My New Blog: "From East to East"

Henceforth, I am going to do some of my "Orthodox" blogging on my new site: From East to East.

Please check it out.  I hope everyone will enjoy it.

It focuses on the intersection of Eastern Orthodoxy with Asian philosophies and religion.  Posts related to these things will be found there.

For other, more "traditional" Orthodox posts, I will still be using this blog.

Christianity as a Mode of Being

The essay that follows is an introduction to a series of essays that I would like to do on this blog.  All of them deal with the hiddenness, the paradox, the Mystery, and the apparent absence of God.  I would like to note that all of these essays—as opposed to the more traditional posts that I also want to include regularly—do not necessarily reflect a purely Orthodox view.  Errors in Church teaching that may (or may not) follow are purely my own.  These are simply honest reflections as I try to work out certain philosophical—as opposed to theological—views within my own (hopefully maturing) thought.

Christianity as a Mode of Being

     Much of what passes for Christianity today is nothing more than paganism.  Religions before Christ came into the world—before He gave Himself for the life of the world, and thus ended all paganism—were belief systems.  They were cultic, and it didn’t matter whether they were the cults of the Greek gods, the cults of Western Europe, or the pantheistic polytheism of India.  These paganistic systems were steeped in many of the same essentials: believe the right things to gain favor of your god(s) and do the right things—whether it was sacrifice or ritualistic worship—in order to not just gain favor, but to get specific things out of your deity.

     When looked at through the same lens as this brief definition of paganism, the current trends of Christianity are essentially the same thing.  Christianity of today is based on either believing the right thing—such as accepting Jesus Christ as your personal savior—or doing the right thing—such as being sure to attend a church service on Sunday, or not use any profane language, or not drink any alcohol—in order to win the favor of God/Jesus.  The Christian cults that we have created in our “modern” world—cults that make nothing more than an idol of the Divine—are all about getting God to change His mind about us, as was ancient paganism.  However, early Christianity of the ancient East—the kind of Christianity these essays attempt to express—was different.  It was—and is, when still practiced—about us changing our minds about God.

     Christ did not give his life for the world in order to usher in the “right” form of paganism.  He gave His life in order to conquer death and to allow man to enter into a life lived in Him—in which we move, and dwell, and have our being.  But just what does this life lived in—and not just in, but through—Christ look like?

     The answer given by many Christians today—usually either “progressive” or “liberal” Christians—is that Christianity is a “way of life,” and that Christianity should be practiced, and should never be seen as just a belief system.  I sympathize with this approach to Christianity, and I would have to agree that it is a better or “higher” way to practice Christianity as opposed to the pagan variety, but I still think that it is wrong.

     Christianity as “belief system” ends up being just one form of belief amid the myriad of other pagan beliefs.  And the same is true of Christianity as a way of living—it is just one form of philosophical living among many others, for it becomes just that: a philosophy.

     Ancient philosophy—what I would call true philosophy, not the dull, academic armchair variety that is now in vogue—came out of paganism, and in many ways was the fullness of paganism.  And that’s precisely where the problem lies if Christianity is presented as a philosophical way of life.  Because the truth is that there are better forms of philosophy than Christianity.  For instance, if you just want to gain peace of mind, or be better equipped with handling the many stresses that daily life will throw at you, then certainly the philosophical, neo-psychological approaches of the different Asian religions are better suited.  And it’s not just the Asian religions, either.  The ancient Greek philosophies of Stoicism and Epicureanism are certainly better than any of the current crop of self-help masquerading as Christianity that pervades the bookshelves of “Christian” bookstores.

     And so the question now remains: If neither philosophical Christianity nor “pagan” Christianity is the answer, what is?

     If you want to truly usher in a life lived in Christ, then the answer must be that Christianity is neither philosophy nor religion but a mode of being.  It is a mode of being that encounters God.  And it is not an encounter with God that occurs just on Sunday morning, or when you pray, or when you practice anything that is liturgical.  It is an encounter that transcends and—yet at the same time—goes within all of these things.  It is an encounter not with a belief or a concept, but with the very Mystery that is God.

     It is an encounter on several levels.  The first—as just said—is an encounter with God as Mystery.  Anything that we make of God, or think of God, is not God, for as Evagrius Ponticus pointed out in the 4^th century: “God cannot be grasped by the mind.  If he could be grasped, he would not be God.”  This also means—and this is one of the major focal points of this book—that a life lived in God cannot be always “grasped” either.  Life is often hard, and it is often difficult.  It is filled with regret, pain, stress, and suffering.  To try to figure out the “why” of these things—such as trying to give them a concrete meaning through some sort of “God’s plan”—is to not live in the Mystery that is our Creator.  And this also means that we—who are made in the Image and Likeness of God—are also somewhat a mystery even to our own selves.  At the deepest parts of our beings, there is something unfathomable, beyond the realm to know.

     God, life, and our inner selves must all live in this very mystery of being.

     The second is an encounter with God as Christ, and, therefore, Truth as a Person.  It must become a relational mode of being.  As we encounter Mystery, and enter into Its very depths, we must discover that we are in relation to this Mystery that is Christ.  And if we are to do justice to Christ, then this relationship must be true by honoring all that Christ truly represents.  It can’t be some fake god of our own making—mythic, butler-ish, vengeful, you name it.  It must be the God of the cross, the God that suffered, and by doing so showed us the path that we too must follow—the narrow road that leads to life.

     It is also an encounter with God as Trinity, and God as hiddenness.  These, of course, are very closely tied with God as Mystery—you could say, in some ways, that they are one and the same.

     And, finally, it is an encounter with God as prayer.

     All of the essays that follow are attempts to express what it means to live out Christianity as a mode of being that honors and expresses all of these ways.  This is not an attempt to create some systematic theology that explains these various approaches and encounters—to attempt to do so would actually be a step backward, and would make all of this nothing more than another belief system, and therefore a regression back into paganism.  No, everything that follows are simply thoughts written down on paper; written as much for myself as for anyone else.  May you find as much solace—and sometimes discomfort—reading these words as I will attempt to find in writing them.

Patience with God

     I read this sometime ago, and I don’t remember who wrote it, or where it’s from, or if the writer was even Orthodox (probably not), but I thought it was fairly insightful:

Patience with others is love.

Patience with one’s self is hope.

Patience with God is faith.

     If I was going to add anything, or change anything, then perhaps I would also say that faith is actually a combination of patience with God and patience with one’s self.  We are, after all, made in the Image and Likeness of God.  And God, as much as we may come to know Him, will always remain a mystery in His Essence.  Likewise, we will all remain somewhat of a mystery, even to our own selves.  At the innermost part of our own being, there is always something unfathomable and beyond the ability to know.

     But what I would really like to explore here is how we know God – as much as it is possible to know God in this life; and we most certainly can know him – through patience, and therefore through faith.  And I would like to explore how this patience we must have with God sometimes appears as doubt – or at least goes hand in hand with doubt.  And since it has a lot to do with doubt, it also has a lot to do with many of the current ailments that plague our society: secularism, atheism, and non-theism.  (I think that most people who claim to be atheists aren’t really atheistic – at least not of the Richard Dawkins type.  Most are simply non-theistic – God just isn’t part of the equation.  And if He is part of the equation, He’s not a very big part, or maybe you could say that He is beside the point.)

     First, we need to realize that doubt is not in opposition to Christianity.  I realize that it’s all too often presented as such, but it shouldn’t be.  For instance, growing up attending a Southern Baptist church, I heard plenty of sermons that emphasized why the Bible is the literal word of God – as if it was written as some kind of history text – and why we can be certain that the tomb really was empty, and this can be proven by stringing point A with point B with point C, and so on and so forth.[1]

     The truth is that the opposite of Christianity is not atheism.  The opposite of Christianity is anything that makes God – and by extension the Church – something that He is not.  This means that many forms of “Christianity” – prosperity gospels, views of God as vengeful and wrathful, “churchless” Christianity – are actually the true opposites of true Christianity.

     The problem with atheism – or at least one of the problems – is that it lacks patience.[2]  Many atheists grew up in rather “fundamentalist” Christian households – or they grew up in secular households, in which the only forms of “Christianity” that they came into contact with were those of a fundamentalist bent.  They become impatient, and ultimately have disdain, for this form of Christianity.  They then either reject God (and therefore Christianity) altogether, or they find what for them seems to be a suitable replacement.[3]

     When a Christian – or someone who is exploring theism of God as Person – begins to doubt, or begins to feel as if God is no longer present, this is where patience comes into the picture.  The patience must be with God, and the patience must be with one’s self.  If there is no patience, then two things could happen.  The first thing, atheism, is obviously not the correct outcome.  The second thing, to not question, is less obvious as the inappropriate choice.

     Not questioning leads to a faith that is no longer faith, for it becomes belief.  Belief and faith are not the same thing, otherwise our definition of patience with God as faith would not be true.  If anything, belief is what you have when you lack faith[4].  Faith as belief is not possible, whereas faith as trust, faith as surrender, faith as a way of being is not only possible, it is how faith must be lived in the daily life of the Christian.

