Orthodox Monasticism Past and Present 9781463236656

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Orthodox Monasticism Past and Present

Gorgias Eastern Christian Studies

42 Series Editors George Anton Kiraz István Perczel Lorenzo Perrone Samuel Rubenson

Gorgias Eastern Christian Studies brings to the scholarly world the underrepresented field of Christianity as it developed in the Eastern hemisphere. This series consists of monographs, edited collections, texts and translations of the documents of Eastern Christianity, as well as studies of topics relevant to the world of historic Orthodoxy and early Christianity.

Orthodox Monasticism Past and Present

Edited by

John A. McGuckin

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34 2015

Gorgias Press LLC, 954 River Road, Piscataway, NJ, 08854, USA www.gorgiaspress.com Copyright © 2015 by Gorgias Press LLC

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of Gorgias Press LLC. 2015

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ISBN 978-1-4632-0530-0

ISSN 1539-1507

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Orthodox monasticism past and present / edited by John McGuckin. pages cm. -- (Gorgias Eastern Christian studies, ISSN 1539-1507) Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-1-4632-0530-0 1. Orthodox Eastern monasticism and religious orders. I. McGuckin, John Anthony, editor. BX385.O78 2015 281’.81--dc23 2015009832 Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF CONTENTS Table of Contents ..................................................................................... v Editorial Foreword .................................................................................. ix Fr. John A. McGuckin Part One: Ancient Christian Ascetical Theology..................... 1 Embodying Tradition, Seeking Transformation: Glimpsing Asceticism(s) in the New Testament ............................................ 3 Karri L. Whipple Monasticism in the Christian East: an Introduction ......................... 21 J.A. McGuckin ‘Taking Upon the Likeness of Angels’: Asceticism as the Angelical Life in Aphrahat’s Demonstrations ............................... 35 Sujit T. Thomas The Recitation of the Psalms among Early Christian Ascetics ....... 43 Jill Gather The Virgins Sing Orthodoxy: Ephrem’s Choirs & the dissemination of Nicene Thought in Syria ................................ 67 Robert Najdek The Power to Curse and the Power to Save: The Monk, the Prophet & the story of Elisha’s curse of the She Bears (2 Kings 2:23–24) ............................................................................... 83 Revd. Mary Julia Jett Rhetoric and the Monastic Rule in Byzantium: From Anchoritism to Coenobitism ....................................................... 97 Julia Khan The Devil in the Desert .......................................................................111 Kevin McKeown An Ancient Ascetical Drama of Woman and the Dragon: Perpetua’s Rise into the Animus-World ..................................127 Jeff Pettis v

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The Pure ‘Eye of her Soul’: The Asceticism of the Deaconess Olympias as Reflected in the Writings of the Fathers ...........141 V. K. McCarty Evagrius Ponticus, the Origenian Ascetic (and not the Origenistic ‘Heretic’) ...................................................................159 Ilaria L.E. Ramelli Asceticism Through the Lens of Anthropology: The Greek Fathers from Justin to Gregory Nazianzen on the Soul and the Holy Spirit ..............................................................................225 Vicki Petrakis St. Shenoute Of Atripe And His Monastic Order ..........................241 Deacon Antonios the Shenoudian (A. Bibawy) Hagiographic Traditions of Ethiopian Monasticism ......................261 Atsede Maryam Elegba The Evolution of Fundamental Christological elements in the works of St. Cyril of Alexandria ................................................291 Vasily Novikov Humanity’s reconciliation with the divine through the mystery of the Incarnation of the Word in the Thought of St. Isidore of Pelusium & St. Cyril of Alexandria ........................313 Eirini Artemi The monk as mourner: St. Isaac the Syrian & monastic identity in the 7th C. & beyond ................................................................331 Hannah Hunt The Dying Church: Hierarchy as Self-Sacrifice in PseudoDionysius ......................................................................................343 Kate McCray Plotinus and the Essence – Energeia Distinction: A Neoplatonic Influence on Dionysius Areopagita ...................357 Joshua Packwood Maximos and Neurobiology: A Neurotheological Investigation of Asceticism as Erosion of the Passions & the Gnomic Will .................................................................................................369 Luis Joshua Salés Converting the Use of Death: The Ascetic Theology of St Maximus the Confessor in Ad Thalassium 61 ..........................379 Gregory Tucker The Monk Philosopher in Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī (d. 974) and Severus Ibn al-Muqaffa’ (d. c. 987) .........................................................395 Zachary Ugolnik

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What is the ‘Breath of God’? – Bibliographic Theology in Armenian History from Astvacashuntch to St. Grigor Narekatsi’s The Book of Sadness .............................................411 Anthony J. Elia A Royal Family: The Significance of Saint Sava and his Parents for the Establishment of Serbian Monasticism and the Serbian Church ............................................................................423 V. Rev. Živojin Jakovljević The 15th century Typikon of Neilos Damilas for the Convent of the mother of god on Venetian-Crete ......................................433 Mary McCarthy Part Two: Monastic Reflection and Modernity ................... 445 Contemporary Monasticism: Why join a monastery? .....................447 + Metropolitan Jonah (Paffhausen) A Triptych of Contemporary Romanian Spiritual Elders ..............455 + His Grace The Rt. Revd. Dr. Macarie Drăgoi The Beauty of Silence in Christian Monastic Tradition .................471 Teodor Damian The ‘Mystical Mundane’ in Fr. Nikon of Karoulia’s Letters to Gerald Palmer ..............................................................................485 Christopher D. L. Johnson Purifying the Heart in Order to See: Praxis and Perception in Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov ................................................499 Tea Jankovic The Centrality of St. Isaac the Syrian’s Ascetical Theology in Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov.........................................505 Rico Monge Engaged Monasticism: Mother Maria Skobtsova and TwentyFirst Century American Orthodox Monasticism ...................513 Fr. Peter M. Preble Psychic Crisis in Monastic Communities: The Ascetical Writings of Evagrius of Pontus in the Light of Modern Understandings ............................................................................523 John L. Grillo Markets and Monasticism: A Survey & Appraisal of Eastern Christian Monastic Enterprise ...................................................535 Dylan Pahman Spiritual Warfare and the Struggle for Apatheia ..............................563 Theodore Grey Dedon

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The Concepts of Time As Applied to Monasticism & Asceticism .....................................................................................573 Nicholas Samaras Notes on the Contributors..................................................................583

EDITORIAL FOREWORD This collection of scholarly papers emanates from the fifth annual conference of the Sophia Institute (www.sophiainstitutenyc.org). It was an especially rich and lively event that, on Friday December 6th 2013, drew Orthodox scholars to New York from all over the world. The power and energy of the monastic life has rescued and renewed the Orthodox Church in times innumerable over the past two millennia. In the Western Church the experience of monastic life has been devastated in the aftermath of the Reformation, not least in Northern Europe and the New World that grew out of it, because of the depredations that the monasteries suffered in the eras of the Renaissance and Enlightenment. In the Eastern Christian world, there were equally severe depredations over past centuries, but they almost always came from outside the faith; and whenever Orthodox princes had independent power and ability to command wealth, the foundation and endowment of monastic life remained a priority, even into the 20th century. Monasticism was seen not only as a stabilizing force for the Church and its long pilgrimage through history, but also as a leavening force for the fabrics of society. In this present volume, the studies on Byzantine, Serbian, Coptic, Armenian, Romanian, and Ethiopian monastic history by Julia Khan, Mary McCarthy, Antonios the Shenoudian, Atsede M Elegba, Bishop Macarie Dragoi, Anthony Elia, and Archpriest Jakovljević, all demonstrate this with remarkable clarity. Today monasticism must learn, in the main, to do without its princely sponsors, but it already knows from its foundations that to earn its own living is no bad thing for the discipline of the ascetic life. Dylan Pahman’s paper in this collection shows a way forward for a new form of ascetical life lived on more modest means. Orthodoxy’s rich history of ascetical theory is embedded in the ancient past. The world in which the New Testament was originated already had extensive approaches to the ‘ascetical imperative’ as it ix

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has been recently designated. Karri Whipple’s reflective paper begins the book by looking at some of the ‘complexities’ (not simplicities) that the ascetical themes of the New Testament raise for the careful reader. Christian and pagan ascetics shared ‘something’ of a common language, which was apocalyptical in many respects, and which society today has largely lost. The radical ‘otherness’ of the scriptural ascetical imperative is refashioned, refounded in a sense, and given back to the world in the post-biblical movement we now know as Monasticism. Orthodox Christian monasticism thus remains, in a very real sense, as the heartland, an important surviving witness (martyria) of the eschatological heritage which is at the core of the Gospel message. The early centuries of the Eastern church saw a remarkable flowering of monastic forms, from Syria, through Egypt, Cappadocia, and the Upper Nile to Ethiopia. These in turn gave birth to the rich Western monastic experience. When Monasticism came to Rus towards the end of the first millennium, it was to gain a new momentum, and have an inestimable force. The monastic traditions of Russia, Romanian, Serbia, and Ethiopia are inseparable from the histories and cultures of their nations. These studies attempt to give some voice to parts of that immense and rich tradition; though to do justice to it all would require a library of work not a single volume. My own introductory article in this present collection looks over the development of the first few hundred years of ascetical life in the East. Jill Gather’s elegant study points out how foundational to monastic spirituality was the Book of Psalms. Julia Khan and Kevin McKeown give the reader helpful overviews of Byzantine era developments. Atsede Elegba and Fr. Antonios give us a glimpse through the (very) neglected windows of the ancient Coptic and Ethiopian traditions. Robert Najdek, Mary Jett, Hannah Hunt, Sujit Thomas, Kate McCray and Zachary Ugolnik all take us into the Syrian and Arabic Christian worlds, with their own distinctive and powerful traditions of ascesis; worlds closed off until relatively recently because of the linguistic challenges they posed to scholars. Ilaria Ramelli offers the reader a magisterial approach to that great Pontic theologian Evagrius, deacon of St. Gregory of Nyssa, and fellow labourer with St. Gregory the Theologian, who ended by making his own school in the Egyptian desert, one that would develop the great Origenian theological and mystical tradition and have an influence throughout the universal Church for many cen-

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turies after him. In these studies of the ancients, completed by the patristic-era analyses of Vicki Petrakis, V.K. McCarty, Vasily Novikov, Joshua Packwood, Luis Salés, and Gregory Tucker, we find ourselves in the intersection of ancient Christian dogma when there is very little distinction being made between philosophy, doctrine, mystical apprehension, and the path to holiness. It was an era when ascetical thought truly laid the foundations for the great age of the Fathers of the Church. Christopher Johnson reminds us about the depth of the philosophical culture of many of these ascetical mystics. Dionysius the Areopagite was a wind of inspiration that blew from 6th century Palestine, even as far as Eire. In the New World, Orthodoxy has been present for several centuries now. Monastic life has not been, so it would seem, so easy to re-plant. Heroic efforts have been made, and the monastic scene in the New World grows generation by generation, but there is no doubt that a tradition of Elders cannot be grown overnight. His Eminence + Metropolitan Jonah (Paffhausen) begins section two of the book with deep reflections on the eternal values of the monastic vocation. His Grace + Dr. Macarie (Dragoi) offers us the monastic witness of Romania where the monastic life is still lived out vigorously, in a tradition of Elders that is reminiscent of the Golden Age of origins, and which also flows in and out of the lives of the ordinary parishes in a rich interchange. Both hierarchs speak from the heart, and out of longstanding and first-hand experience of the realia of monastic life. Frs. Peter Preble and Teodor Damian open up reflection on monastic virtues in modernity: values that range from the meaning of silence to self-sacrificing kenosis for the other, and for the poor. We end the volume with literary impacts of monastic life. Tea Jankovic and Rico Monge both look at different ways Dostoevsky refashions and presents the virtue of asceticism in his Brothers Karamazov. The book is beautifully ended with poet Nicholas Samaras’ reflections on time and its suspensions. His remarks lead into a gift, in the end, of a poem from his new collection: American Psalm: World Psalm. Ending with this artistic gift of his is like coming to the end of a monastic day with the quiet bell of vespers sounding over the fields. I commend all these excellent scholars, artists, poets and theologians to you. Their work (a fruit of their own individual asceses over so many decades past (since such intellectual skill does not

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come cheaply) conspires to produce a profound and remarkable study of the rich heritage of Orthodox Monasticism. On behalf of the Sophia Institute, I am honored to present these works. Fr. John A. McGuckin Columbia University. New York Sept. 14th 2014. Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross

EMBODYING TRADITION, SEEKING TRANSFORMATION: GLIMPSING ASCETICISM(S) IN THE NEW TESTAMENT KARRI L. WHIPPLE Ascetic performance traverses time, grounding itself in the memory of a particular community and tradition while simultaneously reaching towards a transformative future. The ascetic embodies and performs the negotiation between memory and futurity attempting to navigate the ambiguities and transformative potential of the self. 1 The process of reaching back and looking forward found within asceticism makes approaching the theme of asceticism in the New Testament a daunting task. For it is difficult to resist the desire to approach a discussion of the New Testament’s relationship to asceticism without either reading for ascetic origins or allowing later Christian asceticism to color one’s interpretation of texts. The inspiring and gripping accounts of St. Antony wrestling temptations and demons in the desert or the image of St. Mary of Egypt crossing the Jordan to enter into an ascetic life of true peace can create a formidable temptation to pursue direct scriptural support for and illumination of the forms of Christian asceticism that really only develop in the third and fourth centuries CE and beyond. While there is no denying that ascetic themes are present within the New Testament, seeking a comprehensive understanding of asceticism 1 Gavin Flood. The Ascetic Self: Subjectivity, Memory and Tradition (Cambridge: CUP. 2004), 2.

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from the New Testament proves a challenging task, for the texts themselves do not provide a clear evolution for, or trajectory of, asceticism within the formative first two centuries of Christianity. Instead, they provide glimpses of contextually situated ascetic practices along with ideologies brimming with ascetic potential that add their voice to the broader discourse of how claiming the identity of a Christian shapes individual and communal practices, attitudes, and engagements with the world. Thus, this paper does not claim or attempt to present a comprehensive overview of every key ascetic text within the New Testament. Nor does it seek to parse even more elementary concerns around which New Testament texts should be deemed ‘ascetic’ and which should not. Instead, this exploration aims to highlight themes within the New Testament that lend themselves to major aspirations of asceticism, whether in concept or praxis, and I do so in accord with Wimbush’s observation that asceticism cannot be delimited to either a particular practice or motive in isolation. 2 Rather, motive and praxis are simultaneously present informing and reforming one another within the ascetic performance. I will engage the dialogue between ascetic motivation and practice in the first part of the paper through an exploration of the ascetic potential of three major themes found in the New Testament. In doing so, I seek to highlight the way in which New Testament texts, read through the lens of asceticism, can show both how a New Testament concept is able to inspire or produce an ascetic response (or performance) and how such a response can further develop and enrich the New Testament concept. The three themes I will give treatment to are: the construct of ‘New Life’ provided in the life, mission and death of Jesus, the Pauline construct of ‘living in Christ’, and the concept of the ‘Kingdom of God’ present throughout New Testament literature. Following this, I will explore how the Christian asceticisms that formed within these themes relate to or diverge from the multiple forms of asceticism found within Judaism and Greco-Roman culture in the first century C.E. 2 Vincent Wimbush, “Introduction” in Ascetic Behavior in Greco-Roman Antiquity: A Sourcebook, ed. Vincent Wimbush (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), 1.

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Finally, the paper will close with questions that remain critical to assessing New Testament asceticism and its effects on historical and contemporary understandings of the topic. To serve as a guiding principle, I adopt the definition of asceticism offered by Richard Valantasis which views it as: ‘Performances designed to inaugurate an alternative culture, to enable different social relations, and to create a new identity.’ 3 While this definition has been rightly critiqued for focusing more on what asceticism does than what it is, it is still useful for performing three important functions in the exploration of NT asceticism. First, it marks an important turn in New Testament scholarship, moving away from framing critical textual interpretation of New Testament asceticism only in terms of negative concepts such as anachoresis, or withdrawal from the world, and other forms of renunciation. In doing so it provides space to view asceticism in the service of the creative and Spirit-led power present in the New Testament communities, which constructs a new symbolic universe rooted in embodied relationalities and empowering subjectivity. Second, this definition allows for engagement with a greater range of New Testament literature on the topic of asceticism than afforded by the more narrow and negative definitions. Third, Valantasis’ definition highlights the integration between the individual and the collective that occurs in asceticism, disrupting clichéd views that asceticism was, and is, solely an individually focused endeavor. Highlighting the interconnected goals of the individual and community also shifts ascetic performances from acts of isolation to practices that intersect all aspects of identity, subjectivity, and collective lived experience. To explore further the potentiality of this definition with regard to New Testament asceticism, the three key elements of Valantasis’ definition concerning the formation of new identity, diverse relationalities, and alternative culture, will be placed in conversation with the three New Testament themes named above. The purpose is not to draw direct correlations between the definition and the 3 Richard Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceticism,” in Asceticism, eds. Vincent L. Wimbush and Richard Valantasis (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 548.

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New Testament texts but to see how placing them in dialogue opens space for greater engagement on the topic. Before moving on to the analysis, one final clarification is necessary concerning the notion of ascetic performance that will be employed in what follows. Valantasis describes performance as the ‘systematic training and retraining’ of behavior through learned and intentionally repeated activities. 4 This relates well with the original uses of the verb askeo from which the term asceticism derives. On a physical level, askeo refers to the disciplined training of the body for athletic competition. The spiritual sense of the term that developed within Greek thought referred to the exercising of virtue used in the taming of passions or controlling thoughts and impulses. Thus, activities such as fasting, silence, prayer, and manual labor repeatedly become familiar actions found within asceticism. But the performance of these actions alone does not fully constitute asceticism. Instead, they function as signifiers for larger ideological frameworks and their potential for creating alternative cultures and new subjectivities. Thus, for the purposes of this exploration, ascetic performance identified within the New Testament must constantly dialogue with the larger framework or alternative symbolic universe that such a performance aims to construct as well as the text’s historical context.

DISCOVERING NEW LIFE THROUGH JESUS’ MISSION Engagement with the life, ministry, and death of Jesus affords believers throughout the New Testament opportunities to experience new life. Encounters with Jesus depicted throughout the gospels carry a transformative effect that reorients the life of all who are willing to accept it. In the case of the disciples, following Jesus requires radical re-envisioning of their own identities, because the following of Jesus disrupts traditional identities markers such as occupation, familial relations, and wealth. For example, within Matthew, the disciples’ identities undergo ruptures and transformations throughout the gospel. Simon Peter and Andrew instantly transform occupations from local fishers to fishers of people (Mt. 4:18– 4

Ibid.

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20). Jesus publicly names the disciples as members of his family, disrupting traditional Greco-Roman family structures (Mt. 12:46– 50). Conversely, there are those who cannot embody such radical changes to one’s social position or economic security such as the potential disciple who wishes to bury his father before following Jesus (Mt. 8:21–22) or the young rich man who leaves grieving after Jesus instructs him to sell all of his possessions and give to the poor so as to be able to follow him (Mt. 19:16–22). Belief in Jesus produces new lives and new ways of engaging the world that ultimately introduce new identities for those who can accept the rigors of discipleship. The actions undertaken by the disciples displayed their belief in and embodied commitment to the new way of engaging the world inaugurated by Jesus. Anthony Saldarini sees a particularly ‘harsh integrity’ and commitment within the gospel of Matthew for creating such new life. 5 By engendering a new set of attitudes and commitments the gospel encourages a way of life that both disrupts and conforms to traditional customs and practices. 6 Thus, many teachings within Matthew seek to establish norms rooted in the commandments and the Law alongside a disciplined pursuit of virtue. 7 While Jesus’ teachings do not offer a cohesive disciplinary or ascetic program in themselves, the call there for continued commitment, practice, and performance of such teachings coupled with ongoing education in the service of living more fully into one’s new identity, certainly resonates with asceticism. And thus, as Saldarini suggests, these aspects, while not a systematic ascetic program, nevertheless have served as points of reflection for developing asceticism within later Christianity. 8 5 Anthony J. Saldarini. “Asceticism and the Gospel of Matthew,” in Asceticism and the New Testament, eds. Leif E. Vaage and Vincent L. Wimbush (New York: Routledge, 1999), 19. 6 Saldarini provides the example that while Jesus’ disrupts traditional family structures (Matt 12:46–50), conventions such as marriage remain unchallenged (5:31–32, 19:1–9) (21–22). 7 Ibid., 18. 8 Ibid., 24–25.

