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SPIRITUAL REFLECTION FOR LENT by the Abbot Primate in Rome

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ET INCARNATUS EST DE SPIRITU SANCTO EX MARIA VIRGINE
ET HOMO FACTUS EST
AND BY THE HOLY SPIRIT WAS INCARNATE OF THE VIRGIN MARY AND BECAME MAN

Dear Brothers and Sisters,
The year 2013 has begun. I think we in our communities have again all celebrated with a special joy  the feast of God becoming human and have entered into the new year with one or the other good 
resolution.

I would still like to linger a bit on this mystery and speak about the ‘becoming human’ of ourselves and our communities. Today as I looked at my confreres during the solemn liturgy for the Epiphany, I again became conscious that each one of us at one time entered the monastery with great idealism. But then I asked myself: How does this idealism appear today?  How much of it has remained? 

We  celebrate with one another, we offer each other the sign of peace and every one, so I believe, joins himself to the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. But what does that look like in our hearts?

Everyone has entered monastic life not only with great idealism, but also carries, figuratively speaking, a whole bundle of very personal baggage on their back: their character, their gifts, their upbringing and education, their life’s experiences and especially their hopes. In the meantime we have learned to fit into the daily life of our communities, we bore with it and we tried through asceticism continually to align our lives to our ideals. But our personalities remain the same; we continue to lug the baggage on our backs.

In our heart of hearts the question often nags at us, completely unconsciously: Who am I? Will the uniqueness of my character be respected and sufficiently recognized? Everyone would like to be 
something, to contribute something, to be worth something, an equally valuable member among other members. Many in their childhood have received only a little recognition and so will hunger for that throughout their lives. Others are gifted and are happy by nature. Recognition just comes to them.  This goes especially for recognition in the community. What status does one take? What status do we grant to one another? Frequently we let ourselves be determined by the values of this world.
Sympathy and antipathy, the very physical appearance and talents play a greater role than Benedict’s challenge to the abbot to make no distinction of persons; this warning concern us all, not only the abbot. Instead, we hastily pass judgment and disparaging remarks come to no end. If you pigeonhole someone once, then that person can no longer get out. It would be our task to give attention and recognition precisely to those who have received or are receiving too little attention. Everyone has their qualities and contributes to the life of the community.

 To help one other to become human and each to find their identity, to convey to them joy in their life—that is the Christmas attitude. Like the three kings, let us kneel before Jesus, who in the fellow monk and fellow sister likewise has become a helpless human being, and offer our gifts, our obeisance; following the example of Jesus we go still further and wash each other’s feet.

The concern for our identity also shows up when we experience criticism or if other opinions come up in gatherings. We quickly divert and defend ourselves instead of first listening and reflecting. We are afraid for ourselves, we are afraid to lose face. 

This danger also exists for superiors. If other views are expressed in meetings, and now and then vehemently, then many superiors choke up inside, divert 
or are offended. They do not feel respected enough. We are all human and we remain fellow monks, fellow sisters and superiors. 

Benedict sees it differently when he writes in the third chapter of his rule that “the Lord often reveals to the younger what is better.” Our communities are borne by the Spirit of 
God; the abbot of the monastery is in fact Christ who becomes human among us. We must all take a step back and try to listen to what the Lord is saying to us. After the homage of the shepherds, Mary kept all these things in her heart and reflected on them. She lived out of a stance of listening.

 In the Christmas stories it is an angel who time again speaks to people; from time to time it could also be a fellow monastic.If I go back to the beginning and look at the rows of my brothers, they are so different; they are in their diversity a gift of God for the enrichment of the community. Not all have a character that is easy to bear. But each one is seeking in the community for their identity and recognition. Each one would like to find their meaning as a human person. That moves us throughout our whole life. To become human in the image and likeness of God is our goal, each one in their own way. It is our common task to help one another in doing this. That is the becoming human, the incarnation, in the community; that is the becoming human, the incarnation, of the community itself until it can be said of us like the primitive community in Jerusalem, “See how they love one another.”

In such a community we can become happy. It is the joy of gifting each other with humanity and ourselves becoming human through that. Our becoming human does not exist in the greatness of our egos, in the ambition to be something special. Fundamentally we are all needy and dependent on help like the child in the stable of Bethlehem and we should be grateful for all brotherly and sisterly help, which might even be in the form of fraternal correction. Thus to walk together on the journey and to live for one another and to experience the humility of God’s Son, that is what makes up the joy of our common life under a rule and abbot.

Dear brothers and sisters! May the mystery of Christmas, of the incarnation, of God’s becoming human, continue to have an effect on your hearts and bear fruit in your communities.

In fraternal solidarity,
Yours,
Abbot Primate Notker
Rome, Epiphany 2013



 HOMILY FOR ASH WEDNESDAY BY ABBOT PAUL OF BELMONT (UK)

 Ash Wednesday 2013 Today Lent begins. “Now, now come back to me with all your heart. Turn to the Lord your God again, for he is all tenderness and compassion.” What is sin but turning away from God, God who is in the here and now, the present moment? We spend much of our time escaping from the present moment by reliving the past, its horrors and its joys, or anxiously trying to organise and control the future, so we are anywhere but in God’s presence. We simply turn away from God, turning in on ourselves instead. We create ourselves as gods in our own sinful image.

 Lent will be marked this year by our thoughts and prayers going out to the Holy Father: his retirement and his achievements, his humility and his generosity in serving Christ and the Church faithfully. We give thanks, above all, for his writings that will always be with us. What an example to us all! Unfortunately, Lent will also be marked by speculation over the election of a new Pope, especially by those who have no knowledge of what the Church really is or of how she works and lives as the Body of Christ. our Risen Lord. 

We pray not to be distracted by all this, but to trust in the Holy Spirit alone. Lent is an urgent call from God himself to return to him, to come once more into his presence. “Repent and believe in the Gospel.” “Now, now come back to me with all your heart. Turn to the Lord your God again, for he is all tenderness and compassion.” 

 The Gospel suggests three ways in which we can put things right: almsgiving, prayer and fasting. In fact, the three go together, no picking and choosing here. God’s generosity to us can be repaid today by our generosity to him and to our neighbour. “Now is the favourable time. This is the day of salvation.” The imposition of ashes reminds us that Lent begins today and that what we begin today can become, with God’s grace, a new life, a life so immersed in God that every day, every moment can become “a favourable time, a day of salvation”, in fact the beginning of eternal life. I pray that you all have a very happy and fruitful Lent.

THE ECUMENICAL VISION OF FATHER GEORGES FLOROVSKY

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my source: Glory to God for All Things  (A really excellent blog)

Fr. Georges Florovsky remains, in my mind, one of the most neglected of modern Orthodox scholars. His vision of the place of Orthodox theology in relation to the West was instrumental in the birth of the ecumenical movement – which has sadly lost that vision. The cruciform nature of his ecumenical vision exonerate him from charges of “ecumenism” in the negative sense of the word. He saw a mission for Orthodoxy within the fragmented landscape of Western Christianity – a mission that was both essential to the health and existence the Orthodox Church and essential for the Christian world. His grasp of both patristic theology as well as the history of Orthodox life and thought is largely without comparison. A variety of misfortunes have left a good part of his collected works unread (even unavailable). The following passage is from his Ways of Russian Theology, Part Two (pgs. 300-304). Though the passage is extensive, it is well worth the read. His says more, with greater depth, than one usually encounters in cyberspace, and says much that Orthodox voices either do not know or have not considered. This was first posted by me in March of 2006 on Pontifications. Florovsky’s work seems hopelessly out of print. But I cite its Amazon listing, nonetheless.- Father Stephen

The Truth of Orthodoxy

Russian theology imitatively experienced every major phase of modern western religious thought – Tridentine theology, the baroque period, Protestant orthodoxy and scholasticism, pietism and freemasonry, German idealism and romanticism, the Christian-social ferment following the French Revolution, the expansion of the Hegelian school, modern critical historiography, the Tubingen school and Rischtlism, modern romanticism, and symbolism. In one way or another all of these influences successively entered into Russia’s cultural experience. However, only dependence and imitation resulted – no true encounter with the West has yet taken place. That could only happen in the freedom and equality of love.

It is not enough to merely repeat answers previously formulated in the West – the western questions must be discerned and relived. Russian theology must confidently penetrate the entire complex problematics of western religious thought and spiritually trace and examine the difficult and bewildering path of the West from the time of the Great Schism. Access to the inner creative life comes only through its problematics, and one must therefore sympathize with that life and experience it precisely in its full problematicality, searching, and anxiety. Orthodox theology can recover its independence from western influence only through a spiritual return to its patristic sources and foundations. Returning to the fathers, however, does not mean abandoning the present age, escaping from history, or quitting the field of battle. Patristic experience must not only be preserved, but it must be discovered and brought into life. Independence from the non-Orthodox West need not become estrangement from it. A break with the West would provide no real liberation. Orthodox thought must perceive and suffer the western trials and temptations, and, for its own sake, it cannot afford to avoid and keep silent over them. The entire western experience of temptation and fall must be creatively examined and transformed; all that “European melancholy” (as Dostoevsky termed it) and all those long centuries of creative history must be borne. Only such a compassionate co-experience provides a reliable path toward the reunification of the fractured Christian world and the embrace and recovery of departed brothers. It is not enough to refute or reject western errors or mistakes – they must be overcome and surpassed through a new creative act. This will be the best antidote in Orthodox thought against any secret and undiagnosed poisoning. Orthodox theology has been called upon to answer non-Orthodox questions from the depths of its catholic and unbroken experience and to confront western non-Orthodoxy not with accusations but with testimony: the truth of Orthodoxy.

Russians discussed and argued a great deal about the meaning of western development. Europe actually became for many a “second fatherland.” But can it be said that Russians knew the West? The usual outlines of western development contained more of a dialectical straightforwardness than genuine vision. The image of some imaginary or desired Europe too often obscured its actual face. The western soul was most often manifested through art, especially after the aesthetic awakening of the end of the nineteenth century. The heart was aroused and became more sensitive. Aesthetic sensitivity, however, never penetrates to the ultimate depths. More often it serves as an obstacle to the experiencing of the full intensity of religious pain and anxiety. Aestheticism usually remains too unproblematical and too ready to fall into an ineffective contemplation. The Slavophiles, Gogol, and Dostoevsky were the first to more profoundly sense the Christian anguish and anxiety in the West. Western discontinuities and contradictions were noted to a considerably lesser extent by Vladimir Solov’ev. He was too preoccupied with considerations of “Christian politics.” In fact, Solov’ev knew little more about the West than unionistic ultramontanism and German idealism (and perhaps one should also add Fourier, Swedenborg, the spiritualists, and, among the older masters, Dante). He believed too completely in the stability of the West, and only in his last years did he note the romantic hunger, the agony of sick and grieving Christian souls.

The conceptions of the older Slavophiles also proved rather barren. Yet they possessed a profound inner relation to the most intimate western themes. Moreover, they had something even greater: an awareness of Christian consanguinity and responsibility, a sense of and longing for fraternal compassion and a consciousness or presentiment of the Orthodox mission in Europe. Solov’ev speaks more about a Russian national than an Orthodox calling. He speaks of the theocratic mission of the Russian tsardom. The older Russian Slavophiles saw their task in terms of European requirements, the unresolved or insoluble questions raised by the other half of the single Christian world. The great truth and moral power of early Slavophilism is found in this sense of Christian responsibility.

Orthodoxy is summoned to witness. Now more than ever the Christian West stands before divergent prospects, a living question addressed also to the Orthodox world. Therein lies the entire significance of the so-called “ecumenical movement.” Orthodox theology is called to show that this “ecumenical question” can only be decided through the consummation of the Church in the fulness of a catholic tradition that is unpolluted and inviolable, yet constantly renewing itself and growing. Again, return is possible only through “crisis,” for the path to Christian recovery is critical, not irenical. The old “polemical theology” has long ago lost its inner connection with any reality. Such theology was an academic discipline, and was always elaborated according to the same western “textbooks.” A historiosophical exegesis of the western religious tragedy must become the new “polemical theology.” But this tragedy must be reendured and relived, precisely as one’s own, and its potential catharsis must be demonstrated in the fulness of the experience of the Church and patristic tradition. In this newly sought Orthodox synthesis, the centuries-old experience of the Catholic West must be studied and diagnosed by Orthodox theology with greater care and sympathy than has been the case up to now.

What is meant here is not the adoption or acceptance of Roman doctrine, nor an imitation “Romanism.” In any case, the Orthodox thinker can find a more adequate source for creative awakening in the great systems of “high scholasticism,” in the experience of the Catholic mystics, and in the theological experience of later Catholicism than in the philosophy of German idealism or in the Protestant critical scholarship of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, or even in the “dialectical theology” of our own day. A creative renaissance in the Orthodox world is a necessary condition for resolving the “ecumenical question.”

The encounter with the West has yet another dimension. During the Middle Ages, a very elaborate and complex theological tradition arose and flourished in the West, a tradition of theology and culture, of searching, acting, and debating. This tradition was not completely abandoned even during bitterest confessional quarrels and altercations of the Reformation. Nor did scholarly solidarity completely disappear even after the appearance of freethinking. In a certain sense, western theological scholarship since that time has remained a unit, bound together by a certain feeling of mutual responsibilitiy for the infirmities and mistakes of each side. Russian theology, as a discipline and as a subject of instruction, was born precisely in that tradition. Its task is not to abandon that tradition, but to participate in it freely, responsibly, consciously, and openly. The Orthodox theologian must not, and dares not, depart from this universal circulation of theological searching. After the fall of Byzantium only the West continued to elaborate theology. Although theology is in essence a catholic endeavor, it has been resolved only in schism. This is the basic paradox of the history of Christian culture. The West expounds theology while the East is silent, or what is still worse, the East thoughtlessly and belatedly repeats the lessons already learned in the West.

The Orthodox theologian up to now has been too dependent on western support for his personal efforts. His primary sources are received from western hands, and he reads the fathers and the acts of the ecumenical councils in western, often not very accurate, editions. He learns the methods and techniques for dealing with collected materials in western schools. The history of the Orthodox Church is primarily known through the labors of many generations of western investigators and scholars. This also applies to the collection and interpretation of historical data. What is important is the constant focus of western awareness on ecclesiastical-historical reality, the acute historically minded conscience, the unswerving and persistent pondering of the primary sources of Christianity. Western thought always dwells in the past, with such intensity of historical recollection that it seems to be compensating for unhealthy defects in its mystical memory. The Orthodox theologian must also offer his own testimony to this world – a testimony arising from the inner memory of the Church – and resolve the question with his historical findings. Only the inner memory of the Church fully brings to life the silent testimony of the texts.

A note by Fr David, the Catholic monk who runs this blog:   It  is not often realised how great the impact of the Russian Orthodox theologians who fled to Paris after the Revolution was on the Catholic theologians in France who were in process of going back to the sources to rejuvenate Catholic theology and who formed the Nouvelle Theologie movement. They were joined later by Joseph Ratzinger and Hans urs von Balthazar.  Through them, the Russian theologians had an impact on Vatican II.   Through the "Liturgical Weeks" organised by the Institut Saint-Serge and other theological encounters, both sides got to know each other and to share; which is why words like "theosis" and "synergy" are now a part of the normal Catholic vocabulary and have their place in the Catechism of the Catholic Church.   Father Georges Florovsky realised that Catholic and Orthodox traditions are really one Tradition and belong to each other, even though they are divided on some issues. (see Metropolitan Kallistos Ware on Catholic-Orthodox relations.)



THE LEGACY OF POPE BENEDICT XVI

POPE BENEDICT XVI AND THE IMMEDIATE FUTURE

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my source: Sandro Magister
ROME, February 14, 2013 – On the evening of an unremarkable Thursday in Lent, at 8 p.m. on February 28, Joseph Ratzinger will take the step that none of his predecessors had dared to take. He will place upon the throne of Peter the keys of the kingdom of heaven. Which another will be called to take up.



There is the power of a revolution in this action that has no equal even in centuries long ago. From that point on, the Church enters into unknown territory. It will have to elect a new pope while his predecessor is still alive, his words still resounding, his orders still binding, his agenda still waiting to be implemented.

Those cardinals who on the morning of Monday, February 11 were convoked in the hall of the  consistory for the canonization of the eight hundred Christians of Otranto martyred by the Turks six centuries ago were stunned at hearing Benedict XVI, at the end of the ceremony, announce in Latin his resignation of the pontificate.

It will be up to them, in the middle of Lent, to choose his successor. On Palm Sunday, March 24, the newly elect will celebrate his first Mass in St. Peter's Square, on the day of the entrance of Jesus into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey, acclaimed as the “blessed one who comes in the name of the Lord.”







There will be 117 cardinals who in the middle of March will close themselves up in conclave, the same number as those who eight years ago elected pope Joseph Ratzinger at the fourth scrutiny with more than two thirds of the votes, in one of the most rapid and least contentious elections in history.


But this time it will be completely different. The announcement of the resignation has taken them by surprise like a thief in the night, without a long twilight of the pontificate as had happened with John Paul II, allowing them to arrive at the conclave with sufficiently vetted options already in place.

In 2005, the candidacy of Ratzinger did not emerge all of a sudden; it had already matured for at least a couple of years, and all of the alternative candidacies had fallen one after another. Today this is certainly far from the case. And to the difficulty of identifying candidates is added the unprecedented overshadowing of the retired pope.

The conclave is an electoral mechanism unique in the world that, refined over time, has succeeded in the last century in producing astonishing results, elevating as pope men of decisively higher quality than the average level of the college of cardinals that has voted for them.

To cite the most remarkable case, the election in 1978 of Karol Wojtyla was a master stroke that will remain forever in the history books.

And the appointment of Ratzinger in 2005 was no less so, as confirmed by the almost eight years of his pontificate, marked by an unbridgeable distance between the greatness of the elect and the mediocrity of so many of his electors.

Moreover, the conclaves have often been characterized by the capacity of the college of cardinals to set new lines of action for the papacy. The sequence of the most recent popes in this regard as well.

It is not a long, gray, repetitive and boring queue. It is a succession of men and events, each marked by powerful originality. The unexpected announcement of the council made by Pope John XXIII to a group of cardinals gathered at St. Paul's Outside the Walls was certainly no less surprising and revolutionary than the announcement of the resignation made by Benedict XVI to another group of stupefied cardinals a few days ago.

But in the upcoming weeks, something will happen that has never been seen before. The cardinals will have to evaluate what to confirm or innovate with respect to the previous pontiff, with him still alive. Everyone recalls and admires the respect with which Ratzinger dealt even with those who disagreed with him: for Cardinal Carlo Maria Martini, the most authoritative of his opponents, he always manifested a profound and sincere admiration. But in spite of his promise to retire in prayer and study, almost in cloister, it is difficult to imagine that his presence, as silent as it may be, would not weigh upon the cardinals called to conclave, and then upon the newly elect. It is inevitably easier to debate with freedom and frankness about a pope in heaven than about a former pope on earth.

*

Until February 28, the agenda of Benedict XVI will not undergo any modifications. After the rite of Ash Wednesday and with a “lectio" to the priests of Rome on Vatican Council II, he will face the Sunday Angelus, hold the Wednesday general audience, attend the spiritual exercises and listen to the preaching of Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi, receive on their “ad limina" visit the bishops of Liguria led by Cardinal Angelo Bagnasco, and then those of Lombardy, headed by Cardinal Angelo Scola.

Fate would have it that precisely in one of these two cardinals, he could be greeting the future pope.

In Italy, in Europe, and in North America the Church is going through difficult years, of general decline. But here and there with real awakenings of vitality and of public influence, even unexpectedly, as has recently happened in France. Once again, therefore, the cardinal electors could focus on candidates from this area, which in any case continues to hold the theological and cultural leadership over the whole Church. And Italy itself might be back in the race, after two pontificates that have gone to a Pole and a German.

Among the Italian candidates, Scola, 71, appears the most solid. He was trained as a theologian in the cenacle of “Communio,” the international magazine that had Ratzinger among its founders. He was the disciple of Fr. Luigi Giussani, the founder of Communion and Liberation. He was rector of the Lateranense, the university of the Church of Rome. He was the patriarch of Venice, where he demonstrated effective managerial abilities and created a theological and cultural center, the Marcianum, reaching out with the magazine “Oasis” toward the confrontation between the West and the East, Christian and Islamic. For almost two years he has been archbishop of Milan. And here he has introduced a pastoral style very attentive to the “far away,” with invitations to the Masses in the cathedral distributed on street corners and in subway stations, and with special care for the divorced and remarried, who are encouraged to approach the altar to receive not communion but a special blessing.

In addition to Scola, another entry for the list of candidates could be Cardinal Bagnasco, 70, archbishop of Genoa and president of the Italian episcopal conference.

Not to mention the current patriarch of Venice, Francesco Moraglia, 60, a rising star of the Italian episcopate, a pastor of strong spiritual life and very much beloved by the faithful. His limitation is that he is not a cardinal. Nothing prohibits the election of someone who is not part of the sacred college, but even the highly credentialed Giovanni Battista Montini, although projected as pope in1958 after the death of Pius XII, had to wait until he received the scarlet before he was elected in 1963 with the name of Paul VI. 

Outside of Italy, the college of cardinals seems to be focusing on North America.

Here one candidate who could meet the expectations is the Canadian Marc Ouellet, 69, multilingual, he as well trained theologically in the cenacle of “Communion,” for many years a missionary in Latin America, then archbishop of Québec, one of the most secularized regions of the planet, and today the prefect of the Vatican congregation that selects the new bishops all over the world.

Apart from Ouellet, two North Americans who elicit appreciation in the college of cardinals are Timothy Dolan, 63, the dynamic archbishop of New York and president of the episcopal conference of the United States, and Sean O'Malley, 69, the archbishop of Boston.

But nothing prevents the next conclave from deciding to abandon the old world and open up to the other continents.

If from Latin America and Africa, where indeed the majority of the world's Catholics live, there do not seem to emerge prominent personalities capable of attracting votes, the same is not true of Asia.

On this continent, soon to become the new axis of the world, the Catholic Church also is wagering its future. In the Philippines, which is the only nation in Asia where Catholics are in the majority, there shines a young and cultured cardinal, archbishop of Manila Luis Antonio Tagle, the focus of growing attention.

As a theologian and Church historian, Tagle was one of the authors of the monumental history of Vatican Council II published by the progressive “school of Bologna.” But as a pastor, he has demonstrated a balance of vision and a doctrinal correctness that Benedict XVI himself has highly appreciated. Especially striking is the style with which the bishop acts, living simply and mingling among the humblest people, with a great passion for mission and for charity.

One of his limitations could be the fact that he is 56, one year younger than the age at which pope Wojtyla was elected. But here the novelty of Benedict XVI's resignation again comes into play. After this action of his, youth will no longer be an obstacle to being elected pope.

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A SUPERNATURAL WAGER


Benedict XVI's resignation from the papacy is for him neither a defeat nor a surrender. “The future is ours, the future belongs to God,” he said against the prophets of disaster in his last public proclamation before the announcement of the resignation, on the evening of Friday, February 8 at the Roman seminary.

And two winters ago, speaking precisely of his possible future resignation, he had cautioned: “One cannot run away at the moment of danger and say: Let someone else take care of it. One can resign at a moment of serenity, or when one simply cannot go on anymore.”

If now, therefore, pope Joseph Ratzinger has decided in conscience that his day as a “humble worker in the vineyard of the Lord" has come to an end, it is simply because he has seen two conditions fulfilled: the moment is serene, and the vigor of "administering well" has failed him under the burden of years.

In effect, a calm seems to have intervened after the many tempests that have followed one after another in the almost eight years of his pontificate. A calm that has however left intact the positions of power in the curia that for many years have fostered disorder.

It will be the last two secretaries of state, cardinals Angelo Sodano and Tarcisio Bertone, neither of whom is innocent, who will govern the interregnum between one pope and the other, the former as dean of the college of cardinals, the latter as camerlengo. But afterward both will definitively leave the stage. For the other heads of the curia, the “spoils system” that is set into motion by canon law at each change of pontificate will free the new pope, if he so desires, from the administrators of the previous management.

Over his nearly eight years of pontificate, Benedict XVI has been resolute and farsighted in indicating the destinations and keeping the rudder straight. But on the barque of Peter, the crew has not always been faithful to him.

This is what happened when he dictated a rigorous line of conduct in order to fight the scandal of pedophilia among the clergy, clashing with hypocritical and delayed implementations..

The same thing happened when he ordered cleanliness and transparency in ecclesiastical financial offices, seeing these disregarded.

This is what happened when he saw himself betrayed by his trusted butler, who violated his privacy and stole his most personal papers.

But there is more than that. Pope Ratzinger has fought first of all and above all to  revive the faith of the Church, to correct its waywardness in doctrine, morality, the sacraments, and the commandments. And here as well he has often found himself alone, opposed, misunderstood.

It has been, in short, an incomplete reform that Benedict XVI has pursued. In resigning, he has recognized that he can no longer move it forward with his diminished strength. And he has trusted the conclave to elect a new pope with the strength necessary to do the job.

His is a supernatural wager that recalls that of his predecessor John Paul in the last painful years of his life.

*

Among the analysts of the Church, it is Professor Pietro De Marco of the University of Florence who has grasped most incisively the significance of the audacious resignation of Benedict XVI.

There seems to be a vast difference between the current pope and his predecessor John Paul II, who instead of resigning wanted to “stay on the cross” until the end. But this is not the case.

Pope Karol Wojtyla was facing a symmetrical risk: entrusting the governance of the Church, meaning its “good,” to the intact powers of a successor of his, instead of to the spiritual benefits offered by a prolonged resignation to his own weakness, remaining in office.

The charisma of John Paul II and the rationality of Benedict XVI are the two inseparable sides of the last two pontificates, the cipher of which is found in their respective final acts.

It is therefore senseless to see in the resignation of the current pope the dawn of a new praxis that would oblige future pontiffs to resign on account of infirmity or advanced age, possibly under the judgment of a visible or invisible jury made up of physicians, bishops, canonists, psychologists.

The decision of a pope to resign or to remain in office for life is always and only his own, in the constitution of the Church. Benedict XVI decided on his resignation “in conscience before God,” and did not submit it to anyone. He simply announced it.

And now he has placed everything back in the imponderable hands of the next conclave and of the future pontiff. De Marco comments:

"What is at stake, as far as human judgment can determine, is enormous. But in this I trust: just as the supreme risk of John Paul II in governing the Church with his suffering being obtained the miracle of the election of Pope Benedict, so also the risk, just as radical, of Benedict in handing the leadership of the Church back to Christ in order that he may give the burden of it to a new and vigorous pope will obtain another pontiff equal to the challenge of history.”

____________


The two articles by Sandro Magister were published in “L'Espresso" no. 7 of 2013, on newsstands as of February 15.

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Pope Benedict XVI - General Audience
Ash Wednesday - 13 February AD 2013

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

Today, Ash Wednesday, we begin the liturgical time of Lent, forty days that prepare us for the celebration of Holy Easter, it is a time of particular commitment in our spiritual journey. The number forty occurs several times in the Bible. In particular, it recalls the forty years that the Israelites wandered in the wilderness: a long period of formation to become the people of God, but also a long period in which the temptation to be unfaithful to the covenant with the Lord was always present. Forty were also the days of the Prophet Elijah’s journey to reach the Mount of God, Horeb; as well as the time that Jesus spent in the desert before beginning his public life and where he was tempted by the devil. In this Catechesis I would like to dwell on this moment of earthly life of the Son of God, which we will read of in the Gospel this Sunday.

First of all, the desert, where Jesus withdrew to, is the place of silence, of poverty, where man is deprived of material support and is placed in front of the fundamental questions of life, where he is pushed to towards the essentials in life and for this very reason it becomes easier for him to find God. But the desert is also a place of death, because where there is no water there is no life, and it is a place of solitude where man feels temptation more intensely. Jesus goes into the desert, and there is tempted to leave the path indicated by God the Father to follow other easier and worldly paths (cf. Lk 4:1-13). So he takes on our temptations and carries our misery, to conquer evil and open up the path to God, the path of conversion.

In reflecting on the temptations Jesus is subjected to in the desert we are invited, each one of us, to respond to one fundamental question: what is truly important in our lives? In the first temptation the devil offers to change a stone into bread to sate Jesus’ hunger. Jesus replies that the man also lives by bread but not by bread alone: without a response to the hunger for truth, hunger for God, man can not be saved (cf. vv. 3-4). In the second, the devil offers Jesus the path of power: he leads him up on high and gives him dominion over the world, but this is not the path of God: Jesus clearly understands that it is not earthly power that saves the world, but the power of the Cross, humility, love (cf. vv. 5-8). In the third, the devil suggests Jesus throw himself down from the pinnacle of the Temple of Jerusalem and be saved by God through his angels, that is, to do something sensational to test God, but the answer is that God is not an object on which to impose our conditions: He is the Lord of all (cf. vv. 9-12). What is the core of the three temptations that Jesus is subjected to? It is the proposal to exploit God, to use Him for his own interests, for his own glory and success. So, in essence, to put himself in the place of God, removing Him from his own existence and making him seem superfluous. Everyone should then ask: what is the role God in my life? Is He the Lord or am I?

Overcoming the temptation to place God in submission to oneself and one’s own interests or to put Him in a corner and converting oneself to the proper order of priorities, giving God the first place, is a journey that every Christian must undergo. "Conversion", an invitation that we will hear many times in Lent, means following Jesus in so that his Gospel is a real life guide, it means allowing God transform us, no longer thinking that we are the only protagonists of our existence, recognizing that we are creatures who depend on God, His love, and that only by “losing" our life in Him can we truly have it. This means making our choices in the light of the Word of God. Today we can no longer be Christians as a simple consequence of the fact that we live in a society that has Christian roots: even those born to a Christian family and formed in the faith must, each and every day, renew the choice to be a Christian, to give God first place, before the temptations continuously suggested by a secularized culture, before the criticism of many of our contemporaries.

The tests which modern society subjects Christians to, in fact, are many, and affect the personal and social life. It is not easy to be faithful to Christian marriage, practice mercy in everyday life, leave space for prayer and inner silence, it is not easy to publicly oppose choices that many take for granted, such as abortion in the event of an unwanted pregnancy, euthanasia in case of serious illness, or the selection of embryos to prevent hereditary diseases. The temptation to set aside one’s faith is always present and conversion becomes a response to God which must be confirmed several times throughout one’s life.

The major conversions like that of St. Paul on the road to Damascus, or St. Augustine, are an example and stimulus, but also in our time when the sense of the sacred is eclipsed, God's grace is at work and works wonders in life of many people. The Lord never gets tired of knocking at the door of man in social and cultural contexts that seem engulfed by secularization, as was the case for the Russian Orthodox Pavel Florensky. After a completely agnostic education, to the point he felt an outright hostility towards religious teachings taught in school, the scientist Florensky came to exclaim: "No, you can not live without God", and to change his life completely, so much so he became a monk.

I also think the figure of Etty Hillesum, a young Dutch woman of Jewish origin who died in Auschwitz. Initially far from God, she found Him looking deep inside herself and wrote: "There is a well very deep inside of me. And God is in that well. Sometimes I can reach Him, more often He is covered by stone and sand: then God is buried. We must dig Him up again "(Diary, 97). In her scattered and restless life, she finds God in the middle of the great tragedy of the twentieth century, the Shoah. This young fragile and dissatisfied woman, transfigured by faith, becomes a woman full of love and inner peace, able to say: "I live in constant intimacy with God."

The ability to oppose the ideological blandishments of her time to choose the search for truth and open herself up to the discovery of faith is evidenced by another woman of our time, the American Dorothy Day. In her autobiography, she confesses openly to having given in to the temptation that everything could be solved with politics, adhering to the Marxist proposal: "I wanted to be with the protesters, go to jail, write, influence others and leave my dreams to the world. How much ambition and how much searching for myself in all this!". The journey towards faith in such a secularized environment was particularly difficult, but Grace acts nonetheless, as she points out: "It is certain that I felt the need to go to church more often, to kneel, to bow my head in prayer. A blind instinct, one might say, because I was not conscious of praying. But I went, I slipped into the atmosphere of prayer ... ". God guided her to a conscious adherence to the Church, in a lifetime spent dedicated to the underprivileged.

In our time there are no few conversions understood as the return of those who, after a Christian education, perhaps a superficial one, moved away from the faith for years and then rediscovered Christ and his Gospel. In the Book of Revelation we read: "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, [then] I will enter his house and dine with him, and he with me"(3, 20). Our inner person must prepare to be visited by God, and for this reason we should allow ourselves be invaded by illusions, by appearances, by material things.

In this time of Lent, in the Year of the faith, we renew our commitment to the process of conversion, to overcoming the tendency to close in on ourselves and instead, to making room for God, looking at our daily reality with His eyes. The alternative between being wrapped up in our egoism and being open to the love of God and others, we could say corresponds to the alternatives to the temptations of Jesus: the alternative, that is, between human power and love of the Cross, between a redemption seen only in material well-being and redemption as the work of God, to whom we give primacy in our lives. Conversion means not closing in on ourselves in the pursuit of success, prestige, position, but making sure that each and every day, in the small things, truth, faith in God and love become most important.

The Holy Father’s summary and greetings in English:

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

Today, Ash Wednesday, we begin our yearly Lenten journey of conversion in preparation for Easter. The forty days of Lent recall Israel’s sojourn in the desert and the temptations of Jesus at the beginning of his public ministry. The desert, as the place of silent encounter with God and decision about the deepest meaning and direction of our lives, is also a place of temptation. In his temptation in the desert, Jesus showed us that fidelity to God’s will must guide our lives and thinking, especially amid today’s secularized society. While the Lord continues to raise up examples of radical conversion, like Pavel Florensky, Etty Hillesum and Dorothy Day, he also constantly challenges those who have been raised in the faith to deeper conversion. In this Lenten season, Christ once again knocks at our door (cf. Rev 3:20) and invites us to open our minds and hearts to his love and his truth. May Jesus’ example of overcoming temptation inspire us to embrace God’s will and to see all things in the light of his saving truth.

* * * * *

I offer a warm welcome to all the English-speaking visitors present at today’s Audience, including those from England, Denmark and the United States. My particular greeting goes to the many student groups present. With prayers that this Lenten season will prove spiritually fruitful for you and your families, I invoke upon all of you God’s blessings of joy and peace.

Translation by Radio Vaticana

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John Zizioulas: Lectures in Christian Dogmatics

  Editor’s Introduction
by Douglas Knight

In these lectures the celebrated Orthodox theologian John Zizioulas introduces the Christian faith. Zizioulas shows that the living Christian community is the demonstration of God’s love for the world, and its faith articulates that love. This community is the communion and the freedom of God, given to the world. The Church sets out its account of this communion and freedom in its doctrine.

In his thoroughly integrated account, Zizioulas shows that the Christian doctrine of God is intimately linked to the Church. Human being is raised to participate in the life of God and sustained by the friendship that is shared by the triune persons of Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Within this communion man is made free, so he can willingly receive and give the love of God, and the Church is the form in which he participates in this communion.

Zizioulas not only tells us what the Church teaches, but also why, and what difference it makes to us. He lays out profound and complex ideas with the utmost simplicity to show us how Christian doctrine integrates issues of communion, freedom and personhood. These lectures also explore the relationship of the individual Christian to other Christians and to the Church, and so introduce us to a discipleship and spirituality of love. Few other thinkers have succeeded in establishing that communion and freedom are as fundamental as this. The lectures come in four parts, that discuss doctrine, God, the economy of God for man and the Church. A more profound or lucid exposition of Christian teaching would be hard to find.


Doctrine

Christian doctrine is the teaching of the Church. It sets out what the Christian community says in its worship of God. The doctrine that is taught in faith is confessed and given a public account so the world can assess its truth for itself. The Church distinguishes its own account from all other rival accounts, in order to protect the truth of this communion and re-state it clearly for each new generation.

The Church teaches us that Christ is always with the Holy Spirit, and that he may be known only within that community that the Spirit sanctifies for the purpose. Christ cannot be isolated or separated from his people, so we have to receive him from them. This Christian people experience the reality of the new communion opened by Jesus Christ and affirm the truth of the teaching about that communion. Life within the communion is the source of knowledge of God, and also of knowledge of ourselves. Knowledge of God takes place only within relationship that God has initiated with us. This relationship is both with God and with all his creatures, which means that it is not simply spiritual or intellectual, but made present to us by the many persons of the communion of the Church. Such relationship is fundamental to all knowing, for we have no real knowledge of a person as a person until we are in relationship with them. We may only know them as we open ourselves to them and they open themselves to us: since we do not know what any relationship will lead to, this is to take a risk.

God does not intend that we know him because we have to. Knowledge that is free is knowledge received in faith and involves mutual recognition in friendship and love. To attempt to know something from outside such a relationship is to turn it into an inert object that we can dominate and silence. If we attempt to know persons without respect for their freedom, we make ourselves unfree too.

God 

The doctrine of God sets out what is revealed to the Christian community in the incarnation of Christ, recorded in Scripture and celebrated in its worship. Worship is simply the acknowledgment that God is God and that we are not, the acknowledgment which is the basis of all further knowledge. God has brought the Church into being for this purpose, and sustains it as the community that is able to acknowledge him, together with all his creatures, and to do so in freedom.

When we talk about God, and even more when we pray, we refer ourselves to the Father of Jesus Christ. God is the particular person whom we may know by this name, ‘Father’. The Father calls the Son and Spirit into being and they affirm him as Father, so he is never Father without them. The Father begets the Son, and sends the Holy Spirit, and in love they return his acknowledgment and constitute him as the Father. The divine persons give to one another and receive from one another, so this trinity of persons is the way God is who he is.

The concept of the person allows us to explicate the doctrine of God, and in particular to point the absolute fundamental importance of both love and freedom. The doctrine, and the mystery, of God is that there is plurality in God, that it has no limits, and exists without threats to its existence forever. This plurality is promised to creation and secured by the created person of man.

When the stress is put on unity before plurality, such as when God has been understood on the basis of analogies with an individual mind, the doctrine of God lurches between two misrepresentations. It is possible to misrepresent the unity of God in such a way that God becomes an impersonal and incommunicative monad. It is also possible to misrepresent the persons as three independent consciousnesses (‘gods’) in order to promote ‘communion’ (which is itself an abstraction) over them: this is sometimes known as a ‘social’ doctrine of the trinity.

Such accounts of the doctrine ignore the way the persons freely order themselves to the Father. There is an order in God, in which the Father is first and last, because all the persons so order themselves to one another. The Father is the single source from whom the persons of God come, and consequently is the single source of all that is. Freely the Father loves and begets the Son and is loved and worshipped by him, and loves the Spirit who proceeds from him, and who glorifies him through the Son. The Father is never without the Son and Holy Spirit: their mutual deference confirms the order and eternal unity that is the free act of the persons of God.

It is easier to see how the persons of God order themselves to one another when we examine how God acts for us. The Son and the Spirit do the work of the Father, and bring their work to him for his approval. The Son regards us as his own body and presents us to the Father as though we, and all creation, were integral to himself. Christ raises us continually to God, and he will present us to God finally: because the Father receives us from him, our existence is affirmed. The work of Christ in creation, incarnation and redemption is the work of the Father Son and Holy Spirit together, for the work of each person is the work of God. Only God, who is free and does not seek our recognition for himself, can truly give us recognition and establish for us who we are. The Holy Spirit binds us to Christ, so that the Son’s acknowledgment of God becomes our act of acknowledgment too; his worship becomes our worship of God, and issues in our truthful appreciation and knowledge of all God’s creation. It is finally due to its reception and acknowledgment by the Father that anything has the identity and existence that it has.

Zizioulas shows us how the Church learned how to avoid explanations that restricted the freedom of God. The Church insisted that God makes himself known to us: the true God, the Father, has made himself known in the Son. He initiated the whole plan of our creation and redemption, so we are the outcome of his act of love, and this is how he will recognise us. Because God affirms our knowledge of him, gained through Christ and the teaching of the Church, we do indeed know the otherwise unknowable God; the result is that our knowledge of creation is reliable and our science secure.

If God had not revealed himself, it would be our identity that was in crisis. We would have to create an identity of our own, but we would be unable to do so. When we are able to acknowledge that God reveals himself in Christ we have no need to assert or exalt ourselves over one another or in any other way attempt to fill God’s place. One inference is that, though we may have real knowledge of other people, we cannot know them or master them utterly, because they do not belong to us in the first place, but to God. The doctrine of God gives us the truth of man, but the truth of man cannot be extracted from the truth about God and turned into a theory about man alone. God is knowable only to extent he makes himself known, and this is true also of man, the creature of God. The secret of being human, is hidden with God, and only in communion with him, can we be human, together with other humans. The assessment of God is that we, along with rest of the world, are worth waiting for, and the existence of the Church is the demonstration that this remains God’s good judgment. This is the significance of the Christian doctrine of God for us.

God is not threatened by the existence of anything, since it is by his will that anything comes into existence. He is free to love and confirm all his creatures without limit, and he extends the freedom of his love to us. In Christ we are able to give each creature our recognition and love, and to say that all the works of God, even those that seem darkest to us, are good.

But when the contribution of the Church is left on one side, the Western philosophical tradition begins to drift in a different direction. We assume that other people are a threat to us, and that we have to assert ourselves against them. Fear takes the place of love in our account of the social and natural worlds. If we define our freedom without reference to love, we are left with the belief that we have to make ourselves free by separating ourselves from society on the one hand, and from our embodiment in nature on the other. The Church insists that love, along with all forms of fellowship and society, is essential to any account of human being. Freedom and communion are both fundamental. Without a concept of person, either communion is given undue weight over freedom, or freedom over communion.

