, in
ways that were clearly illogical, Cyril deepened his argument. Nestorius, he
said, seemed to be ashamed of attributing suffering to the divine Christ. He
obviously felt it wholly inappropriate that Godhead should, in any way, be
involved with humiliation and pain. And yet this was the decision of God
himself who had freely elected to be born, in order to teach and suffer and
die for the sake of men and women. If God, in Christ, had so elected the
humiliation of the Cross, who was Nestorius to be offended by it? The
Cross was a logical result of the Word’s personal divine choice to be
Incarnated.
For Cyril, Nestorius’s God was more the Impassible Deity of the Greek
philosophers than the God revealed to us in Christ’s Incarnation, through
the Gospels and the apostolic tradition. God, the Word, impassible and all-
powerful in nature, had decided to enter into human history in this close and
intimate relationship with the human race, and so had chosen the path of
personal incarnation. This was the key to the uniqueness of Christian
experience. For Cyril, the person subject of the Incarnate Lord was single
and selfsame in all aspects of his being. In other words, the Logos of God
was the single personal subject (hypostasis) of all of the following: the
Second Person of the trinity, the Divine Word, the Son of God, the Christ,
and Jesus of Nazareth. They were all one and the same subject. Obviously,
the names of Divine Word, the Eternal Son, the Everlasting Wisdom of
God, and other such titles of this single hypostasis were, properly speaking,
eternal referents that referred to the life of the Word of God before the
Incarnation. Equally, some names, such as Jesus of Nazareth, Rabbi, and
Son of Man, were titles that specifically related to the life of the Lord in his
incarnate state. Some titles were able to connote both the eternal life and the
incarnate life, such as Son of God, Wisdom, Lord, Life and Light, and many
others found in the New Testament.
Cyril pressed the point home that this singleness of subjectivity meant
that it was the Divine and Eternal Word who had personally assumed the
human life. There was not a man, called Jesus, whom God inhabited or
inspired, in the way the older heretics, called Adoptionists, had once taught.
There was only the Word who assumed flesh in the womb of the Virgin and
was born from her as the Son of God, God from God, and Light from Light.
In this way Mary, strictly and exactly speaking, was the Mother of God.
The point Nestorius was making, that God has no Mother because of the
definition of deity as Unoriginate, was perfectly true in itself, but was
pedantically unnecessary in Christian discourse, because when the faithful
confessed Mary was the Mother of God everybody understood that it was a
way of speaking about the Eternal Son of God within his Incarnate state.
This was so obvious it did not really need emphasis. If one denied this
manner of speaking, however, then the implication was surely very heavy:
to feel offended in saying Mary is Mother of God really meant that there
was a certain reluctance in confessing Jesus really was divine.
As the bitterness of the dispute between Constantinople and Alexandria
started to heat up, with each great see appealing outward to other sees, such
as Rome and Antioch, each claiming that it represented the “proper”
approach to the apostolic tradition, it became obvious that this was no
longer a matter of individual concern. Sensing that he was truly defending
the heartland of the Christian faith, Cyril pressed the theology more acutely,
and this was where his own specific contributions shone out. Instead of
agreeing on a compromise with Nestorius (“you have your low theology,
and I’ll have my high theology”), Cyril provocatively expressed his thought
more succinctly by using a method of dramatic paradoxes. These were
designed to shock his listeners at first, make them think about the statement,
and then express their agreement that, in Christ, God had certainly come
into human history, personally and directly, not in a mediated or distanced
form. So, for example, Cyril used to speak about the Passion and the Cross
as the “sufferings of God” and took delight in referring to the acts of Jesus
as divine works. When Lazarus was raised, for example, he said: “God
wept.” He would deliberately cross over nature referents in the person and
work of Christ, articulating boldly how Jesus of Nazareth was God in
human form; how Jesus was the Eternal Son; how Mary was the Mother of
God; how God wept at the tomb; and how God bled and died on the Cross.
These things infuriated Nestorius. He started to think that Cyril had no
theological sense whatsoever: not to know that Jesus’s history did not
preexist his birthday at Bethlehem, or that God could not be said to bleed or
die. But Cyril was far from being naïve or ill-educated. What he meant by
elevating these strong paradoxes was to make his Christology a set of
aporias: philosophical puzzles that made the listeners supply the answer. It
was a very old and established way of teaching in antiquity. The answer
Cyril expected them to make, in fact led them to make, by this way of
speaking, was that all these paradoxes that seemed illegitimately to refer
acts and powers “to the wrong nature” became abundantly clear and
perfectly correct when it was realized that they all referred to one and the
same person.
If (but only if) Jesus of Nazareth’s person was the selfsame as the
Eternal Word of God, then what Jesus endured in the flesh was directly
attributable to the Word of God; even though in his “own,” or proper, nature
as Second Person of the Trinity such things did not apply. In short, the
Impassible Word could suffer and die because he had elected to be born in
the flesh. Without leaving behind his divine glory he had willingly accepted
the humility of the Incarnation. Just as he lifted up the Manhood into his
own divine life, so too he lifted up along with it all the sufferings and
limitations appropriate to that Manhood. Cyril went further. This, he argued,
was exactly why the Incarnation happened in the first place. The Word did
not choose to come to earth, and live as a true human being, because he felt
the need for a change of scenery. He came so as to embrace humanity into
his own life as divine creator and refashioner, and, having embraced it so
profoundly, thus to heal it. As he healed his own mortal nature, making
what was evidently mortal and passible (as proved by Passion and death)
into what was immortal and impassible, rendering the lowliness of death
into the glorified body, so too did he elevate all human nature in that once
and for all act. Cyril argued that the Incarnation was, therefore, nothing less
than the second creation of humanity: a making of the Old Adam into the
New Adam: making that death and corruption, which had so marked fallen
Mankind, into a spring of life-giving grace that lifted the human race from
death into life, through a new and intimate union with the Eternal Word-
made-flesh. This complex idea is simply expressed as the “Communion of
Idioms” (antidosis idiomatum) or “Exchange of Properties.” It turns around
the axial idea that there is but a single subject in the Incarnate Lord, and this
means that all the acts of the Incarnate Savior are acts of the Logos-in-flesh.
So if the Word is Eternal Lord of the angels and Jesus is a suffering and
wounded figure, it is equally true to say Jesus is the Eternal Lord of the
angels and the Word suffers and is wounded. In each case the paradox is
resolved into sense by the understanding we are here always talking about
the Word-made-flesh.
Nestorius was simply unable to embrace this concept in his thought.
Cyril saw it as the very mainspring of the whole dynamic of salvation: why
we were saved by the birth, life teachings, sufferings, death, and
Resurrection of Christ, all of them acts that God the Word personally
performed through the medium of the Incarnation. For Cyril it was not
merely the death on the Cross that redeemed us but the ontological re-
creation of our humanity that happened when the Divine Word did what
was impossible and illogical (impossible to sophists and logicians, that is)
and took up humanity into his own personal life, transfiguring it in the
process. Christ himself, for Cyril, is the dynamic process of our salvation;
and the life we are offered is life in communion with God through him.
Cyril had learned most profoundly from Athanasius’s old dictum, “The
Word became Man so that Man might become god.” But now he had
expanded the idea to make all Christology into a clear and vivid doctrine of
salvation. What is more, he had expressed this not only in high theology of
a very intellectual order but even in the simplest of phrases suitable for the
simpler believers. His thought now explained why one could say litanies of
the form “Jesus my God; Jesus Pre-Eternal; Jesus Maker of the Angels”:
because the one who was born of Mary, late in time, and limited by his
human nature, proved himself unlimited and timeless as well: his weakness
also showing itself to be divine power; his humility and suffering
manifesting itself as God’s essential glory.
Where Nestorius seemed to find the Cross embarrassing, Cyril took
Paul’s point to heart and gloried in the Cross (Gal. 6.14). Nestorius’s Christ
was a servant of a distant God who kept his hands clean, as a respectable
Greco-Roman divinity was expected to. Cyril’s Christ was the God-Man
who strode into the maelstrom of flesh and blood, in order to bring order
and healing back to suffering men and women; in complete solidarity with
them, yet lifting them out of their corruptibility into his own divine radiance
if they would have his hand. This was why Cyril so doggedly fought against
the alleged rational reforms that Nestorius wished to impose on his
Constantinopolitan Church. When an Ecumenical Council was called at
Ephesus in 431 to resolve this conflict between the two archbishops, the
great majority affirmed that it was Cyril’s instinct and passion for the
apostolic tradition that made it the one they recognized. To prove the point,
Cyril brought to the council a whole dossier of patristic proof-texts to show
how his thought was supported by many preceding great minds in Christian
history.34 From this time onward it has been customary in the Orthodox
Church for anyone involved in a great theological question to collate such a
body of evidence from precedence. To this extent Cyril added to the old
ways of establishing apostolic authenticity (biblical proof-texts, liturgical
supports, synodical agreements) this new pattern of collating patristic
references. It would remain central to Orthodox and Catholic theological
method ever after, and would always serve as a check to modern trends and
opinions, to make sure that the church was always in touch with the times
but never just conforming to the spirit of the age (Rom. 12.2). Cyril put the
capstone on the church’s traditions about Jesus’s divine acts, or pressed the
seal into the wax, as Anastasius had said. It is one of the reasons the
Orthodox Church, which so greatly reveres Cyril, to this day has an
approach to the Lord Jesus that is first and foremost a homely-mystical one:
warmly sensing him as the Lord who transfigures all he touches into light
and health and immortality.

Saint Maximus the Confessor and the Third Council of Constantinople

(681)
If Saint Athanasius sums up the Council of Nicaea for Orthodoxy, and Saint
Gregory represents the Council of Constantinople (381), and Cyril distills
the Ecumenical Councils of Ephesus (431), Chalcedon (451), and
Constantinople II (553) (which were a series of variations and clarifications
on his master theme), then our fourth representative father of the church
sums up the last of the great Christological councils, that of Constantinople
III in 681. He did this even though he was not named in those acts or
present for the council, having died a martyr for his defense of the faith. It
is Saint Maximus the Confessor (c. 590–662). He is one of the most acute
and brilliant minds of the late patristic/Byzantine era. His theology is deep
and cosmic in scope, and it gives to most of what follows in the traditions
of Orthodoxy the character of mystical ascent that Cyril had adumbrated
and that now Maximus renders on a vast poetic canvas.
 His skill was that of a brilliant philosophical theologian who was also a
master synthesist. Maximus had the ability in the seventh century to review
the whole gamut of the scriptures and also the complete range of the fathers
who had written before him. But above all else he recognized that the
theology of the Orthodox Church was meant for one thing only: not to
present a face to the world but rather to clarify the way and method of the
ascent to union with Christ for the believer. Theology was not just a
theoretical discipline but also the path of salvation itself. It was no less than
the spiritual life Christ had infused in the church. Maximus himself was a
dedicated ascetic and monastic. He spent great amounts of his day in prayer
and reflection. But he was also a deeply rooted scholar and an activist as
well. He stood firmly for the truth that one becomes what one reads and
prays. His overarching idea was that the Divine Word, or Logos, had not
simply made the worlds of seen and unseen realities (in which humankind
and the angels were the representative consciousnesses who served as
priests of God) but had designed the structure of the cosmos to be the
medium of revelation of God’s love and communion. For Maximus, the
Logos had set within the entire scheme of being a passionate drive, an Eros
he calls it, of the deepest longing to go back to communion in God. Even
though the mind and soul of an individual may not fully comprehend what
is happening, all the driving forces in life that are good and clean and true
serve to lift up the creature to a fuller sense of direction and a greater love
for God. This love is ascentive in every sense: moral, intellectual, and
metaphysical. In ascending through a pure life, one dedicated to prayer and
compassion toward the neighbor, the soul of the individual realizes its
innate priestly character. In beginning to understand the interior rationale of
created things (their logoi in Greek), the priestly soul sees through the
created structures to the Divine Logos who undergirds and empowers them
all: then the mind offers praise, and in its wonderment at the profundity of
God’s mind, so barely glimpsed yet so transcendent, it lifts up the lesser-
conscious creation around it in a priestly act of offering and refinement—as
the ancient priest of old used to offer sacrifices of the first fruits. For
Maximus this ascension of mind and soul demands study, for it is in
clarifying our thought and our lifestyle that the presence of the Divine
Logos in all things around us becomes clear, allowing the fire of divine love
to grow in force, which leads us on even further still into an ever-deepening
communion of love.
In his own time Maximus was faced with many who wished to stress
that Jesus was so specially divine and separate from the created order that
he did not have the same constitution as other human beings: he might be
“Man” but he was not “a man” in the ordinary sense. This was an old
temptation of pious Christians from early times: to mark Jesus off by not
allowing that he had a mind, or a soul, or any other human defect. Maximus
was pressured by the church authorities of his time, who were anxious to
come up with an ecumenical compromise to bring together the Byzantine,
Roman, Egyptian, and Syrian churches, to say that Jesus had only one will
in his being: a divine one (monothelitism). Remembering his deep and close
study of Gregory the Theologian, he replied that this would not only
separate the Incarnate Lord from the nature he was redeeming by adopting
it but also mean that he could hardly serve as a model of believers: since if
his will was purely divine he could hardly be tempted as we are. Reminding
his opponents of the Letter to Hebrews (Heb. 4.15) as well as of the sorrows
of Jesus in Gethsemane when he wrestled for his ability to offer obedience
to God (Lk. 22.42), Maximus insisted that Jesus had a divine will that
flowed from his heavenly nature, as well as a human will that flowed from
his human nature: for willing is a factor or aspect of a natural condition.
Where his divine will was concerned with universal matters appropriate to
his stature as Logos, his human will was exercised in all the concerns of his
daily life and was the arena where he grew in stature and favor before God
the Father (Lk. 2.52). What was unique about Jesus, however, was the
manner in which his human will was so perfectly in tune with the divine
will that he was truly, in every way, the model of how a human being would
be perfected by communion with the Divine Word. What he was in himself
and in his own being, we were called to be by his grace.
For his teachings, which he never ceased to proclaim against royal
authority that tried to silence him, Maximus paid with his life. First he was
arrested and sent into exile. Then, when he refused to be quiet and kept on
writing, he was brought back to Constantinople and tried for treason and
heresy. His tongue was cut out and his right hand was cut off as
punishments, and he was sent back into exile at Lazica, on the Black Sea
coast of modern Georgia. He died soon after from his wounds and so won
the title “Confessor,” which is given to a martyr who does not die
immediately in the course of a persecution. Although he was never given
credit for it until a very long time afterward, it was his theological
preaching that underlined the sixth of the great Ecumenical Councils and
that fixed the Orthodox theological tradition in a stability and
comprehensiveness that it still possesses. Maximus’s greatest influence on
Orthodoxy was the stress that all striving in the church, all attempts to
clarify and express the sense of God, were subordinate, in the end and in the
beginning, to the task of living within God. What the mind often cannot
grasp, the heart can always comprehend. To this day Orthodoxy is a faith
that can embrace both intelligentsia and children with equal power.

SELECT ICONS OF ORTHODOX TRADITION

These four great theologians in a very real sense sum up all of Orthodox
theology, and for that reason they have been offered here in an exemplarist
fashion, so as to stand for a larger discourse on Orthodox thought, which
would be out of place.35 They collectively stride over the first six
Ecumenical Councils, and their teachings still provide the key to
understanding those foundational synods. Each one of these fathers of the
church is steeped in knowledge and love of the scriptures and the church
sacraments, which is why each demonstrates that profound linkage in
Orthodoxy between scripture, synodical government, Ecumenical Council,
liturgy, and patristic theology: a synthesis of streams of spirituality that
constitutes the Christian apostolic tradition and keeps the Orthodox Church
ever ancient, yet makes it ever new; rooted with the firmest of anchors but
always alive to respond to the spiritual needs and hopes of contemporary
men and women. In the high Middle Ages another great saint of the
Orthodox tradition, Symeon the New Theologian (949–1022), expressed
this in a vivid image. Faith and Christian experience of the Spirit, he said,
cannot be taught from a book, or even learned from deduction. It is like the
flame of a candle. It can only be passed on, person to person, face to face,
lit from one flame of a faithful soul to another in a personal encounter. This
is the manner in which faith in the supreme hypostasis, that ultimate person
of the Logos (from whom all other personal consciousnesses are fashioned)
has made the process of spiritual “begetting.” This is the faith of the
Orthodox Church, which it received from the apostles, preserved through
the long road of the ages, and still offers to all who are thirsty even to this
present day.
 CHAPTER FOUR

The Byzantine Imperial Church

BYZANTINE IDEAS OF CHURCH AND SOCIETY

The pre-Constantinian Church had suffered much from the hands of the
state, especially in the fourth century when the emperors Diocletian and
Galerius had specifically targeted the Christians in an attempt to bolster the
traditional cults of the Roman gods. One might have expected Eastern
Christianity to remain very skeptical about worldly powers. But when
Constantine defied Galerius and rose to supreme power across both western
and eastern provinces of the empire, it seemed that more than a dream had
been fulfilled. The emperor had begun by granting great favor to the church
and ended by being baptized himself. Even before his day the great
theologian Origen had countered the claims of the Greco-Roman
philosopher Kelsos that the church was a pathogen in the body politic, by
musing how God himself had providentially laid down the infrastructures of
Romanity in order to facilitate the spread of the Gospel to one people
gathered together in a supranational identity: the religious spirit of Judaism
refined by Christ and given to the world through the roads and institutions
of civilization founded by Rome.1 Other Christians had also seen a
connection. Lactantius argued that Christ was the fulfillment of all the
dreams of Rome for a golden age that had been diverted and misled by its
brutal militarism.2 Christ he depicted as the one whom the ancient
prophecies of the Sibyls had been pointing toward. Many in the West saw
the yearning and hopes of the Aeneid for a future Savior to come to Rome,
as referring not to Augustus but rather to the one who was born in the reign
of Augustus. Bishop Eusebius of Caesarea was not the first, then, to see
Constantine’s rise to power as a Christian emperor as the dawn of a new
age. Many later Protestant theologians have tended to demonize this
theology and ridicule it as “caesaro-papist.”3 Highly suspicious of the
state’s involvement in anything to do with religion, they find the close
attachment of the church after the fourth century to state institutions as a
corruption or at least a taking of a dangerously misleading road.
For the Orthodox world this is seen in a wholly different light. The rise
of “Christ-loving emperors,” as they are called, is seen as part of God’s
providential plan for the outreach of the mission of the church. It is the
church’s duty to be so involved in human society (not apart from it) that it
acts as a leaven in the body mass, lifting and oxygenating it with the Good
News of Christ’s salvation. The Orthodox Church, once it had state support,
immediately began to institute medical care for the poorest of the poor,
which had hitherto been available only to the rich.4 Gregory of Nazianzus
and Basil of Caesarea solicited funds to found a great medical center (the
Basiliad); and both of these figures, being monastics and among the highest
theologians of the early church, offered an authoritative example for monks
(who in the earlier ages had been withdrawn solitaries) and for nuns to offer
their dedicated services in the education and care of children and orphans,
and in medical services for the poor. Constantinople, in the early medieval
period, had many charitable institutions operating as poor-relief houses,
midwifery clinics, surgeries, orphanages, and schools. The very tight link
between church institutions and the offering of public welfare programs was
begun from the earliest times, and continued to build in medieval and early
modern society. That linkage has only been broken in very recent times in
societies with advanced welfare systems; but it remains in many places in
the less developed world; and it stands as an abiding fact that it was the
early Orthodox Church that taught the modern world the counter-cultural
importance of care of the poor—something it needs to relearn in so many
instances. This philosophy of care was called philanthropia in the Orthodox
Church.
This took its lead from the Gospel injunction to love the neighbor and
was seen as an imitation (a mimesis) of the philanthropia (literally, “loving-
kindness for mankind”) that the Divine Word expressed for the world in
becoming incarnate. Love for the other, therefore, was always seen in the
Orthodox tradition as more than simply human charity and rather an
entrance into the sacrament of divine compassion and, as such, a profound
act of worship. Saint Gregory the Theologian was the first writer, outside
the scriptures, ever to go on record to theorize that the care of the poor, for
their own sake and for the cause of the intrinsic dignity of the human
person, was a godly act that demanded society’s response.5 Before him, in
the long annals of Greek and Roman literature it had simply been presumed
that the poor ought to go to the wall as part of the natural order.
As the fourth century advanced, the Orthodox bishops influenced
Roman law under the Christian emperors to moderate its harshest aspects
and to seek to bring it into an ever closer relationship with Christian values.
By the early medieval period emperors themselves had published the law
codes, together with relevant episcopal canon laws, so as to give Christian
synodical legislation on morals and philanthropy a standing in law equal to
civic regulations.6 The Orthodox theologians sought after what was called
symphonia, literally a harmony, between the church and the state in which
each respected the remits of the other, and in which the emperor would
stand as a protector and guardian of the church and a facilitator of its
mission. Under these terms Orthodoxy became the state religion of the
Roman Empire, now based in its capital at Constantinople, and thus often
called “Byzantine”; though itself it always refused that nomenclature and
designated itself “Roman.” Symphonia meant that the emperor and the
church would respect and facilitate each other but not intervene in the
other’s rightful affairs.
The emperor had charge of state security. The defense of the borders of
the Christian Empire were seen as a sacred duty of defending the Kingdom
of God as established on earth. The Eastern Orthodox bishops and priests
were forbidden to bear arms at any time, but they had the duty to pray for
the basileus and the armed forces. The emperor had the duty of calling an
Ecumenical Council if he and the leading members of the state and the
church saw a pressing need. It was his official decree, or sacra, that was
necessary for such a council to meet and that gave the bishops the solemn
duty of attending. It was also the emperor’s decree, in the aftermath of the
council, that gave the synod’s decisions the status of imperial law. Both he
and his courtiers, however, were forbidden to take part in the deliberations
other than as observers. Deliberation was the priestly task of the bishops
alone. Throughout the history of the Orthodox church from the fourth
century to the fall of the Christian Empire in the mid-fifteenth century, the
highest bishops of the church, especially the patriarch of Constantinople,
served to guide and shape Byzantine imperial policy in marked ways.
Politics, seen as the structuring of human society, is never understood in the
Orthodox Church, to this day, as a secular matter. It is regarded, rather, as a
fundamental part of the church’s mission to bring Christ’s presence and
message into the ordering of human lives at the macro level. Western
commentators often try to dismiss this approach as a dangerous
Erastianism, or as desiring an enthralling theocracy; but their critiques
generally demonstrate little if any understanding of the subtlety of the
Orthodox viewpoint. Symphonia, meaning a harmonization of different
musical notes, is quite precisely dependent on not one of those notes being
drowned out by the other. This view of political balance caters to a variety
of views and stances, not simply the supremacy of Orthodox Christianity.
Constantine himself, for example, told the bishops present at Nicaea that he,
as emperor and leader of the state, stood in the role of bishop for all those
outside the church, then connoting pagans and Jews. His celebratory rites at
the founding of Constantinople gave an example of wide religious diversity
in their inclusive format. Even so, the Orthodox Church regards its mission
of influencing the shaping of society and its laws as part of its basic role
within the world of seeking to advance the great sacramental action of the
Redemption—the ongoing deification (theiopoiesis) of the present world
order by grace, embracing its sociology, its ecology, its governance, and its
moral teleology.
The Western Church had a different path to this view of close
symphonia of church and state. The West effectively lost its resident
emperor in the fifth century and increasingly felt that the emperor at
Constantinople had abandoned them. So they looked elsewhere. The pope
at Rome became more than a merely symbolic leader and always exercised
a profound influence. But as the old Western Roman Empire broke up into
the rise of multiple nation-states, the kingly leaders of those new lands soon
entered into a long-enduring struggle with the papacy for supremacy. For
such reasons it is engrained in the Western consciousness that there ought to
be a sharp separation of church and state. America and modern Europe are
prime examples of that separatist philosophy. The early modern wars of
religion only served to underline this belief, and this was why Protestantism
emphasized it even more acutely. In the Eastern Empire, attitudes were
quite different. The Orthodox world saw the emperor as a sacral figure but
not as an absolute monarch. The church imposed upon the ancient world the
view that even the king was subject to the laws of God, as established and
taught by the church. The highest authority and the highest powers had to
subordinate themselves to the Gospel injunctions and embody the mercy,
justice, and compassion of Christ.
At Orthodox liturgies in the Byzantine Empire, the emperor himself
would often play a symbolic role. At Easter, for example, he would process
in the streets wearing pure white robes to iconize the Risen Christ. Every
state occasion was accompanied by extensive prayers and liturgies in which
he had an integral part. He alone, as a layman, was permitted to take
Communion in the sanctuary of the cathedral, among the priests. His throne
was always a double-seated one: but not to allow the empress to sit
alongside him—rather to show there the jeweled Gospels and to
demonstrate that he had his power as Christ’s representative. Throughout
the entirety of the Orthodox imperial period the boundaries of the empire
were seen as the modern equivalent of the borders of the New Israel, and
the emperor was the New King David.7 This was taken in a more than
merely symbolic way: political embodiedness was not separated from
spirituality in the manner in which a kind of Platonizing consciousness so
often permeated Western Christian thinking. The Orthodox Church really
did see itself as the New Israel, with a new King David, setting the standard
for a new Christ-loving society on earth, where the Gospel itself would be
the supreme charter of civilization. If it did not succeed in fully establishing
that dream, it nevertheless had it and tried to fulfill it. Orthodoxy even now,
despite centuries of political oppression and occlusion, still aspires to it: a
vision where this symphonia can be effected. This might explain why most
of the Eastern European socie-ties where Byzantine values underlie the
social order are quite different in political and social theory from Western
ones where secularism has made the notion of this priestly-kingly synthesis
something to be held in suspicion. The ongoing difficulties of the Western
democracies in understanding the mind-set of the Slavic states is one
example of the continuing divide over political and religious values.
To the present day the Orthodox Church seeks, or at least expects to
presume, a close relationship with the state authorities that it recognizes as
God-given. At many times in its past, after the fall of the Byzantine Empire
to the might of the conquering Ottoman Turks, it has had cause to regret the
allegiance it has shown to the occupiers of the throne. The sultanate often
proved deeply oppressive to it. The church in Russia also suffered much
under the brutal reign of Tsar Ivan the Terrible. In more recent times, the
Russian Orthodox Church venerated its tsars until the fall of Nicholas II in
the Russian Revolution. But it also suffered considerably from state
interference that often amounted to eras of stultifying suffocation. Today
the governments of traditionally Orthodox countries such as Russia and
Romania have a close relation to the church leaderships. In the whole of
Europe and the Americas, only England’s monarchy still represents that
symbolic alliance.8 Even there, the British government in power more
actually exemplifies the strict separation of church and state that became the
dominant model of religion and politics the West had evolved.
Orthodoxy’s “God-beloved” and “Christ-loving” emperor has long
gone. The Orthodox Church, however, still looks to that notion of the
symphonia of the political and religious principles in society as an ideal.
Symphonia in this understanding, the way in which two musical notes
sound together in complementary ways to create a richer resonance than
singly and separately, is a basic part of how Orthodoxy understands the
mission of the church to be part of the very weave of all aspects of human
life: the individual trying to live more truly and more nobly, as well as the
societal whole, seeking to align its common legal and political values more
fully with the evangelical spirit. It may seem a hopeless or whimsical thing
for the Orthodox Church to still cling to this ideal in the present world
order, but it is a mission to continue to plant the seed of Gospel in whatever
ground it finds, friendly or not; and a task it has fulfilled in times past well
enough to create a Christian ethos in many of its heartlands that it hopes can
still outlast any spirit of atheism or secularist humanism that tries to
extinguish and replace the lights of Christendom with less transcendent
twinkling relativisms.

HARMONY AND DISSONANCE: COPTS, ARMENIANS, CHALDAEANS

When one speaks of Orthodoxy today, one thinks predominantly of the

Byzantino-Slavic tradition. This can rightly be called the dominant tradition
of Orthodoxy, and this book has been mainly concerned with it. Of course,
in antiquity the Western Catholic Church was a core part of that Orthodox
world. The pope was an integral authority, primus inter pares (first [in
honor] among equals) in the consortium of the five ancient and greatest
patriarchates of the ancient church: Rome, Constantinople, Alexandria,
Antioch, and Jerusalem. After the great medieval rupture with the Western
patriarchate, which thus became the sole patriarchate in the Western
Hemisphere and was thereby set on the course of a monarchical inflation,
Orthodoxy added more patriarchal churches to the roll call as more peoples
and great nations were added to the flock. This was so especially after the
conversion of the Slavs in the ninth century. In Russia the church became a
patriarchal church, as in Serbia, Georgia, Bulgaria, and Romania. In
Orthodox thought the pope is still regarded as the “missing” Western
patriarch. Ecumenical relations between Orthodoxy and Roman
Catholicism have immensely improved at official levels throughout the
twentieth century, largely due to the courtesy and intelligence that have
characterized recent dealings since the meeting of Pope Paul VI and
Patriarch Athenagoras in Jerusalem in 1964. Even so, at a more popular
level of the Orthodox faithful, a great suspicion remains in regard to Roman
Catholicism, related to its past history of conversion campaigns
aggressively mounted within the Orthodox world. Orthodoxy feels that
when it was down in the dust after losing all orbits of independent power,
with the exception of Russia, the papacy always undermined it rather than
seeking to support it. It is this deep-rooted and ancient suspicion, on the
Orthodox side, and basically a lack of knowledge and a dismissive
disregard of the Eastern Christian world on the part of Western Catholicism,
that today hinders real and substantive ecumenical rapprochement.
The Orthodox Church has warmer relations with British Anglicanism,
which has habitually shown a very supportive face toward the Eastern
churches that came to its knowledge both overseas and as immigrant
communities in the West. Orthodoxy is a tradition that Western Catholicism
recognizes as familial, of course. It differs in many significant respects from
the churches representing the more radical Reformation. Protestantism’s
stripped-down sacramentality, and its several doctrinal departures from the
ancient apostolic tradition, make it a more difficult communication for most
Orthodox, and in recent years a few of the more easterly and more
conservative Orthodox churches have resigned from membership of the
World Council of Churches because of the spirit of liberal Protestantism felt
to be prevalent there, triggering a lively debate among the Orthodox
worldwide as to the nature and purpose of contemporary Christian
ecumenism, and Orthodoxy’s role within it.
But Orthodoxy’s intimate relationship with religious dissidence did not
begin in the twentieth century. From early times it made a very sharp and
clear distinction between what it called “heresy,” where a specific church
community (or an individual person) was regarded as no longer meriting
recognition as being authentically Orthodox Christian, and “schism,” where
a particular church (and those belonging to it) had become separated,
perhaps in varying degrees of seriousness, from the mainstream of the
Orthodox churches that were in communion with each other and
maintaining the unity of Orthodoxy by their solidarity. This solidarity was
represented by the way the bishops of all the Orthodox churches in
communion (for world Orthodoxy still remains a system of churches in
communion of doctrine and practice) shared with one another visits and
eucharistic concelebrations. This sharp distinction meant that a church
could be radically cut off from Orthodoxy if it damaged the apostolic
tradition in any serious doctrinal matter. Such cutting off was regarded as
applicable to the ancient separatist movements of the Gnostics, the
Photinians, the Arians, and many others. These movements, of course, often
regarded themselves as being perfectly Orthodox Christians. But if
believers from such churches presented themselves in the mainstream
Orthodox communities, the bishops would demand that they should be
baptized before coming to the Eucharist. These rules date back to the early
bishops Dionysius of Alexandria (died 264) and Basil of Caesarea (330–
379), and they have been adjusted to meet the modern issue of a great
variety of Christian denominations whose polity and doctrine vary
considerably. The prior baptisms of those movements regarded as sects, not
churches, were not regarded as having any force or validity; hence
Orthodox practice was not so much a question of rebaptism as first baptism.
Even today believers seeking to join the Orthodox Church from groups that
differ from the apostolic tradition in substantive matters (such as
nontrinitarian churches, for example) are required to be baptized with the
full rites of the church, because their previous sacramental initiations are
considered as having only a propaedeutic charismatic force (like forms of
catechumenate of varying depth). This does not dismiss them as not being
Christians at all; neither does it accept them as having been initiated fully.
But Orthodoxy, worldwide, has not made its mind up in any full or
determined sense about the status of the Reformed churches’ ecclesial and
sacramental polity. Most of the Orthodox bishops regard the Non-
Chalcedonian Orthodox, Catholic, and Anglican churches’ sacraments and
traditions on a wholly different level.
The Non-Chalcedonian Orthodox churches are the closest, among all
others, to the Orthodox Church’s traditions and practices. They used to be
called the “Oriental Orthodox,” and some of them still prefer that
designation though today it carries pejorative colonial associations in
English-speaking lands. Oriental in this case, however, does not mean
“Asian”; it refers to the Provincia Orientalis of the late antique Roman
Empire. The group of churches covered by it were mainly centered in
Egypt, Ethiopia, Syria, and Armenia. The separation occurred as a result of
the slow-burning resentments that came in the aftermath of the great dispute
between Cyril of Alexandria and Nestorius. The falling out was over the
concept of the unity of Christ (how it was to be conceived and how
expressed), and how that conflict was mediated by the imperial Byzantine
government and the patriarch of Constantinople. The antagonistic poles of
Christian Syria and Alexandria were mediated by Constantinople, which
was especially concerned to keep the Western traditions (represented by
Rome) happy on all fronts. This mediating role, like many others that have
been attempted in history, was destined to be unable to please everyone.
Eventually the churches that favored a greater stress on the separateness of
the natures of Christ (as Nestorius had argued for), which were especially
located in the Syrian patriarchate, broke away from all the others and went
their own way, rejecting all the common councils after the first two (at
Nicaea in 325 and at Constantinople in 381). Those churches are now
known as the Assyrian Church of the East. They used to be known,
apologetically, as the Nestorian Church. Their missionaries went far afield:
first to Ethiopia and then to China in the seventh century, and they were the
first to evangelize that vast country.
The churches (mainly based in Egypt and some parts of Syria) that
favored a view of the divine and human natures of Christ running together
into a union that was no less than a single unity were increasingly
disillusioned by the way Constantinople and Rome wanted to keep dialogue
open and balance the polar views, and they eventually broke off relations
with Rome and Constantinople, as well as with the aforementioned Syrian
churches of the Nestorian tradition, whose theology they now claimed to
see as corrupting even the Byzantine and Western churches. The members
of these churches are now known (from their ancient language zone) as the
Copts. Today they also include the Ethiopian Orthodox. They used to be
called (again apologetically) the Monophysite churches. They include the
Armenians. These communities regarded the Latins and Byzantines as
having betrayed the proper Christological tradition after the Council of
Ephesus in 431, and accordingly they refuse to accept any Ecumenical
Council after that date. This is why they are also known, to the Byzantine
and Roman traditions, as the Non-Chalcedonian churches.9 The issue is at
once disarmingly simple and yet maddeningly complex, which is why a
resolution has been sought after for fifteen hundred years and is still
elusive. The Roman and Byzantine Orthodox traditions put together (in the
years after Cyril of Alexandria had set the tone and direction for
Christology at Ephesus in 431) two simple principles for Orthodox thought.
The first was this: if the Divine Word has brought two different natures,
divine and human, into a Union through his Incarnation, this Union has to
be accepted as indissoluble and total. Two things have become a one-ness.
Christ is thus the God-Man. The second is this: it is also necessary to stress
that in this totalist Union, the characteristics of each are not destroyed but
rather given new and dynamic contexts: such that the impassible Godhead
can enter into a wholly new way of working on earth (incarnate suffering
redemption) and the human can assume powers and charisms beyond the
range of mortality (the life-giving flesh of Christ, the immortal resurrection
and so on). Nevertheless, the affirmation of totalist Union (Henosis) of the
two natures into one must also confess that each nature is not confused with
another, overridden, or submerged.
This was why, between them, the patriarchates of Constantinople and
Rome affirmed a series of Ecumenical Councils (Chalcedon in 451,
Constantinople II in 553, and Constantinople III in 681) designed to finesse
and refine this question of balance in the form of acceptable axioms that
would reconcile the differing parties. And so, this conciliar tradition
basically taught that the Incarnate Lord had two natures made indissolubly
one but “without confusion, without change, without separation and without
division.”10 The Coptic episcopal leadership was censured at Chalcedon for
continuing to insist that any change to Saint Cyril’s original formulae (when
Cyril was apologetically bent on refuting Nestorius’s radical separatism)
was permissible for the church in future; and so the Egyptian contingent
withdrew from participation in Chalcedon, and large parts of the Egyptian
Church refused to accept the Chalcedonian settlement. Eventually this
dissidence resulted in the establishment of parallel groups of bishops in the
same areas: those who accepted the council of 451 and those who did not.
Once a parallel hierarchy was established, the schism had come out into the
open and was hardened over the centuries, made even worse as a matter of
inter-Christian alienation when Egypt passed out of all Byzantine control in
639 and became a caliphate of Islam.11 Much sniping fire has passed since
then between the so-called Monophysites (one-naturers) of Egypt and the
Diaphysites (two-naturers) who today represent the Christological traditions
of Rome and the Western churches as well as those of the Eastern
Orthodox.
Orthodoxy, however, fully endorses the basic principle of the Coptic
confession: that the Incarnate Lord did indeed make a total and indissoluble
union of the two natures in his incarnation, truly making them one in a new
and dynamic resolution. It differs in this respect: that by confessing the
Lord “has two natures” after the union, it does not deny the previous
statement, only qualifies it by adding that these natures are not fused into a
confusion but retain their properties in a newly enhanced and unique
dynamic. The Orthodox tradition renounces Nestorian separatism, and this
is why, whenever it does speak of two natures it always adds the four
qualifying adverbs drawn up at Chalcedon. This is, to be sure, a clunky
solution; but Orthodoxy maintains it as a symbol of the importance of
keeping the communion of the churches intact under the system of
ecumenical conciliar judgment having higher authority than any single
person, be it an individual father of the church or a national episcopal
leader. There has been much simplistic and offensive nonsense taught over
the years about what the Orthodox are supposed to hold and what
Monophysite or Miaphysite Christology is supposed to mean. There has
been more serious study done over issues of rapprochement over the past
generation than perhaps in the past fourteen hundred years.12 But so little
prior tradition has there been of meaningful and respectful dialogue that it
will take more time to resolve deep-seated issues of this division that
touches very closely on the heart of the Orthodox world.13

MONASTICS AND MYSTICS

Monasticism is a movement (originally) of lay men and women toward a

radical lifestyle of solitude and social disconnection, meant to allow them to
focus on God as the primary quest and orientation of their lives. It takes its
name from the Greek term for solitary life. In Byzantine Orthodoxy it was
also called the hesychastic life, from the word “hesychia” meaning
“quietness.” Saint Gregory the Theologian drew the comparison of
monasticism’s solitary goal with the Hellenistic philosophical ideal of
seeking the illumination of the Demiurge or divinity presiding over the
world. Their adage of Monos pros Monon (a single/solitary/celibate person
seeking the One Who Is Alone, that is, God) was adapted by him for
Christian use. The elegance is lost in translation, but the idea was part of
Gregory’s overall concern in adapting the highest aspects of Greek culture
for Christianity.14 Gregory it was who transitioned the more rough and
ready Egyptian forms of Christian monasticism to a more sophisticated
scholarly idea of a withdrawn life dedicated to theological studies and
contemplation. These two types of monasticism, after the fourth century,
remained standard aspects of the Orthodox Church. For simplicity’s sake
we shall call them the Syro-Egyptian monastic ideal and the Byzantine
ideal, though conscious that they were both adapted all over the Christian
world and entirely fused together in the end.
The beginnings of monastic life in the Orthodox Church appeared in
third-century Syria and fourth-century Egypt. Later they moved westward
and were adopted, to great effect, in the history of Latin Christianity too. In
Egypt, which gave, perhaps, the classical expression of monastic
institutions, the first exemplar was Antony the Great (251–356). His
biography and exploits were celebrated in a very famous and popular text
written by Athanasius the Great, who did much to spread the monastic
practice through the Orthodox world.15
What we shall call the Egyptian model of monasticism was a radical
battle with the simplicity of life in desert regions (Syria, Palestine, and
Egypt excelling in this regard, for they each had extensive wilderness areas
within relatively easy travel distance to the great centers of early
Christianity: Alexandria, Antioch, and Jerusalem). Life in the desert meant
that this solitary ideal, paradoxically, soon had to be tempered by the needs
for survival that required small communities living out a subsistence
economy. Woven baskets and other small craft wares for sale in the large
city markets were the staple work of monks and allowed the desert dwellers
to conduct their work manually while keeping their minds on matters of
prayer and contemplation. Antony, one of the first renowned hermits, began
by living in strict solitude and found that his intention to spend all day each
day in prayer was a practical impossibility.16 So he balanced his days out
with revolving periods of prayer, manual work, psalm recitation,
contemplative silent prayer, and the needs of his body, eating and sleeping
in regulated small amounts. The nights were passed in prayer; sleep came
after a small meal in the morning. Each day rotated in the same manner.
Antony lived in a small cave for more than forty years. But quickly
disciples had gathered around him and wanted to be associated with him.
Antony’s style of eremitical, solitary existence proved too hard for most to
follow exactly. It soon became a lifestyle reserved for disciples who had
spent many years in common life together in the desert and thus had proved
their stability.
 The life in common, that is, in small communities, was called the
cenobitic monastic style.17 It was based around a set of communal
dwellings with a centrally located small church (katholikon) for purposes of
worship. Cenobitic monks shared a common meal table and were under the
supervision of a few leading superiors: the chief being the higumen, called
in the West an abbot. In Latin monastic life the monks followed a set of
rules written by a founder. Those of Saint Benedict are the most renowned,
and his Rule (Regula) became a classic of the Western Church. In the
Orthodox world the monks followed the instructions of the local founding
teachers, and life was generally freer, though very strict and demanding
from our modern viewpoint, and it was a life that followed in close
obedience to the instructions of the higumen. After the ninth century many
of the Orthodox monasteries started to follow a more commonalized
tradition of life shaped around the charter and timetable of one of the
greatest of Eastern monasteries: the great Stoudium at Constantinople. This
charter (typikon) was founded by Saint Theodore the Stoudite. He and the
earlier fourth-century teacher Saint Basil the Great are regarded as the
leading monastic theorists of the Orthodox world, although there are many
other figures whose writings and teachings about monastic life have been
preserved and are venerated still to this day: among them Saint Pachomios,
Saint John Klimakos, and Saints Barsanuphios and John.
Between the cenobitic lifestyle of the community organized in
obedience to one leader, focused on many aspects of common works, and
the eremitical lifestyle of the solitary living in seclusion and dedicated
contemplation, there was also a mediating style of monastic life called the
lavriotic. The term “lavra” originally meant back lane and was used by the
Orthodox monks to connote the way that a valley with a great hermit in it at
the closed end would often see a series of lesser hermitages springing up
along the valley toward his cell. These were his loosely collected hermit
disciples, seeking to be near the great man. In time this style became more
popular. Instead of a common walled building with a central church and
common rooms for sleeping and eating and working, the lavra remained a
series of independent hermitages, peopled by senior monks, under
allegiance to a presiding hermit, who exercised great moral and spiritual
authority over the complex but did not need to concern himself with details
of daily lifestyle or discipline, because of the advanced status of his
disciples. Life was conducted on an individually secluded basis, and the
pathway between the various houses was used for consultations, but the
monks only gathered collectively once a week: on Saturday evening for
prayers in common all through the night leading on into the celebration of
the Eucharist together on the Sunday morning, with a meal and shared
hospitality together until Sunday afternoon, when all returned once more to
their separate dwellings.
In the golden age of desert monasticism, many lay people traveled out
into the desert to seek the guidance of some of the more famed hermits. For
those who could not travel, books were produced to give the flavor of some
of these men and the tenor of their teachings. One such book that enjoyed
great popularity in fifth-century Constantinople and then throughout the
Eastern Empire was the Lausiac History written by one of the disciples of
the great monastic theologian Evagrios of Pontos. Its author was the bishop
of Helenopolis, Palladius of Galatia (c. 365–425). Books such as this and
others from the same period, such as The Sayings of the Desert Fathers,
became best sellers in the Christian capital cities and made the monastic life
attractive (from a distance) to many of the laity.18 Monasticism, formerly a
phenomenon of deserted wilderness areas, spread to the cities themselves.
At first they were seen in the suburbs where small farms supplied the needs
for the townsfolk, but soon, as with institutions in all cities, the settlements
were swallowed up within the city itself as suburbs became centralized
because of urban spread. Constantinople and Rome were soon cities filled
with urban monasteries, and in Constantinople the monks, being the most
literarily educated class, were by the sixth century to be found extensively
employed as a clerical elite, deeply inserted into imperial affairs.
While some monasteries retained a simple focus on manual labor and
strict obedience, others developed academic and literary lifestyles. The
great monastery of the Stoudium in the center of Constantinople had a
world-renowned scriptorium where minuscule writing was invented: what
we know today as lower-case handwriting. This speeded up the process of
copying books immensely, and centers such as the Stoudium were
responsible for the reproduction, transmission, and thus salvation, of the
great classics of ancient Greek poetry and philosophy. When the monastic
libraries of Constantinople were looted and exported to the West, after the
Fourth Crusade in 1204 (and again after the fall of Constantinople in 1453),
it was an influx of learning that would eventually jump-start the
Renaissance.
Monastic life, in all its rich variety, has remained a central aspect of
Orthodox Christian experience to this very day. It never suffered from the
wholesale repression it had to endure in the lands that followed the radical
Protestant reform, or in England, where Henry Tudor’s depredations served
to fill the coffers of his restless and avaricious aristocracy. In many places
of Eastern Europe, such as present-day Romania and Russia, the
monasteries still serve as primary centers of spiritual and intellectual life in
the Orthodox Church. Many parish communities will regularly make a
pilgrimage there to seek out the spiritual elders and to ask their guidance. In
Russian the elder is known as starets (plural startsi), and a vivid picture of
one of these charismatic figures was given in Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Father
Zosima in The Brothers Karamazov. Orthodox believers expect, still today,
that the church’s monastic ascetics will show the fruits of the spiritual
ascent in an evidently dynamic and charismatic spirituality, meant to assist
the laity in their own spiritual progress. In Orthodoxy, holiness is not
regarded as an achievement for a few elite; it is considered the natural goal
of all Christians, but it is something that needs guidance from those who are
skilled in matters of the Spirit.

