In his latest blog post entitled “Thoughts on Bulgakov, Apollinarius, and Ourselves,” Fr. Gregory Wassen enters into a conversation with the late Fr. Sergius Bulgakov on the role of Apollinarius in the formulation of orthodox Christology in the early Church. Fr. Gregory writes:

Our lives are a mixture of sin and holiness but equally a mixture of truth and heresy. Both are a human condition which needs healing. Origen had already spoken of saving doctrines in his On First Principles (refering to scriptural doctrines concerning Jesus Christ) because he understood that, as sin is a result of a sickness in our soul, so is heresy—and we all of us have it.

Some bold statements here, I think—of the kind I’m afraid is true but am less willing to confess.

Fr. Gregory’s post got me wondering about the nature of orthodoxy and heterodoxy. Is truth—the defining criterion, so to speak, of orthodoxy—something we “have” or “possess”? In both Orthodox and Catholic communions it is common to say that each Church believes itself to “possess” the fullness (pleroma) of that truth which has been revealed by God. I wonder, however, if this language of possession is not more a matter of polemics than of faith. After all, who among us “possesses”—even if only in part—the Truth who is God Himself? Do we really believe that the One who is Truth can be contained in the makeshift crib of the human mind?

I submit that it is more helpful to consider our relationship to truth as one of participation rather than possession—in other words, to think of truth as something in which we “participate” rather than something we “have”. This appears to be more consistent with the language of deification in which Scripture and the Fathers express the goal of the Christian life. Rather than speaking of our “possession” of God, they seem to prefer to speak of theosis as the deepening of our participation or sharing in the Trinitarian life:

The glory that you have given me I have given to them, that they may be one even as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become perfectly one, so that the world may know that you sent me and loved them even as you loved me. (John 17.22-23)

His divine power has granted to us all things that pertain to life and godliness, through the knowledge of him who called us to his own glory and excellence, by which he has granted to us his precious and very great promises, so that through them you may become partakers [κοινωνοὶ] of the divine nature, having escaped from the corruption that is in the world because of sinful desire. (2 Peter 1.3-4)

To try to discover the meaning of the commandments through study and reading without actually living in accordance with them is like mistaking the shadow of something for its reality.  It is only by participating in the truth that you can share in the meaning of truth.  If you search for the meaning without participating in the truth and without having been initiated into it, you will find only a besotted kind of wisdom. (St. Gregory of Sinai, On Commandments and Doctrines 22, in The Philokalia, Vol. IV)

Through this hermeneutic of participation, it is easier to see how it is that, in the words of Fr. Gregory, “our lives are a mixture of sin and holiness but equally a mixture of truth and heresy.” It also becomes clearer why, according to him, Origen held that “as sin is a result of a sickness in our soul, so is heresy—and we all of us have it.”

Perhaps orthodoxy is not an either/or phenomenon—for then one is either orthodox or one is not—but rather something like a continuum. To the extent that we participate in the Truth who is God Himself, we are “more” orthodox; and to the extent that we move away from Him, we become “more” heterodox (i.e. tending toward some “other” [hetero-] kind of glory rather than the “right” [ortho-] glory). And so, the drama of heterodoxy and orthodoxy in the life of the Church becomes fundamentally bound to the drama of sin and grace which plays itself out in the soul of every man and every community in the one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church. This being the case, the true remedy for heresy or heterodoxy in the Church is not polemics, polarization or politicization but the therapeutic regiment of grace. As Fr. Gregory writes:

What we need is a healer and a place of healing—the Church. What we don’t need is more temptation and more accusation. This is why Jesus Christ is both the Healer and the Medicine for sin and heresy alike…. The way we treat and look at heretics could almost be said to be a good indicator of our spiritual health. For the heretic and the orthodox both find a home in us as much as do the sinner and the saint.

Let me conclude with a strange fact that struck me in the case of the Council of Ephesus in 431. The “arch-heretic” at Ephesus, Nestorius the Patriarch of Constantinople, in mid-council asked to be released from his duties and returned to his monastery in Antioch. He had, in the words of Henry Chadwick, “had enough.” I wonder if his journey from Ephesus to Antioch might not hold symbolic value for us. Even if we grant that Nestorius did in fact hold the errant ideas attributed to him then and now, I don’t think we can deny the basic merit and the orthodox impulse in his response: to return once again to that place where the Divine Physician can be found in the mystery of worship and the flesh-and-bone of brotherhood.

Sunday of the Annunciation to Zechariah. Of John the Baptist the Archangel said, “He will go before [the Lord] in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children…” (Luke 1.17).