When it is disciplined by all Christian doctrine, the concept of person determines that communion and freedom are equally important. The result is that we are not tempted to believe that being is prior to persons, or that the question what ? is more fundamental than the question who? and how? Persons are not an afterthought in the great order of being. No ‘being’ or ‘communion’ can love us: only a person is free to respond to love with love.

Zizioulas shows us that it is not enough just to say what the Christian doctrine of God is. We also have to demonstrate its underlying logic, so we can clearly differentiate it from all that it is not saying. One implication of the doctrine of God is that, in God, ‘one’ is not prior to ‘many’, and unity is not prior to plurality. This single insight has huge ramifications. Human freedom and the individual person are just as fundamental as existence itself. The universe is not a basically deterministic place which happens to experience a temporary pocket of freedom, conveniently for us. When unity is placed before plurality, individuals are set before society, setting up a tension between them: then society must control the individual to prevent him destroying society, and the individual has to assert himself against society to establish his freedom.

A second result of this assumption that unity is more primal than plurality, is that plurality might collapse back into unity, so the profusion of creatures and persons that make up this world will disappear: it will be as though creation had never been. But the logic of the Christian doctrine of God suggests that diversity is not temporary, and that the universal and collective will not efface the particularity of any single entity. Freedom is not a hiccup in nature. A world full of particular things and unique people will endure against all threats to its existence. ‘Person’ is the concept that holds together these three fundamental concepts of being, communion and freedom, and which establishes that plurality is not subordinate to unity.

In the teaching of the Church, all human persons exist within one person – Christ. This particular person gives room to a multitude without limit, and allows them to discover each other and flourish. Christ receives his identity entirely from the Father. Since he does not need the recognition of created persons for himself, he is able to be the ‘Other’ whose acknowledgement affirms the identity of every created person. Christ is able to give each created person the confirmation that establishes their identity. He is able to be the ‘person’ of humanity because the Father’s acknowledgement of him makes him ‘more than’ humanity: he is the person in whom all created persons may truly be persons.

God loves us for ourselves. He can receive us because it was he who initiated the project of creation and called us into being in the first place; our destination will turn out to be our origin too. He has the authority to acknowledge us, and that will satisfy us that we are rightly identified and our existence is finally secured. When we come to him, we will know that we exist because he invites us to, and that this is all the justification that is needed.

The Son of God, who is eternally this divine person, has assumed human nature. In Christ human life is raised to participate in the life of God, and become free and God-like, in ‘the likeness of God’; only when we are together with God may we be together with all other human beings and so be properly human. Christ does not desire to be known apart from his body, that is, apart from us. Because the Father receives him together with this body, made up of all whom the Spirit has united to Christ, the whole human race is one single person, in relationship with God.

The Economy


Zizioulas brings the doctrines of creation and incarnation together under the heading of the work – or ‘economy’ – of God for man. He gives us a compelling discussion of God’s coming to man brings striking new clarity to the doctrines of salvation and creation.

Since it is not the source of its own life, creation has no means of sustaining itself. It came from nothing and remains liable to dissolve back into it. All created things, left to themselves, tend to break apart and drift towards isolation, dissolution and eventual death. Aware of his vulnerability, man is fearful, and fear makes him a misery to himself and a terror to his fellow creatures. In his desperation he takes from others what he needs to prolong his life, and so man is both prey and predator. He needs to be liberated both from the confines of nature, and from the fear which drives him to devour his fellow men.

If the world is to live, death must be overcome. But only a relationship of love, which is one freely willed by both sides, can overcome the constraints on our life, including the ultimate limit that is death. Created beings are safe from death as long as they are in communion with the life that, being uncreated, has no limit. Man is made for relationship with God, who always intended to be his God, and intended that man should know and be glad of it. From the first, God meant to be incarnate for man: had man not fallen, man would have been incrementally transformed into Christ, that is, man-with-God.

Man was given the freedom of God to decide freely, and on behalf of all creation, for participation in the communion and life of God. Because all creation makes up his body, materiality gets to participate in man’s decision and so receive God’s uncreated life in freedom. So man is able to unite created materiality to the communion of God that overcomes all limits, and so secure creation’s continued life. Christ is the one who is able to establish and sustain relationship with all men, and brings each into relationship with all others, and unites within himself all creation to God. He is the truth of man and creation, sustained through all limits by the invincible communion of God.

Although Christ is the whole reality of human being, he does not force himself upon us. He appears amongst us as one person amongst others, and so as someone we can reject or accept as we like. We can withhold our acknowledgment of him or, in faith, we can recognise him for who he is. When we concede Christ his otherness, and acknowledge that he shares the freedom of God, this opens the possibility that we understand that all persons are different from us, not our creatures but creatures of God. As we concede the otherness and freedom of every human being we gain our own true freedom.

For created persons, freedom is exercised as a choice between givens which we have to refuse or accept. But God is not confronted by any givens, for all things come from his own will. He exercises his freedom in love entirely in affirming beings other than himself. The freedom of the Father is expressed in the love by which he affirms the Son, and the freedom of the Son is expressed in the love in which he affirms the Father. In Christ, our freedom also consists in acknowledging and affirming each person, and allowing them to become part of our very being. On any other definition, freedom could only mean isolation. But communion and freedom come from God and, together with him, we may share in both.

The Church 
In the fourth section of these lectures Zizioulas turns to the Church. The Church is the communion and love of God truly present to us, and from it all human fellowship and society flow. By bringing us into his fellowship, God enables us to pass beyond the limits given by our creatureliness and enter fellowship with one another. Since this communion can never be exhausted, the Church cannot be comprehended, interrupted or threatened by any created thing. In spelling out this communion Zizioulas deals with discipleship, sanctification, the gathered community, the eucharist, eschatology, order and hierarchy, scripture and worship and relations between churches. Again, Zizioulas shows that plurality is as fundamental as unity: the complementarity of distinction and unity is developed through every part of his account, which he sets out together with his account of Christ and the Holy Spirit.

Zizioulas shows how, through centuries of debate, the Church developed a theology of the gathered community that was balanced by an account of the growth of the individual Christian. Through discipleship, each of us purified of our aggression and turned outwards towards others. The Christian is transformed from one degree of Christ-likeness to another, from partial to whole and perfect, and so made a catholic person, in unconfined relationship.

Left to ourselves, we seek to draw others into our sphere, in the hope that they will give us the confirmation we need, while they seek to draw us into their sphere in order to master us and source their power from us. We divide ourselves from one another and lead one another off into rival kingdoms; the world is divided and held down, each part holding out against the whole and the truth. None of us is able to let other people be truly different from himself; our inadequate love means a failure of otherness.

With infinite power, Christ sustains his body so that it resists all contrary voices, and remains unified. With infinite patience he calls all humanity into reconciliation in this body so that no part is any longer at war with any other. Without the Church, the world attempts to close down of the otherness of others; in particular it attempts to suborn the Church and to reduce the difference between Church and world. But because it is the act of God, the Church will never be assimilated, the distinction between Church and world will remain, and the Church will continue to baffle the unreconciled world.

The Church is a single assembly made up of all Christ’s people. It includes those who, for us, are in the past or in the future. Each local gathering of Christ’s people is that complete assembly, diffidently making present to us what will only be finally complete at the fulfilment of all ages. But it will be our future only because we desire that it be so and are ready to receive and love all whom Christ has in store for us.

The Church is the embodiment of the renewal and redemption of creation. The unity and order of this assembly can be seen in the way that its members order themselves to one another in love. The fellowship of God creates in the eucharist that mutual deference that brings down the walls between creatures and initiates reconciliation and good order within human history. The kingdoms we build are partial and partisan, premised on the exclusion of some, and thus they are not the kingdom of God. But as all kingdoms and all times are reconciled in the body of Christ, we will cease to assert ourselves against all others, and the world will no long be a place of warring camps: the communion of God which is ‘in heaven’ will become the truth ‘on earth’.

The Son and the Spirit

The Holy Spirit glorifies Christ and is always with him. The Spirit glorifies him both by distinguishing him from all others, and by uniting all others to him as members of his body. Christ cannot be isolated or separated from the whole people of God, whom he regards as his own glory. We cannot know Jesus Christ (the one) without simultaneously acknowledging his community (the many). He cannot be known as Christ outside that body which the Holy Spirit sanctifies, or apart from its saints and teachers whom the Holy Spirit has pressed into our service. We can know Christ only through the life of the Church, its worship, sacraments, tradition, gifts and offices.

The Spirit situates us ‘in Christ’. The Spirit makes Christ unassailable and allows his invincibility to be used on our behalf with an infinite patience and gentleness. Christ is the fundamental particle and the particular person, in whom we may become particulars, persons whom can never be broken into any smaller constituents. Christ and the Spirit together are responsible not only for our unity, but also for all the distinctions that makes us different from one another. He differentiates us from one another, establishing us as unique and irreplaceable particulars. Each human being will become catholic, anointed with the whole plurality of Christ.

Christ makes his people one indivisible whole, and the Church is this whole, making itself present to us in time. God sends us instalments of this future whole and setting its outline publicly before the world. The Church points towards this whole and declares that the world is not yet this whole; the Church looks forward to the mutual ordering of all things in love which will be completed by Christ’s coming, when Christ will affirm every one of us as different from every other.

If our identifies were given to us complete at birth, this would leave us with nothing to do and freedom would be denied us. But our life is part of a process, enabled by the Holy Spirit which, because we must all participate in it, unfolds through time. With the unlimited resources he receives from the Father, Christ supplies us with the means to see how each other person is different from ourselves and to acknowledge one another in our distinctiveness: the distinctiveness of other people is not just a given, but we ourselves are able to affirm it gladly. In this way the identity of other people is not established without our participation and consent. Each call from God is a new invitation and summons that frees us to act, and to act for one another.

Christ calls us and listens for us. Regardless of how long it takes, he waits for each particular person to hear and answer in freedom. However deep we have been buried, he hears us, and can uncover and restore us. He is able to wrest us out of one another’s grasp, tell us apart from all other persons and confirm who we are. As creatures, we are divisible by time and so located by it, so time part-conceals the truth of our identity. We see the body of Christ strung out across time like stragglers in a race, its unity is hidden. But time cannot ultimately divide this body: though events chafe away at it, they will never prevail, but only serve to purify this body until it is finally be revealed as holy. Because it is the communion of God, the Church will stand forever: now the mutual love of its members demonstrates its undefeated good order at every eucharist.

Jesus Christ comes to us accompanied by the company of his entire people: we cannot have him without receiving them. Amongst this vast company around us in the assembly, Christ has an unbreakable person-to-person relationship with each so that, through him, each of us is related with every other member of humanity. The Christian people arrange themselves around the apostles and all their successors, who as witnesses of the resurrection, are themselves gathered around Christ. The way the Church stations itself around these witnesses makes the Church an image that will not change until Christ, who is its original, returns. The kingdom of God is the good-ordering of all things, and the Church is its public image.

God does not let the world come to rest until it comes together into the kingdom of God. The kingdom of God interrupts the world’s claim to be self-sufficient or complete, and the eucharist is the form that this interruption takes: it is the whole, making itself felt among the parts, preventing them from determining themselves as the whole, and inviting them to their much larger future.

God intends that we be free and his invitation to freedom is what the future is. If the future were fixed or necessary, it would not be future, but simply more of the present. No future can be foisted on us. We can only be said to be beings with a future if we become, and remain, free: we must be willing contributors to it, for our identity will not be decided without our collaboration. The future is the invitation Christ issues to us to share life with him and with all his people.

If God were a universally manifest and inescapable fact it would make freedom impossible. So God withholds his glory, so that that it is mystery, revealed and known only in faith. In this faith we look for the resurrection that will make his body, and his glory, complete.

But it is not enough that Christ gives us our identity, for we must also take it up in freedom and love. Our identity becomes truly ours as we regard ourselves as his, and all his people as our own. We must love them as he does: this love will be free, because it will be our own response to, and participation in, the love that we have received. Christ does not regard himself as complete without us, so he waits for us; the saints and whole communion wait for us with him. Now we must also wait for each other. Our lives are therefore part of a process and a history, enabled by the Holy Spirit which, because we must all participate in it, unfolds through time. Time is our waiting for other people to join us.

In the prayers of the eucharist we ask God to give us all whom we are waiting for, along with all the grace to receive them, and so make this body complete. We mourn for those who are not yet present, for their absence means that we are not yet present as we want to be. The whole Christ, and our own very being, is waiting for them.

The resurrection will turn us around and bring us face to face with all men, even with our adversaries. The resurrection that raises us to God will also raise to them, and them to us, so that we will receive Christ together with all whom he brings with him. Christ brings each individual Christian into this whole assembly and incorporates him in this body. He now sends us all these people ahead of him to us, so we may receive him by learning to receive them. Christ comes to us, anointed with his whole people.

In the form of baptism, our resurrection has started. It consists in meeting these saints who already make up the glorified body of Jesus Christ, and the baptised persons of his body. Christ considers his people to be his body, his presence and glory. By gathering us together and making us present and available to one another, the eucharist is the union of God with man taking place before us. We are being brought together with all others, into a vast company of people, and we are able distinguished amongst them so that our own particularity is recognised by this entire assembly and so established at last.

Eucharist 

In each place that it meets, the Church is the evidence that Christ is drawing all men to himself and bringing each into connection with all. This future and final assembly makes itself present to the present world in this hidden form of the Church. In the eucharist each church intercedes for its own locality, speaking on its behalf to God. Each Christian prays for those members of his own family and society, past and present, who are not otherwise present in the eucharist. Through our prayers they become present in this assembly, so we are the presence of persons other than ourselves.

As the Church participates in the manyness of Christ, it passes his plurality on to the world. The whole Church receives the diversity of the people of Christ from each of the many local churches. The whole Church passes on the holiness of Christ to each local church, so that Christ’s indivisible unity is present in each part of the world, to reconcile and draw it into his body. The Church supplies the world simultaneously with both unity and plurality, identity and difference. Without the Church, present in every part of the world and making every part of the world present in its prayers, both the unity and diversity of the world, and so its very existence, would be in doubt.

Christ’s people embody creation. Each of the bodies which make us visible and present to one another, constituted of all the vegetable and animal bodies we consume, is itself a gathering of the material elements of creation. Each of us embodies a particular part of the earth, so creation exists within the body, or as the body, of each member of Christ’s assembly. Though we live in creation, creation also lives in and through us. In Christ we are the ‘person’ of creation, the indivisible unity that preserves creation immune from time and death. In the eucharist, material creation is able to sing the praises of God and so participate through us in the freedom of God.

Since Christ clothes himself with his people, in him all persons and all material creation are forever present with God. In his liturgy to God and service to man, Christ unites all creation with God. This work of bringing these many into one, is what is going on in the great eucharistic prayer of offering, the anaphora. For the benefit of world, the saints who are assembled behind Christ participate publicly, in his office of raising and embodying the world to God. As Christ and his body speak for it and presents it to God, creation’s divisions disappear, there is reconciliation between the social and the natural worlds, and we may live with, rather than against, the order of creation. The eucharist is the reconciliation of mind and body, intellect and materiality, so the Church is the union of humanity and nature, freedom come to creation.

Catholicity 

Communion involves persons who are different from one another. The preservation of the distinctiveness and otherness of each of these persons requires order and authority. The distinctions incorporated and affirmed within the body of Christ are protected by offices within the Church. Christ sanctifies specific office-holders in the body in order to serve us and do us good: they ensure that we do not form into any smaller and less tolerant groups that obliterate otherness; their discipline enables us to accept the ordering of the whole catholic body within which all differences are established. Just as the whole Church is under the discipline given by Christ, each congregation is under the discipline of the whole Church, worldwide and of all generations. Thus there is no gap between the local and universal churches, or between the Church and its institutional forms: all must demonstrate one simple truth, that we are ordered to one another and made finally distinct from one another in Christ.
Just no disciple is under his own authority, no church can ordain its own leaders, but must receive them from the whole Church. Communion consists in receiving apostles, together with their teaching and their discipline, from other parts of the Church, and in sending them to other parts of the church. By giving and taking in this way, each church exists in relationships with other churches and is part of the whole catholic body. Each of these apostles represents the oversight of the whole Church for this particular church; each overseer brings to each church the deposit of faith found good by the long historical experience of the Church as a whole. Each community must receive this bishop and his discipline willingly, as a gift from the whole body. Through mutual subordination in love we receive the shaping of the whole Christ as it comes to us from the whole Church.
The practice of sending apostles to other churches and receiving apostles from, other churches, is the way in which each church participates in the one catholic Church. Any community that does not receive this gift from the rest of the Church will be held together by a spirit of nation, class or age-group, or by a merely intellectual, aesthetic or sentimental spirit. It will fortify itself against other parts, and so represent only the division of the body and the falsification of the gospel.We cannot turn away from other churches without shutting ourselves off from Christ and from our own future in his body. Thus every event of ecumenism, like every eucharist, is an event of judgment and repentance, and of forgiveness and reconciliation, in which we are joined to those we have shunned. Every church must humbly offer its faith to every other, submit itself to the questioning of every other church, and attempt to learn from them all. The one Church exists as each church gives and receives the instruction and oversight of every other.
The Church is constituted by the whole Christian people, gathered around their bishops, and their agreement demonstrates that the one and the many are one Church. The Church is the catholic body: all other communities are partial, and so not yet the whole truth. The cross of Christ, which strips us of all false universals, is our way into this truly universal communion. We may now know Christ only together with every single one of those whom he brings with him. When Christ is all in all, all are all in all.
John Zizioulas, Metropolitan bishop of Pergamon, has led many of the exchanges between Eastern and Western churches. He believes all ecumenical efforts are mutually enriching, and he expresses his gratitude to the Western churches for them. Some Eastern churches are wary of Western ‘influence’ and critical of those involved in such ecumenism. But Zizioulas tells us, every act of ecumenism must be based in the truth and thus hear the judgment of God with repentance and in the hope of reconciliation. The whole Church eagerly looks forward to its redemption and the fulfilment of all things in Christ, so it must be the prayer of the churches ‘that they may be One’. These lectures represent an unrivalled opportunity to learn the faith of the whole undivided Church, which is the embodiment of the love of God for us.

John Zizioulas Lectures in Christian Dogmatics, edited by Douglas H. Knight (London: T & T Clark 200

 THE SHAPE OF CATHOLIC THEOLOGY
Please listen to this lecture by Fr Aidan Nichols OP, especially if you are Orthodox.   Orthodox theologians tend to compare Catholic theology at its worst with Orthodox theology at its best, or are so convinced that we are wrong that they only hear what they want to hear, (on "created grace" for example). 

THE POPE ON THE "COUNCIL OF THE MEDIA" AND THE REAL VATICAN II.

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February 14, 2013, Thursday -- Without a Script.
my source: Dr Robert Moynihan


“Only a permanent formation of the heart and mind can actually create intelligibility and participation which is more than one external activity, which is an entering of the person, of his or her being into communion with the Church and thus in fellowship with Christ.”—Pope Benedict XVI this morning, in his annual address to the clergy of Rome, in the Paul VI Audience Hall in Vatican City; the talk was delivered without a written text, as in a conversation, or university seminar 



Pope to Rome’s priests: The Second Vatican Council, As I Saw It

The remarkable thing about Pope Benedict's talk today to the clergy of Rome, several thousand strong, was that he did not speak from a prepared text. He spoke freely, familiarly. It was an impressive performance.



For nearly 50 minutes, the 85-year-old pontiff — who on Monday stunned the world with the abrupt announcement of his decision to leave the papacy on February 28 — spoke "a braccio" ("off the cuff") somehwat as a professor may speak to his students in a university seminar.



It seemed that this "professor Pope" has, in the final days of his papacy, in fact truly become the "professor Pope."



It is as if the weight of speaking with magisterial authority, which already in the past seemed to make this Pope occasionally uncomfortable (as when he issued his books on Jesus under the names both of "Joseph Ratzinger" and of "Pope Benedict XVI") is already, two weeks before his resignation, being lifted off of his shoulders.



His manner of speaking today reminded me of several conversations I was able to have with him in the 1990s, when he, as Cardinal Ratzinger, spoke with me, a young journalist, about some of the matters he discussed today.



Benedict seemed very much at ease, though he was evidently a bit tired (one of his eyes sometimes almost closed as he spoke).



The Pope offered a personal account to Rome's clergy of his own experience of the Second Vatican Council, and of what the Council intended.



Because it is one of the last times he will speak publicly to a large audience as Pope, the talk was closely followed by Vatican watchers.



What was the Pope's "message" as he prepares to renounce his office on February 28?



Essentially, that the documents of Vatican II were works of great value which responded to real concerns and problems facing the Church, but which were later distorted, often by the world's media, which had their own agenda, leading to much confusion and "misery."

In particular, Benedict said that the popular understanding of Vatican II has been distorted presentations of the Council as a political struggle for "popular sovereignty" in the Church. This "Council of the media" was responsible for "many calamities, so many problems, so much misery," the Pope said. He listed the miseries: "Seminaries closed, convents closed, liturgy trivialized."

But the Pope said that the "true Council" is today "emerging with all its spiritual strength," and he called on the priests to "work so that the true Council with the power of the Holy Spirit is realized and the Church is really renewed."

At the very beginning if his papacy, almost 8 years ago, Benedict called for a reading of Vatican II "in continuity" with the Church's 2,000-year doctrine, not as a "rupture" with that past. His talk today was a re-emphasis of this teaching.

Before the Pope's talk, the priests greeted him with a standing ovation and a shout of "Viva il Papa!" ("Long Live the Pope!"). Cardinal Agostino Vallini, the vicar for Rome, read a short tribute to the Pope, comparing the occasion to the departure of St. Paul from Ephesus in the Acts of the Apostles.

The cardinal then began to weep slightly, saying, "in the name of all the priests of Rome, who truly love the Pope, we commit ourselves to pray still for you and for your intentions, so that our grateful love may become, if possible, even greater."





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The Vatican Radio Transcription of the Pope's February 14 Talk to the Clergy of Rome (slightly edited for clarity)



No official text of the talk has yet been made available — because there was no official written text to begin with — but Vatican Radio today published a transcription of nearly all of the Pope's talk.



Still, because there are a number of small mistakes and omissions in the text, I have edited it very slightly in the version published below.



The Vatican Radio text may be found in its original form at this link:

http://en.radiovaticana.va/news/2013/02/14/pope_to_rome's_priests:_the_second_vatican_council,_as_i_saw_it/en1-664858

"It is a special and providential gift," began the Pope, "that, before leaving the Petrine ministry, I can once again meet my clergy, the clergy of Rome. It is always a great joy to see how the Church lives, and how in Rome, the Church is alive: there are pastors who in the spirit of the supreme Shepherd, guide the flock of Christ."



"It is a truly Catholic and universal clergy," he added, "and is part of the essence of the Church of Rome itself, to reflect the universality, the catholicity, of all nations, of all races, of all cultures.”

“At the same time, I am very grateful to the Cardinal Vicar who is helping to reawaken, to rediscover the vocations in Rome itself, because if, on the one hand, Rome is the city of universality, it must be also a city with its own strong, robust faith, from which vocations are also born. And I am convinced that, with the help of the Lord, we can find the vocations He Himself gifts us, guide them, help them to develop and thus help the work in the vineyard of the Lord."

"Today," continued the Pope, "you have confessed the Creed before the Tomb of St. Peter: in the Year of the Faith, I see this as a very appropriate, perhaps even necessary, act, that the clergy of Rome meet at the Tomb of the Apostle of which the Lord said, 'To you I entrust my Church. Upon you I build my Church.’ Before the Lord, together with Peter, you have confessed: 'you are Christ, the Son of the living God.' Thus the Church grows: together with Peter, confessing Christ, following Christ. And we do this always. I am very grateful for your prayers that I have felt, as I said Wednesday, almost physically. Though I am now retiring to a life of prayer, I will always be close to all you and I am sure all of you will be close to me, even though I remain hidden to the world. "

"For today, given the conditions of my age," he said, "I could not prepare a great, real address, as one might expect, but rather I thought of chatting about the Second Vatican Council, as I saw it."

The Pope began with an anecdote: "In 1959, I was appointed professor at the University of Bonn, which is attended by students, seminarians of the diocese of Cologne and other surrounding dioceses. So, I came into contact with the Cardinal of Cologne, Cardinal Frings. Cardinal Siri of Genoa — I think it was in 1961 — had organized a series of conferences with several cardinals in Europe, and the Council had invited the archbishop of Cologne to hold a conference, entitled: 'The Council and the World of Modern Thought.' The Cardinal invited me — the youngest of the professors — to write a project; he liked the project and proposed this text, as I had written it to the public, in Genoa."

"Shortly after," he continued, "Pope John invited him to come [to Rome] and he was afraid he had perhaps said maybe something incorrect, false, and that he had been asked to come for a reprimand, perhaps even to deprive him of his red hat... (priests laughing). Yes... when his secretary dressed him for the audience, he said: 'Perhaps now I will be wearing this stuff for the last time...' (the priests laugh). Then he went in. Pope John came towards him and hugged him, saying, 'Thank you, Your Eminence, you said things I have wanted to say, but I had not found the words to say'... (the priests laugh, applaud) Thus, the Cardinal knew he was on the right track, and I was invited to accompany him to the Council, first as his personal advisor, then — in the first period, perhaps in November '62 — I was also appointed as an official peritus [expert] for the Council.”

Benedict XVI continued: "So, we went to the Council not only with joy, but with enthusiasm. The expectation was incredible. We hoped that everything would be renewed, that a new Pentecost really would come, a new era of the Church, because the Church was not robust enough at that time: the Sunday practice was still good, even vocations to the priesthood and religious life were already somewhat fewer, but still sufficient. But nevertheless, there was the feeling that the Church was going on, but getting smaller, that somehow it seemed like a reality of the past and not the bearer of the future. And now, we hoped that this relationship would be renewed, changed, that the Church would once again source of strength for today and tomorrow."

The Pope then recalled how they saw "that the relationship between the Church and the modern period was one of some ‘contrasts’ from the outset, starting with the error in the Galileo case, "and the idea was to correct this wrong start" and to find a new relationship between the Church and the best forces in the world, "to open up the future of humanity, to open up to real progress."

The Pope recalled: "We were full of hope, enthusiasm and also of good will."



"I remember," he said, "the Roman Synod was considered as a negative model" where — it was said — they read prepared texts, and the members of the Synod simply approved them, and that was how the Synod was held. The bishops agreed not to do so because they themselves were the subject of the Council. So — he continued — even Cardinal Frings, who was famous for his absolute, almost meticulous, fidelity to the Holy Father, said that the Pope has summoned the bishops in an ecumenical council as a subject to renew the Church.

Benedict XVI recalled that "the first time this attitude became clear, was immediately on the first day."



On the first day, the Commissions were to be elected and the lists and nominations were impartially prepared. And these lists were to be voted on. But soon the Fathers said, "No, are not simply going to vote on already made lists. We are the subject."



They had to move the elections — he continued — because the Fathers themselves wanted to get to know each other a little, they wanted to make their own lists. So it was done.



"It was a revolutionary act," he said, "but an act of conscience, of responsibility on the part of the Council Fathers."

So, the Pope said, a strong activity of mutual understanding began. And this, he said, was customary for the entire period of the Council: "small transversal meetings." In this way he became familiar with the great figures like Father de Lubac, Danielou, Congar, and so on. And this, he said "was an experience of the universality of the Church and of the reality of the Church, that does not merely receive imperatives from above, but grows and advances together, under the leadership, of course, of the Successor of Peter."

He then reiterated that everyone “arrived with great expectations" because "there had never been a Council of this size," but not everyone knew how to make it work. The French, German, Belgian, Dutch episcopates, the so-called "Rhineland Alliance,” had "the most clearly defined intentions."



And in the first part of the Council, he said, it was they who suggested the road ahead, then it’s activities rapidly expanded and soon all participated in the "creativity of the Council."

The French and the Germans, he observed, had many interests in common, even with quite different nuances.



Their initial intention, seemingly simple, "was the reform of the liturgy, which had begun with Pius XII," which had already reformed Holy Week; their second intention was ecclesiology; their third the Word of God, Revelation, and then also ecumenism. The French, much more than the Germans, he noted, still had the problem of dealing with the situation of the relationship between the Church and the world.

Referring to the reform of the liturgy, the Pope recalled that "after the First World War, a liturgical movement had grown in Western Central Europe," as "the rediscovery of the richness and depth of the liturgy," which hitherto was almost locked within the priest’s Roman Missal, while the people prayed with their prayer books "that were made according to the heart of the people," so that "the task was to translate the high content, the language of the classical liturgy, into more moving words, that were closer to the heart of the people. But they were almost two parallel liturgies: the priest with the altar servers, who celebrated the Mass according to the Missal, and the lay people who prayed the Mass with their prayer books.”



"Now," he continued, "the beauty, the depth, the Missal’s wealth of human and spiritual history" was rediscovered, as well as the need more than one representative of the people, a small altar boy, to respond "Et cum spiritu tuo" etc., to allow for "a real dialogue between priest and people," so that the liturgy of the altar and the liturgy of the people really were "one single liturgy, one active participation.



"And so it was that the liturgy was rediscovered, renewed."

The Pope said he saw the fact that the Council started with the liturgy as a very positive sign, because in this way "the primacy of God” was self-evident.



Some, he noted, criticized the Council because it spoke about many things, but not about God: instead, it spoke of God and its first act was to speak of God and open to the entire holy people the possibility of worshiping God, in the common celebration of the liturgy of the Body and Blood of Christ.



In this sense, he observed, beyond the practical factors that advised against immediately starting with controversial issues, it was actually "an act of Providence" that the Council began with the liturgy, God, Adoration.

The Holy Father then recalled the essential ideas of the Council: especially the paschal mystery as a center of Christian existence, and therefore of Christian life, as expressed in Easter and Sunday, which is always the day of the Resurrection, "over and over again we begin our time with the Resurrection, with an encounter with the Risen One."



In this sense, he observed, it is unfortunate that today, Sunday has been transformed into the end of the week, while it is the first day, it is the beginning: "inwardly we must bear in mind this is the beginning, the beginning of Creation, the beginning of the re-creation of the Church, our encounter with the Creator and with the Risen Christ."



The Pope stressed the importance of this dual content of Sunday: it is the first day, that is the feast of the Creation, as we believe in God the Creator, and an encounter with the Risen One who renews Creation: "its real purpose is to create a world which is a response to God's love. "

The Council also pondered the principals of the intelligibility of the Liturgy, instead of being locked up in an unknown language, which was no longer spoken, and active participation.



"Unfortunately,"  he said, "these principles were also poorly understood."



In fact, intelligibility does not mean "banalizing," because the great texts of the liturgy,  even in the spoken languages, are not easily intelligible, he said. "They require an ongoing formation of the Christian, so that he may grow and enter deeper into the depths of the mystery, and thus comprehend."



And also concerning the Word of God, he asked, who can honestly say they understand the texts of Scripture, simply because they are in their own language?



"Only a permanent formation of the heart and mind can actually create intelligibility and participation which is more than one external activity, which is an entering of the person, of his or her being into communion with the Church and thus in fellowship with Christ," he said.

The Pope then addressed the second issue: the Church.



He recalled that the First Vatican Council was interrupted by the Franco-Prussian War and so had emphasized only the doctrine on primacy, which was described as "thanks to God at that historical moment" and "it was very much needed for the Church in the time that followed.”



But, he said, "it was just one element in a broader ecclesiology," already in preparation.



So a a fragment remained from the Council. So from the beginning, he said, the intention was to realise a more complete ecclesiology at a later time.



Here, too, he said, the conditions seemed very good, because after the First World War, the sense of Church was reborn in a new way.



A sense of the Church began to reawaken in people’s souls and the Protestant bishop spoke of the "century of the Church."



What was especially rediscovered from Vatican I, was the concept of the mystical body of Christ. The aim was to speak about and understand the Church not as an organization, something structural, legal, institutional, which it also is, but as an organism, a vital reality that enters my soul, so that I myself, with my own soul as a believer, am a constructive element of the Church as such. In this sense, Pius XII wrote the encyclical Mystici Corporis Christi, as a step towards a completion of the ecclesiology of Vatican I.

"I would say the theological discussion of the 1930s-1940s, even 1920s, was completely under the sign of the words Mystici Corporis," the Pope said.



"It was a discovery that created so much joy in this time and in this context the formula arose: 'We are the Church, the Church is not a structure, something ... we Christians, together, we are all the living body of the Church.'



"And of course this is true in the sense that we, the true ‘we’ of believers, along with the ‘I’ of Christ, the Church. Each one of us, not we, a group that claims to be the Church. No: this 'we are Church' requires my inclusion in the great 'we' of believers of all times and places.

So, the Pope said, this was the first idea: to complete the [Vatican I] ecclesiology in theological way, but progressing in a structural manner, that is, alongside the succession of Peter, his unique function, to even better define the function of the bishops of the episcopal body.



To do this, he said, the word "collegiality" was found, "which provoked great, intense and even – I would say – exaggerated discussions."



"But it was the word (it might have been another one), but this ord was needed to express that the bishops, together, are the continuation of the Twelve, the body of the Apostles.



"We said: only one bishop, that of Rome, is the successor of one particular apostle, Peter. All others become successors of the apostles entering the body that continues the body of the apostles. And just so the body of bishops, the college, is the continuation of the body of the Twelve, so it is necessary, it has its function, its rights and duties.

"It appeared to many," the Pope said, "as a struggle for power, and maybe some did think about power, but basically it was not about power, but the complementarity of the factors and the completeness of the body of the Church with the bishops, the successors the apostles as bearers, and each of them is a pillar of the Church together with this great body.”

"These," he continued, "were the two fundamental elements in the search for a comprehensive theological vision of ecclesiology. Meanwhile, after the 1940s, in the 1950s, a little criticism of the concept of the Body of Christ had already been born: 'mystical body,' some said, is too exclusive and risks overshadowing the concept of the 'people of God.' And the Council," he observed, "rightly, accepted this fact, which in the Fathers is considered an expression of the continuity between the Old and New Testaments. We Gentiles, we are not in and of ourselves the people of God, but we become the children of Abraham and therefore the people of God, by entering into communion with Christ who is the only seed of Abraham. And entering into communion with Him, being one with Him, we too are 'people of God.' That is, the concept of 'people of God' implies continuity of the Testaments, continuity of God's history in the world, with men, but also implies a Christological element. Only through Christology do we become the 'people of God,' and the two concepts are combined. And the Council," said the Pope, "decided to create a Trinitarian construction of ecclesiology: the People of God-the-Father-Body of Christ-Temple of the Holy Spirit.

"But only after the Council," he continued, "was an element that had been somewhat hidden, brought to light, even as early as the Council itself, that is, the link between the People of God, the (mystical) Body of Christ, and their communion with Christ, in the Eucharistic union.



"Here we become the body of Christ, that is, the relationship between the people of God and the Body of Christ creates a new reality, that is, the communion."



"And the Council," he continued, "led to the concept of communion as a central concept. I would say philologically that it had not yet fully matured in the Council, but it is the result of the Council that the concept of communion becomes more and more an expression of the sense of the Church, communion in different dimensions, communion with the Triune God, who Himself is communion between the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, sacramental communion, concrete communion in the Episcopate and in the life of the Church.

"The problem of Revelation provoked even greater discussion: at issue was the relationship between Scripture and tradition, and above all this interested exegetes of a greater freedom, who felt somewhat, shall we say, in a situation of negativity before Protestants, who were making great discoveries, while Catholics felt a little 'handicapped' by the need to submit themselves to Magisterium. There was therefore a very concrete issue at stake: how free are exegetes? How does one read Scriptures well? What is meant by tradition?



"It was a pluri-dimensional battle that I can not outline now, but certainly what is important is that Scripture is the Word of God and the Church is subject to the Scriptures, obeys the Word of God, and is not above Scripture. Yet, Scripture is Scripture only because there is the living Church, its living subject; without the living subject of the Church Scripture is only a book, open to different interpretations, but which does not give any final clarity.

"Here, the battle, as I said, was difficult and the intervention of Pope Paul VI was decisive. This intervention shows all the delicacy of the Pope, his responsibility for the outcome of the Council, but also his great respect for the Council.



"The idea had emerged that Scripture is complete, everything can be found therein, so there was no need for tradition, and that Magisterium has nothing to say to us. Then the Pope sent the Council, I believe, 14 formulas of a sentence to be included in the text on Revelation and gave us, gave the Fathers, the freedom to choose one of 14 (formulas), but said: 'One has to be chosen to complete the text.'



"I remember, more or less, that the formula spoke of the Church's certainty of the faith not being based solely on a book, but needing the illuminated subject of the Church, guided by the Holy Spirit. Only in this way can Scripture speak and bring to bear all of its authority.



"We chose this phrase in the Doctrinal Commission, one of the 14 formulas. It is crucial, I think, to show the indispensability, the necessity of the Church, and to understand what tradition means, the living body in which the Word lives from the beginning and from which it receives its light, in which it was born.



"Because the simple fact of the Canon (the list of the books included in the Bible) is an ecclesial fact: that these writings are Scripture is the result of the illumination of the Church that found this canon of Scripture within herself, she found (this Canon), she did not make it, but found it. Only and always in this communion of the living Church can one really understand and read the Scriptures as the Word of God, as the Word that guides us in life and in death.

"As I said, this was a difficult discussion, but thanks to the Pope and thanks, let's say, to the light of the Holy Spirit who was present at the Council, a document that is one of the most beautiful and also innovative of the whole Council was created, which demands further study, because even today  exegesis tends to read Scripture outside of the Church, outside of faith, only in the so-called spirit of the historical-critical method — an important method, but never able to give solutions as a final certainty (which comes) only if we believe that these are not human words: they are the words of God. And only if (we), the living subjects to whom God has spoken, to whom God speaks, are alive, can we correctly interpret Sacred Scripture.



"And there is still much to be done, as I said in the preface of my book on Jesus, to arrive at a reading of Scripture that is really in the spirit of the Council. Here the application of the Council is not yet complete, it has yet to be accomplished.

"Finally, ecumenism. I do not want to enter into these problems, but it was obvious, especially after the suffering of Christians in the time of National Socialism, that Christians could find unity, at least seek unity, but also that only God can give unity. We are still on this journey.

"Now, with these issues, the Rhine alliance, so to speak, had done its work: the second part of the Council is much broader.



"Now the themes of 'the world today,' 'the modern era and the Church,' emerged with greater urgency, and with them, the themes of responsibility for the building of this world, society’s responsibility for the future of this world and eschatological hope, the ethical responsibility of Christians, where they find their guides, and then religious freedom, progress and all that, and relations with other religions.

"Now all the players in the Council really entered into discussions, not only the Americas-United States with a strong interest in religious freedom. In the third session they told the Pope: 'We cannot go home without bringing with us a declaration on religious freedom passed by the Council.'



"The Pope [Paul VI], however, had firmness and decision, the patience to delay the text until the fourth session, to reach a maturation and a fairly complete consensus among the Fathers of the Council.



"I say, not only the Americans had now entered with great force into the Council arena, but also Latin America, knowing full well the misery of their people, a Catholic continent and their responsibility for the situation of the faith of these people.



"And Africa, Asia, also saw the need for interreligious dialogue: increased problems that we Germans, I must say, at the beginning had not seen. I cannot go into greater depth on this now. 


"The great document Gaudium et Spes describes very well the problem analyzed between Christian eschatology and worldly progress, between our responsibility for the society of tomorrow and the responsibility of the Christian before eternity, and so it also renewed Christian ethics, the foundations.



"But unexpectedly, a document that responded in a more synthetic and concrete manner to the great challenges of the time, took shape outside of this great document, namely Nostra Aetate.



"From the beginning, there were our Jewish friends, who said to us Germans especially, but not only to us, that after the sad events of this century, this decade of National Socialism, the Catholic Church had to say a word on the Old Testament, the Jewish people. They also said 'it was clear that the Church is not responsible for the Shoah. Those who have committed these crimes were Christians, for the most part, we must deepen and renew the Christian conscience, even if we know that the true believers always resisted these things.' [Note: I believe these lines of the Vatican Radio transcription need to be checked against the Pope's actual words in his talk, which I am unable to access at this time.]



"And so, it was clear that we had to reflect on our relationship with the world of the ancient people of God. We also understood that the Arab countries, the bishops of the Arab countries, were not happy with this. They feared a glorification of the State of Israel, which they did not want to, of course. They said, 'Well, a truly theological indication on the Jewish people is good, it is necessary, but if you are to speak about this, you must also speak of Islam. Only in this way can we be balanced. Islam is also a great challenge and the Church should clarify its relationship with Islam.' This is something that we didn’t really understand at the time, a little, but not much. Today we know how necessary it was.

"And when we started to work also on Islam, they said: 'But there are also other religions of the world: all of Asia! Think about Buddhism, Hinduism...'



"And so, instead of an initial declaration originally meant only for the ancient people of God, a text on interreligious dialogue was created anticipating by 30 years what would later reveal itself in all of its intensity and importance. I can not enter into it now, but if you read the text, you see that it is very dense and prepared by people who really knew the truth, and it briefly indicates, in a few words, what is essential. Thus also the foundations of a dialogue in diversity, in faith to the uniqueness of Christ, who is One.



"It is not possible for a believer to think that religions are all variations on a theme of 'no.'



"There is a reality of the living God who has spoken, and is a God, a God incarnate, therefore the Word of God is really the Word of God.



"But there is religious experience, with a certain human light of creation, and therefore it is necessary and possible to enter into dialogue and thus open up to each other and open all peoples up to the peace of God, of all his children, and his entire family.