ART AS SACRAMENT: THE SECOND COUNCIL OF NICAEA

By the time of the sixth Ecumenical Council, held in 681, the major matters
of theological doctrine had been well and truly settled in the Eastern
Church. But the eighth century saw a monumental row brewing that would
overshadow the entire generation ahead. It was the closest Eastern
Orthodoxy ever came to having a reformation crisis; but it was resolved in a
manner very different from the way in which the Western Reformation
approached the issue of religious images—almost the polar opposite. The
problem was concerned with the legitimacy of religious images (the Greek
term is ikons) used in Christian worship. The questions that this controversy
raised still serve to mark a significant difference in cultural and spiritual
practice between the churches of the West and the Orthodox world.
 Orthodoxy is a tradition that abounds in icons: the churches are full of
them, and it would be rare for any private home of an Orthodox Christian
not to have icons on the walls somewhere in the house. The Orthodox
Church sees the images of the Trinity, or Christ, or the Virgin Mary, or
saints and angels as highly important to a proper prayer life. In the church
the icons assume an almost sacramental character. They are regarded as
powerful channels of the grace of God, media that bring about the presence
to the believer of the one who is depicted in the icon before which one is
praying. They have often been described as doors, or windows, to the
heavenly kingdom. At home most Orthodox will have an icon corner in a
place where when one faces it one will be standing facing the East.
Orthodox faithful will stand here (the traditional posture for prayer) when
they say prayers; and they will often offer incense to God in front of the
icons and very often have lamps burning before the icons as an act of
reverence. In Russia the icon shelf is placed in what has become known as
the “beautiful corner” (krasny ugol) of the house. In the Orthodox churches
the major icons are placed on a screen that separates the altar area from the
nave, known as the iconostasis.
The icon screen in Russian churches was greatly expanded in the late
medieval period, and several other rows were added above these basic ones,
so that in many Russian churches the screen goes almost all the way to the
roof. The scheme of icons on these larger screens covers the great feasts of
the church’s year and various scenes from the Gospels. In the earlier years
the icon screen was a more modest affair, and while it served to focus the
worshippers’ attention and devotion during the long unrolling of the
eucharistic liturgies, it never cut off the people from the events happening at
the altar. Several modern Orthodox churches have recently tried to combine
the way the iconostasis sets apart the altar area as a specially sacred place,
with the benefits of a more unrestricted view of the priestly actions at the
altar in the course of the Eucharist. In the old Western churches the Rood
Screen is an echo of this, though it was one of the architectural casualties of
the Reformation.19 Even so, many signs of its survival can be seen in
numerous ancient English churches.
There is a central great opening to the altar, known as the royal doors.
To the viewer’s right is always placed a large icon of Christ, holding the
Gospels and blessing the faithful. It is known as the Pantokrator Icon,
confessing Christ, in his Incarnation, to be Lord and God: the Wisdom
through whom the Father made the whole cosmos and keeps it in being; as
well as the Lord who will come at the end of time to judge the world. To the
viewer’s left is always an icon of the Theotokos, Mary the Mother of God.
She is often depicted in richly various forms, but the most common one
shows her holding the child Jesus, with one of her hands gesturing toward
him for the sake of the viewer. This icon is called the Hodegitria, meaning
“She it is who shows the Way” (cf. Jn. 14.6). Adjacent to the Christ Icon on
the altar screen is customarily an icon of John the Forerunner (Prodromos),
known in the West as John the Baptist. Adjacent to the Virgin’s icon is
usually the icon of the patron saint of that particular church. This icon, in a
smaller form, will also be placed just inside the main entrance to the church,
and the faithful on entering church for worship will first stop in front of it,
bow, and greet the saint—as if entering his or her private house and saluting
the host—and then kiss the icon. Icons in Orthodoxy are not merely for
looking at. They are designed for kissing: aspasia in Greek. This is at once
an ancient form of greeting and a sign of veneration. It was what stirred up
the great controversy of the Iconoclastic crisis.
The Byzantine Empire was ruled between 717 and 802 by the Isaurian
dynasty. It was founded by Emperor Leo III. As the name suggests, Leo
originated from the Syrian province of the empire (Commagene) and was a
successful general of the armies before rising to power in a very troubled
time. Once he became emperor he seems to have been motivated by a
strong desire to reform many aspects of church life. The more eastern,
Syrian, parts of the Orthodox world had never been as devoted to icons in
church life as were the Constantinopolitans. The precise reasons the
emperor should have been so determinedly against the use of icons in
worship is still not clear, but several factors point to possible solutions. He
himself rose to power in the aftermath of a series of very weak emperors,
who had seen the rising power of Islam come to the very gates of
Constantinople in a twelve-month siege of the city. The evidence of the
rapid ascent of Islam as a world power was taken (by them and by the
Byzantines too) as a clear sign of favor from God. And yet the Orthodox
Byzantines believed most firmly that they had been elected as the chosen
nation under God on earth. So how could this loss of territories to Islam be
happening? Leo probably concluded, on the basis of Old Testament
antecedents of the “correction of Israel,” that the military reversals were
because of some great sin on the part of the empire. He may well have had
an eye on the affairs of Islam, noticing how the Ummayad caliph Yazid II
had issued an edict in 722 against his Christian subjects forbidding them the
use of so-called idolatrous images in their churches. Idolatry, of course, was
the most serious sin against the covenant establishing God’s chosen people
in all three religions: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam; so it is not
unexpected that Leo might well see religious practice as a serious matter of
state security. If icon veneration in the churches really was idolatry, it could
certainly account for the apparent loss of God’s assistance in the military
reversals of the era. Recent scholarly work has also shown how complex the
whole environment was, however, and the manner in which the pro- and
anti-icon parties divided shows many aspects of class and regional
differences. The military, the court, and the eastern provinces were more in
favor of the imperial anti-icon policy. The monks, the women of the capital,
the Byzantine theologians, and the western provinces were very much
against it.
Leo’s first set of reform legislation was designed to improve military
and civic administration and the tax system. Then the emperor turned his
attention to the spiritual life of his subjects. In 722 he called for an end to
the religious pluralism that had been customary beforehand. He ordered
mass compulsory baptisms of the empire’s Jews and demanded that
Christian heretics, such as the Montanists, who had been a minority
presence since the second century, should be baptized in the Orthodox
churches and conform under threat of severe penalties. Then, between 726
and 729, he issued a series of edicts against the use of icons in church.
These he called idolatrous, using arguments that anticipated in many
respects the arguments used by the radical reformers much later in the West.
While the court officials and clergy around his circle supported him, the
great majority of the monks (who formed a large part of the population of
the city and the backbone of its civil service), the senior theologians, and
the patriarch Germanos all opposed him strongly, as did the great majority
of the Western Church under the leadership of Popes Gregory II and III.
Gregory II called two councils at Rome (in 730 and 732), which censured
the emperor’s religious policies and excommunicated those who destroyed
the icons. While the imperial party saw those who “worshipped” icons as
idolaters (iconolaters), patriarch Germanos and his allies, notably Saint
John of Damascus, called themselves instead iconodules (icon venerators).
They named the imperial party icon smashers, or iconoclasts. The
Iconoclasts accused the Orthodox of violating the biblical commands never
to “worship graven images” (Exod. 20.4; Deut. 5.8). Much turned,
evidently, on the precise meaning of the terms involved, and this dispute,
perhaps more than others in the history of Byzantine theology, called for a
very precise understanding of semantics. The emperor ousted Patriarch
Germanos in 730, replacing him with a subservient iconoclastic patriarch,
Anastasios.
When Leo died in 741, he was succeeded by his son Constantine V
(741–775), who took the controversy one stage further by attempting to
resolve it at a formal council held at Hieria in 754, where something in the
region of three hundred and thirty bishops took part and issued edicts
forbidding the use of images in churches. Constantine V pressed the whole
iconoclast issue with more intellectual force than his father and so earned
the great hostility of the Iconodule party. He has gone down in history as
Constantine Copronymos: “He whose name is dung.”
Constantine V suppressed many aspects of monastic life, knowing that
this was the center of the opposition to his views. Even so, Constantine’s
son (Leo IV, 775–780) allowed the pressure to ebb from the controversy,
and when he died and his son succeeded as a minor (Constantine VI, 780–
797), his mother, the regent empress Irene, took the opportunity to call a
major council to meet in Constantinople in 780, designed to restore the
veneration of the icons in churches. The military garrison of
Constantinople, hearing noise of its intentions, invaded the church of Hagia
Sophia and put an end to the council. Biding her time, the empress
acquiesced but slowly moved the Iconoclastic troops to other duties in
various parts of the empire and, secure in her command of the garrisons,
then reconvened the great council in the city of Nicaea in Bithynia. This
met in 787, concerned with an official and comprehensive doctrine on how
icons ought to be understood and used in Christian worship, and its decrees
have been accepted by the Orthodox and Latin churches as the seventh
Ecumenical Council, Nicaea II.
 There was a second, and shorter, outbreak of imperial sponsored
iconoclasm, once more led by the army and lasting between 815 until 843.20
This time Leo V removed the famous icon of Christ on the Chalke Gate at
Constantinople, replacing it with a simple cross symbol.21 He reasserted the
Iconoclast Council of Hieria as official imperial policy and set aside Nicaea
II. Once again it was a regent empress, Theodora, who in 843 called an end
to the imperial oppression during the reign of her son Emperor Michael III.
Her celebration of a great festival to mark the restoration of icons in the
churches of Constantinople in that year has been repeated ever afterward in
the liturgical calendar of the Eastern Church. It is now called the Sunday of
Orthodoxy and is observed on the first Sunday of Lent each year. In the
course of the liturgy every heresy from ancient times is rehearsed, and the
people symbolically reject each one. Iconoclasm thus assumes the status of
one of the heresies appearing “late in time.” In this second phase of
Iconoclasm it was patriarch Nikephoros of Constantinople and Saint
Theodore the Stoudite (759–826) who were the main intellectuals
championing the importance of the icons. Together with the chief
theologian of the first phase, Saint John Damascene, and the decrees of the
seventh Ecumenical Council, these intellectuals gave to Orthodoxy its final
and fullest theology of sacred art.
The doctrine of sacred art summarizes much of Orthodoxy’s attitude to
human culture, and it is not as negligible as it may seem to someone who
has been brought up in Western Christianity’s view of art as a peripheral (or
even an objectionable) element of religious experience. The Orthodox
Church has since 843 affirmed that the presence of icons in the churches is
a vital sign of the health of the church’s attitude to sacramentality.
Comparable with the sacraments (what Orthodoxy calls the “Mysteries”),
such as baptism or the Eucharist or the healing anointing, the icon stands as
a symbol that is more than a mere symbol: rather it is a material sign that
carries great spiritual effective power. While not adding icons to the major
sacraments of the church, Orthodoxy regards them as sacramental in
character. They are, in a real sense, sacramentals of the Incarnation. The
Iconoclasts argued that no wooden painted board could ever stand in
properly for the presence of the Lord. Only the Eucharist, they argued,
could stand in as a proper symbol for Christ. All other Christian signs (such
as the cross) were merely memorial signs, aids to memory. They were
venerable but could not be “worshipped.” The teaching of the Second
Council of Nicaea argued against this that such a view rendered all
sacraments merely symbolic. The Eucharist, in the conciliar argument, is far
from being a valid symbol of Christ’s presence in the church; rather it “is”
Christ’s presence in the church. This highly realist theology of the
sacraments was a doctrine of “real presence” many centuries before such a
thing was formulated in the Western Catholic world. The icon, however, is
also a powerful symbol of Christ’s presence. It carries a spiritual potency
that is more than that of a simple memorial. When a believer stands before
an icon of Christ and bows down before it, venerating it, the act of
reverence done in that moment passes through and beyond the painted icon
panel and ascends directly to the Lord himself. In this way a believer’s
veneration of the icon becomes a direct veneration of the person portrayed
in that icon. This would also be true of an icon of the Virgin, an angel, or a
saint. Whoever is portrayed in the icon actually receives the veneration
given before that icon, veneration given not to the painted board itself but
always in every instance given before the sacramental iconic form, passing
directly to the person there represented.
This clearly involved the Iconodule theologians in a necessary
clarification of the confused and woolly language of worship that had been
in use beforehand. The Iconoclasts had evidently been confused by the
manner in which the faithful of Constantinople were bowing down in front
of icons and kissing them and carrying them around churches, believing
they brought the spiritual presence of the saints and angels with them. They
called such veneration worship and adoration and equated the two terms,
thus making the practice they disliked into something idolatrous and
superstitious. The Orthodox Iconodule theologians pointed out, however,
that worship was quite different from adoration. Today our English concept
of worship has once more equated these words and so has given rise to new
generations of misunderstanding of the Orthodox position. The council of
787 determined that Christians use five distinct words for the collective
experience of worship, which in itself precisely means “veneration.” It only
makes sense, from now on, to return to the Greek that was being used in
this debate: for the Greek is a much more subtle and nuanced language than
English.
 The key terms are: latreia, douleia, hyperdouleia, proskynesis, and
aspasia, which need to be exactly and consistently rendered as adoration,
worship or reverence, special worship or reverence, bowing down, and
kissing (the hand). English embraces all of these concepts with the single
word “worship” but also uses it to connote the first (latreia), which is where
all the confusion lies; because the Orthodox wish to make it clear that there
are very clear degrees of worship and reverence (which we can take as
synonyms here). One can reverence one’s grandfather or the emperor, for
example (give proskynesis), or kiss the hand of one’s elder mentors
(aspasia), without committing idolatry.22 But latreia, in all circumstances, is
that special type of worship or reverence that is given to God and to God
alone as an acknowledgment of his transcendent divinity. To give such
“worship” to anyone or anything else would indeed be idolatry. Of course,
the word “worship” here ought to be rendered more precisely as
“adoration.” So, according to the teachings of the seventh Ecumenical
Council, Orthodoxy exalted the Iconodule position in the dispute and
accepted that adoration can be given only to God. Reverence (douleia) can
be given to the angels and the saints, especially exalted reverence
(hyperdouleia) to the Virgin alone. This form of reverence in the context of
Christian devotional practice is specific to saints and angels and the Virgin.
It is not the same as that lower form of reverence that is offered (often using
the same means, such as kissing or bowing down) to human personages we
especially revere and honor.
In Orthodox churches the icons are frequently incensed during the
course of the liturgy or common prayers. The priest will go before the icons
and swing the censer in the form of a cross before each one (thymiama).
Lay people will come before icons in churches or at home and bow down
before them (proskynesis) and often kiss the hand of the figure depicted
(aspasia). The people themselves are usually incensed at the same time,
after the icons, to offer them honor too as the living icons of God. The first
time I was asked, as a priest, to offer a short service of prayers for a mixed
(mainly Protestant) student community that was grieving over the recent
dead after the Twin Towers disaster in New York, I remember the gasp of
anxiety from some of the more radical reform students present when this
series of incensing took place before the icons and the people. I knew their
unease related to this issue of whether a line had been crossed: was this
illegitimate worship? However, what is happening here in the Orthodox
practice is quite clearly understood by even the youngest of the church
faithful. The Ecumenical Council taught the basic principle that the
veneration offered before an icon is passed directly through its medium to
the person who is depicted within that icon. So, when a believer bows down
and kisses an icon of Christ, what kind of veneration is he or she offering?
The church taught it was adoration, a confession that the Christ here
depicted receives the adoration (latreia) of his faithful as being the God
Incarnate. Those who bow down or reverence an icon of the Virgin are
offering hyperdouleia, or especially exalted reverence, to the Lady Mother
of God, not adoration. They venerate her as the greatest creaturely vessel of
the Spirit of God in history. The icons of the saints and angels receive the
reverence of douleia because of their own possession of Christ’s Holy
Spirit. Both they and the Blessed Virgin are vessels of Christ’s divine grace
given through his Incarnation and his resurrectional power in the world,
which transfigures his church day by day.
The Orthodox Church sometimes iconizes God the Father, but rarely
and in what is commonly regarded as a marginal and dubious tradition.
Instead it images the divine Trinity in the scriptural symbolic form of the
epiphany of three angels to Abraham at the Oak of Mamre (Gen. 18.1–33).
Andrei Rublev’s great icon of the “Hospitality of Abraham” is the most
impressive form of this approach. The great work of art is a mystical and
theological treatise in its own right. The church’s preference, however, is
for all icons of the divine to be mediated through that of Christ the High
Priest, who mediates the Father to the world through the Incarnation: and
this because Christ himself is the perfect “icon of the Unseen God” (Col.
1.15). For the Orthodox Church, therefore, the whole theory and practice of
icon veneration relates to this idea of the grace that is mediated through the
mystery of God the Word endowing materiality with spiritual power: first in
his own divine incarnation as man, and then, by our participation
(methexis), through the manner in which all earthly material can serve a
divine function, if it is caught up into the ascent of grace. The Orthodox
icon represents the manner in which all matter can be sacramentalized.
Using material forms (bread and wine, holy water, sanctified oil, blessed
icons, fragrant incense) in all its modes of worship, Orthodoxy celebrates
the startling fact that God incarnated and enfleshed himself among us in
time and space. He is not the spiritually abstracted God of the Platonists but
the God who gives himself to his faithful in the form of a meal. To this day
Orthodox worship is an earthy experience that rises to a transcendental
spiritual experience. The two things are never separated. In Orthodox
services this is seen quite clearly and immediately. All the senses are
engaged: chanting, incense, lights, icons, relics of saints, full-bodied
sacramental rituals—all being conducted with gusto. Whenever one enters
an Orthodox church at service time, it always seems in full swing; and if the
clergy are ever still for a moment, inevitably the people are on the move,
bowing down, crossing themselves, kissing icons, lighting candles. There is
a profound sense that God himself is in the midst, but that he is the
Incarnate Lord of grace who has sanctified all material things when they are
lifted up in prayer. In modern times several Orthodox thinkers have
extended this ancient theory of worship from the seventh council and
applied it to support a wider ecological theology. As the icon symbolizes
the manner in which material things can serve as powerful doorways to the
divine presence, so too all creation is graced with the marks of the Creator’s
energy. Thus, in Orthodoxy’s spiritual sense there can never be a purely
“secular thing”: all created things, especially human beings, are created as
iconic mysteries of grace with a hidden power and potential to shine in the
transfiguration of Christ’s holiness and light.
 CHAPTER FIVE

The Church’s Expansion

THE CHURCH OF THE RUS: KIEV AND MOSCOW

So far this story of the Orthodox Church has been focused on its ancient
rootedness in the eastern provinces of the Roman Empire under the aegis of
the Byzantine emperors. The Orthodox Church takes its name as Eastern
Christianity from the fact that it originated in the eastern provinces of the
empire (that is, the non-Latin-speaking areas, chiefly the Middle East and
the Levant). Its first communities, the local Orthodox churches, were the
Greek cities to which Saint Paul wrote in the New Testament: Philippi,
Thessaloniki, Colossi, Corinth, Ephesus, and Galatia in the empire’s Asian,
Cappadocian, province. Only in writing to the Romans did Paul’s attention
embrace the western province. In the ancient system of organizing the
Orthodox Church, of the five patriarchates of Rome, Constantinople,
Alexandria, Antioch, and Jerusalem, only one, the first of them, was located
in the West. For the whole of the first millennium, the “balance,” as it were,
of the Christian movement was Eastern. In this period, Constantinople was
undoubtedly the axial point.1 Its power and influence rose, while those of
the other three eastern patriarchates dwindled under the shadow of the
expanse of Islam.
 Constantinople grew to take the pastoral care of a large set of Christian
lands. But in one respect its missionary impetus was uniquely charged. The
Council of Chalcedon in 451 had given the care of all new missionary
territories (described as lands of the barbarians) to the patriarchate of
Constantinople. The great scholar-patriarch Photios (c. 810–893) was one
of the most important Orthodox theologians and canonists of the Eastern
Church in the ninth century. He is regarded as a great saint in the East. The
West regards him less sanguinely, for under his ecclesial leadership the
Western pope was anathematized and the Western doctrine of filioque was
censured.2 His book The Mystagogy of the Holy Spirit stands alongside the
works of Saint Gregory of Nazianzus as fundamental explanations of the
Orthodox trinitarian theology.3 Photios encouraged many Christian
missions from Byzantium, including the first recorded mission to the Slavic
tribes, in 867, when he sent them a resident bishop.
In 860 Photios had earlier sent two aristocratic Byzantine brothers, the
deacon Constantine and his brother Michael, to oversee a mission to
arrange the conversion of the khagan of the Khazars. The brothers are more
universally known today by their ecclesiastical names: Michael as Monk
Methodius, and Constantine as Cyril (after he was consecrated bishop in
Rome). The khagan chose Judaism as his court religion, but many of the
people followed the brothers, and one of the results of the mission was that
Prince Ratislav of Moravia invited the brothers in late 862 to come and
preach in his lands.4 This mission had a great success, and to facilitate it the
brothers determined that the native peoples ought to be evangelized, and to
worship, in their own native tongues. This became a standard aspect of all
major Orthodox missions thereafter. Cyril and Methodius more or less
invented the Cyrillic alphabet and laid the foundation for Slavic letters in
the course of their mission. While their own work in Moravia was
subsequently undermined by hostile Latin missionaries from Germany, it
nevertheless set a tone and precedent for Orthodox missions emanating
from Constantinople and (later) Russia, that the local civilization ought to
be respected but always amplified and enriched by introducing a wider view
of civilized letters and wider culture, with a sense of central communion
and connection being established by the shared liturgical rites and prayers,
though now in the native vernaculars. Because of this, Cyril and Methodius
are called in the Orthodox tradition “equal to the apostles” (isapostoloi).
In its dealing with the Slavic tribes of Rus, Constantinople saw the
opportunity for establishing a new mission, alongside the political treaties
of trade alliance the imperial court wished to make.5 There is an oft-told
story from the Russian Primary Chronicle of how the Slavs converted after
emissaries had been sent out to the world religions around them to see
which one they should adopt: from all the choices they elected Byzantine
Christianity. The group had been taken to experience the liturgy in Hagia
Sophia, and they were so overwhelmed by the beauty that they reported
back: “We did not know whether we were in heaven or on earth.” The story
is a romanticized synopsis of a nevertheless profound relationship with
Constantinople (the Great City) that founded Russian Orthodoxy. The
Russian Primary Chronicle also claims that Saint Andrew, brother of Peter,
was the apostle who began Christianity in the eastern lands. There are no
historical records to support this, but it is a tradition among the Eastern
Orthodox Slavic and Balkan territories as deeply held as that of Saint
Peter’s foundation of the Church of Rome. Byzantine missionaries were
first recorded as active among the Black Sea communities in the ninth
century.6 Patriarch Photius himself commented on the conversion of the
people of Rus, but it is the conversion of the family of Prince Vladimir of
Kiev that usually begins the story proper. In 955–956 Princess Olga, the
grandmother of Vladimir, traveled on an official visit to Constantinople and
was baptized there by Patriarch Polyeuctos in the presence of Emperor
Constantine VII Porphyrogennetos, who thus became bonded to the family
in kinship. It was therefore a political as well as a religious relationship that
was entered into. Even so, while there may have been a minority of
Christians in Kiev, the ruler, Olga’s son Sviatoslav (reigned 963–972),
remained a pagan, believing Christianity too pacifistic to command the
interest of his troops. His son Yaropolk (reigned 972–980) tolerated
Christianity as a pagan ruler. He fought for the sole right to the throne,
killing his brother Oleg in the civil war that ensued, and causing his
younger brother Vladimir to flee to Scandinavia. There Vladimir assembled
an army and returned to overthrow Yaropolk at Novgorod, and he then
moved on to base his command of the Rus at Kiev by 980. Prince Vladimir
was himself baptized Orthodox Christian in the Greek Black Sea colony of
Chersonesos in 988 and soon after returned to Kiev to supervise the baptism
of the rest of his family and all the townspeople in the local Dnieper River.
Casting the wooden idols of the god Perun into the waters, in 989 the
entire population followed their prince, though the old pagan rites remained
strong for long after in the country regions. Byzantine missionaries were
sent in larger numbers from the Greek capital and brought with them the
exemplars of beautiful icons, liturgical texts, and ritual books. The
missionaries evangelized the people in the vernacular Rus language, and by
this means not only was the spread of Christianity accelerated but a
distinctive tradition of the Kievan-Russian Church was born. The
missionaries did not bring with them extensive exemplars of the
sophisticated Greek literary culture that underpinned the Byzantine
Orthodox tradition, focusing instead on monastic texts that mostly were
liturgy, offices of prayer, and ascetical prayer. Writings of some of the great
Greek fathers became commonly known throughout the Slavic Christian
world, but not the works of the philosophers, and the Russian Orthodox
tradition was, from the outset, highly monastically focused, with a very
strong ascetical tradition of mysticism. The text was not the center of
church life; rather the icon was. Russian adoption of the icon became a
profoundly domestic religious force that has endured to this day. Many
Russian Orthodox families still relate their personal history through the
familial icons they have venerated in their homes.
This tendency to a highly liturgical, iconic, and mystical experience in
Russia was encouraged by the manner in which monasticism became a
powerful force in the organization of the Russian Church. The Cave
Monastery at Kiev (Kyiv Pechersky Lavra) was established by the hermit
Saint Antony (died 1073), who first inhabited cave cells dug out of the soft
rock of the Dnieper banks, and developed further by Saint Theodosios
(Feodosiy) (died 1091), who consolidated the complex into a large
assembly of cenobitic monks alongside smaller numbers of hermits. By the
mid-fifteenth century one hundred and fifty new monastic communities
were known in Russia. The most famous of them included Valaam on Lake
Ladoga, the community of Saint Cyril Belozersk, and Solovki, monasteries
that endured as centers of Russian Christian civilization, sometimes despite
their co-opting by the Soviets as forced-labor gulags.
 Between 1237 and 1448 Russia was dominated by the Mongols, or
Tartars, as the Russians called them. The church became a community of
resistance to the often violent depredations, and the interest of the Russians
in martyrdom, both real and symbolic, became a specific trend of their
spirituality. The metropolitan archbishops of the Rus were based in Kiev,
but the difficulties caused by the Golden Horde caused the seat of the
church administration to be moved first to the city of Vladimir and then
finally to Moscow, at a time when the princes of Moscow had assumed
significant military power and a superior command over the other princes of
the Rus. Up to 1448 Constantinople held a close rein on the affairs of the
Russian Church in its higher clerical ranks. The metropolitans were
frequently Greeks appointed by Constantinople, and in many of the major
churches the liturgy was often celebrated in Greek. This would change after
1448. Moscow then took the ecclesial ascendancy and followed a line of
independence, while Kiev remained under the aegis of Constantinople.
The reason for the shift in allegiances and dependencies was twofold. In
the first instance, Constantinople in 1448 was a shadow of its former self. It
had merely five more years of independent existence before it fell to the
power of the Muslim Ottoman Turks and its patriarch became ethnarch of
an enslaved Christian people. The Moscow princes knew this, of course,
and having themselves just emerged from a long period of oppression by
Islamic overlords, realized more than Byzantium did what inevitably lay
before it. The second reason for the disaffection between Russia and
Constantinople was the scandal caused to the Muscovites by the
concessions the Byzantines made to the Catholic West. The emperor in
Constantinople was trying desperately to find assistance from the Western
armies. To facilitate that, he needed the support of the pope. And to gain
that, he had to find a way to reconcile the churches of the Orthodox East
and the Catholic West, each of which had, for some centuries past, regarded
the other with more than simple suspicion and animosity. The Eastern
Orthodox had begun to regard the Western Catholics as heretical because of
their use of unleavened bread in the Eucharist, the quasi-monarchical power
they had afforded to one supreme bishop in the form of the papacy, the
changes in the Nicene Creed they had adopted at their worship, and lastly
the altered trinitarian theology that the West had championed in the defense
of the filioque interpolation.
 The Western theology argued from the premise of the coequality of the
trinitarian persons, that all acts of the deity were in common and that the
Spirit of God proceeded from the Father and the Son equally. Greek
classical patristic theology had argued, to the contrary, that the Son and the
Spirit proceeded from the Father alone by the different subsistent modes of
begetting and proceeding, in which the Father communicated to each of
them his own single divine nature. This was why there was only one God:
the personal nature of the Father was the common ontology of all three,
making them one. The Latin theologians, by contrast, tended to argue that
the divine nature was some form of common substrate to which all three
persons had an equal claim. The Eastern Church felt that this wholly
removed the dynamic, or taxis—that is, the inherent process of the divine
life—and was not validated by any scriptural precedent. While the Greek
theologians regarded the West as possibly heretical in many respects, the
Latins in their turn regarded the Greeks as wholesale schismatics. For the
Latins, the papacy had assumed such a major position in the understanding
of their church structure that they were appalled by the way in which the
Greeks regarded it as a strange theologoumenon, a type of opinion or piety
that could be accepted or not but could never be mistaken for a cardinal
aspect of the faith. On top of everything else, Constantinople had a long
memory, and the Fourth Crusade was not something that was going to be
forgotten soon. Responding to a call to arms from the pope in 1204, the
crusading forces has diverted from the Holy Land for the easier task of the
despoliation of Constantinople. Many of the emperor’s subjects were afraid
that papal assistance might only mean exchanging one form of oppressive
domination for another. Many more were of the opinion that doing deals
with the Western Church was a serious compromising of Orthodoxy.
In what proved to be a long-drawn-out series of conciliar meetings,
beginning at Basel in 1431 and moving then from Ferrara to Florence
between 1438 and 1439 on account of the plague, Pope Martin V negotiated
with representatives of Emperor John VIII Palaiologos and his patriarch
Joseph.7 The emperor had petitioned for military assistance, and he,
together with all his court, was very eager to come to terms that would
allow the reconciliation of the churches so as to facilitate this. Patriarch
Joseph of Constantinople died just before he was required to sign the decree
of union. Letters were then (allegedly) found in his room assenting to the
papal terms, and so an agreement with the Western Church was drawn up
on July 6, 1439, without having to wait for his successor. There were thirty-
one Greek delegates present and 117 Latins. All the Greeks, with the
exception of Bishop Mark of Ephesus, signed the document in accord with
the instructions of the emperor. The leading Orthodox theologians pressing
the emperor’s cause were Bessarion of Nicaea, George Scholarios, and
Isidore the metropolitan of Kiev. When the delegates returned to Byzantine
territory, they met with deep resistance from the wider body of Orthodox
faithful, and in the empire generally the union was never accepted. Even the
emperor lost interest in the idea when the promised military help barely
materialized, though for some years there was great pressure placed on
clergy to conform.
Isidore left Italy to foster the cause of unity in Russia, but on his arrival
in Moscow in 1441 he found Grand Duke Vasily and the townspeople
bitterly hostile to the proclamation of the union, regarding it as a betrayal of
Orthodoxy.8 Isidore nevertheless prayed for the pope by name in the Easter
liturgy in the Kremlin cathedral (thus signaling the union as having effect in
Russia), which caused so much popular anger that the prince arrested and
imprisoned him in the Kremlin’s Chudov monastery. After two years he
escaped and fled to Rome, serving thereafter in the papal cardinals’ college.
Condemning Isidore, the Russian Church repudiated the Act of Union, and,
as the Byzantine emperor continued to insist on it as a mark of the respect
Russia should give to its founding mother church, the Russians suspended
communion with Constantinople and refused to consecrate any
metropolitan to succeed Isidore, since Constantinople insisted on its
customary right to propose the candidate. In 1448 the Russian bishops,
encouraged by Prince Vasily, consecrated a metropolitan without seeking
Constantinople’s approval. After the fall of the city and the election of
George Scholarios as the new patriarch, the idea of reunion with Rome was
mutually abandoned, and Russia entered once more into communion with
the church of Constantinople. But it never again sought permission from the
old capital in relation to consecrating its own episcopal leader. In effect, it
had declared its independence as a national church—known as autocephaly.
In 1589 the princes of Moscow secured from the Greek patriarch Jeremias
II (who had come begging for aid to them) the right for their church to be
proclaimed a patriarchate like the ancient ones, but when Jeremias returned
to Constantinople he called a synod there and declared that Russia would be
ranked in honor only after Jerusalem as the fifth patriarchal see in
precedence. Russia, at least, knew that, as the sole surviving independent
princely power among the Christians of the East, effectively the patriarchate
of Moscow was now the real leader and protector of global Orthodox
affairs. This tension between notional or honorific leader of Orthodox
affairs and real leadership has continued into the present, with much grating
friction still observable between the two patriarchates of Constantinople and
Moscow.
Moscow grew in status as the capital of the Russians, and soon the tsars
were establishing stable dynasties.9 Between 1613 and 1633 the intimately
close relation between the tsar and his patriarch was abundantly
demonstrated by Tsar Michael Romanov, who had his father, Philaret, as
patriarch. Their line would last until the abdication and execution of
Nicholas II in 1917/1918.

BYZANTIUM IN THE AFTERMATH OF THE FALL OF CONSTANTINOPLE

If the ecclesiastical fortunes of Orthodoxy in Russia were in the ascent after

the fifteenth century, though once more allied closely with the ruling
dynasty on a Byzantine model of governance, the state of the great
patriarchate of Constantinople was in a precipitous decline and
circumscription, which at one and the same moment paradoxically
redefined it for a long-lasting international role.
Mehmet II, the Ottoman prince, is known as Fatih Mehmet (the
Conqueror) for his capture of Constantinople on May 29, 1453, after a long
and ultimately bloody siege.10 To the present the date is known among the
Greek Orthodox as Black Tuesday, and the changing of the great cathedral
of Hagia Sophia into the mosque of Mehmet and his successor sultans
stands as the great symbol of the collapse of Christian Byzantine power.11
With the city fell Eastern Orthodoxy’s security in the former eastern
provinces of the Roman Empire. The empire, often erroneously said by
Western commentators to have ended in the fifth century, is regarded by the
Eastern Orthodox as having ended on this day, with the death of the last
Roman emperor, Constantine XI.12
In 1450 the patriarch of Constantinople, Gregory III (a collaborator of
Patriarch Joseph at the Council of Florence), had been driven out of the city
by popular demand, on account of his pro-papal policies. The city had
realized by then that no substantive help was forthcoming from the West.
The Ottoman Empire had for long years past been strangling the city’s
supply routes, and the Roman Empire as a whole had been dwindling in
size for centuries, losing territories to the expanse of Islamic power, until it
could no longer sustain itself and had largely been reduced to a few
colonies on the Black Sea and the Greek mainland, and the city environs.
After Mehmet had built the castle of Rumeli Hisari on the Bosphorus Strait
in 1452, he commanded the sea entrance to Constantinople, and the city’s
fate was more or less sealed. After several days of terrible looting, murder,
rape, and enslavement of the local population, Mehmet intervened to call
the city to order. He claimed the palaces and cathedral of Hagia Sophia for
himself and, finding that the imperial palaces were run down to an
irretrievable extent, he began the complex of a new set of residences, now
known as the Topkapi Palace. The cathedral was taken as the main city
mosque. Mehmet repopulated the city with Greeks from the region and set
about stabilizing the chaos brought about by the collapse of the old
structures of ecclesiastical and imperial administration.
To this end he looked around for a suitable replacement for the dead
emperor and the patriarch who had fled to places unknown.13 He selected
George Scholarios (1400–1473) from the city’s remaining Greek
intellectuals. A former imperial judge and a renowned Aristotelian and
theologian, George had been a leading voice against the policies of Emperor
John VIII, and he had been retired to a monastic life in the Pantocrator
monastery at the capital. In June 1453 he was selected by Mehmet to be the
new patriarch of the Orthodox community. At his Christian consecration
ceremony he was renamed Gennadios II and, by permission, used the
Church of the Holy Apostles to be his cathedral.14 Mehmet instructed him
now to serve as the ethnarch of all Christian subjects in the Ottoman
dominion. Thus he became a fusion of the old civic authority and the
religious, for all Christians. This was a new phenomenon, because it
brought under the patriarchal authority Latin Christians in the Ottoman
dominions, as well as all Orthodox believers in subjugated territories, and
even the Oriental Orthodox communities, the Armenians, Syrians, Copts,
and Ethiopians who refused allegiance to the Council of Chalcedon and had
hitherto refused to recognize the eth-narch’s authority.
As ethnarch the patriarch set the tax impost for Christian subjects under
instruction from the Sublime Porte of the sultans.15 Now endowed with
great powers as the representative of the sultan, and serving a force that
withstood no contradiction, the patriarchate of Constantinople became a
massive organizing force for most aspects of Eastern Christianity, but
because of this the patriarch was also a focus of much resentment, even
among the core Orthodox faithful outside Constantinople. This was because
his own administration (known as the Phanar from the district where it
eventually settled) was so closely associated with a ruling power that while
it ostensibly protected the Christian minority of the new empire, it was
effectively bleeding it dry, removing substantive political rights and vetoing
(under threat of death according to the terms of the Sharia code) its ability
to function in any missionary sense at all. Phanariots, the administrative
class of powerful Greek clerics and lay politicians, took charge of many
Christian lands outside Russia, imposing Greek-style liturgy and a colonial-
style Greek ruling class in many places, which would not be ousted for
centuries to come. The losses of Orthodox Christian believers to Islam,
enforced or heavily encouraged because of the oppressive environment,
would be substantial over the centuries to come. Having lost its Christian
aristocratic sponsors and protectors, its universities and schools for the
intelligentsia (other than a few seminaries), and the majority of its churches,
which had been sequestrated as mosques, the Eastern Orthodox came to call
this period under Ottoman dominion the Great Captivity.16 It would endure
until the nineteenth-century independence movements that began to flare up
as Ottoman power entered into its own terminal decline. After this, many
Orthodox lands (especially those that had benefited from the patronage of
the free Church of Russia) tried to shake off the hand of direct rule that
came out of Constantinople, even that of the patriarchate, while still
recognizing its central importance in Orthodox history.
 What kept the flame of the Orthodox tradition alive in Eastern Europe
and Asia Minor during this period was the heroism of local clergy and
faithful believers, keeping the church and village schools functioning in
circumstances of great poverty and political suffocation, and above all the
Orthodox monasteries, which found it possible to continue in existence as
corporations, being able to enter into treaties with the sultans when they
were large enough, and especially paying taxes regularly and thus serving
some useful and tolerable function in the eyes of the Ottoman powers. The
monasteries served as training schools for clergy and were sources of
celibate missionaries who could travel widely to serve the local needs for
teachers and theologians of renown. In this period of the Great Captivity,
the reputation of the Orthodox monastics rose to considerable heights.
Quietly, local diocesan bishops started to assume clerical headgear that
resembled the old imperial crown: a subtle statement that the emperor was
now dead, but his role as central organizer of Christian civilized life had
passed to the church. This spread to become the present-day bishop’s mitre-
crown, worn universally.

MONASTIC CENTERS OF CULTURE AND MEMORY

Mount Athos
Monasteries in Russia continued to flourish, to such an extent that they
became the basic welfare system for the entire land and the greatest
landowners apart from the highest aristocracy.17 In Ottoman territory the
great center of monastic life was clearly Mount Athos. This little mountain
peninsula in northeastern Greece became known as the Holy Mountain.18 It
has endured to the present day as one of the great monastic centers of the
Orthodox world, from the time the first monks settled there in the fourth
century, but mainly from the issuing of the chrysobull of Emperor Basil I in
885 declaring all of Athos a reserved zone for male monastic habitation.19
This status, meaning no women can settle or visit there, was reiterated over
time and reaffirmed as recently as the treaty that marked Greece’s entrance
to the European Union. There are now twenty monasteries existing in a
federated relationship on Mount Athos.
The Athonite monasteries represent the three classes of monastic
lifestyle in the Orthodox Church. At the southern end of the peninsula there
are still some cave hermits, and others dwelling in the most remote and
ascetic form of tiny dwellings. There are then the major cenobitic
monasteries built in Byzantine style, with a wall enclosing a central church
(or katholikon) with monastic cells and common-usage refectories around
the walls. And finally there are smaller, bungalow-type dwellings called
sketes (sometimes these are quite large and can grow to be miniature
versions of the larger houses). The skete was originally a smaller
community of a few monks gathered around a particular geron, or spiritual
father, seeking a more intense life of quiet and prayer than they felt could be
found in the larger communities where physical labor and many church
services were the rule. Some of the sketes would eventually grow to a
considerable size, comparable to a small monastery.
A great number of the larger foundations have defensive towers and
other fortifications, which served to protect them from the constant piratical
raids they endured over the centuries. They could never have fought off
Ottoman suzerainty; this they negotiated with, paying taxes from the
incomes of the many properties their Christian patrons over the centuries
(particularly the princes of Serbia, Romania, and Russia) had given them in
various countries. By the middle of the tenth century the Athonite village of
Karyes had already become the center of a global form of monastic
organization, with the appointment of a protos, or senior monastic leader
resolving common affairs for the hermits. The monasteries of Kolovos and
Xeropotamou also appear in the imperial records at this time as having a
significant size. A new era of building began with the arrival of Saint
Athanasios the Athonite in 958. He was a friend and confidant of the
emperor Nikephoros Phokas. He first built a richly endowed church at
Protaton in Karyes, around which still revolves the overall administration of
the monastic peninsula, now with the protos and a small council
representative of the major monastic foundations. In 962 Saint Athanasios
founded the central monastic complex of the Great Lavra. It is still the
largest of the twenty monasteries of the mountain. From the outset it had
imperial funds behind it and thereafter attracted the constant support of
successive emperors.
From the eleventh century onward Athos attracted Serbian, Bulgarian,
and Russian monastics, and each nation established a tradition of its own
alongside the Byzantine Greeks. The Serbian royal house established a
center there in 1198, when the prince-archbishop Saint Sava built a church
and foundation called Hilandar. His father, the Serbian grand prince Stefan
Nemanja, also retired there to live as a monk with his son. They began a
long-enduring period of Serbian patronage of the colony. After the fall of
Constantinople Romanian princes also offered extensive support. Today
Saint Panteleimon’s monastery is Russian; Hilandar is Serbian; Zographou
is Bulgarian; and the Prodromos skete (a sizable stone foundation) together
with the Lakkoskiti are Romanian, while the majority of houses are Greek.

