Friday, June 29, 2012

Saint Kosmas Aitolos: The Holy Apostles

Sketch by the hand of Fr. Stamatis Skliris

JUST AS A RULER HAS VINEYARDS and fields and hires workers, so the Lord who has the entire world as a vineyard took twelve Apostles and gave them his grace and blessing and sent them to the entire world to teach people how to live well here on earth, in peace, with love, and later to go to paradise to rejoice forever. [He sent them to teach people] to repent, to believe, and to be baptized in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, and to have love for God and for their brother. Wherever the Apostles went and were made welcome by people, the Lord instructed them to bless that land, and whatever place they went and were not received, the Lord instructed them to shake off the dust even from their shoes and to depart.

Thus receiving the grace of the Holy Spirit, the holy Apostles, as wise and faithful servants of our Christ, ran as lightning throughout the entire world. With that grace they healed the blind, the deaf, the lepers, and those possessed by demons. And the greatest of all, in the name of our Christ they commanded the dead and they did rise.

In whatever land the holy Apostles went and were received by people, they made them Christians, they ordained bishops and priests, they established churches, and they blessed that land so that it became an earthly paradise, filled with joy and gladness, a habitation of angels, a dwelling place of our Christ. But in whatever place they went where they were not received by people, he instructed them to shake off the dust from their shoes, and a curse instead of a blessing remained in that land, a residence of the devil and not of our Christ.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012


PROCESSION FOR RAIN
Thessaly and Macedonia

Perperia, all fresh bedewed,
Freshen all the neighbourhood;
By the woods, on the highway,
As thou goest, to God now pray:
O my God, upon the plain,
Send thou us a still, small rain;
That the fields may fruitful be,
And vines in blossom we may see;
That the grain be full and sound,
And wealthy grow the folks around;
Wheat and barley
Ripen early,
Maize and cotton may take root,
Rye and rice and currant shoot;
Gladness in our gardens all,
For the drought may fresh dews fall;
Water, water, by the pail,
Grain in heaps beneath the flail;
Bushels grow from every ear,
Each vine-stem a burden bear.
Out with drought and poverty,
Dew and blessings would we see.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Osios David of Thessaloniki

Here is a remarkable Icon by the hand of Charalambos Epaminondas who in my humble opinion is one of the greatest contemporary Iconographers.

Steven Runcimen: "Crusade is a dirty Word"

Steven Runciman

Greece and the later crusades*


From the New Griffon, A Gennadius Library Publication, American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Editor: Haris A. Kalligas, Director, Gennadius Library. Produced & Distrbuted by Potamos Publishers & Booksellers, Athens 2002.


THE STORY OF THE FOURTH CRUSADE is misted by controversy. Historians still argue whether the diversion of the Crusade to Constantinople and the capture and sack of the city and the establishment of a Latin Empire there was the result of deliberate planning by Venice and perhaps also by certain leaders of the Crusade, or the outcome of a series of historical accidents. Perhaps it is safest to say that the Venetians were eager to use the Crusade to set up a government favourable to their commercial interests in Constantinople and that the Crusaders were convinced that a friendly government there would help the whole Crusading movement, believing that its failures were largely due to the equivocal attitude of the Byzantines; and then a series of unforeseen events, for which the ineptitude of various members of the Imperial family of the Angeli must take much of the blame, led to the tragedy of the fall of the great city and its division between Venice and a Latin Emperor.

Whatever the causes of the Fourth Crusade, its outcome marked a turning-point in the history of Byzantium. No longer could the Empire act as the bulwark of Christendom against Islam. The Latin conquest was incomplete; but the Byzantines in exile were too busy establishing a stable government and too anxious to recover their capital city to pay much attention to their Eastern frontier. A strong Byzantium might have been able to take advantage of the period in the mid-thirteenth century when the Anatolian Turks were hard pressed by Mongol invasions and to recover much lost territory. But the struggling Empire based on Nicaea, able though its rulers were, was in no position to take the offensive in the East. By the time that Constantinople was recaptured and Western attempts at retaliation countered, it was too late. The Osmanli Turks were beginning to emerge; and the Byzantine Empire had become only one state in Eastern Europe set amongst other states, many of them larger and richer than itself.

But the Fourth Crusade also marked a turning-point in the history of the Crusading movement. Hitherto the Crusades had been directed against the infidel Muslims; and, apart from the re-conquest of the Iberian peninsula (where the idea of the Holy War had in fact first been realised), their essential object had been to restore the holiest places of Christendom to Christian rule and to keep the road thither open to pilgrims. The earlier Crusaders knew that they needed the co-operation of Byzantium. Their armies had to march through Byzantine territory to reach the Holy Land; and the Crusaders settled in the East continued to see the importance of the Byzantine alliance. But the Crusaders failed to understand that the interests and the duty of the Byzantine Emperor were to consolidate his own dominions and not to indulge in adventures further to the East, however much he might sympathise with their cause. To the Crusaders he seemed an ally of doubtful loyalty. The Western Europeans had long felt a jealous dislike for the Greeks; and the refusal of the Greek Church to abandon all its traditions and submit to the authority of the Roman pontificate added to their dislike. The Greeks were schismatics and not to be trusted. The best solution in Western eyes would be to establish authority over Byzantium. The Fourth Crusade was therefore both politically and morally right - in their eyes. In fact, whatever the morals of it, it was politically and strategically a disastrous mistake.

In the last decades of the twelfth century Byzantium was passing through a period of weakness. The Emperor Manuel I's ambitious schemes had overstrained the Empire; and his terrible defeat at the hands of the Turks at Myriokephalon in 1176, which temporarily destroyed the Byzantine army as a fighting force, and then the dynastic problems that followed his death and the accession of the incompetent Angeli emperors: all that combined to enable the Turks to establish themselves so solidly in Anatolia that the overland route to Syria would no longer be practicable for Christian armies. Frederick Barbarossa, leading the largest army that ever went on a Crusade, managed to fight his way through in 1190; but his army disintegrated on his sudden death. Future armies would have to go by sea; and the control of Constantinople was therefore strategically irrelevant.

But there was a more serious outcome for the whole Crusading movement. Whatever Pope Innocent III may have thought about the ethics of the Fourth Crusade, once Byzantium with its schismatic citizens was brought under Western control and the control of the Roman Church, it became to the Papacy a matter not only of pride but of religious duty to maintain that control. To fight against the schismatic Greeks therefore became as holy a task as to fight against the infidels further to the east. It earned the same spiritual rewards. In consequence a pious but ambitious knight need no longer make the arduous journey to Palestine, to fight there in a cruel climate against a relentless enemy. He could receive the same spiritual benefits by making a shorter journey to the pleasant lands of Greece, where the enemy was disorganized and more docile. It was far easier and more attractive to set up a lordship there. The outstanding example of this is the case of Geoffrey of Villehardouin, who was to become Prince of Achaea. He had set out late for the Fourth Crusade and sailed straight for Syria. But when he arrived there he heard of the pickings that were to be obtained in Greek lands. So he at once gave up all thought of fighting the infidel and turned back to make his career in the Peloponnese.