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At this point it is important to reflect on Valantasis’ view of asceticism as the process of formation that initiates an individual or group of individuals into a new cultural system that requires the development of a new understanding of one’s subjectivity and identity. 9 Asceticism becomes the deliberate and intentional performances that aid the individual in living into this new subjectivity by providing language and an embodied knowledge that equips and empowers the individual for productive living within the new culture. What we see in the Gospel accounts is an educational aspect of asceticism in which Jesus is depicted as instructing the disciples concerning the new culture that his mission brings to life. Such sustained instruction coupled with embodied practice helps to orient the disciples and aid them in working to realize their new subjectivity within this alternative culture. Looking beyond the Gospels, the Pauline corpus also contains the concept of new life through Jesus. This new life creates a lived response of continual refinement of one’s faith and discipleship in the service of living into one’s new identity in Christ. Here in place of Jesus coming up to one’s fishing boat to propose discipleship, there is a commitment to the process of realizing one’s new subjectivity in relation to Jesus manifested through the initiatory act of baptism. One only has to listen to Paul’s language around baptism in Romans 6 to hear how baptism orients an individual towards a disciplined life intimately connected to Christ’s. Paul explains that through the ritual of baptism the old self dies in service of the forming a new identity in Christ. Linking the experience of baptism with Christ’s death and resurrection, the old self is crucified with Christ releasing it from slavery to sin. In doing so, the individual gains new life, a new self identified in Christ. Walking in this newness of life includes a reorientation of one’s self to the world. Thus, Paul exhorts the Romans saying: Therefore, do not let sin exercise dominion in your mortal bodies, to make you obey their passions. No longer present your member to sin as instruments of wickedness, but present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death 9

Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceticism,” 547.

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to life, and present your members to God as instruments of righteousness. (Romans. 6:12–13).

Learning to live into such a new life requires a shift in consciousness, learning in Paul’s words how to become ‘slaves of righteousness’ instead of sin (Rom. 6:18). It also requires obedience to the education that Paul provides through the gospel. Through obedience and discipline, the believer finds freedom and sanctification and in doing so lives into her or his new subjectivity. An important aspect of this subjectivity is not only that it creates a new internal self-understanding and new life but also that the performance of this new subjectivity often manifests through standing in tension with other dominant performances of identity. Saldarini points to the social tensions and inhospitable conditions surrounding the Matthaean community as important for constructing the gospel’s intensity around and commitment to forging new subjectivities. 10 Within the Pauline corpus, Valantasis notes that competing subjectivities actually come to life and can be best seen in Paul’s letter to the Galatians. Here he identifies three basic competing subjectivities. 11 The first of which is ‘natural’ subjectivity – characterized as that of the outside world linked to individuals who submit to beings who are not gods and who orient themselves with regards to the elements and certain observances. The second represents the culturally dominant form of first century C.E. Judaism that observes specific cultural and religious codes. The third is the pneumatic subjectivity that develops in that group within the larger Jewish culture of which Paul is a part. In Galatians, Paul quickly dismisses natural subjectivity as a form of enslavement to ‘weak and poor elements’ that are of little concern to him (Gal. 4:9). As Valantasis reads the text, Paul goes on to use the allegory of Hagar and Sarah (Gal. 4:21–31) first of all to argue an equality between the dominant Jewish (cultural) subjectivity and the pneumatic subjectivity. Yet in the end, Paul demonstrates that preferSaldarini, “Asceticism and the Gospel of Matthew,”19. Richard Valantasis, “Competing Ascetic Subjectivities in the Letter to the Galatians” in Asceticism and the New Testament, eds. Vaage and Wimbush, 214–20. 10 11

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ence must be afforded the pneumatic subjectivity in order to bring about a new creation. 12 This concept of pneumatic subjectivity shows a departure from, and a resistance to, other subjectivities of the world. This new subjectivity calls the Galatians to live into a reality in which past markers of identity such as ethnicity, social status and gender that once helped orient them within the dominant culture are systematically removed. In doing so, one becomes identified with Christ and gains freedom. But as we heard in Romans above and now in Galatians, this freedom requires voluntary and intentional performances such as resisting vices (Gal. 5:16–21), developing virtues (Gal. 5:22–26), and working for the good of all in the community (Gal. 5:13, 6:1–10). 13 Through these performances one lives into her or his new subjectivity as defined in opposition to other dominant identity constructs. And yet, a unique factor of this subjectivity is that it is also a corporate (ecclesial) subjectivity. New life through Christ is inherently a corporate endeavor in which one’s identity is defined within the community as a whole. For an individual to achieve a new subjectivity one needs both God and community. This connects into the second major theme treated by this paper, the Pauline notion of living or being in Christ.

LIVING IN CHRIST The following discussion of what it means to live ‘in Christ’ requires orientation by means of the second part of Valantasis’ definition – that of ascetic performances ‘enabling different social relations.’ 14 These different social relations seek to construct a new relationality that furthers the new culture and symbolic universe being created through ascetic performance. Inherent within this discussion of redefining social relations is the question of power within these relationships. Namely, if and where shifts and destabi-

12 It should be noted that with such interpretations, we should take care to not presume supercessionist readings of the passage are default, for the preference of pneumatic subjectivity is not equatable with a wholesale rejection of cultural subjectivity nor is cultural subjectivity is limited only to Jewish culture and not Roman empiricism as well. 13 Valantasis, “Competing Ascetic Subjectivities,” 219. 14 Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceticism,” 548.

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lizations of power take place and how the established conventions for acknowledging power also become redefined within the relationship. Returning to Galatians, one sees that being in Christ creates relationships that destabilize conventional ideas of power and identity politics. New subjectivity entails that one becomes clothed in Christ so that ‘there is no longer Jew nor Greek, slave or free, male and female, for all are one in Christ’ (Gal 3:28). Within this relationality the binaries structuring society are disrupted as Paul displays the freedom possible through identifying believers as ‘one in Christ’ rather than by traditional identity markers. But he further complicates this notion by claiming that this freedom is not for one’s self indulgence but rather for the purpose of becoming slaves to one another in love (Gal 5:13). Doing this allows one to resist the desires of the flesh and experience the fruits of the Spirit whose list ends with the fruit of self-control (Gal. 5:22–23). Here again we can see the call for practices and modes of living influenced by one’s experience of being in relation with others who are collectively in Christ does not form a complete ascetic program. Instead, it opens a space of inspiration and further discussion of what it means to engage in ascetic performances that bring about a new way of relating to others. It also calls forth the notion that to be ‘in Christ’ is an embodied reality experienced through living out one’s faith in relation to the greater body of Christ. Within this discussion of asceticism enabling different social relations, we must discuss the topic of sexual asceticism. 1 Corinthians provides an example of Paul demonstrating the radical connectivity of each member’s actions to the wellbeing of the whole community as the body of Christ. In 1 Corinthians Paul expresses a deep concern over the defilement of the body of Christ through porneia, the uncontrolled passion of sexual desire that leaves the body of Christ susceptible to outside contamination by external ways of living. The actions of one person affect the health of the whole community. Being in the body of Christ, therefore, requires control of passion for which Paul provides a number of options. Imitating Paul in celibacy is preferred yet the consolation of marriage is provided for those unable to control their desires, lest they be fully consumed or enflamed by passion (1 Cor. 7). Thus, the relationality of living in Christ requires a keen awareness and control of one’s sexual actions, lest passion allow for external forces to

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defile the body. But inherent within this system of control is a hierarchy of preferable relations that carry gendered implications. Here is where the question of power in new relationality becomes particularly critical. For a question that remains with regards to Paul’s treatment of sexual asceticism is how does the new reality of living in the corporate body of Christ challenge, re-inscribe, or reimagine existing gendered power dynamics within the community. For example, we can consider A. C. Wire’s analysis of 1st Corinthians, which views Paul as using his conciliatory forms of asceticism as a means of exerting power and control over Corinthian women prophets. 15 According to Wire, the women were able to gain power and respect in the community utilizing the ability to claim celibacy and perform various forms of prophetic activity within the communities. Paul’s instructions on marriage and prophetic actions especially pertaining to women appears to suppress the new subjectivity of the women, constrain their bodies, disrupt their communally-based relationality and challenge the power they have been able to foster within the Corinthian assembly. 16 Whether or not one agrees with Wire’s analysis, what it points to is the question of how competing asceticisms or alternate forms of relationality beyond the intended scope of an author or community are addressed. For combative power can also emerge within such new relationalities that seeks to silence or reject perceived opponents or threats which could include other Christian ascetics. This has been noted by MacDonald in relation especially to Ephesians and Knust with regards to 2nd Thessalonians. 17 Exploring power dynamics both within the societally ordered 15 Antoinette Clark Wire. The Corinthian Women Prophets: A Reconstruction through Paul’s Rhetoric (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990). See especially Wire’s exposition on sexual asceticism concerning 1 Cor 5–7 (pp. 72– 97). 16 Ibid., 154–158. 17 For example, see Margaret Y. MacDonald’s “Citizens of Heaven and Earth: Asceticism and Social Integration in Colossians and Ephesians” and Jennifer Wright Knust’s “2 Thessalonians and the Discipline of Work” for further explorations on the topic of power dynamics (Asceticism and the New Testament, eds. Vaage and Wimbush, 255–68; 269–98).

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relationships and for those living in Christ through the lens of asceticism requires more scholarly attention; for it is important to name both how asceticism inspires new constructions of power and in what cases it serves to maintain existing power structures under a new name.

THE KINGDOM OF GOD The final ‘ascetical’ theme that will be considered is that of the Kingdom of God (basileia tou theou). Valantasis suggests that ascetic performance seeks to inaugurate an alternative culture. The concept of Kingdom of God found throughout the gospels serves as an important point of exploration for this notion. Though lacking a clear and univocal definition in the Gospels, the concept of the Kingdom of God helps orient believers to the new culture that their lifestyles and performances are enacting. The ambiguity around the precise meaning of the Kingdom also leaves space for multiple interpretations of how this new culture becomes realized within this world or the next. We may note, as empire-critical scholars most recently have, that the concept of the impending basileia tou theou or God’s Empire, allows for the inauguration of a new culture that decenters the dominant Roman imperial culture from the lives of believers through their own actions and behaviors 18. Such an inauguration takes many forms within the New Testament. One response is characterized by perhaps the New Testament’s most recognizable ascetic, John the Baptist. The ForeRunner’s means of preparing for the impending Kingdom is to remove the self from the dominant culture. Thus the Baptizer locates himself in the wilderness, historically deemed a space of chaos that exists outside of Roman order. We are told in Mark that his appearance also defies Roman sensibility, as he is clothed in camel’s hair and locusts and honey to provide his sustenance (Mk. 1:6). He gathers disciples and crowds to himself proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. John serves as a voice loudly proclaiming and embodying the ‘alternative culture’, actions which 18 See, e.g., W. Carter. Matthew and Empire: Initial Explorations. Harrisburg, PA. 2001.

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are perceived as threats to the power of the dominant culture and which will contribute to his execution. Likewise within Matthew, the Kingdom of Heaven has particular prominence occurring thirty-seven times in total. It is interpreted as a response to the current oppressive conditions experienced by the Matthaean community. The concept of creating an alternative culture allows for the adoption of certain behaviors that challenge Greco-Roman ideas of family and wealth, especially the concept of the paterfamilias as the center of Roman order, because the Jesus movement creates alternative familial structures that decenter the hierarchal paterfamilias from the position of control over the economic, reproductive, and social ordering that it traditionally held. However, the practice of performing and living into an alternative culture through visions of the Kingdom of God in a manner that was publicly disruptive and counter-cultural was not the sole method employed within the Christian ekklesia. Some New Testament literature rather displays a developing coexistence between the alternative and dominant cultures. Valantasis acknowledges this phenomenon, stating that: ‘It is not necessary that the alternative culture formed through asceticism oppose the dominant culture’ as multiple cultures can exist simultaneously. 19 MacDonald’s analysis of Colossians and Ephesians also identifies such a coexistence of cultures. 20 For MacDonald, this coexistence comes out of a basic need for survival when negotiating the tensions that arose between the developing ekklesia and the outside world. 21 Thus, believers adopted a position of being in the world but not of it. As such their ascetic performances carried more hidden manifestations or what Kaelber would call ‘inner asceticism’ in which spiritual disciplines gained greater attention than physical and visible ascetic practices. 22 Such asceticism would not necessitate a detachment from specific Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceticism,” 549. See Margaret Y. MacDonald, ‘Citizens of Heaven and Earth,’ 269–298. 21 MacDonald, 273. 22 Walter O. Kaelber, “Asceticism,” in The Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Mircea Eliade (New York: MacMillan, 1987), vol. 1, 442. 19 20

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worldly structures or pleasures but would focus on internal or spiritual discipline. Thus, MacDonald concludes that such a stance allows for an insistence that: ‘Ethical ideals in the church match those of the world and that believers who are not “of this world” nevertheless are firmly rooted “in this world”’. 23 This results in ethics such as those found in the so-called ‘household codes’ that adopt a social conservatism. Such conservatism serves a dual purpose of furthering Christian ideals while also defending the community from being labeled a social irritant by broader society. 24 Thus, the household codes also seek to differentiate the Colossian practices from those of perceived false teachings in order to preserve a particular image and identity for the group. For MacDonald, viewing the household codes through the lens of asceticism allows for them to be seen less as a wholesale accommodation to broader society by highlighting the ‘change of orientation in relation to the world’ that is still present internally even if not evident externally. 25 Thus, the believers become an ‘invisible body’ in the world that while not overtly challenging Roman empiricism or patriarchal structures nevertheless creates an alternate culture and reality through its internalized beliefs and practices. 26 Finally, the Pastoral Epistles adopt a position that slightly differs from that of Colossians or Ephesians but nevertheless maintains patriarchal structures of society within its attempt to navigate broader Christian and Roman culture. Streete suggests that the asceticism and right conduct purported in the Pastorals seeks to induce but not coerce the rest of the world to adopt its way of life. 27 In doing so, maintaining order as in a great household is given utmost priority in creating ascetic performances that seek discipline for the sake of one’s household and society not one’s self (2 Tim. 2:20–26). This asceticism, which Valantasis labels as ‘integrative,’ seeks a culture of peace in which everyone has a proper place withMacDonald, 285. Ibid. 25 Ibid. 291 26 Ibid. 27 Gail Corrinton Streete, “Askesis in the Pastoral Letters” in Asceticism and the New Testament, eds. Vaage and Wimbush, 313. 23 24

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in the system in such a way that current power structures are not radically disrupted (i.e. 2 Tim 2:3–6, Titus 2:11–12). 28 A final note on the concept of the Kingdom of God and inaugurating a new culture concerns the ways in which such projects are related to Christian eschatological fervor and new constructions of time. While space prevents detailed attention to these topics, it is important to note that a rich conversation exists concerning the relationship of New Testament era asceticism as an appropriate response to the impending eschaton, or (later) as a method of ‘realized eschatology’ within ascetic understandings.

LOCATING NEW TESTAMENT ASCETICISM(S) After surveying these themes of the New Testament and how they help illuminate further discourses on Christian asceticism, I wish to take a moment to explore how the ascetic threads found within the New Testament present particularly unique perspectives on asceticism that differ from other popular forms of asceticism in the Greco-Roman world of the first two centuries CE. First, I would like to look at the portrait of Jesus presented in the Gospels in conversation with the multiple forms of Jewish asceticism present. Dale Martin points out that Jesus does not fit into the ascetic programs of Jewish sects present at the time of the gospels’ composition. 29 He does not adhere to the strict Sabbath observance, concern for purity, and fasting practiced within the Qumran community. He does not follow the Jewish Nazirite purity practices such as avoiding contact with the dead, abstaining from wine, and never cutting one’s hair. Neither does he appear to have an affinity for dressing all in white or requiring a strict physical and dietary program as the Essenes did. The Gospel’s depiction of Jesus also stands in stark contrast to that of Philo’s account of the Therapeutae

28 Richard Valantasis, “Constructions of Power in Asceticism,” Journal of American Academy of Religion 63.4 (1995), 803. 29 Dale Martin, Sex and the Single Savior: Gender and Sexuality in Biblical Interpretation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2006), 94–8. Martin’s treatment of asceticism arises in the context of exploring Jesus’ sexuality, namely around the question of whether he advocated celibacy formally, or accidentally.

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whose contemplative life focused on ideals of temperance, solitary prayer, scriptural study, and fasting. Yet, this does not exclude explorations of how Jesus might be considered a Jewish ascetic, but it does mean that if he is one, he does not easily fit within the confines of the available Jewish asceticisms of his day. And this begs the question of how important was it for the Gospel writers to present Jesus as an ascetic figure in general? The second feature I wish to highlight displays the divergences of New Testament ascetic ideals from those of the GrecoRoman asceticisms of the time. A major place of divergence lies in the idea of a corporate subjectivity developing within ascetic practice. Here I will limit my comments to particular Stoic perspectives, while acknowledging that many other forms of asceticism are also present within the Greco-Roman philosophical context. 30 For the Stoics, the goal of ascetic practice and their specific system of therapy was to control and eventually eliminate desire. An ultimate aim of which was to achieve self-sufficiency based in ‘individual ethics and with the individual per se.’ 31 For Paul, such an idea of asceticism linked to self-sufficiency (autarkeia) is incomprehensible. In Paul’s way of thinking, one’s ultimate aim was to have complete dependence on God coupled with a corporate understanding of subjectivity and cultural formation. In addition, as Martin points out, even the idea of working towards creating a stable much less self-sufficient image of one’s self is not possible in the posture of mutual dependence created by participating in the body of Christ. 32 This idea of mutual dependence instead of self-sufficiency as aims 30 Due to the constraints of this paper, the rich variety found within Greco-Roman asceticism, particularly in the philosophical schools, cannot receive proper treatment, nor can the particular complexities and diversity of Stoicism be fully attended to. A useful survey of primary ascetic texts can be found in Vincent Wimbush’s Ascetic Behavior in Greco-Roman Antiquity: A Sourcebook. 31 James A. Francis, Subversive Virtue: Asceticism and Authority in the Second Century Pagan World (University Park, Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995), 5. It should be noted that this focus on the individual did not release the individual from societal obligation. 32 Martin, 73–74.

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of asceticism also highlights the difference in the followers that each model attracted. The Stoics and other Greco-Roman philosophical forms of asceticism generally were occupied by élite individuals who performed their asceticism from a place of power within the midst of the polis. Asceticism for Paul, however, created a space for élite and non-élite practitioners to participate in the communal process of self-discipline, and in the case of the élite, self-lowering. This communalism sought to bring about a new symbolic universe, rather individualistic modes of self-sufficiency.

LOOKING FORWARD After surveying the possibilities and new interventions that asceticism in the New Testament allowed for creating a new reality and way of life, several critical questions and areas of research arise that require further attention within contemporary New Testament scholarship that has recently been concerned with these ascetical ideas within the literature. The first critical question requires closer examination of the universality of Christian asceticism. By this I mean that though asceticism takes many forms in the New Testament and in later Christianity, the diversity of situated realities of the believers seems to disappear within both textual depictions and later critical interpretations of such texts. Scholars such as Kallistos Ware have claimed that Christian asceticism is: ‘not an élite enterprise but a vocation for all.’ 33 Thus, on some level asceticism held an open possibility of transformation for all believers and could be embodied by all. Pauline texts seem to strongly support such an idea with their notion of a corporate subjectivity that took into consideration all members of the community (e.g. 1 Cor. 12:12– 31). While these claims ring true on certain levels, further nuance is required with regards to how social realities might affect one’s ability to participate in ascetic performances. For example, concerning sexual asceticism, how are slaves whose bodies were notoriously used and exploited by their masters affected by or expected to respond to such ideas of sexual asceti33 Kallistos Ware, “The Way of the Ascetics: Negative or Affirmative?” in Asceticism, eds. Wimbush and Valantasis, 13.