     To choose atheism is to choose not to endure.  To choose belief over faith is to take the wide road.  And to choose faith is to take the narrow path.  It is hard and it is difficult, but it is infinitely more rewarding.  It is the choice to not settle for shortcuts – to not settle for anything other than the God of Christ, not the mythic sky god of so many “believers.”

     So what does the narrow path look like when it’s put into practice?  What does it mean to live by faith as a way of being, and as a way of being patient with God, patient with one’s self?  Some of it can be explained, and some of it cannot, because some of it is mystery that can only be lived as mystery.

     This is where we encounter faith as praxis.

     For the Orthodox, faith as praxis is faith as asceticism.  Asceticism should not be confused with the “moralism” of Protestantism.  Here is what the late Orthodox priest and writer John Romanides has to say on the matter:

     “The biblical tradition as preserved by the Fathers cannot be identified with or reduced to a system of moral precepts or Christian ethics. It is rather a therapeutical asceticism which is not daunted by any degree of malady of the heart or noetic faculty short of its complete hardening. To take the shape of this asceticism without its heart and core and to apply it to a system of moral precepts for personal and social ethics is to produce a society of puritanical hypocrites who believe they have a special claim on God's love because of their morality, or predestination, or both. The commandments of Christ cannot be fulfilled by any simple decision to do so or by any confidence in having been elected. A person with broken legs cannot run in the race no matter how much he wants to. One can do so only when one's legs have healed and have been restored to a competitive degree of power. In the same way, one cannot fulfill the commandments unless he undergoes the cleansing and illumination of his noetic faculty and reaches the threshold of glorification.”[5]

     The most important aspect of an ascetic life is repentance.  In fact, repentance is the beginning and the end.  It is the one aspect of “spirituality” that must utterly infuse all other aspects: prayer (for prayer to ever be noetic, it must be repentant), reading of Holy Scripture, liturgy, and work.  A Christianity that doesn’t have repentance is, to be blunt, not Christianity at all.  It may be a Christianity with plenty of belief, and it may be a Christianity with plenty of “good” people, but it is not a Christianity infused with faith.

---

[1] As an Orthodox, I certainly believe in the whole of the Paschal Mystery: the crucifixion, the death, the descent into hell, the resurrection on the third day, the ascension into heaven, and Christ’s Second and Glorious Coming as an event that forever changed the world, altering the very fabric of reality, and allowing me to attain union with the Uncreated Energies of the Incarnate Logos.  However, this doesn’t mean that Holy Scripture is meant to be read as history lesson.  Holy Scripture, rather, is meant to be read as a letter, written to me from the Eternal Logos.  Holy Scripture is the Word of God, but not in the way that most Protestants understand it to be.  Protestantism, unfortunately, is severely tainted by the stain of scholasticism – as is the Roman Catholic Church.  But, to be fair, not all the Western Christian writers were/are guilty of this.  Personally, I have been sustained by writers such as Soren Kierkegaard, Dietrech Bonhoeffer, the Czech Catholic Tomas Halik, and the esteemed 20^th century theologian Hans Urs Von Balthasar.

[2] I am not the first writer to suggest such a thing.  Thomas Halik wrote an entire book about it, and the Orthodox writer – and convert from evangelical Christianity – Frank Schaeffer has written about it, as well.

[3] For me, this was “Eastern” religion – Buddhism and Taoism, specifically.  When religion is thought of as a way to make life more tolerable, or to bring about happiness (and this is the way Christianity is often presented in the majority of books that are popular today; self-help masquerading as Christianity) there are certainly better religions than Christianity.  Taoism, Buddhism, or the philosophy of ancient Greece (such as Stoicism) are more viable than the current trend of self-help Christianity because they tend to bring about a longer-lasting happiness – although it is a happiness that, in the end, cannot be sustained, for it lacks union with the Logos made flesh.

[4] Several Orthodox writers of the last few decades, such as Alexander Schmemann and Stephen Freeman, have made the point that Orthodoxy is not a “religion” because it’s not a belief system.  To paraphrase Father Freeman: Orthodoxy is not a religion, because religion is a belief system.  Orthodoxy is not a faith, either.  You have faith, faith sustains you, but that is different.  Orthodoxy is a life lived in Christ.  And that is altogether not the same.  I have discussed the issue of what exactly is meant by faith in more detail in previous posts.

[5] From “Jesus Christ: The Life of the World.”

Elder Paisos on "Spiritual Study"

Elder Paisos on Spiritual Study

— Geronda, what books should be read by those who are beginning their spiritual search?

— First, they should read the New Testament to learn the meaning of Christ, to be shaken up a little; later they can read the Old Testament. Do you know how hard it is when they have read nothing and yet they come to ask for help? It is like an elementary school child going to a university professor and saying, ”Help me.” What can the professor tell him? ”One plus one equals two”? Others, again, are not spiritually restless; they come and say, ”Father, I have no problems and I am just fine; I only dropped by to see you.” Man can never say that he has no problems, no concerns; he will have something. The struggle for the spiritual life never ends. Or some people come and tell me, ”Tell us spiritual things.” It is as if they went to the grocery store and said, ”Give us some groceries.” The grocer is at a loss and needs to know what they need. They need to say, ”I want so much sugar, so much rice, and so on, but they only say, ‘Give us groceries.' ”It is like going to the pharmacy and saying, ”Give us medicines,” without first saying what their illness is, or whether or not they went to the doctor, and what he advised them to do. Go figure! You see, whoever is seriously concerned over his spiritual condition knows, more or less, what he is lacking, and once he seeks it, he benefits.

As a novice, when I read something I liked, I wrote it down so as not to forget it, and I would try to apply it to my life. I didn't readjust to pass my time pleasantly. I had a spiritual restlessness and, when I could not understand something, I would ask for an explanation. I read relatively little, but I checked myself a great deal on what I read. ”What point am I at? What must I do?” I would sit myself down and go through such a self-examination. I did not allow what I read to pass me by untaxed.

Today with so much reading people end up like tape recorders, filling up their cassettes with superfluous matters. According to Abba Isaac, however, Wisdom not based on righteous activity is a deposit of disgrace. [1] You see, many who are interested in sports read sports magazines and newspapers while they are sitting. They may be like the fatted calf, but they still marvel at the athletes. ”Oh he is marvellous! He is great! Bravo!” But they don't work up any sweat, and they don't lose any pounds. They read and read about athletic events, and then they go and lie down; they gain nothing. They are satisfied with the pleasure of reading. Some worldly people read newspapers, others romantic literature or an adventure novel, still others watch a football game at the stadium and pass their time. The same thing is done by some people who read spiritual books. They may spend the whole night reading spiritual books with great intensity and be content. They take a spiritual book, sit comfortably, and begin reading. ”Oh, I profited from that,” they say. It would be better to say, ”I enjoyed myself, I spent my time pleasantly.” But this is not profit.

We profit when we understand what we read, when we censure ourselves and discipline ourselves by applying it: ”What does this mean? Where do I stand in relation to this spiritual truth? What must I do now?” After all, the more we learn, the more responsibility we have to live up to what we have learned. I am not saying that we should not read so that we can plead ignorance and therefore be free of responsibility, for this is a cunning deception; I am saying that we should not read merely to pass our time pleasantly. The bad thing is that if someone reads a lot and has a strong memory, he may remember many things and may even talk a lot about what he has read, and thus deceive himself into thinking that he also personally observes the many things he reads. So he has created an illusion toward himself and others. So don't be comforted by the thought that you read a lot. Instead, turn your attention to applying what you have read. Much reading alone will only educate you encyclopaedically. Isn't that what they call it?

— Yes, Geronda.

— The goal, however, is to be transformed in a God-centred manner. I am not aiming to be a university professor where I would need to know many things. But if I ever need something from this worldly knowledge, I can easily learn it once I have acquired the God-centred knowledge. Do you see what I mean?

— When one has a distraction, is it beneficial to concentrate through study?

— Yes, one should read a little, something very demanding, in order to warm the soul. This keeps distractions and concerns under the lid, and the mind is transposed into a divine realm. Otherwise, the mind is diverted by whatever task is preoccupying it.

— Geronda, when someone is tired or upset, he usually wants to read something light and easy, a short story or a novel, perhaps, or something like that.

— Is there no spiritual book that is appropriate for such times? The purpose is not to forget one's worry, but to be redeemed. Such light reading does not redeem. Novels, newspapers and television have no value in developing a spiritual life. Quite often even some religious periodicals are damaging to Christians, because they stir a foolish zealousness that leads to confusion. Take care. Do not read unnecessary things during your free time. Some reading matter is completely hollow, like a water-pumpkin; it is like looking in a haystack to find a kernel of wheat. Some people say, ”Yes, but they relax me.” But how can they be relaxing, my good man, if they make you dizzy and cause your eyes to ache? It is better to rest by sleeping. You can learn much about a person's spiritual state from what he reads. One who is very worldly will probably be reading indecent magazines. One who is less worldly will read less indecent magazines and newspapers. One who is religious will read religious periodicals, or contemporary religious books or patristic texts, and so on.