There were, it is true, still in the thirteenth century Crusaders of the old type who felt it to be their duty to fight the infidel in the Holy Land. But there was no longer the same concentrated effort there. The beleaguered inhabitants of Outremer, the Prankish lands in Syria and Palestine, saw men and money that should have been devoted to their help going instead to buttress up the tottering Latin Empire of Romania or carving comfortable lordships at the expense of the Greeks. The Papal authorities even encouraged this. In 1239 Pope Gregory IX did his best to persuade Richard, Earl of Cornwall, to divert the money that he had collected for a campaign in Palestine to an expedition against the Greeks of Nicaea. Pope Innocent III had already extended the Holy War to include wars against the Cathar heretics in southern France. This further extension against the Greeks shocked many pious Catholics. Soon after the Fourth Crusade the monk, Guyot de Provins, in his satirical work called La Bible asked pointedly why the Crusade was now directed against Greeks. It was from sheer greed, he said. The troubadour Guillem Figuera, who as a southern Frenchman, and possibly a heretic, resented the Albigensian Crusade as well, wrote about the same time in a poem: "Rome, you do little harm to Saracens, but you massacre Greeks and Latins." The resentment by genuine Crusaders was to become greater when the Papacy began to preach the Holy War against its political enemies in the West. This was the final debasement of the Holy War; and when the Papal wars failed in Europe, with the War of the Sicilian Vespers, the grand conception of the supreme universal Papacy collapsed. With its collapse the Crusading movement also faded out.

But it faded out slowly. So long as the Crusaders kept a foothold on the Syrian mainland, that is to say, till the fall of Acre in 1291, there were periodical expeditions that went to the East to fight the infidel, all of them unsuccessful except for the Crusade of the excommunicated Emperor Frederick II, which succeeded without fighting in temporarily recovering Jerusalem. Even after the fall of Acre there were still a few Crusaders eager to fight against the infidel, such as King Peter I of Cyprus, whose expedition against Alexandria in 1365 did far more harm to Christian trading interests than to Muslim power. More practical Crusaders saw that the Turks in Anatolia were now the most dangerous enemy to Christendom; but expeditions against the Turks were generally unsuccessful, apart from the allied effort in 1344 which resulted in the Christian capture of Smyrna.

The Latins who captured Constantinople soon came to realize that its possession was not of value for the Crusading movement. The Latin Empire that they established endured unhappily for nearly half a century. Already before the Byzantines recaptured the city in 1261 the Venetians, who were always practical, had decided that it was not really worth preserving. (The Genoese, more practical still, saw the advantage of the Black Sea trade and farsightedly made an alliance with the Greeks.) The loss of Constantinople was a blow to Latin pride; and the restoration of the Latin Empire became a duty for pious western potentates. But Greece was another matter. From a practical point of view it could be argued that control of the harbours in the Greek peninsula and islands was essential, now that Crusades to the Levant had to travel by sea and now that the chief Muslim enemy was entrenched in Anatolia. This was the excuse for the Hospitallers' siezure of Rhodes in 1308. It could indeed be argued that even the Greeks in Greece profited from the presence of the Military Knights in that key position, as a buttress against the Turks.

In Western eyes Greece was thus in a pivotal position for the continuance of the Crusading movement. The Greeks were schismatic and therefore not to be trusted; so it was a pious duty to occupy their lands and to fight against them if they objected. Venice, as usual, took a practical line. In the division of territory arranged and signed by the Crusader allies in 1204 -a division that optimistically covered large tracts of territory that they had not yet conquered-, Venice demanded far more than she intended to occupy, including all western Greece and most of the Peloponnese. This was so that she might have a legal right to any places in the area that she might later find it convenient to take over. In fact she occupied only the ports of Corone and Methone and the island of Crete, and, later, Nauplia, all of them with harbours that would be useful strategically both for commerce and for war. But she encouraged her leading citizens to find themselves lordships in Greek lands, as did the Genoese in spite of their alliance with Byzantium. The other lords who acquired territory in Greece were nearly all Frenchmen or Burgundians, the most eminent being the Villehardouins in the Peloponnese and the de la Roches in Thebes and Athens.

This is not the place to attempt to give a summary of the complicated history of the Francocratia in Greece. But it is important to remember that every Prankish lord in Greece believed that somehow by his presence there he was helping the noble cause of the Crusade against the infidel, and that, if he showed intolerance towards the Orthodox, it was because he believed that not only were they in religious error by not accepting the Pope as Vicar of God but that they were unreliable as allies in the great Crusading movement. To some extent, according to their lights, the Prankish lords were right. Ever since the time of the First Crusade there had been a misunderstanding between Byzantium and the Western Christians about the aims and the methods of the Crusades. In the West the motive force had been to reopen the pilgrim routes to the Holy Places and to ensure that pilgrimage should continue for ever guaranteed by Christian possession of the Holy Land. To Byzantium the primary aim had been to drive the Turks back out of Anatolia. The Emperor was much less interested in what might happen in lands beyond the historic boundaries of the Empire. At the time of the First Crusade he would have been quite content to leave Palestine under the rule of the tolerant Fatimid Caliphs of Egypt, who had accepted him as protector of the Orthodox in their dominions — and, indeed, the Orthodox in the Crusading states were soon to find that they had been rather better treated by the Caliphs than they were by Frankish rulers. Reciprocally, the Orthodox were more tolerant of Islam and less ignorant about it than were the Westerners who were horrified to find that there was a mosque in Constantinople for the use of visiting Muslim merchants and for Muslim mercenaries and prisoners of war. As regards methods, the Byzantines believed in diplomacy, at which they were adept. They would go to great lengths to avoid warfare, which they found to be expensive, disruptive and rather risky. They knew how to play off one Muslim potentate against another, even if that might involve bribes and, to Western eyes, indecorous gestures of friendship towards some of the infidel. The Westerners glorified war; and, though the Crusaders settled in Syria and Palestine soon learned the advisability, indeed, the necessity, of similar diplomatic methods, each new wave of Crusaders from the West came simply to fight the infidel and was horrified by any thought of making even temporary gestures of friendship with a Muslim - an intransigence that was a main cause for the elimination of the Crusader states. To such Crusaders the Orthodox inevitably seemed untrustworthy.

The schism complicated matters. The Orthodox were ungodly as well as untrustworthy. It was a pious duty to bring them into the Roman fold. The average Westerner felt that could be done only by force. But there were others who hoped that the Orthodox authorities, that is to say, the Emperor in Byzantium could be persuaded to submit to Rome and to bring his subjects with him. This might involve the use of threats; but force should be avoided. Pope Gregory X, Pope from 1271 to 1276, who was genuinely concerned about the Crusaders in the East, favoured this view, and achieved a religious diplomatic triumph when he induced the Emperor Michael VIII to send delegates to the Council of Lyons bearing with them his submission to Rome. But Michael soon found that he could not carry his people with him.

The Frankish rulers in Greece nearly all took a hard line against the Orthodox. The Greek hierarchy was replaced by a Latin hierarchy, many of whose members tried to enforce Roman usages throughout their Episcopal sees. Only a few of the wiser princes, such as the Villehardouins, endeavoured to restrain such zeal and to allow their Greek subjects to retain their local priests and their liturgy - so long as the priests accepted the nominal authority of the Latin upper hierarchy. But it is doubtful if any of the princes would really have welcomed the complete submission of the whole See of Constantinople to Rome. That would have been too likely to involve the restoration of a Greek hierarchy throughout, a hierarchy which though it might recognize Papal supremacy would have been Greek. Pope Gregory X, with his zeal for a Crusade in the East and his desire for a peaceable union of the Churches, was not a popular figure amongst the Frankish rulers. He was particularly resented by the potentate who was the most active protagonist of the Latin cause in the later thirteenth century, Charles of Anjou, the youngest brother of Saint Louis, King of France.