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cism? Also, how do conversations concerning the élitism, privilege, and social status present within concepts of sexual asceticism in the New Testament get overshadowed by contemporary Christian interests in ascetical circles to focus on discussions of celibacy, or controlling passions, and sexual relationship within marital contexts? Another topic which is often obscured or overlooked within images of creating a corporate body, is how the realities of gender dynamics affect ascetic practice. Though some fruitful work has been done on this subject, the field still stands in need of great development. As noted above in the treatment of 1st Corinthians by Antoinette Wire, calls for sexual renunciation clearly had significantly different impacts on ancient men and women. Likewise, Paul’s conciliatory perspective on marriage in 1st Corinthians 7 had greater effects on the freedom of women within the community than on their male counterparts. Exploring how views of asceticism, especially sexual asceticism, affect the lives of women in New Testament texts or how such texts are applied to later iterations of Christian asceticism would aid in opening the conversation of how intersectionality and positionality within society are reinscribed, erased, or disrupted by the ascetical imperative. A second area for further exploration is that of addressing the ascetic ‘omissions’ found within the New Testament. Many New Testament scholars today make the claim that asceticism was an integral part of the rapid development of the Christian tradition. But an important question about New Testament asceticism(s) then arises, particularly with regards to the gospels. For if asceticism stood as a viable cultural option for within society that was gaining interest within philosophical and religious circles during the formative period of Christianity, why is asceticism frequently overlooked or omitted from the Gospel narratives? None of the gospels provide a programmatic treatment of asceticism. Nor do several of the key tenets traditionally associated with Jewish or Greco-Roman ascetic practice appear to factor greatly in Jesus’ teachings and mission. For example, Jesus is undisturbed by the critiques lodged against his disciples for not fasting like the Pharisees or John’s disciples (Mt. 9:14–17, Mk. 2:18–22, Lk. 5:33–39). Questioning these omissions along with placing the omissions of the topic of asceticism or the display of ascetic practices found in certain texts, alongside other texts in which ascetic themes factor heavily can

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create spaces for further examining the multiple motivations, visions, and strategies for community formation and discipline within early Christianity. 34 In conclusion, the significant variety of ascetic practices and inspirations found within the New Testament texts helps to destabilize the notion that asceticism within the formative years of Christianity was static commodity that can easily be categorized, defined, or used simply to validate later ascetic performances. Returning to New Testament texts does not produce a purer or more authentic form of Christian asceticism. Rather, when we closely study the New Testament, it opens up spaces to see the many complex, and often partial, manifestations of asceticism within the early tradition: ranging from John the Baptist to the invisible ascetic body of Colossians. In glimpsing these New Testament asceticism(s), one bears witness to the inspiration and impetus for what would come after as centuries of Christian ascetic performance. With continual engagement of text, tradition, and culture, the discussion of ascetic performance can continue to deepen and be enriched, integrating the embodied wisdom of the past with the pursuit of the transformative potentiality of the future.

34 John Kloppenberg provides a preliminary excursion into such a project in his “Making Sense of Difference: Asceticism, Gospel Literature, and the Jesus Tradition” in Asceticism and the New Testament, eds. Vaage and Wimbush, 149–158.

MONASTICISM IN THE CHRISTIAN EAST: AN INTRODUCTION 1 J.A. MCGUCKIN THE MONASTIC EXPERIENCE It is surprising to consider how the religion of the Saviour (which focused so much on preaching in village and town environments, using the shared meal as a central symbol of communion, and prioritizing the values of mutual philanthropy) could so quickly elevate the ascetical ideal as one of its mainstays, and yet such was the case from earliest times of formal Christian organization; certainly from the second century onwards. Recent research has pointed to the preponderance of the ascetical imperative in the Hellenistic environment that formed the nurturing culture of the earliest Christian communities (Wimbush, 1990; Kerschner, 1984). The patterns of preaching and the basic structures of Christian worship retained their presumption that the Church would be primarily an urban, a missionary, and a socially philanthropic phenomenon, but Monasticism sang a slightly different song, and it was one that resonated deeply within the Christian movement, not least in its Byzantine embodiments. This was certainly true in the original heartlands of Christian monasticism: Syria, Egypt, Palestine and Cappadocia. From Syria and Egypt there arose a lively and highly popular body of literature relating tales of the early monks. These Lives and Apophthegms of the Desert Fathers are a unique combination of 1 A version of this study first appeared in: The Oxford Handbook of Byzantine Studies. Edited by E Jeffreys, R Cormack, & J Haldon. Oxford. 2004.

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apocalyptic biblical wisdom literature, with Hellenistic philosophical traditions of the schoolroom Chreia, along with vivid aspects of popular religiosity of the fourth and fifth centuries. The fertile mix gave a powerful new impetus to Late Antique asceticism, and was the veritable birth of Christian monasticism at the dawning of the Byzantine era. Apologists in the late fourth century, and after, spread the fame of the desert monks far afield, giving the movement great vogue even in Byzantium. Notable examples are the Life of Antony by Athanasius, the Lausiac History of Palladius, Cyril of Scythopolis’ Lives of the Palestinian Monks, and the Spiritual Meadow by John Moschos. Monasticism was, and remains, a highly successful paradox. It derives from the concept of living a solitary life (Monazein) seriously concentrated on the salvation of one’s soul by the search for the face of God (monos monōs pros Monon) as one patristic aphorism put it; 2 but in actualité it flourished phenomenologically as chiefly as closely-bonded societies (communities) of dedicated men and women who were so well organized, and so focused in their intentionalities, that within a few generations they radically reshaped the international Christian agenda. Monasticism may have begun as a movement of withdrawal among the laity, a leaving of the cities of Late Antiquity in order to live a simplified and quiet life in the hinterland, but almost simultaneously many of these very solitaries (despite all protests to the contrary) became occupiers of the highest positions in the church, claiming the roles of bishops and priests which by their very nature were urban and political offices. Within a few hundred years the lay monastic movement of withdrawal had been so successful that it transformed the very nature of Christian leadership into a predominantly ascetic endeavour. The profuse rhetoric of monastic sources (the predominant literature of the Byzantine world) continually stresses its ‘role apart’, its eremitical ‘withdrawal from the affairs of society’. This should not blind the reader to the fundamentally important political and social functions monasticism played out within the heart of the Byzantine social experience, not least after the 10th century when monasteries One.

2

The single person, single-mindedly, making a way to the Single

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often became significant landowners. In the Middle Byzantine era perhaps half the literate class of the empire were monks. This literary facility accounts for the wholesale glorification of the ascetic imperative: its more or less total subsuming of the ideals of Christian sanctity and church order within the Byzantine world. The Byzantines (so adept in their delight in paradoxes) soon perfected the idea of the ‘city-monk’, the cosmopolitan hermit. The image of Emperors seeking advice on intimate matters of state policy from the leading ascetics of the day is not merely a rhetorical trope.

EGYPTIAN & SYRIAN ASCETICISM The monastic tradition has often been described as beginning in Egypt in the early fourth century. Antony was accorded the symbolic role of the ‘founder of monasticism’ for Athanasius’ account of his life (the Vita Antonii) was one of the most widely read books of the early Byzantine period. The story begins with his conversion and withdrawal from a fairly comfortable life in Alexandria to embrace the rigors of seclusion in the semi-desert adjacent to the Nile. At first he lived on the outskirts of a village, but soon Antony sought a deeper solitude and progressively withdrew into a more desolate wilderness. As he advanced in peace and wisdom, becoming a thaumaturgal ‘friend of God’, he attracted disciples, and thus was able to ‘grow on’ a community. The Vita, in this regard, sketches out the parameters of what were already known to be several different types of monastic lifestyle already in existence by the mid fourth century. If Antony is exemplary, therefore, he is not historically speaking an absolute ‘founder’. Solitaries existed in the Syrian church at least a century before him, and even in Antony’s Vita we are told that he gave his sister over to the care of female ascetics who already, as notable groups, inhabited the Alexandrian church. The Syrian church at a very early period demanded of those who went forward for baptism (a thing not usually sought in the pre-fifth century church until one’s maturity or dotage even) a radical commitment to celibate living (Abouzayd, 1993). This meant that in Syria, the inner circle of baptized Christians were all de facto celibate ascetics. They were known as the Ihidaya (solitaries), or the Ben’ay Qyama (children of the covenant). These communities of men and women ascetics customarily lived either at home or in groups near the church and soon came to have an important func-

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tion setting the tone of the public assemblies. These ascetic communities are the direct descendants of the associations of widows and virgins mentioned in the New Testament (Voöbus, 1960). An example of this lifestyle and how it came to serve as a powerful inner circle of Christian government can be found in Aphrahat the ‘Persian Sage’, an early fourth century ascetic-bishop, whose Demonstrations already show much that would later emerge as classic monastic concerns. From earliest times, therefore, the apocalyptic (world-renouncing) aspect of the monastic lifestyle claimed to be a direct and legitimate successor of the eschatological community of Jesus as described in the Gospel. Typically in Syrian and early Egyptian sources, the ascetical lifestyle was described as ‘not of this world’, and associated with the ‘angelic life’, a modality of anticipating the age to come. The Syrian church developed its monastic history with a pattern of holy men living in retirement on the outskirts of villages, who thus served as important mediators in many social disputes. Theodoret’s History of the Monks of Syria gives a classic account, and introduced a style of sensational ascesis (such as pillar habitation – stylitism) that would soon make its way to Byzantium itself. The combination of the monastic vocation, with the office of the ‘holy man’ as mediator, healer, and exorcist, thus became significant from an early age in Christianity (Fowden, 1982). Nevertheless, despite Syria’s foundational importance, in fourth century Egypt the expansion of monasticism was extraordinary, and constitutive. Antony was soon outstripped by Copts such as Pachomius (Rousseau, 1985, 1999) or Shenoudi (Timbie, 1986), who organized societies of many thousands of Christian zealots living the communal life in highly organized settlements along the Nile. With Pachomius the concept was introduced of the monasteries as a kind of loose federation, centred around common activities of prayer and manual labour (an early concept of ‘Rule’, or Typikon as it was known in the East); with monks and nuns (always in separated communities) sometimes living adjacently for protection. With Shenoudi came the introduction of formal written professions of obedience, or vows, that served to keep the monastic sacrally engaged, committed, to the ascetic life. The arid lands adjoining the Nile, and the wilderness areas of Palestine and Syria, were soon famed as ‘cities in the desert’, and as long as Byzantine power held sway (and indeed after) these areas were populated with important monasteries. Only the greatest now remain: sites such as

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Mar Saba near Bethlehem, and St. Catherine’s at Sinai, or St. George Choziba in the Wadi Qelt. Ruins of smaller Byzantine monasteries still litter the landscape of Palestine. In their heyday, before the rise of Islamic power, no fewer than 140 Byzantine monasteries flourished within the relatively small area of Palestine (Binns, 1994). In the Middle Byzantine period, the concept of holy mountains (wild wooded areas) became a popular substitute for the desert, and of the famous foundations such as Mount Latros, Mount Olympus, or Mount Athos, the latter still stands as an example of how a colony of hermits could be established, and flourish, under imperial patronage (Morris, 1996).

STYLES OF EASTERN MONASTICISM The idealized figure of Antony had elevated the notion of the hermit (the word is derived from ‘desert-dweller’) as the supreme form of monastic life, where an individual would seek radical seclusion to advance in prayer and asceticism. Hermits were solitaries, of course, but even they had their disciples; and from that experience another genre of monasticism soon rose up, namely the Lavriotic lifestyle. The word means ‘back lane’, and connotes the way a pathway linked the different cells of recluses and joined them all to a common church or Katholikon. The Lavra was thus a community of monks who were predominantly solitaries, each following their individual spiritual path, but who assembled around a commonly revered Elder (Abba) as a kind of extended spiritual family. The Lavra’s brotherhood would gather on Sundays, or great feasts, to the common church where they chanted psalms (the beginning of the monastic practice of the Offices of prayer spread throughout the day) and celebrated the Divine Liturgy. The Lavriotic lifestyle was based upon a closely personal relation with a single charismatic figure. It did not have a generic rule, nor did the monks eat or live together, but eventually the Lavra came to be more formally compacted within a walled and fortified site, with the common church in the central square. This architecture came to be the classic form of most subsequent Byzantine religious houses, and the term Lavra in later eras sometimes came to mean simply ‘great monastery’. Distinct from the hermit’s individual cell, or the Lavra of the association of hermits, one also finds the Cenobitic form of monasticism (so named from the Greek word for common life). The pattern was symbolically associated with Pachomius but spread widely

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after it was enthusiastically received in Cappadocia (now eastern Turkey) by powerful ecclesiastical leaders such as Eustathius of Sebaste, Sts. Basil of Caesarea, and Gregory of Nazianzus. Cenobitic monasticism (the chief aspect of which is a common daily rule of prayer and labour, and a common refectory) was certainly the standard type of establishment in the Byzantine era, but movement (of individuals, and indeed monastic houses themselves) between all three types of monastic lifestyle was always possible, and often unremarkable within a monk’s individual career. Gregory Nazianzen and Basil (two of the leading Nicene Cappadocian fathers) being themselves powerful politicians, ascetics, and bishops, did much to establish the idea of monasticism as something fundamental to the structural organization of the church; but the initial anxiety of bishops with the concept of zealous monks undermining their administration can be witnessed in the Acts of the Council of Gangra in 340. Local communities, however, favoured the zealous ascetics, and often eagerly elected them as their episcopal leaders from the fifth century onwards. The issue of authority was more or less settled (in favour of local bishops) by the canons of the Council of Chalcedon in 451, where monks were ultimately subordinated to the episcopate – a legislation that paradoxically increased monasticism’s prestige by bringing it officially into the heart of Church structures. When increasing numbers of bishops were themselves ascetics, it seemed only natural to employ monastic clergy for higher orders. This pattern of using monastics to service ecclesiastical institutions, both liturgically and pastorally, became wide-spread but it would never altogether be the standard in the Byzantine church, especially at the great centers such as Constantinople and Thessaloniki where a body of nonmonastic clergy, intellectuals, and aristocrats, robustly defended their rights and privileges over and against the monks. Gregory and Basil together had sketched out a form of ascetical ‘rule’ and it became a foundational part of most Byzantine monastic communities seeking to regulate their daily lives. Basil put a premium on manual labour. His ideal was for monks and nuns to earn their own living from the work of their hands. Gregory was more inclined to see an important role for the intellectual life. By and large the later Byzantine monastic tradition followed both ideas, with some communities based around farming, while others encouraged a more scholarly life (at least for some). Most of the

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libraries of monastic houses, however, were strictly dedicated to ecclesiastical and ascetical literature. Only a few, such as that endowed by the Imperial Logothete Theodore Metochites, at the Saviour in Chora monastery in Constantinople, had a more widely stocked collection, and this because it reflected his own personal tastes as a very wealthy lay aristocrat. The central theorists of Byzantine monasticism, such as Sts. Basil the Great and Theodore of Stoudios (whose writings became archetypal for later centuries), so insisted that monastics ought to earn their own living by the labour of their hands, that most of the ascetic communities tended to be active producers more than consumers. It was an aspect of the monastic spirit that had a far greater effect than merely channeling the energies of the individual monk, for it also ensured that the communities themselves would generally tend to fiscal stability, even expansion, within the economic macro-climate of the empire. In many periods of Byzantine history, especially when inflation was running at crippling rates, investment in monasteries was one of the few safe havens for aristocratic cash. So it is we find, throughout the Byzantine ages, nobles and rich merchants, endowing monasteries and thus assuming the role of ‘Founder’ (Ktitor), with a view to retiring into the monastic complex (often with their families with them) in old age, or (perhaps) in their political disgrace. Monasteries offered to the Byzantine monk, and their lay supporters, not only an expression of the Kingdom of God on earth, where salvation could be anticipated and atonement of sins secured, but in addition a place of safe haven, and a society whose discipline, peace, and convivial culture, probably excelled by far most of what they were used to in daily life ‘in the world’ (McGuckin 2001. i).

MONASTICISM AT CONSTANTINOPLE Monasteries made their appearance relatively early at Constantinople. The first was the Cenobium of Dalmatou built by the Senator Saturninos for the Syrian monk, St. Isaac, in 382. At first the ascetic houses were a ring of semi-rural suburban retreats but soon they came to be centrally embedded in almost every part of town, as the city itself expanded; and so, almost from its inception, Constantinople was a veritable city of monasteries. Several studies (Janin, 1953, 1975) (Dagron, 1974) (Charanis, 1971) (Talbot, 1987) have noted this rapid spread of monasticism at the capital. In 430, when

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Archbishop Nestorius tried to restrict the social and political involvements of Constantinopolitan monks, the furore caused played no small part in his political downfall (McGuckin, 1996. i). And by the time of the condemnation of Eutyches in 448, the latter’s deposition was signed by no fewer than 23 resident monastic Higumens (abbots). The official notice ending the Acacian schism, listed 53 major city Higumens, and the Synod of Constantinople in 536 listed 63 superiors of local monasteries as being present. Janin (1953) suggests that special monasteries also existed at the capital for the different ethnic groups, especially the Syrians, Latins, and Egyptians, each using their particular languages for services. Very little is known about the exact number of female convents though there were indeed several within the city. One survey of Byzantine literary sources has noted that almost a third of all known monasteries existed within the walls of the Great City itself (Bryer, 1979). With regular imperial and aristocratic endowments, monasticism flourished throughout the lifetime of the empire. Even times of apparent setback, such as the hostility that flared between the monks and the Iconoclastic emperors, or the time of the decrees of Nikephoros Phokas designed to limit the landholdings of monastic houses, were merely temporary or reformatory measures. The Byzantine powers always supported (and indeed regulated) monasticism. When destruction came, it was inevitably from outside, from the hands of Latin or Islamic enemies. The late fourth century also witnessed the first ascetical bishop at Constantinople, in the person of St. Gregory the Theologian (Nazianzen) (McGuckin, 2001. ii). Through the fifth century onwards (with some notable exceptions) the court often looked to monastic celebrities to fill the ranks of Archbishop and Patriarch. From the beginning, the Archbishop had a great control over the monasteries. It was not absolute, by any means, for each founder could specify the degree of his house’s involvement in the affairs of the local church, and thus sketch out the degree to which the local bishop’s jurisdiction might be legally circumscribed. But since the Archbishop had the last word in whether a monastery could enjoy the services of ordained clergy, his power was considerable even over relatively independent houses. Eventually the monastic leaders of the great houses in the city became senior members of the ‘standing synod’ of Constantinople, and thus the bond between the

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ascetics and the governors of the local church was drawn even tighter, at Constantinople and elsewhere. By the 5th century a number of monastic houses specializing in public welfare had been established at Constantinople (Constantelos, 1968). The chief types were Hospitals (Nosokomeia), poor houses (Ptocheia), Hostels for Strangers (Xenones) Orphanages (Orphanotropheia), and old age homes (Gerokomeia). Most of them were private foundations, even if the founder was a member of the imperial house, and most were modest in size, often originating from wills that dictated the transformation of the patrician founder’s villa into the basis of the institution. The cleric who administered the Orphanage at Constantinople was a person of some substance and on occasion rose from that position to become Patriarch. Most houses, whether they had a social ministry or not (and several existed primarily and simply to celebrate the divine offices and encourage the life of prayer among their ‘hesychasts’), 3 were usually governed by a triumvirate of officers: the Higumen (Abbot), the Oikonomos (Steward) and the Ekklesiarches (Sacristan). The Higumen had the obligation of teaching and ordering the entire household, and frequently was expected to hear the ‘confession of thoughts’ of each monastic, though it was common for a Higumen, at least in larger houses, to appoint a specially revered elder to be the ‘soulfriend’ and confessor of the monks (Pneumatikos). The relation between the monk and the spiritual elder was one of dedicated discipleship, and the theme of spiritual fatherhood (especially in later Byzantine monastic writing) is a considerable one (Turner, 1990), and very noticeable in the writings of Sts. Symeon the New Theologian and Niketas Stethatos in the 11th century.

DAILY LIFE IN BYZANTINE MONASTERIES The pattern of life in a Byzantine monastery would vary according to the nature of the establishment. Some were enclosed, others more open to the local environment. Some were more collegial, 3 The term means ‘seeker of quiet withdrawal.’ It was a synonym of ‘monk’ before it gained any technical association of theological school in the later medieval ‘Hesychastic’ movement.