— Geronda, which spiritual books are the most helpful?

— The various patristic texts, which thank God are available by the thousands today, are very helpful. One can find whatever one needs and desires in these books. They are authentic spiritual nourishment and a sure guide on the spiritual path. However, in order to be of benefit to us, they have to be read with humility and prayer. Patristic texts reveal the inner spiritual condition of the soul, much as axial tomography reveals the inner structures of the body. Each sentence of the patristic texts contains a multitude of meanings, and each person can interpret them according to their own spiritual state of being. It is better to read the ancient text rather than a translation, because the translator interprets the original verse according to his own spirituality. In any case, in order to understand the writings of the Fathers one must constrain oneself, focus and live spiritually, for the spirit of the Fathers is perceived through and by the spirit only. Especially helpful are the Ascetical Homilies by Saint Isaac the Syrian, but they must be studied slowly so that they can be assimilated little by little as spiritual food. The Evergetinos is truly of great benefit, because it gives us insight into the Whole spirit of the Holy Fathers, it is helpful because it describes the struggles of the Fathers against each and every one of the passions, and, by learning how they worked on the spiritual life, the soul is greatly assisted. Also, the Synaxaria, the Lives of the Saints, are sacred history and very helpful, especially for young people, but they should not be read as stories.

We do not need great knowledge to be devout. If we concentrate and meditate on the few things we know, our heart will be spiritually embroidered. One may be profoundly affected by a single hymn, while another may feel nothing, even though he may know all the hymns by heart, as he has not entered into the spiritual reality. So, read the Fathers, even one or two lines a day. They are very strengthening vitamins for the soul.

An excerpt from “Spiritual Awakening”

The Rule for Attending to Oneself

The Rule for Attending to Oneself 

Written for a Certain Layman As a Result of His Desire to Live a Vigilant Life in the World 

By St. Ignatius Brianchaninov 

The soul of all practices in the Lord is VIGILANCE. Without VIGILANCE, all these practices are fruitless. He who is desirous of saving himself must so establish himself that he might remain continuously VIGILANT toward HIMSELF, not only in solitude, but also under conditions of distraction, into which he is sometimes unwillingly drawn by circumstances.

Let the fear of God outweigh all other sensations upon the scales of your heart; and then will it be convenient to for you to be VIGILANT TOWARD YOURSELF, both in the silence of yourkellia [cell] and in the midst of the noise that surrounds you from all sides.

A well-reasoned moderation in foodstuffs, diminishing the passionate heat of his blood, tends greatly to facilitate your being able to ATTEND TO YOURSELF; while the impassioning of your blood, stemming, as it does, from an excessive consumption of foodstuffs, from extreme and intensified bodily movements, from the inflammation of wrath, from being heady with vanity, and by reason of other causes, gives rise to a multitude of thoughts and reveries—in other words, to distraction. The Holy Fathers, first of all, ascribe to such a one as is desirous of ATTENDING TO HIMSELF a moderate, evenly-measured, constant abstention from food. (Dobrotoliubiye [Philokalia], Pt. II, Ch. of St. Filofei [Philotheus] of the Sinai)

Upon awakening from sleep—an image of the awakening from the dead, which awaits all men—direct your thoughts to God, offering up to Him the first-thoughts of your mind, which has not yet become imprinted with any vain impressions whatsoever.

Having carefully fulfilled all the needs of the flesh upon arising from sleep, quietly read your customary rule of prayer, taking care not so much for the quantity of your prayerful expression, as for the quality of it; i.e., do it ATTENTIVELY, so that, by reason of your ATTENTION, your heart might be enlightened and enlivened through prayerful feeling and consolation. Upon concluding your rule of prayer, do you again, direct all your strength to the ATTENTIVE reading of the New Testament, primarily the Evangel. In the course of this reading, intently take note of all the instructions and commandments of Christ, so that you might direct all your actions—both manifest and veiled—in accordance with them.

The quantity of the reading is determined by one's strength and by one's circumstances. It is unnecessary to weight-down one's mind with an excessive reading of prayers and Scripture; likewise, is it unnecessary to neglect one's needs in order to practice immoderate prayer and reading. Just as the excessive use of foodstuffs disorders and weakens the belly, so too does the immoderate use of spiritual food weaken the mind and create in it a revulsion to pious practices, leading it to despair. ([St.] Isaac the Syrian, "Sermon 71")

For the novice, the Holy Fathers suggest frequent—but brief—prayers. When one's mind matures with spiritual age, becoming stronger and manlier, then shall one be in proper condition to pray without ceasing. It is to such Christians as have attained to maturity in the Lord that the words of the Apostle Paul pertain:

I DESIRE, THEREFORE, THAT MEN PRAY EVERYWHERE, LIFTING UP HOLY HANDS, WITHOUT ANGER AND REPROACH. (I Tim. II, 8) i.e., dispassionately, and without any distraction or inconstancy. For that which is natural to the man is not yet natural to the infant.

Enlightened, through prayer and reading, by our Lord, Jesus Christ, the Sun of Righteousness, one may then go forth to carry out the affairs of one's daily course, VIGILANTLY taking care that in all one's deeds and words, in one's entire being, the All-holy will of God might prevail, as it was revealed and explained to men in the Commandments of the Evangel.

Should there be any free moments during the course of the day, use them to read ATTENTIVELY some chosen prayers, or some chosen portions of Scripture; and, by means of these, fortify the powers of your soul, which have become exhausted through activity in the midst of a world of vanities.

Should there not be any such golden moments, it is necessary to regret their loss, as though it were the loss of a valuable treasure. What is wasted today should not be lost on the day following, because our heart conveniently gives itself up to negligence and forgetfulness, which lead to that dismal ignorance, so ruinous of Divine activity, of the activity of man's salvation.

Should you chance to say or to do something that is contrary to God's commandments, immediately treat your fault with repentance; and, by means of sincere contrition, return to the Way of God, from which you stepped aside through your violation of God's will. Do not linger outside the Way of God! Respond with faith and humility to sinful thoughts, reveries and sensations by opposing to them the Gospel commandments, and saying, along with the holy patriarch Joseph:

HOW SHALL I SPEAK THIS EVIL WORD AND SIN BEFORE GOD? (Gen. XXX, 9)

One who is VIGILANT toward oneself must refuse himself all reverie, in general—regardless of how attractive and well-appearing it might seem, for all reverie is the wandering of the mind, which flatters and deceives it, while being outside the truth, in the land of non-existent phantoms, and incapable of realization. The consequences of reverie are: loss of VIGILANCE toward oneself, dissipation of the mind, and hardness of heart during prayer, whence comes distress of the soul.

In the evening, departing into slumber—which, in relation to the day just past, is death—examine your actions during the course of that day. Such [self-] examination is not difficult, since, in leading an ATTENTIVE life, that forgetfulness which is so natural to a distracted man is destroyed through VIGILANCE TOWARD ONESELF. And so, having recollected all your sins, whether through act, or word, or thought, or sensation, offer your repentance to God for them, with both the disposition and the heart-felt pledge of self-amendment. Later, having read the rule of prayer, conclude the day which was begun by meditating upon God by meditating, once again, upon God. Whither do they depart—all the thoughts and feelings of a sleeping man? What mysterious state of being is this sleep, during which the soul and body are both alive and yet not alive, being alienated from the awareness of their life, as though dead? Sleep is as incomprehensible as death. In the course of it, one's soul reposes, forgetting the most-cruel earthly afflictions and calamities that have beset it, while it images its eternal repose; while one's body (!!) ... if it rises from sleep will also arise, inevitably, from the dead.

The great Agafon said: "IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO SUCCEED IN VIRTUE WITHOUT EXERTING VIGILANCE TOWARD ONESELF." (The Patericon of Skete)

Amen.

Excerpted from The Writings of Bishop Ignatius Brianchaninov: Ascetic Essays, Volume I, pp. 185-187 (in Russian). Translated into English from the Russian by George Spruksts intrprtr@prodigy.net. English-language translation copyright (c) 1999 by The St. Stefan of Perm' Guild, The Russian Cultural Heritage Society, and the Translator. All Rights Reserved. Permission is hereby granted to use this essay for non-commercial purposes, as long as this entire notice is included therewith.

Orthodoxy and Other Traditions

The Difference Between Orthodox Spirituality and Other Traditions

by Metropolitan Hierotheos Vlachos

Orthodox spirituality differs distinctly from any other "spirituality" of an eastern or western type. There can be no confusion among the various spiritualities, because Orthodox spirituality is God-centered, whereas all others are man-centered.


The difference appears primarily in the doctrinal teaching. For this reason we put "Orthodox" before the word "Church" so as to distinguish it from any other religion. Certainly "Orthodox" must be linked with the term "Ecclesiastic," since Orthodoxy cannot exist outside of the Church; neither, of course, can the Church exist outside Orthodoxy.