"Thus, these two documents, religious freedom and Nostra Aetate associated with Gaudium et Spes are a very important trilogy, the importance of which has only been revealed over the decades, and we are still working to understand this uniqueness of the revelation of God, uniqueness of God incarnate in Christ and the multiplicity of religions with which we seek peace and also an open heart to the light of the Holy Spirit who enlightens and guides to Christ.

"I would now like to add yet a third point: there was the Council of the Fathers, the true Council, but there was also the Council of the media. It was almost a Council in and of itself, and the world perceived the Council through them, through the media.



"So the immediate message of the Council that got thorough to the people, was that of the media, not that of the Fathers.



"And while the Council of the Fathers evolved within the faith, it was a Council of the faith that sought the intellectus, that sought to understand, to try to understand the signs of God at that moment, that tried to meet the challenge of God in this time to find the words for today and tomorrow.



"So while the whole Council, as I said, moved within the faith, as fides quaerens intellectum, the Council of journalists did not, naturally, take place within the world of faith, but within the categories of the media of today, that is outside of the faith, with different hermeneutics.



"It was a hermeneutic of politics.



"The media saw the Council as a political struggle, a struggle for power between different currents within the Church. It was obvious that the media would take the side of whatever faction best suited their world.



"There were those who sought a decentralization of the Church, power for the bishops and then, through the Word for the 'People of God,' the power of the people, the laity.



"There was this triple issue: the power of the Pope, then transferred to the power of the bishops, and then the power of all... popular sovereignty.



"Naturally they saw this as the part to be approved, to promulgate, to help.



"This was the case for the liturgy: there was no interest in the liturgy as an act of faith, but as a something to be made understandable, similar to a community activity, something profane. And we know that there was a trend, which was also historically based, that said: 'Sacredness is a pagan thing, possibly even from the Old Testament. In the New Testament the only important thing is that Christ died outside: that is, outside the gates, that is, in the secular world.'



"Sacredness ended up as profanity even in worship: worship is not worship but an act that brings people together, communal participation and thus participation as activity.



"And these translations, trivializing the idea of the Council, were virulent in the practice of implementing the liturgical reform, born in a vision of the Council outside of its own key vision of faith.



"And it was so, also in the matter of Scripture: Scripture is a book, historical, to treat historically and nothing else, and so on.

"And we know that this Council of the media was accessible to all. So, dominant, more efficient, this Council created many calamities, so many problems, so much misery, in reality: seminaries closed, convents closed liturgy trivialized... and the true Council has struggled to materialize, to be realized: the virtual Council was stronger than the real Council.



"But the real strength of the Council was present and slowly it has emerged and is becoming the real power which is also true reform, true renewal of the Church.



"It seems to me that 50 years after the Council, we see how this Virtual Council is breaking down, getting lost and the true Council is emerging with all its spiritual strength.



"And it is our task, in this Year of Faith, starting from this Year of Faith, to work so that the true Council with the power of the Holy Spirit is realized and Church is really renewed.



"We hope that the Lord will help us. I, retired in prayer, will always be with you, and together we will move ahead with the Lord in certainty. The Lord is victorious. Thank you."


SIMON OLIVER AND JOHN MILBANK ON RADICAL ORTHODOXY

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I believe that this "Radical Orthodoxy" is an important philosophical and theological movement that began in Cambridge, perhaps when John Milbank read Hans Urs von Balthazar and was transformed by it. John Milbank is an Anglican, but he and his friends were surprised to find that their principles were very similar to those of the "theologie nouvelle" of de Lubac, Yves Congar etc, and were even more surprised that Pope Benedict XVI looks on reality in the same way, as do many 20th and 21st century Orthodox thinkers. Perhaps the first two videos, talks by Simon Oliver, and the podcast at the end of this post are the clearest ways of learning about "Radical Orthodoxy"; but all the videos are worth watching.  The third video is of John Milbank talking to a Russian Orthodox audience in Moscow; and the fourth is an interview he had with a Russian Orthodox theologian.   The next two videos are interviews with John Milbank on Radical Orthodoxy and on de Lubac; and the final video is on the "Good Society" (David Cameron) which is a Radical Orthodox idea.
 

 A PODCAST ON RADICAL ORTHODOXY (CLICK)


ASH WEDNESDAY WITH POPE BENEDICT XVI (2013)

BECOMING THE GOSPEL: METROPOLITAN ANTHONY

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Becoming the Gospel: Remembering Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh
Metropolitan Anthony Bloom (photo by Jim Forest)

This is an unpublished text that was written for the Sourozh Diocesan Conference of 2004, less than a year after the death of Metropolitan Anthony. In the end, instead I presented a paper that focused on five newly canonized saints, including Mother Maria Skobtsova of Paris. See:


Still, as I read the draft text again nearly four years later, it seems worth preserving and sharing as a personal reflection on the life of someone who profoundly influenced a great many people, myself among them, and to whom many credit their conversion to Christ.

– Jim Forest

When a founder dies, people wonder if the structures he or she created can possibly survive in the founder’s absence. The question arises even in the case of ecclesiastical structures. In the last year of Metropolitan Anthony’s life, deep cracks appeared within the Diocese of Sourozh that made the question all too real for many of us. There were letters, floods of e-mail, petitions, articles in the secular press, loud arguments between members of the diocese, the exchange of furious glances, and at least one instance of physical violence. All of us lost sleep. No doubt all of us prayed for God’s help. We don’t yet know if this is entirely behind us. In any event, we are like survivors of an earthquake who can no longer feel complacent about the earth beneath our feet.

The tribulations within the diocese remind me of my travels in India twenty years or so ago during which I visited many of Gandhi’s followers. At that time I was General Secretary of the International Fellowship of Reconciliation, a movement that promotes nonviolent approaches to overcoming injustice and preventing war. Gandhi is, of course, someone very interesting for anyone concerned about effective alternatives to violence. Getting around mainly by rail, in the course of several weeks I spent a good deal of time with many people who had worked closely with Gandhi, from the Prime Minister of that time to people involved in a wide range of national and local projects.

One day while in Delhi, I went to visit the house where Gandhi had been staying as guest the final days of his life and discovered the house and its grounds were being occupied by film-makers with a large crowd of extras. Richard Attenborough was directing his movie about Gandhi and had reached the point in the production schedule of reenacting Gandhi’s assassination.

As perhaps you recall, a fellow Hindu had decided that Gandhi was a mortal enemy of authentic Hinduism and made it his personal duty to kill him. Gandhi was unarmed and had no bodyguards. While walking through a crowd of admirers, he made an easy target.

In the course of my travels in India, I came to see that not only had Gandhi died that day but unity among those who had worked closely with him also began to die. Today in India there are various movements that in one way or another bear witness to Gandhi’s values and ideas, all of them doing work of value, yet one can easily find Gandhians who have nothing good to say about other Gandhians. Though Gandhi remains a national icon, his face on stamps and coins, his statue in many places, the sad fact is that many Gandhians hardly speak to each other.

My travels among Gandhians in India reminded me of the fragmented state of Christianity and, when you think of it, also the state of the Orthodox Church. Though thank God the Orthodox Church still holds together, there has been prolonged tension between the Moscow Patriarchate and the Patriarchate of Constantinople. We also have lately had a period when Church in Greece and the Patriarch of Constantinople were not on speaking terms. Various rows boil hotly in other parts of the Church.

How will we in the Diocese of Sourozh fare in the absence of Metropolitan Anthony?

Of course, as he would insist, the situation is fundamentally different. Gandhi was a leader of a social movement that was largely his own invention. Metropolitan Anthony would remind us that he was never the basis of unity, only someone who, as bishop, attempted to be a guardian of unity. Whatever unity we have, he would remind us, is in Christ. No matter whom we lose, no matter how huge a role a particular person may have played in our lives, we have not and cannot lose Christ. Whatever we have lost, we have not lost the Gospel. We have not lost the Creed. We have not lost the saints, the calendar, the Ecumenical Councils, the writings of the Church Fathers.

For Metropolitan Anthony, the Gospel was the guidebook to life in the kingdom of God. On at least one occasion he said: “We should try to live in such a way that if the Gospels were lost, they could be re-written by looking at us.”

Perhaps this one sentence sums up all he hoped be bring about: to inspire us to live in such a way that the Gospel appears not only in what we say but is shown in who we are, what we choose, in our readiness to love, our willingness to forgive, in all our attempts to let God’s mercy become visible in our lives.

Perhaps it was from Metropolitan Anthony that I heard a haunting quotation which I believe was attributed to St John Chrysostom: “In order for Christ to appear, the priest must disappear.”

Whatever the source, these words suit Vladica Anthony. There was a transparency about him. He was someone through whom Christ shined — not each and every moment, but very often. He was never a person eager to be honored, praised or showered with medals. He was not at all offended if you failed to kiss his hand or make other normal gestures of respect with which Orthodox Christians greet a bishop. He was as careless about personal attention as he was about his wardrobe. The last time I was him, I noticed he was wearing a well-used black sports jacket and a battered pair of running shoes — not usual clerical attire. His black robe was faded and frayed. Indeed nothing he wore seemed fresh off the rack. When he spoke about confession in this room four years ago, he wore what looked liked a fisherman’s sweater. I know nothing of the economic details of his life, but watching from a distance, it always seemed to me that here was a man fully embracing the poverty of the first Beatitude, both in the sense of not having what isn’t needed and in the sense of preferring to give rather than receive. He saw both inward and outward poverty as gifts of freedom. As he said in an interview:

“To be poor financially is in a way much easier than to be poor inwardly, to have no attachments. This is very difficult to learn and something which happens gradually, from year to year. You really learn to value things, to look at people and see the radiant beauty which they possess — without the desire to possess them. To pluck a flower means to take possession of it, and it also means to kill it.”

Seeking to preserve rather than destroy all that is beautiful is surely a primary aspect of becoming the Gospel. It is giving a living witness to the Beatitudes, starting with the first: “Blessed are the poor in spirit.”

“Blessed” is not a word one finds in headlines nor does it often appear in conversation. What does it mean? It’s harder to translate it into words used in everyday life than to see what “blessed” looks like in a saintly life. Still, given the key passages in which we find, “blessed” is a word worth thinking about.

“Blessed” — the word chosen by the English translators of the Authorized Version in the seventeenth century — means “something consecrated to or belonging to God.” In St. Jerome’s translation of the Greek New Testament, the Latin word beatus was used — “happy, fortunate, blissful.” Beatitude is bliss. But neither “blessed” nor beatus seems quite equal to what we find in the Greek New Testament, where each Beatitude begins with the word makarios. In classical Greek makar was a condition associated with the immortal gods. Kari means “fate” or “death,” but given a negative prefix the word means “being deathless, no longer subject to fate.” Being deathless was a condition both inaccessible and longed for by mortals. It was because of their immortality that the gods were the blessed ones.

In Christian use, makarios came to mean sharing in the life of God, the ultimate joy, a happiness without the fault lines of chance running through it. There is no higher gift. We are not simply capable of an abstract awareness that God exists, an infinitely remote Being whom we can faintly glimpse through an intellectual telescope. In the kingdom of God, the blessing extended to us is nothing less than participation in the communion of the Holy Trinity. It is being received into God’s immortality. It is being blessed with qualities that seem humanly impossible.

Understood in this way, the word “blessed” might be translated “freed from death” or “risen from the dead.” To be blessed is to participate in Christ’s resurrection. Risen from the dead are the poor in spirit. Risen from the dead are they who mourn. Risen from the dead are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness. Risen from the dead are the merciful. Risen from the dead are the pure of heart. Risen from the dead are the peacemakers. Risen from the dead are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness.

To be risen from the dead is not simply a condition of the life to come. It has to do with our lives here and now. St Paul said, “They call us dead men and yet we live.” This is to say that our lives can and should already be a witness to Christ’s resurrection. To live a life saturated with the resurrection is to become the Gospel.

But in what is often called “the real world,” it’s all too usual to be in a state of semi-death long before burial — to be a person who hardly hears, who hardly sees, who barely loves, who refuses to forgive, who struggles to possess rather than share, who is indifferent to God, a person for whom worship is either something to be endured or a waste of time.

In Vladica Anthony we saw a person fully alive — and a fully alive person, as one of the Desert Fathers said, is the glory of God. Vladica Anthony was fully alive even though he had grown up in exile, endured great suffering, lived through a world war in which vast numbers of innocent people died, lived under military occupation for five years, suffered chronic back pain, and made himself deeply vulnerable to the physical and spiritual pain of others.

I think of other some of the other ways that he gave an example of what it is to become the Gospel.

One of the most difficult demands Christ makes on his followers is the love of enemies. Understood biblically, love is not a matter of sentimentality but of actual care for the life of another human being whom we are inclined to hate, wouldn’t mind seeing dead, and under certain circumstances would be willing to kill.

While one finds many examples of such surprising, unexpected love in Vladica Anthony, for me among the most compelling was his determination, as a young physician working in a French hospital during the Second World War, to save the finger of a wounded German soldier. Here is the way he spoke of it in the interview made by Timothy Wilson:

“In the hospital where I was working as a war surgeon, a German came in once with one finger smashed by a bullet. The head surgeon came round and looked at the finger and said ‘Take it off’. That was a very quick and easy decision — it would take only five minutes to do. Then the German said, ‘Is there anyone here who can speak German?’ I spoke with the man and discovered that he was a watchmaker and if his finger was removed he would probably never be able to work again. So we spent five weeks treating his smashed finger and he was able to leave the hospital with five fingers instead of only four. From this I learnt that the fact that he was a watchmaker was as important as anything else. I would say that I learnt to put human concerns first.”

Even in times of peace — as we might use the word when we mean “a time without war” — it is no easy thing to see a person as another human being rather than a being who is first of all the bearer of a nationality, or a person who is first of all defined according to his social role — in this case a soldier of an occupation army. And here was a young physician being disobedient. He had been told by a supervising doctor to do one thing — amputate a finger — and instead he did another: saving a man’s hand and with it the man’s vocation. In such a choice one becomes the Gospel. The action is a translation of the text commanding love of one’s enemies but also to the summons to place human needs before rules that are indifferent to life: “The Sabbath is for man, not man for the Sabbath.”

As one of those persons in whom the content of the Gospel could be guessed simply by observing him, Vladica Anthony gave an tireless example of what Alexander Schmemann recognized as the most essential human attribute: the capacity to worship. The human being, Schmemann said, is not simply homo sapiens but homo adorans.

What is most dangerous about the decayed culture we live in is its marginalization or active dismissal of worship. In consumer societies, worship falls into the category of hobbies. But for Vladica Anthony, as for any disciple of Christ, it is at the center of being. It is at the core of love, not only love of God but love of a child, love of a spouse or love of a friend. Love is worship. Worship is love.

Love is also gratitude. I have never forgotten Vladica Anthony’s response to a question he was asked during a workshop at this conference a few years ago. Someone wanted to know if he had advice about how to become humble. “Humility is too high a goal,” he replied. “Humility is very difficult. But perhaps you could aim for the halfway house of gratitude.”

Gratitude is a component of all worship. Gratitude is part of becoming the Gospel.

In Vladica Anthony, we could see this quality not only in the way he served at the altar — absolutely calm, very attentive, not at all a prisoner of time — but in the way he paid attention to other people, whether well known to him or never met before. It could be a bit unnerving to be looked at so closely, to be listened to so attentively, to experience such undivided concentration, to be seen in so radical and pure a way. It’s not something we’re used to nor afterward can ever forget. We had often heard we were bearers of the divine image but in encounters with Vladica Anthony, one experienced it in his face.

The experience of being the object of such undivided attention was at one with his theology of the mystery of the human person. In a lecture on “The True Worth of Man” that he presented in the Church of St Mary the Virgin in Oxford in 1967, Vladica Anthony explained:

“For centuries … within the Church we have tried to make our God as great as we could, by making man small. This can be seen even in works of art in which the Lord Jesus Christ is represented great and his creatures very small indeed at his feet. The intention was to show how great God was, and yet it has resulted in the false, mistaken, almost blasphemous view that man is small, or in the denial of this God who treats men as though they were of no value. And these two reactions are equally wrong. The one belongs to people who claim to be children of God, God’s own chosen people, who are the Church. They have managed by doing this to make themselves as small as the image they have of men, and their communities as small and lacking in scope and greatness as their constitutive parts. The other attitude we find outside the Church, among the agnostics, the rationalists and the atheists; and we are responsible for these two attitudes and we shall be accountable for both in history and at the day of judgment. And yet this is not the vision of God about man…. When we try to understand the value which God himself attaches to man we see that we are bought at a high price, that the value which God attaches to man is all the life and all the death, the tragic death, of the Only-begotten Son upon the Cross. This is what God thinks of man, of his friend, created by him in order to be his companion of eternity.”

In his lecture, he went on to tell the story of the Prodigal Son. Did he ever speak for more than ten minutes without telling at least one story, either a biblical story or a story that in some way drew one’s attention to the Gospel? To be a living translation of the Gospel implies a reliance on stories. The Gospel is an anthology of stories and Vladica Anthony was a teller of stories second to none, stories told with tremendous immediacy, even urgency, as if our lives depended on them.

He spoke with authority. Perhaps there were occasions when it was otherwise, but I never saw him speak from a written text, though clearly he was following a line of thought he had mapped out beforehand, inserting stories as needed to make his points more vivid. It is a Gospel method of discourse.

In the course of time one would hear certain stories over and over and yet they never became stale because he was not simply reciting a script from memory but always renewing each story, seeing in it something new, some that deserved special attention.

Christ was always his main theme — a Christ who not an abstract figure but someone who seemed better known to him than he knew himself.

One of his often-told stories concerned the turning point in his own life — how he had met Christ, truly met him, as a skeptical young man who had decided to read Mark’s Gospel rather than another Gospel because none was so short as Mark and he wanted to get it over with.

Here is how he put it in on one occasion:

“While I was reading the beginning of St. Mark’s Gospel, before I reached the third chapter, I suddenly became aware that on the other side of my desk there was a presence. And the certainty was so strong that it was Christ standing there that it has never left me. This was the real turning point. Because Christ was alive and I had been in his presence I could say with certainty that what the Gospel said about the crucifixion of the prophet of Galilee was true, and the centurion was right when he said, ‘Truly he is the Son of God’. It was in the light of the Resurrection that I could read with certainty the story of the Gospel, knowing that everything was true in it because the impossible event of the Resurrection was to me more certain than any event of history. History I had to believe, the Resurrection I knew for a fact. I did not discover, as you see, the Gospel beginning with its first message of the Annunciation, and it did not unfold for me as a story which one can believe or disbelieve. It began as an event that left all problems of disbelief behind because it was a direct and personal experience…. I became absolutely certain within myself that Christ is alive and that certain things existed. I didn’t have all the answers, but having touched that experience, I was certain that ahead of me there were answers, visions, possibilities. This is what I mean by faith — not doubting in the sense of being in confusion and perplexity, but doubting in order to discover the reality of the life, the kind of doubt that makes you want to question and discover more, that makes you want to explore.”

Even his autobiographical stories drew one to the Gospel. But mainly he told stories that came directly from the Gospel. He returned again and again to parables which, however familiar they were, however often we had heard them explained in sermons, somehow seemed new texts when he talked about them. I felt I wasn’t listening to an expert of Christianity, of which there are too many in the world, but a simply a Christian — or something even more remarkable, an actual witness to the events recounted in Gospel.

When I hear the term applied to certain saints “Equal to the Apostles,” I immediately think of him. Yes, there are those who, despite the centuries that separate them from the New Testament world, somehow speak of those events as witnesses. Most of all, Metropolitan Anthony was a witness of the resurrection.

He stressed that the Gospel is not something unreachable or impractical. The Gospel is not at an idealistic document. The good news of the Gospel is that the Kingdom of God is something we can experience not after death but in the present. The Church equips us for such a life.

Let me stress that Metropolitan Anthony did not see the Gospel as an idealistic text — another utopian manifesto, another ideology about creating a splendid future through hellish methods. Rather he saw the Gospel as an entirely practical way of life. The requirements of a God-centered life are not out of anyone’s reach. It may seem like hard work to forgive “seventy times seven” but in reality it is much harder to withhold forgiveness. It is like carrying a tower of bricks. Love of enemies may seem humanly impossible — love in the sense of seeking the health and salvation of the other — but when we see what happens when enmity is allowed to grow unchecked, the avalanche of horrors that such enmity eventually produces, and the cost in suffering and death, then we begin to understand why Christ calls on his followers to renounce judgments and hatred and call no one a fool. It is a difficult path but in fact, in the end, much less difficult than the alternative.

When I think of Vladica Anthony’s impact in my own life, one aspect of it was to help free me from the grip of idealistic ideologies.

He knew my work and something of my writings and was aware that I at times referred to myself as a pacifist. I soon discovered that he had a strong aversion to the word “pacifist,” not only because it sounded like “passive-ist,” but because of unpleasant encounters he had experienced with self-righteous people who loudly proclaimed their renunciation of violence and were quick to denounce those who failed to share their ideology.

He told me the story of an encounter he had during a retreat for university students. “After my first address one of them asked me for permission to leave because I was not a pacifist.” “Are you one?” Vladica Anthony responded. “Yes,” said the young man. “What would you do,” Metropolitan Anthony asked, “if you came into this room and found a man about to rape your girl friend?” “I would try to get him to desist from his intention!” the man replied. “And if he proceeded, before your own eyes, to rape her?” “I would pray to God to prevent it.” “And if God did not intervene, and the man raped your girl friend and walked out contentedly, what would you do?” “I would ask God who has brought light out of darkness to bring good out of evil.”

Metropolitan Anthony responded: “If I was your girl friend I would look for another boy friend.”

One cannot be passive in the face of evil. Under certain circumstances each of us is called, as we see in the St George icon, to battle the dragon — and yet no human being is a dragon; at worst a human being is a slave of dragons. This is what is means to practice the Gospel of peace: to fight the dragon without despising the dragon’s slaves, all the time seeking their conversion. Vladica Anthony reminded me in one letter that each of us is called to be “a man — or woman — of peace,” which meant, he explained, a person “ready to work for the reconciliation of those who have grown apart or turned away from one another in enmity.”

It might be that in some circumstances there was no alternative to violence — he saw the war against Nazism as a lesser evil — but we were never allowed, even in wartime, to lose sight of the image of God in the other even if the other has become slave to a dragon.

Because he saw the image of God in a German soldier, he was able to save a watchmaker’s hand and — who knows? — perhaps his soul as well.

One final point about how we see in Metropolitan Anthony what it means to become to Gospel. He was a shepherd of the local Church in a way that welcomed people and cared for them no matter what their mother tongue, culture or citizenship. In a Church that is sometimes a prisoner of national identities, he struggled to build a diocese not only that made space under one roof for different languages of worship but that would as much as possible resemble what one would have found in the early Church — neither Jewish nor Greek, rich nor poor, male or female, but a people who had become one in Christ, association in which each person mattered and all voices could be heard: a church not of rulers and ruled but a eucharistic community of sobornost.

Let me conclude by quoting what Vladica Anthony said while in Russia not quite four years ago, when the 40th anniversary of his consecration as a bishop was being celebrated:

“Some [of my fellow Russians] never understood why I lived in [England]. I remember a man with whom I was in the lift in Russia. He asked me questions about myself, and when he learnt that I lived in London he looked at me and said, ‘Are you a complete idiot? You live abroad when you could live at home?’ It had been my dream to live in Russia. But Providence decided otherwise. It was impossible in the beginning, when I might have done it, because I had no responsibility for the parish. But, it became possible when suddenly I felt, ‘I am responsible for people. I cannot abandon them. They trust me, I trust them unreservedly, we are gradually growing into being a true community, a real church in the image of the Early Church, when people of all nationalities, all languages, all mentalities, all classes, gathered together, united only by one thing: their faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.’ And this is what I had dreamt of achieving and tried to do in [my adopted country] in the course of now almost 50 years of ministry and 40 years of episcopal service.”

And in this, too, Vladica Anthony became the Gospel.

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THE INDIVIDUAL AND THE CHURCH: THE EASTERN ORTHODOX PERSPECTIVE OF JOHN ZIZIOULAS

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John Zizioulas is the Eastern Orthodox Metropolitan (Bishop) of Pergamon, Greece, and a highly influential theologian noted for building bridges between East and West. His landmark book, Being as Communion, introduced his basic ecclesiological outlook of the church as koinōnia, or communion. By “communion,” Zizioulas has in mind something belonging to the ontology of being and not simply a way of describing being.

In a very Kierkegaardian manner, Zizioulas contends that truth is not a matter of rational comprehension. Rather, truth is matter of “becoming;” it is an existential reality, which he defines as a particular mode of being—that of “personhood.” Veli-Matti Kärkkäinen gives helpful treatment of this idea, saying: “Zizioulas draws an analogy between the being of God and the being of humans. What is most characteristic of God is his being in relation. As the Trinity, the three Persons of the Godhead interrelate with each other. There is an intra-trinitarian love relationship.” In other words, the Persons of the Trinity are Persons precisely because they are in communion with one another. If there was not an ontological “I-Thou” relationship in God, He could not be both the God of love and the transcendent, sovereign Lord of His creation. When the Bible identifies God as Love (1 John 4:8) it is not claiming that God’s being is contingent on an object of love (i.e., humans). Rather, God is a self-contained community of love. Love is communal by definition, in that it requires a lover and a beloved—an “other.” Zizioulas maintains that a study of the Trinity reveals that in God, “the otherness is constitutive of unity, and not consequent upon it. God is not first one and then three, but simultaneously One and Three.” Just as God’s ontological being necessitates the relation of the three Persons, so also, Zizioulas reasons, human ontology necessitates relation. Without proper relation to the “other,” a human is indeed an “individual” but cannot be a “person.”

The contrast of individual and person runs deep in much of Zizioulas’ theology. He writes: “When the Holy Spirit blows, He does not create good individual Christians, individual ‘saints,’ but an event of communion, which transforms everything the Spirit touches in to a relational being.” When God creates, He creates in His own image—He creates “persons.” According to Zizioulas, this is essential in understanding the Fall of humanity. He writes:

There is a pathology built into the very roots of our existence, inherited through our birth, and that is the fear of the other. This is a result of the rejection of the Other par excellence, our Creator, by the first Man, Adam … The essence of sin is the fear of the Other, which is part of this rejection. Once the affirmation of the “self” is realized through the rejection and not the acceptance of the Other … it is only natural and inevitable for the other to become an enemy and a threat.

The fallen condition of humanity is, in essence, a loss of “personhood,” the communion with God and others. Human existence now presupposes separation and division. Zizioulas describes the new birth in Christ as, “The decisive passing of our existence from the ‘truth’ of individualized being into the truth of personal being.” Baptism is one’s “radical conversion from individualism to personhood,” from which community is formed. It is, as Zizioulas contends, “nothing other than incorporation into the community.” Hence, for Zizioulas, the Church plays a fundamental role in this transition of being “born anew” in God.

For many outside the Orthodox tradition, particularly those in the West, any doctrine that insists on the presence of the Church as necessary for one’s salvation is treated with utmost distain.  But to read into Zizioulas’ theology the promotion of a “master-servant” type hierarchical system, or even that of collectivism, is to miss his point. Due to the fact that a full discussion of Zizioulas’ ecclesiology cannot be achieved here, it will serve best to discuss the most deep-seated principle guiding his thought on the Church, in order to discourage misunderstanding.

Fundamental to Zizioulas’ doctrine of the Church is the idea that the Church is constituted in the entire economy of the Trinity. In a slight modification of traditional Eastern ecclesiology, he builds an idea of the Church as being “instituted” by Christ and “constituted” by the Spirit. Kärkkäinen explained Zizioulas’ intensions here, stating that: “it is not enough to speak of pneumatology in relation to the church but rather to make pneumatology … constitutive in regards to ecclesiology; in other words, pneumatology must qualify the very ontology of the church.” In truth, a Christology that is not pneumatologically constituted is a still-born Christology. One cannot separate Christ and His work from the Spirit (Luke 1:35; 4:14), nor can one separate the impartation of the Spirit from Christ (John 15:26). As such, when the Bible speaks of the Church as the Body of Christ, it is not limiting the Church’s ontological identification with Christ “alone,” but with Christ as a “Community.”

For Zizioulas, the Church being ontologically constituted in the Trinity has profound theological implications. According to his outlook, it was the lack of a Spirit-based Christology that historically encouraged hierarchical and institutionalized concepts of the Church. By understanding the Church to have a Trinitarian constitution, the phrase “Body of Christ” expresses a powerful scheme of community. Zizioulas writes: “Christ Himself becomes revealed as truth not ‘in’ a community, but ‘as’ a community. So truth is not just something ‘expressed’ or ‘heard;’ a propositional or logical truth; but something which ‘is,’ i.e. an ontological truth: the community itself becomes the truth.” In this light, it becomes evident why Zizioulas argues for the necessity of the Church for salvation. If the Church truly is the Body of Christ, then to be joined with His Body—the community of “others”—is inherent in being joined to Christ Himself. In Being As Communion, he drives the point even further saying:

From the fact that a human being is a member of the Church, he becomes an “image of God,” he exists as God Himself exists, he takes on God’s “way of being.” This way of being … is a way of relationship with the world, with other people and with God, an event of communion, and that is why it cannot be realized as the achievement of an individual, but only as an ecclesial fact.

Therefore, it is clear that Zizioulas is not satisfied with the concept of Christianity existing in the form of isolated, individual Christians, but only in the context of community. This community must be found, in large part, in the Church. But, let the reader note that Zizioulas’ ecclesiology has a similar dependence on the authentic conversion of the individual believer, as found in Rahner’s ecclesiology, in order for his theology of the “communion” to find traction in reality.

Sources:
John D. Zizioulas, Being as Communion: Studies in Personhood and the Church (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1985).

Veli-Matti Kärkkäinen, Pneumatology: The Holy Spirit in Ecumenical, International, and Contextual Perspective (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002).

John D. Zizioulas, “Communion and Otherness.” St. Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 38, no. 4 (1994). ATLA Religion Database, EBSCOhost (27 October 2009). 

AN EXCELLENT VIDEO ON FASTING IN LENT
FASTING: 7 Questions and 7 Answers from Ken James Stavrevsky on Vimeo.


AN ORTHODOX PRIEST REFLECTS ON THE RETIREMENT OF POPE BENEDICT XVI By Fr. Johannes L. Jacobse

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Fr. Johannes L. Jacobse is an Orthodox serving in Naples.   He is President of the American Orthodox Institute  and blogs at www.aoiusa.org/blog. 

2/16/2013
Catholic Online (www.catholic.org)

NAPLES, FL. (Catholic Online) - Like almost everyone, the resignation of Pope Benedict came as a shock to Orthodox believers. Those of us who have watched Pope Benedict and his predecessor Pope John Paul II work to lessen the estrangement between the Catholic and Orthodox Churches hope that Pope Benedict's successor will continue on the same path. 

Two things stand out in Pope Benedict's relationship with the Orthodox Churches. First is his deep understanding of the Christian patrimony of Christendom. The Christian foundation of culture should be self-evident to most, but in our post-Christian (and poorly catechized) age our historical memory has grown increasingly dim. 

Religion vivifies culture. Christianity is the well from which meaning and purpose are drawn. That meaning and purpose shapes law, institutions, and the other constituents that define Western culture. Many have forgotten that - while others don't even know it. 

The loss of this Christian cultural awareness has created a moral crisis of the first order. When faith dies man gradually loses the knowledge that he was created by God and so he loses himself. Only through concrete, existential encounter with the Risen Christ can man come to know God in the full measure of God's self-revelation to him through Jesus Christ. And only in this relationship can man learn what it is to be truly human.

Any kind of decline follows contours that are specific to the culture within which the decline occurs. In our technological age we tend to see man as a machine and the self-organization of society as strictly a rational enterprise. In the simplest terms our crisis is the dehumanization of the individual person. 

Pope Benedict understood this acutely, no doubt because of his first-hand experience with Nazism and the barbarity it unleashed in Western Europe. His work to recover and restore the Christian roots of Christendom is a prophetic call to return to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Only a return to Christ can reverse this march to cultural suicide but only the embrace of Christ will reveal to man who he was created to be. 

The Orthodox hear this, particularly Orthodox conservatives in the Christian West and the Russian Orthodox Church. Conservatives see the decline; the Russian Orthodox Church has experienced its bitter fruit. Pope Benedict has furthered the common project to restore the Christian foundations of culture. Clearly this is divinely ordained. The shared mission increasingly leads to a revaluation of the historical barriers that has contributed to centuries of estrangement between the Eastern and Western Churches and promises more progress in the future. 

The Orthodox wonder about Pope Benedict's replacement. If the new Pope is a cultural conservative in the mold of Popes Benedict and John Paul II, then we know that the rapprochement of the last four decades will continue. If not, it will be more difficult to find common ground. We wonder too if the Catholic Church's crucial role in preserving the religious heritage of the Christian West will continue with the same deliberation. We hope that it does. 

A second important characteristic of Pope Benedict's service in office is his understanding of the Orthodox patrimony within Christendom. The Regensburg Address is perhaps the most penetrating analysis of the contribution of Hellenism to Christianity offered by a Western Christian in centuries. 

Regensburg was met with immediate hostility by the Muslims and thus misinterpreted by the mainstream press. The press seems to have a congenital inability to comprehend any idea outside of an immediate political context. In actual fact, the Address is a historical and theological tour-de-force and gently reminds the Christian West that ignoring the patrimony of the Christian East is like looking at history with one eye closed. 

We should be careful not to underestimate the importance of Regensburg. It may have significant impact down the road. Pope Benedict already started the discussion by drawing out ideas about the non-coervice nature of the the Christian faith, considerations that require much more elaboration especially as the hostility towards the Christian faith increases in coming years and as Christendom faces the the historical problem of Muslim expansion once again. 

Regensburg is a testament to Pope's Benedict's towering intellect but it also reveals a deep humility. There simply is not one hint of triumphalism or false note of partisanship in it. It was clearly intended as a gift to both West and East and those with ears to hear will see that. Pope Benedict's rare insight and erudition of the Eastern patrimony strengthens both West and East and many Orthodox believers are grateful for it. May God grant us more teachers like him. 

What does a retired Pope do? Listening to Catholic radio it appears even the Catholic Church does not know for sure. It is reported that Pope Benedict will retire to a monastery within the Vatican and spend his remaining years in prayer and study. May his remaining years bear much fruit. We still need him. 

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Fr. Johannes L. Jacobse is an Orthodox priest serving in Naples, FL. He is President of the American Orthodox Institute and blogs at www.aoiusa.org/blog.


THE RUSSIAN ORTHODOX CHURCH RESPONDS TO THE POPE'S RESIGNATION



It had not happened for nearly 600 years. On February 11, 2013 Pope Benedict XVI (Ratzinger) announced his resignation in Latin to the Vatican.
“I have come to the certainty that my strengths, due to an advanced age, are no longer suited to an adequate exercise of the Petrine ministry,” he said.
In Russia, the pope’s Russian hashtag immediately became one of the most tweeted in the hours following the news, and there was no lack of comments.
Benedict XVI’s papacy lasted eight years. His resignation could mark a turning point in relations between the Vatican and the Russian Orthodox Church.
First deputy chairman of the State Duma’s Committee on International Affairs, Leonid Slutsky, has made it clear that the election of a new pope could open up a new phase of dialogue between the Russian Orthodox Church and the Catholic Church, according to RIA Novosti.
“At this time, it is very important to further develop relations between the Vatican and the Orthodox Church,” he said. “I believe that the Russian Church has all the necessary elements to approach this matter in the correct way. The meeting between the patriarch and the soon-to-be-elected pope could be a milestone. But this will happen only when the two churches deem that the necessary conditions for a meeting exist. I hope this happens soon.”
Hilarion, metropolitan of Volokolamsk and chairman of the Department of External Church Relations, told Vzglyad that Pope Benedict’s decision was “a personal act of courage and humility.”
“The news of his resignation was a surprise even for his closest collaborators,” the metropolitan said. “The Russian Orthodox Church is grateful to Pope Ratzinger for his work in understanding and solving problems that obstruct the relationships between Orthodox Christians and Catholics, especially in regions such as Ukraine."
"I talked about Pope Ratzinger just a few days ago during a meeting with the new Russian ambassador to the Vatican, Aleksandr Avdeyev," said Hilarion. "He emphasized the positive direction that the relationship between the Russian Church and the Vatican has taken since the arrival of Benedict XVI. He is a highly respected theologian, an expert on orthodox traditions. I was struck by his calm and his meditated answers, as well as his acumen in trying to solve problems."
The Metropolitan Hilarion also wished Pope Benedict XVI’s successor the greatest of success in “continuing the dialogue  between the two churches, for the good of the whole Christian world.”
Related:
Patriarch Kirill on four years as patriarch: a lot has been done, a lot remains to do
Patriarch Kirill also returned to the topic of relations between the two churches recently, stressing that he has by no means ruled out the possibility of an official meeting with the head of the Vatican.
“I do not exclude the possibility of meeting the Rome Pope at any time, but we have to work to create the conditions necessary for that to happen,” he said.
According to Kirill, the Orthodox Church and the Catholic Church have many opinions in common today, such as “matters regarding the family, marriage, children and safeguarding Christian values in Europe.”
Pope Benedict’s resignation, which will become effective on February 28, 2013, among other things, coincides with the arrival in Rome of the former Russian minister of culture, Aleksandr Avdeyev, now appointed Russian ambassador to the Vatican.
The pope's decision comes after a dark period in Vatican history, marked by scandals and internal struggles. Not long ago, in a lengthy interview, Benedict XVI himself considered the possibility of leaving office, which is allowed by canon law.
“When a pope becomes fully aware that he is no longer capable physically, mentally and spiritually to perform the duties entrusted to him, then he has the right under certain circumstances — the duty even — to resign,” he said.
The last pope to resign was Gregory XII in 1415. Before him, Celestine V resigned — the pope “who by his cowardice made the great refusal,” as Dante wrote in the Third Canto of his famous “Inferno".

Statement by His All-Holiness Patriarch Bartholomew at the announcement of the retirement of Benedict XVI, Pope of Rome

Upon being informed on the way to his native island of Imvros of the imminent retirement of Pope Benedict from the Petrine ministry on the Throne of Rome, Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew issued a formal declaration and personal statement to the media, responding with sadness to the news. His All-Holiness closely cooperated with Pope Benedict during his papal tenure, issuing joint statements on contemporary problems facing humanity and realizing official exchange visits, but above all resuming in 2007 the conversations of the Joint International Commission for Theological Dialogue between the Orthodox and Roman Catholic Churches (established in 1980 and interrupted in 2000). Immediately upon his election, His Holiness Pope Benedict accepted a formal invitation from His All-Holiness Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew to visit the Phanar in November, 2006, on the occasion of the Patronal Feast of the Church of Constantinople. He also invited the Ecumenical Patriarch to deliver the only address by an ecumenical leader during the official celebrations in St. Peter’s Square for the 50th Anniversary since the opening of the 2nd Vatican Council in October, 2012. Below is the text of the formal statement by His All-Holiness Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew. 

It is with regret that we have learned of the decision by His Holiness Pope Benedict to retire from his Throne, because with his wisdom and experience he could have provided much more to the Church and the world.

Pope Benedict leaves an indelible mark on the life and history of the Roman Catholic Church, sealed not only by his brief papacy, but also by his broad and longstanding contribution as a theologian and hierarch of his Church, as well as his universally acknowledged prestige.
His writings will long speak of his deep theological understanding, through his knowledge of the Fathers of the undivided Church, his familiarity with contemporary reality, and his keen interest in the problems of humankind.
We Orthodox will always honor him as a friend of our Church and a faithful servant of the sacred proposition for the union of all. Moreover, we shall rejoice upon learning of his sound health and the productivity of his theological work.
Personally, we remember with emotion his visit to the See of the Ecumenical Patriarchate over six years ago, together with the numerous encounters and excellent cooperation, which we enjoyed throughout the duration of his primatial ministry.
From the Phanar, we pray that the Lord will manifest his worthy successor as the head of the sister Church of Rome, and that we may also continue with this successor on our common journey toward the unity of all unto the glory of God.




CONFESSION: A PRIMER by Jim Forest (Orth)

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A young monk said to the great ascetic Abba Sisoes: “Abba, what should I do? I fell.” The elder answered: “Get up!” The monk said: “I got up and I fell again!” The elder replied: “Get up again!” But the young monk asked: “For how long should I get up when I fall?” “Until your death,” answered Abba Sisoes.

—Sayings of the Desert Fathers

“When I went to my first confession,” a friend told me, “tears took the place of the sins I meant to utter. The priest simply told me that it wasn’t necessary to enumerate everything and that it was just vanity to suppose that my personal sins were worse than everyone else’s. Which, by the way, was something of a relief, since it wasn’t possible for me to remember all the sins of my first thirty-odd years of life. It made me think of the way the father received his prodigal son—he didn’t even let his son finish his carefully rehearsed speech. It’s truly amazing.”

Another friend told me that he was so worried about all he had to confess that he decided to write them down. “So I made a list of my sins and brought it with me. The priest saw the paper in my hand, took it, looked through the list, tore it up, and gave it back to me. Then he said ‘Kneel down,’ and he absolved me. That was my confession, even though I never said a word! But I felt truly my sins had been torn up and that I was free of them.”

The very word confession makes us nervous, touching as it does all that is hidden in ourselves: lies told, injuries caused, things stolen, friends deceived, people betrayed, promises broken, faith denied—these plus all the smaller actions that reveal the beginnings of sins.

Confession is painful, yet a Christian life without confession is impossible.