Charles had in 1265, with the blessing of the Papacy and material help from the Guelphs, the Papal supporters in Italy, conquered the kingdom of Naples and Sicily from the Hohenstaufen King, Manfred; and he aimed at the creation of a Mediterranean empire. He was a man of tireless energy and great administrative ability, ruthless and lacking in humanity; but according to his lights he was genuinely pious and saw himself as a soldier of God fighting against the infidel and the schismatic. He saw his imperialistic ambitions as being justified because they served the cause of God. But he found it more convenient to his aims to fight the schismatic rather than the infidel. He wished to restore the Latin Empire of Constantinople to its claimant, Baldwin II, whose daughter and heiress he married to one of his sons, while another son married the heiress of the Villehardouins, the marriage contract giving him control of her inheritance. Pope Gregory X, who (as I have said), hoped to convert rather than conquer the Byzantines, tried to make Charles devote his attention to the Crusaders in the East by helping him to buy the rights to the throne of Jerusalem from an elderly spinster princess whose own rights to it were very shaky; and for a time he established his authority in Acre, the capital of the dying kingdom. But he never took any action against the infidel in the East. The only Crusade in which he took part was that of his brother, St. Louis, in 1270. St. Louis had intended it to go to Palestine; but Charles persuaded his brother to direct it, with his help, against the amiable and tolerant Emir of Tunis. It was not a success. St. Louis died in the course of it; and though the Emir paid Charles a large and useful indemnity to go away, Charles’s fleet was badly damaged by a storm when sailing home.

It is necessary to dwell a bit upon Charles of Anjou, as he provided the greatest threat to the Greeks arising out of this neo-Crusading spirit, calling for Crusades against the schismatics, justified as a necessary step before the original Crusade, the Crusade against the infidel, could be resumed. Very shortly before Charles’s conquest of Naples Byzantium had begun to re-establish authority in the Peloponnese with the acquisition of the three great fortresses of Mistra, Maina, and this historic city of Monemvasia - the result of a battle fought far way in Macedonia, at Pelagonia, which had resulted in the capture by the Byzantines of William II of Villehardouin, Prince of Achaea - he was hiding in a haystack in disguise but was recognized by his prominent teeth. The cession of the fortresses was the price of his release. Soon Byzantium was in control of Laconia; and this resurgence of schismatic power, slight though it was, alarmed the Latins both in Greek lands and in the West; and Charles saw himself as their protagonist. He did not trouble seriously to attack the Greeks in Laconia. He calculated that if he captured Constantinople the provinces would yield without resistance. He used the resources of his kingdom -southern Italy and Sicily were still prosperous in those days- to build up a strong army and a large fleet. He secured the alliance of Venice and the promise of Venetian ships. He had the blessing of the Papacy. He had, it is true, enemies in the West, the anti-Papal Ghibelline cities in Italy, but he had crushed all of them but Genoa. There were still members of the Hohenstaufen family living, including Manfred 's daughter Constance, now Queen of Aragon. But he did not think that Aragon would dare to challenge his power. Nothing was to prevent him in his Crusading duty of recapturing Constantinople for the Latins.

However, the first expedition that he planned had to be diverted to help his saintly brother on his Crusade, where his army was reduced by disease and (as I have said) his fleet damaged by a tempest. When next he was ready, the expedition was forbidden by Pope Gregory X after Michael VIII had submitted to the Papacy. But after Gregory’s death and the failure of the Emperor Michael to induce his people to accept religious union, the Papacy reverted to its former policy and gave Charles full support. By the end of 1281 his preparations were made for a great expedition against Constantinople, which would set out the following spring.

I have not the time to talk in detail about the great international conspiracy that was to save Constantinople. We can only note that its organiser was a Neopolitan, John of Procida, a doctor who had been employed by eminent men of all parties but who was himself loyal to the Hohenstaufen and had ended up as Chief Sectetary to King Peter of Aragon and his wife, Constance of Hohenstaufen. Later legend described how he toured round the Mediterranean world in disguise, collecting allies against Charles of Anjou. As he was in his seventies and was signing documents in Barcelona throughout those years, it is unlikely that he travelled far. But he certainly had trustworthy agents. The secrets of the great conspiracy are still not wholly revealed. We know that John was in close touch with the Emperor Michael VIII who was desperately afraid of Charles’s expedition; and the conspiracy was financed by Byzantine gold. He was in touch with the Genoese, who detested Charles; and he had the confidence of the Aragonese Court. Both he and Michael seem to have realized that Charles's weakest point was the island of Sicily. The Sicilians had always resented Charles’s rule; and to keep them in order he governed them through military garrisons of Frenchmen, men from his French dominions on whom he could rely but who were bitterly resented by the islanders.

Early in 1282 Charles’s great armada assembled in the Sicilian port of Messina, ready to sail in April against Constantinople. On Easter Monday, when a crowd was gathered outside a church for Vespers -30 March, seven hundred years ago- the bad behaviour of a French sergeant towards a married Sicilian woman sparked off a riot which led at once to a massacre of the French. Within a week all the Frenchmen on the island were dead or had fled, except at Messina; and it soon fell to the insurgents. Charles’s fleet was half destroyed and half scattered; and he soon found himself involved in a war against Aragon and Genoa, a war still waging when he died. The expedition against Constantinople had to be indefinitely postponed.

This massacre, known in history as the Sicilian Vespers, was of pivotal importance to the history of the Mediterranean world and above all to the history of the Greeks - and to the history of Hellenism. It foiled the last attempt to send a Crusade against the Orthodox in the East. Later Crusader theorists continued to talk of the necessity of bringing the Greeks into the Latin fold. When Philip IV of France talked of going on a Crusade in the East his advisers told him that he must conquer the Greeks first. But he had no intention of actually Crusading. Most theorists contented themselves by saying that the peaceable conversion of the Greeks must be achieved. Byzantium was left alone; and the Greeks in the Peloponnese had little more than local opposition to face in their task of recovering the whole peninsula.

It has been argued by some Western historians that if a strong Latin state had been established in Consantinople it might have been able to prevent the Turkish advance into Europe. But could a strong Latin state even have been established there? The story of the Latin Empire in the earlier thirteenth century hardly supports that view. Could Charles of Anjou's Mediterranean empire have been more effective? I doubt it. It would have been loathed by its subjects and its neighbours in the Balkans, and it would not have been able to count on the steady support from the West which would have been necessary to maintain it. The national kingdoms arising in the West were mainly interested in establishing and enlarging their own frontiers. They were not interested in Eastern Europe, even when the Turks became a real menace to all Europe. The Italian merchant cities who were interested in the East looked at things only in the perspective of immediate profit. And the Greek world had been mortally wounded.