The dogmas are the results of decisions made at the Ecumenical Councils on various matters of faith. Dogmas are referred to as such, because they draw the boundaries between truth and error, between sickness and health. Dogmas express the revealed truth. They formulate the life of the Church. Thus they are, on the one hand, the expression of Revelation and on the other act as "remedies" in order to lead us to communion with God; to our reason for being.


Dogmatic differences reflect corresponding differences in therapy. If a person does not follow the "right way" he cannot ever reach his destination. If he does not take the proper "remedies," he cannot ever acquire health; in other words, he will experience no therapeutic benefits. Again, if we compare Orthodox spirituality with other Christian traditions, the difference in approach and method of therapy is more evident.


A fundamental teaching of the Holy Fathers is that the Church is a "Hospital" which cures the wounded man. In many passages of Holy Scripture such language is used. One such passage is that of the parable of the Good Samaritan: "But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was. And when he saw him, he had compassion . So he went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine; and he set him on his own animal, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. On the next day, when he departed, he took out two denarii, and gave them to the innkeeper, and said to him, 'Take care of him; and whatever more you spend, when I come again, I will repay you" (Luke 10:33-35).


In this parable, the Samaritan represents Christ who cured the wounded man and led him to the Inn, that is to the "Hospital" which is the Church. It is evident here that Christ is presented as the Healer, the physician who cures man's maladies; and the Church as the true Hospital. It is very characteristic that Saint John Chrysostom, analyzing this parable, presents these truths emphasized above.


Man's life "in Paradise" was reduced to a life governed by the devil and his wiles. "And fell among thieves," that is in the hands of the devil and of all the hostile powers. The wounds man suffered are the various sins, as the prophet David says: "my wounds grow foul and fester because of my foolishness" (Psalm 37). For "every sin causes a bruise and a wound." The Samaritan is Christ Himself who descended to earth from Heaven in order to cure the wounded man. He used oil and wine to "treat" the wounds; in other words, by "mingling His blood with the Holy Spirit, he brought man to life." According to another interpretation, oil corresponds to the comforting word and wine to the harsh word. Mingled together they have the power to unify the scattered mind. "He set him in His own beast," that is He assumed human flesh on "the shoulders" of His divinity and ascended incarnate to His Father in Heaven.


Then the Good Samaritan, i.e. Christ, took man to the grand, wondrous and spacious inn - to the Church. And He handed man over to the innkeeper, who is the Apostle Paul, and through the Apostle Paul to all bishops and priests, saying: "Take care of the Gentile people, whom I have handed over to you in the Church. They suffer illness wounded by sin, so cure them, using as remedies the words of the Prophets and the teaching of the Gospel; make them healthy through the admonitions and comforting word of the Old and New Testaments." Thus, according to Saint Chrysostom, Paul is he who maintains the Churches of God, "curing all people by his spiritual admonitions and offering to each one of them what they really need."


In the interpretation of this parable by Saint John Chrysostom, it is clearly shown that the Church is a Hospital which cures people wounded by sin; and the bishops and priests are the therapists of the people of God.


And this precisely is the work of Orthodox theology. When referring to Orthodox theology, we do not simply mean a history of theology. The latter is, of course, a part of this but not absolutely or exclusively. In Patristic tradition, theologians are the God-seers. Saint Gregory Palamas calls Barlaam [who attempted to bring Western scholastic theology into the Orthodox Church] a "theologian," but he clearly emphasizes that intellectual theology differs greatly from the experience of the vision of God. According to Saint Gregory Palamas theologians are the God-seers; those who have followed the "method" of the Church and have attained to perfect faith, to the illumination of the nous and to divinization (theosis). Theology is the fruit of man's cure and the path which leads to cure and the acquisition of the knowledge of God.


Western theology, however, has differentiated itself from Eastern Orthodox theology. Instead of being therapeutic, it is more intellectual and emotional in character. In the West [after the Carolingian "Renaissance"], scholastic theology evolved, which is antithetical to the Orthodox Tradition. Western theology is based on rational thought whereas Orthodoxy is hesychastic. Scholastic theology tried to understand logically the Revelation of God and conform to philosophical methodology. Characteristic of such an approach is the saying of Anselm [Archbishop of Canterbury from 1093-1109, one of the first after the Norman Conquest and destruction of the Old English Orthodox Church]: "I believe so as to understand." The Scholastics acknowledged God at the outset and then endeavored to prove His existence by logical arguments and rational categories. In the Orthodox Church, as expressed by the Holy Fathers, faith is God revealing Himself to man. We accept faith by hearing it not so that we can understand it rationally, but so that we can cleanse our hearts, attain to faith by theoria* and experience the Revelation of God.


Scholastic theology reached its culminating point in the person of Thomas Aquinas, a saint in the Roman Catholic Church. He claimed that Christian truths are divided into natural and supernatural. Natural truths can be proven philosophically, like the truth of the Existence of God. Supernatural truths - such as the Triune God, the incarnation of the Logos, the resurrection of the bodies - cannot be proven philosophically, yet they cannot be disproven. Scholasticism linked theology very closely with philosophy, even more so with metaphysics. As a result, faith was altered and scholastic theology itself fell into complete disrepute when the "idol" of the West - metaphysics - collapsed. Scholasticism is held accountable for much of the tragic situation created in the West with respect to faith and faith issues.


The Holy Fathers teach that natural and metaphysical categories do not exist but speak rather of the created and uncreated. Never did the Holy Fathers accept Aristotle's metaphysics. However, it is not my intent to expound further on this. Theologians of the West during the Middle Ages considered scholastic theology to be a further development of the teaching of the Holy Fathers, and from this point on, there begins the teaching of the Franks that scholastic theology is superior to that of the Holy Fathers. Consequently, Scholastics, who are occupied with reason, consider themselves superior to the Holy Fathers of the Church. They also believe that human knowledge, an offspring of reason, is loftier than Revelation and experience.


It is within this context that the conflict between Saint Gregory Palamas and Barlaam should be viewed. Barlaam was essentially a scholastic theologian who attempted to pass on scholastic theology to the Orthodox East.


Barlaam's views - that we cannot really know Who the Holy Spirit is exactly (an outgrowth of which is agnosticism), that the ancient Greek philosophers are superior to the Prophets and the Apostles (since reason is above the vision of the Apostles), that the light of the Transfiguration is something which is created and can be undone, that the hesychastic way of life (i.e. the purification of the heart and the unceasing noetic prayer) is not essential - are views which express a scholastic and, subsequently, a secularized point of view of theology. Saint Gregory Palamas foresaw the danger that these views held for Orthodoxy and through the power and energy of the Most Holy Spirit and the experience which he himself had acquired as a successor to the Holy Fathers, he confronted this great danger and preserved unadulterated the Orthodox Faith and Tradition.


Having given a framework to the topic at hand, if Orthodox spirituality is examined in relationship to Roman Catholicism and Protestantism, the differences are immediately discovered.


Protestants do not have a "therapeutic treatment" tradition. They suppose that believing in God, intellectually, constitutes salvation. Yet salvation is not a matter of intellectual acceptance of truth; rather it is a person's transformation and divinization by grace. This transformation is effected by the analogous "treatment" of one's personality, as shall be seen in the following chapters. In the Holy Scripture it appears that faith comes by hearing the Word and by experiencing "theoria" (the vision of God). We accept faith at first by hearing in order to be healed, and then we attain to faith by theoria, which saves man. Protestants, because they believe that the acceptance of the truths of faith, the theoretical acceptance of God's Revelation, i.e. faith by hearing saves man, do not have a "therapeutic tradition." It could be said that such a conception of salvation is very naive.


The Roman Catholics as well do not have the perfection of the therapeutic tradition which the Orthodox Church has. Their doctrine of the Filioque is a manifestation of the weakness in their theology to grasp the relationship existing between the person and society. They confuse the personal properties: the "unbegotten" of the Father, the "begotten" of the Son, and the procession of the Holy Spirit. The Father is the cause of the "generation" of the Son and the procession of the Holy Spirit.


The Latins' weakness to comprehend and failure to express the dogma of the Trinity shows the non-existence of empirical theology. The three disciples of Christ (Peter, James and John) beheld the glory of Christ on Mount Tabor; they heard at once the voice of the Father, "This is My beloved Son," and saw the coming of the Holy Spirit in a cloud, for, the cloud is the presence of the Holy Spirit, as Saint Gregory Palamas says. Thus the disciples of Christ acquired the knowledge of the Triune God in theoria (vision of God) and by revelation. It was revealed to them that God is one essence in three hypostases.


This is what Saint Symeon the New Theologian teaches. In his poems he proclaims over and over that, while beholding the uncreated Light, the deified man acquires the Revelation of God the Trinity. Being in "theoria" (vision of God), the saints do not confuse the hypostatic attributes. The fact that the Latin tradition came to the point of confusing these hypostatic attributes and teaching that the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Son also, shows the non-existence of empirical theology for them. Latin tradition speaks also of created grace, a fact which suggests that there is no experience of the grace of God. For, when man obtains the experience of God, then he comes to understand well that this grace is uncreated. Without this experience there can be no genuine "therapeutic tradition."