Confession is a major theme of the Gospels. Even before Christ began His public ministry, we read in Matthew’s Gospel that John required confession of those who came to him for baptism in the River Jordan for a symbolic act of washing away their sins: “And [they] were baptized by [John] in the Jordan, confessing their sins” (Matthew 3:6).

Then there are those amazing words of Christ to Peter: “I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven” (Matthew 16:19). The keys of binding and loosing sins were given not only to one apostle but to all Christ’s disciples, and—in a sacramental sense—to any priest who has his bishop’s blessing to hear confessions.

The Gospel author John warns us not to deceive ourselves: “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins” (1 John 1:8, 9).

The sacrament of baptism, the rite of entrance into the Church, has always been linked with repentance. “Repent, and . . . be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins,” Saint Peter preached in Jerusalem, “and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit” (Acts 2:38). In the same book we read that “many who had believed came confessing and telling their deeds” (Acts 19:18).

The Prodigal Son

One Gospel story in which we encounter confession is the parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11–32). Here Christ describes a young man so impatient to come into his inheritance and be independent that, in effect, he says to his father, “As far as I’m concerned, you have already died. Give me now what would have come to me after your funeral. I want nothing more to do with you or with this house.”

With Godlike generosity, the father gives what his son asks, though he knows his son well enough to realize that all the boy receives from him might as well be burned in a stove. The boy takes his inheritance and leaves, at last free of parents, free of morals and good behavior, free to do as he pleases.

After wasting his money, he finds himself reduced to feeding the pigs as a farmhand. People he had thought of as friends now sneer. He knows he has renounced the claim to be anyone’s son, yet in his desperation he dares hope his father might at least allow him to return home as a servant. Full of dismay for what he said to his father and what he did with his inheritance, he walks home in his rags, ready to confess his sins, to beg for work and a corner to sleep in. The son cannot imagine the love his father has for him or the fact that, despite all the trouble he caused, he has been desperately missed. Far from being glad to be rid of the boy, the father has gazed day after day in prayer toward the horizon in hope of his son’s return.

“But when he was still a great way off, his father saw him and had compassion, and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him” (v. 20). Had he not been watching, he would not have noticed his child in the distance and realized who it was. Instead of simply standing and waiting for his son to reach the door, he ran to meet him, embracing him, pouring out words of joy and welcome rather than reproof or condemnation.

“And the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight, and am no longer worthy to be called your son’” (v. 21). Here we have the son’s confession compacted into a single sentence. It is the essence of any confession: our return to our Father, who made us and constantly awaits our homecoming.

What Is Sin?

There are countless essays and books that deal with human failings under various labels without once using the three-letter word sin. Actions traditionally regarded as sinful have instead been seen as natural stages in the process of growing up, a result of bad parenting, a consequence of mental illness, an inevitable response to unjust social conditions, or pathological behavior brought on by addiction.

But what if I am more than a robot programmed by my past or my society or my economic status and actually can take a certain amount of credit—or blame—for my actions and inactions? Have I not done things I am deeply ashamed of, would not do again if I could go back in time, and would prefer no one to know about? What makes me so reluctant to call those actions “sins”? Is the word really out of date? Or is the problem that it has too sharp an edge?

The Hebrew verb chata’, “to sin,” like the Greek word hamartia, simply means straying off the path, getting lost, missing the mark. Sin—going off course—can be intentional or unintentional.

The author of the Book of Proverbs lists seven things God hates: “A proud look, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that are swift in running to evil, a false witness who speaks lies, and one who sows discord among brethren” (6:17–19).

Pride is given first place. “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall” is another insight in the Book of Proverbs (16:18). In the Garden of Eden, Satan seeks to animate pride in his dialogue with Eve. Eat the forbidden fruit, he tells her, and “you will be like God” (Genesis 3:5).

The craving to be ahead of others, to be more valued than others, to be more highly rewarded than others, to be able to keep others in a state of fear, the inability to admit mistakes or apologize—these are among the symptoms of pride. Pride opens the way for countless other sins: deceit, lies, theft, violence, and all those other actions that destroy community with God and with those around us.

Yet we spend a great deal of our lives trying to convince ourselves and others that what we did really wasn’t that bad or could even be seen as almost good, given the circumstances. Even in confession, many people explain what they did rather than simply admit they did things that require forgiveness. “When I recently happened to confess about fifty people in a typical Orthodox parish in Pennsylvania,” Fr. Alexander Schmemann wrote, “not one admitted to having committed any sin whatsoever!”

“We’re capable of doing some rotten things,” the Minnesota storyteller Garrison Keillor notes, “and not all of these things are the result of poor communication. Some are the result of rottenness. People do bad, horrible things. They lie and they cheat and they corrupt the government. They poison the world around us. And when they’re caught they don’t feel remorse—they just go into treatment. They had a nutritional problem or something. They explain what they did—they don’t feel bad about it. There’s no guilt. There’s just psychology.”

For the person who has committed a serious sin, there are two vivid signs—the hope that what one did may never become known, and a gnawing sense of guilt. At least this is the case before the conscience becomes completely numb—which is what happens when patterns of sin become the structure of one’s life to the extent that hell, far from being a possible next-life experience, is where one finds oneself in this life.

It is a striking fact about basic human architecture that we want certain actions to remain secret, not because of modesty, but because there is an unarguable sense of having violated a law more basic than that in any law book—the “law written in [our] hearts” to which St. Paul refers (Romans 2:15). It isn’t simply that we fear punishment. It is that we don’t want to be thought of by others as a person who commits such deeds. One of the main obstacles to going to confession is dismay that someone else will know what I want no one to know.

One of the oddest things about the age we live in is that we are made to feel guilty about feeling guilty. There is a cartoon tacked up in our house in which one prisoner says to another, “Just remember—it’s okay to be guilty, but not okay to feel guilty.”

A sense of guilt—the painful awareness of having committed sins—can be life-renewing. Guilt provides a foothold for contrition, which in turn can motivate confession and repentance. Without guilt, there is no remorse; without remorse, there is no possibility of becoming free of habitual sins.

Yet there are forms of guilt that are dead-end streets. If I feel guilty that I have not managed to become the ideal person I occasionally want to be, or that I imagine others want me to be, that is guilt without a divine reference point. It is simply an irritated me contemplating an irritating me. Christianity is not centered on performance, laws, principles, or the achievement of flawless behavior, but on Christ Himself and on participation in God’s transforming love.

When Christ says, “Therefore you shall be perfect, just as your Father in heaven is perfect” (Matthew 5:48), he’s not speaking of getting a perfect score on a test, but of being whole, being in a state of communion, participating fully in God’s love. This condition of being is suggested by St. Andrei Rublev’s icon of the Holy Trinity: those three angelic figures silently inclined toward each other around a chalice on a small altar. They symbolize the Holy Trinity: the communion that exists within God—not a closed communion restricted to themselves alone, but an open communion of love, in which we are not only invited but intended to participate.

A blessed guilt is the pain we feel when we realize we have cut ourselves off from that divine communion that irradiates all creation. It is impossible to live in a Godless universe, but easy to be unaware of God’s presence or even to resent it.

It’s a common delusion that one’s sins are private or affect only a few other people. To think our sins, however hidden, don’t affect others is like imagining that a stone thrown into the water won’t generate ripples. As Bishop Kallistos Ware has observed: “There are no entirely private sins. All sins are sins against my neighbor, as well as against God and against myself. Even my most secret thoughts are, in fact, making it more difficult for those around me to follow Christ.”

Far from being hidden, each sin is another crack in the world.

One of the most widely used Orthodox prayers, the Jesus Prayer, is only one sentence long: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” Short as it is, many people drawn to it are put off by the last two words. Those who teach the prayer are often asked, “But must I call myself a sinner?” In fact, the ending isn’t essential—the only essential word is “Jesus”—but my difficulty in identifying myself as a sinner reveals a lot. What makes me so reluctant to speak of myself in such plain words? Don’t I do a pretty good job of hiding rather than revealing Christ in my life? Am I not a sinner? To admit that I am provides a starting point.

There are only two possible responses to sin: to justify it, or to repent. Between these two, there is no middle ground.

Justification may be verbal, but mainly it takes the form of repetition: I do again and again the same thing as a way of demonstrating to myself and others that it’s not really a sin, but rather something normal or human or necessary or even good. “Commit a sin twice and it will not seem a crime,” notes a Jewish proverb.

Repentance, on the other hand, is the recognition that I cannot live any more as I have been living, because in living that way I wall myself apart from others and from God. Repentance is a change in direction. Repentance is the door of communion. It is also a sine qua non of forgiveness. Absolution is impossible where there is no repentance.

As St. John Chrysostom said sixteen centuries ago in Antioch:

Repentance opens the heavens, takes us to Paradise, overcomes the devil. Have you sinned? Do not despair! If you sin every day, then offer repentance every day! When there are rotten parts in old houses, we replace the parts with new ones, and we do not stop caring for the houses. In the same way, you should reason for yourself: If today you have defiled yourself with sin, immediately cleanse yourself with repentance.

Confession as a Social Action

It is impossible to imagine a healthy marriage or deep friendship without confession and forgiveness. If we have done something that damages a relationship, confession is essential to its restoration. For the sake of that bond, we confess what we’ve done, we apologize, and we promise not to do it again; then we do everything in our power to keep that promise.

In the context of religious life, confession is what we do to safeguard and renew our relationship with God whenever it is damaged. Confession restores our communion with God and with each other.

It is never easy to admit to doing something we regret and are ashamed of, an act we attempted to keep secret or denied doing or tried to blame on someone else, perhaps arguing—to ourselves as much as to others—that it wasn’t actually a sin at all, or wasn’t nearly as bad as some people might claim. In the hard labor of growing up, one of the most agonizing tasks is becoming capable of saying, “I’m sorry.”

Yet we are designed for confession. Secrets in general are hard to keep, but unconfessed sins not only never go away, but have a way of becoming heavier as time passes—the greater the sin, the heavier the burden. Confession is the only solution.

To understand confession in its sacramental sense, one first has to grapple with a few basic questions: Why is the Church involved in forgiving sins? Is priest-witnessed confession really needed? Why confess at all to any human being? In fact, why bother confessing to God, even without a human witness? If God is really all-knowing, then God knows everything about me already. My sins are known before it even crosses my mind to confess them. Why bother telling God what God already knows?

Yes, truly God knows. My confession can never be as complete or revealing as God’s knowledge of me and of all that needs repairing in my life.

But a related question we need to consider has to do with our basic design as social beings. Why am I so willing to connect with others in every other area of life, yet not in this? Why is it that I look so hard for excuses, even for theological rationales, not to confess? Why do I try so hard to explain away my sins, until I’ve decided either that they’re not so bad, or even that they might be seen as acts of virtue? Why is it that I find it so easy to commit sins, yet am so reluctant, in the presence of another, to admit to having done so?

We are social beings. The individual as autonomous unit is a delusion. The Marlboro Man—the person without community, parents, spouse, or children—exists only on billboards. The individual is someone who has lost a sense of connection to others or attempts to exist in opposition to others—while the person exists in communion with other persons. At a conference of Orthodox Christians in France a few years ago, in a discussion of the problem of individualism, a theologian confessed, “When I am in my car, I am an individual, but when I get out, I am a person again.”

We are social beings. The language we speak connects us to those around us. The food I eat was grown by others. The skills passed on to me have slowly been developed in the course of hundreds of generations. The air I breathe and the water I drink is not for my exclusive use, but has been in many bodies before mine. The place I live, the tools I use, and the paper I write on were made by many hands. I am not my own doctor or dentist. To the extent that I disconnect myself from others, I am in danger. Alone, I die, and soon. To be in communion with others is life.

Because we are social beings, confession in church does not take the place of confession to those we have sinned against. An essential element of confession is doing all I can to set right what I did wrong. If I stole something, it must be returned or paid for. If I lied to anyone, I must tell that person the truth. If I was angry without good reason, I must apologize. I must seek forgiveness not only from God, but from those whom I have wronged or harmed.

We are also verbal beings. Words provide a way of communicating, not only with others, but even with ourselves. The fact that confession is witnessed forces me to put into words all those ways, minor and major, in which I live as if there were no God and no commandment to love. A thought that is concealed has great power over us.

Confessing sins, or even temptations, makes us better able to resist. The underlying principle is described in one of the collections of sayings of the Desert Fathers:

If impure thoughts trouble you, do not hide them, but tell them at once to your spiritual father and condemn them. The more a person conceals his thoughts, the more they multiply and gain strength. But an evil thought, when revealed, is immediately destroyed. If you hide things, they have great power over you, but if you could only speak of them before God, in the presence of another, then they will often wither away, and lose their power.

Confessing to anyone, even a stranger, renews rather than contracts my humanity, even if all I get in return for my confession is the well-worn remark, “Oh, that’s not so bad. After all, you’re only human.” But if I can confess to anyone anywhere, why confess in church in the presence of a priest? It’s not a small question in societies in which the phrase “institutionalized religion” is so often used, the implicit message being that religious institutions necessarily undermine spiritual life.

Confession is a Christian ritual with a communal character. Confession in the church differs from confession in your living room in the same way that getting married in church differs from simply living together. The communal aspect of the event tends to safeguard it, solidify it, and call everyone to account—those doing the ritual, and those witnessing it.

In the social structure of the Church, a huge network of local communities is held together in unity, each community helping the others and all sharing a common task, while each provides a specific place to recognize and bless the main events in life, from birth to burial. Confession is an essential part of that continuum. My confession is an act of reconnection with God and with all the people and creatures who depend on me and have been harmed by my failings, and from whom I have distanced myself through acts of non-communion. The community is represented by the person hearing my confession, an ordained priest delegated to serve as Christ’s witness, who provides guidance and wisdom that helps each penitent overcome attitudes and habits that take us off course, who declares forgiveness and restores us to communion. In this way our repentance is brought into the community that has been damaged by our sins—a private event in a public context.

“It’s a fact,” writes Fr. Thomas Hopko, rector of St. Vladimir’s Seminary, “that we cannot see the true ugliness and hideousness of our sins until we see them in the mind and heart of the other to whom we have confessed.”

A Communion-Centered Life

Attending the liturgy and receiving Communion on Sundays and principal feast days has always been at the heart of Christian life, the event that gives life a eucharistic dimension and center point. But Communion—receiving Christ into ourselves—can never be routine, never something we deserve, no matter what the condition of our life may be. For example, Christ solemnly warns us against approaching the altar if we are in a state of enmity with anyone. He tells us, “Leave your gift there before the altar, and go your way. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift” (Matthew 5:24). In one of the parables, He describes a person who is ejected from the wedding feast because he isn’t wearing a wedding garment. Tattered clothing is a metaphor for living a life that reduces conscience to rags (Matthew 22:1–14).

Receiving Christ in Communion during the liturgy is the keystone of living in communion—with God, with people, and with creation. Christ teaches us that love of God and love of neighbor sum up the Law. One way of describing a serious sin is to say it is any act which breaks our communion with God and with our neighbor.

It is for this reason that examination of conscience—if necessary, going to confession—is part of preparation for Communion. This is an ongoing process of trying to see my life and actions with clarity and honesty—to look at myself, my choices, and my direction as known by God. The examination of conscience is an occasion to recall not only any serious sins committed since my last confession, but even the beginnings of sins.

The word conscience derives from a Greek verb meaning “to have common knowledge” or “to know with” someone, a concept that led to the idea of bearing witness concerning someone, especially oneself. Conscience is an inner faculty that guides us in making choices that align us with God’s will, and that accuses us when we break communion with God and with our neighbor. Conscience is a reflection of the divine image at the core of each person. In The Sacred Gift of Life, Fr. John Breck points out that “the education of conscience is acquired in large measure through immersing ourselves in the ascetic tradition of the Church: its life of prayer, sacramental and liturgical celebration, and scripture study. The education of our conscience also depends upon our acquiring wisdom from those who are more advanced than we are in faith, love, and knowledge of God.”

Conscience is God’s whispering voice within us calling us to a way of life that reveals God’s presence and urges us to refuse actions that destroy community and communion.

Key Elements in Confession

Fr. Alexander Schmemann provided this summary of the three key areas of confession:

Relationship to God: Questions on faith itself, possible doubts or deviations, inattention to prayer, neglect of liturgical life, fasting, etc.

Relationship to one’s neighbor: Basic attitudes of selfishness and self-centeredness, indifference to others, lack of attention, interest, love. All acts of actual offense—envy, gossip, cruelty, etc.—must be mentioned and, if needed, their sinfulness shown to the penitent.

Relationship to one’s self: Sins of the flesh with, as their counterpart, the Christian vision of purity and wholesomeness, respect for the body as an icon of Christ, etc. Abuse of one’s life and resources; absence of any real effort to deepen life; abuse of alcohol or other drugs; cheap idea of “fun,” a life centered on amusement, irresponsibility, neglect of family relations, etc.

Tools of Self-Examination

In the struggle to examine conscience, we have tools that can assist us, resources that help both in the formation and the examination of conscience. Among these are the Ten Commandments, the Beatitudes, and various prayers, as well as lists of questions written by experienced confessors. In this brief text, we will look at only one of these, the Beatitudes, which provide a brief summary of the Gospel. Each Beatitude reveals an aspect of being in union with God.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Poverty of spirit is my awareness that I need God’s help and mercy more than anything else. It is knowing that I cannot save myself, that neither money nor power will spare me from suffering and death, and that no matter what I achieve and acquire in this life, it will be far less than I want if I let my acquisitive capacity get the upper hand. This is the blessing of knowing that even what I have is not mine. It is living free of the domination of fear. While the exterior forms of poverty vary from person to person and even from year to year in a particular life, depending on one’s vocation and special circumstances, all who live this Beatitude are seeking with heart and soul to live God’s will rather than their own. Christ’s mother is the paradigm of poverty of spirit in her unconditional assent to the will of God: “Let it be to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). Similarly, at the marriage feast at Cana, she says to those waiting on the tables: “Whatever He says to you, do it” (John 2:5). Whoever lives by these words is poor in spirit.

Questions to consider: We are bombarded by advertisements, constantly reminded of the possibility of having things and of indulging all sorts of curiosities and temptations. The simple goal of poverty of spirit seems more remote than the moons of Neptune. Am I regularly praying that God will give me poverty of spirit? When tempted to buy things I don’t need, do I pray for strength to resist? Do I keep the Church fasts that would help strengthen my capacity to live this Beatitude? Do I really seek to know and embrace God’s will in my life? Am I willing to be seen as odd or stupid by those whose lives are dominated by values that oppose the Beatitudes?

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Mourning is cut from the same cloth as poverty of spirit. Without poverty of spirit, I am forever on guard to keep what I have for myself, and to keep me for myself, or for that small circle of people whom I regard as mine. A consequence of poverty of spirit is becoming vulnerable to the pain and losses of others, not only those whom I happen to know and care for, but also those who are strangers to me. “When we die,” said Saint John Climacus, the seventh-century abbot of Saint Catherine’s Monastery near Mount Sinai, “we will not be criticized for having failed to work miracles. We will not be accused of having failed to be theologians or contemplatives. But we will certainly have to explain to God why we did not mourn unceasingly.”

Questions to consider: Do I weep with those who weep? Have I mourned those in my own family who have died? Do I open my thoughts and feelings to the suffering and losses of others? Do I try to make space in my mind and heart for the calamities in the lives of others who may be far away and neither speak my language nor share my faith?

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

Meekness is often confused with weakness, yet a meek person is neither spineless nor cowardly. Understood biblically, meekness is making choices and exercising power with a divine rather than social reference point. Meekness is the essential quality of the human being in relationship to God. Without meekness, we cannot align ourselves with God’s will. In place of humility, we prefer pride—pride in who we are, pride in doing as we please, pride in what we’ve achieved, pride in the national or ethnic group to which we happen to belong. Meekness has nothing to do with blind obedience or social conformity. Meek Christians do not allow themselves to be dragged along by the tides of political power. Such rudderless persons have cut themselves off from their own conscience, God’s voice in their hearts, and thrown away their God-given freedom. Meekness is an attribute of following Christ, no matter what risks are involved.

Questions to consider: When I read the Bible or writings of the saints, do I consider the implications for my own life? When I find what I read at odds with the way I live, do I allow the text to challenge me? Do I pray for God’s guidance? Do I seek help with urgent questions in confession? Do I tend to make choices and adopt ideas that will help me fit into the group I want to be part of? Do I fear the criticism or ridicule of others for my efforts to live a Gospel-centered life? Do I listen to others? Do I tell the truth even in difficult circumstances?

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled.

In his teaching about the Last Judgment, Christ speaks of hunger and thirst: “I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me drink” (Matthew 25:35). Our salvation hinges on our caring for the least person as we would for Christ Himself. To hunger and thirst for something is not a mild desire, but a desperate craving. To hunger and thirst for righteousness means urgently to desire that which is honorable, right, and true. A righteous person is a right-living person, living a moral, blameless life, right with both God and neighbor. A righteous social order would be one in which no one is abandoned or thrown away, in which people live in peace with God, with each other, and with the world God has given us.

Questions to consider: Does it disturb me that I live in a world that in many ways is the opposite of the Kingdom of heaven? When I pray, “Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” am I praying that my own life might better reflect God’s priorities? Who is “the least” in my day-to-day world? Do I try to see Christ’s face in him or her?

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.

One of the perils of pursuing righteousness is that one can become self-righteous. Thus, the next rung of the ladder of the Beatitudes is the commandment of mercy. This is the quality of self-giving love, of gracious deeds done for those in need. Twice in the Gospels Christ makes His own the words of the Prophet Hosea: “I desire mercy and not sacrifice” (Hosea 6:6; Matthew 9:13; 12:7). We witness mercy in event after event in the New Testament account of Christ’s life—forgiving, healing, freeing, correcting, even repairing the wound of a man injured by Peter in his effort to protect Christ, and promising Paradise to the criminal being crucified next to Him.

Again and again Christ declares that those who seek God’s mercy must pardon others. The principle is included in the only prayer Christ taught His disciples: “Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors” (Matthew 6:12). He calls on His followers to love their enemies and to pray for them. The moral of the parable of the Good Samaritan is that a neighbor is a person who comes to the aid of a stranger in need (Luke 10:29–37). While He denounces hypocrisy and warns the merciless that they are condemning themselves to hell, in no passage in the Gospel do we hear Christ advocating anyone’s death. At the Last Judgment, Christ receives into the Kingdom of heaven those who were merciful. He is Mercy itself.

Questions to consider: When I see a stranger in need, how do I respond? Is Christ’s mercy evident in my life? Am I willing to extend forgiveness to those who seek it? Am I generous in sharing my time and material possessions with those in need? Do I pray for my enemies? Do I try to assist them if they are in need? Have I been an enemy to anyone?

Mercy is more and more absent even in societies with Christian roots. In the United States, the death penalty has been reinstated in the majority of states and has the fervent support of many Christians. Even in the many countries that have abolished executions, the death penalty is often imposed on unborn children—abortion is hardly regarded as a moral issue. Concerning the sick, aged, and severely handicapped, “mercy killing” and “assisted suicide” are now phrases much in use. To what extent have I been influenced by slogans and ideologies that promote death as a solution and disguise killing as mercy? What am I doing to make my society more welcoming, more caring, more life-protecting?

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

The brain has come up in the world, while the heart has been demoted. The heart used to be widely recognized as the locus of God’s activity within us, the hub of human identity and conscience, linked with our capacity to love, the core not only of physical but also of spiritual life—the ground zero of the human soul. In our brain-centered society, we ought to be surprised that Christ didn’t say, “Blessed are the brilliant in mind.” Instead, He blessed purity of heart.

The Greek word for purity, katharos, means spotless, stainless; intact, unbroken, perfect; free from adulteration or anything that defiles or corrupts. What, then, is a pure heart? A heart free of possessiveness, a heart capable of mourning, a heart that thirsts for what is right, a merciful heart, a loving heart, a heart not ruled by passions, an undivided heart, a heart aware of the image of God in others, a heart drawn to beauty, a heart conscious of God’s presence in creation. A pure heart is a heart without contempt for others. “A person is truly pure of heart when he considers all human beings as good and no created thing appears impure or defiled to him,” wrote Saint Isaac of Syria.

Opposing purity of heart is lust of any kind—for wealth, for recognition, for power, for vengeance, for sexual exploits—whether indulged through action or imagination. Spiritual virtues that defend the heart are memory, awareness, watchfulness, wakefulness, attention, hope, faith, and love. A rule of prayer in daily life helps heal, guard, and unify the heart. “Always keep your mind collected in your heart,” instructed the great teacher of prayer, Saint Theophan the Recluse. The Jesus Prayer—the prayer of the heart—is part of a tradition of spiritual life that helps move the center of consciousness from the mind to the heart. Purification of the heart is the striving to place under the rule of the heart the mind, which represents the analytic and organizational aspect of consciousness. It is the moment-to-moment prayerful discipline of seeking to be so aware of God’s presence that no space is left in the heart for hatred, greed, lust, or vengeance. Purification of the heart is the lifelong struggle of seeking a more God-centered life, a heart illuminated with the presence of the Holy Trinity.

Questions to consider: Do I take care not to read or look at things that stir up lust? Do I avoid using words that soil my mouth? Am I attentive to beauty in people, nature, and the arts? Am I sarcastic about others? Is a rhythm of prayer part of my daily life? Do I prepare carefully for Communion, never taking it for granted? Do I observe fasting days and seasons? Am I aware of and grateful for God’s gifts?

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.

Christ is often called the Prince of Peace. His peace is not a passive condition—He blesses the makers of peace. The peacemaker is a person who helps heal damaged relationships. Throughout the Gospel, we see Christ bestowing peace. In His final discourse before His arrest, He says to the Apostles: “Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you. . . . Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27). After the Resurrection, he greets his followers with the words, “Peace be with you” (John 20:19). He instructs his followers that, on entering a house, their first action should be the blessing, “Peace to this house” (Luke 10:5).

Christ is at his most paradoxical when he says, “Do not think that I came to bring peace on earth. I did not come to bring peace but a sword” (Matthew 10:34; note that a similar passage, Luke 12:51, uses the word “division” rather than “sword”). Those who try to live Christ’s peace may find themselves in trouble, as all those who have died a martyr’s death bear witness. Sadly, for most of us the peace we long for is not the Kingdom of God, but a slightly improved version of the world we already have. We would like to get rid of conflict without eliminating the spiritual and material factors that draw us into conflict. The peacemaker is a person aware that ends never stand apart from means: figs do not grow from thistles; neither is community brought into being by hatred and violence. A peacemaker is aware that all persons, even those who seem to be ruled by evil spirits, are made in the image of God and are capable of change and conversion.

Questions to consider: In my family, in my parish, and among my coworkers, am I guilty of sins which cause or deepen division and conflict? Do I ask forgiveness when I realize I am in the wrong? Or am I always justifying what I do, no matter what pain or harm it causes others? Do I regard it as a waste of time to communicate with opponents? Do I listen with care and respect to those who irritate me? Do I pray for the well-being and salvation of adversaries and enemies? Do I allow what others say or what the press reports to define my attitude toward those whom I have never met? Do I take positive steps to overcome division? Are there people I regard as not bearing God’s image and therefore innately evil?

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when they revile and persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you falsely for My sake. Rejoice and be exceedingly glad, for great is your reward in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

The last rung is where the Beatitudes reach and pass beyond the Cross. “We must carry Christ’s Cross as a crown of glory,” wrote Saint John Chrysostom in the fourth century, “for it is by it that everything that is achieved among us is gained. . . . Whenever you make the sign of the cross on your body, think of what the Cross means and put aside anger and every other passion. Take courage and be free in the soul.”

In the ancient world, Christians were persecuted chiefly because they were regarded as undermining the social order, even though in most respects they were models of civil obedience and good conduct. But Christians abstained from the cult of the deified emperor, would not sacrifice to gods their neighbors venerated, and were notable for their objection to war or bloodshed in any form, whether gladitorial combat or war. It is easy to imagine that a community that lived by such values, however well-behaved, would be regarded as a threat by the government. “Both the Emperor’s commands and those of others in authority must be obeyed if they are not contrary to the God of heaven,” said Saint Euphemia in the year 303, during the reign of Diocletian. “If they are, they must not only be disobeyed; they must be resisted.” Following torture, Saint Euphemia was killed by a bear—the kind of death endured by thousands of Christians well into the fourth century, though the greatest number of Christian martyrs belongs to the twentieth century. In many countries religious persecution continues.

Questions to consider: Does fear play a bigger role in my life than love? Do I hide my faith or live it in a timid, half-hearted way? When I am ordered to do something that conflicts with Christ’s teaching, whom do I obey? Am I aware of those who are suffering for righteousness’ sake in my own country and elsewhere in the world? Am I praying for them? Am I doing anything to help them?

Finding a Confessor

Just as not every doctor is a good physician, not every priest is a good confessor. Sometimes it happens that a priest, however good his qualities in other respects, is a person not well suited for witnessing confessions. While abusive priests are the exception, their existence must be noted. God has given us freedom and provided each person with a conscience. It is not the role of a priest to take the place of conscience or to become anyone’s drill sergeant. A good confessor will help us become better at hearing the voice of conscience and become more free in an increasingly God-centered life.

Fortunately, good confessors are not hard to find. Usually your confessor is the priest who is closest, sees you most often, knows you and the circumstances of your life best: a priest of your parish. Do not be put off by your awareness of what you perceive as his relative youth, his personal shortcomings, or the probability that he possesses no rare spiritual gifts. Keep in mind that each priest goes to confession himself and may have more to confess than you do. You confess, not to him, but to Christ in his presence. He is the witness of your confession. You do not require and will never find a sinless person to be that witness. (The Orthodox Church tries to make this clear by having the penitent face, not the priest, but an icon of Christ.)

What your confessor says by way of advice can be remarkably insightful, or brusque, or seem to you a cliché and not very relevant, yet almost always there will be something helpful if only you are willing to hear it. Sometimes there is a suggestion or insight that becomes a turning point in your life. If he imposes a penance—normally increased prayer, fasting, and acts of mercy—it should be accepted meekly, unless there is something in the penance which seems to you a violation of your conscience or of the teaching of the Church as you understand it.

Don’t imagine that a priest will respect you less for what you reveal to Christ in his presence, or imagine that he is carefully remembering all your sins. “Even a recently ordained priest will quickly find that he cannot remember 99 percent of what people tell him in confession,” one priest told me. He said it is embarrassing to him that people expect him to remember what they told him in an earlier confession. “When they remind me, then sometimes I remember, but without a reminder, usually my mind is a blank. I let the words I listen to pass through me. Also, so much that I hear in one confession is similar to what I hear in other confessions—the confessions blur together. The only sins I easily remember are my own.”

One priest told me of his difficulties meeting the expectations that sometimes become evident in confession. “I am not a psychologist. I have no special gifts. I am just a fellow sinner trying to stay on the path.”

A Russian priest who is spiritual father to many people once told me about the joy he often feels hearing confessions. “It is not that I am glad anyone has sins to confess, but when you come to confession it means these sins are in your past, not your future. Confession marks a turning point, and I am the lucky one who gets to watch people making that turn!”

* * *

Jim Forest is the author of many books, including Confession: Doorway to Forgiveness, Praying with Icons, Ladder of the Beatitudes, The Road to Emmaus: Pilgrimage as a Way of Life and The Wormwood File: E-Mail from Hell. He is international secretary of the Orthodox Peace Fellowship (www.incommunion.org) and an associate editor of its quarterly journal, In Communion. His home is in Alkmaar, the Netherlands. He and his wife Nancy are members of St. Nicholas of Myra Orthodox Church in Amsterdam.

SEEKING GOD IN THE DESERT (COPTIC)

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Philosopher of Virtue | Josef Pieper (1904-1997)


Josef Pieper was born on May 4th, 1904, in the small Westphalian village of Elte, Germany. At that time not even a local train connected the isolated spot in the middle of the heath with other towns of Westphalia; whoever wanted to reach the next station had to cross a river in a small ferry-boat. Pieper's father was the only teacher at the only school of this village. Josef Pieper went to the Gymnasium Paulinum in Münster, one of the oldest German schools, which has existed for more than eleven hundred years. His son took up that tradition as a pupil of that old institution, the buildings of which, however, were completely destroyed during World War II.

A teacher at the Gymnasium Paulinum, a priest, convinced Pieper to read the works of Thomas Aquinas. "At that time," Pieper wrote, "I was foolishly fond of Kierkegaard, whom we used to devour, my friends and I, naturally without quite understanding him; and it was this paternal friend and teacher, who directed me – with a sort of violent, ironical, and humorous intensity – to St. Thomas' Commentary to the Prologue of St. John's Gospel. Being a youngster of eighteen, I set about reading this work and, in fact, finished it, of course, again without understanding it perfectly. But from that moment the work of St. Thomas has accompanied me through life." Years later he translated this Commentary to the Prologue of St. John's Gospel into German.

Pieper went to the University of Münster in 1923, and later on he went to Berlin. The plan of his first book – which he ultimately submitted to the university in order to obtain his doctorate in philosophy – was born during a lecture on Goethe and Thomas Aquinas, given by Msgr. Romano Guardini at the Jugendburg Rothenfels on the Main in 1924; the lecture was entitled "About Classical Spirit." Pieper's first book, Die Wirklichkeit und das Gute (Reality and the Good; contained in Living the Truth [Ignatius Press, 1989]) based on St. Thomas' works, tries to show that the good is nothing else but what is in accordance with the reality of things.

Pieper deviated from this path of "pure philosophy" for some time; social problems fascinated him so much that he applied himself to the study of law and sociology. He became an assistant at the Institute of Social Research at the University of Münster. When, in 1931 the papal encyclical Quadragesimo Anno was published, Pieper wrote a few booklets explaining the fundamental idea of the " Entproletarisierung." Pieper said he would have devoted himself entirely to the social sciences if National Socialism had not come into power. From 1934 on, it became impossible for a Christian author to speak in public about the problems of social life. 

Fortunately, Pieper returned to his work in philosophy, attempting to build up from the elements of Western tradition – as it has been formed especially by St. Thomas Aquinas – a philosophical and ethical doctrine of man, which might be comprehensible to modern people. In 1934 he wrote a small book about the virtue of fortitude, Vom Sinn der Tapferkeit. "At first," wrote Pieper, "the manuscript was refused by all editors (later on, this fact proved to be a good example for explaining to my children, what a boomerang is) till at last one editor, Jacob Hegner (Leipzig), who made known in Germany the works of Claudel, Yeats, and Bernanos, accepted the book and at the same time asked me to treat in the same way all seven virtues."

Pieper next wrote about hope. The small book was published in 1935, being just in time for the day of his wedding. During the years preceding World War II, two other works were published: one about the first cardinal virtue, prudence (Traktatrüber die Klugheit) and the other about the fourth cardinal virtue, temperance (Zucht und Mass). "To write about justice was quite impossible then in Germany," explained Pieper, "yet, in any case, I had put aside this treatise until later, for it seems to me just as difficult as that about love and up to now I have not yet written it."

During the first year of World War II, he brought out only a little biography of his hero, St. Thomas Aquinas, titled Guide to Thomas Aquinas. 

Pieper joined the army and during the time he was in service a volume of the Summa Theologica or the Quaestiones Disputatae always accompanied him, and in the course of these years he succeeded in putting together two breviary-like collections of short sentences, chosen from the whole work of the Angelic Doctor, but they were not published until the end of World War II. One of these "breviaries," the more philosophical one, was published both in England and the United States under the title, The Human Wisdom of St. Thomas.

His other scientific work, which he also finished during World War II, dealt with the idea of "veritas rerum" and its history. This work was of special use to Pieper after the war in procuring a professorship at the university, which, under the Nazi regime, had been impossible for him. In 1946, Pieper became lecturer of philosophy at the Pedagogical Institute of Essen (Ruhr), at the University of Münster, and later on professor. 

The result of the experiences with afterwar university-life and of those first  years of instruction found expression in two small books. The first one, Musse und Kult, develops two theses: first, that culture is founded on leisure, secondly, that leisure has its roots within the region of cult. The second book, Was heist philosophieren? draws the consequences of these theses for the study of philosophy. The primer for Christians, containing short essays on Catholic dogma and ethics as well as on the history of the Church, written in collaboration with Heinz G. Raskop, appeared in August 1951 under the title What Catholics Believe, with an introduction by Reverend Gerald B. Phelan, and in November of the same year, Leisure: The Basis of Culture, with a preface by T. S. Eliot. This is considered by many to be Pieper’s greatest work. 

Another classic is Faith Hope Love, a collection of Pieper’s famous treatises on the three theological virtues. Each of these treatises was originally published as a separate work over a period of thirty-seven years, and have been brought together in English for the first time in the Ignatius Press edition.

The first of the three written, On Hope, was produced in 1934 in response to the general feeling of despair of those times. His "philosophical treatise" on Faith was derived from a series of lectures Pieper gave in the late 1950s and early 1960s. His most difficult work, one that he struggled with for years and nearly abandoned was On Love. Pieper felt that it is the most important book he has written. In it, he discusses not only the theological virtue of caritas-agape, but also of eros, sexuality, and even "love" of music and wine.

"St. Thomas is still my hero," wrote Pieper in the early 1950s. "I think his work is inexhaustible and his affirmative way of looking at the reality of the whole creation seems to me a necessary correction modern Christianity cannot do without. Yet my admiration of Plato is likewise growing continually. And one theme not expressly treated by St. Thomas and the whole scholastic school is becoming more important to me than ever: the philosophy of history." Pieper’s interest in this topic would eventually result in the publication of Über das Ende der Zeit (The End of Time: A Meditation on the Philosophy of History) and Hoffnung und Geschichte (Hope and History). He also wrote some books engaging the thought of Plato, including Abuse of Language, Abuse of Power and Divine Madness: Plato's Case Against Secular Humanism.

Pieper died at the age of ninety-three on November 6, 1997. In a tribute entitled "A Philosopher of Virtue," published in First Things, Gilbert Meilaender summarized some of Pieper’s core principles:
Pieper emphasizes the close connection between moral and intellectual virtue. Our minds do not–contrary to many views currently popular–create truth. Rather, they must be conformed to the truth of things given in creation. And such conformity is possible only as the moral virtues become deeply embedded in our character, a slow and halting process. We have, he writes on one occasion, "lost the awareness of the close bond that links the knowing of truth to the condition of purity." That is, in order to know the truth we must become persons of a certain sort. The full transformation of character that we need will, in fact, finally require the virtues of faith, hope, and love. And this transformation will not necessarily–perhaps not often–be experienced by us as easy or painless. Hence the transformation of self that we must–by God’s grace–undergo "perhaps resembles passing through something akin to dying."
[Note: A substantial portion of this profile has been based upon the sketch of Josef Pieper that appears in Catholic Authors: Contemporary Biographical Sketches, edited by Matthew Hoehn, O.S.B., B.L.S., and published in 1952 by St. Mary’s Abbey.)



ALASDAIRMACINTYRE: ON HAVING SURVIVED ACADEMIC MORAL 

PHILOSOPHY

THE NATURE OF THE CHURCH by Father Georges Florovsky

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my source: Ancient Church, an Eastern Orthodox blog

The Church: Her Nature and Task, by Father Georges Florovsky
“The Church: Her Nature and Task” appeared in volume 1 of the Universal Church in God’s Design (S.C.M. Press, 1948).

The Catholic Mind

It is impossible to start with a formal definition of the Church. For, strictly speaking, there is none which could claim any doctrinal authority. None can be found in the Fathers. No definition has been given by the Ecumenical Councils. In the doctrinal summaries, drafted on various occasions in the Eastern Orthodox Church in the seventeenth century and taken often (but wrongly for the “symbolic books,” again no definition of the Church was given, except a reference to the relevant clause of the Creed, followed by some comments. This lack of formal definitions does not mean, however, a confusion of ideas or any obscurity of view. The Fathers did not care so much for the doctrine of the Church precisely because the glorious reality of the Church was open to their spiritual vision. One does not define what is self-evident. This accounts for the absence of a special chapter on the Church in all early presentations of Christian doctrine: in Origen, in St. Gregory of Nyssa, even in St. John of Damascus. Many modern scholars, both Orthodox and Roman, suggest that the Church itself has not yet defined her essence and nature. “Die Kirche selbst hat sich bis heute noch nicht definiert,” says Robert Grosche (Robert Grosche, Pilgernde Kirche Freiburg im Breisgau, 1938), p. 27) Some theologians go even further and claim that no definition of the Church is possible (Sergius Bulgakov, The Orthodox Church, 1935, p. 12; Stefan Zankow, Das Orthodoxe Christentum des Ostens, Berlin 1928, p. 65; English translation by Dr. Lowrie, 1929, p. 6gf). In any case, the theology of the Church is still im Werden, in the process of formation (See M. D. Koster, Ecclesiologie im Werden, Paderborn 1940).

In our time, it seems, one has to get beyond the modern theological disputes, to regain a wider historical perspective, to recover the true “catholic mind,” which would embrace the whole of the historical experience of the Church in its pilgrimage through the ages. One has to return from the school-room to the worshipping Church and perhaps to change the school-dialect of theology for the pictorial and metaphorical language of Scripture. The very nature of the Church can be rather depicted and described than properly defined. And surely this can be done only from within the Church. Probably even this description will be convincing only for those of the Church. The Mystery is apprehended only by faith.

The new reality

The Greek name ekklesia adopted by the primitive Christians to denote the New Reality, in which they were aware they shared, presumed and suggested a very definite conception of what the Church really was. Adopted under an obvious influence of the Septuagint use, this word stressed first of all the organic continuity of the two Covenants. The Christian existence was conceived in the sacred perspective of the Messianic preparation and fulfilment (Heb. 1:1-2). A very definite theology of history was thereby implied. The Church was the true Israel, the new Chosen People of God, “A chosen generation, a holy nation, a peculiar people” (1 Pet. 2:9). Or rather, it was the faithful Remnant, selected out of the unresponsive People of old (Luke 12:32 “little flock” seems to mean precisely the “remnant,” reconstituted and redeemed, and reconsecrated). And all nations of the earth, Greeks and Barbarians, were to be coopted and grafted into this new People of God by the call of God (this was the main theme of St. Paul in Romans and Galatians, cf. Ephesians ch. 2).