Saint Catherine’s in Sinai

Another venerable center of Orthodox monastic life also survived the fall of
the Byzantine Empire. It was so far removed from the beaten path that it
had existed as a contained unit for centuries beforehand and was able to
negotiate with the Islamic powers, offering tax tribute in return for
protection. This was the fortress monastery of Saint Catherine’s in the Sinai
Peninsula, at the very foot of Mount Sinai, where Moses had by tradition
received the Ten Commandments and seen a glimpse of the “back” of God.
This site had become a Christian pilgrimage focus from early times, and by
the era of Constantine the Great a fortified tower had been built (on the site
of the present Reception House of the monastery) to commemorate the
Theophany of the Burning Bush and to serve as a defensive fallback for the
numerous Christian hermits who lived in caves in the vicinity.20 Those
caves continued to be used for centuries to come, for other important
hermits and theologians, while the fortress started to be a nucleus of
buildings that began to house a cenobitic community of monks.21 The
Byzantine emperor Justinian endowed the site lavishly in the sixth century,
giving it massive defensive walls around a veritable small-town square. It is
one of the wonders of the ancient world still surviving intact.
At this period in the sixth century, a new basilica-shaped church was
built, and both it and the monastery were dedicated to the Transfiguration of
Christ. Justinian presented the church with two remarkable icons. One was
the Pantokrator Christ of Sinai. For centuries it was the chief icon of the
church but was retired from use and is now found in the dedicated art
gallery in the monastery walls. It ranks alongside the Mona Lisa, Fra
Angelico’s frescoes, and Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling as one of
the greatest of all artworks. An adjoining chapel was consecrated as the site,
and shrine, of the burning bush. All who entered this were required to
remove their shoes in memory of the Sinai theophany. In the Middle Ages,
when Latin pilgrims were more numerous in the Holy Land, the story of
Saint Catherine of Alexandria (whose body was said in the Golden Legend
to have been miraculously found on Mount Sinai) caught their imagination
and started a new life of the monastery as a major pilgrimage destination.22
It led eventually to the monastery being renamed Saint Catherine’s. To this
day pilgrims who visit the monastery church and venerate the saint’s relics
are given a small silver-colored ring as a token of their pilgrimage.
The Sinai monastery grew throughout its long history in terms of moral
reputation, not least in the number of its martyrs, saints, and theologians,
and became more independent as regular communications under Islamic
power were made more difficult with Jerusalem’s hierarchs. It had begun as
a part of the diocese of Pharan under the patriarchate of Jerusalem. After
the council of 681, when the bishop of Pharan was deposed for adherence to
the Monothelite heresy, the episcopal see was moved to the monastery, and
then it also subsumed the diocese of Raithu, which had seen its monastic
headquarters devastated by Saracen raids. In 1575 (and again in 1782) the
patriarch of Constantinople gave the monastery autonomous status as an
Orthodox church. Today the archbishop is elected solely by the monks of
the monastery (which suggests it is an Autocephalous church among the
Orthodox) but is also consecrated as archbishop by the patriarch of
Jerusalem, which suggests that Sinai is an Autonomous church. It is
certainly a unique case of a tiny independent communion within the greater
body of the Orthodox churches.
Its radical desert environment made the monastery a center for
hesychastic prayer. This is the mystically interior style called the prayer of
the heart, favored in many parts of the Orthodox world, of which Sinai and
Mount Athos have long been the champions.23 Saint Catherine’s, however,
also was renowned for more mainstream forms of ascetical theology,
advocating a lifestyle of regular prayer services, physical forms of penance,
and fasting, as advocated in the book of instruction for young monks
written by one of its early higumens, Saint John Klimakos (died 649). He
takes his name now from the book he wrote, The Ladder of Divine Ascent.24
Imagining the ascetical life following Christ as a ladder of thirty steps, the
book gives a picture of how to acquire virtues, with many wisdom sayings
and pithy forms of advice for neophyte monks. John himself had entered
monastic life at Sinai aged sixteen, and as a mature monk spent twenty
years in a hermit’s cave nearby. The cave is still shown to visitors willing to
make the trek. When he was seventy-five the monks asked him to return
and lead the Sinai community at Saint Catherine’s. It was around this time
that he composed his guide to monastic life. It is a text that is even to this
day given to monastic novices in the Orthodox world and is read out in all
monastic refectories during Great Lent.
As Islamic control spread over the Middle East and the Levant, all the
treasured Christian literature of the Middle Eastern churches started to
make its way slowly but inexorably toward the library of the Sinai
monastery, like fine sand running down to the lowest point of multiple
surfaces. Today it is one of the greatest treasure houses of ancient religious
manuscripts in the world. Sinai was so remote that the bindings on the
books in many cases are the originals. The collection once housed the
famous Codex Sinaiticus, one of the complete editions of the Bible
(Pandects) commissioned by Constantine the Great from the scriptorium of
Bishop Eusebius of Caesarea for the new churches he founded in the
Middle East. Constantine Tischendorf, the manuscript scholar, claimed that
he rescued the codex from ignorant desert monks who were going to burn it
as fuel for the stove. The fact that he is named in the monastery as
“Tischendorf the thief” may suggest there is an alternative story to that
commonly received (one of his own generating). The manuscript is now in
the British Library. It is one of the most beautiful exemplars of ancient
Christian writing. It is an extraordinary experience to sit in the evening
outside the Church of the Transfiguration and listen to the purity of Sinai’s
all-pervading silence; or to attend the radiant Greek liturgy in the early
candlelit hours of the morning in an environment that has barely changed
since the time of Justinian the Great.

Mar Saba
There are several surviving ancient monasteries from that time in the Holy
Land (its golden age was the seventh century) when Christian Byzantine
emperors protected the territory and saw it as an essential heartland of the
Christian world. Many more keep turning up as great ancient monuments
(often lying buried under the sands until recent excavations show how large
they once were). Many of the monasteries near Jerusalem were built and
developed because of the great pilgrim traffic that once made the Christian
churches of Jerusalem and Bethlehem world centers of interest. The crypt at
the Saxon monastery church at Ripon in England was constructed as a
mimicry of the holy tomb by returning pilgrims who had been so impressed
by all they found on their journey to the Middle East. These tiny
subterranean rooms were meant to offer English pilgrims at Eastertime a
similar liturgical experience, at the tomb, to what the traveling monks had
witnessed firsthand in Jerusalem. Jerusalem’s liturgical life, revolving
around processional liturgies in and around the holy sites, had from earliest
times impressed worldwide Christianity and set a standard for international
churches to emulate. Most Christian churches celebrating Holy Week are,
perhaps, unaware today of how many of their customs derive from the
Byzantine-era Jerusalem rites.
But by the tenth century the Christian emperors at Constantinople were
losing their military grip. The Western kings sent the mercenary armies we
now know as the Crusades in several waves (generally to the annoyance of
the emperors), and in the long term the Christian hold over the Holy Land
progressively slipped away. Pilgrimage became dangerous, and the shrines
themselves passed from having extensive wealth flowing through them to
extreme poverty, relying on international support, and much political
negotiation, to keep them in existence. It was in this context that one of the
important Palestinian monasteries rose up to a second life of significance
for Orthodoxy: this time as a great memory keeper for liturgical ritual. The
place was Mar Saba monastery.
It was founded by Saint Sabas in the year 484. Mar is the Aramaic word
for lord or saint, and saba was originally a title for elder. Saint Sabas
himself was such a major monastic leader that it was felt sufficient to call
him the elder. Even today his monks are called the Sabbaites. In Byzantine
times the house (which is rather a collection of houses grown up over
centuries to form a walled complex) was known as the Holy or Great Lavra.
It is located in the Kidron Valley, not far from Bethlehem, and from its
beginnings attracted some of the most skilled and intellectual ascetics of the
early Christian world. Sabas came from a Christian family, but even as a
youth he had won the admiration of the monks of Palestine. He served as a
disciple of one of the greatest of them, Euthymios, and after spending many
years in a regular monastery of the common life, he moved to become a
strict hermit. When his reputation as a man of prayer started to spread
internationally, many monastic disciples from near and far came to ask his
guidance, and so he arranged to build cells around a difficult but easily
defended gorge. The monastery today is an amazing sight, dropping down
the cliff to which it clings.25 In his lifetime Sabas had several conflicts with
the monastics who did not always appreciate his guidance. Many of the
more intellectual monks resisted his deep simplicity and spirit of
renunciation, and against his wishes they insisted that an ascetic ought to be
learned and skilled to be a teacher in Christian traditions. Sabas moved
away from the Great Lavra and founded another, which would be called the
New Lavra. His body (the relics became an important site of pilgrimage in
their own right) was eventually laid to rest in the original lavra, where they
remained until the twelfth century, when Latin Crusaders took them home
with them. It was a great occasion in Eastern Orthodoxy in 1965 when Pope
Paul VI returned them to the Great Lavra as a gesture of reconciliation
between the Roman Catholics and the Orthodox East, an act that began the
thaw of many centuries of cold estrangement between the churches.
In the time when the Christian Holy Land started to become even more
remote than it had been in the fifth century, in those times when it was only
a short journey to the great ritual centers of Jerusalem and Bethlehem, Mar
Saba monastery began its second life as a kind of stored memory of an
earlier golden age. Its library began to store foundational texts with much
greater security than was possible in Jerusalem. Its great obscurity in the
desert also served to protect the monastery from marauders and even from
the easy reach of Christian emperors who wanted to interfere. The great
theologian Saint John of Damascus (676–749) lived and was buried here,
and here he wrote in defense of the icons against emperors who wished to
eradicate them. John and several other Sabbaite monks also composed
numerous hymns for liturgical use that are still today at the core of many
Orthodox church services. The members of the monastic community of Mar
Saba, seeing the decline of the city churches, were all the more determined
that the full glory of the Orthodox liturgical rituals should be celebrated
within their walls. So it was that they soon became known for the purity and
extent of their liturgical tradition. How they did things there (known as the
typikon) became a gold standard. By the ninth century their reputation
stood unchallenged in international Orthodox monasticism.
By this time the great founding center of the Palestinian and Egyptian
deserts had been overcome and largely silenced by Islamic power, but the
monasteries of Constantinople were still flourishing, and they looked very
closely at what the Sabbaite monks were doing. This is how the later
Orthodox liturgy came to its contemporary, classical, form. The rituals of
Constantinople were often highly colored by the ceremonies involving the
emperor and court aristocrats: gorgeous vestments, much ceremonial
procession, repetitive litanies the crowds could join in with simple refrains,
and highly elaborate singing of poetry commissioned from great
rhetoricians and performers. This shaped the character of the
Constantinopolitan rite, and its effects are still visible in the elaborate
ceremonies of the Orthodox Church. The monks of Mar Saba, however,
kept the rituals of the Jerusalem church to the fore. They also celebrated
worship with a much more simplified and ascetical diet of psalms and
prayers of petition, as was appropriate for monastics living in such a simple
environment. The monks loved to spend entire nights at prayer, and so the
Sabbaite ritual developed with long prayer services involving many psalms,
celebrated in a very sober style. Someone who has only witnessed the
Orthodox paschal services (reminiscent of Constantinopolitan style) would
be surprised if they attended weekday Vespers or Matins of prayers, which
would be very biblical and very long indeed—often too long for a
congregation not made up of monks. It was in the great monastery of the
Stoudium, at Constantinople, sometime in the tenth century that a fusion
started to take place between the two liturgical approaches, and it is this
Sabbaite-Constantinopolitan compromise that spread out from the imperial
city to become the dominant worship style of the entire Orthodox world in
those important last four hundred years before Constantinople itself fell
before Islamic power and the pace of future church developments fell into
somnolence.
 CHAPTER SIX

Orthodox Life under and after

Islamic Dominion

THE SLAVIC ORTHODOX EXPERIENCE: MEDIEVAL TIMES TO THE NINETEENTH

CENTURY

The Russian Church was entering its greatest period of consolidation and
development at the same time that the Greek East was entering its long
twilight under the Ottoman domination of the fifteenth century. The
Muscovite princes, having moved the central see of the Russian Church
from Kiev to their own capital, and having conquered the armies of the
Tartars, whose incessant raids had so troubled the earlier peace of the
church, were now widely seen as the God-favored inheritors of all the old
Constantinopolitan rights and duties. The Russian ecclesiastical historian
Filofei of Pskov wrote to Tsar Basil III at this time, “Now Moscow alone
shines over all the earth more radiantly than the sun,” and he attributed its
rise in stature to the manner in which it had kept the strictness of the
Orthodox faith in contrast to the laxity of the Greeks willing to indulge in
ecumenical compromises.1
In the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries the Russian Church
was divided by significant tensions between two highly influential camps of
monastic leaders. They were known as the Possessors and the Non-
Possessors. As the names suggest, the issue was whether monastic poverty
meant the renunciation of all possessions for both individual and
associations of monks, or whether it meant that property should not be held
individually but used communally for the advancement of the monastic and
ecclesial cause. The leader of the Possessors was the abbot Joseph of
Volotsk (1439–1515), who argued that the manner in which the Russian
monasteries accumulated land and holdings was a sign of the health of the
church and augured well for the way the church could strongly influence
the governance of the state through its influence on the princes as an equal
voice of authority in the land. The Non-Possessors were led by Nil of Sora
(1433–1508). He was opposed to extensive monastic landholdings and said
that all monastic life had to be always characterized by extreme simplicity
and abnegation, with possessions only held for purposes of active charity
among the faithful. He was also very wary of the monastics being involved
with the governance of state affairs. Typically, both men are venerated in
the Russian Church calendar as saints, a symbol in a real sense of how the
Russian Church simply conflated and embraced political principles and
spiritual attitudes that to outsiders seemed incompatible.2
The Slavic character of Russian Orthodoxy was underscored by a highly
significant moment in 1499 when Gennadii, the archbishop of Novgorod,
issued in manuscript the first complete Church Slavonic Bible. This became
a literary treasure for the entire Slavic world and had an untold influence on
later publishing history. Almost a century later Prince Konstantin
Konstantinovich of Ostrog would issue the first printed Slavonic Bible
based upon it. In 1551, Tsar Ivan IV and his patriarch Makarii of Moscow
convened a council known as the Stoglav, or Council of One Hundred
Chapters. It was a moment in the life of the Russian Church that brought
under stricter control the fluid and often local practices in terms of icon
painting, devotions in church, variations in ecclesiastical service books, and
a wide variety of operative forms of the calendar of feast days. Rules were
issued, and a more centralized form of church governance was applied so
that a conformity could be established for the future. The distinctive
practices of Russian ritual were held up as laudatory, not deviational.
Makarii issued a massive edition of the (Greek) Menologion, or definitive
texts for the feast days to be celebrated throughout the year. Entitled the
Velikii Minei-Chetii (the Great Book of Monthly Readings), it brought a
definite and thoroughgoing Slavic spirit to the Russian Church and
symbolically marked its emergence from its origins as a Byzantine daughter
church. Ever afterward this style of saints’ lives and devotion shaped the
character of Russian Orthodoxy with a distinct symbiosis of biblical
archetype, saintly ascetical and humble endeavor, and sacramental liturgical
ethos.
The deepening Russian Orthodox character of uncompromising
conservatism, and increasingly centralized control, came soon enough to
cause a severe problem for church life. The Kievan Orthodox Church had
oversight over Ukrainian and Belo-Russian territories but was drawn ever
more deeply by the sixteenth century into the ambit of Polish and
Lithuanian state princes who belonged to the Latin Catholic world. The
Orthodox bishops reacted to the higher social standing of their Latin
counterparts in many cases by looking to Rome for support, and to the West
generally with an eye to its clearly higher educational standards.3 A
significant number of Orthodox bishops met in council at the city of Brest
in 1596 and declared a reunion with the patriarchate of Rome. The terms of
the Unia meant that the Orthodox bishops would continue with their
distinctive Eastern Christian customs (married clergy, liturgy of Saint John
Chrysostom) but accept the Orthodoxy of the Roman Church and submit to
the ultimate authority of the pope. What this would mean in the longer
historical term was a progressive alignment with (some would say
submerging under) Latin practices and doctrines. In the immediate term,
however, it caused a major split, or schism, between those who now
accepted papal authority and the Orthodox who refused it, thus renouncing
the authority of the Uniate bishops as schismatics.4 Strong feelings were
roused among the Orthodox communities, who suspected that Rome had
undermined the Eastern Church’s essential unity by offering prizes of
political stability and the benefits of the more advanced West. These
tensions remain to this day in the churches on Russia’s western border
regions, and they implanted in the heartland of the Russian Orthodox
Church as deep a distrust of the Western proselytizing churches (both
Catholic and Protestant) as of the armed intrusions of Islam.
 One of the leading archimandrites of the Kiev Caves (Pechersky) Lavra,
which had remained a center of Ukrainian Orthodox life, assumed the
Orthodox metropolitanate of Kiev. He was Peter Mohyla (1596–1647) and
was destined to have a large impact on Orthodoxy up to and through the
nineteenth century. He had been raised in Poland and grew up aware of the
educational standards of the West. Contrasting them with the general
educational standard of the Ukrainian and Russian people, but especially
that of the clergy, he was determined to do something radical to raise
Orthodox standards of culture. To this end he established an academy in
Kiev with a curriculum that included Greek, Slavonic, and Latin learning.5
It soon produced generations of leading intellectuals who spread over the
Orthodox world as chief administrators and higher clergy, taking the ideals
of raising standards of culture with them. Mohyla was deeply impressed by
the power of the West’s printing presses and by the systematic nature of
Western Catholic theology. Like the Western Church, he was moved by the
perceived need to offset the articulate Protestant preaching missions, and so
he galvanized Orthodox efforts to upgrade the tertiary level of education in
the clergy and to begin issuing books and printed materials for use in
evangelization. Many in his own time and many subsequent Orthodox
historians have accused him of excessively Westernizing the way the
Orthodox Church articulates its mission. Though overstated, this accusation
recognizes that Mohyla did in fact introduce a scholastic element into
Orthodox texts of this era that was not native to it and was a style of
thought that in many ways tended to paralyze one’s ability to read the
original sources more clearly in their own ethos. It would take the church
until well into the early decades of the twentieth century before this
scholastically oppressive style of thinking could be diminished (just as it
was eventually dismantled in the Western churches too).
On the positive front, however, Mohyla had sounded the bell that the
Russian Church needed to take a lead in the educational reform of its clergy,
for purposes of preserving the purity of its mission, and his call was never
forgotten by generations of great Russian hierarchs after him. There was
never a dearth of bishops who, from a monastic upbringing, had scant
regard for academics or traditions of learning, preferring a simple faith and
trying to hold the line of unthinking monastic obedience imposed on all
levels of their churches, even the laity. But equally there was formed a
tradition of hierarchs who were ordained because of the spiritual quality of
their lives allied with the strength of their intelligence; this combination
produced some of the very best examples of the flourishing of the Russian
Church in the early modern period. As with the conflict between Possessors
and Non-Possessors, this once more produced conflicting attitudes in the
Russian Church between its Byzantine past and the cultural attractions of an
ascendant West, resulting not so much in an either-or as rather a both-and.
The schism of the Old Believers shows the same aspect occurring once
again.
Patriarch Nikon (1605–1681) and his tsar, Alexei Mihailovich (1629–
1676), became very conscious of the extent of the local differences in
practice and church service books between the Russians, the Ukrainians,
and the Greeks. This issue was precipitated by a visit to Moscow from the
Greek patriarch of Jerusalem, who was critical of the liturgical differences
he noticed prevalent in Russia. Since the Ukrainians also tended to follow
the Greek (Byzantine) ritual forms, the Moscow patriarchate’s practices
stood out as anomalous, and the Greeks claimed that since they provided
the original source, their books had to be regarded as the authentic
exemplars and the Russian traditions had to be regarded as deviations. In
fact the Russian conservatism in force since the church’s foundation in the
tenth century made it, in many cases, hold to original historical forms of
service and custom that the Greeks had more or less unconsciously altered
over the years in a gradual series of reforms and developments. Nikon was
anxious to make the Russian Church impervious to these accusations of
deviation, since Russia had redefined Orthodoxy (originally the Greek term
for “right-thinking”) in Slavonic as Pravoslavie, that is, “right-
worshipping.”
The patriarch, with the young tsar’s blessing, began to collate Russian
service books against Greek exemplars. The Greek texts he took to base his
work on, however, were not the Byzantine manuscripts, now inaccessible to
the Russians, but rather printed Greek books emanating from seventeenth-
century Venice, and others coming from the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth that had been influenced by a certain Latinization.
Throughout Russia, but especially among its most conservative church
circles, the reforms were regarded as a heresy. The spiritual leader of the
opposition was Archpriest Avvakum (Habbakuk), who publicly accused
Nikon of “defiling the faith” and “pouring wrathful fury upon the Russian
land.”6 One of Nikon’s proposed changes concerned restoring the sign of
the cross with three fingers (symbolizing the Trinity) as opposed to the
traditional Russian way of two fingers (symbolizing the two natures united
of the Incarnate Lord).7 This apparently small change ignited into a major
revolution against Nikon’s authority.8 The base issue, of course, was one of
authenticity of spirit and who had the right (and to what remit this
extended) to speak for the wholesale Russian Orthodox tradition.
While the young tsar supported him Nikon was safe enough, and he
showed an unyielding and sometimes cruel attitude to those who stood
against him. But the tsar himself grew tired of Nikon and his imperious
manner and lost confidence in him. Nikon reacted by dramatically stripping
off his patriarchal vestments and retiring to the New Jerusalem monastery
outside Moscow. Perhaps he hoped he would be recalled as indispensable,
but the see remained vacant for years. The tsar finally decided to rid himself
of a former ally who had now come to be an embarrassment and abandoned
Nikon to his enemies. There were enough of them to demand a synod of
bishops to assemble between 1666 and 1667 to adjudicate the disputes.
Tsar Alexei called the patriarchs of Antioch and Alexandria to preside
over it. The synod deposed Nikon for his autocratic behavior and
imprisoned him; but it also upheld the liturgical reforms he had set in
motion as commendable; this despite the fact that most Orthodox laity and
most members of the lower clergy radically detested them. In the end a
sizable group of faithful and clergy refused to accept the new ritual
instructions and broke off relations with the Moscow church authorities.
These were the so-called Old Believers, also known as Old Ritualists.9
They developed soon enough into two distinct streams, the Priestly Ones
(Popovtsy) and the Priestless Ones (Bezpopovtsy), depending on how
closely each group reflected the sacramental and liturgical life of the
Orthodox Church. Neither had much interest in ecumenism, increasingly
regarding the main Orthodox Church (the Nikon Church, as they called it)
as hopelessly immured in faithlessness. The members of the Priestless sect
regarded the church as having died out on earth, and general society as
having apostasized. Accordingly, their duty was to cut themselves off from
the evil around them and endure without sacraments or priests through the
era of the Antichrist. Though represented at first by many merchants and
Boyars, the Old Believers eventually became a highly exclusionist, inward-
looking, and eschatological movement of the only-surviving pure ones.
Growing preference for life in obscure rural retreats (often to which they
had fled for protection from persecution) made them an ascetically severe
movement living out a simple and prayerful lifestyle. The state regarded
them as a constant nuisance. Regarded askance by the mainline Orthodox
Church, the Old Believers were often afforded much greater respect from
the larger body of Orthodox faithful, who recognized in them the ancient
simplicity of the old Russian traditions. Before the 1917 Revolution in
Russia there were an estimated twenty million Old Ritualists. After great
sufferings during the twentieth-century Soviet regime, there are now only
an estimated two million surviving. In 1971 the Moscow patriarchate
officially removed the historical anathemas that had been pronounced
against them. A small movement for reconciliation with the mainline
Orthodox Church resulted in the 1800s in the formation of the Edinovertsy
community of churches (meaning “people of the same faith”) which was a
compromise offered by the patriarchate for converts from the Old Believer
Popovtsy, who could reconcile within the mainstream Orthodox family but
still retain their pre-Nikon ritual differences. There are still several churches
of the latter movement within the Russian Orthodox communion today.
Though a religiously observant ruler, Tsar Peter the Great (1672–1725)
had little time for the deep conservatism of the clergy and faithful of the
Russian Orthodox Church. He had his mind set on energetic reforms that
would bring his country into greater alignment with the rapid cultural and
technological developments he saw taking place in the West. He moved his
capital from Moscow to his new city of Saint Petersburg to facilitate his
moves at every level to modernize Russia.10 Knowing that he had to take a
firm stance with the church if he was to succeed in this, he abolished the
patriarchate by simply refusing to appoint a successor when Patriarch
Adrian died in 1700, and making his adjutant bishop, Stefan, stand in for
the duties for twenty-one years until Peter then officially named him
metropolitan archbishop of Moscow. Peter radically redesigned the system
of church administration, creating government by episcopal synod, but a
synod that now had significant executive involvement of court-appointed
officials. Every Russian bishop henceforth had to be appointed with the
tsar’s approval. Peter also moved against the monasteries by making it
illegal for anyone to become a monk under the age of fifty. The clerical
ranks increasingly came to be seen as a backwater career. To advance his
cause Peter imported into positions of seniority many hierarchs from
Ukraine whom he felt were more open to new ideas. Under Peter and
Catherine the Great (empress 1762–1796) the church was drastically
sidelined from the close partnership it had once enjoyed with previous
rulers. The standards of its education and culture also fell.
Under the later Romanovs, the church, though it was always protected
and patronized by the tsars, would never again see a patriarch who was a
real political power in the land. Peter’s decisive pushing of the church off
the visible tracks to secular success reinforced Russian Orthodoxy’s
character as an ascetical mystical force, one that often seemed to turn away
from a secular environment seen as hostile and corrupt. This context partly
led to a significant tendency among lay intellectuals and some monastics in
the latter part of the nineteenth century in Russia that has come to be known
as the Slavophile Movement. The group of intellectuals who first began it
was a mixed group of religious, literary, and philosophical thinkers. The
theologian Aleksei Khomyakov (1804–1860) was the main originating
figure, along with the critic and philosopher Ivan Kireyevsky (1806–1856).
Their call for a revival of the traditional values of Slavic culture had a broad
appeal and drew in a range of other thinkers such as the writers Nikolai
Gogol (1809–1852) and Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821–1881), the poet Fyodor
Tyutchev, and even the Russian composers known as “the Five” (Mily
Balakirev, César Cui, Modest Mussorgsky, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, and
Alexander Borodin). All the Slavophiles tended to regard the Orthodox
Church as a force and systemic organization that encapsulated the elusive
“Russian soul” that had to be liberated from oppressive Westernizing
elements. The movement was, then, in its origins a clear attempt to throw
off the bureaucratic heritage of Peter the Great, but it also tended to give
rise to an ever-deepening sense of suspicion of the traditions of Western
Europe, and certainly to a fear of engaging with non-Orthodox Christianity,
which was often felt to be interested only in proselytizing a simpler and less
aggressively missionizing church. Several of the Slavophiles worked up the
trope that Orthodoxy represented the ideal principle of spiritual freedom in
Christianity, as distinct from the excessive control manifested by the Roman
Catholic ecclesial spirit and the individualistic anarchy seen in
Protestantism. This tendency to think in such antinomies became a marked
characteristic of much Russian Orthodox thought running on from the late
nineteenth century and throughout the twentieth.
The perceived state-sponsored suppression of freedom of spirit in
church life also certainly encouraged the monastic element in the church to
rise to great spiritual and moral prominence, something that can be seen
when, shortly, we turn to look at the so-called hesychastic revival. Unlike
Nikon and Philaret, patriarchs who had challenged the tsar’s supremacy, a
tradition flourished in Russian spirituality that looked back to the sons of
Grand Prince Vladimir, Boris and Gleb, from the earliest days of Russian
Christianity.11 As the monastic chronicler tells the tale, knowing that their
pagan brother Sviatapolk had contested their right to rule after the death of
their father, they went meekly to their own murders rather than advance the
civil war (1015–1019). They were designated passion bearers
(strastoterptsy) in the church traditions and were regarded as pure icons of
the meekness and self-sacrificing attitude of Jesus himself. This tradition of
seeking to exemplify the interior humility and abnegation of the passion
bearer ran deep in many aspects of Russian spirituality, and it continues to
this day among both monastics and many Orthodox lay people.

RUSSIA’S NEIGHBORS: BULGARIAN, SERBIAN, AND ROMANIAN ORTHODOXY

Throughout all the period of the ascendancy of Ottoman Islam in the

Balkans and the Levant, Russia stood out as the great Orthodox power and
real defender of Christian rights. Within the shade of the great Russian
Orthodox tree, however, several other local Orthodox churches were able to
grow; though, as with all such sheltering plants, their growth was not just
simply encouraged by the overshadowing form but oftentimes restricted by
it too. For our purposes here, the indigenous Orthodox traditions of
Bulgaria, Serbia, and Romania can stand as brief examples.

Bulgaria
Orthodoxy came to Bulgaria much earlier than it did to Russia.
Geographically, Bulgaria was centered in the ancient Roman regions of
Thrace and Illyria, the first of which was adjacent in a northerly direction to
Constantinople’s closest province, north of the Danube, and the second of
which was located on the Adriatic Coast. The area was thus intimately
known at an early stage to the Byzantine Empire. By the late seventh
century Bulgar (Turkic) tribes had crossed the Danube southward and
formed the basis of a kingdom under the khans. It is Khan Asparuch who is
traditionally credited with establishing the Bulgarian state at the beginning
of his reign (681–700), crossing the Danube into undefended Roman
imperial territory and settling there, mingling with many Slavic tribes. In
811 Khan Krum (803–814) fought with and killed the Byzantine emperor
Nikephoros I, who had come to exert dominion and dismantle the state. In
813 he fought off Emperor Michael I in addition to putting the Byzantine
city of Adrianople to the sword and advancing even up to the walls of
Constantinople. This was the point at which Khan Krum died, and his
successors decided to negotiate with the Byzantines, turning their territorial
ambitions away from the south, the heartland of the empire, and toward the
West, to Macedonia. There had been some long-standing Christian elements
among the Slavic tribes already in Bulgaria, but when the son of Khan
Omurtag (814–831), Prince Enravotas, embraced Byzantine Orthodoxy, he
was immediately executed by his father. And yet, more and more of the
people and the ruling classes turned to Christianity. The conversion of
Bulgaria to Orthodoxy is traditionally dated from 865, when Khan Boris
accepted baptism and entered into a closer allegiance with the empire. A
shared Christianity helped the consolidation of the Bulgarian nation, still
notably split into its Turkic and Slavic constituencies.
Though Khan Boris was willing to accept the advantages of the
Christian faith, he was not so eager to be overwhelmed by the influence of
Byzantines, and so in 862 he renewed the relationship his ancestor Omurtag
had first established with the Frankish kingdom, meeting with the Western
leader King Louis in that year and asking the king to send Latin
missionaries to evangelize his people.12 The Byzantine state reacted
strongly, demanding that Boris break off all relations with the Franks and
receive only the Orthodox faith. Though he was compelled to accept this,
and so was personally allied to the emperor in his Orthodox baptism of 865,
he was nevertheless also happy to allow the argument between the
patriarchs of Rome and Constantinople to simmer on (as it would for
generations to come), as to which rite was the real founder of Bulgarian
Christendom, and which one should exercise ecclesiastical jurisdiction.
Trying to negotiate the independence of his own state’s church, he was
frustrated by both the Eastern and the Western patriarchs independently.
Pope Nicholas I and Patriarch Photios of Constantinople clashed bitterly
over the Bulgarian issue, but eventually Boris was satisfied when an
imperial council of 869–870 definitively assigned Bulgaria to the Byzantine
Orthodox Church and also granted it a fairly autonomous archbishop of its
own. After 885, the missionary disciples of Saints Cyril and Methodios who
had been expelled from Moravia, led by their disciple Kliment, moved to
assist in the evangelization of Bulgaria and the Macedonian Slavs,
introducing the Slavonic language to the country. In 894 Boris abdicated
and retired to life in a monastery. His son Tsar Simeon then promoted
Kliment to be the metropolitan archbishop of Ohrid, which became the
leading see of the nation and a long-enduring seat (until 1767) of
Byzantino-Slavonic learning and Christian culture.
By the tenth century, Bulgarian Orthodoxy had been extensively
Byzantinized, but in a Slavonic form, and was rooted in the affairs of the
ruling classes. At this point the tsar, Peter I, gained decisive victories over
the Byzantines and in 919 encouraged his national synod to declare the
autocephaly of the church, in the form of an independent patriarchate, a fait
accompli as far as Constantinople was concerned. The wider Bulgarian
Church experienced a growing sense of alienation among the poorer
classes, who started to regard the ecclesiastical world as belonging more to
their rich rulers than themselves. A deep-seated movement arose among the
poorer classes led by the priest Bogomil, who encouraged all his followers
to live radically ascetic lives because the world, as he saw it, was
irredeemably corrupt. His movement caught on and increasingly came to
represent dualistic ideas (probably present in the earlier folk religion of the
area): that there was an evil god and a good god warring for souls. This
world’s sufferings were the creations of the evil god; radical renunciation of
sex and rich foods would save the souls of the elect; the visible sacraments
were worth little.
 Many of the Bogomils reacted to their oppression by state and church
leaders by simply hiding in plain sight, attending the Orthodox churches but
renouncing their customs and doctrines in their own private prayer sessions.
Even into the thirteenth century the leaders of the church were meeting to
discuss how to eradicate Bogomilism from its midst. By 972 the Byzantine
armies again started to erode Bulgarian independence. By 1018 Byzantium
had gained the upper hand politically once more, with the victorious
Emperor Basil I (the Bulgar Slayer) acknowledging its autocephaly as a
church but deliberately depriving it of the title of a patriarchate and
reducing it to an archiepiscopal see based at Ohrid, most of whose
subsequent incumbents the Byzantines ensured would be Greeks. In 1235
the patriarch of Constantinople convened a council in Lampsakos to restore
the patriarchal title to the Bulgarians, which served to acknowledge
Bulgaria’s decision yet again to renounce allegiance to the Roman popes,
which it had used as a bargaining counter.
By the late fourteenth century, Ottoman military advances had started to
enclose the Bulgarian kingdom. The Bulgarian patriarch Evtimi was then
seated in the city of Tarnovo, but this fell to the Ottomans in 1393. His
expulsion marked the end of the Bulgarian patriarchate as well as the end of
the independent kingdom. In 1394 the patriarch of Constantinople, Antony
IV, appointed the Moldavian metropolitan Jeremias as exarch to superintend
Bulgarian Church affairs. For the next five hundred years Bulgarian
Orthodoxy survived under the Ottomans. Though it was supposedly a
tolerated religion in terms of the Koran, across the nation the Orthodox
were offered many inducements, not excluding terror, to convert to Islam.
After the fall of Constantinople itself, less than a generation later, the
Bulgarian Orthodox were, like all other Christians in the Ottoman
dominions, placed under the governance of the ethnarch appointed by the
sultan, namely, the patriarch of Constantinople. His administration, as was
the pattern in many other Slavic areas administered by the Phanariot ruling
classes of Constantinople, led to an increasing reservation of the highest
state and ecclesiastical offices for these superintendent Greeks themselves.
The introduction of the Greek language into the services was but the
spearhead of a thoroughgoing Hellenization of the Bulgarian Church for the
next five hundred years, and the profound overshadowing of its indigenous
Slavonic traditions. This would not be reversed until the nineteenth century,
which saw a widespread monastic revival of the church that went hand in
hand with renewed efforts of the Bulgarians to throw off Ottoman
domination and reassert their political independence.
The Zographou monastery on Mount Athos had served throughout this
long period as a repository of the Orthodox Bulgarian memory and
aspirations. The Bulgarian monk Paisy of Hilandar (1722–1798), who had
also lived at Zographou for thirty years, was the first to signal this symbolic
revival, with his work Slavo-Bulgarian History, an account of the long
endurance of the church in which he pointed an admonitory finger at both
Islamic rule and Phanariot domination. His work circulated extensively in
manuscript form, disseminated by Bulgarian monastics and intellectuals,
and was certainly a lively spark for the encouragement of the Bulgarian
national liberation movement of the nineteenth century. This would
eventually result in both independence and the restoration of the Bulgarian
patriarchate, but the latter not until 1953, and never again with its former
rank and prestige. Today the Bulgarian Orthodox Church has an estimated
six million believers in the homelands and a further two million in the
diaspora.

Serbia
Serbia is today the sixth-ranking patriarchate of the Orthodox Church. In
medieval times its ecclesial territory covered a larger area of the Balkan
Peninsula than present-day Serbia. The Balkan Peninsula became a focus of
Slavic tribal migration from the seventh century onward, and the tribes
there were caught up into Orthodoxy by the mission of Saints Methodius
and Cyril, receiving from them too the Slavonic literary culture that would
eventually form the tribes into a nation. Nationhood and the Orthodox
Church have ever since been closely associated by the Serbs. The twelfth-
century prince Stefan Nemanja (1109–1199) fashioned the tribes into a
powerful state, centered in the mountainous region bordering modern-day
Kosovo and Metohij; the latter name derives its meaning from “the land of
monasteries.” Up to the fourteenth century the Serbian state expanded,
largely at the expense of Byzantine territory. Stefan’s son Prince Ratsko
(1175–1235) left the court to become a monastic founder on Mount Athos.
Under his name of Saint Sava the Enlightener, he remains the most revered
of all Serbian Orthodox saints. When his father joined him there and
assumed the name of Simeon, they together founded the great Serbian
monastery of Hilandar, which was from that time on a center of Serbian
religious, intellectual, and spiritual culture.
In 1219 Sava and Simeon, working once more in the homeland,
convinced the patriarch of Constantinople (then in exile in Nicaea because
of the Latin occupation of Constantinople) to give the Serbian Church its
independence (autocephaly). Sava was consecrated as the chief archbishop
of the church, and he extensively reorganized and expanded his dioceses.
Many of the monasteries founded during this period (such as Studenica,
Gracanika, Visoki, Pec, and Sopocani) are today considered among the
world heritage sites representing the Serbian people. Sava insisted on the
church using the Slavonic language, not Greek, and underscored its Slavic
heritage. In the mid-fourteenth century the Serbian Church and the Serbian
state had expanded to the point that they had aspirations to take over from
Byzantium (then reviving its fortunes). The ruler Stefan Dusic Nemanjic,
without asking or waiting for Constantinople’s agreement, instructed the
bishops to appoint the senior hierarch Joanikije to be the patriarch of a truly
independent national church; and in 1346 Joanikije consecrated and
crowned Stefan “emperor and autocrat of the Serbs and Greeks,” causing a
major row with Byzantium, whose patriarch excommunicated the entire
church in 1353.13
There was a patched-up reconciliation of some form in the years that
followed. But politically Serbian state fortunes declined consistently and
rapidly. The Ottomans advanced into the southeastern territories. Two
catastrophic battles (Maritsa in 1371 and Kosovo in 1389) saw the fatal
damaging of the small empire, and the capital, Smederevo, fell to the
invaders in 1459. The patriarchate itself was abolished by the Ottoman
powers after the death of Arsenije II in 1463, and the church administration
was relocated to the archbishopric of Ohrid. Through the fourteenth-century
decline Serbian Orthodox had more and more become aligned with the
Greek Byzantine tradition. Under Ottoman rule, and as part of the Millet
system, where local Christians were administered separately as a subject
people, the Serbian Church was, paradoxically, to receive more
independence than before. In 1557 the sultan’s grand vizier, Mehmet
Sokollu Pasha, showed his early origins as a conscripted Christian boy in
Serbia by arranging the restoration of the Serbian patriarchate in Pec and
appointing to the post his relative Makarije Sokolovic.14 The patriarchate
then had a jurisdictional role stretching to the north from southern Hungary,
to the south in Macedonia, and from the Dalmatian Coast in the west, to
parts of Bulgaria to the east. Ottoman rule, however, also caused many
Christian Orthodox Serbs to flee from the country, and the Serbian presence
at this period also moved outward through significant immigration to the
Austro-Hungarian Empire, especially after the defeat of the great revolt in
1690. Even today there is a very large Serb Orthodox diaspora in the New
World.
The seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were a marked low point for
Serbian Orthodox fortunes; the church was profoundly weakened. In 1766
the Ottomans once more abolished the patriarchate and placed it under the
direct jurisdiction of Constantinople. Thereafter the Phanariot Greek nobles
in charge once more tried to Hellenize the church as much as possible but
were largely unsuccessful, and on the borders of the Hapsburg Empire the
emperors there started to offer their own resident Serbs political and
religious advantages if they served as a border defensive force. The
Orthodox Serbs within the Hapsburg Empire were organized around the
metropolitanate of Karlovac, to which, in one of its last independent acts in
1710, the Serbian patriarchate at Pec had given autonomous status. In the
mid-nineteenth century the weakened state of the Ottoman Empire would
finally allow the Serbian Orthodox to reassert their independence, but the
two parts would not be reunited until after the First World War, when the
Austro-Hungarian Empire itself collapsed. In 1920 the modern Serbian
Orthodox patriarchate was reinstated with the agreement and recognition of
the patriarch of Constantinople.