Teaching at a college these past few months has once again forced me to confront the real, bleeding wounds left by absent fathers, whether of the psychological or physical kind. As someone who’s just crossed into the world of thirtysomethings, I have no idea what to do with the injured. The only thing that is becoming clearer to me is that there can be no true substitute for fathers. Not mentoring programs, not medication, not positive thinking…not even the kind of Christian piety that says that as long as God is your Father everything will resolve itself. The last might yet be the most dangerous lie the Church has told young people, especially young men. I don’t know.

A few days ago I thought of the words spoken by God at Jesus’ baptism: This is my son, my beloved, in whom I am well-pleased. Then I wondered how many of us men spend all our lives trying to get a father to say those words to us. No answers, but only brooding.

Forerunner, will you help us?

Since at least two of the regular readers of this blog are my friends who served the United States military in the ongoing crisis in Iraq, I felt the need to clarify my statements in two previous posts on nonviolence as well as in the Comments section.

Yes, I believe that nonviolence is the Christian ideal to which Jesus Christ called his disciples in the Sermon on the Mount. I also believe that the posture of nonviolence is anchored in the New Testament as a whole and, following John Howard Yoder, that it finds its germ already in the Old.

But we live in a broken world that has very little space for ideals. In this broken world, shit happens. Mothers miscarry, parents divorce, bad men rise to power, governments turn racist. And while I still believe that nonviolence lies at the core of the Christian commitment to peace, by no means do I think that every situation comes in a clear black-and-white package. While I still believe that the suffering which comes from our nonviolent strategies is always redemptive, I confess that the consequences of such nonviolent choices are often disruptive and destructive not only for ourselves but, perhaps more importantly, for those affected by our choices.

I say this because I do not wish to dishonor the service of men and women who’ve sacrificed their lives to defend the citizens of their nation or strangers in others. Every war is a disaster whether its cause is reckoned just or not, and I respect the decisions of men and women who make sacrifices to attempt to alleviate it. I admire their bravery and greatness of spirit which I so seldom find in others, much less in myself.

And as for those among them who are Christians, I do not hesitate for a moment to call them my brothers and sisters in the one Lord. I am not yet so confident of my own exegetical conclusions as to criticize their sacrifice or stem my deep admiration for their heroic generosity.

Moriyo rahemelain oovadarain.

WordPress informs me that someone found this blog using the search terms “malankara orthodox church crazy”.

Whether you’re yurodivyi or just the normal kind of crazy, welcome.

I started reading Henry Chadwick’s The Early Church (Penguin, 1993) a year ago and only finished it last month. I feel as though this book has kept me company on a journey this past year, waking me up in stages to what I can best describe as the real Church.

The facts of history have a way of scattering illusions and smashing false absolutisms. I suppose one could say that my view of church history until recently resembled something of the Enlightenment hermeneutic of inevitable progress that’s charmed so many. I once saw the pilgrimage of the Church as a kind of steady, unbounded triumph of the Gospel over the many obstacles that were strewn along her path. Indeed, as I recall there is a popular work of church history that bears the title Triumph. I never read it and don’t intend to, but nevertheless the title was sufficient to sum up the views I once held.

It is not that I’ve lost hope in the Church. I’m not–at least I don’t think I am–a cynic by any stretch. It’s just that, the more I learn about church history, the more difficult it is for me to see the pilgrimage of the Church as an unstoppable victory march of any sort. There have simply been too many setbacks, lost battles and tragedies for any Christian to sum up the journey thus far with a word like “triumph”.

There is, for example, a thesis out there that the First Council of Nicea was a Constantinian machination to homogenize Christianity (or rather, “Christianities”) and thereby forge creedal unity that would safeguard the unity of the Empire. The (naive) counter-thesis, I suppose, would be that Council was nothing other than a genuinely spiritual event necessitated by the heresy of Arianism that threatened the very core of the Gospel.

The historical evidence, it seems to me, suggests that both theses hold some truth (perhaps one more than the other, though I don’t know enough to draw that conclusion just yet). I am not, by any means, suggesting a historical synthesis of the Hegelian kind. What seems to be the case is that the political and theological motivations for Nicea were fused, like two pieces of wax melted together. The outcome wasn’t so much a harmonious blend of two forces as much as it was an indelicate, indiscernible swirl.