And indeed we cannot find in all of Latin tradition, the equivalent to Orthodoxy's therapeutic method. The nous is not spoken of; neither is it distinguished from reason. The darkened nous is not treated as a malady, nor the illumination of the nous as therapy. Many greatly publicized Latin texts are sentimental and exhaust themselves in a barren ethicology. In the Orthodox Church, on the contrary, there is a great tradition concerning these issues, which shows that within it there exists the true therapeutic method.


A faith is a true faith inasmuch as it has therapeutic benefits. If it is able to cure, then it is a true faith. If it does not cure, it is not a true faith. The same thing can be said about medicine: a true scientist is the doctor who knows how to cure and his method has therapeutic benefits, whereas a charlatan is unable to cure. The same holds true where matters of the soul are concerned. The difference between Orthodoxy and the Latin tradition, as well as the Protestant confessions, is apparent primarily in the method of therapy. This difference is made manifest in the doctrines of each denomination. Dogmas are not philosophy, neither is theology the same as philosophy.


Since Orthodox spirituality differs distinctly from the "spiritualities" of other confessions, so much the more does it differ from the "spirituality" of eastern religions, which do not believe in the Theanthropic nature of Christ and the Holy Spirit. They are influenced by the philosophical dialectic, which has been surpassed by the Revelation of God. These traditions are unaware of the notion of personhood and thus the hypostatic principle. And love, as a fundamental teaching, is totally absent. One may find, of course, in these eastern religions an effort on the part of their followers to divest themselves of images and rational thoughts, but this is in fact a movement towards nothingness, to non-existence. There is no path leading their "disciples" to theosis-divinisation (see the note below) of the whole man.


This is why a vast and chaotic gap exists between Orthodox spirituality and the eastern religions, in spite of certain external similarities in terminology. For example, eastern religions may employ terms like ecstasy, dispassion, illumination, noetic energy, etc. but they are impregnated with a content different from corresponding terms in Orthodox spirituality.


Endnotes


* Theoria is the vision of the glory of God. Theoria is identified with the vision of the uncreated Light, the uncreated energy of God, with the union of man with God, with man's theosis (see note below). Thus, theoria, vision and theosis are closely connected. Theoria has various degrees. There is illumination, vision of God, and constant vision (for hours, days, weeks, even months). Noetic prayer is the first stage of theoria. Theoretical man is one who is at this stage. In Patristic theology, the theoretical man is characterized as the shepherd of the sheep.


Theosis-Divinisation is the participation in the Uncreated grace of God. Theosis is identified and connected with the theoria (vision) of the Uncreated Light (see note above). It is called theosis in grace because it is attained through the energy, of the divine grace. It is a co-operation of God with man, since God is He Who operates and man is he who co-operates.


From Chapter 2 of Orthodox Spirituality: A brief introduction, published in 1994 by Birth of the Theotokos Monastery, Levadia, Greece. See also "Way Apart: What is the Difference Between Orthodoxy and Western Confessions?", by Metropolitan Anthony (Khrapovitsky) of Kiev and Galic.

Orthodoxy and Mysticism

The following is a transcription of a talk given a few years ago by Archimandrite Irenei Steenberg. As far as I’m concerned, it’s some of the best material I’ve ever heard (read) regarding mysticism, the mystical experience, and what this means for the Orthodox Church. Whether you are interested in Orthodoxy, or mysticism, or contemplative practice, I hope you will take the time to read this wonderful text:

Orthodoxy and Mysticism:

A Transformation of the Senses

By Archimandrite Irenei Steenberg

The life in Christ is a mystery. It’s something that cannot be explained. It cannot be rationally comprehended to a degree that ever begins to articulate what it actually is. This has been the problem of theologians from day one, literally from day one. From the first moment that -Christ opens his mouth and preaches, theologians have misunderstood what Christianity is about. That misunderstanding leads to the crucifixion. It leads a little while later to schisms and controversies. It leads a little while later to an abundance of terrible theology books, many of which can still be found in libraries all throughout the civilized world.


The problem isn’t that trying to understand is wrong. The problem isn’t that seeking to articulate is a bad thing—these are wonderful things. The scriptures themselves are an articulation of the divine, and we know them to come from God. So we must accept, as a basic premise, that it is possible to speak about this life. And yet, for all that we could ever say, all that we could ever speak, the fact remains that the life in Christ is a mystery. It ultimately goes beyond the things we say.


And it is on this notion that Christianity is mystery that I would like us to focus in our time together tonight and tomorrow. What does it mean?


To begin my talk with that phrase—the life in Christ is a mystery—is homage to a departed monk who, when he heard years ago that I was going to start lecturing at the university, was not terribly happy about this. He said, “These secular institutions—they’re no good! They’re no good!” His one condition for giving me his blessing was, “You must begin every lecture with the phrase ‘The life in Christ is a mystery’ ” —which I have tried to do.


For us, it serves perfectly. What does it mean to say this? What does it mean to speak of Christianity not as a faith or a religion but as a life? And what does it mean to say that this life is bound up “in Christ”? We don’t say the life “of Christ”. We say the life “in Christ”. What does it mean to say that such a life bound up in the Lord is mystery?


I’m brought to this theme—mystery—because mysticism is a very popular word in our world today. I must say that, having moved from England to California, I’ve noticed it a lot more than I used to. We talk about mysticism, mystical experiences, mystical visions, mystical encounters, and mysterious moments. What are we talking about? What does this word actually mean? Mysticism is one of these lovely slate of words that fills our general spiritual vocabulary that means basically whatever we want it to mean at the moment we utter it. Usually it means something that I can’t describe by any other words.


The problem with words that mean anything is that they also mean nothing. If it can mean anything that you want it to mean then it has no meaning. Yet we continue to use a word which has no definition, at least in its common usage.


In particular, Orthodoxy is described very often as a “mystical Christianity”, a Christianity that has not lost a sense of mystery, Christianity with a “mystic” dimension. I am always on the one hand pleased to hear this and troubled. Pleased, because it’s good that there is an understanding and apprehension that there is something different about Orthodoxy. Yet I am always a little troubled, because if someone says it’s “mystical”, that means something to them —but what? You laugh, but I’m going to ask you in a few minutes. So you just get ready.


I want to start though by telling some stories. I have four stories that I want to tell and one hour in which to speak. So, if I’m lucky, I don’t have to say anything of my own devising. But I do want to tell stories partially because I think that stories are an effective way of conveying truth. The Lord himself preferred this means and method of conveying his own truth. He infuriated his apostles by almost never directly responding to a question with a clear answer.


It’s a fact that we know it infuriated them from a gospel reading that we had according to the Old Church calendar, just the one my church keeps, only a week or two ago. The very famous parable in St. Luke’s gospel of the seeds cast on different types of soil. You get to the end of the story, and there is a sort of implied lull in the conversation before the apostles turn to Jesus, when the other crowd isn’t looking, and sort of whisper under their breath, “What on earth are you talking about?”, and he explains it to them again in a different way.


But the Lord knows that a story teaches something that plain statements don’t. And there is something in that that I think is significant. So let me begin with a few stories if you’ll permit.


The first begins like many good stories do—“A long time ago and (from my vantage point here in Southern California) very far away.” In an afternoon, beside a lake, a man talks to a group of his followers. These men have followed him from their homes, into the city, into the countryside. They’ve seen him loved, and they’ve seen him hated. They have watched him heal the sick. They have watched the dead brought back to life. They have watched him see into the hearts of men and women. They have watched him control the cosmos itself—stopping a storm by a single word, walking upon the sea. After all of this, he takes them aside one afternoon and he turns to them, and he asks them point blank, “Who do people say I am?”


I can imagine the apostles all trying to vie for the right answer—“Some say you are a prophet, some say you are John, some say you are Elijah.” They list off all of the possibilities. Christ doesn’t say anything, but he turns to one of these men, the one whom he has chosen to be, in a sense, their leader, and he changes the question—“Who do you say that I am?” In that moment, St. Peter gives an utterance which Christ himself identifies as divine. He says, “You are the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”


Standing before a man—a man of flesh and blood; they’ve seen him eat; they’ve seen him sleep; they know that when he is cut he bleeds; they watched him weep for his friend. Ultimately, this is a man who, when tortured, dies. And yet, looking at this man, they see something that cannot be human in all its humanity. They see something that has to be identified as divine, as God. “You are the Christ, Son of the living God.” That’s the first story.


The second is a little bit different. It takes place a short time later. We don’t know quite how long, but a handful of years. The second story is well known to everybody, I hope. Maybe not. I shouldn’t presume that. It is “a well known story”. On a certain afternoon—we can presume the year was A.D. 35 or 36—during a journey otherwise routine, we are told that journeys like this happened before. We are also told that it happened midday. A small caravan suddenly comes to a halt on a desert road, and one of its members falls to the ground in a state of apparent ecstasy. He looks as if he sees something, and yet no one else sees anything. He converses as if he is talking to somebody, but no one sees an interlocutor. Some hear a voice, but they don’t see another person.