Romania
Today, Romania is the second largest of the Orthodox lands, after Russia,
numbering just fewer than sixteen and a half million self-styling believers
in the 2011 census of mainland Romania, as well as almost three-quarters of
a million faithful living in the adjacent Republic of Moldova.15 There are
also dioceses of the Romanian Church supervising what is an extensive
diaspora population of twelve million Romanian Orthodox in Serbia,
Hungary, Central and Western Europe, the Americas, and Oceania. It is by
far the largest of all Orthodox churches within the European Union and the
only Orthodox church that uses a Romance language in its liturgies and
services.
Its existence as Christian church stretches back to apostolic times, when
the faith was preached in the region south of the Danube, occupied then by
Illyrians, Thracians, Dacians, and Greeks (the present-day regions of
Serbia, Bulgaria, and Greece). The resulting Romanian culture is a rich
blend of Latin, Greek, and Slavic influences. On the eastern borders of the
Danube there exist remains of episcopal sees already established in the
fourth century, and a metropolitan see at Tomis (modern Constanta) in what
was then Roman Scythia Minor. Two of the early Scythian theologians had
international reputations in the ancient church: Saint John Cassian, the great
monastic theologian who eventually settled in Marseilles, and Saint
Dionysius Exiguus, the theologian and historian who gave to the world the
time schema that pivoted on the Incarnation of the Lord: A.D. and A.C. (the
latter more commonly seen in English abbreviation as B.C.).16
The original Illyrian territories were extensively Latin speaking, and
related to the Roman patriarchate, but the second and fourth Ecumenical
Councils placed the northern Danubian lands under the aegis of the
patriarchate of Constantinople. This diocesan structure more or less eroded
between the seventh and tenth centuries under the wave of Avaro-Slavic
tribal migrations. The Slav settlement permeated the Dacian-Romanian
language. Slavonic became increasingly used in church services, as Russian
Orthodoxy extended its influence, and eventually became dominant until
about the end of the seventeenth century, even though the common people
did not understand it. Romanian began to be used after the sixteenth century
and in 1863 was declared to be the only official language of the Romanian
Orthodox Church.
In the middle of the fourteenth century, two Romanian principalities
emerged, Wallachia (1330) and Moldavia (1359).17 Constantinople
recognized the metropolitan status of the first in 1359 and that of the second
in 1401. Subordinate dioceses grew from this, and some, especially those in
Transylvania, were in the territory of the Catholic kings of Hungary and
were frequently hampered and sometimes suppressed by the Hapsburg
rulers. The princes of Wallachia and Moldavia, however, were great patrons
of the Romanian Orthodox Church, and many of its hierarchs were men of
distinguished learning. Voivode (Prince) Stephen the Great (1457–1504) is
remembered by all Romanians as a great national hero, opposing the sultans
and developing the Romanian state (sometimes with the military support of
Voivode Vlad III Dracula of Wallachia). Stephen built numerous churches
in a distinctive Gothic-Orthodox style, which are today among the most
beautiful examples of Orthodox ecclesial culture.18 The church became a
repository of Romanian language and culture as well as the national
religious focus. Its ecclesiastical authors, chiefly monastics, issued Slavonic
printed liturgical texts in Wallachia after 1507. The monasteries were
centers of hesychastic spiritual life and became important to the
development of the nation. From the sixteenth century, the Orthodox
Church was seen as the bearer of the whole national tradition, and when
Romania finally became a kingdom, it was without question the state
church. This very intimate relationship between church and statehood
served Romanian Orthodoxy well under later times of Russian Communist
oppression, for the pro-Soviet regimes tended to turn their antireligious
oppressions onto individuals who spoke out, rather than onto church
institutions as such, which were being used by the state as a form of cultural
and nationalist buffer between itself and its Muscovite masters.
Accordingly, the Romanian church infrastructure would survive extensively
after communism, unlike several other Soviet-zone churches.
In the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries the Roman
Catholic Church, with state aid from imperial Vienna, launched extensive
missionary campaigns in Transylvania. The principalities of Wallachia and
Moldavia remained strongly Orthodox, but the Jesuits effected a union of
some of the Transylvanian churches with Rome, and the Greek-Catholic
Romanian Church was created, placed under the Roman Catholic
archbishop of Esztergom. The center was later moved to Fagaras, near
Sibiu, and then to Blaj, where the pope raised it to metropolitan status in
1853. The Orthodox episcopate in Transylvania was suppressed until 1761,
when a revolt forced the Viennese authorities to appoint a Serbian Orthodox
bishop to take care of the people. A Romanian bishop was not able to be
elected until 1810. The important scholar-theologian Andrei Saguna
eventually succeeded to the see, and in 1864 he proved capable of raising it
to metropolitan status at Sibiu, thereby reasserting the development of the
largest ecclesial body in Transylvania. The Communist governments after
1948 would severely suppress the Greek Catholic Church organization
there, forcing its merging with the Romanian Orthodox establishment until
the liberation following the revolution of 1989.
In 1859 the Romanian principalities of Wallachia and Moldavia
politically merged and declared themselves the Romanian state and nation.
In 1864, Prince Alexandru Ioan Cuza declared the nationalization of all
Romanian monasteries and lands, effectively removing them from the
control of the patriarchate of Constantinople, which still exercised rights
over the church that the sultan had given to the Phanariot administration.
The prince also declared the Romanian Church’s independence from
Constantinople, affirming its autocephaly on his own authority. The
following year the archbishop of Bucharest was declared to be the
metropolitan primate of Romania. In 1872 the Holy Synod of the Romanian
Church was organized, led by the metropolitan of Bucharest. The patriarch
of Constantinople, Joachim IV, acknowledged the Romanian autocephaly in
1885 (following the 1877–1878 Russo-Turkish War when Romania and
Bulgaria shared the Russian victory over Turkey and deconstructed
Ottoman influence in the Balkans). In 1925 the senior Romanian
metropolitan, Miron Cristea, was duly acknowledged as a patriarch, and
since then there have been five others in succession. The Romanian
patriarchate is the second largest in terms of Orthodox numbers, and ranks
seventh in order of precedence.19

THE GREEKS AND THE OTTOMAN EXPERIENCE

The fall of Constantinople was a shattering experience for the Greek

Christian world. Constantinopolitan Christianity in its golden age was
outward looking, culture making, world dominating. After the fall of the
capital to the Latin forces in the Fourth Crusade of 1204, the political and
cultural fortunes of the Byzantine Orthodox world went into an unstoppable
decline, while those of the Western Church rose in the scales. The greatest
losses of all were not always the most obvious ones, such as loss of political
freedom, territory, wealth, and power. What was more damaging in the
longer term to Eastern Orthodox Christianity was the new Islamic
ascendancy that forbade the Christians to preach their faith. Christian
religion could be followed liturgically within the churches that were not
sequestrated, but it could not be proclaimed or advanced in any way outside
them. This, and the removal of almost every Greek aristocrat who could
serve as a protective patron, meant that schools and libraries, considered
tertiary-level centers of Greek scholarship, all but collapsed in the aftermath
of 1453. Monasteries remained important centers of Greek Christian culture
and today, the libraries at Sinai or the Athonite houses testify to the often
heroic efforts the Greek Christians made to keep the flame of learning and
spiritual culture alive under Islamic domination in the East.
The very real fear that Greek learning, for so long a lighthouse that had
illuminated the entire Christian world, East and West, might be dead and
soon forgotten (for the Roman Church had no desire to record its
achievements in its own version of church history) led the Greek Orthodox
Christians clustered around the patriarchate of Constantinople to be
overzealous in propagating their Christian Byzantine culture in the various
diaspora colonies over which the sultans gave them supervision. As we
have already seen, these Phanariots, the noble or merchant families
surviving around the patriarch in the Phanar district of Constantinople, not
only administered the sultan’s Christian subjects in the conquered
dominions of the Ottoman Empire but also aggressively Hellenized the
churches there too, almost always trying to suppress local traditions in the
cause of creating a series of little Constantinoples outside Byzantium.
Under the Ottomans, between Moscow on the one side and the Phanar on
the other, colonization seemed to be the order of the day, and the smaller
Orthodox churches in the Balkans were the ones who largely paid the price.
To this day many local churches raise a somewhat skeptical eyebrow
when the Greek or Russian Orthodox happen to speak about the leadership
roles and rights of either church. Many remember the historical manner in
which both churches, in the times when they held actual power, did little to
preserve the indigenous rights of any of the other local Orthodox
communities or paid little more than lip service to the global Orthodox idea
that the local church is present in all its fullness and perfection in the person
of the local bishop assembled in his local eucharistic communion. This
latter idea of local groundedness, something encapsulated in the later
principle of subsidiarity, and fully endorsed by Orthodoxy’s commitment to
collegial synodical governance from ancient times, has often been the
victim of waves of ecclesial imperialism that have washed over it. When the
various national revolutions against Ottoman rule began, chiefly in the
nineteenth century, and brought with them the progressive dismemberment
of Phanariot ecclesiastical control, the patriarch of Constantinople issued a
statement in 1872 condemning phyletism as a corrupting element in
Orthodox life.20 The term (from Greek) is a disparagement of the new
nationalist movements (most seeking ecclesial independence) as a
fragmenting tribalism that corrodes the essentially catholic, that is,
universal, nature of the church. Constantinople, however, could not see that
its own policy of ecclesial Hellenization looked very much like the same
kind of thing from outside its own small viewing balcony.
Through the long Ottoman twilight, the Greek clergy maintained
Hellenic letters with great fidelity and devotion. Their memories of a Greek
glory that stretched back even before Byzantium (one that included the New
Testament saints, the fathers of the church, and also the pre-Christian
philosophers) sustained their self-identity in most difficult times. The local
schoolmasters were often the heroes of the day, keeping histories and
memories alive in the local Greek schools, against the background of an
impoverished educational world stripped of resources and in a context
where denunciation for alleged evangelization was a rapid death sentence.
The clergy sustained Orthodox life by a much more concentrated liturgical
cycle. Since the Orthodox faith could be celebrated only inside church
buildings by any Greek in the Ottoman domains, the focusing of all
Orthodox life within the liturgical cycle was an inevitable outcome. This
made the Greek Church inward looking, detached from politics and wider
culture, in a way that the Russian Church did not know. It encouraged a
certain form of withdrawn, devotional spirituality that reserved its secrets
for the interior life.
This would partially change when the Greek mainland rose in rebellion
against the sultan in the war of independence between 1821 and 1830. The
powers of Russia, Great Britain, and France eventually intervened to
prevent an Ottoman rout and ensured the Greek victory. The London
Conference and the Treaty of Constantinople soon after allowed for the
recognition of the Greek kingdom in 1832 when Otto of Bavaria became
the first king based in Athens. But this was not before the patriarch of
Constantinople had been hanged by order of the sultan from his own gate at
his church in the Phanar, for failing to secure the loyalty of his people.21
From then until the collapse of Ottoman power, the sultans treated the
patriarch and the Phanariots with the deepest suspicion and distaste. The
law court in Athens declared the autocephaly of the Greek mainland church
in 1833, and the church was recognized by the patriarchate of
Constantinople in 1850, even though there were then only four bishops
making up the Greek Church and serving in the royal (mainly Protestant)
establishment. The outlying Greek islands, the largest of which was Crete,
remained under the supervision of the patriarch of Constantinople, as did all
the very extensive Greek diaspora in America and Oceania. Greek
government laws of 1833 closed all monasteries with fewer than five
inhabitants, and though there were several spiritual and intellectual revivals
attempted through the nineteenth century, designed to offset the more
secularist attitude of the German ruling establishment, the state of the
church remained predominantly rural and moribund with clergy that were,
in the main, not educated beyond elementary level. Priests were an integral
part of peasant rural society and, as in Ottoman days, kept themselves in the
main to serving the liturgy on Sundays and performing numerous blessings
and exorcisms for their farming and seagoing communities. Less frequently
the bishops would send around a more educated priest-monk on a tour of
the more remote villages, who would preach to the people and counsel the
local clergy. The monasteries and the elders of Mount Athos always
remained a focal point for the admiration of the Greek people.

SAINT PAISY VELICHOVSKY AND THE HESYCHASTIC RENEWAL

The Greek Church revivals of the 1840s and the 1880s (the Anaplasis
movement) were in some senses reminiscent of a more profound spiritual
movement that had taken its origin on Mount Athos in the eighteenth
century, but they would grow throughout the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries to become a formative spirit of contemporary world Orthodoxy.
This Athonite spiritual tradition departed in significant ways from the
mainland Athenian revivalist movements. The latter were always hostile to
the concept of Western educational principles and attitudes but ended up,
paradoxically, deeply immersed in the most scholastic forms of theology
(heavily influenced by Germanic school models). The Athonite-inspired
hesychastic revival looked back to a classical patristic golden age of
spiritual writing and from the start was interested in manuscripts, in oral
traditions, and in finding a quality of life from the past that was not merely
antiquarian but rather a pathway to a more fulfilling spiritual dimension.
From its inception it represented a synthesis of Greek, Ukrainian, Russian,
and Romanian Orthodox monastic streams, monks who circulated on Athos
to begin with but disseminated from that central point to all the Eastern
Orthodox world.
It has also been called the Philokalic Revival, from the title of the most
famous book (or rather collection of books) that it produced: the Philokalia
in Greek, and the Dobrotolubiye in Slavonic. The term “Philokalic”
(literally) means “a Lover of Wisdom” but is more properly understood as a
Byzantine-era term for a florilegium. The Philokalia was a collation of the
most important writings from the patristic era to the late Byzantine period.22
It covered much of the great patristic-era writings on prayer and how these
were commented on and expanded in the medieval-era Eastern monasteries.
Because of the heavy Byzantine-era editing of these collected spiritual
writings, great stress is placed on the spirituality of the heart; that is, the
hesychastic tradition of interior stillness and contemplation. All these texts
stand in a close familial relation with one another and represent a massive
body of a spiritual tradition that is, in many ways, the heart and soul of
Eastern Orthodoxy. When other church institutions fell before hostile
powers in the East, the inner life of the church, upheld by its monastics,
carried on the secret fire. In free Orthodox lands such as Russia, the
spiritual tradition of the Philokalia reached far and wide, influencing
Orthodox culture throughout the past three centuries, being as it were a
ressourciement movement of renewal that spread out in the latter part of the
twentieth century and became a spiritual pattern of prayer for the laity too.
The main protagonists in this first Philokalic effort were bishop
Macarius (surnamed Notaras) of Corinth (1731–1805), Hieromonk
Nikodemos (Kallivroutsis) the Hagiorite (1749–1809), and Paisy
(Velichkovsky) of Neamt (1722–1794). Macarius was a cleric from a
wealthy Greek family who was consecrated bishop but was unable to take
up his see because of political turmoil. He retired to an ascetic and scholarly
life and commissioned the monk Nikodemos to prepare for him an edition
of the best spiritual texts from Orthodox antiquity. Nikodemos was a
whirlwind of a writer, an indefatigable collector, editor, and publisher of
numerous manuscripts. Supported by Macarius, his work extended to a
greater size than had ever been first envisaged. It is now represented by the
Philokalia in five volumes in Greek, containing the most important mystical
texts of Byzantine Greek monasticism, written from the fourth through the
fifteenth centuries.23 Paisy Velichkovsky performed the same kind of task,
more or less independently, for the Slavonic-reading Orthodox world. Like
Nikodemos, Paisy was a fire of energy and fervor. All three Philokalic
collators have since been canonized by the Orthodox Church as great saints.
Paisy began to develop his approach to the spiritual literature and its
heritage when he arrived on Mount Athos as a monk from Ukraine.24 He
had been a monastic disciple of the great spiritual teacher Basil of Poiana
Marului in Moldavia but had been deeply disappointed when he came to
Mount Athos thinking to find another spiritual guide who could take him
into the advanced stages of prayer. He found the state of monastic life there
stultified and the monastics obsessed with the saying of prayers, especially
in the form of the recited hours. He began on Mount Athos in 1746 as a
strict and poor hermit but after a visit from his former elder Basil, four
years later, he was advised to open his life to a small community of
disciples. His zeal for contemplation soon attracted followers from the
Greek and Slavic worlds. Paisy arranged for his small monastic family to
have two separate worship-language experiences. The closeness of the
group led him to understand the importance of the ancient tradition of the
spiritual father, the starets: someone who could guide a disciple along the
highway of prayer and the deeper Christian observance, precisely because
he had trodden it before them and knew the easy tracks and the pitfalls in
advance. Paisy lamented the fact that he had hoped to discover good guides
everywhere on the mountain but could not find even one who practiced the
prayer of the heart in the advanced way.25 So he set himself the task of
going around to the great monastery libraries on Athos to see what texts
they had that spoke of the inner life. Soon he had his team of disciples
making translations of the Greek manuscripts into Slavonic, for their own
use and study. These two projects were the hallmarks of his apostolate: the
gathering of a close body of zealous followers around himself as spiritual
father and leader of a monastic family; and the gathering of the best sources
on prayer from the ancient tradition. The two things have been closely
associated ever afterward in the modern hesychastic revival in Orthodoxy.
After Paisy had spent eighteen years on Athos, Moldavia’s Prince
Grigore III Ghica invited him to come to his dominion and renew the
monastic life there. So he came to Dragomirna monastery in Bucovina with
sixty-four of his followers. It was here that the monk Raphael began to
translate some of the Philokalic texts into Romanian. When the Austro-
Hungarian Empire annexed Bucovina, the future of Orthodox monasticism
looked bleak, so Paisy relocated his base to what became the great
Romanian spiritual center of Neamt. He had presided over three hundred
and fifty monks at Dragomirna, and now the Neamt community grew
quickly to number seven hundred followers. It was at Neamt that Paisy
completed the translation project of the Slavonic Philokalia. The
manuscript, a truly massive one, is today preserved in the library of the
Romanian Academy. The work was printed in Russia in 1793 and had an
immediate and profound effect on Russian monasticism. Paisy’s senior
disciples spread out to take leadership positions across Romania, Ukraine,
and Russia, bringing with them the deeply interior hesychastic tradition of
monastic life: a life turning around inner prayer of the heart as the core
purpose underlying all the manual labors and the church offices.
The Russian monastery of Optina was heavily influenced by Paisy,
through his disciple Feodor Ushakov, who brought the Philokalic tradition
to the monastery. Another of his disciples, Dosifei of Kiev, was the starets
who gave the great Saint Seraphim of Sarov the blessing to begin his own
renowned monastic path. Optina grew to become one of the greatest of the
Russian spiritual centers. In 1821 it built a special center adjacent to the
main communal monastery, to house the hermit elders, or startsi, and
spiritual eldership became a great emphasis here that renewed Paisy’s
vision of spiritual fatherhood throughout the Slavic-speaking Orthodox
world. Following the tradition of Paisy, the startsi repaired the bureaucratic
spirit that had entered Russian monastic life after the so-called reforms of
Peter the Great and Catherine the Great, pulling it back into the mystical
tradition of prayer that stood as the root of its actions. This renewal
movement was also popularized in the late nineteenth century by Russian
monks in Ukraine and on Mount Athos who popularized the concept of
constant prayer in the novelette form of the Way of the Pilgrim, a book that
had an equally great impact on modern Western readers in its many
twentieth-century translations, and captured a younger readership after its
appearance in J. D. Salinger’s novel Franny and Zooey.26 At Optina
between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries a steady stream of all the
notables of Russia, alongside the peasants, came for spiritual guidance and
direction. They included the writers Dostoyevsky, Gogol, Zhukovsky,
Tolstoy, Turgenev, and Rozanov. Optina’s history boasts many great saints
and clairvoyants. Saint Ambrose (Amvrosiy Grenkov) (1812–1891) was
one of the great Optina elders thought to have been the model for the saintly
Father Zosima in Dostoyevsky’s Brothers Karamazov. Optina was one of
the first of the confiscated monasteries returned to the Russian Orthodox
Church in 1987 after the relaxation of Soviet totalitarianism. It had been
used by the Soviet Communists as a gulag for prisoners, and its own last
higumen, or abbot, had been executed in 1938. Today it is once more a
thriving monastic center and looks to its many saintly startsi as an
inspiration for a new generation of monks and nuns.
 CHAPTER SEVEN

Orthodoxy under the Communists

THE RUSSIAN CHURCH UNDER THE COMMUNISTS

The repurposing of historic monasteries in Russia after 1917 was a common

factor under the Soviets. Often the more the place was renowned for
holiness in its past tradition, the more it seemed the state powers used it for
purposes of evil oppression of the human spirit. If the Greek Church knew
its modern martyrdom under the early modern Ottoman domination, the
Russian Orthodox certainly found it under the Communists of the early part
of the twentieth century. In 1917 after the abdication of the tsar, a church
council was held to consider reform and progress for the future. All knew
that it was a tense and troubled time, but few had envisaged how quickly
the Bolsheviks, under Lenin, Leon Trotsky, and Joseph Stalin, would push
the country first into civil war and then into a second, far-reaching social
revolution that established a Communist totalitarian state. The 1917–1918
Moscow Church Council was interrupted by the sound of gunfire that
signaled the arrival of the Bolsheviks; but before it broke up it had
reestablished the ancient Russian patriarchate and set terms for what it
hoped would be a renovation of the Russian Church—one that surely
lamented the loss of its tsar but was also able to have great hope that it
could establish a greater autonomy after the dissolution of the strict control
the tsars had enforced over the bishops hitherto. The council was composed
of an innovative number of lay representatives alongside the bishops and
priests. There were 299 laity present alongside the 264 clergy. The saintly
Tikhon Belavin was elected as the restored (eleventh) patriarch of Moscow
and All Russia. When the Bolsheviks attacked, the council dissolved,
planning to reconvene in 1921—which would never happen.
As soon as the Bolsheviks were secure in their power, in 1922, they
declared the new Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to be officially an
atheistic state. Holy Mother Russia was to be no more. Seeing how closely
the Russian Orthodox Church had been allied with the tsarist regimes, and
how it elevated the figure of the tsar-emperor in an ideologically important
role, comparable to the position of the Byzantine emperor-priest in the
medieval Eastern Church (one God, one church, under one monarchical
ruler), the Soviets knew they had to do a radical deconstruction of the
power of Orthodoxy if they were to secure the Russian people’s enduring
allegiance. Lenin wrote a policy essay entitled “On the Attitude of the
Working Party to Religion,” in which he spelled out the position clearly for
all to understand: “Religion is the opium of the people. This saying of Marx
is the cornerstone of the entire ideology of Marxism about religion. All
modern religions and churches, and every kind of religious organization, are
always to be considered by Marxism as the organs of bourgeois reaction,
used for the protection of the exploitation and the stupefaction of the
working class.” In a letter of 1913 he had already compared religious belief
to syphilis: “Religion is a most dangerous foulness, the most shameful of all
diseases,” and in a speech on October 20, 1920, he openly professed: “We
(Bolsheviks) do not believe in God . . . all worship of a divinity is an act of
necrophilia.”1 Lenin’s disciple Stalin systematized the hostility even
further: “The party cannot be neutral to religion. It conducts an anti-
religious struggle against all and any religious prejudices.”2
So, active moves were not slow in coming once the Bolsheviks assumed
power. In November 1917 the lands and properties of the church were
declared to belong to the nation. The next step was to institute a classical
Bolshevik policy and attempt a serious disruption of the internal structures
of the opposition. To this end the Bolsheviks seized on fracture lines of
unity within the church and exploited them. They appealed to a smaller
group of bishops and priests who wanted to push social reform quickly and
offered them state support to constitute a so-called Living Church, separate
from the (implied) dead wood of the established church. Once they had set
this up it caused, of course, an immediate schism within the fabric of
Russian Orthodoxy, since the acquiescence in such a level of state direction
had rarely been seen even under the tsars, and the process of instituting this
new system of governance was contrary to all the classical canons of the
church.
Following on from this, sterner measures were taken against the clergy,
the monks and nuns especially, who were the most bitter opponents of all
attempts to suppress Christianity’s Russian traditions. It is certainly the case
(though contrary to the global imagination of Christianity) that the
persecution of the Russian Church between 1917 and 1939 exceeded by far
the total of all the Roman persecutions of the early church era. In the three
years between 1918 and 1921, 673 monasteries were forcibly closed, many
left to rot, and several turned into prison gulags, state farms, factory
warehouses, and psychiatric institutions where numbers of clergy were
harshly imprisoned on the basis that their faith constituted an ineradicable
neurosis.
The Bolshevik government began a systematic process of encouraging
“scientific atheism.” Religion was forbidden to be taught by the church.
State schools inculcated atheism as the normal intelligent view. Children
were encouraged to inform on the retrograde beliefs of their parents. Faith
in God was not officially proscribed, but it was openly ridiculed as a
neurotic throwback of bourgeois existence. It became commonly known
that anyone hoping for a career ought not to profess Orthodox belief and
should never be seen attending church services. The church liturgies tended
to be populated by old grandmothers (babushkas) who had no career
prospects they needed to protect, and were served by clergy who were
increasingly winnowed out, removing the zealous and leaving in place,
more and more, those who could be counted on to conform (and inform on
their people). A deep distrust began to grow up between the observant
faithful and the clergy who continued to be seen occupying church positions
in public.
In 1925 the government, with Trotsky and Lenin’s direct
encouragement, founded the League of Militant Atheists as a propaganda
force to counter aggressively the claims of the churches and unravel the
preaching of the clergy in towns and villages. Priests were only allowed to
conduct their profession within the church buildings, never with any outside
events, such as the procession that used to mark the feasts of the Russian
Church, or a youth club, or any educational extra-worship meeting of any
kind. Religious intelligentsia were forbidden access to mass media, and the
famed “ships of philosophers” actually exiled a whole generation of
Russian theologians and writers in 1922, paradoxically making Paris, in the
latter part of the twentieth century, the focal point where Russian theology
and spirituality survived and first reached a truly international audience.
The Bolsheviks hoped that what they saw as lingering religious
superstition would soon evaporate when the glories of the socialist golden
age replaced dreams of the Kingdom of God. When this did not prove to be
the case, a more savage era of suppression opened up, beginning with a
killing spree of previously unknown proportions. Between 1918 and 1919,
twenty-eight Orthodox bishops were assassinated. Between 1923 and 1926,
fifty more bishops were killed. By 1926, two thousand seven hundred
Russian priests, two thousand monks, and three thousand four hundred nuns
had been executed by the Bolsheviks.3 These executed clergy, of course,
were not randomly chosen. Rather, they represented the brightest church
leaders among those who had not been forced into exile. Most of the
seminaries were forcibly closed, and religious publications were generally
suppressed. Institutions (such as the Kremlin cathedrals) or church
publications that survived were merely empty showcases, heavily controlled
for propaganda purposes.
By the beginning of the Second World War more than eighty thousand
Russian clergy, comprising bishops, priests, deacons, monks, and nuns, had
been eliminated, either by execution (the favored NKVD and Cheka process
was by a bullet in the back of the skull) or by forced labor, starvation, and
disease in one of the horrendous Soviet gulags.4 The number of Orthodox
laymen and -women who were imprisoned and died for their faith cannot be
estimated, as all religious people were simply classed as subversive
dissidents by the Soviets. A 1995 Russian Presidential Commission
announced the results of its retrospective survey of official Communist files
and concluded that the Communist religious persecution had killed two
hundred thousand clergy in all. It reported methods ranging from live
mutilation, to crucifixion of priests in their churches, to making priests into
pillars of ice in the Siberian wilderness. It estimated that a further half
million clergy and laity had also suffered nonfatal persecution in gulags and
other forms of oppression.5 By 1937 one-third of all the regions of the
USSR were left completely without churches, and in another third only five
survived. Hardly any of the monasteries were any longer active as religious
houses. The most visible and historic churches were turned into museums,
some of them being themed as museums of atheism. Of the fifty-four
thousand Russian Orthodox churches functioning before the First World
War, there were only five hundred that remained open for worship by 1941.
By June of that year, when Hitler’s Operation Barbarossa began the attack
on Russia, only four Russian bishops remained active in their diocesan sees.
In some ways the legitimate fear Stalin had that his regime might
collapse because of the Nazi advances brought an end to a level of
persecution that could have been even worse. In 1925 he had seen with his
own eyes in Moscow that the roots of the Orthodox Christian faith might
not be so easily eradicated by his terror methods when three hundred
thousand people turned up to pay silent respects on the death of the
patriarch Tikhon. He had died suddenly of heart failure after several years
of trying to reason with Stalin. Many, probably rightly, suspected that the
sudden and fatal symptoms were a covert assassination ordered from the
Kremlin.
In 1927 Sergey Stragorodsky, then the metropolitan of Moscow, since
Stalin had refused to allow the continuation of the patriarchate, issued a
rebuke to Russian bishops outside the country who had dared to suggest, to
other Christian bodies, that religious oppression was burdening the
homeland. Metropolitan Sergey self-righteously insisted that the church was
entirely free and had a marvelous relationship with the state, thus publicly
demonstrating to what extent he was a stooge of the Communist powers.
Before the White Russian resistance collapsed, many of the Russian
hierarchs had been killed, but many others had fled into exile. From France
and Germany and America they organized the “Russian Orthodox Church
Outside Russia” (ROCOR) with a synod of their own exiled bishops at
Sremski Karlovci in 1922, in what was then free Yugoslavia. They were
highly suspicious of the continuing Russian hierarchs, whom they regarded
(largely rightly) of being, under duress, often entirely under the thumb of
Communist atheist supervisors.
After metropolitan Sergey’s ridiculous censure, the Russian bishops
outside Russia met in a further synod and decided that under present
circumstances the Russian Church could no longer be presumed to operate
freely, and so, invoking an emergency measure that Patriarch Tikhon
himself had drawn up in 1920, concerning what should be the procedure if
civil unrest made a diocese unable to communicate with the central
ecclesial administration, the free Russian hierarchs formally set themselves
up as the surviving voice of Russian Orthodoxy. The resulting clash
between them and Moscow resulted in a refusal of mutual recognition (a
great schism, in effect, the first to strike Russia since the time of Patriarch
Nikon, and one that was not healed until the 21st century).6
In 1941, facing the bleak prospect of Nazi invasion, Stalin offered the
church concessions if it would mobilize the faithful, and wider society,
around the idea that defense of the motherland was a patriotic and moral
duty. He allowed the patriarchate to be reestablished, ensuring that his own
candidate, Sergius, was elected. He also stripped the church of the
remaining treasures not looted in the 1920s: silver chalices and church
artifacts that could be sold internationally to gain currency. It was in this
period that thousands of Russian icons were sold by the state and collectors
in the West became more conversant with Russian Orthodox art.
Paradoxically, this impoverishment of Russia was yet another means by
which the icon reached out to become, by the end of the twentieth century, a
well-known and much loved aspect of most Western Christian experience.
Before that it was more or less unknown and frowned on as a medium of
religious tradition in the West. But the thaw Stalin initiated lasted. By the
time Nikita Khrushchev came to power after him, twenty-two thousand
Russian churches had been reopened and were functioning once more.
Some religious publications had also been allowed to be resurrected. Eight
seminaries and two theological academies had been allowed to reopen
(none was in existence in 1941). Public church membership was once more
growing.
All of this frightened Khrushchev, who in 1959 decided to clamp down
once more on Russian Orthodoxy. This time the campaign against the
Orthodox Church centered on a renewed wave of antireligious propaganda
conducted by state organs. Measures were adopted that were designed to
choke off church finances and starve the remaining structures, placing great
stress on the relationships between clergy and hierarchs. In the early 1960s,
children were, by law, forbidden to attend church services. More churches
were closed in this period, and it was underlined that any signs of religious
affiliation would count badly against anyone hoping to make a career in the
USSR. Of the eight seminaries still functioning across the country,
Khrushchev ordered the closing of five. Students who applied to the
remainder were strictly monitored by the authorities, and those with a
university-level education were usually forbidden by the state to enter
training for the priesthood. By 1962 only two monasteries remained active
in the territory of the entire Russian Federation. By 1966 seven thousand
five hundred churches remained active for divine service in the USSR, but
of those only two thousand were in the Russian territories proper. The
majority of the active ones were in Ukraine or the satellite Baltic states. The
Khrushchev era, however, saw the beginnings of a new movement of
intelligentsia taking an interest in the affairs and condition of the Orthodox
Church, something that had not been seen since the Slavophile movement
of the end of the nineteenth century and turn of the twentieth. A whole raft
of dissident thinkers, critical of the failing Communist state in the late
1960s, began to make their voices heard on how Russia needed a moral
conscience and a spiritual tradition to withstand the banality of state-
sponsored atheism in Communist form.7 More and more they voiced the
argument that the Orthodox Church’s purgation by martyrdom, along with
its foundational role in Russian history, had won for it that right.
The antireligious policy was continued less stringently by Khrushchev’s
successor, Brezhnev. By 1975 only seven thousand churches were allowed
to function, and a wave of imprisonments had been adopted to try to cow
the clergy into submission. Docile bishops who would support the regime
were given the honorary rank of colonels in the KGB, the state security
service. Even so, a lively underground church flourished despite all the state
efforts. From the very beginning the priests who had been deprived of their
parishes and all visible forms of structured religious service and the monks
and nuns who had been thrown out of their monasteries merged in civil
society, and they often continued a hidden ministry in the form of
pamphlets circulated among a closed set of circles, secret services held in
homes, and so on. Believers would often meet for pilgrimages disguised as
picnics that just happened to be on the site of holy places now demolished.
At the surviving ruined walls of dynamited city churches old grandmothers
would habitually stop to say a prayer. All of this quiet dissidence was, in
fact, a radical new form of the old system of spiritual fatherhood, now with
the starets or starissa being acknowledged for bravery and apostolic zeal
among a loyal community of believers who followed them and absorbed
their teaching in a very personal and zealous manner. It was sometimes
known as the Inner Church movement, where, devoid of external supports
and Christian structures, believers really had to take a personal stance. The
inner spiritual life and the orientations of the heart were given precedence,
and the aim was to keep the fire of the Gospel alive until the age of the
persecutors passed. The teachings and admonitions of the startsi, the new
“confessors,” were generally held in higher honor than the guidance
statements made by the surviving hierarchs, who were seen (and necessarily
so, of course) as complicit with the regime.8 Russia’s ancient traditions of
mystical interiority and the stress it had always laid on passion bearers
(strastoterptsy) as the highest exemplars of Christian fidelity came now to
the fore and gave the Inner Church a fiery disposition. This was rooted in
the belief that the suffering Christ mirrored himself with especial loving-
kindness in the sufferings of his faithful followers, and that in the midst of
great sorrows remarkable spiritual graces abounded.
The real thaw began for Orthodoxy during the glasnost era initiated by
Mikhail Gorbachev. His administration overlapped with the anniversary of
the millennium of Russian Orthodox faith in 1988. The state encouraged the
church to celebrate this as part of a moral reclamation of Russian identity.
Many churches and monasteries were returned to the church, and new
arrangements were made for financial reparation and support. When the
Communist system collapsed in 1991, the church remained as one of the
most solid institutions around which politicians hoped to rebuild a civic
culture from the ruins. The early post-Communist years in Russia were
chaotic, and church leaders, after so many decades of having been starved
in terms of education and isolated in their culture, were not particularly well
equipped to deal with the many challenges of an economy and society that
felt as if it had been blown out to sea without an anchor. But eventually the
church responded by ordaining many younger and energetic clergy to the
higher offices and by instituting a pastorally creative movement to rebuild
parishes and Christian social institutions. Patriarch Alexei II (Ridiger)
began the renovation, and it was continued after his death in 2008 by
Patriarch Kirill (Gundiaev).
The Russian Federation today is now officially a secular state (no longer
a militantly atheistic one) and aspires to be multinational and multireligious.
But there is no question that Russian Orthodoxy has risen to a position of
great eminence as the most extensive center of Christianity in Russia. Its
long history and its tradition of noble and suffering resistance outweigh the
examples of conformism and betrayal it manifested under unbelievably
harsh oppression. Today, many polls bear witness to the fact that the
Orthodox Church is seen by the Russian people as one of the most trusted
institutions of society. Western observers often do not realize the extent of
their own Protestant mental formation when they express great distrust
about a church that sees no wrong in close alliance with the state powers.
Outrage is regularly voiced in the Western secular media when President
Vladimir Putin is seen in church alongside Patriarch Kirill. But the strict
separation of church and state seen by the Puritans as a consummation
devoutly to be wished never formed part of the Eastern Orthodox mind-set.
From Byzantium onward, ruling power was always seen as something to be
blessed, encouraged in the good, softened in the bad, and whenever possible
co-opted for the advancement of the Gospel. It is a Byzantine model of
church-state relations that underpins so much of Orthodox attitudes, but that
still strikes a dissonant note with many Western observers who do not share
that ancestral tradition.

THE COMMUNIST EMPIRE

The victory of the Allies after World War II left Soviet Russia a dominating
force in Eastern Europe. What the Bolsheviks had done to the church within
Russia became an example held up to all the satellite governments Moscow
increasingly came to install and supervise in the growing extended empire it
created, out of a dozen different states with their own historical traditions.
All of these were ploughed under by Stalin’s zeal to spread the gospel of an
atheistic Communist way of life.9 On March 5, 1946, giving a speech at
Westminster College in Missouri, Winston Churchill famously said: “From
Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic an iron curtain has descended
across the continent. Behind that line lie all the capitals of the ancient states
of Central and Eastern Europe. Warsaw, Berlin, Prague, Vienna, Budapest,
Belgrade, Bucharest and Sofia; all these famous cities and the populations
around them lie in what I must call the Soviet sphere, and all are subject, in
one form or another, not only to Soviet influence but to a very high, and in
some cases increasing, measure of control from Moscow.”10 The Iron
Curtain was largely meant as Moscow’s way of sealing off its satellites
from seduction by, or comparison with, Western European nations. The
majority of these now trapped and oppressed nations had Orthodox
Christianity as their ancestral form of Christian faith, though there was a
good admixture too of Muslim populations and Roman Catholics. Romania,
Serbia, Bulgaria, and Ukraine were the largest of the Orthodox nations that
now fell under Soviet control. In each of them the contact with Russian
Orthodoxy in times past had been creative and fruitful. Now Stalin’s grip
over the Russian Church became a tool to use church connections as a
measure of control. The independent church organizations were more or
less subjected to Moscow’s ecclesiastical as well as political control.
Patriarchal traditions and processes were sometimes simply abolished in an
imperialist manner. In some ways, this Stalinist policy was a continuation of
old habits.
When tsarist Russia annexed Georgia in 1811, for example, it simply
abolished the eight-hundred-year-old Georgian patriarchate on the spot.
When the Bolsheviks overthrew the tsar, the Georgian bishops quickly
reconvened in synod and declared their patriarchate restored. Moscow only
acknowledged this (by church and state decree) in 1943, when Stalin
needed church assistance in the war. The patriarchate of Constantinople
only concurred with the de facto decision in 1990. Life was always difficult
in satellite countries for any church leaders who nurtured hopes of freedom.
The Communist authorities in Georgia decided to execute the Georgian
patriarch Amvrosi for daring to send an independent letter to the
International Genoa Peace Conference in 1922. Only a threatened riot after
widespread street demonstrations in his support averted the decision. The
Georgian Church, however, like the churches in many of the other
oppressed states, was able to list a considerable number of candidates for
canonization as “new martyrs” in the years after the collapse of Soviet
power. Overall the Georgian Church suffered just as severe a treatment
from the Communist authorities as did the Russian. The country had just
over two thousand functioning churches in 1917. By the late 1980s, when
the Soviet grip was slackened, only two hundred were still open.
Very heavy oppression fell upon the Ukrainian and Belo-Russian
churches, especially those that had declared autocephaly and had strong
nationalistic leanings. They were heavily oppressed both in the 1920s and
once more after 1944 (after they had renewed their structures under the
Nazi occupation with its policy of church tolerance). The higher clergy
were decimated, with many village and town parish priests shot or sent to
camps.
In 1918, Serbia was strongly influenced by the Pan-Slav ideals of the
Slavophile Russian movement. It was a concept that imagined a greater
Slav common consciousness based in Orthodox religious philosophy and
nationalism, and the movement led to the creation, in that year, of the state
of Southern Slavs, or Yugoslavia, bringing into unity the differing Serbs,
Croats, and Slovenes. This was pressed further, ecclesiastically, in 1920
when the patriarchate of Karlovci was merged with the metropolitan see of
Belgrade and relaunched as the refoundation of the patriarchate of Serbia.
During the Second World War the Orthodox Serbs suffered considerably
under the Nazis, who regarded them as ideologically suspicious and racially
inferior. Pressure was put on the laity to assimilate to Roman Catholicism.
In Croatia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, and Macedonia, four Serbian Orthodox
bishops and more than two hundred priests were killed. In Montenegro the
Communists killed the metropolitan archbishop Joanikije and more than
120 of the lower clergy. When the lands fell under Communist domination
Josip Tito at first continued a strong policy of religious suppression but then
relaxed his brutality somewhat.
In 1952 Tito’s Communist government expelled the entire Faculty of
Theology from the University of Belgrade. It had to continue its work after
that point solely as a church school. In 1967 the Communist authorities
encouraged the Macedonian clergy to declare their secession from the
Serbian patriarchate. To add to their difficulties, in 1964 the Serbian
Orthodox diaspora in Western Europe and America publicly accused the
homeland church of collusion with the Communists and declared their own
independence. The Serbian patriarch between 1957 and 1990, German
Doric, is largely credited with steering his church wisely and cautiously
during this period, ensuring its ultimate survival and eventual regeneration.
In the 1990s, when other Orthodox nations were reestablishing themselves
after the fall of communism, the bloody civil war that engulfed Croatia,
Bosnia, and Kosovo pulled the Serbian Church down into ethnic and
interreligious chaos for many years.
In Bulgarian affairs the tension between the Bulgarian Orthodox
exarchate and Constantinople, which claimed rights of being a
superintendent mother church, dominated matters. In 1913 the Bulgarian
Church leader Joseph moved his residence and administration from
Constantinople to Sofia, and relations broke down between the two bodies.
After the end of the Balkan Wars and the First World War, the treaties
established at the cessation of hostilities saw the Bulgarian Church being
trimmed down by being deprived of its (extraterritorial) dioceses of
Macedonia and Aegean Thrace. When the Bulgarian patriarch Joseph died
in 1913, a new Bulgarian leader could not be elected again for more than
three decades. It was not until the end of the Second World War that matters
changed. The patriarchate of Constantinople finally agreed to recognize the
independence of Bulgarian Orthodoxy, and in 1950 its local synod
composed a new charter that led, in 1953, to the restoration of the ancient
Bulgarian patriarchate and the election of Archbishop Cyril of Plovdiv as
patriarch. All of this happened because the post-1945 Communist
authorities wished to elevate the nation and saw the church as one of the
tools to make progress. In Bulgaria, for the period of Communist
domination, it was probably the case that the church was more co-opted
than persecuted. There was an exception in the period between 1947 and
1949, when attempts were made to damage the church structure, and several
prominent clergy were assassinated. Though the usual Communist system
of atheistic propaganda and massive ecclesial restriction was in place, the
Bulgarian Orthodox Church was regarded by the local Communist
authorities as more or less an organ of state. The resulting suffocation that
fell over the church often proved more damaging than persecutions that
elsewhere had roused up fiery martyrial opposition.
Romania was the largest of all the satellite countries taken over by
Russia after the Second World War. It was radically set on a new course,
from a rightist-orientated monarchical system to a socialist republic.
Romanian Orthodoxy suffered a paradoxical fate. It was suppressed,
certainly, and subjected to close scrutiny and limitation by special delegates
of the Communist state. But the church was also looked upon with some
pride as an ancient system that had lifted the Romanians into unity and a
greater identity. Oppression and savagery were often directed at individuals
professing their religion, therefore, rather than at the systems and structures.
In the towns and countryside Orthodoxy had deep and extensive support
among the people. And yet the Communist state security system, the
Securitate, was by far more savage than the Russian security services. The
Romanian Communist secret police liked to play with the minds of its
perceived dissidents. Many of those arrested in Romania for their Orthodox
faith (and for several other religious affiliations) suffered intensely and
savagely.
Romanian Orthodoxy had emerged as a patriarchal church in 1925,
marking the collaborative merging of most of the various provinces
inhabited by Romanians after the First World War. The Second World War
saw Romania subject to the Nazi occupation and soon afterward to the
Communists. In 1947 the Romanian Workers’ Party assumed power under
Russian patronage and immediately set about subordinating the Church, by
initiating the usual repressive anti-ecclesiastical measures and treating
harshly any who showed a spirit of resistance. The higher clergy were
extensively purged and deposed, and three bishops who had publicly
denounced the Communists died suddenly in mysterious circumstances.
Thirteen other bishops who were regarded as potentially subversive were
sent to prison. Communist laws of 1947 ensured that the state controlled a
mandatory retirement age for bishops and the processes of electing new
ones. In this way the Communists ensured that all future appointments met
their standards. The theological schools of Sibiu and Bucharest, both of
which had long and high traditions, were systematically starved of
resources. At the same time, the churches and resources of the Romanian
Greek Catholic Church, now suppressed, were forcibly seized and
transferred to the Orthodox. The state took over control of all the church
schools, higher and lower, but also made itself responsible for paying clergy
salaries. Infiltrating all the structures of church governance, it
systematically weeded out all overt expressions of dissidence among the
clergy. In May 1948 when Patriarch Nicodim died, the state ensured the
election of a more enthusiastically socialist patriarch Justinian Marina (patr.
1948–1977). By 1953 there were something approaching five hundred
Romanian priests and monastics held in gulags. Monasticism was more
difficult to control. Accordingly, between 1958 and 1962 a new antichurch
policy was put into practice. Half of the country’s many monasteries were
closed and their properties and lands expropri-ated by the state. Two
thousand monks and nuns were forced out and made to take up secular jobs.
Roughly a quarter (fifteen hundred) of the country’s active priests and lay
activists were harassed or imprisoned during this period. The patriarch
dutifully assured the faithful inside (and observers outside) the country that
these were (allegedly) not persecutions on account of the faith.11
After 1962, the Communist authorities in Romania started to adopt a
much more nationalistic policy, striking a line as independent of Russia as
they dared. Accordingly, they co-opted the Orthodox Church to assist them,
giving it more freedom in return for its prestige as a historic and widely
popular aspect of Romanian cultural identity and using its moral pressure in
teaching conformity. The schools of theology were allowed more latitude,
and theological journals were permitted to be published. Nicolae
Ceaucescu, the state leader, arranged for his daughter’s church wedding to
be broadcast on national television. Even so, in order to build his vast
presidential palace in the heart of Bucharest, he ordered the demolition of
more than twenty urban churches, some of them of great historical
significance. None of the hierarchy dared to raise an objection lest
something worse might be imposed. By 1975 the Romanian clergy
numbered close to twelve thousand in all. After a bitter struggle in the late
1980s, when hardliners in the army and the security forces vainly tried to
fight off the revolution to freedom, the church began to breathe more freely
and felt the terrifying hold of the Securitate fall away. It began to assert its
right to restitution of properties and received significant government
subvention for its ongoing life. Several of the leading clergy made public
apology for “not having the courage of martyrs” during the Communist
period. The church, after communism, remained very popular with the great
majority of Romanians and quickly emerged, after the Russian, as the
largest, and one of the most lively, of all the modern Orthodox churches.
 CHAPTER EIGHT

The Twentieth-Century Orthodox Diaspora

THE MOVEMENT OF PEOPLES

The late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries witnessed a large wave of
emigrations from Central and Eastern Europe, largely of peasant classes
attempting to find a better life by moving to America and Oceania. This
was accelerated after the massive population disruptions following the
Second World War, when many more who were able fled Eastern Europe as
the Communist takeover was set in motion. The Greek Civil War also sent
many Greeks on a second wave of emigration. In addition, the twentieth-
century British occupation of Cyprus encouraged a large Cypriot population
to establish itself in many of the larger cities of the United Kingdom.
Because of this the ancient Roman imperial distinctions between Eastern
and Western churches began to have less and less relevance. Today there are
more Orthodox Christians in England than there are Baptists, and Orthodox
parishes with supportive diocesan structures are found all over America,
Oceania, and Europe. By relentless processes of emigration, then, the
Eastern Orthodox Church has come West too. Whereas by the turn of the
twentieth century Orthodoxy might have been as remotely exotic as Tibetan
Buddhism for most Western Christians, it is the case today that anyone who
cares to can actually meet Orthodox believers and attend their church
services, to see for themselves that these are not exotics but rather ordinary
Christians following an extraordinarily ancient form of Christian
profession.
One significant aspect of this movement westward and establishment of
parish life in a new world, however, is that it was not planned in any way. It
just happened that as Orthodox people moved, so too they wanted a church
where they could worship, led by an Orthodox priest, preferably of their
own national origin. This effectively meant that they had to build their
parish church while they were about the business of building up all the
other aspects of their new life. It also often was the case that this movement
of church planting was laity led. After the fall of Communism and the
reinstatement of the abilities of Orthodox mother church synods to exercise
supervision over the affairs of their faithful in different countries, this
occasioned no small amount of conflict over who had the rights of
ownership and jurisdiction. During the Communist era the Orthodox
parishes in the West were often so anti-Communist that they refused to have
much to do with the home synods, which they regarded as having been
overrun by Communist infiltrators. After the fall of communism it would
take at least another twenty-five years before relations between the different
factions of the same traditions (for example, the Russian Orthodox Church
Outside Russia and the Moscow patriarchate, the Romanian churches in
America in communion with the Romanian Patriarchal Synod, and the
Romanian diocese within the ambit of the Orthodox Church of America)
came to the point of discussing unity. In the latter example union never
properly occurred, and the Romanian Synod refounded its own archdiocese
of the Americas.