But so what Nicea was in fact a political move of some sort? Does it invalidate the Creed? I don’t think so, though I used to fear that it would. I think the doctrine of the Incarnation stands on grounds more solid than the pure intentions of any emperor, bishop or deacon of Alexandria. I think it rests quite firmly on the witness of Scripture and the apostolic tradition. St. Athanasius, at least, seems to have thought the same.

I think the messes of history are many: the formation of the New Testament canon, the development of various liturgies, the controversy and aftermath of Chalcedon (nearer to my heart now than ever before), the condemnation of Origen, the Crusades, the Galileo incident (which, even after a more sober consideration of the facts, still shows Christians in pretty bad light)…. All these challenge the notion of church history as the record of a progressive triumph.

And what of absolutes? I’m not a relativist just yet, but many of things that I considered absolute, I no longer regard as such. The boundaries of the Old Testament canon, for example. Though my ecclesial affiliation is Syrian I find the the generosity of the Ethiopians quite intriguing, to say the least. The unchanging-ness of the liturgy is another. About time I gave up my idyllic notions about a “liturgy of the ages”, no? And if, I suppose, someone unearthed some strong evidence that Phoebe and Junia were more than deaconnesses then I’d say maybe it’s time we all re-thought a few certainties (but until then, I’m staying put)….

At times I wonder if I’m just slipping into a historicism of some sort—allowing history to absolutely shape, or rather reshape, my vision of the Church. (This, after all, has been suggested by some Catholic friends lately.) I’d like to think not. I’d like to think that I’m just learning to do what a teacher taught me to do some years ago—to read dogma historically rather than read history dogmatically. After all, the true Church must also be the real Church, no? Kyrie eleison.

Life must not be a preparation for death, but victory over death, so that, in Christ, death becomes the triumph of life…. When it considers life only as a preparation for death, Christianity makes life meaningless, and reduces death to “the other world,” which does not exist, because God has created only one world, one life.

Fr. Alexander Schmemann, Journals, Entry for September 16, 1974

καὶ μὴ εἰσενέγκῃς ἡμᾶς εἰς πειρασμόν,
ἀλλὰ ῥῦσαι ἡμᾶς ἀπὸ τοῦ πονηροῦ.

And do not lead us into Tribulation
but deliver us from the one who is evil.

Matthew 6.13

Who is “the one who is evil” and what are we to do if we cannot use aggression against him? More recycling from an archived post:

Finally, the disciples must pray to be spared of the eschatological trial (peirasmos, usually translated “temptation”) that will precede Israel’s restoration, and to be delivered “from the evil one” (apo tou ponērou) (Matthew 6.13). It is important to note that these two statements are linguistically joined together in the Greek by the adversative alla (”but”). The pairing of peirasmos and ho ponēros is highly significant when viewed within the context of the Sermon. “The evil one” (ho ponēros) has already been identified as a potential provoker of the forbidden oaths (Matthew 5.33). More importantly, the ponēros is the enemy who strikes on the right cheek (Matthew 5.39), takes the disciple’s coat (Matthew 5.40), and commandeers him for one mile (Matthew 5.41).

For those who have ears to hear, he is none other than the Roman aggressor! Little wonder, then, that he is linked to the eschatological trial (peirasmos) which Israel must undergo as a prelude to redemption–”the evil one” is, in essence, the most tangible “obstacle” to national restoration! And from this “evil one” the disciples must pray to be delivered, for they have already been forbidden from the use of force: “Do not resist the one who is evil (ho ponēros)” (Matthew 5.39)! They must trust rather in the power of God to change even these enemies by the witness of the light of their good works (Matthew 5.16).

Does this interpretation of ho ponēros necessarily contradict the traditional Christian reading in which “the evil one” is thought to be Satan himself?  I don’t think so.  Although I think the primary historical meaning of “the evil one” is the Roman soldier, the heritage of Christian (especially patristic) exegesis warrants a polyvalent understanding that is still rooted in Jesus’ concrete, historical context.

We can say, for instance, that “the evil one” is someone who stands in the way of the kingdom.  Satan would of course be the chief contender for this title from a Christian perspective, but his work of deception and rebellion finds concrete expressions in the world—in real people and real institutions governed by his lies.  This is why the Book of Revelation did not hesitate to depict the Roman Empire of the first century as a terrifying beast (see Revelation 17), an instrument of Satan.

We can also say that, today, “the evil one” is “incarnated” in those who perpetuate what Shane Claibourne calls “the myth of redemptive violence” (the belief that violence can be ended with more violence) as the Jewish rebels did, as well as the many governments that tout their political ideals and economic progress as means by which human beings can find security, wealth, justice and freedom, much like the Roman Caesars who promised these benefits under the name of σωτηρια—”salvation”.  From these, too, we must pray to be delivered.