The word "Crusade" now has a noble connotation. It is used to describe a brave struggle for a righteous cause. The actual history of the great Crusades in the East belies that interpretation. The Crusaders did indeed believe that they were carrying out God's will; but they were characterized by ignorance, intolerance and savagery. They set out to save Christendom; but to the Christians of the East they brought nothing but disaster. It can be said that Byzantium profited by the First Crusade, which did indeed help the Emperor to recover much of Anatolia more quickly than he could have managed alone. It is possible, too, to maintain that the existence of the Crusader states in the East served to divert Muslim attention from Constantinople. But the Second and Third Crusades did nothing for Byzantium except to create embarrassment and ill-will; and the Fourth Crusade dealt the Empire a wound from which full recovery was impossible. It is true that there were in fact no further Crusades specifically directed against the Greeks, the Sicilian Vespers having prevented what was planned to be a replica of the Fourth Crusade. Even though men from the West who fought against the Orthodox were promised by their religious authorities the same spiritual benefits as were ordained for those that fought against the infidel, in Greece itself relations between the lords of the Francocratia and their Greek neighbours were not always bad. There was social intercourse; there was often intermarriage. But in the background there was always the animosity created and encouraged by the religious authorities, an animosity felt especially by newcomers from the West, an animosity that was part of what the later Crusading spirit had become. All that is why, to me, "Crusade" is a dirty word.

source: http://www.myriobiblos.gr/texts/english/runciman_crusades.html

Friday, June 22, 2012

A Note on Political Theology by Christos Yannaras

The term political theology has, today in the West, a precise meaning: it signifies a group or a school of theologians who seek to explain the evangelical preaching of the salvation of humanity in categories offered by contemporary political theories, particularly those of the Marxist and neo-Marxist left.

This quest of political theology ranges from pure scientific research for a political interpretation of the texts of the Bible to the direct and active mobilization of theologians and clergy in radical socio-political movements. Behind each of the phases of this quest one can discern the classic problem of Western Christianity: the oscillation between the transcendent and the secular, between the abstract idealism of a conceptual metaphysics and the immediate affirmation and pursuit of material goods in life.

In both the texts of political theology and in the concrete activities of its representatives, it is easy to see that this oscillation, in arousing a certain inferiority of the faith, in the secularized milieu of western societies, is psychologically at the base of the entire problematic. In a world where political action permits man to forge his historical destiny and future with his own hands, the Christian faith is useless and inefficient. Being a Christian, by the standards of Western Christianity, means transposing the immediate problems of social prosperity and social progress into an abstract transcendence, or opposing these problems with the feeble passivity of in individual morality which, even if reasonably justified, is nonetheless totally unable to influence historical evolution in its entirety.

It seems, therefore, that for contemporary Christians in the West, political theology is psychologically counterbalancing this apparent inferiority of the faith. Political theology seeks the roots of revolutionary socio-political movements in the Bible itself. The Bible is seen as a text of political morality, a theory of revolution, which has as its goal a paradise-like society — a society without classes. Therefore, being a Christian today means above all else to engage in an active opposition to social injustice and political oppression. A demonstration is a cultural act, a revolutionary poster is a symbol of the faith, and unity in political action is the new form of ecclesial communion.

Yet, one could, very naively, pose the question: why isn't it sufficient for me — purely and simply — to register myself with a political party or become a revolutionary? Why is it necessary that I be, in addition, also Christian? I fear it is precisely this question which reveals the psychological motivations of political theology.

However, my intention here is not to judge (above all, in so schematic a manner) this contemporary school, or the political theology movement. I would like, before all, to propose a meaning for — or an explanation of — the term political theology as it is related to the truth of Orthodox ecclesial life and tradition.

I believe such a meaning, such an interpretation, presupposes not only the truth and the criteria of Orthodox theology, but also a conception of politics radically different from the one found at the heart of Western European civilization. I mean by this a political theory and action not limited merely to social utility or to the conventional rules of human relations — even if these we more efficient — but which has as its goal the truth of man and the authenticity of his existence.

The politics which serve social utility and the rational regulation of rights and desires, or the relations between work and capital, has nothing to do with theology. It is a priori submitted to individual demands and their conventional limitations — i.e., to the necessary alienation of men transformed into impersonal social entities or neutralized objects destined only for economic and cultural development. Politics can be considered as a chapter of theology — a true political theology — when it takes upon itself serving man according to his nature and his truth; and consequently serving the political nature of humanity — i.e., the power of love, which is at the heart of existence and which is the condition of the true communion of persons, the true city, the true polis.

In other words, politics, to the measure to which it is the theory of true relationships and ascetic action in the service of the social needs and goals of humanity, is tied to the truth of theology. The truth of theology has nothing in common with the abstract ideology of a conceptual metaphysics. Rather, it signifies the concrete experience of the Church. The Church recognizes the truth of man in his trinitarian mode of being. The experience of the personal revelation of the triune God leads to the recognition of man as the image of God. This experience alone can manifest that the truth of the communion of persons is an ontological reality, or the natural mode of existence.

The political theory of the Church is the truth of the Holy Trinity, Fedorov used to say. And this truth is not a metaphysical principle, nor is it given as an intellectual idea. It is an incarnation in history; it is the person of the incarnate Word, who by the energies of the Spirit is the sign of the Father. It is the body of the Word, the Church herself, the body of Christ, totally in history and totally in the ultimate, the eschaton. The Church is the historical measure of the eschaton and the eschatological manifestation of the meaning of history. The image of the Church is a city, a polis, the holy city, new Jerusalem, which descends from heaven (Apoc. 21:2), an icon of the Trinity, a communion of persons and city of saints, an organic unity of the body of the faithful, where the first and the last, the sinners and the saints, are united to one another in a co-inherence of love, a fullness where they are mutually surrounded in love.

But this truth is a certitude only if one lives it and experiences it. The knowledge of life, the knowledge of eros, the knowledge of beauty, the knowledge of the other in personhood, presupposes, in effect, direct participation. One does not approach the truth with the intellect alone. One has to know how the saints assume humanity's failure and sin, without any juridical or rationalist criterion. They assume human failure in the love of the ecclesial Trinitarian communion, and they re-establish the authenticity of existence in spite of it.

To this truth of the trinitarian mode of human existence, to this action which assumes and transfigures failure in communion, politics will again return when it will try to reach further than the conventions governing the claims of the individual and whenever its goal will be the existential authenticity of humanity's social nature.

It goes without saying that the concrete search for such political action is connected to a living theological thought which nourishes political action in a creative manner. Political theology may then play the part played by prophecy — to incarnate the critical and radical irruption of truth in actual periods of historical life (the essence of prophecy not being to announce events which are supposed to happen, but rather the comprehension of the march of history and the historical obligations attached to each moment).

The language of prophecy — political theory based on a trinitarian model — is in every way critical because it compares the fullness of personal communion to our social reality. The most radical critique is the existence of the truth: The consubstantial Holy Trinity, said St Isaac the Syrian, is the only God. By nature he creates, anticipates and judges what has been made by him. This is why the language of political theology cannot be critical, in the sense that it would simply contradict other points of view. The more that prophecy is critical, the more directly it manifests the truth, transfiguring human failure to the measure of the revelation of the authenticity of human existence.

I think this is pretty nearly the way we ought to define an Orthodox theory of political theology. This definition would be the great obligation in theology incumbent upon the present generation of Orthodox.

(Translated from the French by Father Steven Tsichlis)

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Quotes from the Great Mystagogue Saint Nicholas Cabasilas


Christ the Lord was Himself anointed, not by receiving chrism poured on the head, but by receiving the Holy Spirit. For the sake of the flesh which He had assumed He became the treasury of all spiritual energy. He is not only Christ [the Anointed One] but also Chrism [anointing], for it says, “Your name is ointment poured forth” (Cant. 1:3) The latter He is from the beginning, the other He became afterwards. As long as that by which God would impart His own did not exist, He was the Chrism and remained in Himself. Afterwards the blessed flesh was created which received the entire fullness of the Godhead (Col. 1:19). To it, as John says, “God did not give the Spirit by measure” (Jn. 3:34), but He infused into Him His entire living riches. It was then that the Chrism was poured forth into that flesh, so it is now called the Christ. By being imparted to the flesh the divine Chrism Himself was poured forth.