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and others more marked by basic societal divisions of the upper and lower classes (with choir monks distinguished from diakonetai, who wore different clothes and followed a different diet and regime in many cases, and were allotted different places in the refectory and the church). It would also make a large difference if the house was founded as a working farm, a centre of icon or manuscript production, a large cenobitic establishment, or a smaller subunit of monks (a Metochion or a Skete) dependent on a larger house somewhere else. The latter often had no more than a handful of monks who lived as a small family under the direction of an elder and often led a more focused life of prayer and retirement (hesychia). Throughout the Byzantine period one finds monks moving between several forms of monastic lifestyle, and often in different locations, sometimes seeking new elders from far afield. Each house, in theory, was founded with its own Typikon. This was the rule and charter established by the founder that determined the pattern of daily life, and the ethos of the monastery. The different Typika were normally based on the prescripts of the rules of St. Basil which sum up the common pattern of eastern monastic theory. Eventually the Typikon of the Lavra of St. Sabas in Palestine, and that of the Stoudios monastery at Constantinople became chief prototypes on which many later Typika were modelled. The level of freedoms allowed in Byzantine monasteries, especially to those who were aristocratic and educated before they entered, was much greater than that typical of the West, which came to be more and more dominated by Benedictine ideas of common order and discipline. Byzantine nobles could, and did, retain personal wealth after monastic admission, and saw it as a (loose) extension of the goods of the monastery. Many of the leaders of monasticism made substantial gifts to the monasteries they entered. In the late 10th century Symeon the New Theologian, becoming abbot of his house at St. Mamas only three years after first entering the monastic life, basically refounded the institution and rebuilt the church with most costly materials (McGuckin. 1996. ii). Up to three times a week, after morning offices, the Higumen would normally deliver practical and spiritual instructions to his monks, and several such collections of Catecheses remain to give a fairly clear picture of monastic ideals. Two of the most important collections are the Catecheses of Theodore, from the Stoudios Monastery in the 9th century capital, and those of Symeon the New

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Theologian from the late 10th, given at St. Mamas monastery by Constantinople’s Xerokerkos gate. The writings of Theodore became almost a constitutive charter for Slavic monasteries n the dawn of the second millennium, and generally remain so today for the Orthodox church at large. He favoured the model of the large Cenobium (in his time the community of the Stoudios numbered 700 monks) dedicated to social welfare, active involvement in the affairs of the church, and energetic production of manuscripts (possibly the minuscule style of writing evolved here). Nevertheless, despite the standardization that occurred around Theodore, the Byzantine monastic experience always retained a lively sense of the importance of the Lavriotic and Eremitical styles from which it had originally evolved. Eastern monks have always been much ‘freer’ in style than those of the West. The progressive loss of the Byzantine hinterland in the last imperial ages proved no less disastrous for monastic life as it did for the empire as a whole. After the Latin occupation of Constantinople in the 13th century most of the monasteries were desperately impoverished; although even at the fall of the capital in 1453, no fewer than eighteen monasteries were still actively functioning. The distant outlying houses, such as those on Crete, Cyprus, or the Slavic lands, clung on tenaciously through a succession of overlords, and their painted churches remain as eloquent testimony of the dissemination of Byzantine culture through monastic foundations. Some of the fortress monasteries, such as St. Catherine’s at Sinai or St. Sabas’ Great Lavra in Palestine, also survived as did (most spectacularly) the great monastic colonies on Mount Athos. A very large amount of literary records remain but still it is difficult to form a clearly focused picture of Byzantine monasticism, partly because the paradigms of the West are still so dominant in scholarly imagination, and pre 21st century literature; and also because the ‘less official’ records of daily monastic life are not as ample as the charter documents and the many spiritual encomia that survive, and give us idealized rather than ‘warts and all’ accounts. Such glimpses as we have into the day to day reality of Byzantine monarchism come largely, and tangentially, from hagiographies. The overall picture is also difficult to form because (outside of Athos) the archeological fabric (which was always fragile and domestic in character) has been so terribly devastated. The living pulse of Byzantine monasticism still beats to this day on

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Athos and, indeed, throughout the Eastern Christian world (Dalrymple, 1997), and can be readily studied in so far as the old traditions of hospitality are still honoured. The liturgical and theological aspects can thus be relatively easily observed. It is perhaps more difficult for the modern mind to appreciate Byzantine monasticism’s ‘missing contexts’: namely how and why this way of life was once so important societally, and so closely bonded into the political and cultural sinews of Byzantium.

BIBLIOGRAPHIC REFERENCES V Wimbush. (ed) R Kirschner S Abouzayd A Voöbus G Fowden P Rousseau ——— J Timbie

J Binns R Morris JA McGuckin

Ascetic Behaviour in Greco-Roman Antiquity. Minneapolis. 1990. ‘The Vocation of Holiness in Late Antique Society.’ Vigiliae Christianae. 38. 1984. 105–124. Hidayutha: A study of the life of singleness in the Orient from Ignatius of Antioch to Chalcedon 451. Oxford. 1993. A History of Asceticism in the Syrian Orient. vol. 2. Louvain. 1960. ‘The Pagan Holy Man in Late Antique Society.’ Journal of Hellenic Studies. 102. 1982. 35–59. Pachomius: The Making of a Community in 4th century Egypt. London. 1985, 1999. Basil of Caesarea. Oxford. 1994. ‘The state of research on the career of Shenoute of Atripe.’ in BA Pearson & J E Goehring (eds), The Roots of Egyptian Christianity. Philadelphia. 1986. Ascetics and Ambassadors of Christ : The Monasteries of Palestine. 314–361. Oxford. 1994. ‘The Origins of Athos.’ pp.37–46.in: A Bryrer and M. Cunningham (edd). Mount Athos & Byzantine Monasticism. Aldershot. 1994. (i) ‘Nestorius and the Political Factions of 5th Century Byzantium: Factors in his Downfall.’ Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library. (Special Issue), The Church of the East: Life and Thought. J.F. Coakley & K. Parry (edd), Bulletin of the John Rylands University, Library 78. 3. 1996. 7–21.

J.A. MCGUCKIN ———

——— ——— R Janin ———

G Dagron P Charanis AM Talbot A Bryer. D Constantelos HJM Turner W Dalrymple

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(ii) ‘St. Symeon the New Theologian and Byzantine Monasticism.’ pp.17–35 in : A Bryer & M Cunningham (edd) Mount Athos and Byzantine Monasticism. Aldershot. 1996. (i) Standing in God’s Holy Fire. The Byzantine Spiritual Tradition. London. 2001 (ii) St. Gregory of Nazianzus : An Intellectual Biography. New York. 2001. La Géographie ecclésiastique de l’empire byzantin. Pte. 1. Tom. III. (Les Églises et les monastères). Paris. 1953. La Géographie ecclésiastique de l’empire byzantin. Pte. 1. Tom. II. (Les Églises et les monastères des grands centres byzantins). Paris. 1975. Naissance d’une capitale : Constantinople et ses institutions de 330 à 451. Paris. 1974. ‘The Monk as an Element of Byzantine Society.’ Dumbarton Oaks Papers.25. 1971. 61–84. ‘An Introduction to Byzantine Monasticism.’ Illinois Classical Studies. 12. 1987. 229–241. Studies in Church History. 19. 1979. p. 219. Byzantine Philanthropy and Social Welfare. New Brunswick. 1968. Symeon the New Theologian and Spiritual Fatherhood. Leiden. 1990. From the Holy Mountain. New York. 1997.

Further Reading D Chitty The Desert a City: An Introduction to the Study of Egyptian and Palestinian Monasticism under the Christian Empire. London. 1966. W Lowther Clark (tr) The Lausiac History of Palladius. London. 1918. C Mango Byzantium: The Empire of New Rome. London. 1980. pp. 105–124. T Vivian Journeying Into God: Seven Early Monastic Lives. Kalamazoo. 1996.

34 B Ward

MONASTICISM IN THE CHRISTIAN EAST The Desert Christian: Sayings of the Desert Fathers. The Alphabetical Collection. New York. 1980.

‘TAKING UPON THE LIKENESS OF ANGELS’: ASCETICISM AS THE ANGELICAL LIFE IN APHRAHAT’S

DEMONSTRATIONS

SUJIT T. THOMAS Aphrahat (c.285–345), the ‘Persian Sage’, is one of the first major Christian writers in the Syriac language. His twenty-three Demonstrations are his major opus, indeed his only known work. By his time, Syriac asceticism had developed into a phase where formal groups were living separate from other Christians and had vowed themselves to a stricter discipline of life. Aphrahat’s Demonstrations offer us valuable insights into the historical and intellectual development of Christian asceticism. Aphrahat especially utilizes images related to angelomorphism when discussing the ideal ascetic life. For Aphrahat the ascetic who takes up the likeness of an angel is ‘vigilant’ like one of the heavenly ‘watchers’ (who keep vigil) 1 and has ascended into the inner sanctuary of the heavenly temple to behold the face of God. We know very little about the life of Aphrahat except that he was probably born into a pagan family in the Persian Empire in the latter half of the 3rd century. He embraced the Christian faith and dedicated himself to a celibate life. BarHebraeus, a Syrian Ortho1 There is an inherent pun in juxtaposition of concepts here – for the concept of ‘angel’ is closely linked to the idea of the heavenly ‘watcher’ (ire), as we shall see shortly, and hence by nature the ascetic person like an angel is ‘vigilant.’

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dox bishop of the 13th century dates the death of Aphrahat to 334 C.E. From the events narrated in the Demonstrations we know that he wrote between 337 and 345. His Demonstrations (or tahwita) are written as a reply to a group of spiritual disciples enquiring about the life of faith. Aphrahat states that the first twenty-two were written because there are twenty-two letters in the alphabet. The twenty-third Demonstration (titled On the Grape Clusters) repeats the first letter of the Syriac alphabet. The text is provides some of the earliest known Syriac and all the twenty-three Demonstrations are extant to us in manuscripts dating, at their earliest, to the fourth and fifth centuries. 2 In this present paper, while attempting to extract the mystical theology behind this angelomorphic asceticism, I will focus primarily on Demonstration 6, subtitled Sons of the Covenant. Before we venture further it is important to clarify some Syriac terms that will important for us in understanding base patterns of Syriac asceticism. Aphrahat employs four different terms for the ascetics in his community: Single Ones (ihidaye), the Covenanters (bnay qyama), the Virgins (bthule), and the Holy Ones (qaddishe). As Stephanie SkoylesJarkins notes regarding these four designations: ‘The terms are flexible and Aphrahat himself uses interchangeably ihidaye, qyama, qaddishe and bthule.’ 3 The ihidaye are the single ones who follow Christ the archetypal single one. As Aphrahat himself states, ‘The Single One (Ihidaya) who is from the bosom of his Father shall make all the singles (ihidaye) glad.’ The term bnay qyama can be literally translated as ‘sons of the covenant’. Not all ihidaya were members of the bnay qyama. The virgins (bthule) and holy ones (qaddishe) are complementary terms. The former are lifelong celibates while the later are married individuals who have dedicated themselves to celibate life. Two other important terms for this study are ‘angels’ (malak) 2 For an index of the earliest known manuscripts, see William Wright, Catalogue of Syriac Manuscripts in the British Museum 2 (Longmans, 1871). 3 S. Skoyles-Jarkins, Aphrahat the Persian Sage and the Temple of God: A Study of Early Syriac Theological Anthropology. Gorgias Press. Piscataway. 2008. p. 73.

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and ‘watchers’ (ire). Ascetics are exhorted to be both angels and watchers (Dem. 6.1 and Dem. 6.19). Before we move onto the angelomorphic ascetic passages in Aphrahat we should also clarify the term ‘angelomorphic’. Crispin Fletcher-Louis notes in regard to this term: ‘Though it has been used in different ways by various scholars, without clear definition, we propose its use wherever there are signs that an individual or community possesses specifically angelic characteristics or status, though for whom identity cannot be reduced to that of an angel.’ 4 Aphrahat’s use of this core comparison of the ascetic life to the angelical life fits into this definition of ‘angelomorphism’. In Demonstration 6 there are three instances where Aphrahat employs angelomorphic ascetic language. In the first section itself Aphrahat states: ‘He who takes upon himself the likeness of angels (malak) let him become a stranger to human beings’ (Dem. 6.1 – paraphrasing Heb. 13.2.). In section 5 when enumerating the prophets who loved holiness, with reference to Elijah, Aphrahat states: ‘And because he had taken upon himself the likeness of the watchers (ire) of heaven, these very watchers brought him bread and water’ (Dem. 6.5). In the concluding portion of the Demonstration, Aphrahat states: ‘Accordingly, have a love for virginity as the heavenly portion which involves communion with the watchers (ire) of heaven’ (Dem. 6:19). This angelomorphic asceticism has been read by several modern scholars as a denigration of marriage, an advocacy of sexual renunciation, demonstrative of a contempt for the body, and even as a patriarchal attempt to subjugate women. Often such negative assessments of this ascetic strain are more a reflection of modern sensibilities and ideologies than the approach of the ancient writers who are being commented on. The angelomorphic asceticism of Aphrahat is designed in his hands as an expression of an interiorized ascent to God and the transformation attendant on the ascended being which enables one ‘to behold the face of the Father in Heaven (Mt. 18.10)’. Perhaps the most appropriate designnation for this view of mystical asceticism is what Alexander Golitzin labels ‘interiorized apocalypticism’. 4 Fletcher-Louis, Crispin. Luke-Acts: Angels, Christology and Soteriology. WUNT. 2.94. Mohr Siebeck Tubingen. 1997. Pp. 14–15.

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Golitzin defined this term as: ‘The transposition of the cosmic setting of apocalyptic literature, and in particular of the ‘out of body’ experience of heavenly ascent and transformation, to the inner theater of the soul.’ 5 The source of angelomorphic language in Christian thought derives from the gospels themselves. On multiple occasions Christ himself employs angelomorphic language. Matthew 22:30 says that, ‘they are like the angels,’ and Luke 20:36 uses the phrase, ‘equal to the angels’. The third and fourth century ascetics were simply heeding the evangelical call of their Lord to become ‘as the angels are’ (Mt. 22.30). However, it would be careless for us to ignore the importance of Second Temple and post Second Temple Jewish mysticism as two factors that critically shape the angelomorphic asceticism of Aphrahat. As Bogdan Bucur puts it, ‘The mystical cosmology of Second Temple apocalypticism, constituted the general framework of early Christian discourse, ritual and ascetic praxis.’ 6 Aphrahat lived in the Persian Empire and is clearly aware of traditions of Jewish thought. 7 My thesis in this paper, echoing Golitzin’s conclusions, is that the angelomorphic asceticism of Aphrahat is a particularly fine example of the interiorized ascent of the ascetic to the presence of God, so as to behold the glory of God. This overview derives from Jewish mystical traditions extant in his day, yet, Aphrahat transforms the symbolic language of Second Temple Jewish mysticism and reworks it so as to express particular themes and experiences pertinent to the Christian life. A 5 A. Golitzin. ‘Earthly Angels and Heavenly Men: The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, Niketas Stethatos, and the Tradition of Interiorized Apocalyptic.’ in Eastern Christian Ascetical and Mystical Literature Dumbarton Oaks Papers Vol. 55. 2001. pp. 125–153 6 Bogdan Bucur. Angelomorphic Pneumatology: Clement of Alexandria and Other Early Christian Witnesses. Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae. 95. Brill. Leiden. 2009. 134 7 cf. Ilya Lizorkin. Aphrahat’s Demonstrations:a Conversation with the Jews of Mesopotamia. CSCO. Leuven. 2012; and J. Neusner. ‘The JewishChristian Argument in Fourth-Century Iran: Aphrahat on Circumcision, Sabbath, and Dietary Laws.’ Journal of Ecumenical Studies 7. 4. 1970. pp. 282–298. Idem Aphrahat and Judaism. Florida Univ. 2000.

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thorough examination of Second Temple Jewish mystical traditions is outside the scope of this present study. For our purposes here it is enough to state that concept of ascent to the inner sanctuary, communion with the angelic host with pure heart, and a vision of God, are all significant and core themes of Second Temple Jewish mysticism. An elaboration of these three themes tells the story of how much Aphrahat appropriates these inherited ideas in a radically Christocentric way. Both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament speak of God as seated on the heavenly throne (Isaiah 6, Ezekiel 1, Hebrews 8:1). This seat is a fiery throne composed of the cherubim in the innermost sanctum of the heavenly temple, where God is served by the celestial powers. For Aphrahat the ascetic Christian becomes that temple in which this ascent to angelic presence takes place. In Demonstration 14 (On Exhortation) Aphrahat states, ‘He is the great temple of his maker. The King of the heights enters and dwells in him, raises his mind to the height and causes his thought to fly to His sanctuary and shows it to be a treasury of many colors. His mind wanders about at this sight, and his heart is captivated by all his senses. It shows to him what he has not known. He gazes at, and examines that place. His mind wonders at all that he sees’ (Dem. 14:35). Aphrahat also makes it clear in the same Demonstration that it is on the ladder of Christ that one must ascend to God: ‘He is the ladder which leads up to the height; let us toil and struggle to ascend by it to his Father’ (Dem. 14:39). That this interior ascent of the ascetic is an angelomorphic one is clear from the opening to Demonstration 6. Here Aphrahat begins his argument about the Sons of the Covenant by saying: ‘For let us be roused from our sleep at this time and raise our hearts along with our hands to heaven towards God’ (Dem. 6:1). Similarly his instructions also make the Christological thrust of this interior ascent clear. For he goes on to say: ‘If we hold Him in honor, we will go to Him, since He took of what belonged to us and ascended’ (Dem. 6:10). It is, thus, the ascension of Christ to the right hand of God the Father that permits the ascetic to ascend to the presence of God. The ascetic is able to ascend to heaven fundamentally because the Spirit of Christ has first descended on the believer. In Dem. 6.14, Aphrahat shows how central baptism is to this process. It was also common belief to both Jewish and Christian thought that in the heavenly temple the angelic hosts were con-

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stantly praising God. Aphrahat uses the title ‘Children of the Light’ to refer to the bnay qyama. 8 Aphrahat argues that in the spiritual battle against Satan’s darkness, the children of light actually ‘become the light’ (Dem. 6.2; citing 1 Jn. 2.8). The relationship between angelic liturgy and asceticism is also visible in the title bnay qyama. The Syriac term Qyama literally means ‘standing firm’ or ‘standing up’. This liturgical connotation (standing to praise) echoes the connection between qyama and temple imagery which has already been noted. 9 In this strand of thought also we see the ancient theologian’s Christocentric approach. For Aphrahat, Christ is the Watcher who does not slumber (Dem. 6.9). A final significant point we may note about Aphrahat’s angelomorphic asceticism is how the ascetic who takes up the likeness of an angel becomes one who beholds the face of God. This theme too, in Aphrahat’s hands becomes Christocentrically charged, for he argues that the Spirit of Christ is that which preeminently beholds the face of God (Dem. 6.15). When ascetics become like the angels, they are enabled to gain the vision of God where Jesus has preceded them, and given them the promise they can follow (Mt. 5.8). In conclusion: Aphrahat’s angelomorphic asceticism is fundamentally a matter of an interiorized ascent to God and a transformation of that ascended being which enables a mortal to behold the face of God, like the worshiping angels. As a representative of Syriac Christian ascetical thought Aphrahat has much to tell us about the wider impulses of Eastern Orthodox ascetic praxis. I feel it best to close this paper in the same way that Aphrahat himself concludes Demonstration 6: ‘Therefore, read, learn and be diligent in both reading and action. Let the Law of God be your meditation always. And when you have read this letter, my beloved, by your life, stand in prayer and make mention of my sinful self in those prayers.’ (Dem 6.20). Citing Jn. 12.36 at Dem. 16.7; and 1 Jn. 2.8. at Dem. 6.2. S. Skoyles-Jarkins, Aphrahat the Persian Sage and the Temple of God: A Study of Early Syriac Theological Anthropology. Gorgias Press. Piscataway. 2008. p. 84 8 9

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BIBLIOGRAPHY K.Valavanolickal (ed). Aphrahat: Demonstrations I. Catholic Theological Studies of India 3. Changanassery. 1999. ——— (ed). Aphrahat: Demonstrations II. Moran Etho vol. 24. Kottayam. 2005. P. Brown The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity. New York. 1988. B. Bucur. Angelomorphic Pneumatology: Clement of Alexandria and Other Early Christian Witnesses. Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 95. Leiden. 2009. ——— ‘Early Christian Angelomorphic Pneumatology: Aphrahat the Persian Sage.’ Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies 11. 2008. pp. 161–205 C. Fletcher-Louis Luke-Acts: Angels, Christology and Soteriology. (WUNT 2. 94). Mohr Siebeck. Tubingen. 1997. pp. 14–15 A. Golitzin, ‘Earthly Angels and Heavenly Men’: The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, Niketas Stethatos, and the Tradition of ‘Interiorized Apocalyptic’, in Eastern Christian Ascetical and Mystical Literature. Dumbarton Oaks Papers. 55. 2001. pp. 125–153 ——— ‘Recovering the ‘Glory of Adam’: Divine Light Traditions in the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Christian Ascetical Literature of FourthCentury Syro-Mesopotamia.’ in The Dead Sea Scrolls as Background to Postbiblical Judaism and Early Christianity: Papers from an International Conference at St. Andrews, 2001, ed. James R. Davila. Studies on the Texts of Judah 46. Brill. Leiden. 2003. pp. 275–308. J. Neusner ‘The Jewish-Christian Argument in FourthCentury Iran: Aphrahat on Circumcision, Sabbath, and Dietary Laws.’ Journal of Ecumenical Studies 7. (4). 1970. 282–298. S. Skoyles-Jarkins Aphrahat the Persian Sage and the Temple of God: A Study of Early Syriac Theological Anthropology. Gorgias Press. Piscataway. N.J. 2008.