THE ORTHODOX IN AMERICA

The Orthodox came to the United States almost as soon as the country had
advertised itself universally by its Declaration of Independence.1 Little
attempt to make any permanent church organization was manifested in
these early days of the late eighteenth century. The Greeks had a trading
settlement called New Smyrna, near Saint Augustine in Florida, but it never
seems to have had its own priest. The first notable mission came from the
other end of the country, when Alaska still belonged to Russia. The tsar
(Catherine the Great) appointed a mission of eight monks from the
renowned New Valaam monastery. The group was led by Archimandrite
Joasaph and his deputy, Monk Herman. They were sent out with the
blessing of Metropolitan Gabriel of Saint Petersburg. Their first task was to
supply clergy and sacraments to the colony of Russian fur traders who had
settled there. Grigoriy Ivanovich Shelikov was the director of the Russian
American Company of Traders. In Saint Petersburg he painted a picture of
the spiritual need of the traders and gave the church authorities the
impression that all was in readiness for the arrival of clergy, who needed to
be educated so as to take over the school and church building prepared for
them. When they came the church would be properly furnished, all at
company expense. When the missionaries arrived, however, they found that
Shelikov had retired permanently to Russia, and nothing whatsoever was
waiting in readiness for them. The missionaries were also shocked by the
lax standards of the Russian traders, who lived with native families while
married to Russian wives at home and when returning to Russia took the
children with them as dependent servants but left the concubines behind.
They also found that the company used native hunters in an abusive way,
barely rewarding them for dangerous and unprotected work they would not
undertake themselves. Archimandrite Joasaph soon returned to Irkutsk in
Siberia to report on the company’s behavior, leaving Herman in charge.
While he was in Siberia the church consecrated him as bishop of Alaskan
Kodiak, meaning he now had civil authority over the local director of the
fur company. With two other monks of the original eight, he set off for
Alaska on the steamship Phoenix. It came close to Kodiak but sank
offshore, with no survivors. Meanwhile, another of the original eight,
Priest-Monk Juvenaly, had gone to make first contact to evangelize a native
tribe but died under a volley of arrows from its warriors, who feared a
strange shaman coming to them. His last act was to bless them with the sign
of the cross.2 The mission, though reduced now to four monks, had by 1800
converted seven thousand of the natives, who freely came to services and
found a strong affinity with the warmth of the Russian Orthodox liturgical
ceremonies.
Director Baranov of the trading company continued to outrage the
missionaries by his abuse of the native population, and so an appeal to the
Holy Synod of Russia by the community resulted in the sending of Priest-
Monk Gideon to supervise. Things improved at Kodiak while he was there
but reverted to the old situation as soon as he left in 1807. One of the
monks, named Herman, decided to make a protest by leaving the service of
the main church and retiring to a more solitary and independent existence
on Spruce Island. At first he dug out and lived in a cave, then built a
wooden chapel and ministered attentively and graciously to the natives who
started to come to him. Subsequently, he built another wooden building to
serve as a schoolhouse for the many orphaned native children whom he
gathered and cared for. He died in 1837, and in 1970 was the first saint
canonized by the Orthodox Church in America and given the title Saint
Herman of Alaska. Another later missionary, a married priest, Father John
Veniaminov, arrived with his family on the island of Unalaska in 1824. He
was the first to translate the Gospel of Matthew into Aleut, with the help of
the local chief, Ivan Pan’kov. After his wife’s death he became a priest-
monk, and in 1840 Moscow appointed him bishop of the newly created
diocese of Kamchatka and the Aleutian Islands. As was the custom, he took
the new name Innokent. In 1850, after a replacement bishop was sent,
Innokent returned to Russia, leaving his closest assistant, the priest
Netsvetov, who was of mixed Russian and Aleut descent, to continue the
work of translating church texts into the native dialects. Netsvetov made a
lasting impact on Orthodox Aleut culture, creating a church ethos that was
sensitive to native traditions, but that also led the tribes decisively away
from the old traditions of solving disputes by internecine battles. Innokent
returned to Siberia in order to study more languages to advance his
missionary work. In 1868 his fame was such that he was elected
metropolitan bishop of Moscow. In this role he still maintained his
missionary interests and in 1870 founded the Orthodox Missionary Society.
He died in 1879, and in 1977 he too was canonized by the Russian
Orthodox Church.
In 1867 the sale of all of Alaska to the United States brought the
Orthodox mission into the American experience. At first the new
government authorities worked hand in glove with newly arrived
Presbyterian missionaries, in order to effect a radical deculturing of the
Aleuts, attempting to bring them forcibly away from Russianism (including
Orthodoxy) to become good Protestant Americans. The protests of the
Orthodox missionaries and those of the local native chiefs fell on deaf ears.
It would be several more decades before the collusion of the Alaskan
government and Protestant missionaries would fade.
The Russian Church meanwhile had received an appeal for a sponsored
mission to the American mainland from the many Russians who had left
Alaska after the sale of the territory. These included Bishop John
Mitropolsky, who petitioned to have the Russian diocesan headquarters
moved to San Francisco, where there was a sizable Russian contingent. The
Moscow synod approved the proposal in 1872, and two years later the
church of Saint Alexander Nevsky became the new cathedral there. This
was now one of only four Orthodox churches fully functioning as parishes
in the whole of the mainland United States: Father Nicholas Bjerring’s
parish in New York City; a Greek parish with Orthodox of many ethnic
backgrounds in Galveston, Texas (founded in 1862); and a similar parish in
New Orleans (founded in 1864).3 The Orthodox numbers did not
significantly grow until the late 1890s, when immigration started to change
the American demographic.
Important figures of this time were Archimandrite Sebastian Dabovich,
born in America in 1863 to a Serbian immigrant family. He was one of the
first who imagined a Native American Orthodox Church in the new country
and also ministered to the extensive Serbian immigrants. Bishop Tikhon
(Belavin) meanwhile served the diocese of Alaska and the Aleutian Islands
from 1898 to 1907. His pastoral travels took him the length of America
from Alaska to San Francisco and across to New York, where he visited the
Russian parish now established by Father Alexander Hotovitsky. The
Moscow synod gave Tikhon an assistant bishop for Alaska, and soon after
they both ordained Bishop Raphael Hawaweeny to take charge in Brooklyn
as bishop with special charge of all Arabic Orthodox in America. Tikhon
also wished Father Dabovich to be given a similar role in relation to the
Serbs. He moved his diocesan headquarters to New York, laying the
cornerstone of a new cathedral, Saint Nicholas, on Ninety-seventh Street off
Fifth Avenue, in 1901. He then drew up for the Moscow synod a plan to
make an Archdiocese of America, where all the various ethnic Orthodox
groups had their own presiding bishop who took care of the various ethnic
communities, but where all the different bishops would participate in one
synod under the archbishop appointed by the Russian mission. This was a
new notion, put forward formally in 1904, since in all previous church
canon law dioceses had been created in terms of civic areas and not,
ostensibly, on ethnic lines.
Several things conspired to prevent this vision of unity under the
jurisdictional control of the Russian mission from ever being realized.
Tikhon himself was recalled to Moscow as the new metropolitan of
Yaroslavl in 1907, and he would eventually be elected patriarch of Moscow
and All Russia, merely a few days after the Bolsheviks seized power in
1917. The Russian Church itself was undergoing great social upheavals
consequent on the disastrous First World War. The main obstacle to
Tikhon’s vision of a multiethnic single collaborative of the Orthodox in
America, however, was simply that the Greeks, who were the majority lay
Orthodox population in America at that time, were primarily focused on
establishing parishes for their own people. The Greeks, as was true of most
other ethnic Orthodox groups, and ultimately true of Tikhon himself, of
course—though he did have a deeper appreciation of the unique American
situation than any other hierarch of the time—looked first, and instinctively,
to their homelands to supply ecclesiastical support and governance.
The patriarch of Constantinople, Joakim III, citing a canon of the
Council of Chalcedon in 451 that placed future discovered “barbarian
lands” under his own special patronage, claimed a jurisdictional right over
all New World territories Orthodoxy entered into. He independently
transferred the rights of supervision over American Greek parishes to the
synod of the mainland Greek Church in 1908, and their hierarchs certainly
did not recognize any prior jurisdictional claims from the Russian side. The
first ever African American Orthodox priest, Robert Josias Morgan,
traveled from the Greek parish in Philadelphia to be ordained in the
patriarchate at Constantinople in 1907, returning as Father Raphael. He
traveled once more to Athens, in 1911, to be tonsured as a priest-monk
serving in America, and had a long and faithful pastoral career.
The ongoing waves of immigration in the early days of the twentieth
century brought more and more Orthodox who were neither Greek nor
Russian: Romanians, Macedonians, Serbs, and Ukrainians. All of these
home synods established direct and separate episcopal governance over the
parishes that they saw as an external mission of their own national
churches. The two world wars brought further crisis and division among all
the Orthodox families. The Greeks were split into two factions in America,
the monarchists, who favored King Constantine’s leaning toward Germany,
and the Venizelists, who opposed the king. This split affected everyone
down to parish level and across families. The Eastern European nations,
beginning with Russia and Ukraine, were progressively stifled under the
hand of the Communists. Slavic American Orthodox churches became
battered in the winds emanating from Russia.
The Communist authorities early on had invented a movement called
the Living Church meant to inculcate socialist values in Orthodoxy while
disrupting it from within at the same time. They appointed married socialist
priests as bishops to lead it—which the rest of the Orthodox world
considered a scandalous departure from canon law. The Communist
government sent out Father John Kedrovsky as the new archbishop of the
Orthodox Living Church of North America. He made numerous claims for
possession of all the Russian Church properties across the United States. He
generally failed to secure them given the opposition of the local Orthodox
congregants, but he was successful in gaining possession of Saint Nicholas
Cathedral in New York, on the grounds that the late Tsar Nicholas had
provided a very large subsidy to pay for it, and the local judge felt that his
successor was now Lenin. The local congregation had to find another
building downtown and relocated to Second Street by Second Avenue.
Russian Orthodox bishops fleeing Russia were assisted by the Serbian
hierarchs to set up their own synod in exile and constituted themselves as
the Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia (ROCOR), with headquarters
in New York. The majority Russian Orthodox parishes regrouped under
allegiance to their own American-based hierarchy, and in 1924 when this
synod declared that it was now “temporarily” disconnecting from its
Moscow allegiance because of the Communist infiltration of the church, it
became known as the Metropolia.
Three disconnected groups, therefore, had emerged in America in place
of the old united Russian mission. The divisions would not be resolved until
the Communists abandoned their support of the Living Church by allowing
the Moscow archbishop to take control of the New York cathedral in 1933,
and until the Russian synod gave its blessing to an independent American
Russian Metropolia in 1970.4 This then became known as the Orthodox
Church in America (OCA) and looked back to Tikhon’s original vision as
its inspiration and charter to put itself forward as the Orthodox Church “of”
America—in the sense that it would be the claimant to being the first truly
indigenized American-language Orthodox Church. The division between
the ROCOR and the Moscow synod would not be repaired until the twenty-
first century. The ROCOR hierarchs, however, immediately denounced the
legitimacy of the Metropolia receiving autocephaly, or full ecclesiastical
independence, from the Moscow synod still under the sway of the
communists.5 The patriarch of Constantinople, all the other Greek churches,
and most of the remaining world Orthodox communities also refused to
recognize the independent ecclesial status of the OCA. Though they
accepted its full reality as an Orthodox communion (it soon became a
shelter for several ethnic-based Orthodox episcopates in exile, such as the
Bulgarians and part of the Romanians and the Syrians), most of the
worldwide Orthodox did not regard it as a fully canonical autocephalous
entity as such. Some wondered if this intra-American chaos that had been
caused by the move to grant the Metropolia independence was not a ploy of
the Soviet Communists in 1970 to cause confused dissension in the
churches wherever they could. Hierarchs of the two Russian Orthodox
jurisdictions in America would not concelebrate the Eucharist together until
2011, and even that symbolic gesture did not serve to bring them into any
fuller unity in practice to the present day. The same unease in relations
between American parishes and their homeland churches under Communist
control affected every other ethnic group too, and often resulted in parallel
organizations and counterclaims for being in schism that have still not
entirely been resolved even thirty years after the fall of Eastern European
Communist governance.
This rather formalist account of origins and divisions of the Orthodox in
America, however, should not mask the underlying fact that Orthodox
parish life grew and flourished throughout the twentieth century to the point
that there are now roughly one million self-identified Orthodox faithful
living in America, less than 0.5 percent of the world Orthodox population
(260 million). This total Orthodox number, however, makes up merely 0.4
percent of American Christianity. The demands imposed on parishes to
meet the pastoral and educational needs of successive generations of youth
who have never lived in the originating homelands and to welcome new
waves of Eastern European immigration from the 1980s onward—the first
group wishing to abandon the use of Eastern European languages in
worship and the second group feeling the need to cling to them—have led
to a lively awareness among the new generation of Orthodox clergy that
Orthodoxy must adapt to its new Western home in more ways than style of
worship.
If life in the West has opened up layers of new opportunities for
Orthodox faithful who are proud of their ancestral faith and worship
traditions, equally it has served to bring the presence of Orthodoxy into the
light in countries where before it had only been a rumor. The Orthodox in
America, with a considerable number of clergy educated to a high degree in
a modern country that has its very origins in immigration, are perhaps
among the most advanced in the Orthodox world in terms of thinking out
the issues of what constitutes Orthodox identity beyond nationalistic
traditions and how Pan-Orthodox mutual openness might revive the
awareness of the fundamental catholicity of the Orthodox Church. The
Metropolia and its descendant, the OCA, in particular were blessed with a
generation of founding fathers who were of exceptional intellectual
acumen. They collectively emerged as the most powerful voices articulating
Orthodoxy in the Western environment in the latter part of the twentieth
century. Fathers Georges Florovsky, Alexander Schmemann, John
Meyendorff, and their modern successor Father John Behr put the OCA
seminary of Saint Vladimir in New York on the intellectual map of the
Orthodox world in a relatively short span of time, making it one of the
centers of theological reflection and founding the SVS press on the campus.
This press, beginning with liturgical and devotional texts, very quickly
became the repository for the finest Orthodox pastoral, scriptural, and
theological publications worldwide. The Greek seminary of the Holy Cross
in Brookline in Boston also founded a high-quality theological journal and
has issued largely devotional and liturgical works from its press.

THE ORTHODOX IN OCEANIA

The period after World War II saw an unprecedented influx of immigrants

to Oceania. From 1950 to the present, the population of Australia, for
example, grew from seven million to twenty-two million. Six million
immigrants arrived after 1945, and today one-quarter of all Australians
were born elsewhere, representing a total of more than one hundred
different countries of origination. The Greeks were the first to establish an
Orthodox presence in Australia. Modest trickles of immigrants in the early
decades of the twentieth century did as the Greeks did everywhere else:
built Orthodox churches where they settled.6 Their numbers in 1901 were
little more than a thousand. By 1947 they numbered seventeen times that,
and are still the largest single group of Orthodox in the land. After the
refugee crisis of World War II, many Eastern Orthodox came into the
country. This increased after the government offered free passage to Greeks
and Yugoslavs caught up in the fighting of their civil wars. Many other
Orthodox, particularly Russian, Ukrainian, and Romanian, fled there for
refuge too. By 1971 the Orthodox in Australia numbered three hundred and
forty thousand, which was 2.6 percent of the national population. Later,
Lebanese immigrants fleeing the Arab-Israeli War of 1967, and then the
civil war of the mid-1970s, added more Orthodox numbers. The 2006
census indicated that there were then more than half a million Orthodox in
the country, representing the Greek, Macedonian, Serbian, Russian,
Ukrainian, and Romanian traditions (listed in terms of the groups’
respective sizes).

ORTHODOXY IN WESTERN EUROPE

The modern visitor to London’s bohemian Soho district will notice a main
thoroughfare there called Greek Street. The name is the last relic of the fact
that in 1677 the Greek community of London chose what was then a very
fashionable part of town to open their first Greek Orthodox Church,
dedicated to the Panagia, the All Holy Virgin Mary. The Anglican bishop
of London, Lord Henry Compton, at first had given them permission. Many
Anglicans of the time regarded Constantinople and the Greek Church as a
potential ally in the ongoing struggle against “Romanism.” When Bishop
Compton found out what Orthodoxy actually looked like, he was appalled.
The Greeks had icons in their churches; they believed in the tangible
presence of the embodied and Risen Christ in their eucharistic devotion;
they valued monasticism; they venerated and prayed to the Blessed Virgin
Mary; they called upon the assistance of saints and even prayed for the
dead. No: none of this would do. Bishop Compton acted, and at first
insisted that the Greek parish remove all its icons, stop praying to the saints,
denounce what he called the Romish doctrine of Transubstantiation, and for
good measure denounce the Orthodox bishops’ conclusions at their recent
synod of Jerusalem (1672), which had roundly rebuked a list of Calvinist-
themed doctrines as heretical and strongly reaffirmed the doctrine of the
real eucharistic presence, along with the efficacy of the eucharistic sacrifice
for the departed faithful.7 This council, which was a belated and negative
response to cardinal aspects of the Reformation, basically made a clear
signal that Protestant theologians could certainly not count on Orthodox
support to claim that theirs was a true reading that either renovated or
reformed the ancient Christian tradition.8
All of this outraged the very evangelical Bishop Compton. How the
Greek community reacted is not entirely clear. What he demanded of them
was not just ceremonial adaptations but basically a refutation of the faith
and order established by the seven Ecumenical Councils. The community
informed the patriarch of Constantinople of the matter, and the patriarch
approached the British ambassador in the city, Sir Robert Finch, who dryly
gave him to understand he would receive no support whatsoever from the
British government. He gave the patriarch the answer that “it was illegal for
any public church in England to express Romish beliefs, and that it was just
as bad to have them professed in Greek as in Latin.”9 The London Greek
parish was forcibly closed in 1684, and its buildings were handed over for
the use of the exiled Protestant Huguenot refugees from France. By the time
another Orthodox Church was opened in London in 1838, after years of the
Greek Orthodox community using the chapel of the Russian Embassy in
London for worship, no external interference was recorded at all. The
Greeks began to build larger, more permanent churches in London at the
turn of the century, which presaged the real beginning of a permanent and
expanding Greek Orthodox presence in Great Britain as the decades
progressed.10 In 1922 the patriarchate of Constantinople recognized and
incorporated the parishes as the Greek archdiocese of Thyateira and Great
Britain with its episcopal headquarters in London.11 It would struggle,
however, to find a national footing, instead relying on Greek seminaries to
train successive generations of its priests. Without the focal point of a
theological academy it has never been able to mount a significant
publishing program of accessible English works on, or about, Orthodoxy in
the United Kingdom.12
Throughout the twentieth century many more Orthodox groups other
than the Greeks arrived and settled in England, and the parishes they
instituted also attracted a growing number of English converts from both
Catholicism and Protestantism. The postrevolution Russian émigrés, having
lost the use of the Orthodox chapel of the Russian Embassy in Finchley,
took a lease on a redundant church in Kensington and eventually purchased
the church in Ennismore Gardens as their cathedral. It became a renowned
center of Russian Orthodoxy under the saintly and inspired leadership of
Metropolitan Anthony Bloom (1914–2003), who gained a high reputation
for spiritual wisdom among the wider English intelligentsia. His
administration favored the regular use of English for the converts in his
community, and the Russians were the first to establish a regular tradition of
English-language celebration of the liturgy, a practice that is growing in the
wider representation of all parishes in the United Kingdom today. His
cathedral attracted the composer Sir John Taverner, who converted to the
Orthodox faith and composed numerous works imbued with Orthodox
sensibility, sometimes working with Mother Thekla, the last surviving
founder of the Normanby hesychasterion (monastery) near Whitby. The
monastery of Archimandrite Sophrony, a renowned starets from Athos who
founded twin communities of men and women at Tolleshunt Knights in
Essex, has grown to be a vital center of monastic life in Great Britain. It
also has its own small press. Today, Orthodoxy is a small but vibrant and
developing church on the British scene. There are currently almost 150
worshipping Orthodox communities in the United Kingdom. Not all of
them have churches of their own; the single largest focal accumulation of
churches is in London, where the immigrant communities first congregated.
The national U.K. Orthodox population is now thought to be in the region
of 11 percent of all British active (regularly worshipping) Christians.13
France and Spain, more traditionally Roman Catholic countries, have,
like England, become heavily secularized in culture since the Second World
War. Orthodoxy has arrived in them by extensive immigration, especially
after the fall of Communist control over Eastern Europe and under the aegis
of the European Union, which encouraged an open movement of labor
forces. Many Eastern European countries, once their populations could
move, lost numbers of Orthodox to France and Spain, who, once settled,
began to organize their respective parishes. Romanian Orthodoxy
particularly spread westward after the fall of Ceausescu’s brutal regime in
the 1990s.
Paris was the first gateway for Orthodoxy reaching the West with a
notable profile in the twentieth century. Lenin was so incensed by the
prevalence of idealist philosophy among Slavophile intellectuals in Russia
at the time of the October Revolution that, since shooting them would be
bad publicity for the new movement, he thought the best course would be to
round them up and ship them into exile. The exile has come to be known as
the “ships of philosophers,” as the first notable group came out by ship,
though later in 1922 other groups were sent by train to Latvia and others by
sea to Istanbul.14 One hundred and sixty members of the intelligentsia with
their families were set on the German ships Oberbürgermeister Haken and
Preussen in November 1922, including some of the leading lights in
Russian sociology, the arts, psychology, and philosophy. Among those
exiled were a tight group of Orthodox religious philosopher-theologians
whose combined writings would make Orthodox theological style suddenly
appear like an unexpected starburst among Western religious thinkers at a
period when reductionist materialism was the fashion elsewhere and the
churches of Western Europe were deep into the process of the so-called
demythologizing of the Christian narrative.
The main thinkers in this group were Nikolai Berdyaev, Sergius
Bulgakov, Semyon Frank, and Nikolai Lossky. To these could be added
Georges Florovsky when he too arrived in France as an exile. Bulgakov and
Florovsky soon after became ordained as priests and were, together with the
Romanian intellectual priest Dumitru Staniloae (1903–1993), among the
most highly influential Orthodox theologians of the twentieth century, both
through their writings and by their zealous actions on behalf of the church.
Staniloae had to endure lifelong oppression by the Communist regime that
included periods of imprisonment. Yet he sustained a professorial and
pastoral career that included a monumental output of religious works,
including a new Philokalia and a powerful church dogmatics that has only
recently appeared in English. Most of the other intellectuals came from the
Russian tradition. Arriving first in Germany, they soon gravitated to the
new headquarters of the White Russian émigrés, Paris. The Saint Alexander
Nevsky Cathedral (founded in 1861) at 12 rue Daru became the central
focal meeting point. It refused allegiance to the Moscow patriarchate in the
time of the Soviets and came under the protection of the patriarchate of
Constantinople.15 Florovsky became a leading light in the early years of the
World Council of Churches. With a close eye on the Jesuits of France who
were working assiduously in this area, he also set a new standard for
scientific patristic theology among the Orthodox. Bulgakov inspired the
foundation of the Fellowship of Saint Alban and Saint Sergius in England
and set the tone for future generations of close rapport between the
Orthodox and Anglican churches. His theology, detested and censured in
his lifetime by the Russian Church in Exile as being too innovative, has
since come to be reassessed and appreciated as having engaged with
profound issues in a unique way that was both traditionalist and forward
looking. Bulgakov’s stature as one of the great Christian thinkers of the
twentieth century, of any church, is unmistakable.
Berdyaev and Lossky’s considerable philosophical standing showed
how Orthodoxy was, as the ancient Greek fathers had long contested, itself
a philosophical view of the world that was simultaneously
phenomenologically personalist, idealist, and ontologically realist:
challenging all the various factions of the philosophical schools of the day.
Nikolai Lossky’s son, Vladimir, in 1944 brought out a deeply influential
monograph that was soon translated into English as The Mystical Theology
of the Eastern Church, showing how the spiritual traditions of Orthodoxy
are not separate from its philosophical or doctrinal traditions but form a
coherent whole woven around the mystery of the deification (theiopoiesis)
of humanity through the Incarnation of the Divine Word of God in time and
space. The work stimulated generations of later scholars to go back to the
ancient Orthodox writers, no longer in the spirit of early twentieth century
theological books (assembling apologetic propositions to justify already
held positions), but rather to see how the inner spirit and ethos of
Christianity worked to change the heart and soul of the individual. Through
the work of these scholars now being accessible in modern European
languages, no longer only in Greek, Russian, or Slavonic, the inner spirit
and heart of Orthodox mysticism has been shown to be highly relevant to a
modern society starved of spiritual leadership. Their influence also led to a
great boost to American Orthodoxy, and the intellectuals founding the
Orthodox Church in America, Schmemann and Meyendorff in particular,
were deeply inspired by their example and continued their tradition.
Through the Paris exiles, clustered around the rue Daru Nevsky
Cathedral, Orthodoxy not only came West but it left its poor-immigrant
clothing behind and entered the lists along with some of the highest
intellectuals of Europe, now using a widely comprehensible set of
languages. This not only showcased a more illuminated Orthodoxy to the
Western world, long accustomed to dismiss it as a backward peasant
religion (from the British imperial oversight of it in the post-Ottoman
Middle East context), but also served to inspire and stimulate world
Orthodoxy internally and started to bring together, for the first time in
centuries, all the varied forms of Orthodox tradition, including the Non-
Chalcedonian churches, which began to realize that they had far more in
common with each other than they had differences. It is no exaggeration to
say that the Russian Orthodox émigré experience began a “second spring”
for the whole Orthodox world, which is still in process of being fully
elaborated to this day; a time when Orthodoxy in the old homelands
(especially Russia, Romania, and Serbia) is rebuilding its structures,
reopening its academies, and, like very old trees in the warmth of a rich
soil, putting out vigorous green leaves afresh.
 CHAPTER NINE

Recent Outstanding Orthodox Figures

ORDINARY AND EXTRAORDINARY SKETCHES

So far this book has been looking at past history, institutions, and doctrinal
or ritual forms to make a picture of Orthodox life. Perhaps another way
would be, as in this chapter, to look quickly at the way some recently living
people have embodied the Orthodox ethos in their manner of life.
Obviously I am going to skew this picture insofar as I am going to preselect
some of the great and good. It would be more difficult to draw up a picture
of Mrs. Sasha Ivanova of downtown Manchester (there isn’t such a person
as far as I know; it is just an example): an ordinary lay person living an
ordinary life. As an observant Orthodox believer, such a person would
surely have an icon corner in the house, would probably pray daily, perhaps
morning and evening before the icons, and would attend church services.
But as with most forms of Christian discipleship, for most people the faith
commitment is often deeply interior. We do meet many evangelists who do
their thing on vast public media or on street corners, but one suspects the
proclamatory voice is not necessarily the authentic voice of the person’s
deepest self. There often seems to be too much agitation visible to believe
such a thing. In the course of thirty years of priestly ministry, I have, for
sure, known countless Sasha Ivanovas and Sergey Ivanovitches, not to
mention numerous other believers whose names show no sign of a Greek or
Russian original, and who were what one might call ordinary Orthodox
believers. Their lives demonstrate a bewilderingly rich variety of gifts, and
in terms of their spiritual lives, these too were as variegated as the
personalities that formed them. But I have no doubt that the fact of being
planted within a church environment shapes and forms a deep spirituality
that generally does not happen in an environment devoid of the sacramental
and social support that active church life provides. I have been privileged to
hear many stories of the inner lives of different believers in the course of
that priestly ministry, but, again, such things are not for this form of media.
Once on camera I asked a Romanian nun if she would tell the viewers what
transpired during her many hours of private prayer. She answered: “It
would not be appropriate, or even possible, for the Bride to speak of the
things whispered in the bridal chamber with the Beloved.” And that, as they
say, was that.
So what this chapter can offer instead is more of a set of cartoons. I
don’t mean they will be funny pages—more the original meaning of the
word “cartoon” in the sense of a quick sketch to give an idea. At the end of
it all one might say: “But there is nothing specifically Orthodox about all
this. It just seems to be a picture of the Christian life demonstrated
publicly.” And if that is the case, then the chapter will have accomplished
its task perfectly. For Orthodoxy is, simply, Christianity; but Christianity
with this vivid and pervasive sensibility that “Christ is in our midst.”1 In
any case, here are three simple sketches of notable Orthodox figures of the
recent past, living in Europe and chosen with an eye to what special
charisms each of these remarkable characters manifests.

MOTHER MARIA SKOBTSOVA

The Russian Orthodox nun Mother Maria had begun life as a noblewoman,
and even when she adopted the monastic habit she could never give up her
early love of smoking cigarettes, thus scandalizing the ultra-pious on
several occasions, who were more than startled to see this very robust
woman in her full-length monastic habit sneaking a quiet puff whenever she
could. Her life was a dramatic one full of unusual turns, but one constantly
driven by a sense of her orientating herself to the light of Christ in the
immediate and given circumstances of ordinary life.
 She was born Elizaveta Yurieva Pilenko in Latvian Riga, in December
1891. Latvia was then an integral part of the Russian Empire. Soon after the
turn of the century, when she was a teenager, her father died, and Elizaveta
announced that she had embraced atheism. Her mother moved the family to
the capital, Saint Petersburg, in 1904, and the richer social and intellectual
life allowed the teenager to shine. She joined several literary circles and
read her poetry in them, as well as belonging to some radical intellectual
groups. In 1910 she married a young Bolshevik agitator, Dimitri Kuzmin-
Karavaev, and they had a daughter, Gaiana, though the marriage lasted only
three years.2 Elizaveta took the child to live with her in southern Russia and
started to turn back toward the Orthodoxy she had known as a child. She
began to attend some church but was moved, as her poetry notes, by the
profoundly loving humanity of Jesus: which she found more attractive than
the transcendent majesty of his deity as emphasized in the churches. Still
very active in the Party of Socialist Revolutionaries, she was moved to fury
when Trotsky disbanded its assembly in January 1918 as part of the
Bolsheviks’ moves to suppress all alternative Marxist movements, and, like
Fanny Kaplan, who had tried to assassinate Lenin, Maria started to vocalize
how she would like to put a bullet in Trotsky.
Her friends quickly intervened to spirit her away to safety in the relative
obscurity of the town of Anapa in southern Russia. When the Bolsheviks
assumed political control, in 1918, Maria was elected deputy mayor of
Anapa. The White Russian Army soon liberated the town, and when the
mayor made good his escape, Maria stayed behind, assuming the mayoral
office, and, as mayor, was arrested by the White Army and put on trial for
being a Bolshevik. The prosecuting officer was Daniel Skobtsov, who
recognized her as one of his former students when he was a
prerevolutionary teacher. After hearing her case, he declared her innocent of
all charges. They fell for each other and were soon married. But the hold of
the White Russians was constantly being eroded, and the family had to flee
from Anapa to escape the Bolshevik advance. Her mother, Sophia, Daniel,
and Gaiana, the elder daughter, and Maria herself, now pregnant with her
second child, made a long flight. They stopped in Georgia for the birth of
her son, Yuri, and then moved through Yugoslavia, staying for a while,
where her second daughter, Anastasia, was born, and finally arriving in
Paris in 1923.
The family shared the difficulties of many exiled Russians in Paris.
Elizaveta was drawn to social work, but her religious interests had been
quickened by her return to church life, and she attached herself to the
Russian Orthodox cathedral parish in Paris. She started to make a serious
study of theology. In Paris in 1929 she published three studies in Russian:
one on the theology of Khomiakov; another on Dostoyevsky and
modernity; and a third on the idea of world-soul in the religious philosopher
Solovyev.3 The marriage with Daniel was more and more noticeably
coming apart. In 1926 Anastasia died in the influenza epidemic, and Daniel
and Elizaveta decided to send Gaiana to Belgium, to a boarding school
there. She and Daniel separated, and Yuri opted at first to live with his
father. Elizaveta moved into central Paris to undertake social work for the
deprived families of the inner-city slums. She found great delight in this
work. In discussions with her bishop, Metropolitan Evlogy, she asked in
what way she could make this social ministry more in harmony with what
she perceived as her church vocation. The bishop encouraged her to take
vows as a nun: which would be possible, according to Orthodox church law,
if her husband agreed to the separation. She herself was willing to follow
this route but made it plain that she had no calling to an enclosed life, and
only wanted a form of monasticism that was at the service of the poor and
rooted in the day-to-day life of the ordinary world. The archbishop agreed,
and Daniel’s agreement also followed, so that in 1932 they were both
granted an ecclesiastical divorce, and Elizaveta made her vows and was
renamed as nun Mother Maria Skobtsova.
The priest appointed to be her confessor and spiritual guide was Father
Sergius Bulgakov, the most prominent Orthodox theologian of the age. He
also had been a strong socialist advocate in his youth, and like Maria he was
impassioned about correlating Orthodox tradition and values to the pressing
pastoral and spiritual needs of the age of crisis they knew was now all
around them. Mother Maria rented 17 rue du Lourmel in the southerly
Grenelle district of Paris, to serve as her convent-house and place of work.
She called it the House and Chapel of the Protection of the Mother of God.
Today a marble plaque marks its spot. She made the place a house of
hospitality for all the poor, especially the influx of impoverished refugees,
but also the local elderly and lonely: anyone who came to her in need of any
kind—for them the door was always open, and her resources were at their
disposal. From the base of the house, she also started to gather intellectuals
once more: this time to speak and reflect about Orthodoxy and the mission
of the church in the modern age. When the work of Father Bulgakov at the
Saint-Serge Institut and his international travels took more and more of his
time, a new chaplain, Father Dimitri Kelpinin, a thirty-nine-year-old
married priest, came to serve the liturgy at the chapel and ran a parish
alongside her soup kitchen, social advice office, and training workshops. He
and his family were great helpers to Mother Maria in her mission. Her own
son, Yuri, also was attracted by the mission’s work, as was her mother,
Sophia. Mother Maria became a common sight in her cassock making her
tours of the Paris markets begging for food and any other goods that were
past selling, so that she could feed her growing “family.” The movement
grew to such an extent that, with the bishop’s support, she had to rent two
other buildings: one for single men and the other to house displaced
families in crisis.
In 1940 another new crisis dawned. France fell to the Nazi forces.
Immediately Parisian Jews started to appeal to Mother Maria for help. If
they held Christian baptismal certificates, they thought, they could avoid
the deportations to the camps that had already started. Mother Maria
sheltered many of them and helped arrange for others to flee the country.
She and Father Dimitri issued many with fake Orthodox baptismal
certificates that they had printed themselves. In 1942 the Gestapo began to
arrest and imprison about seven thousand of the Jews of Paris in the
Vélodrome d’Hiver stadium. They were destined for transportation out to
the prison camps, but conditions in that transit camp were appalling. Mother
Maria gained entrance to the stadium, bringing food and medications and
removing trash on her way out. In this way she was able to spirit off several
Jewish children, hiding them in the exiting trash cans.
The Gestapo Paris informer networks were extensive, however. The
obvious origins of Mother Maria and her family made them highly suspect
to the German authorities, who had made Jews and Russians the first targets
of arrests. On February 8, 1943, the Nazis made their move. The Gestapo
arrived when most of the rue du Lourmel administration was out for the
day, to search the complex. Yuri was present, however, and was arrested.
The next day Father Dimitri celebrated his last liturgy in the house chapel
with all present and went off to report to the Gestapo. He did not return that
evening. The next day, when Mother Maria reported to the police, to inquire
after the status of Father Dimitri and Yuri, she too was arrested, and the
house was forcibly closed. She was first interned at the Romainville fort
and then moved to the camp at Compiègne, where she met up again, briefly,
with Father Dimitri and Yuri. Soon afterward the two men were sent to the
Nazi concentration camp at Mittelbau-Dora, a subcamp of Buchenwald that
existed to supply slave labor. There, like so many others, they were worked
on starvation rations, until sickness carried them to death in the winter of
early 1944.
Mother Maria was sent to Ravensbrück, the vastly overcrowded
women’s prison camp north of Berlin. She was prisoner number 19263. For
two years she survived the horrific conditions of the camp, being
progressively weakened by the poor diet and the extensive diseases that
ravaged the sleeping huts. She constantly strove to minister to the women,
offering consolation and words of hope. Those who were unable to work, or
who simply annoyed the authorities, were called out in random evening
“selections.” By late 1944 Mother Maria was so weakened that her many
friends used to help her stand up for the 3 A.M. roll calls and hide her in the
hut when inspections were made. On the morning of Orthodox Good
Friday, March 30, 1945, she was selected by the guards; and just as the day
turned (liturgically) into Holy Saturday, the eve of Pascha, she was led to
die in the gas chamber adjacent to the crematorium, and thus entered
through the doors of glory, into the paschal Resurrection of Christ.4
She was canonized as a saint by the patriarch of Constantinople in
January 2004, along with Father Dimitri and Yuri, and the celebration of
their glorification was observed in their own Alexander Nevsky Cathedral
in Paris in May that same year.5 Her deeds are recorded at the Yad Vashem
memorial of the Holocaust, and she was awarded the posthumous status by
the state of Israel of Righteous among the Nations. She is now known
among the Orthodox as Saint Maria of Paris.
Once, when a formalist Orthodox person expressed disapproval about
her smoking habits, and the apparently chaotic nature of her monastic
house, which was open to everyone day and night so it did not allow her the
time or the privacy to perform the usual acts of monastic piety (such as full-
length prostrations in prayer), she answered with the observation that when
the final judgment takes place, Christ will ask one not how many
prostrations one has fulfilled in one’s lifetime but whether one fed the poor
and clothed the naked.6 The dominant motif of her love for Christ was the
ability to see him present in the lives of the poor and suffering, and the
courage to have the generosity to respond without counting the cost.
Metropolitan Anthony Bloom, the Russian archbishop of London, once
called her the Orthodox “saint of our times.”

PROFESSOR ELISABETH BEHR-SIGEL

When Elisabeth Behr-Sigel died in Épinay-sur-Seine, France, in 2005, her

obituary in the London Times of December that year described her as “the
Matriarch of the Orthodox Church in Western Europe.” She had been born
in 1907 in (then German) Alsace. Her father was Protestant and her mother
was Jewish. She herself made a commitment as a young person to
Protestant Christianity and was the first woman admitted to read for a
theology degree at the University of Strasbourg. After graduating, with a
Master’s, she felt called to ministry and exercised a pastoral charge for a
year, as the first woman ever to be officially commissioned as a minister by
the Reformed Church of Alsace-Lorraine. It was at the end of that year,
however, that she knew “something else” had to happen, even though the
concept and actualité of ministry remained with her as a lifelong passion. It
can perhaps be said that one of the dominant and guiding notions of her
life’s work was the central importance of the evangelical witness and work
of women in the Church of Christ. Concomitant with that was her
increasing awareness of how much that vital work had been stifled by social
accretions over the ages, and by the short-sightedness of so many church
leaders, who were content to stay inert in a mental status quo, without
examining matters that surely required pressing change for a new age.
Women’s social and educational status had altered substantively across the
centuries, Elisabeth argued, so much so that the self-evident second-class
status that was given to so many women in the different ecclesial traditions
was now glaringly out of harmony with the movement of the Holy Spirit in
the world. She discontinued her work among the Reformed churches and
moved to Paris, where she started to take advanced courses in theology. It
was in Paris that she first came across the large number of Orthodox
Russian exiles that had settled there after the Bolshevik Revolution. She
was intrigued by their theological teachings, philosophical sophistication,
and liturgical style. She took the free courses in Orthodox theology at Saint-
Serge Institut, organized by the Russian clergy in exile, since at that period
women were not allowed to enroll (later she would return as one of Saint-
Serge’s professors).
Getting to know the Russian community more closely, she came under
the influence of some significant mentors: notably Metropolitan Evlogy, the
archbishop in charge of the Russian exile community at the rue Daru
Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. She asked to join the Russian Orthodox
Church when she was twenty-four years of age and was chrismated in the
Paris cathedral. Soon afterward she fell in love with a Russian engineer,
André Behr, whom she met through church circles, and together they had
three children.7 By the time of the Second World War, the family was living
in the town of Nancy, where Elisabeth had taken a teaching post in the
public school system. She and her husband were active in the French
Resistance. She would later remark that it was this time, seeing how many
people of good heart banded together as one family in resistance to Nazi
evil, that showed her the potential for ecumenical sharing to renew the
church in the present moment.
In the civic reconstructions following the Nazi defeat, she started a long
and active career in higher education. She took a post teaching theology at
the Roman Catholic Institut Catholique in Paris and also lectured in the
Russian Orthodox Seminary and at Saint-Serge. In this way she began what
became a lifelong passion for her, to bridge the separated Catholic traditions
of Christianity. The postwar era was one that was full of great hopes for
ecumenical rapprochement between the churches (it is no accident that this
very word at the heart of ecumenism is a French one), and much of the
French Catholic theologians’ work would go on in a direct way to prepare
for the great opening up of mind and heart that characterized the Second
Vatican Council. Elisabeth was one of the very few women theologians at
the core of this movement, and certainly the only significant female
Orthodox one. She forged a close friendship with a remarkable ecumenical
figure of that period, Father Lev Gillet (1893–1980), an Eastern rite
Catholic priest who famously joined the Orthodox clergy by accepting
Metropolitan Evlogy’s invitation to concelebrate the Eucharist with him.
Father Lev was soon to become a major figure in ecumenical circles in
Britain and lived out his life as a celibate Orthodox monk-priest, under the
patronage of a very supportive Anglican Church establishment. He spent
much effort serving as a retreat director and encouraging the wider
knowledge of the Jesus Prayer and the mystical traditions of Orthodoxy. His
and Elisabeth’s ecumenical outreach was a mutual fire that inspired them
both. After Father Lev’s death, Elisabeth composed his spiritual biography
to try to manifest the inner life of a special soul.8 The theologians Vladimir
Lossky and Paul Evdokimov were also friends and influences. Elisabeth
served too as a professor giving courses at the Tantur Ecumenical Institute
near Jerusalem and the Dominican College of Ottawa. She played a long-
standing role on the board of the Orthodox journal Contacts, and through
her commissions and her own writing lifted it to a significant academic
level. By the end of her life she had become much sought after
internationally as a lecturer and wrote extensively about Orthodox life and
thought in books as well as in magazine articles, in French and German and
English.
Before 1976 she had held the opinion that the admission of women to
ordained priesthood in the Orthodox Church was an impossibility:
something precluded by the terms of the ancient tradition. After 1976 her
deep reading of the evidence had changed her mind, and she advocated for
an open-minded reconsideration of the question by the church hierarchy.
From this time to the end of her life she conducted a close examination of
the role and status of women in the Christian Church, examining the tenets
of feminism and existentialism on the way and finding them wanting in
many respects. She never became bitter or angry at the slow pace of change
in Orthodoxy and brought to all she did a deep and often mischievous sense
of humor that had the effect of disconcerting the pompous and disarming
her opponents. “I am no stylite ascetic,” she told her audiences, adding,
“except when the elevator in my apartment ceases to function.”9
 Many of those who dismissed the significance of women in the church
found her a learning experience in and of herself. In her later years,
Elisabeth first struck observers as a very frail and delicate old lady. But it
soon became very apparent what a powerhouse of an intellect she had, and
how deeply versed in the ancient Orthodox tradition she was: knowing it
like very few of those who professed to teach it as ordained ministers. It
was said that the Paris gendarmes had several times stopped her car because
they could not see anyone driving it: she was so petite her eyes just peeked
over the dashboard when she sat in the driving seat. Her book on the subject
of female ordination remains influential, serving for the moment like a
lonely shipping lamp at sea: blinking its stable existence and serving to
remind a generation that the issue she addressed while most refused to will
not go away.10 She has laid a foundation for others to follow in a generation
of Orthodox believers still to come. One of the pressing arguments against
the ordination of women was the so-called iconic one: since Christ was a
male, the female priest cannot serve to iconize him properly. In her theology
Elisabeth pointed out how Orthodoxy regards priesthood as one thing
differentiated in three degrees: bishop, priest, and deacon. Since the
ordination ritual for female deacons has existed from ancient times, it
follows that Orthodox tradition already embraced the ordination of women
to the priesthood (in the degree of diaconate), and to refuse it in
contemporary times is actually a departure from tradition, not a
maintenance of it. Moreover, Christ is properly iconized in his church,
which is his own and most intimate body, not by the genetic symbols of
maleness, but rather by his most characteristic signs of personal presence:
his humility, his self-sacrificing love, his devotion to the Father and to
suffering humanity: all the things a woman can do (and must do if she is to
be authentically Christian) just as well as any man. To refuse women a full
and active role in the church’s ministry, she argued, was to weaken and
dilute the church. She believed that one day this would be recognized. In
2000 she was one of the chief signatories of an open letter to the highest
primates of the Orthodox Church calling for immediate steps to restore the
ordination of women to the Orthodox diaconate.
It was a great joy to Elisabeth in 2004 to be able to witness the
canonization of Mother Maria Skobtsova, whose spiritual life, wartime
ministry in Paris, and final martyrial witness at Ravensbrück she had so
greatly admired. Three years before her death, her birthday was celebrated
by a large gathering at the French Roman Catholic Carmelite convent of
Saint Elie. Present for the event were two Orthodox bishops, a Greek
Catholic bishop, the vicars-general of three different Roman Catholic
dioceses, and several notable Protestant clergy. It was a striking testimony
to the way Elisabeth felt so at ease among the different traditions, while still
being fully at home as an Orthodox, and also how her vision of ecumenism
was a force in itself that brought the churches together. Shortly after
returning from England, where she had delivered a talk on Father Lev
Gillet, she died quietly, reading in bed, aged ninety-eight. Her life, in many
ways, was marked by a brilliant light of humility. This was not a self-
effacing kind of anxiety to be seen or an unease in her own self-worth—far
from it. Elisabeth was a prestigiously intelligent theologian known
throughout the world. It was just that whenever she talked of great things
she spoke of how others around her achieved and shone. She lived out her
own spiritual journey in quietness and deep assurance of the presence of
Christ as the magnetic north of her whole being. It was this that grounded
her and made her such a fully real person, ultimately leading her to the
status of a strong prophetic voice. If she was not listened to greatly by the
ecclesiastical leaders of her own day, nevertheless she will be present to a
generation yet to come, as a wise and important guide: a veritable mother of
the church in our own time, like the great fathers of the church, those
theologians in times past who spoke prophetically to their own generations;
but whose message was sometimes too uncomfortable to be immediately
absorbed.