Already in the Old Testament the word ekklisía (a rendering in Greek of the Hebrew Qahal) did imply a special emphasis on the ultimate unity of the Chosen People, conceived as a sacred whole, and this unity was rooted more in the mystery of the divine election than in any “natural” features. This emphasis could only be confirmed by the supplementary influence of the Hellenistic use of the word ekklesía meaning usually an assembly of the sovereign people in a city, a general congregation of all regular citizens. Applied to the new Christian existence, the word kept its traditional connotation. The Church was both the People and the City. A special stress has been put on the organic unity of Christians.

Christianity from the very beginning existed as a corporate reality, as a community. To be Christian meant just to belong to the community. Nobody could be Christian by himself, as an isolated individual, but only together with “the brethren,” in a “togetherness” with them. Unus Christianus — nullus Christianus [One Christian — no Christian]. Personal conviction or even a rule of life still do not make one a Christian. Christian existence presumes and implies an incorporation, a membership in the community. This must be qualified at once: in the Apostolic community, i.e. in communion with the Twelve and their message. The Christian “community” was gathered and constituted by Jesus Himself “in the days of His flesh,” and it was given by Him at least a provisional constitution by the election and the appointment of the Twelve, to whom He gave the name (or rather the title) of His “messengers” or “ambassadors” (See Luke 6:13: “whom also He named apostles”). For a “sending forth” of the Twelve was not only a mission, but precisely a commission, for which they were invested with a “power” (Mark 3:15; Matt. 10:1; Luke 9:1). In any case as the appointed “witnesses” of the Lord (Luke 24:48; Acts 1:8) the Twelve alone were entitled to secure the continuity both of the Christian message and of the community life. Therefore communion with the Apostles was a basic note of the primitive “Church of God” in Jerusalem (Acts 2:42: koinonía).

Christianity means a “common life,” a life in common. Christians have to regard themselves as “brethren” (in fact this was one of their first names), as members of one corporation, closely linked together. And therefore charity had to be the first mark and the first proof as well as the token of this fellowship. We are entitled to say: Christianity is a community, a corporation, a fellowship, a brotherhood, a “society,” coetus fideliuim. And surely, as a first approximation, such a description could be of help. But obviously it requires a further qualification, and something crucial is missing here. One has to ask: in what exactly this unity and togetherness of the many is based and rooted? what is the power that brings many together and joins them one with another? Is this merely a social instinct, some power of social cohesion, an impetus of mutual affection, or any other natural attraction? Is this unity based simply on unanimity, on identity of views or convictions? Briefly, is the Christian Community, the Church, merely a human society, a society of men? Surely, the clear evidence of the New Testament takes us far beyond this purely human level. Christians are united not only among themselves, but first of all they are one — in Christ, and only this communion with Christ makes the communion of men first possible — in Him. The centre of unity is the Lord and the power that effects and enacts the unity is the Spirit. Christians are constituted into this unity by divine design; by the Will and Power of God. Their unity comes from above. They are one only in Christ, as those who had been born anew in Him, “Rooted and built up in Him” (Col. 2:7), who by One Spirit have been “Baptized into One Body” (1 Cor. 12:13). The Church of God has been established and constituted by God through Jesus Christ, Our Lord: “she is His own creation by water and the word.” Thus there is no human society, but rather a “Divine Society,” not a secular community, which would have been still “of this world,” still commensurable with other human groups, but a sacred community, which is intrinsically “not of this world,” not even of “this aeon,” but of the “aeon to come.”

Moreover, Christ Himself belongs to this community, as its Head, not only as its Lord or Master. Christ is not above or outside of the Church. The Church is in Him. The Church is not merely a community of those who believe in Christ and walk in His steps or in His commandments. She is a community of those who abide and dwell in Him, and in whom He Himself is abiding and dwelling by the Spirit. Christians are set apart, “born anew” and re-created, they are given not only a new pattern of life, but rather a new principle: the new Life in the Lord by the Spirit. They are a “peculiar People,” “the People of God’s own possession.” The point is that the Christian Community, the ekklesía, is a sacramental community: communio in sacris, a “fellowship in holy things,” i.e. in the Holy Spirit, or even communio sanctorum (sanctorum being taken as neuter rather than masculine — perhaps that was the original meaning of the phrase). The unity of the Church is effected through the sacraments: Baptism and the Eucharist are the two “social sacraments” of the Church, and in them the true meaning of Christian “togetherness” is continually revealed and sealed. Or even more emphatically, the sacraments constitute the Church. Only in the sacraments does the Christian Community pass beyond the purely human measure and become the Church. Therefore “the right administration of the sacraments” belongs to the essence of the Church (to her esse). Sacraments must be “worthily” received indeed, therefore they cannot be separated or divorced from the inner effort and spiritual attitude of believers. Baptism is to be preceded by repentance and faith. A personal relation between an aspirant and his Lord must be first established by the hearing and the receiving of the Word, of the message of salvation. And again an oath of allegiance to God and His Christ is a pre-requisite and indispensable condition of the administration of the sacrament (the first meaning of the word sacramentum was precisely “the (military) oath.”) A catechumen is already “enrolled” among the brethren on the basis of his faith. Again, the baptismal gift is appropriated, received and kept, by faith and faithfulness, by the steadfast standing in the faith and the promises. And yet sacraments are not merely signs of a professed faith, but rather effective signs of the saving Grace — not only symbols of human aspiration and loyalty, but the outward symbols of the divine action. In them our human existence is linked to, or rather raised up to, the Divine Life, by the Spirit, the giver of life.

The Church as a whole is a sacred (or consecrated) community, distinguished thereby from “the (profane) world.” She is the Holy Church. St. Paul obviously uses the terms “Church” and “saints” as co-extensive and synonymous. It is remarkable that in the New Testament the name “saint” is almost exclusively used in the plural, saintliness being social in its intrinsic meaning. For the name refers not to any human achievement, but to a gift, to sanctification or consecration. Holiness comes from the Holy One, i.e. only from God. To be holy for a man means to share the Divine Life. Holiness is available to individuals only in the community, or rather in the “fellowship of the Holy Spirit.” The “communion of saints” is a pleonasm. One can be a “saint” only in the communion.

Strictly speaking, the Messianic Community, gathered by Jesus the Christ, was not yet the Church, before His Passion and Resurrection, before “the promise of the Father” was sent upon it and it was “endued with the power from on high,” “baptized with the Holy Spirit” (cf. Luke 14:49 and Acts 1:4-5), in the mystery of Pentecost. Before the victory of the Cross disclosed in the glorious Resurrection, it was still sub umbraculo legis [Under the Shadow of the law]. It was still the eve of the fulfilment. And Pentecost was there to witness to and to seal the victory of Christ. “The power from on high” has entered into history. The “new aeon” has been truly disclosed and started. And the sacramental life of the Church is the continuation of Pentecost.

The descent of the Spirit was a supreme revelation. Once and for ever, in the “dreadful and inscrutable mystery” of Pentecost, the Spirit-Comforter enters the world in which He was not yet present in such manner as now He begins to dwell and to abide. An abundant spring of living water is disclosed on that day, here on earth, in the world which had been already redeemed and reconciled with God by the Crucified and Risen Lord. The Kingdom comes, for the Holy Spirit is the Kingdom (Cf. St. Gregory of Nyssa, De oratione Dominica 3, MG, 44, c. 115f.-1160). But the “coming” of the Spirit depends upon the “going” of the Son (John 16:7). “Another Comforter” comes down to testify of the Son, to reveal His glory and to seal His victory (15:26; 16:7 and 14) . Indeed in the Holy Spirit the Glorified Lord Himself comes back or returns to His flock to abide with them always (14:18 and 28) … Pentecost was the mystical consecration, the baptism of the whole Church (Acts 1:5). This fiery baptism was administered by the Lord: for He baptizes “With the Holy Spirit and with fire” (Matt. 3:11 and Luke 3:16) . He has sent the Spirit from the Father, as a pledge in our hearts. The Holy Spirit is the spirit of adoption, in Christ Jesus, “The power of Christ” (2 Cor. 12:9). By the spirit we recognize and we acknowledge that Jesus is the Lord (1 Cor. 12:3) . The work of the Spirit in believers is precisely their incorporation into Christ, their baptism into one body (12:13), even the body of Christ. As St. Athanasius puts it: “being given drink of the Spirit, we drink Christ.” For the Rock was Christ (S. Athan. Alex. Epist. I ad Seraponiem, MG 26. 576).

By the Spirit Christians are united with Christ, are united in Him, are constituted into His Body. One body, that of Christ: this excellent analogy used by St. Paul in various contexts, when depicting the mystery of Christian existence, is at the same time the best witness to the intimate experience of the Apostolic Church. By no means was it an accidental image: it was rather a summary of faith and experience. With St. Paul the main emphasis was always on the intimate union of the faithful with the Lord, on their sharing in His fulness. As St. John Chrysostom has pointed out, commenting on (Col. 3:4), in all his writings St. Paul was endeavouring to prove that the believers “are in communion with Him in all things” and “Precisely to show this union does he speak of the Head and the body” (St. John Chrysostom, in Coloss. Hom. 7, MG, 62, 375). It is highly probable that the term was suggested by the Eucharistic experience (cf. 1 Cor. 10:17), and was deliberately used to suggest its sacramental connotation. The Church of Christ is one in the Eucharist, for the Eucharist is Christ Himself, and He sacramentally abides in the Church, which is His Body. The Church is a body indeed, an organism, much more than a society or a corporation. And perhaps an “organism” is the best modern rendering of the term to soma, as used by St. Paul.

Still more, the Church is the body of Christ and His “fulness” Body and fulness (to sóma and to pléroma) — these two terms are correlative and closely linked together in St. Paul’s mind, one explaining the other: “which is His body, the fulness of Him Who all in all is being fulfilled” (Eph. 1:23). The Church is the Body of Christ because it is His complement. St. John Chrysostom commends the Pauline idea just in this sense. “The Church is the complement of Christ in the same manner in which the head completes the body and the body is completed by the head.” Christ is not alone. “He has prepared the whole race in common to follow Him, to cling to Him, to accompany His train.” Chrysostom insists, “Observe how he (i.e. St. Paul) introduces Him as having need of all the members. This means that only then will the Head be filled up, when the Body is rendered perfect, when we are all together, co-united and knit together” (St. John Chrysostom, in Ephes. Hom. 3, MG, 52, 29). In other words, the Church is the extension and the “fulness” of the Holy Incarnation, or rather of the Incarnate life of the Son, “with all that for our sakes was brought to pass, the Cross and tomb, the Resurrection the third day, the Ascension into Heaven, the sitting on the right hand” (Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, Prayer of Consecration).

The Incarnation is being completed in the Church. And, in a certain sense, the Church is Christ Himself, in His all-embracing plenitude (cf. 1 Cor. 12:12). This identification has been suggested and vindicated by St. Augustine: “Non solum nor Christianos factos esse, sed Christum” [Not only to make us Christians, but Christ]. For if He is the Head, we are the members: the whole man is He and we — totus homo, ille et nos — Christus et Ecclesia.” And again: “For Christ is not simply in the head and not in the body (only), but Christ is entire in the head and body” — “non enim Christus in capite et non in corpore, sed Christus totus in capite et in corpore” (St. Augustine in Evangelium Joannis tract, 21, 8, MG. 35, 1568); cf. St. John Chrysostom in I Cor. Hom. 30, MG, 61, 279-283). This term totus Christus (Augustine in Evangelium Joannis tr. ML, 38, 1622). occurs in St. Augustine again and again, this is his basic and favourite idea, suggested obviously by St. Paul. “When I speak of Christians in the plural, I understand one in the One Christ. Ye are therefore many, and ye are yet one: we are many and we are one” — “cum plures Christianos appello, in uno Christo unum intelligo” (St. Augustine in Ps. 127, 3, ML, 37, 1679). “For our Lord Jesus is not only in Himself, but in us also” — “Dominus enim Jesus non solum in se, sed et in nobis” (St. Augustine in Ps. 90 enarr. 1, 9, ML, 37, 1157). “One Man up to the end of the ages” — “Unus homo usque ad finem saeculi extenditur” (St. Augustine in Ps. 85, 5, ML, 37, 1083).

The main contention of all these utterances is obvious. Christians are incorporated into Christ and Christ abides in them — this intimate union constitutes the mystery of the Church. The Church is, as it were, the place and the mode of the redeeming presence of the Risen Lord in the redeemed world. “The Body of Christ is Christ Himself. The Church is Christ, as after His Resurrection He is present with us and encounters us here on earth” (A. Nygren, Corpus Christi, in En Bok om Kyrkan, av Svenska teologer, Lund, 1943, p. 20). And in this sense one can say: Christ is the Church. “Ipse enim est Ecclesia, per sacramentum corporis sui in se … eam continens” (St. Hilary in Ps. 125, 6, ML, 9, 688). [For He himself is the Church, containing it in himself through the sacrament of his body.] Or in the words of Karl Adam: “Christ, the Lord, is the proper Ego of the Church” (Karl Adam, Das Wesen Katholizisimus, 4 Ausgabe, 1927, p. 24).

The Church is the unity of charismatic life. The source of this unity is hidden in the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper and in the mystery of Pentecost. And Pentecost is continued and made permanent in the Church by means of the Apostolic Succession. It is not merely, as it were, the canonic skeleton of the Church. Ministry (or “hierarchy”) itself is primarily a charismatic principle, a “ministry of the sacraments,” or “a divine oeconomia.” Ministry is not only a canonical commission, it belongs not only to the institutional fabric of the Church — it is rather an indispensable constitutional or structural feature, just in so far as the Church is a body, an organism. Ministers are not, as it were, “commissioned officers” of the community, not only leaders or delegates of the “multitudes,” of the “people” or “congregation” — they are acting not only in persona ecclesiae. They are acting primarily in persona Christi. They are “representatives” of Christ Himself, not of believers, and in them and through them, the Head of the Body, the only High Priest of the New Covenant, is performing, continuing and accomplishing His eternal pastoral and priestly office. He is Himself the only true Minister of the Church. All others are but stewards of His mysteries. They are standing for Him, before the community — and just because the Body is one only in its Head, is brought together and into unity by Him and in Him, the Ministry in the Church is primarily the Ministry of unity. In the Ministry the organic unity of the Body is not only represented or exhibited, but rather rooted, without any prejudice to the “equality” of the believers, just as the “equality” of the cells of an organism is not destroyed by their structural differentiation: all cells are equal as such, and yet differentiated by their functions, and again this differentiation serves the unity, enables this organic unity to become more comprehensive and more intimate. The unity of every local congregation springs from the unity in the Eucharistic meal. And it is as the celebrant of the Eucharist that the priest is the minister and the builder of Church unity. But there is another and higher office: to secure the universal and catholic unity of the whole Church in space and time. This is the episcopal office and function. On the one hand, the Bishop has an authority to ordain, and again this is not only a jurisdictional privilege, but precisely a power of sacramental action beyond that possessed by the priest. Thus the Bishop as “ordainer” is the builder of Church unity on a wider scale. The Last Supper and Pentecost are inseparably linked to one another. The Spirit Comforter descends when the Son has been glorified in His death and resurrection. But still they are two sacraments (or mysteries) which cannot be merged into one another. In the same way the priesthood and the episcopate differ from one another. In the episcopacy Pentecost becomes universal and continuous, in the undivided episcopate of the Church (episcopatus unus of St. Cyprian) the unity in space is secured. On the other hand, through its bishop, or rather in its bishop, every particular or local Church is included in the catholic fulness of the Church, is linked with the past and with all ages. In its bishop every single Church outgrows and transcends its own limits and is organically united with the others. The Apostolic Succession is not so much the canonical as the mystical foundation of Church unity. It is something other than a safeguard of historical continuity or of adminnistrative cohesion. It is an ultimate means to keep the mystical identity of the Body through the ages. But, of course, Ministry is never detached from the Body. It is in the Body, belongs to its structure. And ministerial gifts are given inside the Church (cf. 1 Cor. 12).

The Pauline conception of the Body of Christ was taken up and variously commented on by the Fathers, both in the East and in the West, and then was rather forgotten.” (See E. Mersch, S.J., Les Corps Mystique du Christ, Etudes de Theologie Historique, 2 vols., 2nd edition, Louvain, 1936). It is high time now to return to this experience of the early Church which may provide us with a solid ground for a modern theological synthesis. Some other similes and metaphors were used by St. Paul and elsewhere in the New Testament, but much to the same purpose and effect: to stress the intimate and organic unity between Christ and those who are His. But, among all these various images, that of the Body is the most inclusive and impressive, is the most emphatic expression of the basic vision (The image of the Bride and her mystical marriage with Christ, Eph. 5:23f, express the intimate union. Even the image of the House built of many stones, the corner stone being Christ, Eph. 2:20f; cf. 1 Pet. 2:6, tends to the same purpose: many are becoming one, and the tower appears as it were built of one stone; cf. Hermans, Shepherd, Vis. 3, 2, 6, 8. And again “the People of God” is to be regarded as an organic whole. There is no reason whatever to be troubled by the variety of vocabularies used. The main idea and contention is obviously the same in all cases). Of course, no analogy is to be pressed too far or over-emphasized. The idea of an organism, when used of the Church, has its own limitations. On the one hand, the Church is composed of human personalities, which never can be regarded merely as elements or cells of the whole, because each is in direct and immediate union with Christ and His Father-the personal is not to be sacrificed or dissolved in the corporate, Christian “togetherness” must not degenerate into impersonalism. The idea of the organism must be supplemented by the idea of a symphony of personalities, in which the mystery of the Holy Trinity is reflected (cf. John 17:21 and 23), and this is the core of the conception of “catholicity” (sobornost, Cf. George Florovsky, “The Catholicity of the Church,” above). This is the chief reason why we should prefer a christological orientation in the theology of the Church rather than a pneumatological (Such as in Khomiakov’s or in Moehler’s Die Einheit in der Kirche). For, on the other hand, the Church, as a whole, has her personal centre only in Christ, she is not an incarnation of the Holy Spirit, nor is she merely a Spirit-being community, but precisely the Body of Christ, the Incarnate Lord. This saves us from impersonalism without committing us to any humanistic personification. Christ the Lord is the only Head and the only Master of the Church. “In Him the whole structure is closely fitted together and grows into a temple holy in the Lord; in Him you too are being built together into a dwelling-place for God in the Spirit (Eph. 2:21-22, Bp. Challoner’s version).

The Christology of the Church does not lead us into the misty clouds of vain speculations or dreamy mysticism. On the contrary, it secures the only solid and positive ground for proper theological research. The doctrine of the Church finds thereby its proper and organic place in the general scheme of the Divine Oeconomía of salvation. For we have indeed still to search for a comprehensive vision of the mystery of our salvation, of the salvation of the world.

One last distinction is to be made. The Church is still in statu viae and yet it is already in statu patriae. It has, as it were, a double life, both in heaven and on earth” (Cf. St. Augustine in Evang. Joannis tract, 124, 5, ML, 35, 19f, 7). The Church is a visible historical society, and the same is the Body of Christ. It is both the Church of the redeemed, and the Church of the miserable sinners — both at once. On the historical level no final goal has yet been attained. But the ultimate reality has been disclosed and revealed. This ultimate reality is still at hand, is truly available, in spite of the historical imperfection, though but in provisional forms. For the Church is a sacramental society. Sacramental means no less than “eschatological.” To eschaton does not mean primarily final, in the temporal series of events; it means rather ultimate (decisive); and the ultimate is being realized within the stress of historical happenings and events. What is “not of this world” is here “in this world,” not abolishing this world, but giving to it a new meaning and a new value, “transvaluating” the world, as it were. Surely this is still only an anticipation, a “token” of the final consummation. Yet the Spirit abides in the Church. This constitutes the mystery of the Church: a visible “society” of frail men is an organism of the Divine Grace (See Khomiakov’s essay On the Church; English translation by W. J. Birkbeck, Russia and the English Church, first published 1895, ch. 23, pp. 193-222).

The new creation

The primary task of the historical Church is the proclamation of another word “to come.” The Church bears witness to the New Life, disclosed and revealed in Christ Jesus, the Lord and Saviour. This it does both by word and deed. The true proclamation of the Gospel would be precisely the practice of this New Life: to show faith by deeds (cf. Matt. 5:16).

The Church is more than a company of preachers, or a teaching society, or a missionary board. It has not only to invite people, but also to introduce them into this New Life, to which it bears witness. It is a missionary body indeed, and its mission field is the whole world. But the aim of its missionary activity is not merely to convey to people certain convictions or ideas, not even to impose on then a definite discipline or a rule of life, but first of all to introduce them into the New Reality, to convert them, to bring them through their faith and repentance to Christ Himself, that they should be born anew in Him and into Him by water and the Spirit. Thus the ministry of the Word is completed in the ministry of the Sacraments.

“Conversion” is a fresh start, but it is only a start, to be followed by a long process of growth. The Church has to organize the new life of the converted. The Church has, as it were, to exhibit the new pattern of existence, the new mode of life, that of the “world to come.” The Church is here, in this world, for its salvation. But just for this reason it has to oppose and to renounce “this” world. God claims the whole man, and the Church bears witness to this “totalitarian” claim of God revealed in Christ. The Christian has to be a “new creation.” Therefore he cannot find a settled place for himself within the limits of the “old world.” In this sense the Christian attitude is, as it were, always revolutionary with regard to the “old order” of “this world.” Being “not of this world” the Church of Christ “in this world” can only be in permanent opposition, even if it claims only a reformation of the existing order. In any case, the change is to be radical and total.

Historical antinomies

Historical failures of the Church do not obscure the absolute and ultimate character of its challenge, to which it is committed by its very eschatological nature, and it constantly challenges itself.

Historical life and the task of the Church are an antinomy, and this antinomy can never be solved or overcome on a historical level. It is rather a permanent hint to what is “to come” hereafter. The antinomy is rooted in the practical alternative which the Church had to face from the very beginning of its historical pilgrimage. Either the Church was to be constituted as an exclusive and “totalitarian” society, endeavouring to satisfy all requirements of the believers, both “temporal” and “spiritual,” paying no attention to the existing order and leaving nothing to the external world — it would have been an entire separation from the world, an ultimate flight out of it, and a radical denial of any external authority. Or the Church could attempt an inclusive Christianization of the world, subduing the whole of life to Christian rule and authority, to reform and to reorganize secular life on Christian principles, to build the Christian City. In the history of the Church we can trace both solutions: a flight to the desert and a construction of the Christian Empire. The first was practiced not only in monasticism of various trends, but in many other Christian groups and denominations. The second was the main line taken by Christians, both in the West and in the East, up to the rise of militant secularism, but even in our days this solution has not lost its hold on many people. But on the whole, both proved unsuccessful. One has, however, to acknowledge the reality of their common problem and the truth of their common purpose. Christianity is not an individualistic religion and it is not only concerned for the “salvation of the soul.” Christianity is the Church, i.e. a Community, the New People of God, leading its corporate life according to its peculiar principles. And this life cannot be split into departments, some of which might have been ruled by any other and heterogeneous principles. Spiritual leadership of the Church can hardly be reduced to an occasional guidance given to individuals or to groups living under conditions utterly uncongenial to the Church. The legitimacy of these conditions must be questioned first of all. The task of a complete re-creation or re-shaping of the whole fabric of human life cannot or must not be avoided or declined. One cannot serve two Masters and a double allegiance is a poor solution. Here the above-mentioned alternative inevitably comes in-everything else would merely be an open compromise or a reduction of the ultimate and therefore total claims. Either Christians ought to go out of the world, in which there is another Master besides Christ (whatever name this other Master may bear: Caesar or Mammon or any other and in which the rule and the goal of life are other than those set out in the Gospel — to go out and to start a separate society. Or again Christians have to transform the outer world, to make it the Kingdom of God as well, and introduce the principles of the Gospel into secular legislation.

There is an inner consistency in both programmes. And therefore the separation of the two ways is inevitable. Christians seem compelled to take different ways. The unity of the Christian task is broken. An inner schism arises within the Church: an abnormal separation between the monks (or the elite of the initiated) and the lay-people (including clergy, which is far more dangerous than the alleged “clericalization” of the Church. In the last resort, however, it is only a symptom of the ultimate antinomy. The problem simply has no historical solution. A true solution would transcend history, it belongs to the “age to come.” In this age, on the historic plane, no constitutional principle can be given, but only a regulative one: a principle of discrimination, not a principle of construction.

For again each of the two programmes is self-contradictoiy. There is an inherent sectarian temptation in the first: the “catholic” and universal character of the Christian message and purpose is here at least obscured and often deliberately denied, the world is simply left out of sight. And all attempts at the direct Christianization of the world, in the guise of a Christian State or Empire, have only led to the more or less acute secularization of Christianity itself. (For a more detailed treatment, see George Florovsky, The Antinomies of Christian History, which will be published in the Collected Works of George Florovsky).

In our time nobody would consider it possible for everyone to be converted to a universal monasticism or a realization of a truly Christian, and universal, State. The Church remain “in the world,” as a heterogeneous body, and the tension is stronger than it has ever been; the ambiguity of the situation is painfully left by everyone in the Church. A practical program for the present age can be deduced only from a restored understanding of the nature and essence of the Church. And the failure of all Utopian expectations cannot obscure the Christian hope: the King has come, the Lord Jesus, and His Kingdom is to come.


MONASTIC HUMILITY

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St. Anthony the Great: Wisdom Derived from Humility


 Humility to virtues, it is often said, is like a root to a tree. A tree could not grow strong, bear fruit, or live a long life unless its roots are established deep in the ground. The branches of humility are modesty, unpretentiousness and respect. Therefore humility, defined as being free from pride, is primary for all those seeking a strong enduring relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ. Humility, once firmly established, makes the foundation for wisdom strong . King Solomon famed for his wisdom said, "When pride comes, then comes shame; but with the humble is wisdom" (Proverbs 11:2). David the Prophet and King said, "The testimony of the Lord is sure, making the wise the simple" (Psalm 19:7), "the simple" referred to here being the humble. In the Holy Book of Sirach we read, "A poor man with wisdom can hold his head high and take his seat among the great" (Sirach 11:1). Again, the poor man in this verse refers to the humble. Why humble? The poor man knows he is poor, is patient when misfortunes strike him, blames himself in everything and does not care about the opinion of others because his aim is simply to please God. St. Pachomius, the noted founder of coenobitic monasticism, said, "Be humble so that God guards and strengthens you, because God looks to the humble. Be humble so that God fills you with wisdom, knowledge, and understanding, because it is written that He guides the humble and teaches His ways to the meek." Also St. Pachomius said, "Be humble in order to be joyful, because joy goes hand in hand with humility." The childhood of this humble saint, Abba Anthony, is one of necessary contemplation by children and youth today. Some saints were born saints; others were saints from their mother's womb (St. John and Jeremiah the prophet). These saints were among the highest levels of saints, a gift from the Lord. St. Anthony was not born in this class of saints. He was a youth born to a noble family attributed for their great wealth. St. Athanasius the Great wrote much concerning the family and childhood of St. Anthony. Our saint was an Egyptian, a descendant of a slave-owning family. His forefathers were believers in the Lord Jesus Christ and therefore from his earliest childhood, St. Anthony, was blessed by having been brought up in the fear of the Lord. As a child reared up in the secular world, he knew nothing of his father's business or of what went on among his kinsmen. He was so silent in disposition and his mind was so humble that he did not even trouble his parents by asking them questions. He was exceedingly modest and honest beyond measure. When he attended church with his parents he would run before them to the church in an outflow of his affection. St. Anthony never neglected or held lightly the observance of any of the seasons of the church neither in his childhood nor in his early manhood. Since childhood until he began to distinguish between good and evil; his going to church was not a mere custom, but the result of discernment and understanding. As a child and a young man, St. Anthony looked up to his family as his teachers, paying them honor after the manner of a full grown man, and they, at their old age, regarded him as the master of the house until their days came to an end. When St. Anthony became an adult, he made the eastern mountains and desert his home; continually having to strive to overcome great obstacles in his attempt to achieve the highest level of sainthood. He desired to prove his love to God and his readiness to exhaust every effort to live in unity with God by leaving the world voluntarily, giving all his wealth to the needy; so that he could live the life of poverty, he had believed, would assist him to gain the earthly life nearest to the Lord, he so ardently wanted. In all St. Anthony's earthly accomplishments and fame, he retained his humility. As St. Makarius in one of his contemplations said that he saw demon's lures scattered all over the earth and asked, "Lord, who can escape it?" And following this question, St. Makarius heard a voice answering, "The humble will." St. Anthony's humility took many forms. From childhood, St. Anthony listened to others without insisting on his own opinion. As an adult, St. Anthony committed himself to solitude and practiced it by living enclosed for twenty years during which he did not see a single human face. This, it is thought, is the life he had preferred. Yet, following many years in the desert, when people gathered at his door, asking to see him or hear his teachings, he did not turn them away even though he wanted to remain in the life of complete solitude he had chosen for himself. He instinctively knew he must replace his preferred way of life and begin to teach monasticism, opening his door to all that wanted to visit. He thus changed his life style for the sake of others; and with wisdom accepted what God wanted him to do. St. Anthony believed monasticism entailed abandoning the world and living in the desert in prayer and meditation. However, when bishops called upon him to go to Alexandria to fight Aranism, he went to the city and stayed with the people for three days until his mission had been accomplished. Only then did he return to his solitude. He was obedient and did as he was told although he was about one hundred years of age at the time. Another act of humility encompassed visiting the martyrs awaiting trial and torture. He gave them his support and encouraged them. Further, with humility St. Anthony overcame stringency and stubbornness normally associated with isolation. His modesty created gentleness in him. He flexibly exercised wisdom, increasing moderation and discernment with himself and others. He became happy and joyful in his humility and kept it a central part of him till the end of his earthly life. During the time of St. Anthony, the Egyptians were in the habit of taking the righteous men's corpses especially those of the blessed martyrs, embalming them and placing them not in graves but on biers in their houses; for they thought that by doing so, they were doing them honor. When St. Anthony got sick,he instructed his two disciples who had been with him the last fifteen years to dig a grave for him and never to tell anyone one where they would bury him. "...and there I shall be until the Resurrection of the dead". Humility, even unto death, was St. Anthony's last wish, following the example of the deaths and ground burials of the holy Apostles. St. Anthony further gave instructions for his meager possessions. "Divide my garments into lots and give one leather tunic to Bishop Athanasius and the covering of this my bed which he gave to me when it was new; but now it has the age of many years. And to Bishop Serapion do ye give the other leather coat; and this covering of my bed which is made of hair you yourselves shall keep." His only possessions taken care of, he instructed his disciples to abide in the peace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and his face became full of joy unspeakable. With heavenly joy upon his face, St. Anthony departed from this world. The disciples wrapped around him the garment which he had wore, dug an unmarked hole, and buried his body without ceremony. To this very day no man knows where they had buried him except the two disciples who had laid him in the earth. In quiet finality was the end in the body of the 105 years of the blessed St. Anthony, a great man of God who from his earliest youth to his old age never strayed from the Lord his God. Many youth have often asked why St. Anthony did not become a bishop; yet he was a contemporary of bishops. During the day of St. Anthony it was not mandated that bishops should be chosen from among monks. In addition, during St. Anthony's time, monasticism was regarded as a spiritual order beyond the realm of pastoral care. It was a life considered better than priesthood and closer to that of the angels. Given those facts, who would quit monasticism to become a bishop. As stated earlier, one of his famous disciples who wrote his biography was a deacon and became a Patriarch, St. Athanasius the Apostolic. Today, our beloved popes are followers of the monastic life and St. Anthony's legacy, of great humility serving the papacy; preserving the same spiritual virtues as St. Anthony the Great. Today, our popes and their predecessors examples are again supporting the evident; that great humility in life renders ever greater wisdom in service to the Lord Jesus Christ. Ephram El-Souriany said, "Inside the meek and humble man, the spirit of wisdom rests." This is such an astounding quote when put in perspective regarding the life of St. Anthony, who he had no guide. He had little childhood formal education. There were no books he could research in order to self educate himself in the desert. He was alone throughout most of his spiritual quest without companions; but did not fall once. He had complete faith in God, the longevity of his life from childhood till death believing that God was with him. He obtained his strength from deep within himself and had the courage to enter into the uncharted unknown in the search of angelic worship. His humility conceived his wisdom. Today, we commemorate St. Anthony the Great not only on his feast but also in the commemoration of the saints in our Divine Liturgy and in the Midnight Prayers. Methodius (c290) an Ante-Nicene and bishop of Lycia wrote, "All the bodily members are to be preserved intact and free from corruption. This means not only those members that are sexual, but those other members too that minister to the service. For it would be ridiculous to keep pure the reproductive organs, but not the tongue. It would be ridiculous to preserve the tongue, but not the eyes, ears, or hands. Lastly and importantly, it would be ridiculous to keep all these members pure, but not the mind, defiling it with pride and anger." May the prayers of the great St. Anthony who sought holiness in solitude, willingly became an obedient and wise teacher, whose humility bore gentleness and goodness be with us all, Amen. Bishop Youssef Bishop, Coptic Orthodox Diocese of the Southern United States.


Humility
by Fr. Hugh Feiss, OSB


 Introduction Humility is one of the most prominent themes in the Rule of Benedict. It may well be the most difficult to understand. This discussion will discuss Benedict’s teaching, move to a theological definition and discussion, and finally conclude with some personal reflections. 

 The Rule of Benedict 

The teaching of the Rule of Benedict regarding humility is very complex. Perhaps the best contemporary expositor of that teaching is the Australian Trappist, Michael Casey.

1 Humility is Truth: He points out the humility is not a popular idea right now, though vanity is not prized either. He points out that ideas that seem irrelevant or trivial are often those that call one’s framework of thought into question. He also says that whereas we think of humility in psychological terms, in Benedict’s time it was more a matter of objective behavior. Once again, humility is truth: conformity of created reality with the intention of its Maker. Humble people are satisfied with the possibilities of human life. Humble people depend on God and recognize in themselves a space that only God can fill. They know they are sinners with a personal history of meanness and broken relationships, burdened with liabilities and limits which result from their personal history, and so in need of grace and acceptance of God’s providence and the challenges and opportunities it brings.¨ Humility joins us to the rest of the human race. We share their lot. Our gifts are held in trust for them. The fruit of humility is naturalness, being ourselves in grace.

St. Benedict’s Steps and their Sources 

 St. Benedict’s teaching on the steps of humility derives from the Institutes of John Cassian (4.39), who listed ten signs of humility. The Rule of the Master, written not long before Benedict’s Rule, was his immediate source. The Rule of the Master transformed Cassian’s ten signs into twelve steps. Perhaps Casey’s most important observation is that Benedict’s ladder of humility is not prescriptive, but descriptive. He is describing the way that humility will manifest itself over a lifetime in the monastery. They don’t cause progress, but measure it. In fact, Benedict doesn’t call humility a virtue. Benedict begins by citing the biblical paradox of the exaltation of the humble. Thus, the monk ascends by way of humility and discipline. His twelve steps are:

 (1)fear of the Lord 
(2)renunciation of self-will 
(3)obedience to the superior in imitation of Christ 
(4)patience and equanimity in difficulties 
(5)self-revelation 
(6)contentment with the least (7)awareness of one’s own liabilities (8)avoidance of individualistic and self-seeking behavior 
(9)radical restraint of speech 
(10) avoidance of laughter 
(11) gravity of speech 
(12) humility manifest in all facets of life.

 As one grows in humility one grows in love that ultimately casts out fear, and acts humbly from habit and with delight. Thus humility is not a way of diminishment, but a road to freedom, self-transcendence and the capacity to receive grace. Benedict begins with the inner attitudes then deals with outward behavior. One needs to work with both at once. Seriousness: Fear of the Lord (the first degree) One component of fear of the Lord is mindfulness, the opposite of mindless extroversion or blind following of instinct. Fear of the Lord involves a call from the Lord to conversion, to weed out evil in our good deeds. Desires are controlled by an awareness of the dangers they involve.

 Doing God’s Will (second and third degrees) Becoming responsive to God requires freeing oneself from alien powers: from sub-personal forces of sin. The choice is not between autonomy and submission, but to what one will submit. Often we see what commanded or drove us only in retrospect. Hence the list of deadly sins helps us identify where we are needful. The goal is not self-help but freedom to follow Christ. We can’t root out desires, but we can channel them and interpose discretion between desire and action. Obedience to the human superior is a means to the end of doing God’s will. The aim of religious obedience is not efficiency or the imposition of the superior’s will, but finding God’s will.

The Superior has to adapt to personal differences of monks, not vice versa (RB 2.31-32). Obedience should be ready, confident and cheerful. Patience (fourth degree) Obeying can lead to failure, unfairness. Hence one needs patience as an antidote to anger or sadness. Patience is acceptance, in union with Christ, of whatever pain life brings. The heart of patience is quieting feelings and thoughts which arise. 

Aelred of Rievaulx distinguished six steps in attaining internal peace: 
  • reject world standards in favor and Christian/monastic ones; 
  • don’t make excessive demands; 
  • be honest about internal factors and sensitivities which work against our peace; 
  • from experience learn one’s limitations; 
  • restrain taking frustration out on others or talking just to reinforce one’s own point of view; 
  • stillness: stay put to avoid avoidance and do some work to break from over-intense self-scrutiny. 
 Radical Self-Honesty (fifth degree) The routine of monastic (and non-monastic!) life can lead to discovery of internal factors at variance with one’s external practice. This can lead to a crisis. Then one needs to talk to someone with wisdom in order to clarify one’s understanding and to find support and a new perspective.

 Abasement (sixth to eighth degrees) 
 If one is tempted by tendencies of domination, acquisition and social approval one antidote is to accept inferior status. The dignity of a human being does not require stripes on one’s sleeve. However, monasteries tend to reward the compliant who are satisfied with status quo. 

These three degrees aim at contentment and equilibrium. The goal is harmony, not passivity, conformity or uniformity. 

 Restraint in Speech (ninth to eleventh degrees) 

 Silence is humility in word. Benedict is concerned with human speech, not environmental noise. “Taciturnitas” is a quality acquired by personal discipline, not an external asset. The aim of restraint in speech is to promote prayer. It includes absence of noise, disturbance, frivolity, and mental restlessness. Humor has a place, but playing the buffoon and vacuous chitchat do not. Benedict is describing a wise old man and suggests the young imitate him. For the most part, one will only be able to do that when one has done a lot of living. 

 Integration and Transformation (twelfth degree) 

 The outcome of a life of humility is the restoration of God’s likeness, the elimination of inner conflict, acceptance of one’s lowliness. This is where the whole ladder started, but not it is effortless and abiding. The authentic self is all that is left. 

Then, Benedict says, when one arrives at perfect love that casts out fear, one acts effortless out of love for Christ, good habit and delight in virtue. All this the Holy Spirit manifests in his worker now cleansed of sin and vices.

 Reflections 

 1. Fear of the Lord is probably the nodal point of the spirituality in the Rule of Benedict. God sees all; we are responsible for every second of our lives; we will be judged (RB 7.10; 7.26; 4.44-45; 19.1). This one needs “to keep in mind.” The purpose of the monastic environment and monastic practices is to help us keep in mind God’s presence. Recognition of the infinite difference between God and us is where humility and fear of the Lord meet. 

 2. The eighth step of humility is the most communal. It asks the monk to fit himself into the community, to respect the practice of the elders. Ultimately, learning to be at ease in community, neither neurotic about conforming nor feeling a need to not conform is a sign of maturity and humility. 

 3. This discussion of humility has emphasized the contrast between God’s infinite perfection and our own limits. It has not spoken much about comparing oneself with others. The gospels and Benedict’s Rule both speak of counting oneself the least. This doesn’t mean you should think of yourself as worthless. Rather it means that you know that everything you have is a gift. Knowing that, you can both accept a compliment and give what you have away. It also means that you give the other the benefit of the doubt, since you don’t know their inner disposition, their constraints and the blessings with which the other works. You do know yours, and you are ready to serve others, just as Christ was. 

A THEOLOGICAL DEFINITION: Karl Rahner formulated the following definition of humility: The disposition of the human being who, conscious of his radical distance from God, who is perfect Being, has gratefully and courageously taken to himself God’s self-emptying in his Son (Phil 2.2-8) and the transformation (elevation) therein revealed of the little and the weak of this world into the great of the kingdom of God (Mt 18.4 and parallel passages). This humble self-acceptance is expressed particularly in acceptance (forgiveness, endurance) of the weakness of one’s fellow man and in readiness to serve him and God.3 

 This definition merits some commentary. Humility is a disposition, a virtue or habit of heart that permeates one’s whole outlook. It is an outlook of human beings. Humility is related to the Latin word “humus,” which means earth or ground. The word “human” comes from the sent root. Humility is to recognize both the earthiness of human existence. Humility recognizes that we are created to be with all natural things and all people, in an interconnected web of life. Our ultimate ground is God, who is radically distant, but nevertheless present wherever God’s creative power is at work. This God who is utterly transcendent and imminent brings human beings and all else into existence; otherwise they are not. God is—all else is brought to be by God. Our greatness and our fragility and limits spring from the same source. One might even say they are ultimately identical. We are something, somebody, but derivatively, by the gift of Another.