THE RECITATION OF THE PSALMS AMONG EARLY CHRISTIAN ASCETICS JILL GATHER This paper seeks to explore the ways in which early Christian ascetics conceived of the Book of Psalms, and why they viewed its recitation as an important means of spiritual growth. Taking as its starting point the explication of the Psalter by Origen and Athanasius, the essay proposes that the journey into the presence of God, while inextricably linked to the ascetic’s ability to experience purification and maturation on a personal level, was in the last instance undertaken in the hope of serving as an agent for God and, in this capacity, of effecting universal healing. It is suggested here that ascetics were guided by the Christian core values of relationality and compassionate outreach, which they situated at the centre of their lives and sought to implement on a daily basis. Inner purification was but a first though essential step. The ultimate goal was to engage in the divine task of reconciliation, a task expressed most fully by placing spiritual growth at the service of neighbors and aiding them in their own strivings for perfection. Psalmody, among other spiritual practices, constituted an essential part of this process. 1 It determined the daily rhythm of the ascetical Christian ex1 In the liturgical practice of early Christian ascetic communities, the term ψαλμωδια referred to the corporate and private recitation of psalms which was interrupted at regular intervals by prayer, either at the end of psalms or between divisions in longer psalms. Luke Dysinger, Psalmody and Prayer in the Writings of Evagrius Ponticus, New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005, 48.

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istence and shaped an inner as well as an outer reality. It brought seekers for truth into the direct presence of the Son of God, the divine Physician, and allowed them to experience his life-giving energies. Some introductory comments on the Psalms may be helpful at this point. The Book of Psalms enjoyed great popularity from the inception of Christianity and is the Old Testament book most frequently cited in the New Testament. 2 In the Gospels, Jesus is seen to continue the Jewish tradition of praying the Psalms, most notably when citing Psalm 22 (Mk 15:34) at the moment of his death. 3 The ongoing appeal of the Psalter during the first centuries of the Church’s formation can be inferred from the frequency with which it was employed to address pressing doctrinal, apologetic and pastoral matters. 4 Continuing popularity is reflected also by its use in the daily Office of Hours, the agape, at baptisms, funerals and in private devotion. If prayed individually within the context of an anchoritic existence, the recitation of psalms and meditation on their meaning occupied monks for most of the day and much of the night. If prayed in a communal setting, Psalms were recited and interspersed with private prayer and prostrations at set hours. 5 2 Everett Ferguson (ed.), Encyclopedia of Early Christianity, London; New York: Garland Publishing, 1997, 959–60. 3 Joseph Loessl, The Early Church: History and Memory, London; New York: T&T Clark, 2010, 134. 4 Craig A. Blaising and Carment S. Hardin (eds), Psalms 1–50, Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture, Old Testament VII, Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2008, xviii. 5 The core of the 4th century Egyptian monastic office comprised twelve psalms, private prayer, prostration and a collect after each. The final psalm, an alleluia psalm, was followed by the doxology and two lessons of Scripture. Monks who lived in greater seclusion and gathered for the office less regularly strove to do at all times what other monks did during set times, i.e. they recited and meditated on the psalms and the rest of Scripture while engaging in manual labour, eating and even sleeping. This being said, it is important not to distinguish too sharply between ‘private’ prayer and ‘liturgical’ prayer. For the early monks there was but one pray-

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Theologians inevitably related key psalmic verses to Christ and suggested either that the Son of God was directly speaking through them or that he was the one who was being spoken about. 6 Given the popularity of the Book of Psalms, it is not surprising that it was a frequent subject for patristic exposition. The first commentary (or series of homilies) on the psalms was written by Hippolytus around 200 and followed by important expositions by Origen, Eusebius of Caesarea, Athanasius, Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nyssa, Evagrius Ponticus, John Chrysostom and Cyril of Alexandria, to name but some of its major Greek-speaking exegetes. 7 For the purpose of this study, two scriptural commentators have been singled out: Origen and Athanasius. Both theologians produced writings that were deeply influential and shaped the ascetical movement in decisive ways. In the hope of reiterating key points addressed throughout the essay, Evagrius’ teaching will also be considered toward its end.

ORIGEN ON THE INTERPRETATION OF THE PSALMS In considering Origen’s explication of the psalms so as to examine more closely why and how they were seen to facilitate the Christian ideal of compassionate outreach above and beyond personal growth, we soon discover that Origen adopts a deeply experiential approach to their interpretation. According to Karen Torjesen, whose research has focused closely on Origen’s pedagogical hermeneutics, the Alexandrian bases his teaching on the understanding that the Psalter is instrumental to the moulding of the human soul and that its interpretation is a prominent means of drawing Christians into the world of the Psalmist. 8 Origen’s objectives for seeking to initiate such a movement are compelling. He proposes that Scripture is divinely inspired and that the Old as well as the New Testament are energized conduits of the Word’s life-giving teacher, sometimes done in common with others, sometimes alone in the secret of the heart. See Taft (1986), 57ff. 6 Ferguson (1997), 960. 7 Blaising and Hardin (2008), xviii–xxiv. 8 See Torjesen (1985), 17–30; & eadem (1993), 944–58.

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ing. 9 While the divine inspiration of Scripture may not be immediately apparent (since heavenly teachings are constantly hidden beneath the crude, superficial, literal, level of the text) a carefully trained and spiritually advanced ascetic-exegete is able to detect these Logos-teachings at a deeper level of the text. 10 By reading the Book of Psalms Christologically (that is Logo-centrically), the exegete and members of his audience are given the opportunity of placing themselves in the immediate presence of the divine Word, and of savoring his healing doctrines. 11 According to Origen, this experience moves hearers from repentance to deification. It allows them to undergo a process of purification and illumination over the course of which they model themselves increasingly after the divine Logos and come to display Christ-like features. 12 If the exegete successfully brings the faithful into the Psalmist’s sphere of influence, inviting them to make the latter’s world their own, and draws 9 Origen, On First Principles 4.1.1–2, trans. G. W. Butterworth. New York: Harper & Row, 1966, 256–9. 10 Origen, On First Principles 4.1.7–4.2.3, in Butterworth (1966), 265– 75. 11 As Torjesen suggests in her (1993) examination of Origen’s interpretation of Psalm 37 (38), he seeks to bring members of his audience into the action of the psalm by means of a four-step process. In the first step, Origen but quotes the verse. He then explores the nature and attitude of the speaker so as to discern more clearly his frame of mind in the second step. Having placed the words of the verse in the context of the experience and self-understanding of the speaker, Origen addresses his audience in the third step. He repeats the interpretation, but now in the first person, thereby placing in the mouth of his hearers a self-confession and self-disclosure. The experience of the psalmist just described has now become the first-person experience of the hearer. In the final step, Origen quotes the verse again, which has come to be laden with the significance of its interpretation for members of the audience. The scriptural words are now voiced as though spoken by them. (see Torjesen (1993), 949). 12 c.f. J.A. McGuckin. Origen’s Use of the Psalms in the Treatise On First Principles. In: A Andreopoulos, A. Casiday and C Harrison (eds). Meditations of the Heart: Essays in Honour of Andrew Louth. Brepols. (Studia Traditionis Theologiae vol. 8.) 2011. pp. 97–118.

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out the progression from conversion to perfection, the impact exerted over them can be transformative. Members of the audience will be able to traverse the full course of the soul’s journey and place themselves in the immediate presence of the heavenly Word. By situating the Psalms (among other scriptural passages and prayers) at the heart of their endeavor to ‘pray without ceasing’ (1 Thess. 5:16–18; Col 4:2; Eph 6:18; Luke 18:1), early Christians thus had at their disposal a powerful means of opening themselves to the saving energy of inspired Scripture and the Word’s redemptive guidance. The encounter with Christ at the deepest level of the text opened the path, Origen argued, to moral, emotional and spiritual maturation. It promised to cleanse the divine image of the soul and to allow for its restoration to a purity known before the Fall. In possession of this restored inner image, ascetics were able to relate to fellow beings with newfound compassion and integrity. They were able to mediate between warring factions and to unite all that had been sundered. Their divine task of reconciliation had well begun. Ascetics, then, pursued psalmody not only in the hope of recovering personal healing and peace but with the overarching intention of facilitating interpersonal and, indeed, universal harmony. Individual maturation was sought with a view to establishing caring exchanges. The praying of psalms was an essential aspect of this process and implied a communal act, even if recited in solitude. It was a means of gathering all of creation into God’s loving presence. Origen’s explication of the Book of Psalms opened up a pathway that enabled Christian ascetics to explore and bring to fruition this process of restoration. It provided a means of reintroducing a sense of personal as well as cosmic wholeness. The inherent connection between psalmody, outreach and universal healing is suggested also by Athanasius’s interpretive approach to the biblical book which will be introduced in the following section.

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ST. ATHANASIUS ON THE INTERPRETATION OF THE PSALMS Like Origen, Athanasius held the Book of Psalms in high regard and cherished its didactic value. In the Letter to Marcellinus on the Interpretation of the Psalms, which is generally assumed to have been composed between 360 and 363, 13 the Alexandrian bishop responds to Marcellinus’ wish to gain a deeper understanding of individual Psalms and offers his interpretation of the Psalter. He confirms Origen’s teaching on the divine inspiration of Scripture and praises this particular book especially for being a garden that contains the fruits of all the other books. 14 It ‘chants those things in modulated voice that have been said in the other books in the form of detailed narrative’ and captures succinctly the many teachings a reader would otherwise have to gather painstakingly by consulting individual books of Scripture. Each Psalm serves a purpose and will prove beneficial in a specific context. For example, he says Psalm 12 should be recited if believers are in danger of falling prey to treachery, as it allows them to entreat the Lord and to find refuge with him. 15 Psalm 50 offers words of confession and repentance; it allows a person who has sinned to seek God’s mercy. 16 If Psalm 38 is a means of fortifying against the foe, Psalm 64 provides the opportunity to praise and celebrate God. 17 Again in a way that is reminiscent of Origen, Athanasius places great emphasis on the idea that the Book of Psalms is uniquely suited to molding the soul of the believer. In other biblical books one hears: ‘What one must do and what one must not do.’ 18 Athanasius understands the psalms as allowing Christians to appropriate the words contained in each verse as their very own: ‘The one who hears is deeply moved, as though he himself were speaking, and is Blaising and Hardin (2008), xx. Athanasius, The Life of Antony and Letter to Marcellinus on the Interpretation of the Psalms, New York: Harper Collins, 2006, 86. 15 Athanasius, Letter to Marcellinus, 100. 16 Ibid. 103. 17 Ibid. 105. 18 Ibid. 92. 13 14

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affected by the words of the songs, as if they were his own song.’ 19 As anticipated by Origen, Athanasius thus embraces the Psalter for drawing the believer into its sphere of influence. The ‘words become like a mirror to the person singing them, so that he might perceive himself and the emotions of his soul, and thus affected, he might recite them.’ 20 Observing and reliving the Psalmist’s experiences, Christians come to recognize themselves and to gain insight into the emotional and mental patterns of their lives. Selfawareness and self-knowledge increase. Given the wide spectrum of subjects, moods and circumstances addressed in the scriptural book and its ability to account for all facets of human experience, the process of growth thus initiated is all the more effective. The Psalms capture human existence in its entirety and are therefore uniquely suited to transforming the soul permanently. 21 In many respects, then, Athanasius builds upon the teaching of Origen. They both elevate the Psalms to a very special place in the soteriological scheme, and both agree that psalmic recitation is a spiritual practice that smoothes out much which is rough and disorderly in the human soul, and heals what causes grief. 22 Both agree on the theme Athanasius brings out succinctly, that the Book of Psalms, ‘possesses somehow the perfect image for the soul’s course of life.’ 23 Athanasius, however, places perhaps even greater emphasis than Origen on need to embody scriptural teaching and

19 Athanasius, Letter to Marcellinus, 94. Και ο ακουων δε ως αυτος λεγων κατανυσσεται, και συνδιατιθεται τοις των ωδων ρημασιν, ως ιδιαν οντων αυτου. Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Graeca, ed. J. P. Migne, (P.G.) 27.21. Paris, 1857–1866. 20 Athanasius, Letter to Marcellinus, 95. Και μοι δοκει τω ψαλλοντι γινεσθαι τουτους ωσπερ εισπτρον, εις το κατανοειν και αυτον εν αυτοις και τα της εαυτου ψυχης κινηματα, και ουτως αισθομενον απαγγελλειν αυτους. PG 27.24. 21 David Brakke, Athanasius and Asceticism, Baltimore; London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995, 195. 22 Athanasius, Letter to Marcellinus, 99. 23 Ibid. 111.

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embrace fully a virtuous existence. 24 For him, the recitation of the Book of Psalms is an integral part of a process that enables Christians to approximate sainthood and to become citizens of the heavenly Kingdom. The practice ushers in a process that allows them to re-experience ‘unanimity with those who form the heavenly chorus.’ 25 Unanimity with the angelic host implies fellowship and common life, a connection that invites further exploration of the inherent link between psalmody and relationality. It is to this exploration that we now turn our attention.

THE COMMUNAL SETTING OF EARLY CHRISTIAN ASCETICISM As we have noted, the teachings of Origen and Athanasius invite an exploration of psalmody as a means of moulding not only individual Christians but also of drawing them into a body of likeminded fellow travelers and seekers for truth. The extent of early Christian community formation is an important issue to consider, for it promises to shed light on the question of how prevalent the notions of inter-relationality and charitable outreach were in 4th century Egypt. It is an exploration which may help to redress the common assumption that members of the ascetical movement, by withdrawing from the world, neglected the Christian ideal of 24 Origen as well as Athanasius followed the example of ancient philosophers in suggesting that the recitation of a given text can impact a person’s disposition and advance moral behavior. Both men further agreed that this understanding had to be re-contextualise and placed within a Christian context. Origen did so by focusing on the meditating activity of the Logos, an activity to be discerned through the close study and contemplation of Scripture and a resultant advance in spiritual knowledge. Athanasius emphasized to a greater degree the incarnational dimension of the Christian tradition. For him, this implied an ethics of imitation, i.e. the study of Scripture was meant to usher in a more virtuous existence and to endow the believer with saint-like features. It was a means of gaining progressive control over the body and wayward passions. Brakke (1995), 194–6. This, of course, is not to suggest that Origen did not advocate the fostering of virtue. Rather, the two theologians set different priorities. 25 Athanasius, Letter to Marcellinus, 112.

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neighborly love. Was it indeed the case that psalmody gradually adopted a dominant role in early Christian asceticism because emphasis shifted from the celebration of the office as a corporate act of the Church and for the benefit of all mankind to a ritual limited to the spiritual growth of the individual? 26 Did maturation of the lone seeker come to be valued over the welfare of the Church and its members? Or could it be the case that personal growth was viewed as a vital first step to the healing of all human beings, and that it was a means to an end rather than the end itself? Recent scholarship has addressed these questions and proposed a re-evaluation of the premise that ascetical existence and isolation are inseparably linked in Christian antiquity. Goehring, for example, finds evidence for the ongoing existence of urban ascetics in literary, legal as well as archaeological sources and suggests that this evidence calls into question the prevalent view that sanctity and physical isolation went hand in hand. This hagiographic topos, however, came to exert a pronounced influence over Egyptian ascetics and gave rise to a certain ‘geography of isolation’ that has perhaps regularly exaggerated the ascetics’ degree of seclusion, thus failing to capture the complexity of early Christian ascetical praxis. 27 26 Paul Bradshaw, Daily Prayer in the Early Church: A Study of the Origin and Early Development of the Divine Office, London: Alcuin Club/SPCK, 1981, 151. 27 James E. Goehring, Ascetics, Society, and the Desert: Studies in Early Egyptian Monasticism, Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1999, 89. Goehring proposes that Athanasius, as the author of The Life of Antony, was largely responsible for the progressive exaggeration of an ascetic’s degree of seclusion, a proposition which would seem to undermine the argument of this paper (i.e. that Athanasius helped to shape the corporate spirit of the Church through his interpretation of the psalter) were it not for the fact that the situation is once again more complex than it may initially appear. While Athanasius may indeed have contributed to the creation of the above mentioned hagiographic topos, he was simultaneously instrumental (in his own pastorate) in linking monastic communities more closely to the urban episcopate. The bishop accomplished this process by transforming ascetic communities into satellites of his hierarchical organization. For instance, he formed close links with Theodore, Pachomius’s

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If spatial withdrawal may have been a less pronounced feature than later sources have led us to believe, the same can be said of the presumed neglect of interpersonal relationships. Gould, among others, has proposed that early Christian ascetics were well aware of the fact that any progress in the spiritual life depended on their attitude toward the neighbor. 28 Relationships with fellow humans and with God paralleled each other closely; love for another was the primary means of encouraging and advancing the work of the soul in its quest for divine closeness. 29 While destructive relationships did indeed pose a hindrance to spiritual aspiration and were to be avoided, the attempt to create a new society based on affirmative, supportive exchanges was actively pursued. Nothing precluded the view that the solitude of the cell and interaction with others could be brought into accord. Even Antony, the epitome of the Egyptian solitary, knew a life of complex interrelatedness. 30 To the contrary, Douglas Burton-Christie has argued persuasively that a stringent division of solitary and communal existence does not adequately reflect the complexity of 4th century asceticism. He insists that a corporate, neighbor-oriented, attitude prevailed in the desert despite scholarly assertions to the contrary. Paying close attention to the profound impact Scripture exerted over early Christians and their conception of communal existence, BurtonChristie highlights the importance of the biblical commandment of love and proposes that ascetics were deeply committed to this tenet, a tenet they sought to implement despite its many challenges. 31 Even the most solitary of monks were bound to human beings and eventual successor, and established a close allegiance with Bishop Serapion of Thmuis, a former leader of a monastic community. Athanasius encouraged monastic counselors to seek out his advice, ordained monks and elevated them to the rank of bishop. Brakke (1995), 269. 28 Graham Gould, The Desert Fathers on Monastic Community, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993, 93. 29 Gould (1993), 104. 30 Gould (1993), 156–7. 31 Douglas Burton-Christie, The Word in the Desert. Scripture and the Quest for Holiness in Early Christian Monasticism, New York; Oxford, 1993, 262.

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tested their commitment to neighborly love within the arena of interpersonal relationships. Their desire to do so was such as to observe closely any passions, especially anger and judgment, which could compromise this commitment. 32 While relationships were cultivated in different places and with varying degrees of intensity – they could take place within the context of a cell shared by master and disciple, weekly gatherings of monks at the synaxis, encounters with visitors seeking guidance or during transactions on the marketplace 33 – these exchanges nevertheless formed an integral part of a monk’s daily existence and provided a context in which to give concrete shape to scriptural injunctions. 34 Without negating the anchoritic setting (ethos) of the ascetical movement as a whole, these researchers thus concur that too great an emphasis on the paradigm of the solitary hermit limits the reading of early Christian asceticism and does not reflect adequately how the outer life nurtures rather than restricts the development of the inner life. 35 Even ascetics who occupied cells in remote, inaccessible areas remained members of a larger and local community, aware that spiritual advancement could not be attained without the support of fellow seekers. 36 They realized that salvation depended on a community that provided the context in which to develop and manifest the Christian ideals of obedience, patience, love and humility. Interpersonal exchanges offered support and challenge. Without either, the soul could not prosper. The observation that early Christian ascetics placed great importance on the lived experience of scriptural teachings and that the implementation of these teachings, especially the commandment of love, is closely linked to a neighbor-oriented attitude thus helps to dispel the assumption that they pursued individual salvation at the expense of universal healing. The observation also proBurton-Christie (1993), 261. Ibid. 267. 34 Ibid. 20. 35 Adam G. Cooper, The Body in St Maximus the Confessor, New York; Oxford: Oxford, 2005, 8. 36 Elizabeth A. Clark, Reading Renunciation: Asceticism and Scripture in Early Christianity, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999, 35. 32 33

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vides an answer to the question of why the daily recitation of the Psalter, be it in the privacy of the cell or during public gatherings, would have been crucial to members of an ascetic community. As suggested by the foundational writings of Origen and Athanasius, the Book of Psalms was, for the ascetics, a means of being drawn into the world of the inspired Psalmist and of benefiting from his experience. By entering his world, Christians were given the opportunity to find reflected, as though in a mirror, the whole array of their own thoughts and feelings – their hopes, fears and desires – and to arrive at greater self-knowledge. Entering into his spiritual persona, they could also enter into Christ, in whose voice the Psalmist often spoke and whose own mystical life he often foretold. Greater understanding of these thought patterns, emotional processes and mystical insights, allowed ascetics praying the psalms to experience progressive purification and illumination. It enabled them to approximate the Christian ideals of generosity, love and compassion and to mirror these to the world. Communal outreach thus became a distinct possibility. The recitation of the psalms enhanced the ascetics’ ability to engage in charitable outreach also to the extent to which greater understanding of their personal flaws, struggles and hopes enabled them to recognize these in fellow beings and to aid them in their endeavor to draw close to God. By praying the Psalter, Christian ascetics were given the opportunity to detect human waywardness, first in themselves and then in the neighbor. They were presented with the possibility of delving into the depth of their being so as to touch upon the fallenness of all human nature and, by so doing, of holding the whole of humanity close to the healing presence of God. 37 The recitation of the Psalms was, therefore, an ascetical means of becoming aware of the cost of sin in themselves, and of drawing on this awareness to connect other people to God. 38 In the hope of exploring more fully the communal spirit of 4th century asceticism, it may be helpful now to consider a number of 37 Andrew Louth, The Wilderness of God, London: Darton Longman & Todd, 2003, 67. 38 Rowan Williams, Silence and Honey Cakes: The Wisdom of the Desert, Oxford: Lion, 2003, 31.