ARCHIMANDRITE CLEOPA ILIE

One of the greatest of modern Romanian spiritual leaders was born

Constantin Ilie, in the village of Sulita, in the district of Botosani on April
10, 1912, fifth of ten children in a family of peasant farmers. He received a
primary school education in the village but after that was apprenticed by his
father, Alexandru, as the servant (and soon disciple) of the solitary hermit
monk Father Paisie Olaru at the Cozancea hermitage, a cell of the great
fourteenth-century Sihastria skete in the Carpathian Mountains.11 From his
earliest youth he showed a great love for the monastic life. In 1929 he and
his brothers George and Vasile went to the skete of Sihastria monastery to
join as novice monks themselves.12 Another brother would later join them.
The higumen, or abbot, set Constantin to work as a shepherd caring for its
flock, and over the next twelve years in this office, in following them as
they grazed the wooded hills, he gained a great love for the countryside and
a deep knowledge of it. During these years he used to come down from the
hills on Saturday evening for the Vigil service and the Sunday liturgies on
the following day. During the week, on the hillside and in his little
shepherd’s shack, he would immerse himself in the reading of the church
fathers and spiritual masters. His monastic life was interrupted by having to
fulfill his state-mandated army service in 1935, but immediately after his
year was complete he returned to the monastery and was fully professed as
a monk in August 1937, taking the name Cleopa (the biblical Cleophas).
The community noticed how the young monk had a highly active
intelligence, sharp discernment, and phenomenal memory. He was able to
quote long passages by heart from both scripture and the church fathers.
In 1942 Father Ioanichie, the aging higumen of Sihastria, appointed
Cleopa as his personal assistant and deputy higumen, and, because his new
responsibilities required it, in December of 1944 he was ordained deacon
and then in January of the following year was priested by Archbishop
Galaction, who was higumen of the great Neamt monastery where Saint
Paisy Velichkovsky had centered his teaching mission centuries earlier.
After his ordination Cleopa took over as higumen of the skete. Two years
later, in 1947, the Romanian patriarch Nicodim gave Cleopa the highest
position to which monks can attain, making him an archimandrite, and
established the skete as an independent monastery in its own right. His
preaching career, which had begun with his ordination, now brought him
increasingly to the attention of outsiders, not merely his own monastic
community, who already venerated him. People would seek him out as their
spiritual father and guide, what is known in the Orthodox tradition as a
starets.13 One of his foundational principles, which he often repeated to
clergy and monks who were given the task of instructing others, was only to
guide someone else from one’s own direct and successful personal
experience. He compared those who pretend to be spiritual guides, but have
not lived out the spiritual truths they are inculcating to others, as “painted
waterfalls on a wall” that could not offer fresh water from their wellspring.
Those who came to him across a long ministry testified that he had the
gift of the common touch, able to communicate powerfully and easily (his
sermons have been recorded and are widely listened to in Romania to this
day). His books were numerous, addressed to the common faithful but
showing a deep absorption of the fathers and the past spiritual masters,
despite the fact that he had little formal education. His growing fame
brought Cleopa to the attention of the new masters of Romania, the
Communist secret police, the Securitate. In their zeal to establish Stalinist
control of the country, this body soon became the most brutal and feared of
all the Communist police establishments, outdoing even the savage Soviet
NKVD. His ministry made Cleopa a marked man. In 1948 the monastery
was raided after the divine liturgy, and he was taken hurriedly into prison.
For five days he was locked in a basement without food or water and then
just as brusquely thrown out. It was of course meant as a warning. In
response Cleopa decided to have a spell as a hermit once more, and he
slipped away into the wooded countryside adjacent to the monastery. He
cleared out a cave and lived in it for six months with his books of prayers,
wearing a sheepskin (like a local hillside shepherd in case anyone saw him)
until the police lost interest. Many years later he would still wear the
sheepskin coat of a shepherd over his cassock. This would be the first of
several times the secret police came to arrest him, and often he would slip
away into the remote mountain country that he knew so well, where he
could easily outwit the city-based policemen who had no country skills at
all. On several occasions, however, the Securitate did pick him up, and, like
other clergy, he suffered his share of torture and beatings in their cells.
Cleopa often said that while he lived in caves, on the run, he felt it was
“like living as a king.” He would celebrate the divine liturgy, just himself
and the angels, using an old tree stump outside his cave as his altar. This
deep and extreme wilderness life spent in prayerful immersion gave him a
profound understanding of how God has blessed the inner structures of the
life of the natural world—so much so that it is a mistake to speak of natural
and supernatural, in the way that many surface religious texts do: because
God’s energy and grace is so deeply permeated in the structures of creation
that all things interior and exterior to the human being are hymns of praise
to God. The human being is his living icon; the whole inanimate world is
his sacrament: for all things constantly sing his glory by their simple being.
This was a theological theme strongly present in the great patristic writers,
Saints Gregory of Nazianzus and Maximus the Confessor. It was due to his
constant advocacy for the beauty and God-blessed gracefulness of the world
order, exemplified in the unspoiled Romanian countryside which Cleopa
loved so much, that the Romanian Church after the fall of Communism
became heavily involved in the ecological movement sponsored by the
patriarch of Constantinople. Against the blight of heavy industry polluting
the atmosphere and rivers without care, and the moronic Soviet-style
architecture that had been overlaid on the beauties of Romanian Gothic
styles of the medieval period (pristinely represented in so many of the
monasteries), the church spoke of the need to discover the sacrament of
beauty.14 Where the Communist ideologues had taken charge of the country
farms and collectivized them, throwing aside generations of peasant
wisdom and local ownership, they soon brought production to all-time lows
and flattened all the locally observed cycles of growth and rest, by a
depressingly brutalist approach to agriculture. The constant focus of Cleopa
on creation’s Christ-founded beauty, along with his simplicity of heart and
the humble love he presented as the keystones of the Christ life, appealed to
deep and recognized resonances in the Romanian peasant soul. This was
why the Communists tried several times to silence him, as they had already
successfully imprisoned and tortured many other spiritual monastic leaders.
The new patriarch, Justinian, appointed under Communist control in
1948, was set the task of reordering the many Romanian monasteries in the
name of rationalization—which was one of the ways the Communist
authorities attempted first to reduce and then suppress the vigorous
monastic life still active in Romania. Around this time Cleopa was ordered
by church authorities to stop receiving pilgrims. Always careful to serve the
bishops obediently, he also knew that his first duty was to the will of God:
so he disregarded that instruction as emanating from hidden Communist
pressure. In August 1949, the patriarch ordered Cleopa to move to serve as
higumen of Slatina monastery in Suceava county, and so he went there with
thirty of his own community to begin afresh. Soon afterward he established
this as a stable community of just more than eighty monks. The Securitate
was furious that he had, in fact, started a new and thriving monastic center,
so they came again to arrest him, and this time they beat him and tortured
him. Cleopa and the priest-monk Papacioc then took off once more for life
in the Stanisoara Mountains between 1952 and 1954. This time he lived
happily in seclusion for two years until a message from the patriarch asked
him to return to lead his monastery and gave him to understand he would
not be arrested.
In 1956, in the thaw of a few freedoms that followed Stalin’s death, he
was sent back to his first monastery at Sihastria, but two years later the
Securitate unleashed a new wave of persecution against the church. At that
time around one thousand five hundred clergy and active laity were
imprisoned, and the patriarch was put under closer security control. Half of
the monasteries in Romania were forcibly closed. Cleopa was specially
targeted because of his high profile as a courageous dissident, but he again
eluded the secret police by retreating to solitary life in the Carpathian
Mountains. Each month a trusted forester brought him a sack of potatoes,
and his main diet was one potato a day until the next delivery. For five
years he lived the life of one of the ancient Christian cave dwellers,
devoting his days to prayer and his nights to the recitation of the psalms. In
solitude he used to spend twelve hours out of every twenty-four praying
vocally, and using the silent prayer of the heart, the Jesus Prayer.
In 1964 he came out of seclusion and returned to the Sihastria
monastery to serve as the pneumatikos of the community: the spiritual elder
and confessor. He had a little skete, or small building with a chapel and an
attendant monk, in the fields on the main monastery grounds. For thirty-
four years he lived out his vocation here, and soon the community had to
build an amphitheater outside for the increasingly large crowds of pilgrims
who came to consult him and hear his preaching, and especially to seek him
as a priestly confessor. As his strength began to fail and his health became a
trial in his later years, he bore it with humor. He used to joke with his
congregation: “I am now Uncle Mouldy. I have one foot in the grave and
the other on the earth; but life is an ongoing fight against the flesh, the
world, the devil, and death.”15 On December 2, 1998, Cleopa died there
aged eighty-six, having told his community and congregation a short time
before that he was withdrawing from public ministry in order to prepare to
die. Ten thousand people gathered for his funeral, and notices of his death
were carried in the world’s media.
Father Cleopa consciously emulated the great Romanian spiritual
master of the eighteenth century, Saint Paisy Ve-lichkovsky.16 He had
become a person whose heart was deeply established in prayer; this he had
learned from his many times in hidden seclusion, but it was equally true of
the daily life of the monasteries in which he served, as well as in the
incredibly busy public ministry of confessions and preaching he undertook.
This latter was a ministry that grew in size immensely as soon as the
Communist government collapsed in the late 1980s, and that toward the end
of his life caused him considerable effort as his bodily strength ebbed away.
He always spoke of his sufferings under the Communists lightly, almost as
a joke, but his heart was alive to all the sufferings of others, however small
or large. After the fall of the regime in 1989, and the brief armed combat in
the streets that established the overthrow of the remainder of the secret
police, Orthodox Christians all over Romania looked to Cleopa for spiritual
guidance in the task of rebuilding Romanian society amid unaccustomed
freedoms. His message remained simple and direct: retain purity of heart
and learn to live a simple and open-hearted life, ever conscious of the need
for repentance and humility, praying daily without fail, and being careful to
receive the sacraments of the church as essential food on the journey. The
streams of pilgrims who came to him en masse to hear his sermons, or
individually to seek his counsel in confession, ranged from simple
Romanian peasants to the new political leaders of the country. He was the
spiritual father of many who are today in the highest offices of the
Romanian Church, including the present patriarch, Daniel, and several other
bishops.
In many ways Cleopa was a living reminder of how the early church
fathers and great desert ascetics withstood the first persecutions and
emerged from them with a radiant purity of heart that lit up the later
centuries that would read of their exploits. He had absorbed the early
fathers extensively in the long times of solitude he spent in prayer and
learned from them the world of difference between professing Christianity
on the lips and living it out in the heart and body. He saw God alive in the
streams and mountains and above all in the needs and fears of his fellow
men and women: a great mark of spiritual maturity. His innate courage and
inner strength, renewed daily by his consciousness of Christ’s indwelling
presence, allowed him the freedom to step forward and meet people on their
road. That freedom was rooted in his great simplicity of life.
 CHAPTER TEN

Day-to-Day Life in an Orthodox Church

MAKING A VISIT

The simplest way to gain a flavor of life and worship activity inside an
Orthodox church is to go to one some Sunday and stand at the back. If you
are worried about when to stand, when to sit, what to do to “merge,” just
take a seat (there are always some, even though many older Orthodox
churches reduce the seats considerably so as to retain the older tradition of
standing throughout worship services) or just take a stance by the back wall.
When you do this everyone else is in front of you, and you can just copy
what they do. Most Orthodox churches welcome discreet visitors. Those
few that don’t are, by definition, not good representatives of the Christian
Orthodox tradition. You’ll know who they are immediately by the stern
militaristic tone prevalent, and the ever-watchful interferers waiting for a
stranger to make a mistake so they can run over and correct them in an
incomprehensible language with many gesticulations. If this happens, a
quick exit is in order. It is a broad sweep-of-the-brush cliché, but Greek
churches are more easygoing and family-noise oriented, while Russian-
tradition churches are more sober and focused. All Orthodox services are
long. It is the unstated church etiquette that laity might arrive late but ought
not to leave early. As a result, the churches tend to fill up increasingly as the
service progresses through several hours (two to three) on a standard
Sunday morning. Festival liturgies tend to take longer (three to four). It is
often difficult for the visitor to know precisely when the liturgy begins,
especially if it is in unfamiliar Byzantine Greek or medieval Slavonic,
because most Sunday services are preceded by the hours of prayer (what are
called Matins or Morning Prayer in the Western traditions); and often the
eucharistic liturgy carries on straight away after Matins. It is also a
confusion for visitors to know precisely when the service ends, as yet again
other shorter services are often tagged on seamlessly to the end of the main
service (services of prayer commemorations for deceased relatives’
anniversaries and suchlike). When I was considerably younger, I attended a
Greek church for the first time and tried to follow the service from the
Greek text I gripped in my hand. I could never follow the line (not knowing
then that a lot of the responses are in the separate choir books and are not
printed in the standard lay missal). But at least I had the priest’s part. But
then again he regularly came out from the altar and waved his hands at the
congregation (it was an Easter Eve and very noisy and happily chaotic in
the church). Each time he shouted out to them “Siope! Siope!” I thought
this must be a heartfelt encouragement to prayer or some such thing; but it
was certainly not in the text of the liturgy. Some months afterward I found
the word in the dictionary. It turned out to be “Shut up!” The poor man
must have been sick of all the noise. All told, it is perhaps better to find
someone in an Orthodox parish whom one knows, and ask him or her to
take you to church and explain what is going on. But failing all that—here
is a short chapter that tries to give a summary guide to what a visitor might
expect to find if he or she wanders in off the street, through the doors of an
Orthodox church, on any ordinary Sunday.
The first thing that may strike you is the brightness of the church porch,
and the way in which it has a bustle about it. There will probably be candles
for sale, long thin beeswax ones. It is a custom to buy two for a nominal
amount, to assist church funds, in order to take them with you into the main
church building. As you turn to enter the church you will notice the contrast
in the lighting of the interior, which will often be very dim, lit by flickering
oil lamps (called lampadas) that hang in front of all the icons around the
walls and especially illuminate the altar area. What is called the altar in
Western churches is called the holy table by the Orthodox. What the
Western churches call the sanctuary area is called the altar. There is a raised
set of steps immediately in front of the main doors (the royal doors) to the
altar: this part is called the bema and is where the clergy stand for certain
parts of the service, especially to read from the scriptures.
In Russian tradition churches the icon screen (iconostasis) not only
stretches across the whole altar area but reaches up high into the church
ceiling. In Greek tradition churches the screen is not so high. Originally it
was only waist height, serving to keep the crowds of faithful away from
crushing out the clergy at the holy table, but over the centuries icons were
placed on it, and these became added to, so that eventually it became more
of a permanent and opaque screen dividing off the altar. The Byzantine
Museum in Athens, just behind Syntagma Square, has an example of such
an early, and low, marble chancel screen. In some more recent Orthodox
churches there has been a tendency to reduce the size of the iconostasis, so
that the faithful can see more of the holy table during the eucharistic
celebration. The holy table itself can be seen only when the Eucharist is
being celebrated. If the divine liturgy is not taking place, the royal doors are
always closed, and there is a curtain pulled across the top of them. During
the course of the liturgy the royal doors are opened to symbolize the way in
which Christ’s sacrifice reopened the locked gates of Paradise to the world.
No one ever walks through the royal doors, as they are seen as the symbols
of Christ’s own advent to the world. The exception to this is the priest (or
bishop) who celebrates the Eucharist. But when he is not celebrating, the
priest too does not walk through this door. The side doors are used instead.
When clergy members first enter the altar area, for any reason, they always
make three prostrations making the sign of the cross and kissing the holy
table, as it is considered the very sacred symbol of Christ’s tomb and
contains the body of the Lord (eucharistic elements known as the holy gifts)
reserved in a tabernacle, or pyx.
The Orthodox regard the church, which they call “the Temple” (Naos),
as a symbolic representation (what the ancient church fathers called a
“type”) of the Temple in Jerusalem—but this time the Temple that is
Christ’s body: the fulfillment of the liturgical symbols of the Old Testament.
This is why one of the first things to strike a visitor is perhaps the smell
inside the church. This is either fresh or yesterday’s incense. No Orthodox
service takes place without the use of incense. The smell is quite different
from that in Roman Catholic or High Anglican churches, because where
they tend to use pure frankincense in their devotions, the Orthodox follow
the recipe for incense found in the Old Testament (Exod. 30.34), which is
more fragrant—often redolent of roses. Each morning and evening incense
is offered up from the holy table, which is also made square in line with the
instructions given in Exodus 30.1–8. This evokes the offering of incense for
evening and morning Temple service in ancient times. The psalm verses
that are used when incense is offered for Vespers (Evening Prayer) recount
the same liturgical use as in the ancient Temple: “Let my prayer arise as
incense before you; the raising of my hands, as an evening sacrifice of
praise.”1 A musical version (from the Russian Orthodox tradition) can be
found on YouTube.2 It has the chant style developed in later Russian times.
An earlier style of close harmony Russian chant can be heard in another
popular hymn to the Blessed Virgin Mary sung by the monks of Valaam
monastery, also available on YouTube.3 The (earlier) medieval Byzantine
style of singing is held to more in the churches of the Greek tradition. A
version of this form of a cappella choir singing, the Vesperal hymn “Let
My Prayer Arise,” can be heard on YouTube as well.4
The parallelism of the church with the Temple is seen too in the way the
Orthodox churches are always divided into three: the outer porch (or
narthex), the inner main body of the church (or nave), and the altar (that is,
the sanctuary). All Orthodox churches, built as such, face eastward, to the
spiritual Rising Sun, the tomb of the Lord in Jerusalem. Looking toward the
altar, therefore, one is normally facing east. The clergy always face east
when they celebrate the sacred prayers of the services, except on a few
occasions (largely when they are particularly addressing the people). In
ancient times the narthex was the place where the unbaptized gathered for
instruction, and after the scriptures were read the doors to the nave were
closed so that only the baptized would be present for the sacraments.
During the liturgy the Orthodox deacon will still cry out before the
consecration of the holy gifts (during the central prayer known as the
Anaphora): “All Catechumens depart! All Catechumens depart!” and the
unbaptized used to retire to the narthex for instruction about the scripture
readings they had just heard. The nave was the place of the laity,
corresponding to the court of the Israelites in the Temple, and the altar the
place of the priests and deacons. There is a deep sense in the Orthodox
Church that the presence of God palpably dwells within the holy of holies,
adjacent to the holy table; and in addition, of course, the holy gifts, the
reserved eucharistic elements, are kept there in case the sick might need
them in emergency, placed upon the altar in a special gilded vessel. The
bishop, if he is present, will always commence the liturgy standing and then
sitting on a throne in the middle of the church nave, to be present with his
people, but then (after the priests have commenced the liturgy) he will
ceremonially enter the altar area to preside over the service at the holy
table.
On the holy table itself, which is always covered with several layers of
cloths, the topmost being an especially rich fabric, lies the richly decorated
book of the Gospels. The cover for this is usually metal, with enamel icons
set within it; it depicts the evangelists and prophets surrounding the
Crucifixion of Christ on one side and, on the other side, his Resurrection.
Seven lamps (again reminiscent of the great menorah in the Temple) stand
just behind the holy table. They are always lit when a great service is taking
place. There is a space behind the holy table and the apsidal wall (or back
wall) of the church, which allows for free passage of the clergy and altar
servers. When the altar area is being censed, the deacon or priest will pass
around the holy table before leaving through the iconostasis doors to cense
the main body of the church, starting with the icons but ending with a
personal censing of the faithful gathered there. It is the etiquette of the
church that when the clergy cense the individual believers (because they too
are the living icons of God), they in turn bow to him respectfully and make
the sign of the cross over themselves. The incense comes upon them as a
blessed thing, blessing them for a higher state of prayer and devout
attention.

ENTERING THE BUILDING

When a person first enters the church from the narthex, by the door coming
in are the two festal icons of that particular church. There is usually an icon
of the Mother of the Lord holding the Savior and pointing to him. This is
known as the Hodegitria icon (“She who shows the way”). Next to it will be
the icon of the saint to whom that individual church is dedicated. The
believers always venerate these icons as soon as they enter. A typical form
of the veneration of the icons is that the person stands before them and
bows twice from the waist, making the sign of the cross over himself or
herself just before bowing.5 He or she then approaches and kisses the hand
of the figure depicted, and after that stands back once more to make a third
bow and a final signing of himself or herself with the cross. The veneration
of an icon is not an act worshipping the image. That would be a foolish
idolatry. The bowing down is an act of respect (veneration in this sense)
before the icon, which in that moment of faith becomes an act of the
worship of the person of Christ whom that icon represents. Venerating an
icon of Christ becomes an act of adoration because the veneration of the
believer passes from the symbol of the presence of God directly to the Lord,
whom his icon stands in for. If a believer venerates an icon of the Virgin or
a saint or an angel, then the act of veneration (respect) for the icon becomes
in like manner an act of venerational respect (not worshipful adoration,
since that person of saint or angel is not divine) for the holy person
depicted. Western contemporary attitudes among those not used to this form
of devotion (especially in the Reformed tradition) are often taken aback by
this form of praying: sometimes thinking incense is being offered to the
icon. It is not; and it never is. It is being offered as a form of respect to the
one depicted in the icon. If it is an icon of God (Christ or the Trinity), then
that worshipful veneration is intended to be an act of adoration. If it is an
icon of a saint, then the worshipful veneration is of a different order of
respect. As we have already seen, in the Greek and Russian Orthodox
traditions the terminology for all the strict degrees of veneration that are
permissible, and expected, is very extensive. But ask any Orthodox children
what they are doing when they venerate icons, and it will be immediately
clear: the respect shown before the icon is meant to pass directly to the
figure depicted therein. If it is the divine Christ, then the act of veneration
becomes adoration (of Christ, of course, not the icon per se); if it is a saint
or angel icon, then the act of veneration is exactly that, a deeply respectful
bowing down before the heavenly saint, who receives that respectful
homage (never adoration) and returns his or her blessing to the believer: for
the Orthodox affirm that the saint is not dead but alive and active in the
glory of the Risen Lord.
 The next thing Orthodox persons will do after entering the church and
venerating the icons is, usually, take the two thin taper candles they have
brought with them and light one in the candle stand placed on one side of
the church (near the Christ Icon) and the other in the stand, or sand tray, by
the Virgin’s icon. Sometimes these are together in one place, set aside. They
will already be full of many glittering candles, so they cannot be mistaken.
One of the candles is to symbolize the whole family’s prayer for living
related members and others for whom that family is specially praying. The
other one is for the commemoration of, and prayer for, the departed
members of the family. The Orthodox firmly believe that death, in Christ,
does not separate the family and that prayer continues across the divide.
The offering of the Eucharist for the departed is a constant act of loving
memory in Orthodox practice. The celebrating priest will also take votive
offerings of small loaves from some of the faithful who have prepared
them.6 Then from the loaves he is making ready for the Eucharist he will set
some fragments aside on the paten (diskos), naming people both living and
dead from lists of names that different families have given to him
beforehand, to ask for special prayers. These fragments of bread are not
consecrated but stand on the diskos during the Eucharist, and at the very
end they are placed into the chalice once everyone has been communicated,
with this prayer: “Wash away, O Lord, by your holy Blood, the sins of your
servants here commemorated, through the prayers of the Theotokos and all
your Saints. Amen.” Christ’s redemptive action, essentially the forgiveness
of sin and its concomitant defeat of death, is felt by the Orthodox, from
earliest ages, to be unrestricted by time or space. In this, it robustly
contradicts the attitude of some of the Reformed traditions that maintain
prayer for the dead to be either fruitless or impossible.
During divine service the Orthodox make many bows and sometimes
prostrations before God if the Spirit moves them. The devout also make the
sign of the cross over themselves every time they hear the phrase “Glory to
the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit.” As this occurs many times
in any service, an observer will often notice how many times the
congregation members will cross themselves. Similarly, Orthodox attending
other Christian services often are puzzled by how few times they see this
done in other communities. Orthodox also seem to wander around the
church a lot and tend to feel hemmed in by the sedentary nature of many
Western churches, and by the way they seem to expect everyone to make a
response at the same time throughout the liturgy. Among the Orthodox,
some of the time they make a response, at other times they are off in their
own prayers and disconnect with a sense of personal freedom. They are safe
in the knowledge that all the official responses necessary will be performed
by the choir, which sings them all at the appropriate time. There are
(traditionally) no pews in an Orthodox church, and often very few chairs set
at the walls for the convenience of the old and the infirm. The expectation
used to be that Orthodox believers would stand to pray, as they did in
ancient times. Kneeling on Sundays was forbidden by the Council of
Nicaea in 325, as it is a sign of penitence for sin: acceptable on the other
days of the week but deemed inappropriate for those who are sharing in the
glory of the Passion and Resurrection of Christ in the Sunday Eucharist,
which ought, therefore, to be clearly a glorious and radiant affair. The lack
of chairs makes it possible for the faithful to move around the church during
services: sometimes lighting prayer candles for others or themselves;
sometimes moving to stand before particular icons to talk to the saints or to
Christ or the Virgin privately; sometimes attending closely to what is
happening among the clergy on the altar.
At several times the liturgy turns to specific litanies of prayer and
intercession. These are always led by a deacon if one is present or by the
priest if he serves alone. The deacon will come out from the altar and stand
facing the Christ Icon on the iconostasis. From there he will intone the
petitions of prayer and lead the faithful in the response: “Lord have mercy.”
In Greek this is Kyrie Eleison. It is one of the surviving Greek remnants of
the liturgy of the Latin Church too. In Slavonic it is Gospodi Pomilui. In
recent times some of the Greek Orthodox churches in the diaspora have
introduced pews, but none of the Russian have. It is felt that while having
pews may offer more comfort, it reduces the congregation more to a passive
condition of recipients of the worship experience instead of being active
participants. It is not the sole responsibility of the clergy to offer the
Eucharist, therefore, but rather a wave of prayerful attendance on the Divine
Presence that falls to each member of the church in the varying degrees of
their roles, and the measure of their spiritual participation and awareness.
 Even the smallest child contributes substantively; and it is touching to
see Orthodox mothers and grandmothers bring in babies to church and take
the children up to the icons, where they will lean out to kiss the hand of
Christ or the Virgin and be entranced when the parent lights a candle that
the child has been shown how to set in place. There is much truth in the
adage “The things you love as a child you will love all your life long.” And
it is a focus of many Orthodox parents to take the children to church and
show them the bright array of candles, icons, painted crosses, and other
beautiful frescoes, explaining to them the intricate symbolism of the
church’s meanings. Orthodox children, who may also take advantage of the
free floor space in the church to do their own fair share of wandering, grow
up in the church in a way that makes it feel their own in a special way,
deeply associated with the quest for beauty and peace in their lives. Most
Orthodox families have the special icon corner in one room of their house,
and so churchly prayer is also connected with personal familial prayer; the
home icon shelf usually has a candle placed on it (or a lampada that can be
lit) and very often a small incense burner. Devotions of prayer at home are
accompanied by many of the same gestures and practices as at church: and
so the children learn, from a very early age, a whole syntax of prayer that
remains available to them all their lives long.
From the time of their baptism also, children are given Communion as
full members of the church. Infants in arms will receive the holy gifts as a
reminder to all that the presence of Christ is not restricted solely to those
who are conscious of receiving but is gifted generously to all in his church.
The Orthodox do not believe the holy gifts become the body of Christ by
virtue of the belief of the individual but rather that they cause the belief of
the individual by virtue of being the body of Christ. And this is why regular
Communion is fostered as an ideal to be pursued by all the faithful of
whatever age. In the Orthodox Church, the Eucharist is called “the
Medicine of Immortality” and is regarded as a necessity in one’s life: like
antibiotics for the seriously sick, an indispensable thing for health.7 To live
a Christian life is impossible without the strength, sanctification, and
Spirit’s grace conveyed to the believer in the Holy Eucharist. To prepare
themselves to receive this, the Orthodox attending church will have fasted
from midnight the day before: so that the holy gifts will be the first food
they have touched that Sunday. As soon as they have communicated they go
to the side of the church and together take some more blessed bread and
wine to break their fast. To look at them then, the signs of peace and joy of
heart are most notable. Only the baptized and chrismated Orthodox are able
to approach the chalice for the holy gifts (Communion), but visitors are
always welcome to line up with the faithful and simply ask the celebrating
priest for a blessing. He will often bless the person with the chalice itself.
Not all the Orthodox go to Communion every week. It is a personal matter,
and it involves the preparation of prayer and fasting beforehand.
Personal confession is not very prevalent in the Orthodox churches of
the Greek tradition nowadays. It is often reserved for times of personal need
(such as sickness) or family trouble. Confession is a much more regular part
of Slavonic tradition Orthodoxy. A priest (if there is more than one priest on
staff) will stand somewhere in the main body of the church while the early
part of the divine liturgy is taking place. In front of him will be a high
reading stand with the book of Gospels placed upon it and also a cross. The
faithful will come up to him, usually a priest they know well and whom
they trust as a wise guide, and after making the sign of the cross, and saying
a few short prayers, make a short confession of sins before him. They do
not confess to the priest; they confess to Christ, before the Gospel book,
which is the iconic symbol of his living presence in that place. It is Christ
who hears the confession of sins, and Christ himself who makes this a
sacrament of living grace. When the confession has been made, the priest
may offer some advice, or else will give some individual words of spiritual
comfort and encouragement. The Orthodox believer then kneels down at his
side, and the priest lays over his or her head his epitrachelion (the priestly
stole he wears around his neck as a symbol of his spiritual office). He then
lays hands upon the person’s head, in one of the most ancient Christian
gestures of the bestowal of the Spirit, and says a short prayer of absolution.
In the Slavonic tradition it is this: “May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ,
through the grace and compassion of his love for mankind, forgive you—
(Name)—all your transgressions. And I, an unworthy priest, through the
power given to me by Him, do forgive and absolve you from all your sins +
[sign of the cross] In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy
Spirit. Amen.”
 If visitors happen to be present for an Orthodox baptism, they might be
surprised to see how much older the babies sometimes are, compared to
those baptised in Western practice. They would also note how the child (or
adult convert) will be fully immersed in the water three times. The priest
placing the child under the water each time says: “The Servant of God
[Name] is baptized in the name of the Father [first immersion] and of the
Son [second immersion], and of the Holy Spirit [third immersion].”8 For the
Orthodox, the baptismal service is composed of four indispensable parts.
The first section, at the very beginning, is the renunciation of Satan and the
exorcism prayers dating from very ancient times, and these culminate in the
requirement of the candidate to profess the faith of the church.9 This is
essentially the recitation of the Nicene Creed. Of course, if it is a very
young child being baptized the parents and godparents stand in for it here.
The second part of baptism is the blessing of the oil and baptismal water in
a great prayer celebrating God’s power over all creation, and then the
anointing of the person with the “oil of gladness,” known in the West as the
oil of catechumens. In ancient times oil was rubbed into the skin and
scraped off with a blunt blade (a strigillum). This was the equivalent of our
modern use of soap and water to wash. So at this stage of the catechumen’s
initiation (for Orthodoxy also calls baptism photismos, or illumination), the
symbolic anointing talks of cleansing and athletic preparation to take up the
duties and obligations of a Christian way of living. Again, in ancient times,
athletes oiled themselves before engaging in their efforts. The third aspect
of Orthodox baptism then follows, which is the immersion under the
baptismal waters. This is given its symbolic explanation in the theology of
the apostle Paul (Rom. 6.3–5), who connects the sign of going down under
water as an initiation into the death of Christ, and the emergence as a
mystical form of entrance into the Resurrection of Christ. For the Orthodox
Church this cleansing of the baptismal waters forgives all past sins and
strengthens the believer to follow the way of Christianity.
But the fourth and final part of baptism is equally integral; and that is
the anointing of the newly baptized person with the sacred perfumed oil of
Chrisma: on the parts of the body symbolizing the five senses. For the
Orthodox, this is the moment when the baptized person is consecrated as
prophet, priest, and king. The Spirit of God makes its dwelling in the newly
cleansed soul. For the Orthodox there is great perplexity about the manner
in which for many parts of the Western churches this fundamental and
climactic part of the baptismal ceremony has fallen out of use. Converts
from other Christian churches who wish to be received into Orthodoxy, if
they have already been baptized with water in the threefold Trinitarian
name of God, are not rebaptized therefore, but they are always chrismated
before they are given the final sacrament that initiates believers into
Christianity: namely, the Holy Eucharist. If there is any doubt over the
earlier baptism (whether it was done in the name of the Trinity, or whether
there were no immersions or at least water running over the child), the
Orthodox will err on the safe side and perform an entire baptismal
ceremony de novo. This is not necessary when it concerns a prior Roman
Catholic or Anglican/Episcopal ritual baptism.
One of the reactions commonly felt when one visits an Orthodox church
when services are in full swing is how ceremonial they are. Even in the
smallest church nothing is ever simply said, all is sung or chanted, often in
several voices. There are no instruments, because only the human voice (as
Saint Basil said, “that instrument made by God himself”) is allowed by
custom in the church. The ceremonial reflects its origins in Byzantium and
is meant to give a sense of something of the glory of the imperial court:
acknowledging Christ as the King of Kings surrounded by his court of
saints and angels. But at other times, outside a formal liturgy, the
experience of an Orthodox church is quite different from this. For example,
come to a Vespers service on a typical Saturday or weekday night, and one
will be struck by how quiet and humble everything is. The church will be in
shadows, lit by flickering lamps. The clergy will not be in gorgeous colored
vestments of brocade but will be in somber black cassocks and simple
stoles. The choir will recite many psalms and biblical canticles—for the
services of prayer in Orthodoxy are root and branch built out of the
scriptures. On Sundays there is no reading from the Old Testament given in
the course of the Eucharist, but at Vespers on the preceding evening the
dominant tone is set by the Old Testament readings and by the psalms. The
choir performing all the responses is in the shadows, with flickering
candles, while the priest stands mainly in the altar reciting prayers and
blessings quietly, and offering up incense to God from the holy table, all
allowing the Orthodox believer to enter into a state of intensely personal
prayer and meditation. One can join in with as much of the simply chanted
service as one wants or one can disengage for personal prayer, exactly as
the Spirit moves. The evening services of Vespers are very different from
the public, ceremonial, and illuminated liturgies—as different as their
ancient origins: the one in the great imperial cathedrals of the past, the other
in the small monastic chapels, designed by monks and nuns who set out to
pray throughout the hours of darkness. In the modern age Vespers no longer
lasts all night long; simply an hour or less. But in times long past it was
designed to last through all the hours of darkness and join up seamlessly
with Morning Prayer (Orthros) that preceded the Eucharist, which itself
was begun only as the sun rose over the horizon in the east.
Many people’s only experience of Orthodox worship, perhaps, is
attending a wedding: a boisterous and joyful experience, culminating in the
couple being garlanded with crowns. In the Russian tradition metallic royal
crowns are actually used. In the Greek tradition a circlet of orange blossoms
is used (symbolic of unfading freshness). The crowning ceremony was the
ancient marriage ritual of the pre-Christian Roman Empire. The church took
it over and gave it a new symbolic twist: now the couple are not only king
and queen of love in their own household but are—by their communion
together—anticipating the joy of Christ’s coming Kingdom. The priest
leads the Orthodox wedding couple three times in a procession around a
table which has the book of Gospels and a cross laid upon it. This is the
ancient manner of making a vow. It replaces the Western practice of having
the bride and groom make a statement of intent.
If a visitor ever attends the Orthodox Easter services (called Pascha in
the Orthodox Church) he or she will be overwhelmed: not only by the
length of the celebration (up to three hours in a parish) but by the variety of
the experience. It begins in darkness, and the winding sheet of Christ (the
shroud) is lifted up and dramatically carried into the dark altar from a “tomb
of Christ” that has been prepared in the middle of the church. Then a
moment of complete silence descends. The church is cleared of the tomb.
Candles are held by everyone, but unlit. At midnight, in the completely
darkened church, a single candlelight is seen flickering in the altar. It is
brought by the priest and held up high at the royal doors of the iconostasis
so that everyone can see. It goes without saying that this is the vibrant
symbol of Christ Risen from the Dead. The priest chants three times:
“Come and Receive the Light, from the Unfading Light. And glorify Christ
who has risen from the dead!” And each time the priest offers the light, and
all the faithful run forward to light their candles from the single light of
Christ. So the Resurrection glory spreads like fire throughout all the church.
Everyone then falls into line and makes a nighttime outside procession with
the candles, with incense, the Gospel book, and many icons; all the while
everyone chants: “Your Resurrection O Christ our Savior, the angels in
heaven sing; enable us on earth to worship you in purity of heart.” Some
run off during the procession to bring the “New Light” to their homes and
set everything in order for the great paschal feast, which Orthodox have
after the service.
Most, however, continue back inside the church, but this time when they
enter all the lights have been turned on, and as they come back inside a
great and solemn chant is made (the Paschal Canon) celebrating Christ’s
glorious victory over death and sin and corruption. Many times this is
interrupted by the priest or bishop coming to the royal doors with lighted
candles and incense, to incense the people as a sign of honor. He shouts out
each time: Christ is Risen! (or Christos Anesti in Greek, Hristos Voskresie
in Russian, Hristos Ha Inviat in Romanian—whatever language group is
represented in the congregation), and every voice in the congregation shouts
back: “He is truly Risen.” All the time from Pascha to Pentecost, fifty days
later, the Orthodox greet one another only with this same greeting. The
Canon of the Resurrection is a mix of solemnity and festive enthusiasm. It
marks the end of quite a long and severe Lenten time of fasting, and as it
comes to an end, the First Eucharist of Pascha begins, culminating in almost
all present in the church taking Communion. Afterward, typically, there is a
paschal feast together in the parish hall.
 POSTLUDE

What Role for Orthodoxy in a

Postmodern Environment?