Now this experience, this event, we have no idea what it appeared to be to the people around him. In their later memory, they would all recall it as being a divine visitation. But whether that’s what they thought in the moment, it’s hard to say, as this man collapses to the ground and starts to speak to somebody who doesn’t appear to be there. The event couldn’t have lasted more than a few moments. Only a few words were exchanged. Yet in this brief instance, in this paucity of words, a man’s life is completely transformed. In a very real way, in that encounter, one man dies and another is born. Between the act of falling down and getting back up, a new person stands in the midst of his colleagues.


What could account for this, and what could it possibly mean? Let’s look at it from a slightly different perspective. I’ve just been speaking in a comfortable, objective, or at least appearing to be objective, academic way of the story. Imagine it from the first person.


This is, of course, St. Paul traveling on the road to Damascus. He’s engaging on a journey that, by his own admissions, is familiar. He’s out hunting people. He’s out to get them. He is a devout follower of the Jewish Law. He’s a Pharisee—a group of people who believed that the Law was gift of God, a gift to be cherished, a gift that when it was defaced or deformed should be protected, not because they were legal-minded and enjoyed being bound in by regulation. But because God had said that this Law gave them life and directed their steps.


He believed this with his whole heart, and he saw in this group—this little sect that had formed—what he believed to be a perversion of this divine gift. He would stop at nothing to hunt out those who defamed God. As he himself noted and recorded in St. Luke’s account of the Acts of the Holy Apostles: “This I did in Jerusalem. Many of the saints I shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief priests, and when they were put to death, I cast my vote against them. I punished them as often as I could in every synagogue. I compelled them to blaspheme. And being so exceedingly enraged against them, I persecuted them even to foreign cities.”


So on this day he was traveling to a foreign city. Who knows what his heart was like? What thoughts were in his mind as he was traveling toward, as he viewed, a sacred mission? Was he looking forward to the task? Did he feel that he was doing God’s work, that God would support him? Whatever his precise state of mind, whatever his thoughts, they are interrupted. The midday sun is completely overwhelmed. Light no longer seems to come it but from something else. Everything in this man’s experience is changed.


Paul, many, many years later before a local tribunal on false charges, he gives an account of this experience to his accuser. He characterizes it in this way: “At midday, O my king, along the road I saw a light from heaven, brighter than the sun. It shone around me and those who journeyed with me. And when we had all fallen to the ground, I heard a voice speaking to me in the Hebrew language, ‘Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me? Is it hard for you to kick against the goads?’ And I said back, ‘Who are you, Lord?’ and he said, ‘I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting. But rise and stand on your feet, for I have appeared to you for a reason.’”


Since that afternoon, this event has been taken by the whole Christian world as a kind of paradigm for conversion, of a heart utterly changed, of being united to the life in Christ. Not by some little class that we took that somehow made us ready and now somehow we are worthy, but by change, not of what we think but who we are—becoming someone new, even if we are not divorced from our past.


St. Paul so much becomes an apostolic witness that we call him often simply “The” Apostle despite the fact that, of the Apostles, he never knew Christ in the flesh. Yet we call him “The” Apostle. He’s become such a zeal for mission that he travels literally the whole world as it is known to him to spread the faith and becomes an example for mission ever since. All this and we are given to know that this is the only time that St. Paul has such an experience. A few seconds, one day, and life is different.


Story number three. Fast forward. A young boy by the name of Francis is born of Greek parents in the village of Paros, Greece in 1898. I have to give you the date early on or you all will think that I am talking of St. Francis of Assisi. This is a different Francis. From the age of twenty-three this Francis begins to read the writings of the Church Fathers. Particularly, he is captivated by the ascetical writings on the monastic spiritual life. He decides that he wants to know this God and live this life, and he begins to practice his own ascetical discipline in his parents’ small farm yard. He tries this for some time before literally running away and making his way to the famous Athonite peninsula of Mt. Athos. Here, on a granite peak that shoots 2,000 meters directly up out of the Aegean Sea, Christians have been living effusively ascetical life, by the time he is there, for at least 1,100 years.


This is a mountain that has always been prone to big ideas and big feats. Alexander the Great commissioned his chief architect to come up with plans—to carve out of the Athonite peak an enormous statue of Alexander himself, holding his open hands out, big enough to have a small settlement in each open hand. To the great glee of Athonite monks this was never realized. But others, almost as ambitious, were. King Xerxes carved a canal through Mt. Athos. You can still see it today. It’s long since silted in but still clearly visible.


This is a mountain which, according to the tradition of our Church, was turned into a spiritual battleground for the monastic life by none other than the Mother of God herself. And it there that young Francis went, eventually migrating down to the southernmost tip, the most fierce of all the terrain—a place called “the desert”—in order to live out this spiritual life.


Francis’ aim since his youth had been to “know God”—“I want to know God.” But his path toward this was fraught with difficulty and frustration. As later he was to say of those early struggles, “I was almost inconsolable, because I was longing so ardently to find what I had set out in search for, to find God. But not only was I not finding it, but the people who I thought would help me were not even being helpful.” He’s frustrated. If he continued to seek, he did not lose heart simply because the circumstances around him were difficult. God rewarded him for that perseverance. As he would say later to some of his disciples, on one day he began to experience real prayer. In his words, “I was at once completely changed, and I forgot myself. I was filled with light in the depths of my heart, and outside my heart, and everywhere. I was not even aware anymore if I was in the body. And then the prayer began to say itself within me.”


This experience is not an uncommon one in the Orthodox Church, but we would hardly call it normal. It reminds me of St. Simeon the New Theologian, one of the great Byzantine fathers of the 10th and 11th centuries who, having heard that God reveals himself in light, stood up in his room and said, “Show me yourself! I’m not going to sit down until I behold you.” And he beheld the Divine Light. I don’t recommend trying to emulate that as a strategy. It’s not always the case that we are as prepared as Simeon might have been in his youth.


The young man of whom I have been speaking is better known to Orthodox by another name—Joseph, Elder Joseph the Hesychast, Father Joseph of Mt. Athos. He was one of the greatest figures of monastic life on Athos in the last century—a man who almost single-handedly by the grace of God saw the life of the Holy Mountain turn around. Disciples gathered around him who went out transfigured by the same God and repopulated monasteries that had been dormant, in decay, physically as well as spiritually. The Holy Mountain in all its history had never been so depleted of monks, and yet by this man’s prayers it is today thriving and growing.


So we have three stories: disciples at the side of a lake, Paul on the road to Damascus, and Elder Joseph alone in his cell praying to God. What binds these together? Outwardly, these stories are radically different. They take place in different times and cultures. Even their contours are not really in common one with the other. The point that I would like to emphasize tonight is that the theme which binds them together is “encounter”. In each of these stories, what changes people is an encounter with God himself.


St. Peter and the apostles are not convinced that this man, this Jesus of Nazareth is the Messiah, because he’s rationally argued them into submission. The Sermon on the Mount is a beautiful pastoral homily. It’s not a logic lesson. It’s not a theological tract. They are not convinced to believe that this is the Son because he has told them. They are not convinced because there is a specific set of scriptures that says “A + B + C = Jesus of Nazareth”.


Later on, they will discern that the scriptures did point to him. But they don’t believe he is the Messiah because of some scriptural formula. They don’t believe it because of some rational analysis. They believe it because they have seen him, known him, have eaten bread given to them from him—enough to feed thousands coming from five little loaves. They have been on the boat when he calms the storm. They were there when he walks on the water. They were there and watched him heal the sick and cast out demons. And because of that experience they are able to say, “I think that they don’t understand you are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” And I say that they don’t understand it, because scripture makes it very clear that they didn’t.


St. Peter, who makes this confession, minutes later, gets a pretty firm rebuke, if you remember the gospel. A few moments later, everyone is feeling pretty good about this and Christ says, “Now it is time to go to Jerusalem so that I can be sacrificed.” And Peter says, “May it never be, Lord.” This is the man who just said that he is the Son of God, refusing to let him do what God wants him to do. And you remember what Christ said to him? “Get behind me, Satan!” Let that be a warning the next time you feel you’ve got everything worked out.


He doesn’t understand it in a rational sense, but he knows it. That’s a distinction that’s hard to articulate—that something can be known completely, intimately, and still not understood. St. Paul does not change from a Pharisee to an apostle because God has told him adequately and amply why pharisaical Judaism has had its run and is now over. He is not convinced by some rational argument. He knew the argument. St. Paul was one of the most educated men of his day—educated by Gamaliel himself—a Jew of the Jews, of the tribe of Benjamin. He knew what he was fighting against.


He’s changed because he meets a person, and that event utterlytransforms his view of himself and the world. Until that moment on the road to Damascus, St. Paul, then Saul, had been persecuting a cause, an idea, a concept, a movement. In one moment, he is made to understand that who he is persecuting is a person. “I am Jesus whom you are persecuting.” And that changes everything for the Apostle. Suddenly, God is not an idea to be defended but a person to be known, and loved, sacrificed for, shared, died for. That is a very different kind of belief.