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primary sources 39 that point to the prevalence of charity and neighborly outreach among the early Christian ascetics. In the Apophthegmata Patrum, for example, Antony suggests that: ‘Our life and our death are with our neighbour. If we do good to our neighbour, we do good to God; if we cause our neighbour to stumble, we sin against Christ.’ 40 Abba Poemen advises to: ‘Try, so far as you can, to wrong no man, and keep your heart pure towards everyone.’ 41 Or when a brother asks a hermit: ‘Suppose there are two monks: one stays quietly in his cell, fasting for six days at a time, laying many hardships on himself; and the other ministers to the sick. Which of them is more pleasing to God?’, the hermit is recorded to reply: ‘Even if the brother who fasts six days hung himself up by his nose, he wouldn’t be the equal of him who ministers to the sick.’ 42 In this instance, the importance of communal outreach is exemplified by the monk’s endeavor to minister to the sick and alleviate their suffering. In the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto, we hear of a like-minded ascetic, a holy man named Theon: Who had lived as an anchorite in a small cell and had practised silence for thirty years. He had performed many miracles and was held to be clairvoyant by the people of those parts. A crowd of sick people went out to see him every day, and laying his hand on them through the window, he would send them away cured. One could 39 Apophthegmata patrum, Alphabetical Series in Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Graeca, ed. J. P. Migne, vol. 65, 17–440, Paris, 1857– 66, trans. Benedicta Ward, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers, Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1975; Vitae Patrum, Book V in Patrologia Latina, ed. J. P. Migne, vol. 73, 851–1024, Paris, 1860, trans. Benedicta Ward, The Desert Fathers: Sayings of the Early Christian Monks, London: Penguin Books, 2003; Palladius: Historia Lausiaca, ed. Cuthbert Butler, 2 vols, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1898, 1904, trans. W. K. Lowther Clarke, The Lausiac History of Palladius, London: SPCK, 1918; Historia monachorum in Aegypto, ed. A.-J. Festugière, Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1961, trans. Norman Russell, The Lives of the Desert Fathers, Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1981. 40 On Charity 17.2, in Ward (2003), 177. 41 Ibid. 178. 42 On Charity 17.18, in Ward (2003), 181.

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see him with the face of an angel giving joy to his visitors by his gaze and abounding with much grace. 43 In Rufinus’ translation (and elaboration) of the same source, we catch yet another glimpse of the commitment on the part of the ascetics to charitable outreach which in this instance, takes the form of hospitality. We are also reminded of the fact that such a commitment is inextricably linked to the spiritual practice of psalmody: When they had welcomed us, first of all they led us with psalms into the church and washed our feet and one by one they dried them with the linen cloth wherewith they were girded, as if to wash away the fatigue of the journey, but in fact to purge away the hardships of worldly life with this traditional mystery. 44

In the same chapter, Rufinus indicates that charity characterizes not only the relationship of ascetics with visitors but also, and perhaps more importantly, with each other. The following passage highlights this feature. It also allows the reader to catch a glimpse of the geographic arrangement of the Nitrian community: The cells are divided from one another by so great a distance that no one can see his neighbour nor can any voice he heard. They live alone in their cells and there is a huge silence and a great quiet there. Only on Saturday and Sunday do they meet in church and then they see each other face to face as men restored to heaven. If it happens that anyone is missing from this gathering, they realize at once that he has been kept away by some indisposition of the body and they all go to visit him, not all together but at different times; each takes with him whatever he has that might be useful for the sick … Many of them go three or four miles to the church and the distance between one cell and the next is no less, but so great is the love between them and so strong the affection by which they are bound to

43 44

On Theon 6.1, in Russell (1981), 68. Nitria 20.5–8, in Russell (1981), 148.

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one another and towards all the brethren, that they are an example and a wonder to all. 45

There are a host of other passages stressing the communal dimension of early Christian asceticism, and references to Abbas and Ammas committed to a life of equality, fellowship and compassion occur repeatedly. 46 Various examples are given also of solitaries who return after many years of withdrawal, to take part again in the common life. Abba John, for instance, is said to have begun his life as a wandering hermit pursuing many extremes of asceticism only to join a community later in life in order to direct other monks. Abba Helle lived a life of extreme solitude, but he, too, returned to live with fellow monks. Abbas Or and Apollo both began their ascetical strivings as solitaries. Both received visions in middle age suggesting that they should reside in a monastery in order to help their brethren. 47 Last, but not least, it is important to bear in mind that the ascetical life itself and its objective of drawing close to God was rooted in the very personal relationship between Elder and disciple, and that barring this relationship, the attempt to attain perfection was severely impeded. If ascetics purposefully withdrew from their brothers as, for instance, Arsenius 48 did, or if they encouraged solitude at the seeming expense of communion, 49 it is Nitria 20.8, in Russell (1981), 149. On a monk’s refusal to pass judgment on fellow brothers see, for example, Moses 2, in Ward (1975), 117; Macarius 32, in Ward (1975), 113; Poemen 64 & 92, in Ward (1975), 147 & 151. 47 All three examples are cited by Russell (1981), 36. 48 ‘Mark said to Arsenius, ‘Why do you go away from us?’ He replied, ‘God knows I love you. But I cannot be with God and with men. The countless hosts of angels have only a single will, while men have many wills. So I cannot leave God, and be with men.’’ On Charity 17.5, in Ward (1975), 177. 49 ‘‘And so you too, my children, should cultivate stillness and ceaselessly train yourselves for contemplation, that when you pray to God you may do so with a pure mind. For an ascetic is good if he is constantly training himself in the world, if he shows brotherly love and practises hospitality and charity, if he gives alms and is generous to visitors, if he helps the sick and does not give offence to anyone. He is good, he is ex45 46

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important to reiterate that these monks, despite appearance, had the welfare of fellow beings at heart. As Williams notes: The surface pattern of ‘running’ and ‘fleeing’ from human contact is in fact a much more nuanced affair than it seems. What is to be learned in the desert is clearly not some individual technique for communing with the divine, but the business of becoming a means of reconciliation and healing for the neighbour. You ‘flee’ to the desert not to escape neighbours but to grasp more fully what the neighbour is – the way to life for you, to the degree that you put yourself at their disposal in connecting them with God. 50

The wish to reconcile neighbors to one another and to God was thus placed at the core of the ascetic endeavor. Psalmody facilitated this endeavor by advancing growth in love and compassion. It provided a map which, if read properly, allowed the soul to overcome internal and external brokenness. It helped to unite a multitude of people into one Body of Christ. If ascetics appeared to be fleeing the world, they did so in the hope of engaging in the painstaking task of drawing all humankind into the unifying presence of God as fully as they possibly could. 51 ceedingly good, for he is a man who puts the commandments into practice and does them. But he is occupied with earthly things. Better and greater than he is the contemplative, who has risen from active works to the spiritual sphere and has left it to others to be anxious about earthly things. Since he has not only denied himself but even become forgetful of himself, he is concerned with the things of heaven. He stands unimpeded in the presence of God, without any anxiety holding him back. For such a man spends his life with God; he is occupied with God, and praises him with ceaseless hymnody.’’ On John of Lycopolis 62–63, in Russell (1981), 62. 50 Williams (2003), 38–9. 51 Ware addresses the far reaching effect ascetic of withdrawal and silent prayer in this passage: ‘Even had He [God] never sent them back [into the world], their flight would still have been supremely creative and valuable to society; for nuns and monks help the world not primarily by anything that they do and say but by what they are, by the state of unceas-

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EVAGRIUS PONTICUS A number of concluding passages taken from the corpus of Evagrius, a disciple of the first generation of Egyptian desert fathers and mothers and, in his own right, a commentator on the Book of Psalms, may serve to draw out more fully the degree to which he, like many fellow ascetics, viewed the Psalter as a means of adhering more fully to a Christian life of virtue and relatedness. The following text drawn from his Centuries provides a helpful starting point to this brief discussion: It is a great thing indeed – to pray without distraction; a greater thing still – to sing psalms without distraction (μειζον δε το και ψαλλειν απερισπαστως). 52

He goes on to argue that: The songs inspired by the demons incite our desire and plunge our soul into shameful fancies. But psalms and hymns and spiritual canticles (οι δε ψαλμοι και υμνοι και αι πνευματικαι ωδαι) invite the spirit to the constant memory of virtue by cooling our boiling anger and by extinguishing our lusts. 53

Reading, vigils and prayer – these are the things that lend stability to the wandering mind. Hunger, toil and solitude are the means of extinguishing the flame of desire. Turbid anger is calmed by the singing of Psalms (θυμον δε καταπαυει κυκωμενον ψαλμωδια και μακροθυμια και ελεος), by patience and almsgiving. 54 ing prayer…’ Bishop Kallistos Ware, The Inner Kingdom, (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2000), 132. 52 Evagrius, Praktikos 69, trans. John Eudes Bamberger, Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1981, 35. As Dysinger suggests, Evagrius is not proposing that undistracted psalmody is greater than undistracted prayer. Rather, he suggests that ‘maintaining the nous’ focus exclusively on God is easier to do when mental images are laid aside in pure prayer than it is when the nous is intentionally immersed in the rich barrage of images which psalmody evokes.’ Dysinger (2005), 99. 53 Evagrius, Praktikos 71, in Bamberger (1981), 35. 54 Evagrius, Praktikos 15, in Bamberger (1981), 20.

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These passages suggest that, for Evagrius, the recitation of Psalms is a powerful tool in the attempt to calm the agitated mind and to achieve freedom from passion, namely apatheia. Psalmody eases emotional and physical distraction. It reorders human passions and allows the nous, that is, the intellect or rational part of the soul, to give its undivided attention to the pursuit of virtue and, progressively, to the undistracted contemplation of God. The close link between the singing of psalms and growing virtue calls to mind the teachings of Origen and Athanasius. Like them, Evagrius believes that the Book of Psalms provides a means of smoothing out that which is rough and disorderly in human beings and of molding the soul. It offers a tool with which to confound the demons and neutralize their effect on the soul. If ascetics make the words they have memorized during long hours of public and private recitation their own, they can draw on these to appeal to God’s aid in moments of temptation and affliction. 55 But like Origen (and here more so than Athanasius), Evagrius believes that the Book of Psalms holds still greater treasure in store, in that it lends itself to a thorough-going Christological interpretation and allows for a direct encounter with the divine Word. To more advanced ascetics, the psalms are a valuable source of perceiving the divine imprints of the Logos (the logoi), in all created things and in events of salvation history relayed in the biblical book. 56 The logoi reveal the person and purpose of Christ-Logos on a deeper level of the text, beneath its superficial literality, and allow the divine Teacher to act directly on the human soul. A Psalm therefore provides not only a picture for ascetics to imitate but is itself the means by which the soul it propelled toward deification

55 Dysinger points out that the memorization and recollection of psalms is an important tool in monastic warfare against the demons, a tool Evagrius calls αντιρρησις, i.e. ‘refutation’ or ‘contradiction,’ and which he recommends especially in the Praktikos, Antirrhetikos and On Prayer. Evagrius also presents antirrhetic texts in his Scholia on Psalms. Dysinger (2005), 149. 56 Dysinger (2005), 150.

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(theiopoiesis). 57 The word of Scripture is the word of Christ and describes the cure for sin. But since it is also the Word himself, the Son, it is itself the cure. Drawing on Origenian teaching, Evagrius can therefore propose that the faithful not only see themselves in the interpretation of the psalms but are directly acted upon by the heavenly Physician who by this means administers his life-saving medicine. 58 Given the close association Evagrius establishes between the Psalter and spiritual growth, the question arises if and to how great an extent he, too, situates the progression from repentance to pure prayer within a relational context. What impact does the singing of psalms and inner maturation exert over ascetics’ interpersonal relationships and their readiness to engage in charitable outreach? For Evagrius, the imitation of divine love and gentleness is a defining feature of genuine Christian existence. Indeed, it is better to be ‘a gentle worldly man than an irascible and wrathful monk.’ 59 Love and gentleness mark the true disciple of Christ: One who does not possess kindness and love towards his brother, how could he be a member of Christ-bearing love? When a brother visits you during your intense fast and practice of stillness, do not accept the odiousness of thoughts that suggest disturbance of your stillness and interruption of your fast … Let us not speak of the frequent visits of the brothers as disturbances, but rather let us trust their community as a helpful alliance against the phalanx of the adversary; for thus united

57 Evagrius expounds the theme of Christ as the exegetical key to the psalter most fully in his Scholia on Psalms in which he points to the reader’s ability to encounter Christ on a number of scriptural levels. On the level of praktike, i.e. the active life, Christ provides a model of correct behaviour so as to guide the soul toward increasing virtue. On the level of physike, which is concerned primarily with the contemplation of the natural order, Christ’s work as cosmic creator and redeemer becomes discernible. At the summit of the spiritual progress (theologia), the faithful are able to contemplate Christ directly. Dysinger (2005), 154–5. 58 Torjesen (1993), 954–5. 59 Evagrius, Ad Monachos 34, trans. Jeremy Driscoll, New York: Newman Press, 2003, 47.

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According to Evagrius, compassion rather than the strict observance of ascetical practices enables humans to model themselves after Christ and to attain knowledge of God. The gentle heart sees God. 61 Yet like members of the first generation of desert fathers and mothers, Evagrius is well aware that communal existence holds numerous challenges. He knows that: ‘It is not possible to love all the brothers equally.’ 62 Even so, he never wavers in his emphasis on the importance of communal living. The relational context of Christian life provides the setting in which ascetics meet the challenges of day-to-day existence. Only by facing these challenges and by committing to a life of charity can the heart be transformed: If your brother irritates you, lead him into your house, and do not hesitate to go into his, but eat your morsel with him. For doing this, you will deliver your soul and there will be no stumbling block for you at the hour of prayer. 63

He who is merciful to the poor destroys irascibility, and he who cares for them will be filled with good things. 64 The ascetic who does not care for the sick, however, will not see the light. 65 For Evagrius, spiritual progress is thus intimately linked to communal outreach. 66 If a fellow ascetic is sad, it is important to console him, 60 Evagrius, To Eulogios 24.25, in Robert E. Sinkewicz, Evagrius of Pontus: The Greek Ascetic Corpus, New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003, 51. 61 Evagrius, Ad Monachos 99, in Driscoll (2003), 58. 62 Evagrius, Praktikos 100, in Sinkewicz (2003), 113. 63 Evagrius, Ad Monachos 15, in Driscoll (2003), 43. 64 Evagrius, Ad Monachos 30, in Driscoll (2003), 46. 65 Evagrius, Ad Monachos 77, in Driscoll (2003), 54. 66 Dysinger detect a progression from the orientation of the Antirrhetikos to the antirrhetic verses in the Scholia on Psalms in that the former is preoccupied with the ascetic’s own spiritual progress while the latter has the progress of others at heart. This, he suggests, corresponds in some degree to Evagrius’s model of spiritual advance in that ‘the praktikos employs the weapons of the Antirrhetikos in the battlefield of his own soul,

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and: If he is pained, share the pain. For doing thus, you will gladden his heart, and you will store a great treasure in heaven. 67 Evagrius notes that the singing of the psalms is an essential component of the endeavor to extend kindness to all fellow beings, for in the one singing psalms, irascibility is quietened (Ψαλλοντος ησυχαζει θυμος). 68 The healing of irascibility (and of so many other instances of human waywardness) is effected through the direct encounter with Christ, the divine Physician, in the text of Scripture and his ability to restore the soul to emotional balance. According to Evagrius, this process of healing leads to nothing less than entry into the angelic realm. 69 Like Athanasius, who suggests that priests singing psalms summon souls into calmness and oneness of mind with the heavenly chorists, 70 or Origen, who emphasizes the need to share in the angelic work of mediation, Evagrius points to the importance of joining the choir of angels: To chant psalms before the angels, he says: Is to sing psalms without distraction (Εναντιον αγγελων ψαλλειν εστι το απερισπαστως ψαλλειν): either our mind is imprinted

[while] the gnostikos discovers in the Scholia on Psalms healing texts which are not only therapeutic for himself, but which may also be offered to the diverse groups of people who seek his advice.’ Dysinger (2005), 149. 67 Evagrius, Ad Monachos 87, in Driscoll (2003), 56. 68 Evagrius, Ad Monachos 98, in Driscoll (2003), 58. 69 The importance of arriving at so elevated a state as to resemble the angels is illustrated repeatedly in accounts of the early desert fathers and mothers. As noted by Russell, it was not unusual for a visitor to the Egyptian desert to encounter many virtuous fathers who seemed to approximate the angelic life; Prologue 5, in Russell (1981), 49. Abba Bes, for example, was renowned for his meekness, and fellow brothers reported that ‘he had never sworn an oath, had never told a lie, had never been angry with anyone, and had never scolded anyone. For he lived a life of the utmost stillness, and his manner was serene, since he had attained the angelic state,’ On Abba Bes 4, in Russell (1981), 66. 70 Athanasius, Letter to Marcellinus 28. Ουτως οι ιερειςψαλλοντες, εις αταραξιαν τας ψυχας των λαων και εις ομονοιαν αυτας των εν ουρανοις χορευοντων προσεκαλουντο. PG 27.41.

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solely by the realities symbolized by the psalm, or else it is not imprinted. 71 For him, leading an angelic life implies perpetual praise of God which, while on earth, is seen to be offered most effectively by the shared life of the community of the Church, a notion that presupposes the centrality of relationality and outreach. Origen, Athanasius and Evagrius thus all agree that the recitation of the Psalter is an integral part of this endeavor to imitate the angelic realm. By engaging in psalmody, Christians prepare themselves for the heavenly task of mediation which compels them to pray for fellow humans, to offer instruction, to guide, counsel, heal and to intercede on their behalf. Indeed, as Evagrius proposes, it is right for Christians not only to pray ‘for your own purification, but also for that of all your fellow men, and so to imitate the angels.’ 72 Personal healing is seen as a prerequisite to participating in the God-given work of reconciliation and to curing fellow seekers. Having undergone restoration on a personal level, advanced seekers: ‘help the holy angels and … return reasoning souls from vice to virtue and from ignorance to knowledge.’ 73 Christians who are no longer in the throes of passion, who can discern the spiritual nature of creation and who have entered a state of pure prayer are in a unique position to imitate Christ and to administer spiritual medicine to all beings in need of healing.

CONCLUSION Early Christian ascetics adhered to the belief that the angelic life implied loving coexistence, that is, a life of communion and wholeness, love and friendship. They proposed that, on earth, this existence was lived out within the context of the Church which represented a Synaxis of the heavenly temple and allowed Christians to contemplate and praise God amongst a community of equals. As 100–1.

71

Evagrius, Scholion 1 on Psalm 137:1(3), cited in Dysinger (2005),

72 Evagrius, On Prayer 40, in Philokalia 1, trans. G. E. H. Palmer, Philip Sherrard and Kallistos Ware, compiled by St. Nikodimos of the Holy Mountain & St. Makarios of Corinth, London: Faber and Faber, 1979, 60. 73 Evagrius, Kephalaia Gnostica 6.90, cited in Dysinger (2005), p. 45.

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suggested by theologians, such as Origen, Athanasius and Evagrius, it was psalmody that helped to shape this community by calming the restless soul and summoning it to the continuous memory of virtue. The recitation of the Psalms, whether in private or public, was seen to draw Christians into the world of the Psalmist and to reflect back to them their own struggles and also how these might be overcome. It was seen as a spiritual practice that promised to bring humans face to face with the healing presence of the Son himself and, by so doing, to reverse their internal fragmentation. Importantly, psalmody also allowed the faithful to engage in the divine task of neighbourly outreach and reconciliation. By ‘putting on Christ’ (Gal. 13.27) they brought into being a new creation. This creation rested on the Christian ideals of virtue, love and mutuality. It called for a return to personal wholeness in the hope of opening the door to the healing of all humanity. Only then did the quest for perfection bear fruit and allow for the transformation of Earth into God’s holy Kingdom.