 However, historically4 and theologically, humility is rooted primarily not in the human beings status as limited created beings, but in the example and teaching of the Son of God “who emptied himself” (Phil 2.7). Jesus, the incarnate Son, was meek and humble of heart (Mt 11.29). He taught that those who are last shall be first, that those who welcome children with childlike openness and who make themselves the servants of all are the great in the Kingdom of God. 

 Another dimension of our limitation and imperfection is not simply given but comes from sin, bad habit, bad example, and the failure of human beings to nurture one another. St. Bernard says that “Humility has two feet: appreciation of divine power and consciousness of personal weakness.” The Cloud of Unknowing echoes this: “There are two causes of this meekness: one is the foulness, wretchedness and weakness into which a man has fallen by sin…. The other is the superabundant love and worthiness of God himself.” The humble person gratefully and courageously takes to himself Christ’s humility. If we really recognize all that we are is God’s gift, then we will be thankful. That gratitude will show itself in the courage to follow Christ in his self-emptying on behalf of others. Humility is not a virtue of the fearful, but of the courageous. Self-emptying is glorification. Those who are “little and weak” by worldly measures are ”great” in God eyes. Humility is acceptance of our status as human beings, dust from dust, but redeemed and ennobled by the Son of God. Hence, humility is truth. One who is humble does need to resort to deception to bolster his self-esteem; or does he need to compete or envy others. The humble person accepts both her gifts and her limitations. This self-acceptance is expressed particularly in acceptance, forgiveness and patience for others and in readiness to serve other and God. To serve here means to be at their disposal, to be ready to perform any task on their behalf. 

 Conclusions 

1. Healthy humility is not the result of having never accomplished anything, but a readiness to let go of what one has accomplished. Humility is having a self, but being ready to give it away. 

 2. To reiterate a point already made: humility, clear-sighted avowal of one’s fragility and weakness opens us to compassion for others sufferings and limitations. 

 3. Yves Congar somewhere wrote that medieval authors find two motivations for prayer: God’s mercy (misericordia) and human misery (miseria). Recognizing one’s own sinfulness leads one to entrust oneself to the divine mercy. St. Bernard distinguished cold humility that is a matter of severe truth, and humility inspired by charity toward God and others. Christ’s humble service was inspired solely by love.5


ARCHBISHOP ANTHONY ON "HUMILITY"



Humility in Russian means a state of being at peace, when a person has made peace with God’s will; that is, he has given himself over to it boundlessly, fully, and joyfully, and says, “Lord, do with me as Thou wilt!” As a result he has also made peace with all the circumstances of his own life—everything for him is a gift of God, be it good or terrible. God has called us to be His emissaries on earth, and He sends us into places of darkness in order to be a light; into places of hopelessness in order to bring hope; into places where joy has died in order to be a joy; and so on. Our place is not necessarily where it is peaceful—in church, at the Liturgy, where we are shielded by the mutual presence of the faithful—but in those places where we stand alone, as the presence of Christ in the darkness of a disfigured world. On the other hand, if we think about the Latin roots of the word humility, we see that it comes from the word humus, which indicates fruitful earth.
St. Theophan writes about this. Just think about what earth is. It lies there in silence, open, defenseless, vulnerable before the face of the sky. From the sky it receives scorching heat, the sun’s rays, rain, and dew. It also receives what we call fertilizer, that is, manure—everything that we throw into it. And what happens? It brings forth fruit. And the more it bears what we emotionally call humiliation and insult, the more fruit it yields. Thus, humility means opening up to God perfectly, without any defenses against Him, the action of the Holy Spirit, or the positive image of Christ and His teachings. It means being vulnerable to grace, just as in our sinfulness we are sometimes vulnerable to harm from human hands, from a sharp word, a cruel deed, or mockery. It means giving ourselves over, that it be our own desire that God do with us as He wills. It means accepting everything, opening up; and then giving the Holy Spirit room to win us over. It seems to me that if a spiritual father would learn humility in this sense—seeing the eternal beauty in a person; if he would know his place, which is nothing other (and this is a place that is so holy, so wondrous) than the place of a friend of the bridegroom, who is appointed to safeguard the meeting of the bride with the Bridegroom. Then the spiritual father can truly be a traveling companion to his spiritual child, walk with him step by step, protect him, support him, and never intrude upon the realm of the Holy Spirit.
~Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh




 
ON THE TITLE OF POPE BENEDICT XVI
AFTER RESIGNATION

ON CONVERSION AND THE NEW MONASTICISM


MONASTIC OBEDIENCE

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RELIGIOUS OBEDIENCE


There are two major approaches to obedience within religious life: the monastic tradition and the apostolic tradition. It is important to realize that even though monastics and apostolics include obedience in their respective ways of life, and even if the tangible everyday results may often seem similar, or even the same, the basic theology, rationale and attitudinal direction are different.

Monastic Obedience


Monastic obedience begins with a personal relationship, not an organizational structure. Monastic obedience is a relationship between the monastic and the monastic leader, and then extends to the relationship with all of the monastic community in mutual obedience. The object of monastic obedience is the seeking of God. The monastic leader is a "director of souls," not a work boss nor a manager nor a torturer. Rather, all that is done by the leader with each individual is meant to help the individual move forward in the seeking of God. When the superior commands, it is because the command is a tool for this monastic's search for God. It is not a matter of "we need it and, as a side benefit, your doing it also will help you find God." The seeking of God is not a byproduct of a command and an obedient response.

Monastic obedience involves a discerning by the monastic leader of the needs of the individual monastic. On the part of the monastic it involves a trust in the spiritual mastery and discernment of the leader. Of course, this can only happen if the leader knows the monastic, which is why the fifth step of humility is for the monastic to reveal his/her inner self to the monastic leader so that the leader knows where the monastic is on the journey to God.
When the monastic feels wronged in obedience or that the leader has not discerned correctly that person's place on the spiritual journey, the monastic is to go to the leader and discuss the matter. The leader must respond according to RB 2 as a director of souls, accommodating and adapting self to each one's character and intelligence. Thus the leader is to discern the command with the person to see if it truly fits into the monastic's journey. In this process, then, the leader must be open to the individual's journey and the monastic must trust the leader. If the final decision goes against the wishes of the monastic, the Rule then directs the monastic to trust and to identify with the Crucified Lord in obeying. The latter, however, should be a rare experience.

Apostolic Obedience


As we know, apostolic communities refer to their profession as "taking vows" or some similar phrase with the word vows in it. The basic vows are termed the "evangelical counsels" since they are derived from the teachings and commands of Jesus in the gospels. Obedience, however, is the most difficult vow to locate in the gospels as a precise command. There are no words of Jesus highlighting submission to another human being as a distinguishing trait of being a follower of Jesus. Yet in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries it was included as an evangelical counsel for the emerging apostolic communities because it was seen as the pervasive value of Jesus' life-Jesus' total obedience to God even unto death. Thus obedience as a vow identified the religious with Jesus and his life. This, of course, was not dissimilar to one of the aspects of monastic obedience.

But there were three other aspects of apostolic obedience which distinguished it from monastic obedience. First, obedience, like chastity and poverty, was a distinct vow which could be separate or connected with the other two vows. It was not dependent upon them. Monastic obedience, on the other hand, was not a vow, but an articulation of a way of life, a response to the monastic way of life-listening. Monastic obedience was inseparable from cenobitic monasticism because without it, self-will, which was the vice of the sarabaites and gyrovagues, could emerge and destroy the listening which led from self-centeredness to God-centeredness.

Secondly, apostolic obedience, like the other evangelical counsels, was meant to counteract the vices of the times in Europe: power, expensive lifestyles, opulence in buildings and art, treachery among rulers (including the popes), excessive sensuality, oppression of the poor. Thus religious life as a counter-movement renounced all of this through the evangelical counsels. Chastity counteracted sensuality; poverty counteracted wealth; and obedience counteracted power. On the other hand, the monastic equivalent of these vows was directed toward listening to God and the renunciation was aimed at self-will, not at the societal ills of medieval society.

Thirdly, apostolic obedience was functional. Augustine of Hippo, in his communities, saw obedience as a primary element of the community to bind the people together and to help society function. The functional aspect became more fully emphasized with the nineteenth-century religious congregations. Obedience was directed toward the apostolic work of the congregation since the congregation was founded for a specific work and it was through the work that the sanctification of the member would be achieved. Since monastic life was not apostolically oriented, obedience was not directed toward ministerial work nor was work the primary method of sanctification. It would seem that within the monastery, obedience was not even directed toward work unless the work assigned was part of the individual's path to God or part of the mutual obedience shared among the members of the monastery.

Effect of Apostolic Obedience 
on Monastic Obedience

It seems that over the centuries, the notion of vows became accentuated within the monastic tradition. This was highlighted by canon law which classified all religious, whether apostolic or monastic, as having professed the evangelical counsels. Some monastic groups changed the traditional profession formula of the Rule to include an explicit statement of the evangelical counsels.

This attitude toward obedience changed from a search for God after both the monastic leader and the individual listened, to an attitude of functionalism. In other words, obedience was used to accomplish work or ministry. If a ministry required personnel, the leader assigned a person, even away from cenobitic living, whether the person wanted to do the work or not, wanted to leave or not, or even whether the person was qualified or not. Little attention was paid to the effect of the assignment on the personal journey of the monastic to God. The work itself, as in the apostolic tradition, would lead the person to God. Blind obedience to authoritarian commands suggested that merely because the person was obedient, the person was holy. The ancients, however, saw obedience as an expression and a step toward holiness, not the holiness.

Obedience became dissociated from the monastic journey because it lost its personal aspect. It was managerial and when this amounted to hardship it was justified because it permitted the monastic to identify with the Crucified Lord. Monastic leader and disciple became superior and subject, which led to a breakdown in the personal relationship between the monastic leader and the individual monastic to the detriment of the personal care of souls envisioned in RB 2.

Modern Consideration on Obedience


Maturity, autonomy, and responsibility are some of the buzz words of our day. We no longer believe that childlike, blind, and non-responsible obedience is healthy and spiritually rewarding. We would not interpret the "ready step of obedience" in RB 5 to mean that we would be out watering sticks before the superior finished the command. Nor are we so willing to be sent unquestioningly to missions away from the monastery against our desire to live the cenobitic life. Thus have we lost the sense of obedience handed on to us from the Rule? I do not believe so. I do believe, however, that we have corrected a misconception of obedience which emerged gradually over the centuries and developed into authoritarianism, especially during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and which seems to be trying to reassert itself within the Church today.

An attitude change has been taking place within the Church since the Second Vatican Council. Since almost the beginning of the Church, especially due to the Greek influence, life has been viewed dualistically. This dualism affected early monasticism as evidence in the neo-Platonism of John Cassian, who was a conduit to the West of the teachings of the Desert Fathers and a great influence on Benedict. Neo-Platonism had a mistrust of matter, of the world and of the body, especially its sexuality. Hierarchical structures and attitudes which held that some realities were good and others bad, and that some things were "better than, higher than holier than" others found their basis in dualism.

The God of dualism, as Sister Barbara Fiand has pointed out in Living the Vision (NY: Crossroad 1990), is a patriarchal ruler, different from a parent in his wrath and remoteness (though called Father), exacting love, holding obedience as primary. . . . The God of dualism is a "mighty fortress," a "bulwark," Lord of lords, King of kings. Only consecrated ministers (men) can approach his sanctuary, and consecrated fingers touch him. His love for us is an issue of faith. He sends suffering as chastisement for "our own good" and because he loves us.
The spirituality of dualism views our body as distinct from our soul, in fact, as the soul's prison. Acts of humility and self-abnegation, as well as overall punishment of the body, are encouraged or at least suggested.
Since the Second Vatican Council, however, a different vision of the world has been emerging, one in which God's reign (basileia) is present, love is the emphasis, the world is good, and mystery and ambiguity do exist. This vision of the world was reflected in the spirituality of Benedictine mystics such as Hildegard of Bingen and Mechtilde of Magdeburg.

Obedience of Leadership

This changing vision must be reflected in attitudes of both the leader of the community and the members.

First, it seems to me that the leader must take seriously RB 2 which describes the monastic leader as a director of souls, not a manager of institutions. Thus the leader as Christ in the monastery realizes that authority is what its Latin root means: augere-to empower, build up, edify. As Christ, the leader is teacher, but teacher because he/she listens to the Lord's instructions. The teaching and the commands resulting there from are like the leaven of divine justice. Obedience is not a good itself but rather a means toward realizing conformity with the divine will. The accent of obedience actually falls not so much on the individual monastic's act of obeying as on the conformity of the leader's command with the Lord's instruction.

Second, the leader must realize that obedience is personal, involving a personal relationship between the leader and the monastic. It is a leadership of discipleship. This necessitates a knowing, caring, and loving of each member. This is especially true for abbots because males often find it difficult to know, care and love in a personal way. Nevertheless, the guidance of persons, individually and collectively, has been entrusted to the monastic leader, whether male or female.

Third, leaders need to learn from the Desert Fathers and Mothers that leadership is often exercised by use of a story and a question. The gift of a leader is to be able to ask the question, not necessarily to give the answer. Each person's journey to God is slightly different and Benedict recognizes this when he states that the monastic leader must adapt "to each one's character and intelligence." The monastic leader cannot have all the answers but can help focus the disciple on the path.

Fourth, the dialogue established between RB 68 and RB 2 needs to be respected. The monastic, as an adult, discerns the will of God through lectio, common prayer and work, the three pillars of monastic life. This must be respected and taken into account by the monastic leader when the monastic comes to discuss his/her life or some decision of the leader.

Obedience of the Monastic

Adult obedience is the response of giving up self-centeredness. A person can only give up self-centeredness if one is mature enough to understand the decision and then to decide consciously to move from self-centeredness to God-centeredness through obedience to the monastic leader and the community.

It is important to remember that Benedict does not follow the Rule of the Master in transferring all responsibility of the monastic to the leader. RB drops those lines from RM which indicate that it is the leader who accepts responsibility for actions which the individual does in obedience. There is no substitution of wills in RB. Therefore Benedictine monastic obedience requires certain elements.

First, there is the responsibility of the monastic to seek God through listening. The monastic must discern his/her way to God and recognize that the monastic leader is a guide to assist on the journey.

Second, the monastic carries primary responsibility when asking for permissions. Merely because the leader gives a permission does not justify the matter. For example, if a monastic asks permission to fly to Europe on a vacation and receives the requisite permission, the monastic has observed neither monastic obedience nor monastic poverty merely because he/she sought the requisite permission. RB emphasizes that it is the inner spirit which counts not the outward observance.

Third, monastic obedience is not merely obedience to the monastic leader, but also obedience to the community. It seems that in our day, this aspect of obedience is primary. The individual must be responsive to the cenobitic life in its common prayer, chapter meetings, mealtimes, retreat, common gatherings, work and mutual support. It is not enough to seek from the monastic leader exemptions from the cenobitic aspects of life, not to hold oneself excused because of work. The obedient monastic is the person who is honest and acts with good intentions toward the common life of the monastery and observes that common life.

Fourth, for obedience to be a discernment to seek God, the monastic must be capable of sharing his/her journey with the monastic leader. If the leader must make decisions about a monastic in a vacuum, it is often because the monastic does not share his/her journey to God with the leader. This could be because the monastic has not arrived at an adult stage of self-image and communication. It also could be because the leader is not capable of listening to a person with the ear of his/her heart.

Fifth, the members of the community must realize that the leader of the community must make certain decisions and be responsible for them. An insistence that each member of the community partake in every decision affecting the community transforms obedience into consensus. Obedience presupposes trust. If trust is lacking within a community, the foundational relationship of a Benedictine monastery-namely living under a Rule and an abbot-has been lost. At the root of monastic obedience must be a trust, a trust toward the leader and a trust among the members of the community. Both are important and must be respected and balanced within the monastery.

Monastic obedience is not a carrying out of an order, but a total giving of self to God through a monastic community. Such giving sometimes does involve pain and hurt because the individual cannot "march merely to his/her own beat." But then neither can a spouse in a marriage or a child in a family. Obedience within the monastery today rests upon the idea that the cenobium, the community, is a society of persons who, through mutual love, sanctify each other. Obedience is the Yes of community living.

MONASTIC OBEDIENCE



"...We will give an account to God not only of deeds but even of words and thoughts. For under liberty, a man is more severely tested as to whether he will reverence, fear, and love the Lord...God desires obedience, which renders His worshippers secure—rather than sacrifices and burnt offerings, which avail men nothing towards righteousness (Irenaeus, c. 180)."

Obedience Leading to Salvation

Obedience has a direct role in salvation. This can be evidenced throughout Holy Scripture as well as ancient documentation of the many sayings of the early church fathers, which specifically address Biblical obedience. Deeply rooted into monastic life, a monk must pledge to be obedient as one of three vows necessary to enter into the ascetic way of life; the other two vows are chastity and poverty. While complete obedience is something one must constantly strive for, it is indeed understandable that this is a necessary component of ascetic life. 

"Most assuredly I say to you, if anyone keeps My word, he shall never see death (John 8:51)."

The apostle John writes that obedience is essential for prayers to be acceptable to the Lord. A devout monastic should pray without ceasing, living a continual life of prayer. In order for these prayers to be acceptable and fruitful, St. John explains to us that the secret to having answered prayers (both monastic and non-monastic) is... "Whatever we ask we receive from Him, because we keep His commandments and do those things that are pleasing in His sight" (I John 3:22). 

Therefore the monastic must live the life of believing in obedience not only for the salvation of his own soul but also for the prayers he prays for the faithful.

"Take heed to you and to the doctrine. Continue in them, for in doing this you will save both yourself and those who hear you" (I Timothy 4:16).

Salvation is not only necessary for the soul and prayers but it is also intertwined into the make-up of the personality of someone obedient to the Lord. It can be rightly said that those seeking a monastic way of life have become monks for one purpose and that is to attain the heavenly Kingdom. The lives of the desert fathers and in essence the monastic movement was based upon the attitude of fleeing into the desert to struggle against personal (versus worldly) darkness in order to discover the Kingdom of God that dwelt within their own hearts. To obtain this type of purity one must be obedient. St Pachomius said, "In the purity of his heart he saw the invisible God as in a mirror."

In addition to St. John, other New Testament writers such as St. Matthew would write concerning obedience as a premise in his Holy Gospel, the words of the Lord Jesus Christ, "Not everyone who says to Me, "Lord, Lord," shall enter into the Kingdom of Heaven, but he who does the will of My Father in Heaven" (7:21).

Perhaps ancient monasticism as an example to all worshippers base the principles of obedience on the "narrow gate," as it is written in the gospel of St. Luke, "Strive to enter through the narrow gate, for many, I say to you, will seek to enter and will not be able" (13:24). How does one enter through the narrow gate, by being obedient? 

St. Clement of Alexandria (c. 195) examines this step further by saying "It is the will of God that he who repents of his sins and is obedient to the commandments should be saved." Monastics are in constant repentance which instills the importance of obedience as a way of life and as leading to salvation.

"For this you know, that no fornicator, unclean person, nor covetous man, who is an idolater, has any inheritance in the Kingdom of Christ, and God. Let no one deceive you with empty words" (Ephesians 5:5-6).

St. Paul would later humbly say concerning the Lord Jesus Christ, "...Behold, I have come to do Your will O God" (Hebrews 10:7). Why would St. Paul have recorded such a revelation? St. Paul made this declaration most certainly because he recognized the essential and basic role of obedience in salvation and he desired to share it with us all. St. Paul in his ministry was not the only one to allude to the role of obedience in salvation. 

St. Irenaeus, bishop of Lyons, who heard St. Polycarp preaches as a young boy, further sternly, writes centuries later..."With respect to obedience and doctrine, we are not all the sons of God. Rather, it is only those who truly believe in Him and do His will. Now, those who do not believe, and do not obey His will, are sons and angels of the devil…Those who do not obey Him, being disinherited by Him, have ceased to be His sons."

Monastic life encourages following goodness, the goodness which is a fruit of obedience. Melito, bishop of Sardis in Asia (c. 170) says within the fragments of his remaining works, "He has set before you all these things, and shows you that, if you follow after evil, you will be condemned for your evil deeds. But, if you follow goodness, you will receive from Him abundant good, together with immortal life forever."

Obedience is essential not only to the monastic way of life, but it is a Biblical reality for the salvation of everyone. Obedience has been inherent in Christian teaching since the earliest of times. Obedience to God is the essence of the soul's salvation.

The Old Testament Prophets including King David would write about obedience:
"Blessed is the man who has not walked in the counsel of the ungodly, and has not stood in the way of the sinners, and has not sat in the seat of the evil men. But his will is in the law of the Lord, and in His law he shall meditate day and night. He shall be like the tree which is planted by the streams of the water, which shall yield its fruit in its due season, and its leaf shall not scatter, and in everything he does he prospers...(Psalm 1)"

The great St. Anthony, founding patriarch of monasticism said, "Obedience with abstinence gives men power over wild beasts."

As all the great writers and faithful believers from the most ancient of times, let us all strive to be obedient to the One Who calls all to salvation for the promise of the blessings to come.

Bishop Youssef
Abbot, St. Mary and St. Moses Abbey

ORTHODOX MONASTIC OBEDIENCE


Monastic Obedience

Men and women lived their lives consecrated to God under the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience; monastic's look up to and emulate the Angels in obedience and humility. The monastery is directed by a superior (abbot or abbess) and all members of the monastic community live in obedience to their elder. A monk who has no desires for earthly possessions is ready to succeed in his practice of pure prayer, prayer which is based on the successful fulfillment of obedience, chastity, and poverty.

In Orthodox monasticism obedience is the first and foremost rule. However, it must be voluntary. If a monk or a nun lives in voluntary obedience, he or she experiences more and greater freedom than a person in society who must live by the rules of society, whether he wishes it or not. The monk must never believe that his obedience was forced upon him; for it was he who made the decision to live the monastic life. He must desire it; he must believe that he is doing it voluntarily. Otherwise, he has no business becoming a monk. A monk must have in his mind the same willing obedience that Jesus displayed to His mother the Ever-Virgin Mary and to Joseph, as Saint Luke records for us in his gospel (Luke 2:51). In this respect a monk denies himself; he denies the whims and the desires of his ego and he becomes a slave of Christ. For he knows that only in this way will he find his true self, his real identity and his true freedom. Each monk has his obedience or work assignment to do, besides attending the prescribed services and offices

Orthodox Obedience

The coenobium is the ideal Christian community, where no distinction is drawn between mine and yours, but everything is designed to cultivate a common attitude and a spirit of fraternity. In the coenobium the obedience of every monk to his abbot and his brotherhood, loving kindness, solidarity and hospitality are of the greatest importance. Monks are the "guardians". They choose to constrain their bodily needs in order to attain the spiritual freedom offered by

The monk's journey to perfection is gradual and is connected with successive renunciations, which can be summarized in three. The first renunciation involves completely abandoning the world. This is not limited to things, but includes people and parents. The second is renunciation of the individual will, and the third is freedom from pride, which is identified with liberation from the sway of the world

The monastic life is described as "the angelic state", in other words a state of life that while on earth follows the example of the life in heaven. Virginity and celibacy come within this framework, anticipating the condition of souls in the life to come, where "they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are like angels in heaven". All the other obligations, even the other two monastic vows of obedience and poverty, essentially concern all the faithful. Needless to say, all this takes on a special form in the monastic life, but that has no bearing on the essence of the matter. The monastic vows are essentially not different from those taken at baptism, with the exception of the vow of celibacy. Furthermore, hair is also cut during baptism.

Orthodox Monastic Obedience

The monastic rule has as its strength to safeguard the monk in his daily life, helping him, through obedience, to keep unceasing vigil upon his inward integrity so that the union of heart and spirit may become for him a reality and lead him, as far as this is possible upon earth, to union with God. It is the primary rule of the order of Offices and also covers the obedience of intellectual and manual work. Work is itself a prayerful activity with the ascetic end in view of overcoming our rebel nature and to keep us from idleness which is so harmful to the spiritual life. Hagiography, icon painting, Byzantine music, woodcarving, incense preparation, making Church vestments, translating or writing books on the spiritual life and printing them, all arts that originated in Byzantium are still performed and flourish in the Monasteries

Finally, fervent and unceasing prayer, obedience to the elders of the Church, brotherly love and humility, as well as all the essential virtues of the monastic life were cultivated by the members of the Church from its earliest days. Obedience is very important in the spiritual life. Obedience, however, is always within certain boundaries. It can never involve doing what is illegal or immoral. True spiritual obedience has one end: to lead us to obedience to God. It is always within the Church, always toward a more profound level of communion, both Ecclesiasty and personally.

Christ's commandments demand strictness of life that we often expect only from monks. The requirements of decent and sober behavior, the condemnation of wealth and adoption of frugality 9, the avoidance of idle talk and the call to show selfless love are not given only for monks, but for all the faithful. Therefore, the rejection of worldly thinking is the duty not only of monks, but of all Christians. The faithful must not have a worldly mind.

It is not at all normal for lay people in the Church to be asked to be in blind obedience to an elder, or even to their parish priest, even if he is one of the two or three parish priests in America today who could truthfully be called a spiritual father. Indeed, even monastic's should not be in blind obedience. This would be contrary to the fundamental concepts of the meaning of faith, and certainly to the Orthodox doctrine of what the laity is.....One should be extremely cautious of anyone who wants to gain such absolute control over your mind and thought that they cannot allow you to freely associate and to freely and intelligently weigh and choose between seemingly conflicting ideas and "schools" of thought. In a monastery a special kind of obedience is necessary to maintain good order, avoid chaos and promote mutual cooperation and respect, and to avoid spiritual delusion. However, the same order of life does not apply to people living in the world, raising families and competing in the work place. Blind obedience to an individual is not at all a part of this concept, and the family -- including the parish family -- works together...


 THE LAST ANGELUS OF HH POPE BENEDICT XVI
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 24th

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Charismatic Renewal - General

An often asked question in the Forums concerns the legitimacy of the Charismatic Renewal and the phenomena associated with it. In the interests of full disclosure let me start by saying that I have never been, nor am I now, a member of this movement. 

The Church has never lacked charisms to build it up, both ordinary and extraordinary. However, it is the widespread  experience of the Holy Spirit's presence within Catholics and the manifestation of extraordinary charisms such as prophecy, speaking in tongues and healing, outside of those of evident great sanctity, which has characterized the Charismatic Renewal. This needs to be explained to understand what it means when the Church says that the Charismatic Renewal is an authentic movement of the Spirit in our times.


Ecclesiastical Acknowledgements

The Charismatic Renewal as a movement within the Catholic Church has been acknowledged by two Popes, Paul VI and John Paul II. Speaking to the International Conference on the Catholic Charismatic Renewal on May 19, 1975, Pope Paul VI encouraged the attendees in their renewal efforts and especially to remain anchored in the Church.

This authentic desire to situate yourselves in the Church is the authentic sign of the action of the Holy Spirit ... How could this 'spiritual renewal' not be a chance for the Church and the world? And how, in this case could one not take all the means to ensure that it remains so...
Pope John Paul II, for his part, has been more explicit.  Speaking to a group of international leaders of the Renewal on December 11, 1979, he said,

I am convinced that this movement is a very important component of the entire renewal of the Church.
Noting that since age 11 he had said a daily prayer to the Holy Spirit he added,

This was my own spiritual initiation, so I can understand all these charisms. They are all part of the richness of the Lord. I am convinced that this movement is a sign of his action.
For his part, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, Prefect for the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, has added his voice to the Pope's in acknowledging the good occurring in the Charismatic Renewal and providing some cautions. In a forward to a book by Cardinal Suenens, at that time the Pope's delegate to the Charismatic Renewal, the Prefect (Joseph Ratzinger) comments on the Post-Conciliar period stating,

At the heart of a world imbued with a rationalistic skepticism, a new experience of the Holy Spirit suddenly burst forth. And, since then, that experience has assumed a breadth of a worldwide Renewal movement. What the New Testament tells us about the charisms - which were seen as visible signs of the coming of the Spirit - is not just ancient history, over and done with, for it is once again becoming extremely topical.

Speaking of the book's subject, renewal and the powers of darkness, he says,

What is the relation between personal experience and the common faith of the Church? Both factors are important: a dogmatic faith unsupported by personal experience remains empty; mere personal experience unrelated to the faith of the Church remains blind.

Finally, he urges those who read the book to pay special attention to the author's double plea,

... to those responsible for the ecclesiastical ministry - from parish priests to bishops - not to let the Renewal pass them by but to welcome it fully; and on the other (hand) ... to the members of the Renewal to cherish and maintain their link with the whole Church and with the charisms of their pastors. [Renewal and the Powers of Darkness, Leo Cardinal Suenens (Ann Arbor: Servant Books, 1983)]


Charismatic Graces

The Second Vatican Council affirmed the legitimacy of charisms, both ordinary and extraordinary. A charism is simply "a grace freely given by God to build up the Church," as opposed to the graces given to sanctify the individual. St. Paul gives a list of charisms in 1 Cor. 12. They include ordinary charisms like teaching and administration and extraordinary ones like healing, miracles, and tongues. These things by themselves don't make the person holier, rather they enable him or her to serve others. Finally, the authenticity of charisms must be discerned, since charisms are not necessarily from the spirit of God (1 John 4). The Council taught,

Whether these charisms be very remarkable or more simple and widely diffused, they are to be received with thanksgiving and consolation since they are fitting and useful for the needs of the Church. Extraordinary gifts are not to be rashly desired nor is it from them that the fruits of apostolic labors are to be presumptuously expected. Those who have charge over the Church should judge the genuineness and proper use of these gifts, through their office, not indeed to extinguish the Spirit but to test all things and hold fast to what is good (cf. 1 Thes. 5:12, 19- 21). [Lumen Gentium 12]

The Church clearly wishes to follow a middle course, between a rationalistic skepticism and a blind credulity in alleged workings of the Holy Spirit. In the past the Church had condemned what it called Pentecostalism, understood as the total dependence, even theologically, on the presence and manifestation of charisms. Such a dependence is blind, for it fails to allow itself to be guided by the full content of the faith and the judgement of the Church's teaching authority. It is total when such "gifts" displace the means of grace in the life of the Christian, such as the sacraments. On the other hand, the Church cannot condemn charisms, since they are part of the patrimony of our apostolic faith. What we have seen in our time is the appearance of the Charismatic Renewal, an apparent outpouring of the extraordinary charisms. This doesn't mean that one has to be a charismatic, that charismatics are better Catholics, or that every alleged charism is authentic. Yet, as the Council noted, the Church must respect the workings of God, discerning the authentic from the inauthentic.

An authentic charism would not pull one away from the Church. If a Catholic leaves, seeking an emotional boost he no longer finds in the Church, he is seeking the gifts of the Giver and not the Giver of the gifts. Participation in the life of the Church should lead any Catholic (Charismatic, traditional, or ordinary) into a deeper relationship with the Eucharist, the Blessed Mother and the Pope. If it does not, something is spiritually wrong with that particular individual or with the guidance he is receiving within his group. Since a charism does not give the person any special infallibility or sanctity, given the extraordinary character of such gifts it is especially necessary for individuals possessing them to guard the purity of their faith, lest pride, self-seeking or emotionalism lead them astray, and they others. The reality that some have left the Church for Pentecostalism, or sought to create it within, points to the dangers. By contrast, the presence in the Church of a dynamic and faithful institution like the Franciscan University of Steubenville is evidence of the great good that can be done by those graced with authentic charismatic gifts exercised in union with the Church.

All such authentic charisms, therefore, are at the service of the Body of Christ, the Church (1 Cor 12, 14). As gifts of the Holy Spirit, they are supernatural graces beyond the power of human striving and human nature (e.g. miracle working), though some may build upon the natural talents of the recipient (e.g. teaching). St. Paul contrasts these charismata with "the greater gifts" of Faith, Hope and Charity (1 Cor. 13), which he says have lasting value. These "theological virtues" unite the person's mind and will to God. As a consequence, the Church teaches that Faith, Hope and Charity are necessary for salvation but the charismata are not. St. Paul's experience at Corinth demonstrated rather early in the Church how susceptible these charisms are to exaggeration. In another context, he would even warn the Corinthians that the devil can appear as an angel of light (1 Cor 11:14). Similarly, both St. Peter and St. John (1 Pet 5:8-9; 1 John 4:1) warn us of this danger.

St. Thomas Aquinas in his Summa Theologiae [ST II-II q172 a2] tells us that unless a charism requires the exercise of divine power the Holy Spirit accomplishes it through the mediation of the holy angels. When they are within the power of the angelic nature, they are also capable of demonic imitation. It is difficult to explain the "charismatic power of speech" of a Hitler, for instance, on purely natural grounds. It is for these reasons that most spiritual writers, especially the mystical doctor St. John of the Cross, warn us not to seek such extraordinary phenomenon. As noted earlier, Vatican II made this warning part of its teaching on the charismatic gifts.

Thus the Church on the one hand recognizes that the Holy Spirit moves where He will, and so she does not want to oppose His working, and on the other, that the Church must discern the authenticity of each charism, lest it be a deception of the evil one. For this reason to say that the Charismatic Renewal is approved by the Church is not a blanket approval of every alleged charismatic gift or every charismatic group or individual within the Church. The discernment of the Holy Spirit's action is an ongoing necessity within the Church and within the Charismatic Renewal.
The Pope addressing the Charismatic renewal

Discernment of Charisms

The Apostle John encourages us to test the spirits (1 John 4) and over the years the Church has developed criteria to determine whether the fruits are good or bad (Mt. 7:15-20). St. John teaches that if anyone denies Jesus Christ has come in the flesh (1 John 4:3) it is proof that the person does not have the Spirit of God. We can call this the doctrinal test of the fruit. The Spirit of God would never lead one away from the truth about Christ. Since the Church is an extension of the mystery of the Incarnation, the Spirit of God would never lead one away from the Catholic Church or Her teachings. Similarly, the Spirit of God would never lead one away from the practice of the faith (morally, devotionally, sacramentally). Christ has left us the means of salvation and His Spirit would never deprive us of them. This could be called the practical test of the fruit. "Not everyone who says to me Lord, Lord will enter the Kingdom of Heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven" (Mt. 7:21-23). Positively said, the Holy Spirit's activity (including among non-Catholics) must necessarily tend toward Catholic truth and unity (doctrine and practice), no matter how remote that unity might appear.

On the other hand, a spirit which acknowledges Jesus Christ come in the flesh is of God (1 John 4:2). Such doctrinal correctness is a motive of credibility in the authenticity of a charism or event. Yet, a person may simply be operating by the human spirit fortified by Faith and may not be manifesting an extraordinary gift. To determine whether a given phenomenon exceeds human nature calls for a discernment beyond simple orthodoxy. For example, in the special case of an apparition, when a bishop declares an event to be "worthy of belief" or "not worthy of belief" he does so based upon both scientific (can it be explained?) and theological (is it from God?) criteria. So, orthodoxy is the necessary beginning of the discernment, not the end.

There is yet another dimension of the discernment which needs to be considered. Since charisms are given to build up the Church, there is no necessary connection with personal sanctity. Saints, sinners and even unbelievers have manifested these gifts. The pagan prophet Balaam was given the Divine spirit of prophecy in order to authenticate Israel as the People of God (Num. 22). Thus the moral state of the recipient (good or bad) does not by itself indicate a true or false charism. When actually under the constraint of the Spirit of God, however, the true charismatic could not say or do anything contrary to that Spirit. No one could claim, for instance, that the Spirit of God led him to get drunk or do anything sinful, although he might at other times do such things.

Practically speaking, therefore, the many instances of extraordinary charisms within the Charismatic Renewal will never come under the official scrutiny of the Church. Priests and Catholic laity associated with the Renewal will most likely have to discern each instance themselves, according to the theological criteria of Catholic theology and prudence. It is easier to dismiss a phenomenon as NOT from God than it is to determine its other possible sources (human or divine spirit). A basic question prayerfully asked must be "is this particular event a credible example of the action of the Spirit of God - a Spirit incapable of any lie or sin and which can only lead people (even non-Catholics) to a deeper Catholic faith and unity?" This should do much to protect us from the roaring lion (1 Peter 5:8), even if it cannot produce the judgement that something is certainly from God - a fact which only the Holy See can ultimately state.

Answered by Colin B. Donovan, STL

ABBOT ANDRE LOUF ON PRAYER OF THE HEART

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The main reason why prayer (and talking about prayer) seems so difficult nowadays is that we simply do not know what we are to pray with. Where in our body are we to locate the organ of prayer? Our lips and our mouth recite prayers, our intellect practises re¬flection and meditation, our heart and mind are lifted up to God. With this language we are familiar; but what is it we intend to con¬vey by these concepts? Lips, mouth, intellect, heart and soul? What do we actually pray with?

The organ of prayer: our heart
Each person has been given by the creator an organ primarily designed to get him praying. In the creation story we read how God made man by breathing into him his living spirit (Gen. 2:7) and¬St. Paul goes on-man became a living soul (I Cor. 15:45). Adam was the prefiguration of Him who should come : Jesus, the second Adam, after whose image the first man had been created. This means that being in relation with the Holy Trinity, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, is a fundamental part of our nature. The living spirit of God is the fount of prayer in us.
In the course of the centuries this organ has acquired very diverse names in various cultures and languages; but in fact they all signify the same thing. Let us agree to call it by the oldest name it has ever had-a name that in the Bible occupies a central place : the heart. In the Old Testament the heart denotes the inward man. The New Testament builds on this notion and perfects it.
The Lord it is who probes the heart and loins (Jer. 11:20), nothing is hidden from Him : Lord ‘you examine me and know me, you know if I am standing or sitting ... God, examine me and know my heart, probe me and know my thoughts’ (Ps. 139). The heart is what we yearn with : God grants the desire of the heart (Ps. 20:4). According to the Bible even a man’s character is local¬ized in this centre : out of the heart proceed thoughts, sins, good and bad inclinations : envy and malice, joy, peace and pity. The heart may also express the whole person, for instance, in Joshua’s injunc¬tion to the Israelites regarding the occupation of the promised land ‘... take great care to practise the commandments and the Law which Moses the servant of Yahweh gave you : love Yahweh your God, follow his paths always, keep his commandments, be loyal to him and serve him with all your heart and soul’ (Josh. 22:5).
But a part of the chosen people do not heed this call and turn their heart away from the Lord : ‘... this people approaches me only in words, honours me only with lip-service while its heart is far from me’ (Isa. 29:13). The Israelites have hardened their hearts (Ezek. 2:14). Time after time God raises up prophets who will per¬sist in speaking of this apostasy : ‘But now, now-it is Yahweh who speaks-come back to me with all your heart, fasting, weeping, mourning. Let your hearts be broken, not your garments torn’ (Joel 2:12), for the Lord cannot countenance such disloyalty. He loves Israel with an everlasting love, is a jealous God. And the prophets show us how even the heart of God is turned and his mercy (heart’s compassion) is aroused (cf. Hosea 11: 8). Never will His love desert His people : ‘I did forsake you for a brief moment, but with great love will I take you back. In excess of anger, for a moment I hid my face from you. But with everlasting love I have taken pity on you, says Yahweh, your redeemer!’ (Isa. 54: 7-8).
At the very moment when the Jewish people are in deepest misery-the Babylonian exile-the prophet Ezekiel announces a new covenant : ‘I shall pour clean water over you and you will be cleansed; I shall cleanse you of all your defilement and all your idols. I shall give you a new heart, and put a new spirit in you; I shall remove the heart of stone from your bodies and give you a heart of flesh instead. I shall put my spirit in you ...’ (Ezek. 36:25-27).
Only a heart of flesh can really beat, can give life to the whole body. Only into such a heart can the Spirit make his entry; and the heart, at one time closed to the superabundance of grace, opens up again to His loving design : his Will, the Word, the Spirit.
He of whom Moses wrote in the Law-and the prophets also¬Jesus, the son of Joseph of Nazareth, brought us this New Covenant. God Himself has intervened to open up the human heart and make it once more receptive to His Word (Acts 16:14). Ascended now into heaven, He has sent us another Paraclete (‘Advocate’: John 14:16), who consoles, strengthens and encourages, the Anointing who teaches us everything (I John 2:27), the Holy Spirit who will remind us of all that Jesus has said to us (John 14: 26). ‘If your lips confess that Jesus is Lord and if you believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, then you will be saved’ (Rom. 10:9). Heart and lips, inward surrender and outward confession, beat here to one and the same rhythm. And here, eventually, prayer is born.
The beatitudes sum up in a few sentences the spiritual Law of the New Covenant : ‘How happy are the poor in spirit; ... happy those who mourn; ... happy the pure in heart : they shall see God’ (Matt. 5:3-12). When nothing any longer clouds and darkens the heart, it can be wholly opened to the Light; for God is Love and God is Light.
It will perhaps be clear by now that the heart, in the ancient sense of the word, is not the discursive intelligence with which we reason, nor the ‘feelings’ with which we respond to another person, nor yet the superficial emotion we call sentimentality. The heart is something that lies much deeper within us, the innermost core of our being, the root of our existence or, conversely, our summit, what the French mystics call ‘the very peak of the soul’ (‘la fine pointe de fame’ or ‘la cime de 1’esprit’). In our everyday life our heart is usually concealed. It hardly reaches the surface of our consciousness. We much prefer to stay put in our outward senses, in our impressions and feelings, in all that attracts -or repels us. And should we opt to live at a deeper level of our personal being, then we usually land up in abstraction : we reflect, we combine, we compare, we draw logical conclusions. But all this time our heart will be asleep-not beating yet to the rhythm of the Spirit.
Jesus was often reprimanding us: our hearts are blind, obdurate and closed (Mark 8:17). They are sluggish and slow (Luke 24:25), full of darkness, weighed down with pleasure and sorrows (Matt. 13:15). Our hearts must be circumcised. ‘Circumcise your heart then, to love the Lord your God and serve Him with all your heart and your soul’ (Deut. 10: 12-22). Then love of God and of our neighbour will be the fruit, for a sound heart produces good fruit (Matt. 7:17). It is a main enterprise for every individual to find the way back to his heart. He is an explorer, moving into that unknown, inner region. He is a pilgrim in search of his heart, of his deepest being. Everyone carries within him-to repeat the marvellous ex¬pression used by St. Peter in his first letter-’the hidden man of the heart’ (3:4). That ‘man’ is our deepest and most real being : he is who and what we are. There God meets us; and it is only from there that we in our turn can encounter people. There God addresses us; and from there we too are able to address people. There we receive from Him a new and as yet unfamiliar name, which He alone knows and which will be our name for ever in his Love; and only thence are we at length able to name another’s name, in the selfsame Love.
But so far we have not reached that point. We are only on the road towards our heart. Still, the marvellous world that awaits us there makes taking the greatest trouble worthwhile.