He did not change place, nor did He penetrate or pass over a wall, but as He Himself showed, He left no barrier standing which could separate us from Him. Since God occupies every place He was not separated from man by place, but by man’s variance with Him. Our nature separated itself from God by being contrary to Him in everything that it possessed and by having nothing in common with Him. God remained Himself alone; our nature was man, and no more.

When, however, flesh was deified and human nature gained possession of God Himself by hypostatic union, the former barrier opposed to God became joined to the Chrism. The difference gave way when God became man, thus removing the separation between Godhead and manhood. So chrism represents Christ as the point of contact between both natures; there could be no point of contact were they still separate.

Two things, then, commend us to God, and in them lies all the salvation of men.  The first is that we be initiated into the sacred Mysteries, the second that we train our will for virtue.  Human endeavor can have no other function than that of preserving what has been given so as not to waste the treasure: consequently the power of the Mysteries bestows on us all these blessings.
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What could be equal to that affection? What has a man ever loved so greatly? What mother ever loved so tenderly (Is. 49:15), what father so loved his children? Who has ever been seized by such a mania of love for anything beautiful whatever, so that because of it he not only willingly allows himself to be wounded by the object of his love without swerving from his affection towards the ungrateful one, but even prizes the very wounds above everything? Though these prove not only that He loves us but also that He greatly honors us, yet it belongs to the greatest honor that He is not ashamed even of the infirmities of our nature but is seated on His royal throne with the scars which He has acquired from human weakness.
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Ἡ ἐν Χριστῷ ζωὴ φύεται μὲν ἐν τῷδε τῷ βίῳ καὶ τὰς
ἀρχὰς ἐντεῦθεν λαμβάνει· τελειοῦται δὲ ἐπὶ τοῦ μέλλοντος,
ἐπειδὰν εἰς ἐκείνην ἀφικώμεθα τὴν ἡμέραν. Καὶ οὔτε ὁ βίος
οὗτος τελείως δύναται ταύτην ἐνθεῖναι ταῖς τῶν ἀνθρώπων
ψυχαῖς, οὔτε ὁ μέλλων μὴ τὰς ἀρχὰς ἐντεῦθεν λαβών. Ἐπὶ (5)
μὲν γὰρ τοῦ παρόντος, τὸ σαρκίον ἐπισκοτεῖ, καὶ ἡ ἐκεῖθεν
νεφέλη καὶ φθορά, «μὴ δυναμένη τὴν ἀφθαρσίαν κληρονο-
μεῖν»· ὅθεν ὁ Παῦλος τὸ ἀναλῦσαι πρὸς τὸ συνεῖναι
Χριστῷ καὶ μάλα ἐνόμισε φέρειν· «ἀναλῦσαι γάρ, φησί, καὶ
σὺν Χριστῷ εἶναι, πολλῷ μᾶλλον κρεῖσσον.» Ὅ τε μέλλων (10)
οὓς ἂν μὴ τὰς δυνάμεις καὶ τὰς αἰσθήσεις ὧν ἂν δέοι πρὸς
τὸν βίον ἐκεῖνον ἔχοντας λάβοι, τούτοις οὐδὲν ἔσται πλέον
εἰς εὐδαιμονίαν, ἀλλὰ νεκροὶ καὶ ἄθλιοι τὸν μακάριον
ἐκεῖνον καὶ ἀθάνατον οἰκήσουσι κόσμον. Ὁ δὲ λόγος ὅτι τὸ
μὲν φῶς ἀνατέλλει, καὶ ὁ ἥλιος καθαρὰν τὴν ἀκτῖνα παρέχει, (15)
ὀφθαλμὸν δὲ οὐκ ἔνι τηνικαῦτα πλασθῆναι· καὶ ἡ μὲν τοῦ
Πνεύματος εὐωδία δαψιλῶς ἐκχεῖται καὶ τὰ πάντα κατέχει,
ὄσφρησιν δὲ οὐκ ἄν τις λάβοι μὴ ἔχων.

(2.) Καὶ τῶν μὲν μυστηρίων ἔξεστι κοινωνῆσαι τῷ Υἱῷ
τοῦ Θεοῦ τοὺς «φίλους» κατὰ τὴν ἡμέραν ἐκείνην, καὶ «ἃ
ἤκουσε παρὰ τοῦ Πατρὸς» ἐκεῖνος παρ᾿ ἐκείνου μαθεῖν
αὐτούς, ἀνάγκη δὲ φίλους ὄντας αὐτοῦ καὶ «ὦτα ἔχοντας»
ἀφικέσθαι. Οὐ γὰρ ἔστιν ἐνταῦθα φιλίαν συστῆναι καὶ οὖς (5)
ἀνοιγῆναι καὶ ἱμάτιον νυμφικὸν κατασκευασθῆναι καὶ τἄλλα
ἑτοιμασθῆναι ὧν ἐκείνῳ δεῖ τῷ νυμφῶνι, ἀλλὰ τούτων
ἁπάντων ἐργαστήριον οὗτος ὁ βίος· καὶ οἷς οὐκ ἐγένετο
ἁπάντων ἐργαστήριον οὗτος ὁ βίος· καὶ οἷς οὐκ ἐγένετο
ταῦτα πρὶν ἀπελθεῖν, κοινὸν οὐδὲν εἰς ἐκείνην ἐστὶ τὴν ζωήν.
Καὶ μάρτυρες αἱ πέντε παρθένοι καὶ ὁ εἰς τὸν γάμον (10)
κληθείς, ἐπεὶ μὴ ἔχοντες ἦλθον, μὴ κτήσασθαι δυνηθέντες
μήτε ἔλαιον μήτε ἱμάτιον.

Monday, June 18, 2012

The Mystic Zion

Byzantine art is for me the art of arts. I believe in it as I do religion. I do not deny this, but it even gives me great pleasure when, most of the time, someone uses it as an accusation. Only this art nurtures my soul with its deep and mysterious powers, it quenches the thirst which I feel in the dry desert which surrounds us. Next to Byzantine Art, all other art seems to me light, “distracted by many things,” while only “one thing is needful.” That one thing, when it is perceived by someone, it is understood.
The sweetness of this art is apocalyptic. Men who have need of triviality, cannot find anything other than—would be—rational comments, about crooked feet, unnatural bodies and the such, but how can its deep human content, which is the holy of holies, be weighed with such means? And when they praise it, then they say the worst, idiotic comments, generalities.
For man to commune with that which “is a fire and burns the unworthy,” no one benefits from those bulky tools which are called: smartness, education, rhetoric, diplomacy, analysis, etc., but something more honorable is needed, something which is usually found in the simplest man and is some magical characteristic, that reveals to man the depth of the divine harmony of the whole. “What do I look upon? None other but the gentle, the humble, and the quiet!” Souls which are deep and closed have the hidden privilege to be initiated into this revelation.
So, he who has this grace, only he understands the mystic and unearthly tongue which the East speaks, Byzantium. In the works of this “mystic Zion” he finds the fount and quenches his thirst, whosoever burns from the thirst for the original.
When he enters into a Byzantine chapel, he expects to find something apocalyptic in its paintings, something original, something which presents mystical things, while he can pass by a great European gallery, without satisfying this type of desire. It is, however, in the first drawer who drew “without prototype”—according to the image—where the true prototype is found, where the combination of colors and forms are not new, within a perception appointed from before nature, but it is the presentation of worlds and feelings by totally spiritual means, with the indefinite pulse of the hand, a bowing of the head, clothing where the threads disappear in an air which blows beyond the earth, a color which reminds of the depth of the sea, an exotic rock, a wild tree which brings you the mystical composition of the world. The colors and the forms retain their evocative power because they are not recreated by the artist to represent something natural, but they are utilized in such a way that their identity and their apocalyptic power becomes more intense. Whoever feels this will be left passionless to the external charms and pointless perfections.
-Photios Kontoglou