BIBLIOGRAPHY St. Athanasius, C. Blaising & CS. Hardin (eds) P. Bradshaw E. A. Clark A. G. Cooper L. Dysinger Evagrius Evagrius

The Life of Antony and Letter to Marcellinus on the Interpretation of the Psalms. New York. 2006. Psalms 1–50. Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture, Old Testament vol. 7. Downers Grove, Ill. InterVarsityPress, 2008. Daily Prayer in the Early Church: A Study of the Origin and Early Development of the Divine Office, Alcuin Club-SPCK, London. 1981. Reading Renunciation: Asceticism and Scripture in Early Christianity. Princeton. NJ. 1999. The Body in St Maximus the Confessor. Oxford. 2005. Psalmody and Prayer in the Writings of Evagrius Ponticus. Oxford. 2005. Ad Monachos, trans. Jeremy Driscoll, New York. 2003. On Prayer, in: The Philokalia. vol. 1, trans. G. E. H. Palmer, Philip Sherrard and Kallistos Ware. London. 1979.

66 Evagrius J. E. Goehring J. Loessl A. Louth J A McGuckin

Origen N.Russell R. E. Sinkewicz R.Taft K. J.Torjesen, ——— R. Williams B.Ward ——— K. Ware

RECITATION OF THE PSALMS Praktikos, trans. John Eudes Bamberger, Kalamazoo. 1981. Ascetics, Society, and the Desert: Studies in Early Egyptian Monasticism. Harrisburg. 1999. The Early Church: History and Memory, London. 2010. The Wilderness of God, London. 2003. Origen’s Use of the Psalms in the Treatise On First Principles. In: A Andreopoulos, A. Casiday and C Harrison (eds). Meditations of the Heart: Essays in Honour of Andrew Louth. Brepols. (Studia Traditionis Theologiae. vol. 8). 2011. pp. 97–118. On First Principles, trans. G. W. Butterworth, New York. 1966. The Lives of the Desert Fathers, Kalamazoo. 1981. Evagrius of Pontus: The Greek Ascetic Corpus. Oxford. 2003. The Liturgy of the Hours in East and West. Collegeville, MN. 1986. ‘Body, Soul, and Spirit in Origen’s Theory of Exegesis,’ Anglican Theological Review. 67:1 (1985), 17–30. ‘Origen’s Interpretation of the Psalms,’ Studia Patristica 17:2 (1993), 944–958. Silence and Honey Cakes: The Wisdom of the Desert, Oxford. 2003. The Desert Fathers: Sayings of the Early Christian Monks. London. 2003. The Sayings of the Desert Fathers, Kalamazoo, MI. 1975. The Inner Kingdom. Crestwood, NY. 2000.

THE VIRGINS SING ORTHODOXY: EPHREM’S CHOIRS & THE DISSEMINATION OF NICENE THOUGHT IN SYRIA ROBERT NAJDEK From his own time to the present day, the influence of Saint Ephrem the Syrian in his role in propagating the faith of the Council of Nicaea in the Syriac Church and greater Christianity has been acknowledged. Despite this, his choirs of female virgins and their role in spreading the faith have largely been ignored in modern scholarship. 1 As the place of women in much of the Christian world waned, the presence of the office of the still-mysterious ‘Daughters of the Covenant’ within the Syrian Church not only gave women a voice, but also helped to spread ‘orthodox’ Christianity that was just rising to its majority in Syria. 2 St. Ephrem’s famous Hymns were often performed by, and written for, choirs of female consecrated virgins. For the average Christian, these hymns would serve as the most lasting impression of the Nicene orthodoxy that Ephrem had come to embrace and propagate among his followers, while simultaneously attracting people of other Christian sects and religions. Theological homilies and philosophical treatises were often far outside the purview of the illiterate populace, yet these choirs provided not just an interactive performance, but also The pioneering works of Susan Ashbrook Harvey have been most influential in changing this impression; see Harvey (2005), (2010). 2 Harvey (2010), 36. 1

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an indoctrination into the faith of the newly Christian Roman Empire. Often, as modern and hyper-academic readers of liturgical texts, we displace such hymns from their original contexts and thus muffle the voices in which they were sung. In doing so, the power of these hymns and the centrality of the liturgy are too often lost on the modern reader. Saint Ephrem the Syrian died in Edessa, in what is now Sanli Urfa in Turkey, in 373 after living there for over a decade. He had left his hometown of Nisibis with a large segment of the Christian population of that city after its capture by the Persians in 359. 3 His bishop in Nisibis, Jacob, had attended the Council of Nicaea. 4 There is little firm reason to believe the several legends that attest that Ephrem, who was a deacon at the time, joined his bishop at the Council. Despite this, these stories do reveal a truth about the importance that the theology of Nicaea would exert on Ephrem. 5 Jacob was also the first bishop of Nisibis appointed by the Roman hierarchs. 6 Although Edessa was firmly within the territory of the Roman Empire, the concept of Nicene Christianity was even more tenuous there than in the city of Nisibis. 7 Both Nisibis and Edessa had quite large and influential Jewish populations, as well as Manichaeans and various Christian groups. 8 The ecclesial pedigree of Christianity, which Ephrem practised, was known locally as ‘Palutianism’ (from its most famous bishop), distinguishing it from the majority Christian Marcionite sect in Edessa at the time. 9 Whereas his church seemed to have been only one of several dissident sects of Christianity operating in the region it would, with Ephrem’s influence, grow to become the mainstream church of Syria. He, of course, always considered it the true ‘catholic’ church, the successor of the Church of the apostles, with the other sects being hereRussell (2005), 215. Ibid. 221. 5 Griffith (1986), 81. Cf. McVey (1986), 27. 6 McVey (1986), 8. 7 Ibid. 27. 8 Neusner (1999), 180–1. 9 Murray (2004), 7. Cf. Drijvers (1987), 153. 3 4

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sies. 10 Ephrem’s popularity led one leading scholar to state that Ephrem, ‘did more than almost any other single person to bring the Syriac-speaking churches of the fourth century to embrace Nicene orthodoxy.’ 11 Early Syriac asceticism possessed a unique character, which would only later be influenced by the more pervasive Egyptian style of monasticism. 12 The study of early Syriac asceticism is problematic for two reasons: the dearth of early primary sources and the prejudices imposed on it in by later church histories who tended to read everything through an anachronistic Egypto-Byzantine lens. 13 Although there was a widespread ascetical impulse in Syria in the earliest Christian centuries, its nature and history has often remained unclear. Not only did those who would come to be known as orthodox Christians have ascetical practices, the ascetic impulse was also strong among many of the heretical sects, which Ephrem would denounce in his Hymns. 14 His greatest opponents were the Arians, who were still a prevalent force in Syria and much of the Christian world in Ephrem’s time. More importantly, Arianism was sometimes supported by many in the Imperially-sponsored Roman hierarchy, a connection that Ephrem regarded as important for the sustenance of orthodoxy in the East of the Orient province. 15 The earliest and most important source regarding Syrian asceticism comes from Aphrahat the Persian in his sixth Demonstration. Aphrahat was a slightly older contemporary of Ephrem and focused more on ascetical practices in his writings. The sixth DemonGriffith (1999c), 106. Cf. Griffith (1999b), 133. Griffith (1999c), 97. 12 Brock (1983), 4. Cf. Griffith (1999a), 328; Amar (2011a). 13 Griffith (1999a) provides an excellent overview of the currently scholarly debate regarding the nature and uniqueness of early Syrian asceticism and the problems of the reliability of certain Byzantine church historians such as Theodoret, Sozomen, and Palladius on asceticism in Syriac Christianity. On the ways in which Ephrem’s biographies would be shaped by these same ideological changes Amar (2011b), v–xxix. 14 On asceticism in heretical sects, particularly in Marcionism see Vööbus (1951). Cf. Hunt (2012). 15 Shepardson (2005), 112–3. 10

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stration was written in about the year 336 and is addressed to his ‘single ones’ (îḥîdāyê), who were also called the ‘covenanters.’ This text served as a kind of rule for such celibate singles, an association which included both men and women. 16 The ‘covenant’ (qyāmâ), for Aphrahat, can refer to the official ascetic class of believers or the church as a whole. 17 The centrality of celibacy to Syriac asceticism, whether or not it took place within a special institution, cannot be understated. It seems that celibacy was a necessary prerequisite for baptism for quite some time in early Syrian Christianity. 18 The ‘sons and daughters of the covenant’ were mainly distinguished by their ‘vows of celibacy, voluntary poverty, and service to the local priest or bishop.’ 19 Their vows helped define their life of asceticism, but certainly did not force them into seclusion from the general public. They were far from being anchorites. The complexity of the practices that Aphrahat describes, combined with the fact that he is also the composer of the oldest surviving Syriac Christian texts, exposes how little we still actually know about the origin of these ascetic practices and institutions. The distinct nature of Syriac asceticism, especially in the period before pervasive Egyptian and Byzantine influence, allowed these ‘singles ones’ to choose their own living arrangements within the local communities. 20 Syrian ascetics thus from the outset seemed to be living amongst the general population, influencing practice, and participating in the liturgy. 21 These consecrated Christians, especially the female virgins, seemed to have lived at first within their family’s homes and did not find it necessary to remove themselves from the secular world as the later ascetical system would develop. 22 This idiosyncrasy has led some scholars to refer Griffith (1993), 141, 5. Griffith (1999a), 335. 18 Brock (1984), 6–7. On this issue see Murray (1974), Vööbus (1951). 19 Harvey (2005), 126. 20 Griffith (1993), 156. On the development and changes in Syriac asceticism see Amar (2011a). 21 Brock and Harvey (1998), 10. Brock (1992), 136. 22 Amar (2011a), 6. 16 17

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to early Syriac asceticism as a kind of ‘proto-monasticism’ or a ‘premonastic phase’. 23 The collective nature of the covenant has led many to this position, but the urge to neatly categorize the covenanters in some ways blinds us to how diverse ascetical practices have been throughout Christian history. Some scholars have noted the similarities between the female ‘single ones’ and the status of virgins and widows within second-generation New Testament texts. 24 As time went on the virgin daughters of the covenant probably moved towards a more common life, in buildings clustered round the church, maybe adjacent to it. Then their liturgical role developed more acutely. The daughters of the covenant’s liturgical role thus places them in a more dominant public position than the Virgins and Widows of the New Testament period, although the roles of each are still more ambiguous than one would hope. The very institution contradicted dominant stereotypes of women prevalent in Late Antiquity, placing them in an important ecclesiastical role and thus above lay Christian males within the church hierarchy. 25 These women were not to be segregated from society at large nor other ascetic men like other religious women from different geographic locations and periods. 26 The question of the origin of the role of these choirs of consecrated virgins as a liturgical presence is as interesting as it is impossible to answer definitively. Several scholars have suggested that Ephrem specifically used women’s choirs because different heretical sects also utilized women’s choirs, especially the followers of Bardaisan. 27 Whether or not Bardaisanite choirs were significant in pre-Ephremite Syrian church praxis, the role his choirs had in reifying certain beliefs and defining religious boundaries is clearly important. 28 The very presence of women’s liturgical choirs was a distinctive tradition that marked off the Syriac language churches from their Greek and Latin counterBrock (1992), 139. Cf. den Biesen (2006), 87. Griffith (1999a), 331. 25 Brock and Harvey (1998), 22. 26 Brown (2008), 332. 27 Quasten (1941), 153–4. Ephrem does allude to Bardaisan’s hymns and choirs in his Hymns against Heresies 1; 53. 28 Harvey (2005), 135. Cf. Harvey (2010), 37. 23 24

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parts. In the latter, we rarely find mention of the custom except in a condemnatory form. 29 Today, the large majority of Ephrem’s surviving works consists of his Hymns. These largely fit within three categories, the memra, madrasha, and the sogitha. 30 The memra were verse homilies and would certainly have been chanted by the male preacher, in this case probably Ephrem himself. The madrasha was a ‘strophic poem’ sung with the choir or audience responding with a repeated phrase. The word madrasha is also translated as ‘teaching hymn’ or ‘doctrinal hymn’ and this genre was often utilized by Ephrem for his polemical works. The madrasha compromises the largest number of his extant works. 31 Although Ephrem’s madrasha seem to have been immensely popular in his own day, and were translated into many languages during his own life, we know relatively little about how they were performed. The loss of knowledge regarding specific liturgical practices in Ephrem’s times largely leaves us with just the text of the hymn to understand how they were to effect changes in the life and thought of the average Christian. These tunes would serve a similar purpose to the polemical homilies of other theologians at the time. 32 The specific tunes to which these hymns were set have for the most part been lost, although we have many of their names, some of which seem to match non-Christian music of the same period. 33 It appears that the stanzas would be sung by the choirs, and the refrain would be sung by the deacon and/or the congregation. The refrain is a concrete example of the parishioners affirming certain theological ideas, while also allowing them to interact with these choirs. The sogitha or ‘dialogue hymn’ provides an interesting example of the way in which these chants would have Harvey (2005), 141. For a detailed exploration of the role these choirs played in both defining and disrupting the role of women in early Syriac Christianity, see Harvey (2010). 30 Harvey (2005), 137. Cf. Brock (2005), 712. 31 Brock and Kiraz (2006), xiii. Cf. Harvey (2005), 129; Murray (2004), 31–2. 32 Brown (2008), 329. 33 Taylor (2010), 190. Cf. Brock and Kiraz (2006), xiii–xvi. Quasten (1983), 82. 29

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been recited in the ancient churches of Syria. Although they belong to an ancient Mesopotamian pre-Christian style, Ephrem made use of the genre. 34 This style lent itself greatly to the technique of inventing (fictional but commentative) dialogues among biblical characters, placing the choirs in the role of those characters. It appears that both male and female choirs would participate in these dialogue hymns as they were sung antiphonally between the respective male and female characters. It is also important to mention that choirs of consecrated virgins would also be used for the singing of the psalms during the Eucharistic liturgy, and within other liturgical contexts, such as the Hours. 35 Although Ephrem does not himself explicitly mention the office of the Daughters of the Covenant, he does mention singing virgins. In his fourth of the Hymns on the Nativity he states: ‘May the chant of chaste women please You, my Lord, May the chant of the chaste women dispose You, my Lord, To keep their bodies in chastity.’ 36 One of our few insights into the actual performance of these hymns in Ephrem’s time is through Jacob of Serug’s Homily on Mar Ephrem, which was composed about a century after Ephrem’s death. 37 In regard to this paper, Jacob’s most important insight into the life of his subject is his emphasis on Ephrem’s establishment of women’s choirs to ‘make their chants instructive melodies (v.114) which ‘eliminated stumbling blocks which had multiplied’ (v.154). Here, the phrase stumbling blocks certainly refers to heretical ideas and sects. Jacob explicitly states that Ephrem had ‘introduced these women to doctrinal disputes’ and through them and specifically their ‘soft tones he was victorious in battle against all heresies’ (v.152). 38 The very nature of their singing, through melodious tones is clearly a factor in the public struggle to end heretical thought. Jacob claimed that these choirs were founded and sanctioned by Ephrem for the precise purpose of combating heresy. Jacob reBrock (2005), 713. Harvey (2005), 131. 36 McVey (1989), 93. (HNat. 4.62–3). 37 Amar (1995), 16. The following parenthesized verse citations are all from this work. 38 Amar (1995), 53, 65. Cf. Harvey (2005), 141. 34 35

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moves them from their putative origin in the Bardaisanite camp and places them squarely within the orthodox arsenal, to argue that they were one of the Nicene Church’s strongest weapons against heresy. Through their ascetical practices these women were paragons of right action and through their liturgical functions they became active proponents of right belief. Whereas women had previously been ‘silent from praise … this wise man decided that it was right for them to sing praise,’ as Jacob relates about Ephrem (v. 96). 39 This silence is turned on its head as Jacob states: ‘Behold a new sight of women uttering the proclamation; and behold, they are called teachers among the congregations’ (v. 42). The word Jacob uses for proclamation is the Syriac equivalent to the Greek term kerygma. 40 Jacob’s Homily has helped in terms of the historical record to solidify the connection between Ephrem and the choirs of virgins, but it also helped to give the choirs long-term validity within the Syriac tradition. Not only did they have hierarchical sanction, they also were central to the conveyance of right belief (orthodoxia) for the congregations to which they sang. In the Syriac tradition of Ephrem’s Vita, Ephrem’s hymnody was seen as the direct result of his interaction with the Bardaisanites and only began well into his later life. The author of one of the major Vita texts calls Ephrem’s hymns an ‘antidote’ against ‘false teachings.’ His use of the Daughters of the Covenant was a major part of this project. Ephrem ‘established instruction … and taught them hymns as well’ so that they sang in the liturgy, at martyr feasts, and funeral processions. 41 Ephrem ‘transmitted his wisdom to all the learned and wise women’ and he himself would ‘stand among them.’ 42 Ephrem’s Hymns against Heresy are the clearest example of Ephrem’s intent to solidify Nicene Christianity in the face of the many sects operating in his time. In these hymns Ephrem sets down his view of the ‘true church’ and ‘true doctrine.’ 43 The most influential of the groups Ephrem polemicized in Amar (1995), 49. Ibid. 35. 41 Amar (2011b), 78. 42 Ibid. 80. 43 Griffith (1999c), 107. Cf. Griffith (1999b), 125–40. 39 40

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this collection were the Arians, and anti-Arian propaganda takes up the main share of the hymnal content. 44 Ephrem’s Hymns against Julian would also help to define the church’s relationship to the newly Christianized Roman Empire. These hymns were composed after the corpse of the last pagan Emperor Julian was brought through Ephrem’s hometown of Nisibis. 45 The hymns place Julian and his death within Ephrem’s view of salvific history. Ephrem envisaged the death of Julian as the death of paganism itself and his defeat (and the subsequent accession of a Christian Emperor in the person of Jovian) as the solidification of Rome as the God-blessed Christian empire that would change history on a cosmic level. The hymns establish the Christians of Nisibis as the only true believers in the chaos of Roman-Persian conflict. 46 The true believers are contrasted with Jews, Pagans, heretics, and Persians. The refrain of the second hymn, ‘Blessed is the One Who blotted him out and has afflicted all the sons of error!’ places all those in error in one camp, while simultaneously making clear God stands directly within the events of history. 47 The first of the Nisibene Hymns, written to describe the situation in Ephrem’s hometown of Nisibis before the death of Julian, equates the true Christians of that city with the inhabitants of Noah’s ark and characterizes Noah as a type of Christ. 48 The Hymns against Julian also locate the emperors now within the structure of the Church, and in doing so he relates the church and the imperial system most intimately. When Ephrem says ‘there was peace through the believing king,’ he is raises Jovian triumphant over Julian, making a (theological) victory out of a shambolic military defeat, while also marrying the ideas of future peace and governmental stability to the cause of orthodox belief. 49 The Hymns on Unleavened Bread are within the classic traditions of anti-Jewish polemics, extremely popular in Greek and Latin apologetics of the time. The refrain of the 19th of these hymns is Griffith (1994b), 104. McVey (1989), 226. 46 McVey (1989), 249–50. 47 McVey (1989), 234. 48 Brock and Kiraz (2006), 222–3. 49 McVey (1989), 245. 44 45

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‘Glory be to Christ through whose body the unleavened bread of the People became obsolete, together with that People itself.’ 50 For Ephrem, Jewish practice was no longer necessary and the Jewish people themselves no longer served a purpose. He represents out and out supersessionism. The force with which Ephrem speaks against the Jews in these hymns probably argues that in reality and common practice, the boundaries between Christianity and Judaism were not as clearly defined as he might have hoped. He may have had the same problem as John Chrysostom and Cyril of Alexandria, who both found it imperative to speak out (repeatedly) against Christians who were attending the synagogue and observing Jewish festivals. It appears that in many of his hymns Ephrem used the Jews even as a cipher for the Arians. 51 By connecting the Jews to the Arians, Ephrem made the Arians a continuing existential threat to true Christianity and located Arianism as outside the camp. Both systems propagated radically wrong beliefs about Jesus vis à vis God’s being and his plan for salvation. Ephrem’s trinitarianism, in direct opposition to his Arian opponents, is most clearly expressed in the 73rd of the Hymns on Faith, where the sun, its light, and its warmth are symbols of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. He ends the hymn with the phrase: ‘Yet this Trinity is a single essence.’ 52 Similarly, in the 10th of the Hymns on Faith, Ephrem states: ‘Your nature is single, but there are many ways of explaining it.’ 53 In these hymns, trinitarian doctrine is extensively simplified for the majority of Christians, and set to appealing music. Here, trinitarianism is not a philosophical problem to be explained, but a fact about the nature of God sung to the congregation by a harmonious choir of virgins. The lively performative and pedagogical context of these hymns popularized Shepardson (2008), 32. Shepardson (2008), 196. For Ephrem both the Jews and the Arians were an existential threat to proper Christianity and both disrupted the ‘correct’ relationship between God the Father and God the Son. 52 Brock (1984), 83–5. 53 Brock and Kiraz (2006), 203. 50 51

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Nicene orthodoxy and made it both comprehensible and interesting for a larger audience. 54 Ephrem’s influence and doctrinal ideas have long been acknowledged by scholars, but the active presence and participation of his choirs of consecrated women virgins (one of the major vehicles by which his ideas reached the public) and the liturgical context of that theology have often been overlooked in the literature. The striking beauty of Ephrem’s hymns has led many to consider and comment on them simply as works of literature and rhetoric, not as liturgical performances per se. 55 Ephrem is the first known and surely the greatest voice in favor of Nicene orthodoxy in the Syriac-speaking world at the time. He imagined Nicene orthodoxy as the rightful continuation of the teachings of the first apostles. 56 The very orthodoxy that Ephrem was attempting to foster in northern Mesopotamia would be the same movement that would eventually come to support a shift toward an Egyptian-style monasticism. This new hierarchy would also introduce liturgical changes that reacted against the presence of liturgical women’s choirs in the center of the church. 57 Later biographies of Ephrem half remember the importance of his choirs of virgins in speeding on his apologetic work, but also adapt the story of the church of his day to fit it into the later patterns that later came to supersede what was common enough in the Syrian church of the first four centuries. The very diversity of the Syriac religious and cultural landscape at the time of Ephrem by no means promised the ascent of Nicene orthodox Christianity as an inevitable historical outcome. Ideologically, Ephrem had simultaneously to edify the elements of Nicene Christianity, tear down the religious systems of Judaism and paganism, attack the dissident heretical movements within Christianity, while also arguing for Rome (not Persia) as the way forward for the spread of the Church. It is due in no small measure to his populist use of liturgical hymnography that he was a Shepardson (2008), 2. den Biesen (2006), 325–7. 56 Griffith (1999b), 133. 57 Griffith (1999a), 330. 54 55

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major factor in the eventual triumph of Nicene thought throughout the Syriac-speaking churches.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Amar, J.P.