The Gospel for the Malankara lectionary this Sunday is Matthew 5.38-48. I posted the following commentary on this text over a year ago and thought to let it air a little bit more. Once again, your thoughts and comments are welcome.

*****

“Do not resist one who is evil” (Matthew 5.39). The verb for “resist”, antistēnai, is frequently used by Josephus to describe the military resistance against Roman rule, connoting violence in 15 out of its 17 uses by the Jewish historian. Israel is thus called to renounce not only strategies of violence, but the resistance itself—a departure from the many popular movements of the day. Rather, she must respond with “good works” so that the Roman aggressors might glorify her heavenly Father (Matthew 5.16).

When struck on the right cheek—an act of humiliation, since it is done with the back of the aggressor’s hand—, the disciple must offer his left. If the aggressor were to strike again, he must at least use the front of his hand, thereby recognizing at least to some degree the worth of his victim. By assuming a posture of vulnerability, the disciple thus draws to himself further opportunity to actually serve the offender.

If the aggressor sues him for his coat, the disciple must offer his cloak as well (Matthew 5.40), and if requisitioned by Roman military personnel to go “one thousand paces” (Matthew 5.41), he must go two instead. The word agareusei in Matthew 5.41 (translated “forces” by the RSV) means “presses into service”. Roman soldiers had the right in the first century to forcibly recruit a Jew for an operation. The classic example of this is Simon of Cyrene’s being “compelled” (Matthew 27.32) to bear Jesus’ cross.

For Jesus, Israel must break the cycle of violence that has been imposed upon her whether from within (by the resistance movements) or from without—that is, from Roman occupiers. She is called, not merely to non-resistance, but to go beyond non-resistance to love. In encapsulating his own words, Jesus presents the new perspective that Israel must adopt: the aggressor who takes her coat and commandeers her into forced labor is re-cast as “one who begs from you” and “him who would borrow from you” (Matthew 5.42)! Although commentators often see these sayings about generosity in monetary terms, thus necessitating a sudden shift in Jesus’ stream of thought, I think it is far better to read them as words which invite the hearer to see “the one who is evil” in new light—that is, God’s light—under which the Roman aggressor emerges as a fellow human being who is likewise caught in the drama of sin and violence. He, too, is a beggar and a borrower in need of mercy.

It is this radical perspective one’s enemy as a fellow human being in need—indeed, a “beggar” and a “borrower” to whom one must “give” and “lend”—that is the underlies Jesus’ invitation, not only to a passive non-resistance, but to meet brutality and force with abounding goodness. Only in this way could Israel’s light shine before others for their sake, that they might glorify her heavenly Father.

Jesus’ teaching concerning Israel’s relationship with “outsiders” reaches its climax in his command to love and pray for one’s enemies (Matthew 5.44). In doing so, the disciple will realize his divine sonship—”that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven” (Matthew 5.45) since God, too, gives to all without discrimination. This, then, is what it means to be one of the “peacemakers” whom Jesus blessed earlier and whom he promised would be called “sons of God” (Matthew 5.9). Unless Israel does this, she is no better than her enemies, be they tax collectors (Matthew 5.46) or “Gentiles”, that is, Roman occupiers (Matthew 5.47).

The conclusion, marked clearly with in the Greek with “therefore” (oun), cannot and must not be missed: it is in loving his enemies and in praying for them, not resisting them with violence, that Jesus’ followers will show themselves to be true sons of God. Indeed, they will then become like God—”perfect” just as he is “perfect” (teleios, Matthew 5.48). The Greek teleios designates not some kind of moral perfection or flawlessness (an interpretation which has sometimes led Christians to a despair induced by perfectionism). In the Septuagint, teleios translates the Hebrew word tamim, which has the basic meaning of “whole”, “complete”, or even “all-encompassing”. This last meaning of tamim fits excellently with the context of Matthew 5.48. The disciples’ love must be all-encompassing, just as their heavenly Father’s love is all-encompassing: “for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust” (Matthew 5.45).

A short film for the 15Malaysia project by a bold Malaysian filmmaker, the late Yasmin Ahmad. This is my favorite in the series so far.

“People like us don’t get opportunities here. If you go there you’ll have opportunities. This land is only for their kind [i.e. Malays].” The unceasing mantra of my parents’ generation. Here, I think, it closes a door that could’ve led to new possibilities.

For more, visit the 15Malaysia website. Again, happy Independence Day, Malaysia.