Why the Icon is not a Religious Picture

Leonardo Davinci's Religious Picture of Christ
Rembrandt's Religious Picture of Christ
Traditional Protestant Religious Picture of Christ





Latin Religious Picture of Christ (Sacred Heart)
Modern "reconstructive" Religious Picture of Christ

Orthodox Icon of Christ

religious picture is an altogether different thing from a liturgical icon. The one is the creation of someone’s artistic talent, the other the flower and reflection of liturgical life. The one is of this world. It speaks of this world and leaves you in this world. The other brings you a simple, peaceful and life-giving message, coming down from above. It speaks to you of something which has gone beyond the categories of yesterday and today, here and there, mine and thine. It addresses itself to human nature universally, to man’s thirst for something beyond. Through the icon, an everlasting and unchanging reality speaks without words; a reality which, in the clarity of silence and in tranquillity, raises up from the deepest level that which unites everything in man.

If the icon spoke a different language, it would torment man. If it relied on historical accuracy, it would merely be saying to us: You did not have the luck to be there then and see these events as those who crucified the Lord saw them.

If the icon depicted Christ suffering in pain on the Cross like a condemned man and rejoicing in the Resurrection, it would has us prey to the vicissitudes that lead to death, in the thrall of our passions. It would not give us anything beyond what we already had ourselves.

If an icon depicted night and day in romantic shades, it would leave us in the prison of the created world which we have come to know so well since the fall. If it feared the night, if it could be obscured by natural darkness, then we should be in the position of the unbaptised; we should fear death, and death would cut short our hope in life. We should remain in the territory of death.

If the icon used perspective it would put us, in a harsh but polite manner, outside Paradise and outside immediate participation in this world, like the foolish virgins; instead of our being partakers in the Wedding, it would throw us out into the darkness and cold of objective vision, into deception.

In other words, if the icon remained on the level of a religious picture, when it spoke to us of the fact of salvation it would merely be offering us and artistic diversion to make us forget, if possible, the prison and the territory of death. It would be a mockery.

As it is, it is Deliverance. The icon is not a representation of events. It is not an idol that has been manufactured; it is Grace incarnate, a presence and an offering of life and holiness.

Archimandrite Vasileios, Hymn of Entry pp. 81, 88-89.