In a state of prayer
For our heart is already in a state of prayer. We received prayer along with grace, in our baptism. The state of grace, as we call it, at the level of the heart, actually signifies a state of prayer. From then on, in the profoundest depths of the self, we have a continuing contact with God. God’s Holy Spirit has taken us over, has assumed complete possession of us; he has become breath of our breath and Spirit of our spirit. He takes our heart in tow and turns it towards God. He is the Spirit, Paul says, who speaks without ceasing to our spirit and testifies to the fact that we are children of God. All the time, in fact, the Spirit is calling within us and He prays, Abba¬Father, with supplications and sighs that cannot be put into words but never for an instant cease within our hearts (Rom. 8:15; Gal. 4:6).
This state of prayer within us is something we always carry about, like a hidden treasure of which we are not consciously aware-or hardly so. Somewhere our heart is going full pelt, but we do not feel it. We are deaf to our praying heart, love’s savour escapes us, we fail to see the light in which we live.
For our heart, our true heart, is asleep; and it has to be woken up, gradually-through the course of a whole lifetime. So it is not really hard to pray. It was given us long since. But very seldom are we conscious of our own prayer. Every technique of prayer is attuned to that purpose. We have to become conscious of what we have already received, must learn to feel, to distinguish it in the full and peaceful assurance of the Spirit, this prayer rooted and operative somewhere deep inside us. It must be brought to the sur¬face of our consciousness. Little by little it will saturate and cap¬tivate our faculties, mind and soul and body. Our psyche and even our body must learn to answer to the rhythm of this prayer, be stirred to prayer from within, be incited to prayer, as dry wood is set ablaze. One of the Fathers puts it as tersely as this : ‘The monk’s ascesis : to set wood ablaze.”
Prayer then, is nothing other than that unconscious state of prayer which in the course of time has become completely conscious. Prayer is the abundantia cordis, the abundance of the heart, as the saying goes in the Gospels : ‘For a man’s words flow out of what fills his heart’ (Matt. 12:34; Luke 6:45). Prayer is a heart that overflows with joy, thanksgiving, gratitude and praise. It is the abundance of a heart that is truly awake.

Waking up
One condition is therefore that our heart comes awake; for as long as it remains asleep, our search for the organ of prayer in ourselves will be in vain. We can try to come at it in various ways; but the result will often be disconcerting. Some will put most re¬liance on their imagination; but there is a considerable risk of their ending up distracted and full of daydreams. Others may try through their religious feeling, but soon get bogged down in sentimentality. Yet others resort more to their intellect and try to arrive at clearer insights; but their prayer remains arid and cold and eventually ends up outside the sphere of their concrete living. Imagination, feeling and intellect are not of the Evil One. But they can only bear fruit when, much deeper within us, our heart comes to awakening and they, fed by the flame of this spiritual fire, themselves begin to glow.
Each and every method of prayer has but one objective : to find the heart and alert it. It must be a form of interior alertness, watch¬fulness. Jesus himself set ‘being awake’ and ‘praying’ side by side. The phrase ‘be awake and pray’ certainly comes from Jesus in per¬son (Matt. 26:41; Mark 13:33). Only profound and quiet concen¬tration can put us on the track of our heart and of the prayer within it.
All the time watchful and alert, therefore, we must first recover the way to our heart in order to free it and divest it of everything in which we have incapsulated it. With this in view we must mend our ways, come to our senses, get back to the true centre of our being as ‘person’, redire ad cor (Isa. 46:8), return to the heart, as people in ‘the Middle Ages liked to say. In the heart, mind and body meet, it is the central point of our being. Once back at that central point, we live at a deeper level, where we are at peace, in harmony with everything and everybody, and first and foremost with our own self. This ‘reversion’ is also ‘intro-version’, a turning inward to the self. It engenders a state of recollection and interiority. It pierces through to our deepest ‘I’, to the image of God in us. To that ontological centre where we are constantly springing from God’s creative hand and flowing back into His bosom. Praying teaches us to live from within, from the life within us. As was said of St. Bruno, every man of prayer has a cor profundum, a bottomless heart.’ The parable of the prodigal son has been interpreted by several of the Fathers in that sense (Luke 15:11-32). The younger son demands his share of the estate and leaves for a distant country, where he squanders his money on a life of debauchery. ‘When he had spent it all, that country experienced a severe famine and now he began to feel the pinch ... Then he came to his senses (literally : he turned in to his self) and said : “How many of my father’s paid servants have more food than they want.”‘ Pope Gregory the Great applies the passage to St. Benedict, the father of western monasticism, whose life as a monk he thus describes : ‘Had the prodigal son been with himself, whence then should he have returned to himself? Conversely, I might say of this venerable man (Benedict) that he dwelt with him¬self (habitare secum), for watching constantly over himself, he remained always in the presence of his Creator. He examined him¬self incessantly and did not allow his heart to divert its gaze to out¬ward things.” The passage shows us where St. Benedict’s tranquillity came from. He does not seek to escape in an activity that will keep him away from his true work, but keeps on turning to his heart.
There lies his true work : the battle with everything that would distract him from his sole Good. A twelfth-century Carthusian monk could say, therefore : Nothing makes the monk wearier than not working (Nihil laboriosius est quam non laborare)4 and so continuing always free for prayer, finding his rest in Jesus and in his Word. Again, the same Carthusian says : in this way he comes to be quietus Christo, still and tranquil before Christ. This was Benedict’s sole care also : to keep his heart free beneath the gaze of Him who offers both support and love.
To this ascesis-and especially the practice of keeping vigil-as a technique of prayer we shall return later on. Here we shall content ourselves with emphasizing that prayer has already been given us in our heart, albeit in a secret way. One cannot help but recall here the image of the treasure in the field. The application of it to prayer has indeed been made. A twelfth-century Cistercian, Guerric d’Igny, compares the heart to a field. The field of the heart must be dug over : ‘O what precious store of good works, what a wealth of spiritual fruits are hidden in the field of a man’s body and how much more, even, in his heart, if he will but dig and delve it. In so saying I do not mean to affirm with Plato that prior to its dwelling in this body, the soul already had knowledge which having been utterly forgotten and covered beneath a weight of sins is then laid bare by spiritual study (disciplina) and ascesis (labor). But I mean that reason and intelligence, which are peculiar to man, can when as¬sisted by grace become the source of all good works. If thus you will turn in your heart, keeping your body under control, do not despair of finding therein treasures of sufficient worth’ (Sermon 1 for Epi¬phany). There is a treasure, then, hidden in the field of our heart; and like the merchant of the gospel story we must sell all that we have in order to possess that field and extract the treasure from it. From time to time God allows us a glimpse of that treasure. Much effort will be needed to till the field. Our business here is not with exploiting the earth, entrusted by the Creator to the first man-a mandate that is certainly still in force. But still the sweat of our brow is required for exploiting the inner man and cultivating this fallow soil. Yet our toil will be rewarded-and more than that this spiritual labour is itself a joy and gives us true peace.
Anyone whose heart has thus been freed will be able to listen in to it: the heart is at prayer, even without our knowing it. We can surprise our heart, as it were, in the very act of prayer. The spirit of Jesus anticipates us, is stammering our prayer before us. To give ourselves over to this prayer we have to yield ourselves and stop throwing up a barrier between our heart and our ‘I’. We are not our ‘persona’, the image that we take so much trouble to create. Only when we have dropped this mask in the presence of God will we go on to uncover our real ‘I’. And we shall stare in astonishment then; for could we ever have suspected what we were really like and what God had chosen for us? How fine, how beautiful, our true likeness is, which God carries with Him all the time and which He so much longs to show us ! Out of love He has had respect for what we willed and has chosen to wait. This likeness can only be the likeness to his Son, who in advance of us lived out a true son¬ship and was obedient to the Father’s will, right up to death on the cross. From His prayer, from His striving, living and dying, we learn how to pray.
Little by little we must advance on the road to prayer. The tech¬nique is always the same. To rid our heart of its surrounding dross; to listen to it where it is already at prayer; to yield ourselves to that prayer until the Spirit’s prayer becomes our own.
As a, monk of the Byzantine period once taught : ‘Anyone who attends carefully to his heart, letting no other notions and fantasies get in, will soon observe how in the nature of things his heart engenders light. Just as coals are set ablaze and the candle is kindled by the fire, so God sets our heart aflame for contemplation, He who since our baptism has made our heart His dwelling-place.”
Another monk of that period used a different metaphor to say the same thing. He was to an extraordinary degree a man of prayer, someone absolutely carried away by prayer, which was his constant occupation. He was asked how he had reached that state. He replied that he found it hard to explain. ‘Looking back,’ he said, ‘my im¬pression is that for many, many years I was carrying prayer within my heart, but did not know it at the time. It was like a spring, but one covered by a stone. Then at a certain moment Jesus took the stone away. At that the spring began to flow and has been flowing ever since.’



my source: A Vow of Conversation

This is my report of a public lecture given by Dom André Louf in Saint Andrew’s Orthodox Parish, Ghent, as part of the colloquium on the Syrian Fathers. Please note my earlier disclaimer on the accuracy of my reporting and translations, something that may particularly apply to my reporting of this talk as I was tired and my note taking somewhat uneven! I also have the impression that Dom André skipped over some sections due to time constraints. Once the text is published I may consider doing an English translation for publication somewhere.

Dom André Louf, ocso is abbot emeritus of the abbey of Mont des Cats in France and author of several books, including Teach us to Pray, The Cistercian Way and Grace can do more. He is now a hermit and translates Syrian texts. He was responsible for the French translation of the second series of St Isaac’s homilies.

The phrase “liturgy of the heart” is not found in Scripture but it finds its roots in the reference in 1 Peter 3, 4 in which Peter speaks of the “ho kruptos tès kardias anthropos” (“interior disposition of the heart”, NJB, or “inner self”, NRSV), literally the hidden human being of the heart.

This interior human heart is viewed by Scripture in rather ambiguous terms. It may be orientated to wicked schemes (Gen. 6, 5), it may be hard and even turned to stone (Ex. 7, 3) but it may also be softened and humbled (2 K 22, 19) and especially contrite (Ps 50, 17) and to be healed by God (Ps 147, 3). God reproaches the uncircumcised heart (Lv 26,41; Dt 10, 16; 30, 6; Jer. 9, 26). It is on the tablets of the heart that God will write a new law (Pr. 3,3; 7, 3). With the prophet Ezekiel God promises to change the heart of stone to a heart of flesh (11, 19; 36, 26). Solomon will plead for such a heart at the beginning of his reign (1 K. 3, 9) and advises his son David to watch over his heart, for from the heart come the wellsprings of life. (Pr. 4, 23)

Jesus’ teaching on interiority lies within this tradition. He calls the pure of heart blessed, and contrasts them with closed hearts and hearts which bring forth evil (Mt. 15, 18). “Good people draw what is good from the store of goodness in their hearts; bad people draw what is bad from the store of badness. For the words of the mouth flow out of what fills the heart.” (Lk 6, 45) It is in the heart that one can ponder the Word as Mary did (Lk 2, 19) for as Paul reminds us (quoting Deuteronomy) “the word is very near to you; it is in your mouth and in your heart.” (Rm 10, 8) It is likewise the hearts that burned within when Jesus appeared to the disciples on the road to Emmaus. (Lk 24, 32) The heart is also the temple of the Holy Spirit (1 Cor. 6, 19), a temple in which an interior liturgy is celebrated (Ep. 5, 19).

Such are the biblical illusions that are summed up in the phrase “ho kruptos tès kardias anthropos” of 1 Peter 3, 4.

Paul contrasts this “inner nature” with our “outer nature” that is decaying. (2 Cor. 4, 16-18).

Could it be that this most interior reality is frightening for our contemporaries? We can even ask why the text from Ephesians 5, 19 “sing and praise in your hearts” is often translated today as “with all your heart”. While this might be linguistically defensible, no single Church Father interpreted in this way, for they understood it as alluding to the interior liturgy of the heart, which runs as a thread through the entire patristic tradition.

This liturgy of the heart is something which the Holy Spirit is constantly praying in every baptised person, whether we are aware of it or not. “…the Spirit too comes to help us in our weakness, for, when we do not know how to pray properly, then the Spirit personally makes our petitions for us in groans that cannot be put into words” (Rm 8, 26). This prayer is something which all Christians carry in their hearts, whether they are aware of it or not. In the deepest part of our being we find grace and prayer, and even if we are unaware of it the Spirit is praying “Abba, Father” in us.

If this is true, then the purpose of prayer is simply to bring us into contact with this prayer that is already being prayed in us. Any “methods” or “techniques” of prayer, or the disciplines of turning inwards and quieting the heart, only exist to help this unconscious prayer to become conscious. This is, moreover, an unconsciousness that is much deeper than the psychological unconscious which is becoming better known today. This is an unconscious that touches the very roots of our being. It is metaphysical and meta-psychological, for it is concerned with that place where our being is immersed in God and repeatedly springs up from God. This is the place where prayer does not stop, the domus interior or templum interius as it was called in the Middle Ages.

Most of the time we are not conscious of the prayer taking place in this inner temple. We can only believe in it with a growing certainty, and trust that God will lift the veil and allow a little of this unconscious prayer to emerge to consciousness. Sometimes this is merely a sudden illumination, a passing light which clarifies aspects of our existence and which never leaves us even in the midst of new periods of dryness. More often, though, it involves a slow and patient process in which something emerges towards the surface, awakening a new sensitivity or what Ruusbroec called a “feeling above all feelings”.

While it is certainly true that some circumstances are more conducive to this process than others, and thus silence, simplicity and asceticism can be important preparations for prayer, Christian prayer is never determined by such preparations. God allows prayer to arise in us “when He wills, as He wills and where He wills” as Ruusbroec says. For God is always greater than our heart and remains the only Master of our prayer. Prayer is totally gratuitous although we need to persevere in times of trial.

In persevering in times of dryness and crisis, in seeing all of our efforts ending in dead ends, and in being confronted with our own weakness that we receive the grace of recognising ourselves for the sinners who we really are. It is precisely in encountering ourselves as sinners that we also encounter the grace of God. John Cassian tells us: 

Let us in this way learn in all that we do to perceive both our own weakness and the grace of God at the same time, so that we are able to proclaim every day with the saints: “They have pushed me down to make me fall, but the Lord has supported me.”

What is our task as human beings in this process? It has only one name, and that is humility. Cassian describes this as “every day humbly following the grace of God that draws us.” Learning humility, even, or perhaps especially, through failure, is the greatest lesson that we can learn. As one of the Fathers said: “I would rather choose a defeat humbly accepted than a victory achieved with pride.”

This is the heart of the process, the point at which it is possible for a new sensitivity to be born, and it can be characterised by confusion and doubt. The old Christian literature referred to this with the imagery of “diatribe tès kardias” or “contritio cordis” or “contrition mentis”. It would be good to try and recapture something of the jolting language which has been lost in later translations, for this is not simply about “contrition” as we have come to understand it in recent spiritual literature but rather about a “broken” and “pulverised” heart that has literally been shattered. In this we are reminded of the utter poverty of the Christian. Isaac of Nineveh writes:

Believe me, my brother, you have not yet understood the power of temptation, nor the subtlety of its guiles. One day the experience will teach it to you and you will see yourself as a child who no longer knows where to look. All your knowledge will be nothing more than confusion, like that of a little child. Your spirit which appeared to be so firmly anchored in God, your precise knowledge, your balanced thought world, they will all be submerged in an ocean of doubt. Only one thing will be able to help you and will conquer them, namely, humility. Once you have grasped this, their power will disappear.

And, as Saint Basil tells us, “Often it is humility that saves someone who has sinned frequently and heavily.”

This is a painful pedagogy. Instead of fleeing from it, we are called to follow its trajectory and to make it our own, not out of masochism, but because one senses that it is the secret source of the only true life. In biblical language we can say that it is here that the heart of stone becomes broken so that may be made into a heart of flesh.

If such temptation does lead to sin then this is not due to a lack of generosity, but rather to a lack of humility. And sin offers us the chance to discover the narrow and low gate that leads to the Kingdom. Indeed, it could be that the most dangerous temptation is not the temptation that leads to sin, but rather the temptation that follows sin, namely the temptation of despair. It is only through eventually learning humility that we can escape this. And through this we learn the gift of mercy. Isaac of Nineveh writes: 

Who can still be brought into confusion by the memory of his own sins…? Will God forgive me these things whose memory so torments me? Things that I have an aversion to but which I nevertheless slip towards. And when I have done them their memory torments me more than a scorpion’s bite. I detest them and yet I find myself in their midst, and when I feel pain and sorrow over them I continue to seek them our – oh unhappy person that I am! … This is how many God fearing people think, people who desire virtue but whose weakness forces them to take into account their own frailty: they live continually imprisoned between sin and remorse. … Nevertheless, do not doubt your salvation … His mercy is much greater than you can imagine, and His grace is greater than you can dare to ask for. He looks only for the slightest sorrow …

How does this transition occur? We cannot predict when or how we will be brought into this interiority, but when it happens we know that we are not in control. We become aware of a new sensitivity and of a peace that cannot deceive us, of a centeredness and of a prayer that emerges of its own accord. There are certain times or places in our lives at which we find ourselves closer to this breakthrough, times or places where one is closer to its becoming a reality.

One of these privileged places is always the listening to the Word of God in Scripture. Scripture has the power to shake our heart awake, to drill through it, batter it open, so that prayer can spring up. Likewise, sickness, the death of someone close to us, and great temptations are favourable moments in which our longing for God means that we are more open to Him.

We find all these favourable moments brought together in the celebration of the Liturgy. The Church has instinctively sensed the mysterious affinity between the external Liturgy celebrated in churches of stone and the Liturgy celebrated in the deepest depth of each baptised Christian. The Church has learnt through experience how to harmonise these two liturgies of the praying Christian.

In our contemporary world we find conflicting desires that make such interiority difficult. On the one hand there is a desire for such interiority, but, on the other hand, there is much that makes it difficult for us to surrender to it. We cannot blame this on God, who desires to give Himself to us. But the children of the Church are also the children of their culture and find themselves in a cultural transition. It may be that there are elements in our culture, both of yesterday and of today, that make it more difficult to find real interiority. Or it may be that there are elements that at first sight make it easier to enter into such interiority – such as the reactions to the dangers below found in some youth movements which are orientated to religious experience – but which are really illusory.

We can name three negative influences in the religious culture of the last decades. The first is to reduce the Gospel to an ideology, which is more orientated to thought patterns than to life. The Second is to reduce the Gospel to activism, in which one loses contact with one’s inner life and reduces the Gospel to marketing. And the third is to reduce the Gospel to moralism in which a skewed moral vision which can hinder authentic interior experience.

[Dom André skipped over the first two points - I suspect due to time pressure - and concentrated on the third.]

The life of the Holy Spirit in us seeks ways to express itself in concrete circumstances, but if it is authentic this is, in the first place, expressed in spontaneity, freedom and deep joy. In a second moment we can describe Christian behaviour from without, such as Paul does in his teaching on the fruits of the Spirit. Such a moral pedagogy should help to bring us into contact with the inner experience and make us sensitive to the workings of the Spirit. However, it has not always been so simple. Influenced by cultural ethical schemas, morality has sometimes lost its way in abstract and absolutised studies of human behaviour which resulted in an idealised set of rules which one had to adhere to.

This is not to deny the need for ethical norms, but rather to recognise their pitfalls, and in particular the danger of separating interior disposition and exterior action. This can result in two dangers. Firstly, it can result in someone who is unable to live up to the expectations of the law becoming caught up in a spiral of guilt. The law accuses, but Jesus refuses to accuse and has come to free us from guilt. Secondly, it can result in a more subtle and dangerous danger, that of an easy conscience and apparent perfection in which one becomes cut off from the liberating action of the Holy Spirit.

Jesus avoided both of these dangers. He never drove sinners to despair and he confronted the conceit of the Pharisees. He did not come for the righteous, but for sinners.

To speak about sin and sinners is a problem in our contemporary world, which does not know how to deal with sin and sinners. Yet there is a link between sin and our access to the inner way. We may be desperate sinners who are burdened with guilt feelings. Or we may play the role of freed sinners who dream of a morality without sin. Or – and this is the worst – we may be the incurably righteous who look down on sinners. Insofar as we belong to one of these categories we are not able to access the inner way.

God longs for sinners as a Father longs for his lost son. For genuine sinners, who do not seek to gloss over or excuse their weakness, but who have become reconciled with their weakness and who rely on God’s mercy. At the moment that one receives God’s forgiveness, someone is opened up in one’s heart so that one’s heart can become transformed from a heart of stone to a heart of flesh. Sin no longer drags one down and bruises one, but has rather become the door to the depths of our heart for it leads us to the knowledge of the merciful Father.

ST ELIZABETH'S CONVENT IN MINSK
BUILD A CHURCH IN A CLINIC

THE HOLY SPIRIT AND PERSONAL GUIDANCE & SPIRITUAL ELDERSHIP: A CHARISMATIC FUNCTION IN ORTHODOXY

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The Holy Spirit and Personal Guidance


Question

"There is a question that is close to my heart. Most Christians believe that God answers prayers, and many believe that the Holy Spirit can guide your life. What is the Orthodox doctrine about the Holy Spirit? Does the Holy Spirit provide personal guidance? How is this guidance provided? Most importantly, how can we be sure of this guidance—how can we tell what is the voice of the Spirit, from our own wishful thinking or pre-conceived thoughts?

This is very important to me because I once thought my course of action was guided by the Spirit, and later discovered that it was not. I’m very uncertain how I can know what is real anymore. I feel this as a real loss in my life." - someone.

Answer

I will try to provide basic answers, point by point. If you would like me to elaborate further, all you have to do is send another email and I will be happy to do so.

What is the Orthodox doctrine about the Holy Spirit?
We believe that the Holy Spirit is God, the third person of the Holy Trinity, co-eternal and one in essence with the Father and the Son. The basic doctrine on the Holy Spirit is found in the Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed: “...And in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the Giver of Life, Who proceeds from the Father, Who together with the Father and Son is worshipped and glorified, Who spoke by the prophets.” I would refer you to John 14:13-17 & 26 for the words of Jesus Christ Himself on the Holy Spirit.

Does the Holy Spirit provide personal guidance?
We believe that the Holy Spirit guides us personally and as a community, the People of God. In the Sacrament of Chrismation each one of us was “sealed with the Gift of the Holy Spirit.” In this mystery our personal relationship with the Holy Spirit is imparted and underscored. However, this mystery is imparted within the context of the entire faith community, not apart from it. Hence, while being filled with the Holy Spirit personally, this is done in the midst of the Church—the worshipping and believing community—just as it is impossible to be a Christian apart from the People of God.

[While some religious groups may stress the ultimate importance of having a “personal relationship” with Christ or the Holy Spirit, Orthodoxy sees the fulfillment of such personal relationship within the context of the Christian community, not apart from it.]

There is a well known quote from Saint Seraphim of Sarov, in which he says that the goal of our lives as Christians is to acquire the Holy Spirit. This is essential, yet it is impossible to acquire the Holy Spirit apart from the Christian community, as some non-Orthodox may teach.

How is this guidance provided? Most importantly, how can we be sure of this guidance—how can we tell what is the voice of the Spirit, from our own wishful thinking or pre-conceived thoughts?

The Holy Spirit guides us in various and diverse ways.

First, as professed in the Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed, the Holy Spirit “spoke by the prophets,” indicating that there are those whom the Holy Spirit “uses” to guide, to encourage, to inspire, and to challenge the People of God to repent. There are still prophetic voices at work within the Church today, and we can say that in such cases the Holy Spirit continues to make His presence felt through those whom He chooses.

Second, we continually call upon the Holy Spirit to guide us in discerning His presence. Scripture warns of “other spirits” which can be deceptive and, hence, certainly not of God. The gift of discernment is critical in determining that which is genuine from that which is not—or, as you yourself state, to discern “the voice of the Spirit, from our own wishful thinking or pre-conceived thoughts.” On the one hand, the Holy Spirit guides us in discerning God’s will from our own will; on the other hand, we need to discern that which is from the Holy Spirit from that which is not. In this, prayer and meditation is critical, as one cannot begin to “discern the spirits” apart from these realities. It is difficult to explain such things in human words, apart from those of of Christ, Who says: “But the Counselor, the Holy Spirit, Whom the Father will send in my name, He will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you” (Jn 14:26).

Here we discover that the Holy Spirit teaches us all things, enlightens us, and commends to our memory the way to salvation revealed by Jesus Christ in discerning the presence and operation of the Holy Spirit, one must not do so apart from that which Christ revealed

Here we may say that discernment involves finding consistency in the prompting of the Holy Spirit and the revelation of Jesus Christ. In crass terms, we might say that if something seems to be of the Holy Spirit, yet it stands in opposition to all that Christ revealed in His life, actions, and words, then the “something” is probably not of the Holy Spirit.

Here we might make a simple example: Christ teaches us to repent, to shun sin, and to turn to Him and Him alone. Saint Paul expresses this by challenging us to “put aside the old man” and “clothe” ourselves in Jesus Christ, the express image of the Father. Now imagine that someone comes and claims that he or she has received a “new” revelation which states that, while we indeed must shun sin, we cannot do so unless we have first experienced sin—thereby urging us to go out and willfully commit sins for the express purpose of repenting of them at a later point. [Believe it or not, there have actually been individuals and groups which have taught precisely this!]

Here discernment is critical: We need to weigh what the person claims in his or her “new” revelation and measure it against the life and teaching of Jesus Christ Himself, as well as the ongoing life of the People of God, the Church. If we do so, it becomes clear that the so-called “new” revelation is absolutely inconsistent with the revelation of Jesus Christ and the teaching of Saint Paul and the life and experience, the Holy Tradition, of the Church. Hence, the “new” revelation is discerned to be false, devoid of the Holy Spirit, and consequently it must be rejected. [This is a simplistic example, in which I hope the point becomes clearer.]

Often we find ourselves in situations in which we are unsure as to that which we feel or experience is of the Holy Spirit or of “another spirit.” Carefully and prayerfully weighing such situations and measuring them against the revelation as delivered to us through Jesus Christ is critical. This may take time and patience, forcing us—as the Prophet Elijah did—to sit, quietly and patiently, in all stillness, and listen to the voice of the Lord. In discerning the promptings of the Holy Spirit, it is critical to lay aside our own desires, will, and wants, and to listen to what the Lord tells us.

On Holy Saturday, as we anticipate the revelation of eternal life through the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, we sing precisely this reality: “Let all mortal flesh keep silent, and in fear and trembling stand, pondering nothing earthly minded. ...”

Sometimes we discover the answer on our own, through another person, through the community with whom we worship, or through the “least of the brethren”—but always in God’s good time, not our own. “The Holy Spirit blows as He wills.”

So discernment apart from prayer, fasting, listening, and spiritual openness firmly rooted in humility and the desire to discover God’s will is impossible.

What I write is in no way intended to be an exhaustive treatment of the questions you pose but, rather, a springboard or starting point for further reflection, study, prayer, and contemplation. In every instance, such written answers cannot replace the one-on-one relationship one should have with one’s spiritual father. But I pray that it gives further “food for thought” in terms of the specific questions you have asked.





Introduction to Precious Vessels of the Holy Spirit
The Lives & Counsels of Contemporary Elders of Greece
The Ancient Christian Ministry of Spiritual Eldership

It is not uncommon, among both non-Orthodox as well as Orthodox, in the west (and increasingly even among Orthodox in traditionally "Orthodox" countries), for the ancient tradition of spiritual eldership to be either completely unknown or misunderstood. The central role, however, that the relation of elder to spiritual child has played in the life of the Church throughout Christian history attests to its legitimacy. Similarly, the existence of living links to this Christian tradition, inherited from one generation to the next, even to the present day, attests to its vitality.

Although an academic exposition of the historical roots of eldership falls outside the scope of the present work, we do feel it necessary to look at these roots in general outline so as to place the present work in its proper context.[1] This outline necessarily begins with the New Testament witness, which may then be traced historically to the present day, and to the Greek monastic elders in this book.

Spiritual eldership, preserved by the Holy Spirit from apostolic times, descends to us in much the same way as does apostolic succession (understood as the historical succession of bishops from apostolic times until the present). As Bishop Kallistos Ware explains:

Alongside this [apostolic succession], largely hidden, existing on a 'charismatic' rather than an official level, there is secondly the apostolic succession of the spiritual fathers and mothers in each generation of the Church—the succession of the saints, stretching from the apostolic age to our own day, which Saint Symeon the New Theologian termed the "golden chain."... Both types of succession are essential for the true functioning of the Body of Christ, and it is through their interaction that the life of the Church on earth is accomplished. [2]

The foundation on which the spiritual tradition of eldership is based is found in Holy Scripture. In particular, Christ's Incarnation, Death and Resurrection, reveal His kenotic [3] Fatherly love for His children and for the world. This love has as its goal the ontological rebirth of man from within, not the ethical improvement of man (although this is an inevitable fruit of true spiritual rebirth) from without. [4] Faithfully following Christ's example, St. Paul gives us a clear picture of what the relationship of elder to spiritual child means in practical terms. His relationship to the churches he founded is not simply the relationship of teacher to disciple, "For though ye have ten thousand instructors in Christ, yet have ye not many fathers: for in Christ Jesus I have begotten you through the gospel. Wherefore I beseech you, be ye followers of me." (I Corinthians 4:15-16). St. Paul's birth imagery is significant here, as the relationship of mother to child is transposed onto the spiritual plane. His words also indicate the completely free nature of this relationship: full of love for his spiritual children, and selflessly interested in their spiritual well being, he beseeches them to follow his example. [5] In his letter to the Galatians, St. Paul uses similar imagery, "My little children, of whom I travail in birth again until Christ be formed in you." (Galatians 4:19). As becomes clear from these passages, St. Paul does not see his role as that of a simple teacher who teaches people and then leaves them to their own devices, nor as a psychologist, who tries to provide psychological answers to spiritual questions. He accepts responsibility for his children, identifying himself with them, "Who is weak, and I am not weak? Who is offended, and my heart is not ablaze with indignation?" (2 Corinthians 11:29). Bishop Kallistos develops this point a bit further, 
"He helps his children in Christ precisely because he is willing to share himself with them, identifying his own life with theirs. All this is true also of the spiritual father at a later date. Dostoevsky's description of the starets may be applied exactly to the ministry of Saint Paul: like the elder, the apostle is one who 'takes your soul and your will into his soul and will.'"[6]

 It is significant here, furthermore, that the elder does not assert his own will upon the spiritual child. On the contrary, he accepts the spiritual child as he is, receiving the child's soul into his own soul. This most basic aspect of this spiritual relationship points to one of the reasons that this ancient ministry is so uncommon, especially today.

The ability the elder has to, "take your soul and your will into his soul and will," is a fruit of his own willingness to empty himself (according to the kenosis Christ teaches by His example on the Cross) and thus make room for others. This self-emptying is not at all superficial, but very much ontological, such that there is a real identification of the elder with the life of his spiritual child. [7] Such a total commitment to other people requires complete self-sacrifice, as well as advancement along the spiritual path. Without experiential knowledge of the spiritual path the elder is practically unable to help others. [8]

When experiential knowledge of the spiritual path is absent, humanity seeks other ways to deal with its spiritual woes. The solution of modern man has been to provide materialistic answers to spiritual problis. Psychology, modern medicine, and so on attempt to heal man; however, detached as they are from genuine Orthodox Christian spiritual life, their attempts to answer the very deep existential problis of contemporary man remain hopelessly ineffectual. The Holy Spirit, abiding in the Church, and guiding Her into all truth (John 16:13) since Pentecost, has taught the Church the ways of spiritual healing, establishing Her as a "spiritual hospital." The elder acts both as this hospital's finest surgeon as well as its chief medical school instructor. [9]

The Wisdom of the Gospel: Key to the Lives and Counsels
Perhaps the most important interpretive key for approaching the lives and counsels presented herein is the realization that they may only be understood according to their own "logic," which is not the logic of this world. This logic, of course, is none other than the wisdom of Christ's life and Gospel teaching. For contemporary man, however, Christ's wisdom is truly difficult to grasp, it is a "hard" saying, and so the lives and teachings of those who have followed, experientially and existentially, the narrow path of Christ will similarly seem difficult to grasp and a "hard" saying. Early on St. Paul understood this opposition between the wisdom of the world and the wisdom of Christ,

For it is written, I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and will bring to nothing the understanding of the prudent. Where is the wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the disputer of this world? Hath not God made foolish the wisdom of this world? For after that in the wisdom of God the world by wisdom knew not God, it pleased God by the foolishness of preaching to save them that believe. For the Jews require a sign, and the Greeks seek after wisdom: But we preach Christ crucified, unto the Jews a stumbling block, and unto the Greeks foolishness; but unto them which are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God, and the wisdom of God. Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men; and the weakness of God is stronger than men. (1 Corinthians 1:19-25).

Accepting Christ's message (and the incarnation of this message in the lives of the elders gathered here) is particularly difficult for contemporary people, even faithful Christians, for many of us live most of our lives according to the wisdom of this world and not according to the "foolishness" of the Cross. If one is able at least to understand that a chasm lies between worldly wisdom, and the wisdom of the Gospel, it will make the comprehension of the following lives more realizable. When this shift in vision is realized, it reveals one's poverty of faith, as well as the distance between where one is, and the absolute demands of the Gospel commandments.

For the person who is seeking God the realization of the absolute difference between the wisdom of this world and the wisdom of the Gospel begets repentance. It is significant that the Greek word for repentance, metanoia, means, literally, a "change of mind." This change of mind is a prerequisite for the comprehension of the Gospel, and so it is not surprising that St. John the Baptist began his public ministry with the injunction, "Repent ye: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand." (Matthew 3:2). Likewise, Christ began His ministry with the same message, "From that time Jesus began to preach, and to say, Repent: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand." (Matthew 4:17) That the lives and counsels of the Greek monastic elders contained in this book force the reader to shift to the wisdom of the Gospel testifies to their spiritual ministry as prophets, a ministry that monasticism has always fulfilled. [10]

In the context of the wisdom of the Gospel, those aspects of these lives that surpass human understanding should not shock or scandalize. Christ told His disciples that, "He that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also; and greater works than these shall he do." (John 14:12). The Church in Her wisdom and strength has preserved the witness of those who, in the two thousand years since Christ's coming, have followed faithfully in His steps. The lives of the Saints and the writings of ancient and contemporary Fathers of the Church [11] give unquestionable witness to the riches of God's mercy, and the experience of the action of the Holy Spirit. The lives and sayings contained herein are contemporary witnesses to the truth that the Holy Spirit continues to act and to inspire Christians to live lives fully dedicated to Christ.

It is to witness to this truth that the present book has been compiled. It is this witness that is the most precious aspect of these lives (and not their miraculous aspect, impressive though this may be). One may legitimately object, of course, after reading the lives, that the culture in which these men were raised is significantly different from that in which we live. The testimony we have from the Fathers of the Church, however, is that it is not the place that we live that is most significant, but rather the way that we live. They tell us, furthermore, that there are no circumstances that could prevent us from keeping Christ's commandments, from following the way Christ has shown us. [12] This is also the witness of the Scriptures wherein we understand that the Scriptural injunctions are not dependent on time or place, but are always pertinent and binding on man. [13]

To many, the absolute character of Christ's commandments may seem a heavy burden. Again, however, the wisdom of the Gospel surprises us, as Christ says, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." (Matthew 11:28-30). [14]

Perhaps more than anything else the lives of the Saints (and of the Greek monastic elders in this book) provide an "interpretation" of Christ's Gospel, "written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God; not in tables of stone, but in fleshly tables of the heart." (2 Corinthians 3:3). That which is of greatest importance in these lives are not so much the details of each life, but rather the spirit that breathes in them, which shaped them into precious vessels of the Holy Spirit. These lives bear witness to the transformation of man that is possible, when the Christian gives himself wholly over to the will of God. As Elder Sophrony of Essex has written, it is not arbitrary asceticism or the possession of supernatural gifts that constitute genuine Christian spiritual life, but rather obedience to the will of God. Each person has his own capabilities and his own path to tread; the keeping of Christ's commandments, however, remains a constant. Fr. Sophrony also repeatedly insists, following the teaching of his elder, St. Silouan the Athonite, that the truth or falsity of one's path may be measured, not by one's asceticism or spiritual gifts, but by love for one's enemies, by which St. Silouan did not mean a "scornful pity; for him the compassion of a loving heart was an indication of the trueness of the Divine path." [15] In another place Fr. Sophrony develops this point more fully,

There are known instances when Blessed Staretz Silouan in prayer beheld something remote as though it were happening close by; when he saw into someone's future, or when profound secrets of the human soul were revealed to him. There are many people still alive who can bear witness to this in their own case but he himself never aspired to it and never accorded much significance to it. His soul was totally engulfed in compassion for the world. He concentrated himself utterly on prayer for the world, and in his spiritual life prized this love above all else. [16]

Fr. Sophrony's words reveal to us a mystery of the ways of Christian monasticism and eldership: according to the wisdom of this world, the monastic elder's departure from the world seems like an escape from humanity. The reality, however, is that according to the wisdom of the gospel, separation from the world enables those who love God to love the world more than those who live in the world do. It is this paradox that the monastic elder lives, and an explication of which Dr. Georgios Mantzaridis provides in his Foreword. [17]

Endnotes
For a more complete exposition, the reader may want to consult Bishop Kallistos Ware's "The Spiritual Father in Saint John Climacus and Saint Symeon the New Theologian," published in Studia Patristica XV111/2. Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications-Leuven: Peeters, 1990. This article may also be found as the Foreword of Irenee Hausherr's Spiritual Direction in the Early Christian East. Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1990, p. vii-xxxiii, from which we quote. Also, by the same author, "The Spiritual Guide in Orthodox Christianity," published in The Inner Kingdom: Volume One of the Collected Works. Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir's Press, 2000, p. 127-151.
Bishop Kallistos Ware, "The Spiritual Father in Saint John Climacus and Saint Symeon the New Theologian," p. vii.
Kenosis/kenotic : Greek word meaning "self-emptying."
We are not aware of a sufficient study in English that addresses the crucial difference between an ethical and an ontological understanding of Christianity, although it is touched upon in Eugene Rose's (the future Fr. Seraphim Rose) "Christian Love," in Heavenly Realm. Platina, CA: St. Herman Brotherhood, 1984, p. 27-29.
As St. John Chrysostom assures us, "He [St. Paul] is not setting forth his dignity herein, but the excess of his love." [Homily 13, PG 61:111 (col. 109). Translation: Homilies. Found in The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church. First Series. Edited by Philip Schaff, D.D., LL.D. Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, Vol. XII, 1969 (reprint).]
Bishop Kallistos Ware, ibid., p. viii-ix.
This is the deeper meaning of Christ's second commandment, "Thou shalt love... thy neighbor as thyself." (Luke 10:27). St. Silouan the Athonite taught that this love is not quantitative (i.e., "as much as you love yourself," but qualitative (i.e., "in the same way as you love yourself,") thus emphasizing that the perfection of love for others is realized in one's complete identification with them. Dr. Mantzaridis, in his Foreword, which follows, develops precisely this point. It is only in humanity's identification with Christ and with its neighbor that the true union of mankind is possible.
St. John Climacus explains this necessary aspect of the elder: "A genuine teacher is he who has received from God the tablet of spiritual knowledge, inscribed by His Divine finger, that is, by the in-working of illumination, and who has no need of other books." [Ad Pastorem. PG 88: 1165B. Translation: Archimandrite Lazarus Moore, The Ladder of Divine Ascent. Brookline, MA: Holy Transfiguration Monastery, 1991, p. 231.
It should be noted that this charismatic ministry is not at odds with the ministry of the priest-confessor. On the contrary, both have as their goal the reconciliation of man with God. Although the priest-confessor's ministry of guidance may be hindered by the absence of experiential knowledge of the ways of spiritual growth and healing, he still bears the responsibility and blessing to hear confession, to forgive man his sins, and to reconcile man to God. For more on the Orthodox understanding of the Church as spiritual hospital, see Metropolitan Hierotheos Vlachos' Orthodox Psychotherapy. Levadia, Greece: Birth of the Theotokos Monastery, 1994.
"And God hath set some in the church, first apostles, secondarily prophets, thirdly teachers...." (1 Corinthians 12:28). This prophetic ministry was central to both the Old and New Testaments. The roots of monasticism lie in this ancient ministry, which is not so much concerned with telling the future (although this aspect of its ministry continues up to the present day), as calling the world to a change of heart, to repentance, so that the world might more easily accept the gospel message.
Fathers of the Church: This term is used in the Orthodox Church to refer to Saints of all times whose teaching has been accepted by the Church as an authentic expression of Her life and faith. Roman Catholics tend to define this term more narrowly, limiting the Fathers to those Saints of the Church who lived during the "golden age" of theology, in the first millennium of Christianity, whose writings played a significant role in the development of the dogmatic expression of the faith.
St. Symeon the New Theologian goes so far as to say that to believe otherwise is heresy, "But the men of whom I speak and whom I call heretics are those who say that there is no one in our times and in our midst who is able to keep the Gospel commandments and become like the holy Fathers." The Discourses. (Translation by C.J. deCatanzaro), Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1980, p. 312. See also, Archimandrite Sophrony Sakharov, St. Silouan the Athonite. Essex, England: Stavropegic Monastery of St. John the Baptist, 1991, p. 242-243.
See, Matthew 5:18, 24:35, Mark 13:31, Luke 21:33, etc.
St. John Chrysostom interprets this passage precisely within the framework we have discussed, in relation to man's attempt to be faithful to Christ's commandments, "But if virtue seems a difficult thing, consider that vice is more difficult.... Sin too has labor, and a burden that is heavy and hard to bear.... For nothing so weighs upon the soul, and presses it down, as consciousness of sin; nothing so gives it wings, and raises it on high, as the attainment of righteousness and virtue.... If we pursue such a philosophy, all these things are light, easy, and pleasurable.... Virtue's yoke is sweet and light." [Homily 38, PG 57: 428-431 (cols. 431-434). Translation: Homilies on the Gospel of St. Matthew. Found in The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church. First Series. Translated by Rev. Sir George Prevost, Barontet, M.A., Philip Schaff, D.D., LL.D. Edited and revised, with notes by Rev. M. B. Riddle, D.D. Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, Vol. X, 1975].
Archimandrite Sophrony Sakharov, St. Silouan the Athonite, p. 228.
Ibid., p.130.
One final note on the application of the spiritual principles found in this book to one's own life; as with all aspects of the spiritual life, spiritual guidance is a necessary prerequisite for spiritual growth.