Similarly, Elder Joseph in his prayer does not finally find out how to pray because he has read all the right handbooks, he’s finally made it through volume five of the Philokalia, he knows all the instructions and he can assemble the parts in all the right order and create interior prayer. That’s not what does it. He hasn’t been given the right lessons in the right classes. He hasn’t heard the right lectures or the right speakers. “The prayer began to say itself in me.”


Remember the words of the Apostle Paul to the church of Rome—“When we don’t know how to pray, the Spirit prays in us with words and utterings too deep for the human heart.” When we don’t know how to pray, the Spirit prays. That’s what Elder Joseph experienced—that God could come to him. He had spent his whole youth trying to get to God, and in a quiet moment the Holy Spirit comes into his heart and reveals his presence. And the man is changed.


In all of these stories, the encounter with God is what does it. What it does is alter a life. It alters a life so that this life, this person, sees what before he could not see. He hears what before he could not hear, something that Christ had vaguely promised to them in an ambiguous way many times—“let him who has ears to hear, hear; let him who has eyes to see, see.” These people did not have ears to hear until their engagement and encounter with the Lord changed their eyes, and they saw, as Elder Joseph said, “Lights everywhere; love everywhere; hope in everything.” St. Paul became a man who would joyfully go to his own execution, because he could see the grace of God even there. Imagine that! It is the encounter that changes the senses, the perceptions, of these people.


My fourth story, I hope you all know it. It’s one of the most famous. Can I see a show of hands of those who have read Metropolitan Kallistos’Orthodox Church? One or two of you. If you haven’t, I believe they are selling copies outside, and I’ll tell him I expect a commission on every sale now. The reason I raise this book is that he talks about the event that I want to share as do many others. It’s one of the more famous, historical moments in the development of the Church in the Russian lands.


Prince Vladimir of Kiev and of all of Rus wanted to find a religion to unite his imperial court. Any religion would do. He just wanted to find the right one. So he did what a good ruler would do—he took emissaries from the royal court and sent them out and said, “Find out about all the religions out there and come back and tell me which one is best, and that’s the one we’ll use.”


They went out and visited many different religions, many different forms of Christianity. Christianity was not yet firmly divided in the way we think of it today, but there were already longstanding schisms by the time of the conversion of Russia. We often think of the Great Schism as being the schism between the Roman West and Constantinopolitan East. But this was a late schism, much sadder. More divisive schisms had happened long ago—schisms, for example, at the time of Chalcedon (451 A.D.). Schisms which, lest you think history is all in the past, still divide us today in 2010. Lord, have mercy.


So he sent out his emissaries and they visited here and there. By one tradition, they went to the Islamic court, asked about Islam, and wrote back to Vladimir and said, “It’s a nice religion, but they don’t allow alcohol, and this would never go over with Russians.” They went to Germany, Europe and throughout the world.


One group of envoys went to Constantinople. This is what they wrote in their own words, “When we stood in the temple [this is Hagia Sophia where you can still go today, the Church of Holy Wisdom], we hardly knew whether we were in heaven or on earth. For in truth it seems impossible to behold such glory and such magnificence on earth. We could not possibly relate to you what we saw in that place. But one thing we know, there God dwells among men, and all the worship of other countries is to us, forevermore, as nothing. We cannot forget that beauty which we saw. Whoever has enjoyed so sweet a sight will never be satisfied with anything else; nor will we consent to remain any longer in paganism as we are now.”


What does this story tell us about the life in Christ? Firstly, it has always struck me that the envoys’ comment is about beauty—“It was beautiful. We cannot recount that beauty which we saw.” The thing that affects them first and foremost is vision, experience. It’s not intellect. Bear in mind, these were not Greek speakers. They wouldn’t have had any idea what was being said. And yet, they were convinced—“One thing we know. We know in that place God dwells with men.” No system of catechesis was provided, no indoctrination. Yet through the beauty of that moment, of those experiences, something furrows its way into their heart. They are engaged with something that they did not anticipate. Something becomes real, tangible, visible, and touchable. Many would call this experience “mystical”. They had a “mystical experience”.


Okay, now it’s interactivity time. This is where I prove that I’m a university professor after all. I would like you to take a moment and turn to the person next to you and define “mysticism”. Don’t come up with the right answer. Come up with what you really think it is, and talk to the person next to you and share your definitions.


I’m delighted that on a Friday you are all so enthusiastic to talk about such deep things. Who would like to be the first to be ritually humiliated and stand up and tell us what mysticism is? Great will be your reward in heaven. Don’t be shy. As my tutor once said to me, “There are no stupid questions—only stupid students.”


[First respondent]: Something which is knowable but not by the mind or the intellect.
[Second respondent]: An encounter with the Lord.


I think I should have asked this before I told the stories! Your answers are, from my point of view, sadly accurate and therefore I can’t taunt you. Mysticism is often simply used as a kind of general term to mean something that’s not intellectual, something that isn’t purely rational. I am very happy to see that in both of the straw poll answers just taken that there was a sense not of just being utterly general, but of being general in a Christian way—encountering Christ but in a way that we can’t understand or can’t articulate.


But in popular speech, “mystery” and “mystical” often just means anything that goes beyond rational description. I’m living in San Francisco now, which is a very odd place, and I heard one time a certain type of special coffee drink described as a “mystical experience”. This reinforces my general belief that the word is useless by and large. I don’t like it. I find it disruptive, because it infuses discussions with ideas that have no shape.


Mysticism, by the way, isn’t an Orthodox term, at least if by that we mean a word that in its own right has much place in the history of Orthodox vocabulary. There is another word that does—mystery—and an adjective—mystical. But mysticism, as a thing in its own right, is a kind of odd anomaly—the idea that experience can be extracted away. It’s no longer an adjective that describes how you experience something, but it is the very notion of experience in its own right. That’s strange, because, as someone once said to me, “Who cares about your experiences in their own right?” All that matters is what you experience and how that experience affects you. If you extract those ingredients and just come down to the feelings I have or the idea that I’m getting out of my head and out of my mind and intellect, who cares? As one former student of mine put it, “A few glasses of wine and anyone can be that sort of mystical.”


In the encounter with Christ that we’ve seen in the stories that I’ve told, something rather different happens. They each have experiences that are definable in different ways that in many cases are miraculous, are extraordinary. Yet they serve a purpose of uniting the lives of these people to the life of Christ himself. That is the ultimate fruit of these encounters. Through these experiences, the Apostles, St. Paul, Elder Joseph and ultimately you and I have the ability for our life to come in contact with the life of God, to be changed by being in union with God himself, to become different than we are now.


These are experiences and encounters that are open to us by experience, because we are experiential creatures. We live in history. God gives us skin and bones and eyes and ears. What is it that these apostles and disciples see when they encounter Christ, when they look at him? What is it that they see that is so transformative? It’s not just a great magician and miracle-worker. There were a lot of magicians and miracle-workers in the ancient world. There were lots of ways to do miraculous things. Someone once said, “There are more spirits than just the Holy Spirit.” There is the power to do the miraculous, not to good but to evil.


It’s not the “magic act” dimension that is the focal point of their attention. They see something they have craved and never found. They see the kingdom of God made real in the world around them. They see the end, the fulfillment of all things, walking in their midst. They see someone who shows them the end of the story, a story that involves growth and pain, joy and profound sorrow, a story that shows ups and downs and ins and outs, some of which are pleasant and some of which are most certainly not. In the midst of all of that, the normal human response is to despair. The fact that there is some joy in this experience doesn’t stop the despair—it makes it worse. If I can feel joy and still suffer, what good is the joy? It would be much easier if it was all pain.


Yet Christ comes into this and shows the fulfillment of creation, that God reigns, that the devil loses, that the Father wins, that creation is redeemed, that life is eternal, that sorrow is finite, that pain is a drop that passes, joy is eternal, that sins can be overcome, that death can be defeated. They see the end of all things, and it gives them hope—a hope that cannot come from anything else. That is what they experience. How they are brought to that experience varies, but that is what they encounter. That is what enables St. Peter to look and say, “You are the Messiah.”


As Orthodox Christians, we live in that corporate experience of the kingdom of God made real in Christ. We view history from the end of history, not from the now, not from the beginning. From our point of view as Orthodox people, historians’ biggest problem is that they read history backwards. They are committed to the great fallacy of thinking that you should start at the beginning. It makes for a lovely song (you all know the musical which I am referring to), but it doesn’t make for good theology.


Theological history starts at the end and looks backwards. My life now is a cause for great despair if I just look at it now, look at all my sin, look at my complete inability to do anything holy. Look at the fact that for all my desire, for all my intention, I fall at the first hurdle every time. That’s not a hopeful sign. Yet if you look at life from the empty tomb, this suffering, this sorrow, has meaning.