M OST people, if they think anything at all of the Orthodox Church (for it
has rightly been called one of the world’s great secrets and is still
profoundly unknown as far as the rest of Christianity is concerned), tend to
see it as a church stuck in the past. This dismissive attitude belies the fact
that Orthodox Church members today number somewhere around the 250
million mark; but Orthodoxy lies outside the common experience of the
vast majority of Western (Roman Catholic, Episcopal, and Protestant)
believers and Western church history. The fall of Byzantium to Islamic
power in the fifteenth century and the great rise of the papal monarchy after
the high Middle Ages led to an understandable tendency to write out
Orthodoxy from the foundational story, to dismiss the church as having
lapsed into schism precisely because it refused to acknowledge those
universal jurisdictional rights attributed to the pope that had become such a
constitutive part of early medieval Latin Church identity. In the years after
the Reformation, the Reformed churches had little desire to include
Orthodoxy in their versions of church history because, although they too
resisted papal centralism, they found whatever they encountered of Eastern
Orthodoxy far too Catholic for their liking. Both Roman Catholic and
Protestant versions of church history, therefore, even to this day, tell the
story often without a nod to the Eastern Church. It has become something
of an obsession of mine to write (in pencil of course) on the flyleaf of yet
another church history book that thinks everything took place in Western
Europe, the words “of the West” after the word “history” in the title. I was
more than delighted when IVP Academic, the internationally strong
evangelical publishers, commissioned me a few years back to write a
universal history of the first millennial Christian Church, in which I could
address this long-standing unbalance.1
Today it is no longer (ought not to be anyway) a case of internal
apologetic fights among Christians as to who is the oldest, most authentic,
or original, form of Christianity. Even though this topic is alive and well on
internet blog forums, the quality of the discussion generally testifies to the
sterility of the apologetic approach. That robust agnostic Voltaire does well
to remind the Christian Church in this twenty-first century what is really
necessary. When the hopelessly abstract philosopher Pangloss starts vapidly
pontificating once again, after the series of disasters that constitute the plot
of the comedy Candide, the young protagonist now silences him with the
words that show his command of the situation: “Il faut cultiver le jardin”—
we must dig the garden. This is the soil that remains to us. It is here and
now. If we do not do so we shall lament the lack of harvest in winter times
approaching.
This is my own estimate of Christianity’s position today. It is alive and
well in many parts of the world. It is growing more today than ever before
in history. But equally in many parts of the world, and Western Europe in
particular springs to mind, it is languishing in a high tide of secularist
materialism. It has seemed to lose its spark: its spiritual lights are dimmed,
and its leaders often seem tired and bureaucratic rather than fiery and
prophetic. This is a day when collectively Christianity needs to “cultiver le
jardin” as never before: and that means to tell its story afresh, with passion,
from lived experience not hearsay, with the courage to face dispossession
and an impoverished condition, instead of sheltering in the pomp of past
glories. In short, with a spirit of mission rather than maintenance. In the
Eastern Church territories such as Russia and Romania, Serbia and
Bulgaria, the Orthodox Church is heavily engaged trying to restore the
fabrics (church buildings and institutions) and syntax of Christian life (the
fundamental logic and vitality of the core message of the religion) in
societies that have violently tried to suppress them for generations past. The
Orthodox have their work cut out for them.
In the West, however, the task is somewhat different. The great
fragmentation of the Christian Church that has taken place here in the past
four centuries has led to the elevation of intra-Christian apologetics as the
predominant religious discourse. Being an arid conversation at the best of
times, this modality has in its prolongation withered the place of religious
discourse in the public forum and has allowed it to sterilize religious
thought within the churches. I myself was baptized as a five-day-old baby.
In that sense I am now in my seventh decade as a Christian. I don’t think I
have once, in all that time, heard a sermon delivered at a public worship
event on the subject of deepening the practice of personal prayer. It began
to puzzle me in my late teens and has gone on to disturb me throughout my
later career as both professor and priest. The renowned Russian book The
Way of the Pilgrim features as its protagonist a Russian peasant who
laments the fact that there is no one to teach him how to pray. I find the plea
remains indicative of the state of the need: a pressing and powerful need to
fill the void in men and women’s souls that materialist reductionism has
brought them to.
Today, in many parts of the very wealthy and comfortable West, there is
such a profound loss of spiritual consciousness that the very semantics of
the Spirit are unknown. When people came asking him for spiritual advice,
Archimandrite Cleopa used to ask them back: What prayers do you know
by heart? What hymns from the writings of scripture or the fathers are you
able to sing by heart? What habitual words do you use when you invoke the
presence or the guidance of God in your lives? Often his visitors were
hoping he might give them some weird and exotic “mystical” inner
knowledge. But this is where he started. Il faut cultiver le jardin.
This is where a knowledge of Orthodoxy can serve to help Christianity
in general today. It can make known to the Christian religion its own
mystical tradition. It is one that Protestants will recognize for its immediacy
and simplicity, just as Roman Catholics will, because of its richly
Christocentric warmth. Both forms of divided ecclesial consciousness in the
West will be able to take as their own, truly as their own, the ancient
heritage of Christian wisdom, the Spirit-filled teachings of the Eastern
Christian past. Orthodoxy has kept this heritage alive, even to the present.
Patristic thought is not merely a side stream of medieval dogma in the
Eastern Church. The fathers are still read, and are called the niptic guides:
soul guides that open up levels of divine consciousness. It is in the renewal
of a new and deeper consciousness of Christ and his resurrectional presence
among the faithful that all other renewal will flow out in the church: a
renewal that will come in the fire and quality of the common liturgies, a
renewal that will be powered and fueled in the social and charitable
outreach of the churches. Only after this sense of living in Christ has been
renewed internally will the mission of the church be rendered actively
reenergized once more. It is of no attraction whatsoever for any believers to
offer to someone else what does not seem to illuminate their own hearts and
minds with the radiant quality of beauty and freedom. Too often, in lieu of
this, the Christian public mission has been characterized by fearfulness,
cultic sectarianism, intellectual immaturity, and social hyper-conservatism.
Why should we be surprised if this clammy handshake does not work?
What can Orthodox Christian thought offer to the modern man and
woman outside Christian culture, who would most probably find, looking in
passing at an Orthodox service, something foreign and down at heel? Well,
again that is difficult, and maybe it is through the other churches that the
Orthodox treasures can be translated more effectively for the West. But
Orthodox religious thought turns around the axis of personalism. All things
flow from the overwhelming fact that the divine Power and Word and Fire
became personally incarnated within time and space: and our God was
shown to us as a humble, suffering servant of mercy. This has marked
Orthodoxy from the beginning to the end; from top to bottom. It sets as the
goal of all Orthodox spiritual life the quest for the believer to become a
human being—and the realization that in becoming a human being, in
Christ, the believer becomes deified by the grace of the indwelling presence
of the Holy. The real problem today is not that men and women who have
become secularized (nonreligious, or whatever) have lost the sense of God.
The problem is that they have lost the sense of what it is to be truly human.
The fundamental character of the true human being is the self-awareness
that presses on all people that they are a transcendent reality, and as such,
profoundly strange even to themselves.
 Only in the presence of God can this enigma be worked out. It does not
affect any other species in the cosmos; only us. This is why the other life-
forms in the world cannot help us in this quintessential matter. And if we do
sense our peculiar strangeness, then there are many ways we can address
this fact that we are, basically, not at home here. It is deeply disturbing and
can lead to so many forms of avoidance therapy that ultimately hurt us and
our method of living. In Orthodoxy, one learns from generations of wise
and saintly teachers the knowledge that humility and love have been lifted
up to divine status in Christ. This saves us: for our transcendence is rooted
in the stability that our poverty has been made rich by God’s love. The
individual who serves to be the place of the indwelling of Christ, through
his Spirit, is a person who can stand on the revolving planet without feeling
dizzy: knowing why his place is both here and yet not here; and why it is
true that we must cultiver le jardin; but not just the garden of our present
culture and life, also the garden of our soul. Orthodoxy has had to learn the
hard way that Christian religion is all about humility and love, and that
daily discipleship is nothing other than walking that path with a hand
always ready to reach out to help another, precisely because we have the
confidence that God will never allow us to be toppled out of balance
because of the love we demonstrate.
For its own part, because the Orthodox world contains such great
treasures, it must learn to offer them generously: freely and without
chauvinism, without any strident apologetics of its own. The purpose of
“giving freely” is not to further stock one’s own coffers, so to speak, but to
proclaim the living word that has been entrusted to it for the sake of sharing
it, as in Matthew.2 Orthodoxy will probably remain, for many years ahead, a
minority and somewhat poor church in Western countries; but it is a church
that is spiritually and intellectually rich behind the outward vesture of its
poverty. If it can offer its gifts with humility they might become acceptable;
and if received they have the potential to renew the Western churches
profoundly and even, perhaps, lead them in this postmodern religious
wilderness to a new stage of reconstituting Christianity in the West. It is an
era where the damage of the Reformation divisions calls out to be healed,
and perhaps a discussion can be initiated that is confident of not losing any
of the deep wisdom of both sides of that old argument. The friend of
Elisabeth Behr-Sigel, the humble Orthodox priest and ascetic Father Lev
Gillet, spent his entire life praying for the restoration of church unity in the
West because he knew that this was a prelude to the profoundest level of
spiritual renewal in the churches, and that in turn would precede a great
renewal of evangelical fervor. He prophetically envisaged the mediating
role of Orthodoxy in this regard, not because of its great importance in
anybody’s eyes, but precisely because it was rather shabby and
insignificant. And yet, what it could bring to the room was a certain fire
that, once felt, personally experienced, and known, would undoubtedly be
recognized by all believers. His words will sum up and end this essay that
started out with “The Naming of Parts” and has gone on to cover two
thousand years of history. He speaks here essentially of humility and love
and prayer, but this was the definition of the Orthodox Church that he left
us:
O strange Orthodox Church, so poor and weak, with neither the organization nor the culture
of the West, staying afloat as if by a miracle in the face of so many trials, tribulations and
struggles; a Church of contrasts, both so traditional and so free, so archaic and so alive, so
ritualist and so personally involved; a Church where the priceless pearl of the Gospel is
assiduously preserved, sometimes under a layer of dust; a Church which in shadows and
silence maintains above all the eternal values of purity, poverty, asceticism, humility and
forgiveness; a Church which has often not known how to act, but which can sing of the joy
of Pascha like no other.3

Archpriest John Anthony McGuckin

Pascha, 2019
 Appendix: A Brief Commentary on the
Nicene Creed (A.D. 325)

I promised earlier in the main body of the text that I would offer this longer and more focused
excursus on the text and meaning of the Nicene Creed at the end. I suppose there could have been a
host of other appendixes—if time and space had allowed—but this one is of preeminent importance
in the matter of defining what Orthodox Christian faith is. And why? I suppose one would by now,
having read the whole story, be able to conclude that Orthodoxy is the Christian faith as set out in its
lineaments by the scriptures and the early authoritative writer-theologians who are called the fathers
of the church. And that is true so far as it goes. But to explain that in detail and in slow motion, as it
were, would have made this book a much heavier theological tome than it should have been; and the
book was meant, from the outset, not to be predominantly theological in character—but rather to
allow the history to make the theological underpinnings clear, according to the principles sketched
out in the opening chapters, where the relation of history to theology was discussed in greater detail
(how the church sees its passage through time as “salvation history”).
Even so, this creed, issued in one of the most critical moments of the church, the Arian
controversy, was published at the Council of Nicaea in 325 and was meant to stand as a quintessential
statement of what catholic, apostolic, orthodox Christianity amounts to. It has stood the test of time
as, perhaps, the sharpest and clearest summation of exactly what the Orthodox faith states. Adding to
it here, along with a few commentary remarks, may allow it to be more clearly seen that for Eastern
Orthodoxy, Christian faith is not expressed by scripture to which patristic theology is then added on;
rather, patristic theology (the writings of the fathers and bishops assembled at the Ecumenical
Councils) is itself inseparable from the scriptures, since it was from the outset meant to be nothing
more than a commentary upon them. Every statement in this creed (including the one reference to
Homoousion, which has often been said to be nonscriptural but isn’t) is quite clearly either a
paraphrastic digest of evangelical scripture, an allusion to a verse, or a direct quotation from one. The
Orthodox, like the Roman Catholics and Episcopalians, have recited this creed for centuries past at
every Sunday Eucharist to give voice to that sense of catholic identity. Its cardinal nature as a
summation of the apostolic Orthodox faith explains why it is added here. The original text as used
here can be found in Tanner, Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, volume 1.
1. The Synod at Nikaia set forth this creed.
The functional purpose and motive of the whole enterprise—the Economy (Oikonomia) of salvation.
Ancient thought turns largely on the distinction between Theologia and Oikonomia. The creed can
fruitfully be charted in the way its premises begin from theologia—speaking about the ineffable
mystery of God—and explain what that paradox might mean by its epiphany in oikonomia (God as
revealed and spoken of within human limited history, thought, and language). Creation thus becomes
the foundational pattern for theology; and soteriology (the understanding of what salvation means)
becomes the foundational pattern (type) for Christology. In this way the creed deliberately sets out to
restate basic scriptural principles of theology (revealed doctrine of God) in a Greek propositional
style for the wider Gentile world that has been educated in a Hellenistic (syllogistic) culture.
2. This is the Ekthesis (formal statement) of the Synod at Nikaia.
This, above, is the Proem of the Acts of the Council of Chalcedon, 451, which cites the creed of 325
as its chief authority after scripture.
3. We believe in (pistevomen) One God
What we render as “believe in” is more accurately contextualized in its New Testament usage as:
have trust in; rely on; or make our stand by. It alerts us to the most probable use of this whole creedal
text (at least in its embryonic stage) as a baptismal creed. But the creedal elements seem to belong
only to lines 3–6, 15, 17–19, 21–23, and perhaps 24. For the remaining lines, we can note the extent
of the dittography of asseverance (saying things twice for emphasis), which is probably a result of the
ethos of crisis attending the council of 325. So altogether we should note three timeline elements in
this creed: a second-century confessional (baptismal) prayer derived from the scriptures; a third-
century reassertion using the baptismal confession as a statement probably against the Gnostics (see
especially the opening verses about the Father’s relation to his creation); and lastly a fourth-century
conciliar reuse of the creed as a traditionalist statement in face of perceived heretical innovations of
the school of Lucian in Antioch, the theological teacher of Arius of Alexandria who had sparked the
controversy that immediately occasioned the Council of Nicaea.
4. The Father, All-Powerful Master (Pantokrator),
The Father-God is identified as the Lord of all power: that is, in charge of what happens on this earth
—not just a random victim of other forces of chaos and evil. The line is a condensed restatement of
the New Testament doctrine of the Kingdom, as seen, for example, in Ephesians 1.11. It refutes the
Gnostic doctrines that suggested a good god was constantly struggling for supremacy in this world
order with numerous other evil gods, or numinous forces (such as the Demiurge).
5. The Maker of things that are visible and invisible;
This is now the third restatement, in a short space of time, of the same basic point: namely, a triple
denial of the fundamental Gnostic belief system that a good god could not possibly have made this
visible world. The conciliar fathers state the biblical theology that God is Father of a good creation
and thus Lord of all angelic powers as well as mortals (cf. Eph. 1.4–5 and 20–23; Phil. 2.9–11; and
Col. 1.15–20). The evil powers (daimones) are under his sway, as are the good spiritual forces. The
Kingdom of God, as described throughout the New Testament, involves a certain unfinished warfare
for the ascendancy of the good on earth (and in heaven), but God the Father is shepherding the good
to an ultimate victory. These expressions, here based on the late Pauline creeds in the Pastoral
Letters, are the late first- and early second-century embryos for what we see developed as the Nicene
substrate for the creed’s doctrine of Christ’s salvific power.
 The relation of how the Savior (who is sequentially identified from New Testament authorities
via his titles as Ikon/Lord/Christ/Beloved/Exalted One/Beginning/Firstborn) stands in reference to
the angelic powers is a crucial aspect of the conception of the victory of God over cosmic powers. In
short, the intellectual movement from angelology to the conception of the Son’s unique relation to the
Father was central to the patristic answer to Gnostic subordinationist theology and was seen as
crucial to the necessary restatement of New Testament Kingdom theology in the Greek world of the
next generation after the apostles. This very ancient, structured apologetic is what Nicaea retains
here, and reasserts, as its doctrinal substrate. One can see the importance of the Christological titles
used here in the biblical texts underlying the creed both at this point and in what follows throughout.
The creedal rhythm of the move from title to title is very illustrative.
6. And in One Lord Jesus Christ,
This restates the quintessence of New Testament confession about the person of Jesus (cf. Mt. 23.10;
Jn. 10.30; Rom. 5.17–21; Rom. 10. 8–13; 1 Cor. 8.6). As Paul taught, “No one can confess Jesus as
Lord (Kyrios) except in the Holy Spirit” (1 Cor. 12.3).
7. The Only Begotten (Monogene) Son of God,
This Christological affirmation is logically extrapolated from the naming of God as Father. The One
God is entitled Father and then Maker-Lord. Jesus Christ is first entitled Lord and then Son, and thus
the twin titles reflect those of the Father chiasmically—a Greek literary device that pairs statements
as in a mirror. The titles begin to accumulate in the following lines to a total of six: Son, Lord, Christ,
Only Begotten, God, Light. Two of these are repeated twice (God, Son), and then the sonship image
is used as an explication of the divine status in what are evidently fourth-century philosophical
glosses (begotten of the being, born not created, a status of co-being with the Father). The title list,
therefore, shows how the argument turns on the notion of what the term Son of God actually and
precisely means. Does it mean that Jesus is just a heavenly power (in the way the Old Testament used
the concept) or does it mean that he is God? This section of the creed is a careful and closely argued
exegesis of scripture defending and confessing the divinity of the Son: he is Lord, not simply servant.
He is God, but not the Father. Divine, and not a creature.
8. Begotten of the Father,
This phrase now prioritizes the Fourth Gospel’s theology of the Only Begotten Son (Monogenes)
following the Alexandrian Church’s tradition (first seen in the Commentary on John by Origen and
taken up by most of the archbishops of his native church after his time) of allowing Johannine
Christology to be the main interpretive lens of the rest of the New Testament teachings on Jesus.
9. That is, of the being (Ousia) of the Father
The phrase “the being—from God” (ek tes ousias) was not generally received as the same teaching
(at least at this period) as the “sameness or identity of being, as God” (tautotes ousias)—which
Athanasius of Alexandria would later argue for as the intended meaning of Nicaea and as a better
elucidation of the truth than the mere word “homoousion” (“selfsame being as”). The phrase is
inserted here by the council fathers as a powerful supplementary commentary (or elucidation) of line
8, and as such is a supportive biblical exegesis. It is, therefore, not really correct to describe the
homoousion of line 14, as has often been repeated, as the first nonbiblical term ever to enter Christian
confession. Homoousion is certainly a philosophically precise keyword but is used by the bishops,
even when this insertion was insisted upon by the Constantinian court, in the traditional mode of
biblical exegesis. As to the meaning of the “Out of the being of the Father” (ek tes ousias) in situ: is it
to be sought in philosophy or scripture? Does it mean identity of essence? Or insist on the real
connotation of the image of divine paternity and sonship? This is a major issue of interpretation and
the key to understanding the entire Arian controversy of the fourth century. There is no doubt,
however, that the council fathers meant this line to insist on the reality of the divine sonship, as
against Arius’s nominal or honorific interpretation of the subordinate sonship. There is also no doubt
that they already intended line 14 to be the correct elucidation of the scripturally rooted lines 8 and 9.
This is seen in the manner in which lines 10 through 13 serve as a crescendo of statements as to the
divine stature of the Word of God, leading on directly, after line 15, to the Word’s salvific role in
creation and the restoration of that damaged creation (the Redemption worked within history by
means of the Incarnation).
10. God from God,
This dramatically and succinctly restates the Johannine teaching of the divine Word (Jn. 1) who
comes “from God” (Jn. 6.46; 7.17; 8.42; 13.3; 16.30).
11. Light from Light,
The line that follows 11 is meant as an explication of it, particularly how this doctrine does not imply
there must be two gods. Light emits from Light and is not separate, nor different, from it: but one and
the same energy. The analogy of light from light, or the Sun and its radiance, had been in use from
the New Testament modeling of the idea in John’s Gospel, right through the second- and third-
century theologians, as one of the oldest images explaining the trinitarian relationships (cf. Jn. 1.9;
8.12; 9.5; 12.36; 12.46; 1 Jn.1.5; Rev.22.5). It had become a standard trope already for the second-
century theologians.
12. True God from True God,
Yet again the conciliar fathers are making clear, in the third of this triplet of restatements about the
manner in which the Word issues from the Father’s begetting, that the relation of Son to Father is not
as an independent deity in the style of the pagan lesser gods subordinate to the higher gods: gods
from God. Rather, the bishops insist that the deity of the Father himself is in the Son: not any other
deity. Thus there are not two Gods. The deity of the Son is within that of the Father who begets him.
It is the Son’s hypostasis (or personal instantiation), which is distinct from the Father, not his essence,
since that is the selfsame being of the Father, and it is thus divine, exactly as the Father’s is, since it is
one and the same.
13. Begotten (gennethenta) not made (poiethenta),
The conciliar fathers return time and again, by obvious preference, to the concept of the Son and his
relation to the Father, rather than to the Logos theology preferred by the third-century theologians.
The two systems (Son language and Logos language) will soon merge synonymously, but the creed
prefers the wider New Testament sense of sonship and applies to it the metaphysical terms elaborated
by the Logos theologians: thus synthesizing for all later Christian ages the Johannine and Pauline
Christologies of the New Testament. The phrase here directly attacks Arius’s Christology, which
taught that the Word of God was the first creature of the Father and that “there was a time when he
was not.” It thus makes a profound distinction between begetting and creating, which Arian thought
had rendered synonymous. It also reserves the concept of the Father’s begetting as a special
revelation: the Son of God is Son in a different way to the manner in which his disciples and
believers become sons by adoption. He is the “natural” son: his begetting is a scriptural way of
connoting his essential relationship (in terms of being and nature) with God the Father.
14. The same in being (homoousios) as the Father;
Athanasius the Great, the staunchest defender of the Nicene Creed, would later press for a
clarification of this famous phrase, to which many objected: not only the Arians but also those whom
Athanasius regarded as friends of the faith. He would press for the meaning of this, as the Son has the
selfsame essence as the Father (or the Son is uniquely gifted the Father’s being from the Father
himself, as Gregory the Theologian would later explicate it). So eventually, Athanasius came to
prefer the phrase “identity of essence” (tautotes tes ousias) rather than the homoousion; even so he
found the homoousion to be an invaluable term as a single, simple, summation of all that Nicene
Orthodoxy stood for: the profession of the full divinity of the Son of God. As in Athanasius’s day this
single word served as a rock against which all attempts to subordinate the Son to the status of a
servant messenger foundered and sank. It is to this day the catchword of Orthodoxy and the flagpole
around which the faith of Nicaea flies as a standard.
15. And through him all things came to be (egeneto),
The statements revert, after this introduction of homoousion to more explicit restatements of New
Testament Christology (see 1 Cor. 8.6; also Jn. 1.2; Col. 1.15).
16. Things in Heaven, and things on earth.
The line clarifies and parallels the line above it, now referring to the Son-Word’s role in restoring
creation. Accordingly, it explains the person of the Son in a parallel way to how it spoke about the
Father-Creator beginning in lines 4 and 5. The Oneness of the Father-God, who is the Creator of all
things, embraces the divine Son, who serves as the agent of this God’s creation: the relationship
being as much one as that of will and act. These lines suggest that the economy of the Son mirrors
that of the Father, since the Son is the exact mirror (ikon, or image) of the Father. The overall concept
is dependent on the hymn to Christ’s work restoring the Creation in Colossians 1.15–16.
17. For us humans (anthropous) and for the sake of our salvation (soterian)
The creed now turns from the metaphysical, timeless, relations of God the Son-Word and the Father,
to the role the Son played within time and space: that is, within the historic order subsequent to his
incarnation as man. This sets the metaphysical Christology within its proper New Testament context:
explicating salvation brought by Christ—the Economy of Salvation (Oikonomia tes soterias). As I
have noted, almost all ancient Christian thought turns on the distinction between Theologia and
Oikonomia. The first is the divine mystery, timeless and transcendent, and not open to human
speculation: how God is in Himself. The second is how God reveals himself and his acts in history
and through material forms: how God appears to us. The creed can clearly be seen to begin its
statements from theologia and then go on from here to explain that ineffable mystery by its
articulated and visible epiphany in the oikonomia of Christ’s acts of salvation. Creation thus becomes
the foundational pattern for theology. Soteriology becomes the foundational pattern (type) for
Christology. In this way the creed exemplifies basic scriptural principles of theology (revealed
doctrine of God).
18. He came down (katelthonta)
The verb “coming down” reflects the biblical doctrine of the synkatabasis of God to Israel—his
stooping down in pity. It is a divine term related to the act of compassionate salvation. The one who
does this is thus given (in epiphany) as Soter, or Savior. This was the ultimate divine title for
Hellenistic late antiquity, which here has been seamlessly translated into biblical terminology. Some,
such as Harnack, have criticized this as the regrettable Hellenization of Christianity, but the Orthodox
theologian Father Georges Florovsky memorably corrected him when he described it instead as the
Christianization of Hellenism. In this way the church adopted the language of incarnation while
carefully avoiding the many Hellenistic parallels of the stories of the enfleshed gods or the “divine
men” that were common currency at the time. Christian incarnational theology has never shared that
pagan imagined world of the avatar but has always been guided by the New Testament language
about the humility of the Son of God, who, although he was Lord by nature, assumed the lowly status
of a slave to serve and redeem humanity, through the Cross. Once again the creed reuses the New
Testament terms in its theology (cf. Jn. 3.13; Jn. 6.51; Eph. 4.10).
19. And was incarnate (sarkothenta),
The conciliar fathers describe the act of redemption as proceeding from the descent of the Word, his
merciful stooping down to earth, in the two lines that follow, using two distinct but related images.
The first, here, is incarnation, or “putting on flesh.” This follows the scriptural lead of John 1.4, 1
John 4.2, 1 Timothy 3.16, and 1 Peter 4.1. But in the early decades of the fourth century, immediately
preceding the Arian dispute, some theologians had stressed an archaic view to rebuff Arius, arguing
that Jesus’s flesh was only a nominal reality; because they felt that if Christ had fully entered into
human life, he would have compromised the transcendence of the Trinity. To rebuke this
development the Fathers offer the next line as a qualifier of what the term incarnation means for the
Church.
20. Being made man (enanthropesanta),
The descent into history is not a mere appearance of enfleshment, or a temporary visitation like an
avatar’s, but a real entrance by the Transcendent Word into the human condition: not only becoming
flesh but also becoming man, with all that involves: fear, weakness, tears, sweat, and ultimately
death. This apparent weakness of the Word Incarnate was a stumbling block to many ancient
thinkers. It was, in a certain sense, anathema both to Jewish and to Hellenistic ideas about God, and
Christianity was swimming strongly against the tide of all theological thought here. Arius had found
in the New Testament teaching of the Passion of Jesus the strongest of his arguments against the
Lord’s personal divinity: for him, surely God could not allow himself to suffer such things? The
conciliar fathers, instead of trying to avoid that scandal, embrace the paradox. The weakness of
Christ, his humility, his suffering, is, in fact, his glory. Like Paul (Gal. 6.14), the fathers make their
boast in the Cross. Athanasius spent many years, following the council of Nicaea, arguing how the
adoption of humanity by the divine Word was the essential act of the redemption: the master strategy,
of which the various other acts (teaching, suffering, dying, rising) were but the various scenes. He
summated that understanding in adapting a famous phrase of the second-century theologian Irenaeus
of Lyons, when he said: “He (the Word) became Man, so that Man might become god” (Athanasius.
On the Incarnation, 54.3). The incarnation of the Lord was intended to bring fallen humanity (now
chained to death and corruption) into the divine life by the exchange of grace. This approach to
salvation theology has been called “deification by grace” (theiopoiesis kata charin) and is very
frequently found in later Orthodox thinkers.
21. He suffered, and on the third day he rose up (anastanta),
Lines 21–24 and following are notably devoid of dittography or any form of scholiast commentary.
They were evidently felt to be either unarguable or not at the controversial center of the debate. The
creed here quietly but carefully insists that the same personal subject of the suffering (namely, the
Christ in his Passion) is the one who has been governing all the previous sentences: in other words,
that the selfsame Son of God has both a transcendent and an immanent life. The Incarnation,
therefore, and all the acts of the Incarnate One are just as much divine actions as his eternal agency in
making the world. The selfsame person is thus immortal and mortal; is Lord and servant; is God and
man. The single “he” of the subject has united divinity and humanity in himself through the
Incarnation, inaugurated for the sake of remaking the human race: and thus the Resurrection is the
symbol of that renewal; not only of the life of Jesus but of the human race itself as well.
22. And he ascended (anelthonta) into heaven.
The scheme of this descent into humility and suffering and return, not just to life but to Lordly
exaltation and heavenly glory (Jn. 3.13; Jn. 20.17; Lk. 24.51; Acts 1.9), adopts the structure of
descent, humility, exaltation, and glory found in the deep Pauline hymn to the redemption (which is
pre-Pauline insofar as Paul himself seems to quote it rather than write it) in Philippians 2.5–11.
23. Who is coming to judge (krinai) both the living and the dead.
The creed states the last act of the Redemption to be the Final Judgment (2 Cor. 5.10; Mt. 13.41; Mt.
16.27; Mt. 26.64).
24. And [we believe] in the Holy Spirit.
The creed, then, has three main sections: the first deals with the doctrine of the Father-Pantokrator
(lines 3–5), then the doctrine of the Son of God and his redemptive work is expounded (lines 6–23),
and then line 24 finishes up with the doctrine of the Holy Spirit. It is abundantly clear that the section
on the Son of God and his salvation has expanded immensely in comparison to the other two
statements about Father and Spirit. The Council(s) of Constantinople in 381–382 would further
elaborate the clauses concerning the Holy Spirit, which were felt to be essential statements of the
apostolic doctrine—just as the Nicene Creed here has elaborated Christological statements.
Accordingly, the Constantinopolitan creed simply added a few phrases on to the earlier creed and did
not consider that it had altered it: though it did explicate what belief in the Holy Spirit meant, in
terms of the titles of the Holy Spirit taken from the scriptures (that he is the Lord and Life-Giver; that
he proceeds from the Father; that he is worshipped and glorified [as God] along with the Father and
the Son; and that [in the scriptures] he has spoken through the prophets). This sense of the
Constantinopolitan fathers that they had not departed from the meaning of the Nicene Creed explains
the peculiarity that when Christians today say they are reciting the Nicene Creed they actually recite
the creed of 381–382, not that of 325. The very sharp economy of language we find here in the
original Nicene Creed’s reference to the Holy Spirit reflects a strong reluctance in the earliest ages of
Christianity to speak at all of the work of the Holy Spirit. This doctrine (of the Spirit’s divine work in
the heart of a believer) was reserved by the ancient bishops for the baptismal candidates only at the
time of their baptism, and then they were told most strictly that this was something to be kept secret
by them from the scrutiny of those not of the faith (arcana sacra). So, only part of the confession of
faith was regarded as public, or usable in the preaching offered to potential converts. To this day most
of what the church believes about the Holy Spirit is still outside the creedal medium and is found
elsewhere in Christian tradition—such as in the liturgical texts or the spiritual doctrines of the saints.
Nicaea is content with the barest of scriptural affirmations about the Spirit (cf. Mt. 28.19).

[THE NICENE ANATHEMATA—THE EXPLICIT DENUNCIATIONS OF ARIAN THOUGHT]

25. Whosoever shall say that “there was a time when he [The Son of God] was not” (en pote
oti ouk en);
26. And that “before he was begotten he was not” (prin gennethenta ouk en);
27. And that “he was made of things that once were not” (ex ouk onton egeneto);
28. Or that he is of a different hypostasis or essence (heteras hypostaseos e ousias);
29. Saying that the Son of God is either subject to change or alteration (trepton e alloioton);
30. Such people the Catholic and Apostolic Church anathematizes.
Lines 25–30 isolate six main propositions of the Arian movement against which the creed has been
erected as a counter-teaching (dogma). To make sure that there is no room for doubt, the major
positions of Arian Christology are named and rejected explicitly—but they are not addressed directly
in the creed, so as to make very clear the distinction between syllogisms of heretical thought and the
confession of the apostolic tradition. The former can be stated but never confessed. The latter can
only be confessed in prayer. The implication here is that these six Arian propositions contradict the
core and patent sense of the church’s confession, as stated in lines 6–23 of the creed. For a thing to be
anathema meant (originally) that it was so sacred it was untouchable. By the Christian period the
word “anathema” had become a technical term for something excommunicate, or sacrilegious and
worthy of expulsion from the elect body of believers. This is the first formal, international, Christian
statement that deviance in belief can be, if sufficiently extensive on central matters, enough to
separate dissidents from any claim to catholicity or apostolicity—ancient terms for universally
recognized harmony with the apostolic (that is, the biblical) faith. This is why the Nicene Creed has
become, and remains, the touchstone of Orthodoxy: the defining charter of the Orthodox Church and
all those Christians who seek to live out the catholic (universal) apostolic tradition, to this day.
 Notes

PRELUDE. THE NAMING OF PARTS

1. I always registered the same point of order when any faculty member complained of confused
processes of government using the pejorative adjective “Byzantine.” I habitually commented on how
much more efficiently organized the Byzantine palace was than our modern universities.
2. Held between 325 and 787, when Latin Christianity and Byzantine Christianity were still one
undivided tradition, to establish the main features of what ought to be held doctrinally by the catholic
and apostolic church internationally.
3. The Orthodox happily acknowledge plurality of churches in the Orthodox communion (such as
the Greek, Russian, Romanian, Serbian, and so on) in the singularity of being the Orthodox Church.
Equally, all local Orthodox churches (a church family unit of the faithful under their central ruling
bishop and his council of eucharistically presiding presbyters) share in the full identity of church at
the local level and thus supply their communal identity as Universal Church. The local church is not
a branch of a greater corporation in Orthodox theology, like a high-street branch of a national bank: it
is the Universal Church in all its fullness and authenticity. But it is more than merely local and
expresses its universality by commonality of faith and doctrine with all the other local churches: a
unity that is personified and symbolized by its communion with its presiding bishop, and his, in turn,
with the national synod to which he belongs, and that synod’s, in turn, with the supranational synods
of all the different national churches. At root, this issue of exemplifying wholeness locally, and
demonstrating communion in universality, is an aspect of the eucharistic communion of worship that
the church shares through the presiding eucharistic office of the local bishop.
4. The pagan persecutions had divided the church members into hostile camps, some maintaining
that if a Christian denied Christ to save his or her life, he or she could not be readmitted to
communion; others arguing that the church had to be the locus of active reconciliation if it was to
remain faithful to its core mission.
5. By apostolic age Orthodoxy means the age of Jesus and the apostles, continuing through the
New Testament era. It considers the bishops to be established in the second period of church
development (as witnessed especially in the pastoral Epistles of the New Testament and the so-called
apostolic fathers) as the inheritors of the apostolic charism, and thus of the teaching authority that
went with that charism. Orthodoxy sees the apostolicity of the bishops as demonstrated by the
corporate collegial communion of all the bishops—in synodical harmony of faith and practice. No
bishop singly, however senior he may be, carries this apostolic weight personally: all bishops do so in
communion. This synodical system of checks and balances to the exercise of charismatic authority in
the church has always meant that Orthodoxy has put collegiality and the consensus of communion at
the core of church identity and coherence.
6. “Ecumenical” is from the Greek word that means “worldwide” (oecumene) and implied both
that the councils had global representation (in effect, this meant representation, theoretically, from
across the entire Roman Empire) and worldwide applicability for all Christians.
7. Shaliachim is Hebraic for “delegates sent out.” The term strongly implies people sent out as
emissaries commissioned with full authority to represent the one who sent them. The word “apostle”
derives from the Greek verb apostello: “I send out.”
8. The Gospels, probably because they were addressing, in Greek, an increasingly Gentile
audience, try to stress every incident where Jesus approaches, or helps, a non-Jew (the Gadarene
demoniac, the Syro-Phoenician woman, the centurion with the sick servant are highlighted
examples); but the fact remains clear enough that Jesus saw his mission before the Passion and
Crucifixion as quintessentially addressed to the Jews, as a call to repentance and renovation of the
covenant. The New Testament writings consider the mission extended to non-Jews as an aspect of the
postresurrectional grace of the Christ who is exalted to be universal Lord, now including of the
Gentile world.
9. The wider assembly of New Testament writers are regarded as apostles in Orthodox tradition—
extending the sense of apostolicity and apostolic authority throughout the New Testament considered
as a whole, and as the authoritative (but not the sole) representation of fundamental Christian
tradition. The English word “church” actually means “congregation.” It is derived from the Hebrew
qahal. The Greek word used in the ancient Septuagintal (LXX) translation of the Hebrew scriptures
is ekklesia—“the [group] that is called out.” This was adopted in the Latin language too, and gives us
the adjective “ecclesiastical.”
10. For a more detailed analysis of Transfiguration see McGuckin, The Transfiguration of Christ.
11. This and almost all other scriptural quotations in this book are taken from the Revised
Standard Version.
12. Acts, the first account of Christianity by an ancient church historian, namely, Saint Luke,
gives us a representative model of the post-Pentecostal preaching mission (Acts 2.14–40). It
attributes it to Kephas-Peter. This is technically known as the earliest example of Christian
missionary kerygma.
13. The Orthodox Church has kept this clear in its official title, “the Holy Orthodox Catholic
Apostolic Church of the East.”
14. See McGuckin, The Orthodox Church.
15. The publisher’s blurb ridiculously adds: “The first comprehensive determination of what
Jesus was, what he did, what he said.” The quest had already been in process at that stage for over
two centuries.
16. Hypostatic comes from the Greek hypostasis, meaning a “personal underlying subsistence.”
The church used the term to signify that the union of divine and human reality in Jesus was centered
in his divine hypostasis as Second Person of the Trinity (the Logos), and this singleness of
personhood presided over his unification of the two natures of Godhead and Manhood.
17. Further see McGuckin, “Quest of the Historical Jesus,” pp. 587–589.

CHAPTER 1. ECCLESIAL FOUNDATIONS

 1. Which would therefore make this part of the Gospel the earliest recorded “apostolic” sermon
on record. Its moral context (paranesis—or exhortation under duress) seems to reflect an era of
persecution and the threat of confiscation of goods, which would match the conditions of the imperial
persecutions.
2. Volume 1 bookends (The Sign of John the Baptist) are Mk. 1.1–8 and Mk. 6.16–29; volume 2
bookends (The Sign of Loaves) are Mk. 6.30–44 and Mk. 8.14–21; volume 3 bookends (The Sign of
Blind Men) are Mk. 8.22–26 and Mk. 10.46–52; volume 4 bookends (The Sign of the Fig Tree and
Temple) are Mk. 11.1–25 and Mk. 13.28–37; volume 5 bookends (The Sign of the Anointing) are
Mk. 14.1–9 and Mk. 16.1–8.
3. One remembers that in the first century there were as yet no codices (bound books), only
scrolls; that the Gospel of Mark would appear as a mini wallpaper roll about forty-five feet long,
consisting of one long word with no sentence or word divisions and no punctuation. There were as
yet no chapter or verse divisions. Readers needed division guides within the text. Archbishop
Stephen Langton first made up chapter numbers to the scripture as a way of making external-ready
reference in 1227. Rabbi Nathan is believed to have added the verse numbers to the Old Testament in
1448. Robertus Stephanus, the Genevan printer, is the first to have added made-up verse numbers, in
his 1551 New Testament, incorporating Nathan’s work into his O.T. text.
4. The Pentateuch is the title of the first five books of the Old Testament, in which the ancient
Jews believed the whole substance of the Torah was contained.
5. Lk. 9.30–31. In some English versions of the Greek text the word “Exodus” (with its obvious
Christological implications) is obscured by the wooden translation “departure.” The evangelist meant
to draw a direct line of connection between “The” Exodus (God’s act of salvation of Israel bringing
them to the Promised Land) and Jesus’s new Exodus—his death and ascension (departure from this
world to Paradise, which he had now opened to his church).
6. See further, for example, two classic studies: (a) Oscar Cullmann, Christus und die Zeit
(Zurich: Evangelisches, 1946; trans. F. V. Filson, Louisville, Ky.: WJK Press, 1964); (b) H.
Conzelmann, Die mitte der Zeit (Tubingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1954; woodenly translated into English as
The Theology of St. Luke). See also: H. J. Cadbury, “Some Lukan Expressions of Time (Lexical
Notes on Luke-Acts VII),” Journal of Biblical Literature, vol. 82, no. 3 (Sept. 1963): pp. 272–278. A
good synopsis of the way Luke uses the issue of time and its fulfillment in his Gospel is offered by I.
H. Marshall, Luke: Historian and Theologian (Exeter: Paternoster Press, 1970), pp. 77–102.
7. Which might also include parts of the Gospel of Thomas.
8. Theologians such as Clement of Rome, Ignatius of Antioch, Polycarp of Smyrna, Papias of
Hierapolis, and the writers of the ancient texts: Shepherd of Hermas, Didache, Letter of Barnabas,
and Letter to Diognetus.
9. The Western Catholic world traditionally elevated scripture and tradition as two sources of
revelation, while the Reformed traditions tended to see only scripture as revelation, and tradition as at
best an unreliable testimony to it.
10. Paradosis is not, of course, to be confused with any traditionalist or traditionally held belief.
Further see: McGuckin, “Eschaton and Kerygma,” pp. 225–271. The Sacred Tradition of Revelation
then went from the New Testament back to the Old Testament texts as well—but only (for the
church) insofar as these are read as themselves being an exegesis, or a foreshadowing, of the Christ-
Mystery, since all things in revelation are seen as Christocentric. For a fuller expression of the
tradition see Florovsky, Bible, Church, Tradition; Meyendorff, Living Tradition; McGuckin,
“Eschaton and Kerygma,” pp. 90–119.
11. Lk. 4.43; Lk. 8.1; Lk. 17.20–21; Mk. 1.15; Mt. 12.28.
12. This world era is called “This Age” to distinguish it from the time when God would fully
reveal his power in a definitive judgment against world evil, which is called “the Next Age.” The
scheme is commonly used in late prophetic writing. In the canonical scriptures it is most evidently
seen in the book of Daniel.
13. Schweitzer, The Quest for the Historical Jesus, first issued 1906; English translation 1910.
Messianic apocalypticism is a radical form of the eschatological medium, focusing on destructive
images of “rolling up the scroll of history” to convey the revelation (Greek: apokalypsis) that the
world was coming to an imminent end.
14. Mk. 2.5–7; Mk. 2.17; Mk. 6.12; Lk. 5.32; Lk. 15.7; Lk. 24.47.
15. The miracle traditions written about Jesus deliberately reflect the Elijah-Elisha cycle of the
Old Testament, for example.
16. A useful summation of the issue is given in Thorsteinsson, Jesus as Philosopher.
17. Compare Smith, Jesus the Magician (New York: Collins, 1978).
18. It is in the teaching that reconciliation is freely given by God and does not require great labor
and transactional sacrifice to ensure that the political sparks flew. One does not execute a poet for
teaching that the lilies of the field are more lovely than Solomon. But one who challenges the
political and financial ascendancy of the Jewish priestly aristocracy runs a dangerous course. Further
see McGuckin, “Sacrifice and Atonement.”
19. For Shaliach, Jn. 4.34; 5.24; 5.30; 5.36–37; 6.38–39; 6.44; 6.57; 7.16; 7.28–29; 7.33; 8.16–
18; 8.26; 8.29; 8.42; 9.4; 12.44–45, 12.49; 14.24; 15.21; 16.5; 17.21. For shaliachim, Jn. 13.20;
17.23–25; 20.21; Mt. 10.40; Mk. 9.37; Lk. 9.48; Lk. 10.16.
20. Gender-inclusive language, which we value today, ought not to distract us from the deeper
significance of the New Testament idea that Christ’s glorification makes men and women “Sons of
God,” as Paul expressed it (Rom. 8.14, 19; Gal. 3.26); the title “Son of God” is not gender restricted
in the scriptural idiom but connotes an angel. It is a transcendental promise of radical transfiguration
of nature, not a gendered concept.
21. The fathers of the church use the term “anakephalaiosis,” or recapitulation, to convey this
mystery of how the church lives and breathes within Christ’s mission; summating the purpose of
history in the glorification of God.
22. Sovereignty, Power, and Domination are titles of angelic hierarchies.
23. The church spread quickly through shipping and trade to many coastal cities in late antiquity.
24. Hagiography entails the lives of the saints written for edification and instruction.
25. “Ecumenical” is the Greek word for worldwide, meaning that representatives of truly
international bishops were called, and the matters they had to adjudicate were felt to be of a
significance that affected the whole Christian world. The Ecumenical Synods were modeled on
meetings of the Senate. The Christian emperor had the right to summon one and dismiss it, and then
bring its decisions into force of Roman law, after the fourth century. He had no power to direct its
business once opened, however, as only bishops were allowed to adjudicate matters of faith and
worship—and they were expected to come to a unanimous decision on everything of substance. I
look more closely at their working in a later chapter.
26. Later known as the Docetic heresy: Jesus only “seemed” human.
27. The hypothesis was adopted wholesale and was widely propagated in English-speaking
Protestantism by C. H. Dodd in his 1936 study, The Apostolic Preaching and Its Development.

CHAPTER 2. SHAPING ORTHODOXY, MAPPING HERESY

1. Individuals such as Irenaeus, Polycarp, Tatian, Justin, Athenagoras of Athens, Melito of Sardis,
Clement of Alexandria, Tertullian, Theophilus of Antioch, and Hippolytus of Rome. Further see Mc-
Guckin, The Path of Christianity, pp. 3–89.
 2. The Greek and Latin churches would retain their essential unity for the first thousand years of
Christian history.
3. “Prescription” is a legal term that means that only those belonging to a corporation have the
right to speak for it. Tertullian argues that heretics do not properly belong to the church and therefore
cannot theologize or legislate in its name.
4. Its integral catholicity. Orthodoxy has, by definition, to be the catholic faith. As the Greek
Nicene creed would later put it, the church has to be one holy catholic and apostolic: Mia hagia
katholike kai apostolike.
5. Marcion was the son of a wealthy bishop (who reportedly had already excommunicated him
for his teachings) before he made his way to Rome and made a name for himself there.
6. The letters include, e.g., 1 Cor. 11.19; 2 Pet. 3.15–17; 1 Jn. 2. 18–19; 1 Jn. 4.1–3; 2 Jn. 1.7–11;
Jude 1.17–19; 1 Tim. 1. 3–4,6; 1 Tim. 4.1–3, 7; 1 Tim. 6.20–21.
7. The text survives as Dialogue with Trypho. It can be accessed on the website of Peter Kirby,
Early Christian Writings: http://www.earlychristianwritings.com/text/justinmartyr-
dialoguetrypho.html.
8. Especially as the establishment of catholic consensus. Further on the significance of Law for
Christians (who approach it in very different ways to the Jewish understanding of Law) see
McGuckin, The Ascent of Christian Law, pp. 1–76.
9. Tertullian, On the Prescription of Heretics, 7.2–4. “The Portico of Solomon” is a pun
contrasting Solomon’s portico (the Temple of God) with the “Painted Portico,” another word for the
Stoic school. “Handed down” refers to Wisd. of Sol. 1.1.
10. Subordinationism is the notion that the Son of God was not quite the same level of divinity as
God the Father.
11. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” would be Ps. 22 in most modern English
bibles. The Orthodox Church always cites the scripture from the Septuagint (ancient Greek) version,
which often differs in one psalm number from the Hebrew numerations adopted by the Protestant
world after the Reformation era.
12. “Secret” is “mystical” in Greek.
13. There were some exceptions to literal and moral readings, the most notable being those of
Philo of Alexandria, whom the Christian fathers much admired for his Logo-centric reading of texts.
14. For more detail see McGuckin, Collected Studies, vol. 1., pp. 241–265.
15. For a literal sense, consider, for example, God’s command to Moses and Joshua to slaughter
all the tribe of Amalek (Exod. 17.13–16), or the peculiar incident when God apparently tries to kill
Moses in a lodging house (Exod. 4.24). In a symbolic sense, Amalek, for example, is taken by the
fathers of the church to be a cipher for evil: the task of Israel to root out Amalek thus becomes a
foreshadowing of the role of the church to teach universal morality.
16. Origen, Homily on Leviticus, 7.5; On First Principles, 4.2.9; 4.3.4. It was an interpretative
principle about sacred literature first enunciated by Xenophanes, then taken up by Plato and Philo
before him.
17. Athanasius of Alexandria, On the Incarnation of the Word of God, 57.1–2.
18. See the fine study by Father John Meyendorff, Living Tradition.
19. What follows is a very condensed and abbreviated discussion of complex debates. I have
treated them more extensively in McGuckin, The Path of Christianity, chaps. 1–4.
20. Mt. 16.13–17; Lk. 24.19 and 24.5; Jn. 8.52–58.
21. Mt. 1.22; Mt. 5.17; Mt. 8.17; Mt. 13.17; Mt. 21.4; Jn. 1.45; Acts 3.18, 24; Eph. 2.20.
22. Mt. 13.41; Heb. 1.3–14.
23. For Lord: Mt. 15.22; Mt. 20.33; Mt. 22.43–45; Lk. 1.43; Jn. 11.27; Jn. 13.13; Acts 10.36;
Rom. 14.9; 1 Cor. 8.5–6. For Son of God: Mt. 14.33; Mt. 27.43; Mt. 27.54; Mk. 1.1; Jn. 3.18; Jn.
20.31; Rom. 1.3–4; 1 Jn. 4.15.
24. Phil. 2.8–11; Acts 2.33; Acts 5.30–32; Heb. 7.26.
25. Heb. 2.17; Heb. 4.14–15; Heb. 5.5–10; Heb. 9.11–12, 15; Heb. 12.24; 1 Tim. 2.5; Col. 1.20.
26. Jn. 1.1; Jn. 20.28; Phil. 2.5–11; Col. 1.13–19.
27. For a fuller survey of the early Christian doctrine of the Trinity see McGuckin, “The Trinity
in the Greek Fathers,” Collected Studies, vol. 2, pp. 317–341.
28. The term “synkatabasis” connotes the “stooping down” in mercy, like a mother bending down
to her child.
29. It is this principle of the canonicity of apostolic tradition that gives rise to the derived concept
of the canon of holy scripture, not the other way around as many Protestant theologians have
presumed over the past five hundred years. It precedes the physical act of gathering scriptures
together for use in Christian worship and provides the very impetus for that evangelical momentum.
30. Regula fidei in Latin or kanon pisteos in Greek. The trinitarian-shaped creeds develop as
written examples of this from the late second century onward, though there are already examples of
them in the hymnal pericopes of the New Testament Letters.
31. This was often taken in later ages (especially in the West) to be a matter of a bishop proving
his lineage of ordinational descent. But at first it was far more than that: it was a matter of
demonstrating that one’s theology was in accord with that of the apostles by consonance with that of
other episcopal teachers.
32. A diocese was an administrative political region of the Roman Empire. The early Orthodox
Church simply adopted the pattern of regional, provincial, and international structures operating in its
day but used them to affirm episcopal guidance over local churches; and instead of an imperial
monarchy at the head, it applied a highly collegial and consensual (synodical) model of authoritative
governance among the bishops, which is still followed in the modern-era Orthodox Church.
33. Jesus insists on it in Lk. 6.46–49; Mt. 5.19; Mt. 7.12, 21.
34. Further see Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life.
35. See, for example: Mt. 20–48; 1 Cor. 6–8; Eph. 4–6; Col. 3–4; 1 Pet. 1.13–4.19; 2 Pet. 1.3–11.
36. Rom. 1.7 and passim.
37. The persecutions were exceptionally savage in Africa.
38. Mk. 10.30; Mk. 10.38–39; Mk. 13.9–13; Jn. 15.20; Rom. 8.35–37; 1 Jn. 4.1–3.