HH. POPE BENEDICT XVI HIS FINAL ADDRESS & ON TRADITION, ECUMENISM AND VATICAN II

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The central passages of the last address of pope Joseph Ratzinger, Wednesday, February 27, 2013. "I no longer bear the authority of the office, but I remain within the enclosure of Saint Peter" 

by Benedict XVI




my source: Sandro Magister
Dear brothers and sisters [...] In this moment my spirit reaches out to the whole Church scattered throughout the world; and I give thanks to God for the “news” that during these years of the Petrine ministry I have been able to receive about the faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and about the charity that circulates in the body of the Church and makes it live in love, and about the hope that opens us and orients us toward the fullness of life, toward our homeland in heaven. […]

At this moment there is in me a great trust, because I know, we all know, that the Word of life of the Gospel is the power of the Church, it is its life. The Gospel purifies and renews, it bears fruit, wherever the community of believers listens to it and welcomes the grace of God in truth and lives in charity. This is my trust, this is my joy. 

When, on April 19 almost  eight years ago, I agreed to assume the Petrine ministry, I held firm this certainty that has always accompanied me.

At that time, as I have already expressed repeatedly, the words that resounded in my heart were these: Lord, what are you asking of me, and why are you asking it of me? It is a great weight that you are placing on my shoulders, but if You are the one who is asking me, at your word I will cast out the nets, sure that you will guide me. And the Lord has truly guided me, he has been close to me, I have been able to perceive his presence every day.

It has been a segment of the journey of the Church that has had moments of joy and light, but also moments that have not been easy; I have felt like Saint Peter with the Apostles in the boat on the Sea of Galilee: the Lord has given us so many days of sun and of gentle breeze, days in which the fish have been abundant; there have also been moments in which the waters were agitated and the wind contrary, as in all the history of the Church, and the Lord seemed to be sleeping.

But I have always known that in that boat is the Lord, and I have always known that the barque of the Church is not mine, it is not ours, but it is his and he does not let it sink; it is he who pilots it, certainly also through the men whom he has chosen, because this is how he has wanted it. This has been and is a certitude that nothing can obscure. And it is for this reason that today my heart is full of thanksgiving to God that he has never deprived the whole Church and me as well of his consolation, his light, his love.

We are in the Year of Faith, which I wanted in order to reinforce precisely our faith in God in a context that seems to put him ever more in the background. I would like to invite all of us to renew our firm trust in the Lord, to entrust ourselves like children into the arms of God, certain that those arms support us always and are that which permits us to walk every day even in weariness. I would like that each one of us should feel loved by that God who has given his Son for us and has demonstrated to us his love without limit. I would like that each one should feel the joy of being Christian.

In a beautiful prayer to be recited every day in the morning it says: “I adore you, my God, and I love you with all my heart. I thank you for having created me, made me Christian..." Yes, we are content with the gift of faith; it is the most precious good, which no one can take away from us! Let us thank the Lord for this every day, with prayer and with a consistent Christian life. God loves us, but he is waiting for us to love him too! [...]

In these last months I have felt that my powers were diminished, and I asked God with insistence, in prayer, to illuminate me with his light in order to help me make the best decision not for my own good, but for the good of the Church. I have taken this step in full awareness of its gravity and also of its novelty, but with a profound serenity of spirit. Loving the Church also means having the courage to make difficult and painful decisions, keeping always in view the good of the Church and not of oneself.

Allow me here to return once again to April 19, 2005. The gravity of the decision has lain precisely also in the fact that from that moment on, I was engaged always and forever by the Lord. Always: the one who assumes the Petrine ministry no longer has any privacy. He belongs always and completely to all, to the whole Church. His life is, so to speak, completely stripped of the private dimension. I have been able to experience, and I am experimenting it right now, that one receives life precisely in giving it away. Before I have said that many persons who love the Lord also love the successor of Saint Peter and are fond of him; that the pope truly has brothers and sisters, sons and daughters all over the world, and that he feels secure in the embrace of their communion; because he no longer belongs to himself, he belongs to all and all belong to him.

The “always" is also a “forever”: there is no more returning to the private. My decision to resign from the active exercise of the ministry does not revoke this. I am not returning to private life, to a life of travel, meetings, receptions, conferences etc. I am not abandoning the cross, but I remain in a new way with the crucified Lord. I no longer bear the authority of office for the governance of the Church, but in the service of prayer I remain, so to speak, within the enclosure of Saint Peter. St. Benedict, whose name I bear as pope, will be a great example for me in this. He showed us the way to a life that, active or passive, belongs completely to the work of God.

I thank all and each one also for the respect and understanding with which you have received this very important decision. I will continue to accompany the journey of the Church with prayer and reflection, with that dedication to the Lord and to his Bride which I have sought to live every day until now and which I want to live always.

I ask you to remember me before God, and above all to pray for the cardinals called to such a significant task, and for the new successor of the apostle Peter: may the Lord accompany him with the light and strength of his spirit. [...]

_________


A relevant address: 

The Pope on Tradition, Ecumenism, and Vatican II

 As we know, in vast areas of the earth, faith is in danger of being put out, as a flame that finds no more fuel. We find ourselves before a profound crisis of faith, before a loss of the religious sense that is the greatest challenge for today's Church. The renewal of the faith must thus be the priority in the effort of the entire Church in our day. I hope that the Year of Faith may contribute, with the cordial collaboration of all components of the People of God, to make God present in this world and may open to man access to the faith, that he may entrust himself to that God who has loved us to the end (cf. John 13,1), in Jesus Christ, crucified and risen.

 ... The coherence of the ecumenical effort with the teaching of the Second Vatican Council and with the entire Tradition has been one of the areas to which the Congregation, in collaboration with the Pontifical Council for the Promotion of Christian Unity, has always paid attention. We can see today not a few good fruits born of the ecumenical dialogues, but we must also recognize that the risk of a false irenicism and of an indifferentism, completely separated from the mind of the Second Vatican Council, demands our vigilance. This indifferentism is caused by the ever more common opinion that truth would not be accessible to man; it would thus be necessary to limit oneself to search for rules for a praxis which would improve the world. And, therefore, faith would be replaced by a moralism with no profound meaning. The center of true ecumenism is, instead, the faith in which man finds truth, that reveals itself in the Word of God. Without faith, the entire ecumenical movement would be reduced to a kind of "social contract" to be joined for a common interest, a "praxeology" for creating a better world. The logic of the Second Vatican Council is completely different: the sincere search for full unity of all Christians is a movement animated by the Word of God, by divine Truth that is spoken to us in this Word.

 The crucial problem, that marks in a transversal way the ecumenical dialogues, is, for this reason, the question of the structure of revelation - the relationship between Sacred Scripture, the living Tradition in Holy Church, and the Ministry of the successors of the Apostles as a testimony to the true faith. And here the problematic of ecclesiology, which is part of this problem, is implied: in what way the truth of God reaches us. It is fundamental here, among other things, to distinguish between Tradition, with a capital letter, and traditions. I do not wish to enter in details, but just to make an observation. An important step in this distinction was accomplished in the preparation and application of the provisions for the groups of faithful coming from Anglicanism, who wish to join the full communion of the Church, in the unity of the common and essential divine Tradition, preserving their own spiritual traditions, liturgical and pastoral, that are consistent withh the Catholic Faith (cf. Cost. Anglicanorum coetibus, art. III). There is, in fact, a spiritual wealth in the various Christian confessions that is the expression of the one faith and gift to be shared and to be found together in the Tradition of the Church. 

 Today, therefore, one of the fundamental questions consists of the problematic of the methods to be adopted in the various ecumenical dialogues. These also must reflect the priority of faith. To know the truth is the right of the interlocutor in every true dialogue. It is the very demand of charity for brother. In this sense, it is necessary to face with courage also the controversial questions, always in the spirit of fraternity and reciprocal respect. It is important to offer a correct interpretation of that "order or 'hierarchy' of truth in Catholic doctrine," mentioned in the Decree Unitatis redintegratio (n. 11), which does not mean in any way to reduce the deposit of faith, but to make emerge the internal structure, the organicity of this one structure. Also the study documents produced by the various ecumenical dialogues have great relevance. Such texts cannot be ignored, because they are an important, though temporary, fruit of the common reflection matured throughout the years. Nevertheless, they are to be recognized in their adequate significance as contributions offered to the competent Authority of the Church, who alone is called to judge them in a definitive way. To ascribe to such texts a binding or almost conclusive weight for the ecclesial Authority would not, in a final analysis, help on the path to a full unity in the faith. 

 One last question that I would finally wish to mention is the problem of morals, which is a new challenge for the ecumenical path. In the dialogues, we must not forget the great moral questions related to human life, family, sexuality, bioethics, liberty, justice, and peace. It will be important to speak on these matters with only one voice, drawing the foundation on Scripture and on the living tradition of the Church. This tradition helps us understand the language of the Creator in his creation. By defending the fundamental values of the great tradition of the Church, we defend man, we defend creation. 

Benedict XVI

 Address to the participants of the Plenary Session of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith January 27, 2012 [Rorate translation]

BYZANTIUM: THE LOST EMPIRE

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MARCH 1st: FEAST OF ST DAVID OF WALES
icon by Aidan Hart



For more than 1,000 years, the Byzantine Empire was the eye of the entire world -- the origin of great literature, fine art and modern government. Heir to Greece and Rome, the Byzantine Empire was also the first Christian empire. After a year of filming on three continents, TLC unlocks this ancient civilization, spanning 11 centuries and three continents. Pass through the gates of Constantinople, explore the magnificent mosque of Hagia Sophia and see the looted treasures of the empire now located in St. Marks, Venice. Byzantium, brings to life an empire that, while seemingly distant, is very closely linked to the evolution of Western Civilization. Traces the growth of the first Christian empire, one that lasted for over a thousand years and the maturity and decline of Byzantium through its conquest by the Ottoman Turks in 1453. John Romer, the author and on-screen guide for the series, breathes life into the city and the powerful ideas that made the Byzantium a thriving cultural and commercial center while western Europe was slogging through the Dark Ages and the Middle Ages. At its height, Byzantium housed the most precious Christian relics, including a piece of Christ's cross. Located on the border of Europe and Asia, it ruled an empire that extended across Asia Minor and the Balkans. Then, after the rise of Islam, the empire shrank until little was left outside the city walls. Byzantium turned to Europe for help in fighting the infidels, only to have its own city sacked by the Crusaders whose help it sought. Venice, its erstwhile trading partner, carried off many of its artistic masterpieces. The Hagia Sophia, originally built as a Christian church, became Istanbul's most famous mosque. And the scholars who had kept alive the study of Greek for more than a millennium fled to Europe where they helped lay the groundwork for the Renaissance. Byzantium, the video, takes us on a visually sumptuous journey to key locations throughout the empire, while putting a human face on the key actors in the history of this unique and vital empire. I never suspected I would find this story as compelling as it turned out to be. 1. Building the dream 2. Heaven on Earth 3. Envy of the world 4. Forever
and ever.

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MOUNT ATHOS

The transformation of a mountain into a sacred place made Mount Athos a unique artistic creation combining the natural beauty of the site with the expanded forms of architectural creation. Moreover, the monasteries of Athos are a veritable conservatory of masterpieces, ranging from wall paintings by Frangos Castellanos at the Great Lavra to portable icons, gold objects, embroideries, or illuminated manuscripts which each monastery jealously preserves. Mount Athos exerted a lasting influence in the Orthodox world, of which it is the spiritual centre, and on the development of religious architecture and monumental painting.
The monasteries of Athos display the typical layout of orthodox monastic establishments (to be found as far away as Russia): a square, rectangular, or trapezoidal wall flanked by towers, which constitutes the periobolus of a consecrated place, in the centre of which the community's church (catholicon) stands alone. Strictly organized according to principles dating from the 10th century are the areas reserved for communal activities (refectory, cells, hospital, library), those reserved solely for liturgical purposes (chapels, fountains), and the defensive structures (arsenal, fortified tower). The organization of agricultural lands in the idiorrythmic skites (daughter houses of the main monasteries), and the kellia and kathismata (farms operated by monks) is also very characteristic of the medieval period.
The monastic ideal has at Mount Athos preserved traditional human habitations, which are representative of the agrarian cultures of the Mediterranean world and have become vulnerable through the impact of change within contemporary society. Mount Athos is also a conservatory of vernacular architecture and agricultural and craft traditions.
The northernmost of the three peninsulas jutting into the Aegean Sea from Chalkidi is a narrow rocky strip approximately 50 km long and 10 km wide, rising to 2,033 m. In ancient Greek mythology the peninsula was said to be the stone thrown at Poseidon by the giant Athos. For Christians it was the Garden of the Virgin, the priceless gift that Christ gave his mother. The precise date of the first Christian establishments on Mount Athos is unknown. However, the monastic movement began to intensify in 963, when the future St Athanasius the Athonite, having left the Theme of Rithynia, founded Great Lavra on the tip of the peninsula. In 972 the first Typikon (agreement) was concluded at Karyes between the Emperor Jean Tsimitzes and the monks of Mount Athos. It provided the basis of the exceptional status still enjoyed by the 'Holy Mount' today.
In 1926, the Greek Government ratified a charter based on the long tradition of the Typika. In 1977, when Greece became a member of the European Common Market, the signatory states recognized the specificity of the self-governing region of Athos and its special status. The 360 km2 of Athos are exclusively inhabited by men, the majority of them monks living in coenobitic or idiorrythmic establishments, anchorites, or wandering brothers. The Typikon granted by the Emperor Constantine IX Monomachus in 1046 and signed by more than 100 heads of religious communities, banned women and more generally all 'smooth-faced persons' from entering the mountainous region. Power in this monastic republic is strictly divided between three assemblies: the Synaxe, or the Holy Assembly, which meets twice a year, holds the legislative power; the Holy Community holds the administrative power, and the Holy Epistasie holds the executive power. At Karyes, a civil governor of Athos, under the Greek Foreign Affairs Ministry, ensures that the Charter of 1926 is respected.
Today Athos includes 20 monasteries, 12 skites, and about 700 houses, cells, or hermitages. Over 1,000 monks live there in communities or alone, as well as in the 'desert' of Karoulia where cells cling to the cliff face rising steeply above the sea.
Source: UNESCO/CLT/WHC

RESOURCING BENEDICT XVI'S THE SPIRIT OF THE LITURGY by Uwe Michael Lang

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Louis Bouyer and Church Architecture
RESOURCING BENEDICT XVI'S THE SPIRIT OF THE LITURGY
by Uwe Michael Lang, appearing in Volume 19 - Download Issue PDF

[14]

The present Holy Father’s thought on liturgy and church architecture was considerably influenced by Louis Bouyer (1913-2004), a convert from Lutheranism, priest of the French Oratory (a religious congregation founded by Cardinal Pierre de Bérulle in the seventeenth century and distinct from the Oratory of St. Philip Neri) and protagonist of the liturgical movement in France.1 Bouyer has left an enormous oeuvre extending not only to the study of the sacred liturgy but to other fields of theology and spirituality. Although he taught for several years in American universities and many of his books were published in English, Bouyer’s passing away on October 22, 2004 at the age of ninety-one seemed to have gone largely unnoticed in the Anglophone world.2

Father Louis Bouyer (Photo: wikimediacommons.org)

Joseph Ratzinger and Louis Bouyer were friends who held each other’s work in high esteem. Both were called to the International Theological Commission when it was instituted by Pope Paul VI in 1969. Bouyer recalls the working sessions of the Commission in his unpublished memoirs, and comments especially on Ratzinger’s clarity of vision, vast knowledge, intellectual courage, incisive judgment, and gentle sense of humour. In his remarkable book-length interview of 1979, entitled Le Métier de Théologien (The Craft of the Theologian), which has unfortunately not yet been published in English, Bouyer praises the appointment of the outstanding theologian Joseph Ratzinger as Archbishop of Munich.3 Cardinal Ratzinger, in his turn, in a contribution published originally in 2002, recalls the founding of the international theological review Communio Initiated by a group of friends, Communio including the noted theologians Henri de Lubac, Hans Urs von Balthasar, Louis Bouyer, and Jorge Medina Estévez, who later became the Cardinal-Prefect of the Vatican Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments.4

In The Spirit of the Liturgy, the present Pope’s debt to Bouyer is especially evident in the chapters “Sacred Places – The Significance of the Church Building” and “The Altar and the Direction of Liturgical Prayer”, where the French theologian is cited throughout.5 In the short bibliography, Bouyer’s book Liturgy and Architecture features prominently. This work was published originally in English in 1967 by the University of Notre Dame Press; its German translation, used by then-Cardinal Ratzinger, appeared as late as 1993. The theme of orientation in liturgical prayer occupied the theologian Joseph Ratzinger as early as 1966, at the height of the post-conciliar liturgical reform;6 his first significant contribution to the debate dates from the late 1978 and was included in the important volume The Feast of Faith, published in German in 1981.7 However, it appears to have been the work of his friend Bouyer that led Ratzinger to a more profound approach to the subject as is reflected in The Spirit of the Liturgy.

Jewish origins of Christian worship

One of the characteristics of Pope Benedict’s theology of the liturgy is his emphasis on the Jewish roots of Christian worship, which he considers a manifestation of the essential unity of Old and New Testament, a subject to which he repeatedly calls attention.8 Bouyer pursues this methodology in his monograph Eucharist, where he argues that the form of the Church’s liturgy must be understood as emerging from a Jewish ritual context.9

In Liturgy and Architecture, Bouyer explores the Jewish background to early church architecture, especially with regard to the “sacred direction” taken in divine worship. He notes that Jews in the Diaspora prayed towards Jerusalem or, more precisely, towards the presence of the transcendent God (shekinah) in the Holy of Holies of the Temple. Even after the destruction of the Temple the prevailing custom of turning towards Jerusalem for prayer was kept in the liturgy of the synagogue. Thus Jews have expressed their eschatological hope for the coming of the Messiah, the rebuilding of the Temple, and the gathering of God’s people from the Diaspora. The direction of prayer was thus inseparably bound up with the messianic expectation of Israel.10

Bouyer observes that this direction of prayer towards the Holy of Holies in the Temple of Jerusalem gave Jewish synagogue worship a quasi-sacramental quality that went beyond the mere proclamation of the word. This sacred direction was highlighted by the later development of the Torah shrine, where the scrolls of the Holy Scripture are solemnly kept. The Torah shrine thus becomes a sign of God’s presence among his people, keeping alive the memory of his ineffable presence in the Holy of Holies of the Temple. Ratzinger notes in his Spirit of the Liturgy that in Christian sacred architecture, which both continues and transforms synagogue architecture, the Torah shrine has its equivalent in the altar at the east wall or in the apse, thus being the place where the sacrifice of Christ, the Word incarnate, becomes present in the liturgy of the Mass.11

Syrian Churches

[15] 
Bouyer’s Liturgy and Architecture made available to a wider public in the 1960’s current research on early Christian sacred architecture in the Near East.12 The oldest surviving Syrian churches, dating from the fourth century onwards, mostly follow the model of the basilica, similar to contemporary synagogues, with the difference, however, that they were in general built with their apse facing towards the east. In churches where some clue remains as to the position of the altar, it appears to have been placed only a little forward from the east wall or directly before it. The orientation of church and altar thus corresponds to the universally accepted principle of facing east in prayer and expresses the eschatological hope of the early Christians for the second coming of Christ as the Sun of righteousness. The bema, a raised platform in the middle of the building, was taken over from the synagogue, where it served as the place for the reading of Holy Scripture and the recitation of prayers. The bishop would sit with his clergy on the west side of the bema in the nave facing towards the apse. The psalmody and readings that form part of the liturgy of the Word are conducted from the bema. The clergy then proceed eastward to the altar for the liturgy of the Eucharist.13 Bouyer’s theory that the “Syrian arrangement” with the bema in the nave was also the original layout of Byzantine churches has met with a very mixed reception among scholars.– What is widely agreed, however, is that the celebrant would have stood in front of the altar, facing east with the congregation for the Eucharistic liturgy.

A Louis Bouyer Church plan (Photo: wikimediacommons.org)

Roman Basilicas

Early Roman churches, especially those with an oriented entrance, such as the Lateran Basilica or Saint Peter’s in the Vatican (which is unique in many ways), present questions regarding their liturgical use that are still being debated by scholars. According to Bouyer the whole assembly, the bishop or priest celebrant who stood behind the altar as well as the people in the nave would turn towards the east and hence towards the doors during the Eucharistic prayer.15 The doors may have been left open so that the light of the rising sun, the symbol of the risen Christ and his second coming in glory, flooded into the nave. The assembly would have formed a semicircle that opened to the east, with the celebrating priest as its apex. In the context of religious practice in the ancient world, this liturgical gesture does not appear as extraordinary as it might seem today. It was the general custom in antiquity to pray towards the open sky, which meant that in a closed room one would turn to an open door or an open window for prayer, a custom that is well attested by Jewish and Christian sources.16 Against this background it would seem quite possible that for the Eucharistic prayer the faithful, along with the celebrant, turned towards the eastern entrance. The practice of priest and people facing each other arose when the profound symbolism of facing east was no longer understood and the faithful no longer turned eastward for the Eucharistic prayer. This happened especially in those basilicas where the altar was moved from the middle of the nave to the apse.


The Byzantine development of the richly decorated east wall as “liturgical east” as illustrated by the Basilica of Sant’ Apollinare in Classe, Ravenna (Photo: wikimediacommons.org)

Another line of argument can be pursued if we start from the observation that facing east was accompanied by looking upwards, namely towards the eastern sky which was considered the place of Paradise and the scene of Christ’s second coming. The lifting up of hearts for the canon, in response to the admonition “Sursum corda,” included the bodily gestures of standing upright, raising one’s arms and looking heavenward. It is no mere accident that in many basilicas (only) the apse and triumphal arch were decorated with magnificent mosaics; their iconographic programmes are often related to the Eucharist that is celebrated underneath. These mosaics may well have served to direct the attention of the assembly whose eyes were raised up during the Eucharistic prayer. Even the priest at the altar prayed with outstretched, raised arms and no further ritual gestures. Where the altar was placed at the entrance of the apse or in the central nave, the celebrant standing in front of it could easily have looked up towards the apse. With splendid mosaics representing the celestial world, the apse may have indicated the “liturgical east” and hence the focus of prayer.17 This theory has the distinct advantage that it accounts better for the correlation between liturgy, art, and architecture than that of Bouyer, which must accommodate a discrepancy between the sacred rites and the space created for them. Pope Benedict alludes to this theory in the beautiful comments he made on orientation in liturgical prayer in his homily during the Easter Vigil 2008.18

Even if we assume that priest and people were facing one another in early Christian basilicas with an eastward entrance, we can exclude any visual contact at least for the canon, since all prayed with arms raised, looking upwards. At any rate, there was not much to see at the altar, since ritual gestures, such as signs of the cross, altar kisses, genuflections, and the elevation of the Eucharistic species, were only added later.19 Bouyer is certainly correct in saying that the Mass “facing the people,” in the modern sense, was unknown to Christian antiquity, and that it would be anachronistic to see the Eucharistic liturgy in the early Roman basilicas as its prototype.

Bouyer acclaims Byzantine church architecture as a genuine development of the early Christian basilica: those elements that were not appropriate for the celebration of the liturgy were either changed or removed, so that a new type of building came into being. A major achievement was the formation of a particular iconography that stood in close connection with the sacred mysteries celebrated in the liturgy and gave them a visible artistic form. Church architecture in the West, on the other hand, was more strongly indebted to the basilican structure. Significantly, the rich decoration of the east wall and dome in Byzantine churches has its counterpart in the Ottonian and Romanesque wall-paintings and, even further developed, in the sumptuous altar compositions of the late Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and the Baroque, which display themes intimately related to the Eucharist and so give a foretaste of the eternal glory given to the faithful in the sacrifice of the Mass.20

The Liturgical Movement and Mass “facing the people”

Drawing on his own experience, Bouyer relates that the pioneers of the Liturgical Movement in the twentieth century had two chief motives for promoting the celebration of Mass versus populum. First, they wanted the Word of God to be proclaimed towards the people. According to the rubrics for Low Mass, the priest had to read the Epistle and the Gospel from the book resting on the altar. Thus the only option was to celebrate the whole Mass “facing the people,” as was provided for by the Missal of St Pius V21 to cover the particular arrangement of the major Roman basilicas. The instruction of the Sacred Congregation of Rites Inter Oecumenici of September 26, 1964 allowed the reading of the Epistle and Gospel from a pulpit or ambo, so that the first incentive for Mass facing the people was met. There was, however, another reason motivating many exponents of the Liturgical Movement to press for this change, namely, the intention to reclaim the perception of the Holy Eucharist as a sacred banquet, which was deemed to be eclipsed by the strong emphasis on its sacrificial character. The celebration of Mass facing the people was seen as an adequate way of recovering this loss.


Pope Benedict XVI celebrating Mass ad orientem Photo: Vatican Photo Service

Bouyer notes in retrospect a tendency to conceive of the Eucharist as a meal in contrast to a sacrifice, which he calls a fabricated dualism that has no warrant in the liturgical tradition.22 As the Catechism of the Catholic Church puts it, “The Mass is at the same time, and inseparably, the sacrificial memorial in which the sacrifice of the cross is perpetuated and the sacred banquet of communion with the Lord’s body and blood,”23, and these two aspects cannot be isolated from each other. According to Bouyer, our situation today is very different from that of the first half of the twentieth century, since the meal aspect of the Eucharist has become common property, and it is its sacrificial character that needs to be recovered.24

Pastoral experience confirms this analysis, because the understanding of the Mass as both the sacrifice of Christ and the sacrifice of the Church has diminished considerably, if not faded away among the faithful.25 Therefore it is a legitimate question to ask whether the stress on the meal aspect of the Eucharist that complemented the celebrant priest’s turning towards the people has been overdone and has failed to proclaim the Eucharist as “a visible sacrifice (as the nature of man demands).”26 The sacrificial character of the Eucharist must find an adequate expression in the actual rite. Since the third century, the Eucharist has been named “prosphora,” “anaphora,” and “oblation,” terms that articulate the idea of “bringing to,” “presenting,” and thus of a movement towards God.

Conclusion

Bouyer painted with a broad brush and his interpretation of historical data is sometimes questionable or even untenable. Moreover, he was inclined to express his theological positions sharply, and his taste for polemics made him at times overstate the good case he had. Like other important theologians of the years before the Second Vatican Council, he had an ambiguous relationship to post-Tridentine Catholicism and was not entirely free of an iconoclastic attitude.27 Later, he deplored some post-conciliar developments especially in the liturgy and in religious life, and again expressed this in the strongest possible terms.28 

Needless to say, Benedict XVI does not share Bouyer’s attitude, as is evident from his appreciation of sound and legitimate developments in post-Tridentine liturgy, sacred architecture, art, and music. It should also be noted that Joseph Ratzinger does not take up the later, more experimental chapters of Liturgy and Architecture, where new schematic models of church buildings are presented. Despite its limitations, however, Bouyer’s book remains an important work, and it is perhaps its greatest merit that it introduced a wider audience to the significance of early Syrian church architecture. Louis Bouyer was one of the first to raise questions that seemed deeply outmoded then, but have now become matters of intense liturgical and theological debate.29

Rev. Uwe Michael Lang, a native of Germany and priest of the Congregation of the Oratory of Saint Philip Neri in London, is a Lecturer in Church History at Heythrop College in the University of London and a Consultor to the Office for the Liturgical Celebrations of the Supreme Pontiff.  He has published in the fields of Patristics and liturgical studies, including Turning Towards the Lord: Orientation in Liturgical Prayer, San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2nd edition 2009. His most recent book is The Voice of the Church at Prayer: Reflections on Liturgy and Language, San Francisco: Ignatius Press 2012.

1 Cf. the more recent contributions of J.-F. Thomas, “Notes sur le sacré et la liturgie chez Louis Bouyer et Joseph Ratzinger,”Communio 31 (2006): 45-62; and K. Lemna, “Louis Bouyer’s Defense of Religion and the Sacred: Sacrifice and the Primacy of Divine Gift in Christian Liturgy,” Antiphon 12 (2008): 2-24. 
2 Unlike in France, where an obituary by J.-R. Armogathe was published in Le Figaro, October 27, 2004 and one by H. Tinq in Le Monde, October 27, 2004. 
3 L. Bouyer, Le Métier du Théologien. Entretiens avec Georges Daix (Paris: Editions France-Empire, 1979; republished Geneva: Ad Solem, 2005), 166. 
4 J. Ratzinger, “Eucharist–Communion–Solidarity: Christ Present and Active in the Blessed Sacrament,” in On the Way to Jesus Christ, trans. M. J. Miller (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2005), 112. 
5 J. Ratzinger, The Spirit of the Liturgy, trans. J. Saward (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2000), 62-84. 
6 In a lecture at the Katholikentag in Bamberg, also published in English translation: J. Ratzinger, “Catholicism after the Council,” trans. P. Russell, The Furrow 18 (1967): 3-23. 
7 J. Ratzinger, The Feast of Faith: Approaches to a Theology of the Liturgy, trans. G. Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1986. 2nd Ed. 2006), 139-145. 
8 See, for instance, Spirit of the Liturgy, 66. 
9 L. Bouyer, Eucharist: Theology and Spirituality of the Eucharistic Prayer, trans. C. U. Quinn (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1968). 
10 Cf. Bouyer, Liturgy and Architecture, 17-20. 
11 Cf. Ratzinger, Spirit of the Liturgy, 70-71. 
12 For example, J. Lassus, Sanctuaires chrétiens de Syrie (Paris: P. Geuthner, 1947); and G. Tchalenko, Villages antiques de la Syrie du Nord: Le Massif du Bélus à l’époque romaine, 3 vol. (Paris: P. Geutner, 1953-1958). 
13 See Bouyer, Liturgy and Architecture, 24-39. 
14 Cf. the criticism of R. F. Taft, “Some Notes on the Bema in the East and West Syrian Traditions,” Orientalia Christiana Periodica 34 (1968): 326-359 (reprint with supplementary notes in R. F. Taft, Liturgy in Byzantium and Beyond, Aldershot: Ashgate, 1995), 327, 359. 
15 Bouyer, Liturgy and Architecture, 55-56. 
16 Daniel 6:10, Tobit 3:11, and Acts 10:9; Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 5,1 (31a); 5,5 (34b); Origen, De oratione 32. There is archaeological evidence of Galilean synagogues from the late first century A.D. with the entrance facing towards Jerusalem. It would seem that the assembly turned towards the open doors for prayer and thus looked towards the direction of the sacred city. 
17 See especially S. Heid, “Gebetshaltung und Ostung in frühchristlicher Zeit,” Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 82 (2006): 347-404. 
18 Benedict XVI, Homily for the Easter Vigil, March 22, 2008. 
19 See Bouyer, Liturgy and Architecture, 56-59. 
20 Ibid., 60-70. 
21Missale Romanum (1570/1962), Ritus servandus in celebratione Missae, V,3. 
22 Cf. Bouyer’s postscript to the French edition of K. Gamber, Tournés vers le Seigneur! (Zum Herrn hin!), trans. S. Wallon (Le Barroux: Sainte-Madeleine 1993), 67: “il n’y a jamais eu, dans aucune religion, un sacrifice qui ne soit pas un repas, mais un repas sacré : reconnu comme enveloppant le mystère d’une spéciale présence et communication divine.” 
23 Catechism of the Catholic Church, no. 1382. 
24 Cf. Bouyer, Liturgy and Architecture, 106-111. 
25 Cf. the telling comments of R. J. Schreiter, Constructing Local Theologies. Foreword by E. Schillebeeckx (London: SCM Press, 1985), 67. 
26 Council of Trent (1562), Session XXII, Doctrine on the Sacrifice of the Mass, ch. 1: Denzinger-Schönmetzer 1740, quoted in the Catechism of the Catholic Church, no. 1366. 
27 In fact, his position on Mass “facing the people” developed: see his letter to Father Pie Duployé, O.P., of 1943, a text that proved to be very influential for liturgical renewal in France. Bouyer writes that, in order to promote the participation of the faithful in the liturgy, certain changes need to be made: “Cela doit, dans beaucoup de cas, signifier l’autel face au people, comme dans les basiliques romaines; et c’est, dans tous les cas, la disparition irrémédiable des retables, des pots de fleur, des gradins, … des tabernacles inutiles ou inutilement volumineux.” The letter is conveniently added to the Ad Solem edition of Le Métier du théologien, 281. 
28 L. Bouyer, in The Decomposition of Catholicism: “We must speak plainly: there is practically no liturgy worthy of the name today in the Catholic Church … Perhaps in no other area is there a greater distance (and even formal opposition) between what the Council worked out and what we actually have” (trans. C. U. Quinn [London: Sands & Co., 1970], 99). See also Religieux et clercs contre Dieu (Paris: Aubier Montaigne, 1975), 12. 
29 Cf. the preface written by Pope Benedict XVI in 2008 for the first volume of his collected works: “Zum Eröffnungsband meiner Schriften,” in Theologie der Liturgie: Die sakramentale Begründung christlicher Existenz (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2008), 5-8. An English translation by M. Sherry is available on http://chiesa.espresso.repubblica.it/articolo/208933?eng=y (accessed on August 11, 2010). The English-language edition of this important work is being prepared by Ignatius Press


POPE BENEDICT XVI ON THE LITURGY

my source: Sandro Magister
Preface to the initial volume of my writings 

by Joseph Ratzinger 



Vatican Council II began its work with a discussion of the draft document on the sacred liturgy, which was later solemnly approved on December 4, 1963, as the first result of the great Church assembly, with the rank of constitution. At first glance, it might seem to be a coincidence that the topic of the liturgy was put first in the work of the council, and that the constitution on the liturgy was its first result. Pope John had convened the assembly of bishops in a decision that everyone shared in joyfully, in order to reinforce the presence of Christianity in an age of profound change, but without presenting a definite program. An extensive series of projects had been put in place by the preparatory commission. But there was no compass to find the way amid this abundance of proposals. Among all of the projects, the text on the sacred liturgy seemed to be the least controversial. So it immediately seemed to be the right choice: like a sort of exercise, so to speak, with which the fathers could learn the methods of conciliar work. 

What seems to be a coincidence at first glance turns out to be, after looking at the hierarchy of themes and tasks of the Church, intrinsically the most just thing as well. By beginning with the theme of "liturgy," the primacy of God, the priority of the "God" theme, was unequivocally brought to light. The first word of the first chapter in the constitution is "God." When the focus is not on God, everything else loses its orientation. The words of the Benedictine rule "Ergo nihil Operi Dei praeponatur" (43,3; "So let nothing be put before the Work of God") apply specifically to monasticism, but as a statement of priority they are also true for the life of the Church, and of each of its members, each in his own way. It is perhaps useful to recall that in the term "orthodoxy," the second half of the word, "doxa,"does not mean "opinion," but "splendor," "glorification": this is not a matter of a correct "opinion" about God, but of a proper way of glorifying him, of responding to him. Because this is the fundamental question of the man who begins to understand himself in the correct way: how should I encounter God? So learning the right way of adoration – of orthodoxy – is what is given to us above all by the faith. 

When I decided, after some hesitation, to accept the project of an edition of all of my works, it was immediately clear to me that the order of priorities at the Council also needed to be applied to it, and that therefore the first volume to be published had to be the one containing my writings on the liturgy. Ever since my childhood, the Church's liturgy has been the central activity of my life, and it also became, under the theological instruction of masters like Schmaus, Söhngen, Pascher, and Guardini, the center of my theological work. I chose fundamental theology as my specific topic, because I wanted above all to go to the heart of the question: why do we believe? But right from the beginning, this question included the other one about the proper response to to God, and therefore also the question about the divine service. It is on this basis that my work on the liturgy must be understood. I was not interested in the specific problems of liturgical study, but in the anchoring of the liturgy in the fundamental act of our faith, and therefore also its place in our entire human existence. 

This volume now collects all of my short and medium-length work in which over the years, on various occasions and from different perspectives, I have expressed positions on liturgical questions. After all of the contributions that came into being in this way, I was finally prompted to present a vision of the whole, which appeared in the jubilee year 2000 under the title "The Spirit of the Liturgy." This constitutes the central text of the book. 

Unfortunately, almost all of the reviews of this have been directed at a single chapter: "The altar and the direction of liturgical prayer." Readers of these reviews must have received the impression that the entire work dealt only with the orientation of the celebration, and that its contents could be reduced to the desire to reintroduce the celebration of the Mass "with [the priest's] back turned to the people." In consideration of this misrepresentation, I thought for a moment about eliminating the chapter (just nine pages out of two hundred) in order to bring the discussion back to the real issue that interested me, and continues to interest me, in the book. It would have been much easier to do this because in the meantime, two excellent works had been published in which the question of the orientation of prayer in the Church during the first millennium is clarified in a persuasive manner. I think first of all of the important, brief book by Uwe Michael Lang "Turning Towards the Lord: Orientation in Liturgical Prayer" (Ignatius Press, San Francisco, 2004), and in a special way of the tremendous contribution by Stefan Heid, "Atteggiamento ed orientamento della preghiera nella prima epoca cristiana [Attitude and orientation of prayer in the early Christian era]" (in "Rivista d’Archeologia Cristiana" 72, 2006), in which the sources and bibliography on this question have been extensively illustrated and updated. 

The result is entirely clear: the idea that the priest and people should look at each other in prayer emerged only in modern Christianity, and is completely foreign to ancient Christianity. Priest and people certainly do not pray to each other, but to the same Lord. So in prayer, they look in the same direction: either toward the East as the cosmic symbol of the Lord who is to come, or, where this is not possible, toward an image of Christ in the apse, toward a cross, or simply toward the sky, as the Lord did in his priestly prayer the evening before his Passion (John 17:1). Fortunately, the proposal that I made at the end of the chapter in question in my book is making headway: not to proceed with new transformations, but simply to place the cross at the center of the altar, so that both priest and faithful can look at it, in order to allow themselves to be drawn toward the Lord to whom all are praying together. 

But with this I may have said too much on this point, which represents just one particular of my book, and I could have left it out. The fundamental intention of the work is that of placing the liturgy above the often frivolous questions about this or that form, in its important relationship, which I have sought to describe in three areas that are present in all of the individual themes. In the first place, there is the intimate relationship between the Old and New Testament; without the relationship with the Old Testament heritage, the Christian liturgy is absolutely incomprehensible. The second area is the relationship with the world religions. And finally, there is a third area: the cosmic nature of the liturgy, which represents something beyond a simple meeting of a larger or smaller circle of human beings; the liturgy is celebrated within the vastness of the cosmos, it embraces creation and history at the same time. This is what was intended in the orientation of prayer: that the Redeemer to whom we pray is also the Creator, and so there always remains in the liturgy love for creation and responsibility toward it. I would be happy if this new edition of my liturgical writings could contribute to displaying the great perspectives of our liturgy, and putting certain frivolous controversies about external forms in the right place. 

Finally, and above all, I feel the need to express thanks. My thanks is due in the first place to Bishop Gerhard Ludwig Muller, who has taken charge of the "Opera Omnia" and has created both the personal and institutional conditions for its realization. In a very special way, I would like to thank Prof. Dr. Rudolf Voderholzer, who has invested extraordinary time and energy in gathering and organizing my writings. I also thank Dr. Christian Schaler, who is providing valuable assistance. Finally, my sincere thanks goes to the Herder publishing house, which has taken on the burden of this difficult and laborious work with great love and attentiveness. May all of this contribute to a deeper understanding of the liturgy, and its worthy celebration. "The joy of the Lord is our strength" (Nehemiah 8:10). 

Rome, feast of Saints Peter and Paul, June 29, 2008 

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