This is why as Christians, as Orthodox Christians, we don’t pretend that we don’t know how the story ends. Our Holy Week services are a wonderful example of this. We don’t start Holy Monday and pretend that we are unsure as to what is going to happen, which happens sometimes in certain traditions and locales. We sort of put on a drama that leads you to this amazing revelation.


We know how it ends, and we start by singing “Christ is risen from the dead!” Some of the most moving services of the whole year are found on Holy Saturday where Christ is entombed in the middle of the church. The plashchanitsa (Плащаница) or epitaphios (Ἐπιτάφιος) —the burial shroud of Christ—has been taken in procession, a funeral procession. It has been ceremonially buried in the middle of the temple. Then there is this wonderful Service of the Lamentations. That’s what we call it in English. The word in Greek is “praises”, where we stand by the tomb of Christ and we sing the most bizarre intermixture of psalms and hymns you’ll find at any point of the year. Utter sorrow and sublime joy interwoven. We weep and we rejoice, and the reason for that is summed up in my favorite hymn of the year. I’ve been told before that I’m not supposed to say that—you can’t have favorite hymns; you can’t have favorite saints. So taking all that on board, my favorite hymn in the entire year is this most remarkable hymn from Holy Saturday. We’ve been singing to Christ and about him. Suddenly, we sing in his voice, in the first person. We are Christ lying in the tomb, and his mother is weeping over him. The words of the hymn are, “Do not weep for me, my mother, seeing me in the tomb, for I will arise and be glorified!” Knowing how the story ends is important to Christians.


The miracle of this is that knowing how the story ends paradoxically shows us how it began. It gives us a vision of beginnings that we never had before; a vision that itself changes our perception of the world.


Genesis…and I have to be careful saying this because I know that the last year’s speaker was a beloved friend of mine, Fr. Damascene, who must have talked to you about Genesis, I’m sure. He’s done a great amount of work revising for the Fr. Seraphim Rose’s book on this. So let me say this and see if he phones me up in a week or two. Genesis 1, if you read it on its own right, doesn’t matter. It’s a meaningless text. Who cares how the world began? Who cares? It doesn’t mean anything, unless (I hope he hears the whole speech!) we see it from the perspective of the risen Lord, Jesus Christ. In which case, the story means everything!


Without the resurrection, without knowing that Christ is the Alpha and the Omega who finishes history because he started history, you just get interesting facts about what happened on which day and in what order. But in that knowledge, in the experience of Christ, we receive a message about our own life. We look back to the beginnings, and we see a creation. We are told the world is not accidental. It is created for a reason, for a purpose, and we know what the purpose is. It is not an accident of science. It is true science— scientia—true knowledge that Christ has established the cosmos for my salvation; that what is chaotic, he has ordered; that what was dark he has made light; what was lifeless, he has filled with life, down to the finest detail orchestrated so that I can find him and he can be my God.


We hymn over and again that creation fits together like a puzzle. And like a jigsaw puzzle which reveals a picture, the picture at the end is a cross, the empty tomb, and you and me. We are told that we are made—we are made—by God, and that means something critical to us. In the life of Christ, creation is filled with meaning. We love creation. We cherish Christian history—the history of creation—because it is not just about history. It is the story of my redemption. Without that segment in the story, we miss part of our own life as we live it now.


One of the things that we miss, and that the world around us misses, is who we are and what we are. We are told in so many ways, some of them directly (those of you who have had any experience perhaps with the New Age movements), the idea that I’m not really me—this is not really me. I am spirit, ethereal spirit, part of a larger spirit, etc. There are so many variations that it is hard to boil them down into one. But there is a very popular distinction that this isn’t me—this is a little shell that I wear—until such a time as I can at last be liberated from this. This is a demonic idea, because it divorces us from the very thing that God has fashioned us to be—creatures. When we read Genesis in the light of Christ, we see that the very physicality, the dustiness, of our body is integral to who we are. We are material beings through and through. In Orthodox icons of Genesis 1, Christ is the one who fashions us from the dust. You see Jesus walking along, picking up the sand and breathing into it. The ultimate revelation we have that our materiality is important is that God takes it as his own. He becomes a man, flesh and blood.


There’s a wonderful story in the 8th or 9th chapter of John’s gospel where a man is born blind, and Jesus gives him back his sight. He does this in a strange way. He spits into the dirt and makes mud and rubs it in the man’s eyes and says, “Go, wash it.”


In the second century, my patron saint, Irenaeus of Lyons, commented on this gospel. He said, “Some people would ask, ‘Why doesn’t God just go POW! and your eyes are fixed?’” Obviously, he could have done that. God can do anything, why not? Why go through this strange ritual of spitting, making mud, and smearing it in someone’s face? The answer, he said, is that Christ wanted us to know that matter—dust, mud, flesh, bones, the things that the world tries to tell us are coarse and meaningless—these things matter. They can be holy. They can be avenues by which we encounter God’s grace.


The human person, the creature that experiences God, experiences him with its senses. We sing in the Divine Liturgy, “Taste and see that the Lord is good.” We conclude the Divine Liturgy by shouting aloud, “We have seen the true Light.” We receive into our mouths the flesh and blood of the Lord himself. We surround ourselves with images that flood the eyes. We sing so that our ears are filled with the sounds that lead us to God. We burn incense so that even our nostrils don’t escape. Then we prostrate ourselves and make the sign of the cross so that even our bodies are involved. No sense is left untouched, because we knowsomething. We can sense God. The senses that he has given us are holy, if we use them in the way they have been fashioned to be used. That is something that must be done in cooperation with God himself. When we encounter him and experience him, our senses are changed. I’m going to talk more about that tomorrow.


The human heart is what the Fathers call or identify as the center of our human existence. It’s not exactly the physical heart that pumps blood through our bodies, but it is connected to that. It is not to be divorced from that. But in this they see condensed everything—earth and heaven, the past, the present, and the future, life and death—all are centered right here in the person. And only that creature can know God in his fullness.


If we try to divorce ourselves from ourselves and say, “I am pretty much just mind, therefore I will know God with my mind,” you will know a little bit about God—but not very much. If you try to pretend that you have no mind at all, you will know maybe a little more about God than if you went with option A, but still not very much. But if we approach God in our full personal authenticity—as creatures tip-toeing on the earth (as St. Clement called it), clinging to heaven—then we can know him in his fullness. Without that, our knowledge is shallow. But with it, our knowledge is deep. That brings me back to mysticism and mystery.


In Greek, the root mu- or my- means “depth” or “the deep”. That which is mystical is something which goes to the very depths of reality, beyond the surface things that we see day to day, to the very depth of what really is. This is what makes life mystical when it is lived in Christ. The human person united to his God has the ability to see what cannot be seen, to hear what cannot be heard, to have access to that which cannot be accessed, to—in his or her own heart—overcome the seemingly impossibility that God cannot be seen and yet we have seen the true Light.


Without communion in God, these things don’t work together. It’s one or the other. In the life in Christ, they are both true. We behold Christ himself. The goal of our life in Christ, of this mystery, is to experience the kingdom of God in its fullness, at every moment, to live now, today, that which is coming. Christ calls himself at one point “the One who is to come”— ho erhomenos. It is better translated out of the Greek as “the Coming One”. He is here now. The One who is to come is already here. We attempt to live our life taking seriously what Christ said to the repentant thief: “Today you can be with me in paradise.”


Mysticism, as Orthodoxy might appropriate the term, has to mean the struggle to gain the experience, the encounter in Christ with the eternal kingdom of God. But, as I said, mysticism is a term kind of foreign to us. It doesn’t really appear in our Fathers or in our writers with any sense of regularity. But we have it as an adjective—mystikos, or mystikos deipno(μυστικός δείπνο)—the mystical supper. There it is.


What makes it mystical? In this moment, we see what cannot be seen. We see that bread is the body of the Lord, that wine has become the blood of the Lord, that Christ is here right now. A person who is not living in this mystery will stand right beside you and not see it. They will watch Christ walk across the water, and, like the apostles, will say, “Who are you?” But the person who lives in this mystery beholds these things and says with the Apostle Peter, “Thou are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”


I started off with one line—the life of Christ is a mystery. Maybe we can now understand what this means a little more. The coming of Christ into the world means that God is accessible, sensible to the human person. Indeed, the very reason we are created as we are is to meet him, to have at our disposable what is necessary to meet him. That encounter grounds not a religion —are not a religion. It doesn’t ground a faith either. We possess faith by the grace of God, but we are not of faith. Christianity is a life. It has to be lived. There is no other way to do it.


It is a very peculiar life. It is a life bound up in Christ himself. We get that image most potently from St. John of Kronstadt, whose memory we kept very recently. His spiritual diary was called My Life in Christ, which if you haven’t read you should. When our life is bound up in Christ, it attains a depth, an engagement with reality, with creation, with God and with ourselves that can come from nothing else; that goes beyond experience and yet involves experience; that is grounded in time and yet meets eternity. This is what it means to speak of mystery. This is what it means to speak of a mystical life - the life of God that has been made the life of the human person; the life that leads to the kingdom of the Father. Amen.