Monday, June 11, 2012

Iconoclasts: Orthodoxy's "Conservatives" by Christos Yannaras

I will attempt to show that iconoclasts are always the "conservatives" of Orthodoxy.
Their stumbling block is the scandal of the persona. An icon (image) is the verification of a person - the verification of freedom.  It is not a coincidence that the historical starting point of the Iconomachy is Monotheletism and its champion the emperor Philippikos-Vardanis (711-713). The Monotheletes denied the distinction between volition and person; in other words, they refused to separate the person from nature. Human nature is one and it is common to all, whereas human beings are "myriads" and dissimilar to each other. Volition is the work of nature, whereas freedom, as opposed to volition, is ascribed to the person; it is the verification of the person.  Volition pertains to the physical individual, whereas freedom is linked to the human person.
Distinguishing is of extreme importance to us.  Man realizes his personal hypostasis, when he denies his physical volition - that is, when he ceases to be an individual, a physical self-awareness which projects his individual nature as an "I" in others' natures.  Individualism is the confusing of nature and person; it is the fragmenting of nature, which is attributed entirely to corruption through sin.  We determine the human person by his individual, physical characteristics, while his person remains inaccessible to any natural determination whatsoever - unique, incomparable and dissimilar, containing the entirety of his nature and constituting a separate and unprecedented possibility of being a depiction of God.
The iconoclasts would ask the defenders of Icons which of the two natures of Christ were being portrayed - the divine or the human.  And Saint Theodore the Studite replied that "in everyone who is depicted, it is not the (Trns.note:physical) nature, but the hypostasis that is depicted."  This means that Orthodox hagiography does not aspire to portray individual natures; it only depicts the "event" of that person. It does not seek to symbolize the person of the Holy Mother by resorting to the features of a contemporary young woman; it strictly confirms the presence among us of a Virgin and a Mother of God.  The character of hagiography is therefore neither a symbolic nor a relative one; it is an admission and a certification of facts.
This distinguishing between the image of things and the shadow of things is found in the Epistle to Hebrews: "...for the Law is but the shadow of future things, and not the image itself of those things" (Hebr.10:1).  It is only within this ontological content that we can perceive Man as an "image of God" (Genesis 1:26). Man is a depiction of God, not per nature (ie proportionately and symbolically), but as a distinction between nature and person; that is, between "actually" and "ontologically".  The first meaning of "icon" (image) - the proportionate and symbolic one - is of Hellenic origin. The second meaning is the meaning per the Bible and Judean tradition.
The Septuagint fathers had rendered the Hebrew word "chelem" as meaning "image", which is interpreted (on the basis of paleo-Judean and Babylonian sources) as "appearance", "representation", "equivalence", "substitute".  At the same time, it also has the meaning of creative depiction - of a dimensional representative presence.  It is characteristic, that in passages of the Old Testament and the New Testament, the meaning of "icon" is linked to (or interpreted with) the meaning of "glory" - with the corresponding Hebrew word that implies something objectively supreme, which is offered to Man as an immediate sensation and empirical knowledge.  It is the appearance and the manifestation of the holiness of Jahwe, which is usually perceived as "light" and as "power".
It is in this sense that Christ is likewise the "image of God the invisible" (2 Cor.4:4 and Colos.1:14); in other words, the appearance of God, the manifestation of God.  And Christians are called upon to become "of similar form to the image of the Son of God" (Rom.8:29).  With our natural (physical) birth, we "donned the earthen image", which does not cease to be the image of our Creator God, despite all the confusion between individual nature and the persona.  With our spiritual rebirth "we shall also don the image of the celestial" (1 Cor.15:49); in other words, we shall be rendered a form of "God's likeness" - the appearance and the manifestation of God.  In this verse, the future tense of the verb (shall) refers us to the eschatological end, - which should not be understood as referring only to Time, given that the "eschaton" (final) is in reference to the major accomplishment of the Church - but rather it refers us to the form of the "new man", the one who is "renewed with the conscience of being the image of the one who created him" (Colos. 3:10)
This renewal - with conscience - into the image of,  pertains to the Church's presence and comprises the "manifestation" of the children of God, the fullness of humanity's destination.  The consciousness of God leads to the revelation of the human person; Man fulfils his personal hypostasis within the event of being the "image of God".  "Never until now  has it been revealed what we shall be like.  We do know, that if it is revealed, we shall be alike to Him, for we shall be seeing Him the way He is" (Ούπω εφανερώθη τι εσόμεθα. Οίδαμεν δε ότι εάν φανερωθή όμοιοι αυτώ εσόμεθα, ότι οψόμεθα αυτόν καθώς εστιν) (1 John 3:2). Within the realm (the 'Kingdom'), the cognizance of God is not a relative and metaphysical one; it is not a knowledge "about God", but rather a direct view - a depiction of the personal God in the human person.  Man becomes "the place of God" - the appearance and the manifestation of God. "All of us, with our persons revealed and reflecting the glory of God, are transformed into that same image, from glory to glory, as by the spirit of the Lord." (Ημείς πάντες ανακεκαλυμμένω προσώπω την δόξαν Κυρίου κατοπτριζόμενοι την αυτήν εικόνα μεταμορφούμεθα από δόξης εις δόξαν, καθάπερ από Κυρίου πνεύματος. (2 Cor. 3:18).
And that is the scandal for the Iconoclasts. This ontology of the icon/image is unfathomable to them, and that is why they prefer the path of emulation: 'We need to resemble Christ'... These are the moralists. They appeared in History as revolutionaries and radicals, tearing down the "forms" and the "images" for the sake of promoting the pure truth of the word. Iconoclastically speaking, these are all pietistic movements within the bosom of the Church. Conscious or unconscious ones.  They usually appear for the purpose of restoring disturbed moral order, and they have an a priori disdain for the lay respect of forms and symbols.  They seek to replace formal religiosity with the "essence" of moral consequence.  They deny the image for the sake of the word.  To resemble Christ means to mimic Him in His specific moral virtues; it is something that can be controlled with one's logic. But to actually comprise the image of God - the revealing and manifestation of God - well, that is a leap that is impossible to perform with the crutches of iconoclast logic.  It presupposes a forsaking of the word and the acceptance of the whole man as an instrument for approaching the truth.
Then there is the scandal called 'freedom'.  Emulation requires subordination; depiction presupposes dialogue in the person. And dialogue means the undertaking of an extreme responsibility, which cannot be shared with any spiritual authority.  Iconoclasts deny the icon/image, because they find it impossible to grasp its ontological content, the certainty of the person's presence and the immediate potential for dialogue with the depicted person.  They are only familiar with individual natures, which, when depicted, cannot portray their morally perfected character, which is why their depiction is considered redundant.  If there is ever going to be a compromise with conjectural representation, it will lead to the acceptance, not of images, but of religious art, because of its ability to subject one sentimentally and facilitate the accomplishment of a moral obligation.
At best, religious art is a form of learning, a reference to the past life of the persons being portrayed. However, an Icon is always the Church's expression of certainty of the immediate presence of those who are "already perfected" - the testifying and the experiencing of a community of the living and the reposed.
"For where the imprint is, there he (the depicted one) also is" (Ένθα γαρ αν ή το σημείον, εκεί και αυτός έσται), says Saint John of Damascus. And elsewhere he supplements: "The Apostles had seen the Lord with their corporeal eyes, and the Apostles were seen by others, and the martyrs by others. It is my desire to also behold them, with my soul and with my eyes... because, being a human and having a body, it is my desire to likewise address and behold holy things corporeally. " (Είδον οι απόστολοι τον Κύριον σωματικοίς οφθαλμοίς, και τους αποστόλους έτεροι, και τους μάρτυρας έτεροι. Ποθώ καγώ τούτους οράν ψυχή τε και σώματι… επεί άνθρωπός ειμι, και σώμα περίκειμαι, ποθώ και σωματικώς ομιλείν, και οράν τα άγια.
And it is also a characteristic fact that while religious art is almost always naturalistic (ie, it depicts only individual natures), hagiography sees objects complete with soul and body and it portrays their form as already glorified bodies: that certainty about the person which relates overall to the entire body and has no need for natural beauty in order to be "actually" revealed.
In other words, iconography is the denial of moralistic models, the denial of relative teaching for the sake of the person alone.  The "fact" of the person is a moral risking, as it presupposes dialogue with God, ie, an awareness of God's absence (which we call repentance), with a previous awareness of sinfulness.  This is where the scandal called 'freedom' is located, which is why monasticism - that incessant grieving during one's repentance - is incomprehensible to iconoclasts, from the time of the Iconomachy through to this day.
Thirdly, it is the scandal of materialism, of matter.
Iconoclasts seek spiritual worship; they are forever wary of the danger of idols. This is yet another consequence of the denial of the person, because the human person is the hypostatic "blending" and "adjoining" of matter and spirit. Man comprises an image of God in precisely such an overall synthesis.
Says Saint Gregory Palamas: "Not the soul alone, nor the body alone is called Man, but both of them together, which, having also been made as an image of God, must be thus called" (Μη αν ψυχήν μόνην, μήτε σώμα μόνον λέγεσθαι άνθρωπον, αλλά το συναμφότερον, ον δη και κατ’ εικόνα πεποιηκέναι Θεός λέγεται). The discerning between matter and spirit in Man portrays the discerning between the Essence and the Energies in God - that ineffable reality of the world's animation by the Grace of God. That is why the defenders of holy Icons would use the teaching of Saint Maximus the Confessor and Dionysios the Areopagite in order to envisage the image of God within natural reality overall; that effusion of uncreated Grace, which is the fulfiller of the overall function of the Logos within the material and spiritual universe. The cosmos constitutes an image of God, precisely because it is the manifestation and appearance of His uncreated energies.
This potential of an "actual" depiction of Godhood in matter is restored, by the rescinding of the natural division between created nature and the uncreated God in the Person of Jesus Christ.  That is why Saint John of Damascus would proclaim: «In the past, God - the uncreated and unformed - was in no way depicted. Now, having seen God in the flesh and mingling with people, I depict the visible aspect of God. I do not worship through matter; I do worship the Creator of matter, Who became matter for my sake and Who condescended to reside within matter, and Who forged my salvation through matter, and I shall not cease to respect matter, through which my salvation was forged.» (Πάλαι μεν ο Θεός, ο ασώματός τε και ασχημάτιστος, ουδαμώς εικονίζετο. Νυν δε σαρκί οφθέντος Θεού, και τοις ανθρώποις συναναστραφέντος, εικονίζω Θεού το ορώμενον. Ου προσκυνώ τη ύλη, προσκυνώ δε τον της ύλης δημιουργόν τον ύλην δι’ εμέ γενόμενον, και εν ύλη κατοικήσαι καταδεξάμενον, και δι’ ύλης την σωτηρίαν μου εργασάμενον, και σέβων ου παύσομαι τη ύλη, δι’ ης η σωτηρία μου είργασται).

Being opposed to this overall perception of salvation, iconoclasts are forever dualists. They show disbelief in the body; they locate the origin of sin in material nature alone; they determine spirituality by means of rationalistic notions of a formal idealism, and they deprive it of all participation in the truth of personal beauty. They deny the body, and yet their fear of it follows them and infects their life with subconscious complexes.  They surrender to marriage as though to a loveless compromise with the flesh; human and divine love (Eros) are both entirely incomprehensible to them. There is no mystical life to iconoclasts; only mimicry and self-discipline. They exorcise moral corruption in society by creating followers, on which they militarily impose uniform ways of life, thought, and even external appearance.
It is not symptomatic that Orthodoxy recognizes a triumph of hers in the reinstatement of holy Icons. An Icon is the measure and the criterion of the Orthodox phronema-conscience and experience; it is the immediate and tangible testimony of the faith of the Orthodox regarding Man, Salvation and the world.
Source: Magazine "SYNORO", Issue No.36, 1965
Source of Translation: http://www.oodegr.com/english/ekklisia/praktikes/iconoclasts1.htm

Friday, June 8, 2012

The "Christomonism" of the West and the Spirit Conditioned Christology of the East

The following is from the notes that were taken from the lectures of Professor I. Zizioulas (current Metropolitan of Pergamus and Chairman of the Athens Academy) at the Poemantic Division of the Thessaloniki University’s School of Theology, during the academic year 1984-1985.