CHAPTER 3. THE CLASSICAL PATRISTIC PERIOD

1. I speak, of course, as an ancient historian by profession. Taking the longer view, when the
church is now two millennia old, some would regard the patristic age itself as a kind of innocent
childhood, and the age of maturation and a willingness to adapt and face new challenges as
something the church learns in each and every generation of its historical pilgrimage on earth.
2. Almost all meat bought from ancient urban butchers’ shops had a prelife as sacrifice offerings
in the pagan cults. The butchers’ shops were often sited adjacent to the temples and served as their
retail outlets.
3. Auspices entailed scrutinizing the livers of sacrificed birds to discern the will of the gods and
their future plans. At important political moments (such as declarations of war) it was the duty of the
emperor, acting as supreme high priest of the Roman religion (summus pontifex maximus) to preside
over these religious rites as part of his role as imperator (commander of all the forces) of Rome.
4. From daimones, the lesser, terrestrial, spirits of evil. Even classifying the Roman system of
gods as daimones would be seen as a sacrilegious insult by the pagan establishment.
 5. Mention of the church at Nicomedia is the first time we hear in the records of a large public
building known to all as a Christian church.
6. He was caesar from 296 to 305. This gave him rights of succession as emperor (augustus) of
the West after Diocletian’s abdication. He reigned for a very short time.
7. The garrison’s raising of Constantine took place in what is now the under-crypt at York
Minster in northern England.
8. Galerius had rescinded his anti-Christian policies on his deathbed, but Licinius, who gained
power in the East, was highly suspicious of Christians, whom he regarded as favoring his rival,
Constantine.
9. See Eusebius, Life of Constantine, 1.28; Lactantius, On the Deaths of the Persecutors, 44.
10. It was not, in that context, seen as unusual that a commander in the field should take religious
auspices to forecast the result of a forthcoming battle—and a vision or divine intuition was expected
by the troops.
11. The arch is adjacent to the Roman Colosseum, by the Caelian Hill.
12. The Melitian schism affecting the Church of Alexandria.
13. And thus any dissenters from unanimity would thereby reveal themselves as not being in
accord with the consensus of the apostolic tradition.
14. Today the word “ecumenical” means interdenominational Christian relationships: but
deriving from the Greek oecumene it originally meant a matter that affected or represented the entire
Roman world. After Constantine it meant what was quintessentially Roman and Christian in ethos.
Accordingly, it is clearly a set of refinements elaborating the details of the earlier apostolic tradition.
15. The Orthodox Church is defined by its adherence to the seven Ecumenical Councils as the
core of its doctrine and the highest earthly authority in its constitution. Roman Catholicism holds to
the authenticity of the seven, though it adds on numerous others it has held since the time of its
separation from the Eastern churches. These later councils are not regarded as Ecumenical Councils
by the Orthodox world. The Oriental Orthodox churches hold only to the ecumenicity of the first four
great councils. Anglicanism (in the Book of Common Prayer, for example) holds to all seven while
seeming to dismiss the seventh; and it generally does not attribute to them the same fundamental
significance that they hold in Orthodox and Roman Catholic dogmatics. Reformed Protestantism,
generally, sees the councils as merely historic moments in former ecclesial ages: not inherently
inspired in and of themselves.
16. I would highly recommend as an initial review Davis, The First Seven Ecumenical Councils,
and for a more learned immersion in them, Trostyanskiy, Seven Icons of Christ. Tanner, Decrees of
the Ecumenical Councils, gives the basic texts in English.
17. The creed commonly recited at the eucharists of Orthodox, Roman Catholics, and Anglicans
is actually the creed of the Council of Constantinople in 381, which poses itself as effectively the
same as the Creed of Nicaea of 325. It actually has a few more clauses in it relating to the Holy
Spirit.
18. See the Appendix for a closer summative analysis and commentary on this creed, which still
today is the foundation of all the Orthodox and Catholic churches of Christendom.
19. Gregory of Nazianzus, Oration 21.
20. The Greek fathers (and the Orthodox churches following them) teach that the divine essence,
or ousia, of which the Son was the hypostasis (personal instantiation) was not a generic one but the
particular essence (the proprium of being) belonging to the Father, which the Father thus shares by
gifting it to the Son and to the Spirit, as the single Principle (Arche) of the Trinity.
21. See Hill, Athanasius and the Holy Spirit.
22. It is no coincidence that Athanasius is also called the father of the biblical canon, insofar as he
drew up one of the earliest lists of what ought to be regarded as the core books of revealed scripture.
 23. Nazianzus was in the eastern region of modern-day Turkey. A fuller life and times can be
found in McGuckin, St. Gregory of Nazianzus.
24. The discourses have been called The Five Theological Orations (Orats. 27–31). Because of
his important work Gregory was given the title “the Theologian” by the Ecumenical Council of
Chalcedon in 451.
25. Gregory, Oration 27.3 (First Theological).
26. Gregory, Oration 27.1.
27. Gregory, Oration 28.3 (Second Theological).
28. Gregory, Oration 28.4.
29. Tentatively saying anything about the God who transcends all thought and perception is a
style of theology known as apophatic, or “turning away from talking.” It stands in contrast to the
typical Western style of medieval scholastic theology, which advanced in terms of syllogisms and
deductions. Orthodox thought does not say that nothing can be said of God; it merely points out that
all human speech about the divine is tentative, since God’s essence is entirely unknown, though he
has revealed himself in creation and through history by means of his energies present in the world
and by direct revelation, culminating in the Incarnation of the Christ.
30. The noetic consciousness is seen as the highest level of awareness, when the transcendent
destiny of humankind is personally realized in a mystical apprehension.
31. Gregory, Epistle 101 to Cledonios. Gregory takes the phrase (to develop it more extensively)
from Origen of Alexandria (Dialogue with Heracleides, 7; Com. Matthew, 12.29; Against Celsus,
4.19).
32. The modern word “person,” with its overtones of individual mind and will and separateness,
is not a good translation of this original Greek concept, which meant an instantiation or individuation
of a reality: a “specific presentation” would perhaps be closest.
33. Mother of God is actually Meter Theou in Greek, the older title that is still found on all
Orthodox icons of Mary. Theotokos, or God-birther, however, had a wider take-up among the
Christian faithful, especially Christian women, who looked to her in prayer especially for safe
childbearing. Further see McGuckin, Theotokos.
34. A much fuller analysis of the Council of Ephesus and Saint Cyril’s Christological thought is
offered in McGuckin, St. Cyril of Alexandria.
35. I have elsewhere offered a much more theologically weighted introduction to Orthodoxy. See
McGuckin, The Orthodox Church.

CHAPTER 4. THE BYZANTINE IMPERIAL CHURCH

1. See Origen’s third-century treatise Contra Celsum.
2. See Lactantius’s fourth-century treatise The Divine Institutes.
3. Having a king interfering with church affairs—seen as worse than having a pope doing so. It is
less an accurate historical term of analysis than a late Reformation apologetic concept foisted onto
history, originally as an anti–Roman Catholic argument. Further see McGuckin, The Orthodox
Church, pp. 380–398.
4. For more on care for the poor, see Miller, The Birth of the Hospital.
5. See Gregory the Theologican, Oration 14, On the Love of the Poor. Patrologia Graeca, vol.
35, cols. 857–909. For an analysis see Mc-Guckin, St. Gregory of Nazianzus, 147–155.
6. Further see McGuckin, The Ascent of Christian Law.
7. Further see Eshel, The Concept of the Elect Nation.
 8. The British monarchy is still rooted in the medieval ritual (borrowed from Byzantium) of the
sacredly anointed monarch.
9. Today the Egyptian Church consists of: the Coptic Church, the Ethiopian Tewahedo and
Eritrean churches, the Syrian (Non-Chalcedonian) Orthodox Church, the Armenian Apostolic
Church, and the Malankara Indian Orthodox Church.
10. Decree of the Council of Chalcedon of 451.
11. First under the Rashidun caliphs then under the Ummayads.
12. See, for example, Chaillot, The Dialog between the Eastern Orthodox.
13. Further see McGuckin, “The Mia Physis Doctrine,” in Chaillot, The Dialog between the
Eastern Orthodox.
14. Monos pros Monon could be rendered as: The Alone one, all for the Only One.
15. See Athanasius the Great’s Life of Antony. See Gregg, Athanasius.
16. The word “hermit” derives from the Greek eremos, or desert, and originally meant desert
dweller, before assuming the Christian technical meaning of a solitary monastic.
17. “Cenobitic” comes from the Greek for “common life.”
18. See Meyer, Palladius, and Wortley, The Book of the Elders.
19. “Rood” is an Old English word for cross, since the altar screen was always crowned with a
large painted crucifix.
20. In June 813, a band of soldiers garrisoned in Constantin--ople forced their way into the
Church of the Holy Apostles, where the imperial tombs were, and broke open the tomb of
Constantine V, dramatically begging him to return to life to save the empire from its constant losses
to the Islamic forces. A month later Leo V was crowned emperor and, evidently taking note of the
army’s opinions, began discussions to reassert iconoclasm in the face of the Council of Nicaea II.
21. The Chalke Gate was the main ceremonial gateway leading into the Imperial Palace.
22. Here reverence for one’s grandfather is exactly that same “worship” mentioned in the English
Church’s marriage service, where the spouses are encouraged to worship one another bodily.

CHAPTER 5. THE CHURCH’S EXPANSION

1. Founded in 330 as the new capital of the empire, Constantinople was ecclesiastically dominant
by the fifth century, eventually replacing Alexandria for primacy of influence in the eastern provinces
after the First Council of Constantinople and challenging Rome for supremacy after the Council of
Chalcedon.
2. Filioque is the creedal addition stating that the Spirit proceeds from the Father “and from the
Son.”
3. The book is published by Holy Cross Press, Brookline, Boston (1987).
4. Moravia is now the Czech lands.
5. Constantinople and the Slavs of Rus traded mostly in furs, amber, and wood.
6. Obolenksy, The Byzantine Commonwealth, 238–258; Shevzov, “The Russian Tradition,” 16–
40.
7. Martin negotiated through his representative, president of the council Cardinal Julian Cesarini,
later Pope Eugene IV.
8. Vasily II, Grand Prince of the Duchy of Muscovy, reigned from 1425 to 1462.
9. The title “tsar” is a Slavic form of caesar. The Russians regarded themselves as the true
successors of the Byzantine Christian imperium.
10. For a brief account see Browning, The Byzantine Empire, 163–183.
 11. The Byzantine principalities of Mystra, Trebizond, and Epirus lasted until their own collapse
in 1460, 1461, and 1479, respectively.
12. In Greek folklore his body (never recovered from the chaos) was said to have been lifted by
an angel and placed in a marble tomb in a cave near the Golden Gate to the palace, waiting for the
time when the capital would be restored to the Greeks and he would be brought out alive to lead the
triumph. He is known in Greece as the “Marble King.”
13. Patriarch Anastasios II (patr. 1450–1453) eventually took refuge on Mount Athos.
14. Mehmet had insisted first on formally bestowing on Gennadios the patriarchal crozier
(paterissa) and cloak (mantiya), a ceremony that became traditional for all patriarchs under the
Ottomans afterward. Three years later, in 1456, he was removed to the Church of Pammakaristos.
Holy Apostles Church (the original model for Saint Mark’s basilica in Venice), which had been the
mausoleum church for the Byzantine emperors, was demolished in 1461, and the Fatih Jamii
(Conquest Mosque) was built over the site.
15. An ethnarch is a subordinate ruler, responsible for a minority people within the Ottoman
Empire.
16. The Eastern Church heroically continued with local Greek schools, teaching children their
letters. Religious instruction had to be coded in terms of history lessons, but no preaching outside the
churches was permitted, and proselytism of Muslims was an executable offense for both convert and
Christian sponsor.
17. A church census in 1914 recorded that in Russia there were 550 men’s monasteries and 475
women’s monasteries, totaling 95,259 monastics.
18. A very lively read giving the past history and a gloomy view of the modern state of Orthodox
and monastic affairs in the Middle East and on Mount Athos is found in Dalrymple, From the Holy
Mountain. Speake, Mount Athos, gives a much more positive report on the state of contemporary
Athonite renewal.
19. The chrysobull was the most solemn level of imperial edict, granting extensive rights.
20. The fourth-century tower can still be seen within the fabric. It was funded by the empress
Helena.
21. Saint John Klimakos, author of the Ladder of Divine Ascent, and Saints Anastasius of Sinai
and Gregory of Sinai are only a few of the important figures this monastery produced.
22. The Legenda Aurea was compiled by Saint Jacobus de Varagine, archbishop of Genoa, circa
1260. It became the most widely read source of saints’ lives through the Middle Ages and into the
seventeenth century.
23. For more on the prayer of the heart see J. A. McGuckin, “The Prayer of the Heart in Patristic
and Early Byzantine Tradition,” in Prayer and Spirituality in the Early Church, vol. 2, ed. P. Allen,
W. Mayer, and L. Cross, pp. 69–108 (East Melbourne: Australian Catholic University, Centre for
Early Christian Studies, 1999).
24. Klimakos means “[author] of the ladder” in Greek.
25. See images, for example, at: https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo/mar-saba-monastery.html.

CHAPTER 6. ORTHODOX LIFE UNDER AND AFTER ISLAMIC DOMINION

1. Text in “Filofei’s Concept of the Third Rome,” in Medieval Russia: A Source Book, 850–1700,
ed. B. Dmytryshyn, 259–261 (Fort Worth: Harcourt Brace, 2000).
2. Joseph, on Sept. 9 and Oct. 18, Nil on May 7.
3. The bishops looked to Rome for protection against depredations on three sides: Islamic,
Protestant, and Latin Catholic.
 4. The term “Uniate” has come to be a disparagement, used by some Orthodox to designate the
faithful of the Greek Catholic (Unia) tradition as schismatics. The movement is also known as the
Eastern Rite Catholic Church.
5. The academy was later called the Kiev Mohyla Academy. After the fall of the Communist
regime in Ukraine it was reclaimed from the Soviet Navy, to be made into the first liberal arts
college, and immediately voted to restore theology to the curriculum. I was honored to be the first
foreign visiting professor of patristics for a series of lectures there on ancient Christian notions of
freedom.
6. Bronstrom, Archpriest Avvakum, p. 39.
7. The father of the church, Saint Peter of Damascus (died 775), whose writings were represented
in the Russian spiritual books, had advocated the practice of using two fingers on the forehead. The
standard form of the Byzantine Church after his day, however, had been to use three. This change had
not been signaled to the Russians, who also, after the fall of Constantinople, tended to regard the
Greeks with suspicion for compromising the faith through their (temporary) allegiance to the Western
Catholics after the Council of Florence.
8. Other small liturgical deviations (such as the pre-Nikon usage of singing two alleluias as
psaltic refrains, compared with Nikon’s proposal to sing three, like the Greeks) were taken as matters
of immense significance by the Old Ritualists: the purity of the whole faith being seen as vested in
strict observance of the liturgical rubrics.
9. The movement is also called Raskol: the schism, or division.
10. Saint Petersburg would remain the Russian capital until that was moved back to Moscow
following the 1917 Revolution.
11. Boris and Gleb were the first saints canonized (1074) in the Russian Church after its
conversion.
12. His baptism made Boris a family member of the imperial house. The emperor gave him the
title of prince (tsar or caesar) and recognized his suzerainty over the other nobles (boyars), who had
previously thought the princely dominion was a movable right among their society. In 865 Boris
fought off a revolt and killed fifty-two members of the old pagan aristocracy, consolidating his
monarchical rule.
13. Byzantine theology regarded the single imperium of the Christian basileus (or king-emperor)
as part of God’s gifted inheritance to the Christians as the New Israel, and as such not a negotiable
political factor. For the Byzantine Orthodox world to rupture the single imperium of the basileus over
all Christians was a sacrilegious fracturing of the church’s destiny to reconcile all humanity in one
civilization. Western, non-Orthodox cultures have tended to regard politics and religion as separable.
Orthodoxy on the other hand still tends to regard Christianity as the core of the political civilization it
aspires to; though it does not envisage that as necessarily a theocracy or a priestocracy, since it has a
well-developed theory of the principle of subsidiarity—where civil and military politics fulfill a
distinct set of duties from religion and religious authorities, the two aspects of society each operating
(as we have already noted) as distinct voices in supportive harmony (symphonia).
14. The Mosque of Mehmet Sokollu Pasha (named after him) is one of the jewels of Istanbul
today, a few hundred yards down the hill from the apsidal arch of the Hippodrome. The Christian
population was forced to supply a regular quota of young boys to be Islamicized and brought up as
Janissary troops in Constantinople. Sokolovic is the Serbian spelling of Sokollu.
15. The Orthodox make up 86 percent of the mainland population. The figure of three-quarters of
a million in Moldova is according to the 2004 state census. Orthodoxy in Moldova, like the territory
itself (now independent), is contested through historical rights’ issues by the Romanian and Russian
churches. The two patriarchates (Moscow and Bucharest) contend for seniority of supervision, the
one via the Moldovan Orthodox Church, autonomous but subordinate to Moscow; the other through
the Orthodox Church of Bessarabia, autonomous but related to the Romanian synod. Both local
churches claim to be the national church of Moldova. In the 2004 census more than 93 percent of the
Moldovan population declared themselves Orthodox but were not required to state which jurisdiction
they felt they belonged to.
16. Anno Domini, for dates after the birth of Christ (“in the year of the Lord”), or Ante Christum,
“before Christ” (hence the English abbreviation B.C.).
17. Wallachia is also known as Muntenia.
18. Among the most notable of many are the churches or monasteries at: Putna, Sucevita,
Borzesti, Patrauti, Voronets, Bistrita, Iasi, and Neamt.
19. The four ancient patriarchates, and then Russia and Serbia take precedence of honor before
the Romanian Patriarchate.
20. It was aimed primarily against the Bulgarian episcopate.
21. The patriarch was Saint Gregory V. His execution after the liturgy of Easter Day (April 22,
1821) was the start of a massacre of Greek Orthodox in Constantinople. His body was left hanging
from the Phanar Palace gate for two days then thrown into the Bosphorus. Rescued by Greek sailors,
it was buried with honor in the metropolitan cathedral in Athens. The gate of execution has been
welded shut in Gregory’s memory ever since.
22. About the Philokalia, see further McGuckin, “The Making of the Philokalia,” pp. 36–49.
23. It can be read in a fine English translation by G. Palmer, P. Sherrard, and K. Ware, The
Philokalia, 5 vols. (London: Faber and Faber, 1979–1995).
24. For Paisy’s approach see further McGuckin, “The Life and Mission of St. Paisius
Velichkovsky,” pp. 157–173.
25. Further see McGuckin. “The Prayer of the Heart,” 69–108.
26. Further see McGuckin, “Rasskaz Strannika,” pp. 359–406, and McGuckin, “How the
Philokalic Tradition Came to Modern America,” pp. 349–370.

CHAPTER 7. ORTHODOXY UNDER THE COMMUNISTS

1. Cited by Paul Kengor, “Remembering 1917: The War on Religion,” accessed at:
https://www.mercatornet.com/features/view/remember-1917-communisms-war-on-religion/20435
(retrieved November 2018).
2. Stalin, Works, vol. 10 (Moscow, 1978), p. 132.
3. Ware, The Orthodox Church, p. 156.
4. The figure of eighty thousand would continue to move considerably higher. The NKVD and
Cheka were the Russian security services preceding the KGB.
5. Reported by Reuters in November 1995. See Philippa Fletcher, “Inquiry Reveals Lenin
Unleashed Systematic Murder of 200,000 Clergy,” Hobart Mercury (Australia), November 29, 1995.
Available at: http://www.paulbogdanor.com/left/soviet/atheism1.html (accessed November 2018).
6. On May 17, 2007, the two synods, of the ROCOR bishops and the Moscow patriarchate,
signed a concordat of reconciliation that restored full communion and gave the ROCOR the status of
an autonomous (self-governing) part of the Russian Orthodox Church.
7. Shevzov, “The Russian Tradition,” pp. 15–40.
8. Confessor was an ancient church title for those who had been imprisoned and persecuted but
had not paid the full price of their lives, in martyrdom. After the ancient persecutions, confessors
were afforded great spiritual authority in the church. The bishops of Eastern Europe in the
Communist era were often dismissed by Western Protestant commentators as supine; but as Gerard
Manley Hopkins once wrote about the terrors of the mind, “Hold them cheap / May he who ne’er
hung there.” The Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins, ed. W. H. Gardner and N. H. Mackenzie
(London: Oxford University Press, 1967), p. 100. The Anglican Dean of Winchester, Trevor Beeson,
was kinder with his book Discretion and Valour: Religious Conditions in Eastern Europe (London:
Fount, 1974), whose title played on Shakespeare’s adage that “discretion is the better part of valour.”
9. Further see Applebaum, Iron Curtain.
10. Churchill’s speech was recorded for the BBC archives and can be heard at:
https://winstonchurchill.org/resources/speeches/1946-1963-elder-statesman/the-sinews-of-peace/.
11. See Stan and Turcescu, Religion and Politics.

CHAPTER 8. THE TWENTIETH-CENTURY ORTHODOX DIASPORA

1. Further see Herbel, in Casiday, The Orthodox Christian World, pp. 164–178.
2. He was canonized as a saint by the Orthodox Church in 1977.
3. Casiday, The Orthodox Christian World, p. 168.
4. See Bogolepov, Toward an American Orthodox Church.
5. In a synodical letter of October 1970 the ROCOR hierarchs addressed the OCA hierarchy: “It
is impossible for the Moscow Patriarchate, under the complete control of the Soviet atheistic regime
which has set for itself the goal of destroying all religion, to do anything which could be to the
overall benefit of the Church and it must be remembered that the Moscow Patriarchate cannot engage
in foreign affairs without a direct order of the Soviet government. . . . It is not our intention to inflict
upon you any hurt, but rather to give you again a brotherly warning of the danger now threatening
you.” The letter is archived at:
https://orthodoxwiki.org/ROCOR_and_OCA#1970:_Autocephaly_for_the_OCA.
6. Further see T. Batrouney, in Casiday, The Orthodox Christian World, pp. 179–186; and also P.
B. Anderson, M. H. Anderson, and O. Homburg, eds., Eastern Orthodox in Australia (Sydney:
Australian Council of Churches, 1967).
7. Transubstantiation is the doctrine promulgated by the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215 that the
eucharistic bread and wine changed substantively into the body and blood of Christ in the course of
the eucharistic consecration. The English text of the decisions of Patriarch Dositheos’s council in
1672 can be found online (taken from The Acts and Decrees of the Synod of Jerusalem, trans. and ed.
J. Robertson, 1899): http://www.crivoice.org/creeddositheus.html. The bishops gathered in Jerusalem
for the reconsecration of the Bethlehem basilica. While assembled they addressed the fact that many
Protestants, after Patriarch Cyril Lukaris had earlier met with Calvinist theologians in
Constantinople, were claiming the support of the Orthodox Church for Reformation doctrines.
8. Some Protestant theologians were claiming that their delegation to Patriarch Cyril Lukaris of
Constantinople (soon afterward executed by the Ottoman Phanar) had led to his endorsing of their
general positions and his alliance with them against Rome.
9. Cited in E. Carpenter, The Protestant Bishop (London: Longmans, Green, 1956). Cf. pp. 357–
364.
10. The churches were in the City of London (1850), Bayswater (1877), and Cardiff (1906).
11. Thyateira is one of the Seven Churches of Asia mentioned in the book of Revelation. It is the
custom of the Orthodox Church to appoint a diocese within its own (Eastern) area of jurisdiction with
the local (Western) missionary situation reflected as an “also added” to mark respect for the diocesan
boundaries that were appropriate and particular to the bishop who used to be first among equals
among the Orthodox (Rome).
12. A pan-Orthodox study center, the Institute for Orthodox Christian Studies, was organized out
of the University of Cambridge’s external federation arrangements in 1999. Its academic faculty
consists mainly of visiting professors.
13. This 11 percent of active British Christians equals an estimated 5.5 million Orthodox
believers. The percentage of active British Christians who are Anglican is thought to be 21; the
percentage of those who are Roman Catholic, 24. The “wider-belonging” numbers, as distinct from
the numbers of regular attenders, would make the last two figures noticeably larger.
14. See Chamberlain, Lenin’s Private War.
15. In 2014 a massive new Russian cathedral (the Holy Trinity) and cultural complex was built in
Paris, near the Eiffel Tower, funded by the Russian government under the care of the Moscow
patriarchate.

CHAPTER 9. RECENT OUTSTANDING ORTHODOX FIGURES

1. It is the greeting Orthodox faithful give to other believers when in church, and the response
offered is: “He is and ever shall be.” At Paschal time it changes to “Christ is Risen,” with the
response, “He is truly Risen”; and at Christmas time it changes again, to “Christ is born,” with the
response: “Glorify him.”
2. Dimitri Kuzmin-Karavaev: 1886–1959. He would later convert to Catholicism and was
ordained to the priesthood.
3. Together the three studies were translated into English in 2016 by S. Janos, entitled The
Crucible of Doubts. See also R. Pevear and L. Volokhonsky, trans., Mother Maria Skobtsova:
Essential Writings (New York: Orbis Maryknoll, 2003).
4. Selection by the guards was the process of weeding out those prisoners no longer strong
enough to work. At first they were shot, later they were poisoned by gas.
5. The official act of canonization noted that they were the first Orthodox saints to be canonized
who had largely lived their mission in the West. Along with them were also canonized Archpriest
Alexei Medvedkov and Elie Fondaminskii, a Jewish friend of Mother Maria’s who asked for baptism
in the camp before his death.
6. See Mt. 25.34–40.
7. André Behr died in 1968.
8. E. Behr-Sigel. “La crise et le dénouement: L’itineraire du père Lev Gillet vers l’Église
Orthodoxe.” See: http://www.pagesorthodoxes.net/foi-orthodoxe/temoignage-lev-gillet.htm (accessed
December 2018).
9. Cited in M. Plekon, Hidden Holiness (Notre Dame, Ind.: Notre Dame University Press, 2009),
p. 197.
10. Behr-Sigel, The Ministry of Women.
11. Sihastria Skete was raised to the status of an independent monastery when Cleopa was the
higumen, in 1947.
12. Skete is a term designating a dependent monastic settlement. Sihastria in Romanian devolves
from the Greek hesychasterion, literally meaning “place of quietness” and indicating a monastic
community especially given over to contemplative prayer.
13. Further on Father Cleopa see Stebbing, Bearers of the Spirit.
14. A Google Images search for the monasteries of Voronet, Neamt, Sucevita, or Dragomirna will
readily show the extraordinary beauty of these places. See, for example, romaniatourism.com/press-
romania-painted-monasteries.html.
15. Cited by F. Corley in the obituary for Father Cleopa in the Independent (London). December
18, 1998.
16. See Balan, Elder Cleopa of Sihastria.
 CHAPTER 10. DAY-TO-DAY LIFE IN AN ORTHODOX CHURCH
1. Psalm 140 (141 in Western bibles).
2. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r8XQ-tUKLKE (accessed December 2018).
3. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C7vvPXz-Qes (accessed December 2018).
4. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJ4Le7ANdbE (accessed December 2018).
5. The sign of the cross used to be made in the same way in both the Eastern and Western
churches, but the Latin rite altered it to its present form in the early modern period. The Orthodox
churches retained the earlier usage: the right hand put together the thumb and the two adjacent
fingers in a joined threesome, while the remaining two fingers come together to touch the base of the
thumb. This symbolizes the three persons of the Trinity in one nature and also the two natures of the
Incarnate Lord made one. Held in this way the three fingers touch the forehead, the navel, the right
shoulder, and then the left shoulder.
6. A visitor often wonders why so much to-ing and fro-ing is happening at one of the side doors
of the icon screen, with people going up and speaking to clergy there. It is usually the handing on of
small votive loaves called prosphora or petitions for special prayers for someone. These are written
on paper with the first names of the living listed on one side and those of the departed on the other.
The papers are called diptychs.
7. Pharmakia tes athanasias in Greek.
8. A baby’s nose and mouth are covered by the priest’s hand as, very quickly, he submerges it
under the water, allowing it to take a fresh breath each time before he dips it.
9. The original meaning of the word “candidate” is “one dressed in white.” It derives from the
church’s custom of dressing the newly baptized in celebratory white.

POSTLUDE. WHAT ROLE FOR ORTHODOXY?

1. McGuckin, The Path of Christianity: The First Thousand Years (Downers Grove, Ill.: IVP,
2016).
2. Mt. 10.8.
3. Father Lev Gillet, funeral homily preached in 1937 at the liturgy for Archimandrite Irenée
Winnaert. Trans. T. Ware, from the French text in V. Bourne, La quête de verité d’Irénée Winnaert
(Geneva: Labor et Fides, 1966), p. 335.
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 Index

Alaskan mission, (i)

Albanian Orthodoxy, (i)
Alexander of Alexandria, (i), (ii)
Alexei II, Patriarch, (i)
Alexei, Tsar, (i), (ii)
America, Orthodoxy in, (i)
Amvrosy of Optina, (i)
Anastasius of Sinai, (i), (ii)
Andrew the Apostle, (i)
Anglicanism, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi), (vii), (viii)
Antioch, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi), (vii), (viii)
Antony IV, Patriarch, (i)
Antony of Pechersk, (i)
Antony the Great, (i)
Apocalypticism, (i), (ii), (iii)
Apocryphal Gospels, (i), (ii), (iii)
Apostles, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi), (vii), (viii), (ix), (x), (xi), (xii), (xiii)
Apostolic Fathers, (i)
Apostolic Succession, (i)
Apostolic Tradition, (i), (ii), (iii)
Arianism, (i), (ii)
Armenian Church, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v)
Arsenije II, Patriarch, (i)
Ascension of Christ, (i), (ii), (iii)
Ascentive love, (i)
Asparuch, Khan, (i)
Athanasius of Alexandria, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi), (vii), (viii)
Athanasius the Athonite, (i)
Athos, (i)
Auden, W. H., (i)
Augustine of Hippo, (i)
Australian Orthodoxy, (i)
Avvakum, Archpriest, (i)

Baptism, (i), (ii)

Barsanuphius and John, (i)
Basil I, Emperor, (i), (ii)
Basil of Caesarea, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v)
Basil of Poiana Marului, (i)
Behr, John, (i)
Behr-Sigel, Elisabeth, (i)
Belo-Russian Orthodoxy, (i)
Benedict of Nursia, (i)
Berdyaev, Nikolai, (i), (ii)
Bessarion of Nicaea, (i)
Bishop (episcopos), (i), (ii), (iii)
Bjerring, Nicholas, (i)
Bloom, Antony, (i), (ii)
Bogomil, (i)
Boris, Khan, (i), (ii)
Boris and Gleb, (i)
Bulgakov, Sergius, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Bulgarian Orthodoxy, (i), (ii), (iii)
Byzantine Orthodoxy, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)

Caesaropapism, (i)
Callixtus of Rome, (i)
Canon of scripture, (i), (ii)
Catherine of Alexandria, (i)
Catherine the Great, (i), (ii), (iii)
Ceaucescu, Nicolai, (i), (ii)
Cenobitism, (i)
Chersonesus, (i)
China, Orthodox Church of, (i), (ii)
Christology, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi), (vii), (viii)
Church
???eschatological quality, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi)
???essential characteristics, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
???manifesting the Kingdom (i), (ii), (iii)
???as Resurrection glory, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Church history, (i)
Churchill, Winston, (i)
Cleopa, Archimandrite, (i), (ii)
Codex Sinaiticus, (i)
Communion, Holy, (i)
Compton, Henry, (i)
Confession, sacramental, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Constantine V, Emperor, (i)
Constantine VII, Emperor, (i)
Constantine XI, Emperor, (i)
Constantine the Great, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi)
Constantius Chlorus, (i)
Council of Brest, (i)
Council of Chalcedon, (i), (ii), (iii)
Council of Constantinople I, (i), (ii)
Council of Constantinople II, (i), (ii)
Council of Constantinople III, (i), (ii)
Council of Ephesus, (i)
Council of Florence, (i)
Council of Nicaea I, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Council of Nicaea II, (i), (ii)
Covenant, the, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi)
Crusades, (i), (ii)
Cuza, Alexandru, (i)
Cyprian of Carthage, (i)
Cyprus, Orthodox Church of, (i)
Cyril and Methodius, (i), (ii), (iii)
Cyril of Alexandria, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Cyril of Belozersk, (i)
Cyril of Plovdiv, (i)
Czechoslovakian Orthodoxy, (i)

Dabovich, Sebastian, (i), (ii)

Deacon, (i)
Dead, prayer for the, (i)
Deification (by grace), (i), (ii), (iii)
Demiurge, (i)
Denominationalism, (i)
Development of doctrine, (i)
Didache, (i)
Diocletian, Emperor, (i), (ii)
Dionysius Exiguus, (i)
Dionysius the Great, (i), (ii)
Donatists, (i), (ii)
Dosifei of Kiev, (i)
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, (i), (ii)
Dracula, Voivode, (i)

Ecumenical Councils, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v)

Ecumenism, (i), (ii)
Edict of Milan, (i)
Edinovertsy, (i)
Emigration (and Orthodoxy), (i)
Eschatology, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v)
Ethics, (i)
Ethnarch, patriarchal, (i)
Eucharist, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi). See also Liturgy
Eunomius of Cyzicus, (i)
Europe (Orthodoxy in), (i)
Eusebius of Caesarea, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Eusebius of Nicomedia, (i), (ii)
Euthymios of Palestine, (i)
Evagrios of Pontos, (i)
Evdokimov, Paul, (i)
Evlogy, Metropolitan, (i)
Evtimi, Patriarch, (i)
Excommunication, (i)
Exegesis, (i), (ii)

Fathers of the Church, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi)

Fellowship of Saint Alban and Saint Sergius, (i)
Filioque, (i), (ii)
Filofei of Pskov, (i)
Finland, Orthodox Church of, (i)
Florovsky, Georges, (i), (ii)
Frank, Semyon, (i)
Franny and Zooey, (i)

Galerius, Emperor, (i), (ii)

Gennadii of Novgorod, (i)
George (Gennadios) Scholarios, (i), (ii), (iii)
Georgian Orthodoxy, (i)
German Doric, Patriarch, (i)
Germanus of Constantinople, (i)
Gethsemane, (i)
Gillet, Lev, (i), (ii), (iii)
Gnostics, (i), (ii)
Gogol, Nikolai, (i)
Gorbachev, Mikhail, (i)
Greek Orthodoxy, (i), (ii)
Gregory III, Patriarch, (i)
Gregory V, Patriarch, (i), (ii)
Gregory of Nyssa, (i)
Gregory the Theologian, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi), (vii), (viii), (ix)

Hagia Sophia, (i)

Hagiography, (i)
Hawaweeny, Raphael, (i)
Hieromonk Nikodemos (Kallivroutsis) the Hagiorite, (i)
Helena, Empress, (i)
Heresies, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi), (vii)
Herman of Alaska, (i), (ii)
Hesychasm, (i)
Holy Communion, (i)
Holy Spirit, (i), (ii), (iii)
Hotovitsky, Alexander, (i)
House churches, (i)

Iconoclasm, (i)
Iconostasis, (i), (ii)
Icons, (i), (ii), (iii)
Ignatius of Antioch, (i), (ii)
Immortality, (i)
Incarnation, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Incense, (i), (ii)
Innokent of Alaska, (i)
Irenaeus of Lyons, (i), (ii)
Iron Curtain, (i)
Isidore of Kiev, (i)
Islam (and Orthodoxy), (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi), (vii), (viii), (ix), (x), (xi), (xii), (xiii), (xiv), (xv)
Ivan IV, Tsar, (i)

Japan, Orthodoxy in, (i)

Jeremias II, Patriarch, (i)
Jeremias of Moldavia, (i)
Jerome, Saint, (i)
Jerusalem, church of, (i)
Jesus
???death, (i), (ii)
???historical ministry, (i), (ii), (iii)
???miracles of, (i), (ii)
Joachim IV, Patriarch, (i)
Joakim III, Patriarch, (i)
Joanikije, Patriarch, (i)
Joanikije of Montenegro, (i)
Joasaph of Kodiak, (i)
John, Gospel of, (i)
John VIII, Emperor, (i), (ii)
John Cassian, (i)
John Chrysostom, (i), (ii)
John Klimakos, (i), (ii)
John Mitropolsky, (i)
John of Damascus, (i), (ii), (iii)
John Veniaminov, (i)
Joseph II, Patriarch, (i), (ii)
Joseph of Volotsk, (i)
Justinian, Emperor, (i), (ii), (iii)
Justin Martyr, (i)
Justinian Marina, Patriarch, (i), (ii)
Juvenaly of Alaska, (i)
Kaplan, Fanny, (i)
Kelpinin, Dimitri, (i), (ii), (iii)
Khazars, (i)
Khomiakov, Alexei, (i)
Kiev, (i), (ii), (iii)
Kingdom of God, (i), (ii), (iii)
Kirill, Patriarch, (i), (ii)
Kliment of Ohrid, (i)
Kneeling, (i)
Konstantin of Ostrog, (i)
Krum, Khan, (i)
Khrushchev, Nikita, (i)

Lactantius, (i), (ii), (iii)

Lausiac History, (i)
Lavra, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Lenin, (i), (ii), (iii)
Letters of Saint Paul, (i)
Licinius, Emperor, (i), (ii), (iii)
Litany, (i)
Liturgy, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v)
Living Church movement, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Logos theology, (i)
Lossky, Nikolai, (i), (ii)
Luke, Gospel of, (i)

Macarius of Corinth, (i)

MacNeice, Louis, (i)
Magic, (i), (ii)
Makarii of Moscow, (i)
Makarije Sokolovic, Patriarch, (i)
Marcion, (i), (ii)
Mar Saba, (i)
Mark, Gospel of, (i)
Mark of Ephesus, (i)
Marx, Karl, (i)
Matthew, Gospel of, (i)
Maxentius, Emperor, (i)
Maximus the Confessor, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Mehmet II, Sultan, (i)
Mehmet Sokollu Pasha, (i)
Melito of Sardis, (i)
Meyendorff, John, (i), (ii)
Michael I, Emperor, (i)
Michael Romanov, Tsar, (i)
Miron Cristea, Patriarch, (i)
Monarchianism, (i), (ii)
Monasticism, (i), (ii)
Mongols (Tartars), (i)
Monophysitism, (i), (ii)
Monothelitism, (i)
Morgan, Robert Josias, (i)
Moscow, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi), (vii), (viii), (ix), (x), (xi), (xii)

Nestorius of Constantinople, (i), (ii)

Netsvetov, Jacob, (i)
Newman, John Henry, (i)
Nicene Creed, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Nicholas I, Pope, (i)
Nicholas II, Tsar, (i), (ii)
Nicodim, Patriarch, (i), (ii)
Nikephoros I, Emperor, (i)
Nikephoros of Constantinople, (i)
Nikephoros Phokas, (i)
Nikodemos the Hagiorite, (i)
Nikon of Moscow, (i), (ii), (iii)
Nil of Sora, (i)
Non-Chalcedonians. See Oriental Orthodox
Novatians, (i)

Ohrid, (i), (ii)

Olaru, Paisie, (i)
Old Believers, (i)
Olga of Kiev, (i)
Omurtag, Khan, (i), (ii)
Oriental Orthodox, (i), (ii), (iii)
Origen of Alexandria, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v)
Orthodoxy (definition), (i)
Orthros (matins), (i)
Ossius of Cordoba (Hosius), (i), (ii)

Pachomios, Saint, (i)

Paisy of Hilandar, (i)
Paisy Velichkovsky, (i), (ii), (iii)
Palladius of Galatia, (i)
Papacy, (i), (ii), (iii)
Parables, (i)
Pascha (Easter), (i)
Passion bearers, (i), (ii)
Passion narrative, (i)
Passover, (i), (ii), (iii)
Patriarchate, (i), (ii)
Patriarchate of Bulgaria, (i)
Patriarchate of Moscow, (i)
Patriarchate of Romania, (i), (ii)
Paul VI, Pope, (i)
Pechersky Lavra (Kiev), (i), (ii)
Penance, (i)
Pentateuch, (i)
Persecutions, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v)
Peter I, Tsar, (i)
Peter Mohyla, (i)
Peter the Great, (i), (ii)
Phanariots, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v)
Pharan, (i)
Pharisees, (i), (ii)
Philanthropy, (i), (ii)
Philaret of Moscow, (i), (ii)
Philokalia, (i), (ii)
Philosophy, (i), (ii)
Photios, Patriarch, (i), (ii), (iii)
Phyletism, (i)
Pilgrimage, (i)
Plato, (i), (ii)
Pneumatology, (i)
Poland (church of), (i)
Polycarp of Smyrna, (i)
Polyeuctos, Patriarch, (i)
Predestination, (i)
Pre-existence of souls, (i)
Priests (presbyters), (i), (ii)
Prophets (Christian), (i)
Prostration (in prayer), (i)
Protestantism (Orthodoxy and), (i), (ii), (iii), (iv), (v), (vi), (vii), (viii), (ix), (x)
Psalms, (i), (ii), (iii)
Putin, Vladimir, (i)

Rabbinic exegesis, (i)

Raithu, (i)
Ratislav of Moravia, (i)
Reconciliation, (i)
Reed, Henry, (i)
Repentance, (i)
Resurrection glory of Christ, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
ROCOR (Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia), (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Roman Catholicism, (i), (ii), (iii)
Romanian Archdiocese of America (i)
Romanian Orthodoxy, (i), (ii)
Rozanov, Vasily, (i)
Rue du Lourmel, (i)
Rule of faith, (i)
Rumeli Hisari, (i)
Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia. See ROCOR
Russian Orthodoxy, (i), (ii), (iii)
Sacraments (mysteries), (i)
Saguna, Andrei, (i)
Saint-Serge Institut de Th??ologie Orthodoxe, (i), (ii)
Salinger, J. D., (i)
Sava, Saint, (i), (ii)
Schism, (i)
Schmemann, Alexander, (i), (ii)
Scripture (and tradition), (i)
Seraphim of Sarov, (i)
Serapion of Thmuis, (i)
Serbian Orthodoxy, (i), (ii), (iii)
Sergei Stragorodsky, (i), (ii)
Ships of philosophers, (i), (ii)
Sibyls, (i)
Sihastria monastery, (i), (ii), (iii)
Sinai, (i), (ii)
Skobtsova, Daniel, (i), (ii)
Skobtsova, Mother Maria, (i), (ii)
Skobtsova, Saint Yuri, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Slavophiles, (i), (ii), (iii)
Socrates Scholastikos, (i)
Solovki monastery, (i)
Sophrony, Archimandrite, (i)
Stalin, Joseph, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)
Staniloae, Dumitru, (i)
Starets, (i), (ii)
Stefan Dusic Nemanjic, (i)
Stefan Nemanja, (i), (ii)
Stefan of Moscow, (i)
Stephen the Great, (i)
Stoglav Council, (i)
Stoicism, (i)
Sviatoslav of Kiev, (i)
Symeon the New Theologian, (i)
Symphonia (political), (i), (ii)
Synods, (i), (ii), (iii), (iv)

Tantur Institute, (i)

Taverner, Sir John, (i)
Temple (Jewish), (i)
Tertullian, (i)
Thekla, Mother, (i)
Theodore Studite, (i), (ii)
Theodoret of Cyr, (i)
Theodosius of the Caves, (i)
Theophilus of Alexandria, (i), (ii)
Theotokos, (i)
Tikhon of Moscow, (i), (ii), (iii)
Tischendorf, Constantin, (i)
Tito, Josip, (i)
Tolstoy, Leo, (i)
Tradition, (i), (ii)
Trinity, Holy, (i), (ii)
Trotsky, Leon, (i), (ii)
Turgenev, Ivan, (i)
Typology, (i)

Ukrainian Orthodoxy, (i)

Unity, of the Church, (i), (ii)
Ushakov, Feodor, (i)

Valaam, (i)
Vespers, (i), (ii)
Vladimir, city of, (i)
Vladimir, Prince of Kiev, (i)

Way of the Pilgrim, (i), (ii)

Wedding ceremony, (i)
Will, of Christ, (i)
World Council of Churches, (i)

Yaropolk of Kiev, (i)