In Western theology, one observes a tendency to over-accentuate Christology, to the detriment of Pneumatology (matters of the Holy Spirit), and this of course affects Ecclesiology.  This preference is attributed to the fact that Christology is chiefly preoccupied with historical realities: the Incarnation, the life of Christ, etc., and Western thought is inclined, as we have said, to focus on History.  The Holy Spirit, Pneumatology, on the other hand, is the opposite. The role of the Holy Spirit in Providence was to liberate the Son from the bonds of History, because the incarnated Son took upon Himself all of the consequences of man’s Fall: He became Adam and entered History with the negative aspect that the Fall bestowed upon it. He entered the History of Time and Space - the Son of God was born in Nazareth of Palestine; He was born during the rule of Caesar Augustus, during a specific point in Time; He was crucified during the time of Pontius Pilate, etc. In other words, He partook of History in exactly the same manner that we do, and He became a part of that History.

But History, the way that we are living it, has negative existential consequences, because it carries death inside it. For example, my own history, the way that I am living it, carries inside it the fact that there was a time that I did not exist; that my father used to exist but now no longer exists; that I shall not be alive after a certain number of years. Death is interwoven with historical existence; with Time. Consequently, the Son also entered this status with His Incarnation.

The Spirit did not become incarnate, nor of course did the Father. The Father does nothing but ‘favor’, because He is the source of every ‘gift of God’.  For example, when we say “Thou, the Father of Lights”, as quoted in the prayer that is cited behind the pulpit (which we priests incorrectly cite in front of the icon of Christ). This prayer is addressed to the Father. We must never confuse the Persons, as it is a dogmatic faux pas to do so.  The Father, therefore, has this role; He favors the Incarnation and the coming of the Spirit. The Son is the One Who is incarnated. The Spirit is not incarnated; hence the Spirit does not suffer the consequences of History, which contains decadence and death.  However, the Spirit also has a role; it is not merely that of non-incarnation – the Spirit is the One Who constantly stands by the Son, during the entire period of His Incarnation, in order to liberate Him from the negative consequences of the Incarnation.

We have here a very important fact, which we Orthodox constantly forget.  By assuming human flesh, the Son also assumed death as a part of History, and was crucified and suffered the pain of the Cross and death, however, He was not finally overcome by death; He was not conquered by death, as He overcame it with His Resurrection.  Many people forget that the Resurrection of Christ was accomplished through the Holy Spirit. The Father resurrects the Son, through the Holy Spirit. Instead of this, the idea prevailed that Christ’s divine nature had somehow overcome death.  This is not correct; not biblically (because we have clear testimonies that the Father raised the Son through the Holy Spirit), nor is it correct from the Patristic point of view, because no natures can act on their own; these were ideas that Pope Leo I had introduced in the 4th Ecumenical Synod – the so-called “reciprocation of the characteristics of natures” – but Cyril had insisted more on the hypostatic union.  Whatever occurs in Christology is a matter of persons, and is not simply a matter of natures.

Thus, we should not forget that the Spirit has a significant role in Christology and that role is precisely to be at the side of the Son, during that adventure called Incarnation; He is at the Son’s side in the desert, when He goes to fast. He stands by Him in the garden of Gethsemane, where He is to make His decision. It is not by coincidence that the Spirit accompanies the Son in all of these instances. The major role that the Spirit has is, precisely, to provide the opening for History to move towards End Times; to free History from the limitations of the created. This is why the Spirit is also linked to Theosis as the perfection of the created. When the boundaries of the created and of death are transcended, then the Spirit is present and is in fact playing a main role. However, because the Spirit is not connected to History, i.e., it is not the Spirit Who leads Christ into submission to History, but on the contrary, it is the Spirit Who causes Him to be released from the clutches of History, then, when one has historically-based tendencies like the Westerners have (since they tend to see everything unilaterally, through the prism of History), it is to be expected that they will find something that interests them more, only in Christology.  And this is why they developed Pneumatology (matters pertaining to the Spirit) in retrospect; or, to be more correct, when they eventually developed Pneumatology, they did not connect it organically to Christology.  One of the basic repercussions this had on Ecclesiology was that they regarded the Church as a historical reality – i.e., the Body of Christ, in which, however, the role of the Holy Spirit is somehow only a decorative one.  This is like building the edifice of the Church with Christological material - a Body of Christ, a historical community which has its given form in the past – and then placing inside it the Holy Spirit to act. This is not a placing of the Holy Spirit in the very foundations of the Church and regarding that the Spirit is the One Who builds the Church. (This is within the basis of the Church). Thus, we have a deviation and a preference in Western theology, always towards Christology and at times towards Christomonism, i.e. the stressing of Christ only, while overlooking the Holy Spirit.

Consequently, when we refer to “Western theology” we must always bear in mind that, along with the over-accentuation of History, we also have an over-accentuation of Christology, to the detriment of Pneumatology.  Pneumatology at times has a secondary and decorative role. With Roman Catholics, this becomes apparent in their Ecclesiology, inasmuch as they overstress historical succession and the historical privileges of the hierarchy.  Their overall Ecclesiology, the Papist one, with the idea of a Pope at its center, is justified precisely by means of the argument of historical privileges.  They assume that the Pope has a historical succession that goes as far back as Saint Peter. This is of immense importance to them; if they can prove the historical succession, the historical link, then the Ecclesiological argument is definitely a convincing one for them. From an Orthodox viewpoint, this is not enough.  Even if it could be proved (and it cannot be), it would still not be enough, because for us, the Church is not merely a society that is perpetuated throughout Time historically; it is the charismatic element that permeates Her foundations and Her institutions.  Consequently, in our relations with Western theology, we have –and must always have- this issue in mind:  How do we synthesize Christology with Pneumatology properly in Ecclesiology?

By giving precedence to Christology, Western theology created the following situation as regards the Church: the Church basically became the Body of Christ for Roman Catholics. For the Protestants, it became a community that follows Christ and His teaching and listens to His word, the Gospel.  This creates along-distance relationship”, one could say.  The Head and the Body do not coincide; they do not fully connect, because the Holy Spirit was not introduced from the very first moment, to create that communion which liberates beings from the limitations of the individual.  The Holy Spirit creates persons, He creates a community.  When we place Pneumatology at the base of Christology, then we do not have Christ first, with a group that follows behind Him; instead, we have Christ as a Person that embraces all of us within Him.  The Church, therefore, is formed in this way: it is a community that has its identity, not in Herself but in Christ Himself, because She is so closely tied to Christ that one cannot refer to Her being, without a reference to Christ.  Thus, for example, we Orthodox speak of the sanctity of the Church; that sanctity is found in Her very nature, Her very being. WhyWell, where does the Church draw this sanctity from? The answer is given in the Divine Liturgy, every time we cite: “The sanctified (gifts) unto the saints” …. “One is Holy, One is the Lord, Jesus Christ”.  The “saints”, to whom the sanctified gifts are given, are the members of the community.  The members of the community are sinful; and yet, they are addressed as “saints”; however, by being fully conscious that they are not per se holy, they respond with the words “One is Holy – Jesus Christ”.