“A Metrical Homily on Mar Ephrem: by Mar Jacob of Serug.” Patrologia Orientalis 47. Turnhout, Belgium: Brepolis, 1995. ——— “Christianity at the Crossroads: The Legacy of Ephrem the Syrian.” Religion and Literature 43.2. (Summer 2011): pp. 1–21. (2011a) ——— The Syriac “Vita” Tradition of Ephrem the Syrian. Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalum. no. 630. Louvain: In Aedibus Peeters, 2011. (2011b) Brock, S. “Early Syriac Asceticism.” Syriac Perspectives on Late Antiquity. London: Variorum Reprints, 1984. pp. 1–19. ——— The Harp of the Spirit: Eighteen Poems of Saint Ephrem. San Bernardino, CA: Borgo Press, 1984. ——— The Luminous Eye: The Spiritual World Vision of Saint Ephrem. Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1992. ——— “Syriac Culture, 337–425.” The Cambridge Ancient History. eds. Av. Cameron, & Peter Garnsey. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005. pp. 708–719. Brock, S. & Kiraz, G. (trans.) Ephrem the Syrian: Selected Poems. Provo, Utah: Brigham Young University Press, 2006. Brock, S. & Ashbrook-Harvey, S. Holy Women of the Syrian Orient. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1998. Brown, P. The Body & Society: Men, Women, & Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity. New York: Columbia University Press, 2008. den Biesen, K. Simple and Bold: Ephrem’s Art of Symbolic Thought. Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2006.

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Drijvers, H. J. W. “Marcionism in Syria: Principles, Problems, Polemics.” The Second Century 6.3. (1987: Fall): pp. 153–72. Griffith, S. H. “Asceticism in the Church of Syria: The Hermeneutics of Early Syrian Monasticism.” Doctrinal Diversity: Varieties of Early Christianity. New York: Garland Publishing, 1999. pp. 326–51. (1999a) ——— “Ephraem, the Deacon of Edessa, and the Church of the Empire.” Diakonia: Studies in Honor of Robert T. Meyer. Eds. Halton, Thomas and Joseph P. William. Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University Press, 1986. pp. 22–52. ——— “The Marks of the “True Church” According to Ephraem’s Hymns Against Heresies.” After Bardaisan: Studies on Continuity and Change in Syriac Christianity in Honour of Professor Han J.W. Drijvers. Eds. Reinink, G.J. and A.C. Klugkist. Leuven, Belgium: Peeters Publishers, 1999. pp. 125–40. (1999b) ——— “Setting Right the Church of Syria: Saint Ephraem’s Hymns against Heresies.” The Limits of Ancient Christianity: Essays on Late Antiquity in Honor of R.A. Markus. Eds. Klingshirn, William E. and Mark Vessey Ann Arbor, MI: The University of Michigan Press, 1999. pp. 97–114. (1999c) ——— “Monks, “Singles”, and the “Sons of the Covenant”: Reflections of Syriac Ascetic Terminology.” Eulogema: Studies in Honor of Robert Taft, S.J. Eds. Carr, E., S. Parrenti, A.A. Thiermeyer, and E. Velkovska. Rome: Pontificio Ateneo S. Anselma, 1993. pp. 141–60. Harvey, S.A “Revisiting the Daughters of the Covenant: Women’s Choirs and Sacred Song in Ancient Syriac Christianity.” Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies 8 (2005): pp. 125–49.

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Song and Memory: Biblical Women in Syriac Tradition. Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 2010. Hunt, H. Clothed in the Body: Asceticism, the Body and the Spiritual in the Late Antique Era. Surrey, UK: Ashgate Publishing Limited, 2012. McVey, KE. Ephrem the Syrian: Hymns. Trans. Kathleen E. McVey. Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1989. Murray, R. “The Exhortation to Candidates for Ascetical Vows at Baptism in the Ancient Syriac Church.” New Testament Studies 21.1 (1974): pp. 59–80. ——— Symbols of Church and Kingdom: A Study in Early Syriac Tradition. London: T&T Clark International, 2004. Neusner, J. History of the Jews in Babylonia, V. 1 The Parthian Period. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1999. Quasten, J. “The Liturgical Singing of Women in Christian Antiquity.” The Catholic Historical Review 27.2. (1941): pp. 149–65. ——— Music & Worship in Pagan & Christian Antiquity. Trans. Boniface Ramsey. Washington, D.C.: National Association of Pastoral Musicians, 1983. Russell, Paul S. “Nisibis as the Background to the Life of Ephrem the Syrian.” Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies 8. (2005): pp. 179–235. Shepardson, C. Anti-Judaism and Christian Orthodoxy: Ephrem’s Hymns in Fourth-Century Syria. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2008. Taylor, D. “St. Ephraim’s Influence on the Greeks.” Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies 1.2. (2010): pp. 185–96. Valavavonickal, K, (trans). Aphrahat’s Demonstrations I. Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2011. Vööbus, A. Celibacy, a Requirement for Admission to Baptism in the Early Syrian Church. Papers of the

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Estonian Theological Society in Exile, no. 1. Stockholm: Etse, 1951.

THE POWER TO CURSE AND THE POWER TO SAVE: THE MONK, THE PROPHET & THE STORY OF ELISHA’S CURSE OF THE SHE BEARS (2 KINGS 2:23–24) REVD. MARY JULIA JETT Throughout much of Patristic writing, it is assumed that everyone should aspire to be like the Old Testament prophet Elijah. Elijah demonstrates the ideal abstention from worldly goods. Elijah is an exemplar of chastity and charity. Even more impressively, Elijah has the ability to perform miracles. He can conjure fire. Feed a widow with meal and oil. He even raises a widow’s son from the dead. He shows up during the great and majestic Transfiguration in the New Testament. In fact, several New Testament scholars view the Elijah narrative as a governing storyline behind the miracles and ministries of John the Baptist, Jesus himself, and the missionary journeys of the Book of Acts. In later times the most fabulous of monks are declared to be the authentic heirs of Elijah and some are given the title of ‘Second Elijah.’ Just as Elijah handed double his spirit to his successor, Elisha, so others thought to follow in his footsteps and also receive at least double the spirit from Elijah. Every once in a while, a Christian monk will be honored with the title ‘Second Elisha,’ but for many patristic interpreters Elisha was often referenced only because of his relationship to the greater Elijah. Elijah is the teacher, so obviously he was greater than his student. The patristic references often focus on this transfer of power. Across the centuries,

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the giving of a ‘double portion’ of Elijah’s spirit to Elisha is described, debated and symbolized in images such as the passing of the cloak 1 and Elisha’s washing of Elijah’s hands. 2 In this stream of interpretation, Elisha is only perceived to be interesting in so far as he models how to inherit the great prophetic powers of Elijah. Less considered, however, are what became of those tremendous and strange fruits of Elijah’s double spirit-filled prophetic powers. When made manifest in the life and ministry of Elisha, this ‘double spirit’ blossoms in amplified and often times exponentially stranger miraculous acts. For the Syriac Christian commentators, it was exactly these parallels that most caught their attention. The superiority seemed demonstrable: Where Elijah could part water, Elisha could part water, conjure water, purify water, and defy all principles of water when he made an axe float for convenience sake. Where Elijah could feed the poor with a little portion of meal and oil, Elisha could transform rotten vegetables into a feast and conjure bread to feed an army. Elisha will give water to enemies and yet be credited with the destruction of more enemies than ever Elijah would encounter. And, perhaps most strikingly, Elisha seems to be equipped with an unfathomable and strangely exercised ability to declare curses. 3 When this prophetic power of cursing was considered by ascetics in Late Antiquity, Elisha’s most bizarre curse of all provided a glimpse into what it meant in Antiquity for a holy person to exercise the great power that was bestowed upon them from on high. The story of this curse begins with one notable key difference between Elijah and Elisha. Although several patristic writers will describe the wilderness wandering and very ‘hairy’ exemplars of Eli1 Antony’s garments are passed on to Bishops Serapion and Athanasius, V. Ant. 91–2; cf. 2 Kings 2.13. 2 Paphnutius writes of Abba Isaac pouring water on the hands as the disciple of his master as “the great Elisha did for the prophet Elijah.” See translation in Tim Vivian, Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt (Kalamazoo: Cistercian, 1993, 26). 3 Biblical parallels are listed in both Homilies on Elisha by Jacob of Sarug and throughout the Demonstrations of Aphrahat the Persian Sage.

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jah, Elisha, and John the Baptist, that interpretation actually neglects a characteristic that can only be found in 2 Kings 2:23–24; for Elisha, the great successor, is bald. We know this fact because small children make fun of him for it. As the story goes in the Peshitta (Syriac) text of 2 Kings 2:23–24: As (Elisha) went up from there to Bethel, and he went up the way. Young 4 children came out from the town and mocked him saying, ‘Go up, baldy!’ 5 And (Elisha) turned back and looked at them cursing them in the name of the Lord. Two bears came out from the forest to tear apart 6 from forty two of the young. 7

Unlike many of the miracles and curses in the life of Elisha, no parallel can be found for this strange episode in the life of his spiritual father Elijah. Even more baffling to most interpreters, of any era, Scripture provides no explanation or obvious moral lesson for the action it recounts. The story concludes with the simple moving on: [He] departed from there to the mountain of Carmel, and from there (he went) again to Samaria.

And that’s it. In some writings of Late Antiquity, all that is gleaned from the story is the noticing of Elisha’s particular hair style (or lack thereof). For example in A Panegyric on Macarius, Elisha is simply the ‘bald one’ with no mention of the mocking whippersnappers. However, in disputes like those between Marcion and Tertullian, this seeming act of random, unexplained, biblical ultraMT.

4

Text notes the variant “small” [z‘wr]. This is more in line with the

Note that the MT and LXX repeat this line. In the Peshitta text, this is the same fate of the “little ones” in Elisha’s conversation with Hazael (2 Kgs 8:7), and it is what Menaham does to the women with child (2 Kgs 15:14). Bears are said to do the same thing when robbed of their cubs in Hos 13:8;14:1, Amo 1:13. It describes the bursting of the wineskins in Job 32:19. In the New Testament, it is the fate of Judas (Acts 1:18) 7 All translations are my own unless otherwise noted. 5 6

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violence became a substantial proof-text for those seeking to dismiss the angry, judgmental, ‘Old Testament god’. Marcion in his renunciation of this Old Testament god, declared that Christ is the opposite and better inversion of Elisha. Where Elisha cursed children, Christ welcomed them. When faced with that (perhaps intentional) New Testament parallel, Tertullian’s best argument was, in essence, that Marcion was simply making a thoughtless vocabulary error. Elisha was merely cursing boys (pueri) and not infants, and obviously, these boys (parvuli) ‘had it coming to them’ and can be deemed worthy of judgment, condemnation, even, apparently, mauling by bears. 8 For the most part, in Greek patristic interpretation of this episode in Late Antiquity, this idea that the naughty boys ‘had it coming’ was the common answer. A person invested with the power of God cannot possibly be wrong, so the people that mock him must represent the exact opposite and the most intrinsic evil. In his exegesis of Ezekiel’s passage about ‘ferocious beasts’ and the ‘sins of the land,’ Origen sees the ‘boys’ as a symbolic representation of the other scriptural maulings that ‘proceed from the indignation of God.’ 9 As he writes in his Commentary on Ezekiel, ‘For those bears were a symbol of other beasts that are truly ferocious, truly savage, which are sent against this sinful earth.’ 10 John Chrysostom will view it as a past action in a long list of punishments inflicted in the Old Testament by Christ on those who failed to believe, 11 and Augustine of Hippo would associate these scoffers directly with the ‘Jews’ who mocked Christ on the cross. 12 Unfortunately, well into the Middle Ages, Augustine’s interpretation became the most Tertullian, Adversus Marcion 2.14. This discussion comes in the midst of Origen’s exegesis of Ezekiel 14.13, 15. See also 2 Kings 2 17.25, It is worth nothing that both of the Kings stories, for Origen, come under the header of ‘even the Jews say [this].’ 10 Origen, Homilies on Ezekiel 4.7.2, as translated in Thomas Scheck, Origen: Homilies 1–14 on Ezekiel (Newman Press, 2010). 11 Chrysostom, Homilies on the Book of Romans 25; Victorinus, Commentary on the Apocolypse of John 11.5; Gregory of Nyssa, On the Baptism of Christ. 12 Augustine of Hippo, Commentary on the Psalms 47.1. 8 9

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popular. 13 All of these patristic authors, in some way, needed to resolve the problem of what it meant for such full authority to be placed in the hands of an individual, who at once occupied the pinnacle of holiness and yet was capable of such a bizarre and seemingly cruel act. Some proposed from a defensive stance, and others from an inherited stance, but all defended Elisha was an exemplar. He was not only powerful but was a cipher of Christ either in his own time or in a future trajectory, or symbolic way. In the terms of such a portrayal, possession of great power seems to have justified the use of one’s full force in the world. No other justification apparently was needed. Of course, this does not sit completely well with the Greek writers themselves, nor does it properly resolve Marcion’s original complaint. Christ welcomed the children, and Elisha cursed them. So, if the Church was fully to embrace both the just providence of God, and entirely accept the authority of the Old Testament, how on earth does Elisha get away with doing what he did? For many Greek writers, Elisha’s cruel exercise of his prophetic superpower required an interpretative choice between a heavily allegorical interpretation or simply pretending the story is just not there by never making note of it. For the Syriac writers, the situation is very different. Perhaps because of their passionate love for Old Testament exemplars or perhaps because of their exceptional hatred of Marcion, the full cornucopia of Elisha’s might and bizarreness seems to appear within the corpus of every major Syriac writer. These Semitic Christian authors were often monastics writing for the benefit of other monastics. Therefore, all things spoke to both the truth of the scripture and in the ideal use of the gifts bestowed upon the holy ones in an ascetic environment. How did they manage to draw a lesson from the story of Elisha’s baldhead and the insolent children? The earliest Syriac example is found in the Demonstrations of Aphrahat, the fourth century Persian sage. He writes that the worst thing that one can do is ‘divide’ and the most powerful weapon in division, for him, is the tongue. Aphrahat fills his pages with lists of Cf. Angelomus of Luxeuil, Enarrationes in libros Regum; Eucherius, Commentary on the Book of Kings 4.16; Rabanus Maurus Magnentius, Commentary on the Fourth Book of Kings 4.2. 13

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individuals, stories of triumph, and the past, present, and future embodiment of the fullness of God. Sometimes these figures are put in sequence and other times in parallel. In all times, these exemplars represent a progressive in-breaking of God’s word and God’s power into the world whether or not the figures seemed particularly successful in their own time. In the dead center of his earliest collection of texts, Aphrahat outlines parallels of Elijah, John the Baptist, Elisha, and Jesus, and in the center of that nexus, he interprets the story of Elisha and the She-bears. In his sixth ‘Demonstration,’ Aphrahat first explains that Elijah is not quite as wondrous as John, but they are phenomenal in similar ways. Then, when it comes time to hand off their spirit, the spirit is passed on in similar ways, to Elisha and Jesus. In this chain, Elijah is said to do great things, Elisha is said to do greater things, but Christ is comparatively better at everything. In the parallels drawn between Elisha and Jesus, Jesus can resurrect more people, create food in more abundance with less, and so on. In the middle of his list, however, Aphrahat breaks the sequence of improved parallels and brings his reader’s attention to the sole criticism of Elisha he wishes to register in this passage. Aphrahat writes: Elisha cursed the young and {the young} were eaten by wolves. 14 The savior blessed the young. Elisha was cursed by the young. The Savior was praised by the young in ‘Hosannas!’ 15 14 Aphrahat seems to use the words commonly interpreted as “bear” verses “wolf” interchangeably. This is one example. In another section, sheep are attacked by what would commonly be bears, and that story may even harken back to this Elisha imagery. See Dem. 10.3. 15 See Dem. 6.13. The source text for the Demonstrations of Aphrahat is taken from The Homilies of Aphraates the Persian Sage, edited by William Wright (Williams and Norgate, 1869). Two English translations are available. See Adam Lehto, The Demonstrations of Aphrahat the Persian Sage (Gorgias, 2010) and Kuriakose Valavanolickal, Aphrahat Demonstrations (HIRS, 1999). The citation format given is for easy reference in the English translations.

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Only once in all of 23 of his Demonstration texts does he denounce heretics by name, and the first of his three arch-heretics is Marcion. 16 Yet, here in this passage, he seems to uses the exact words of criticism ascribed to Marcion centuries before, but without the same fear or defensiveness shown in Tertullian. For Aphrahat, Elisha had great power and used it for much less noble ends, and the result was, in fact, a much less glorifying outcome. This misuse of the immense power of the word is reflected both in Elisha’s misuse and in the words of the young. Both had power. Both, however, required temperance and grace in order to use them in moderation. Writing in the fourth century, Ephrem the Syrian was another theologian and poet who made a similar claim. In his Hymns on the Nativity 13, Ephrem emphasized Christ’s perfect expression of humanity. Christ’s love is such that if he is rebuked he is angry; when he is terrified, he cries out; and when he is scolded, he is sad. Ephrem then continues: Are you (Christ) greater than the law that requires vengeance for injury? Moses had timidity and his zeal had severity, for he struck down and destroyed. 17 Elisha restored life to the young one and tore children apart by bears. O Youth (Christ) – who are you? that your love exceeds that of the prophets? 18

For Ephrem, Christ is the ideal of all those who came before and is the full expression of all the greatness desired, but never quite reached, by those who came before. In a sense, he says that Christ was greater not just because of his divinity but because he was better at being truly human. An image of goodness does not mean that one will not get angry, cry out, or be sad; nor does it mean one will not possess the power to destroy. Rather, it means that one shall be so full of love that moderation is possible, rebuke of others is restrained, and the good life is zealously followed. Dem. 3.9. Marcion is listed with Mani and Valentinus. For other examples of the parallel of Moses and Elisha, see Chrysostom, Homilies on the Statutes 8.3. 18 My translation. Note that perhaps by typographical error, the McVey translation has “Elijah” and not “Elisha.” In all other ways, it is a lovely translation and was used as check to my own. 16 17

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This exact concept is portrayed wonderfully in Theodoret’s Greek description of the Syrian Monk Jacob of Nisibis. In Theodoret’s Monks of Syria, Jacob of Nisibis comes across a group of girls looking wantonly at a man of God, and the scandal does not end there. These same girls failed to cover themselves, specifically their hair, in the appropriate, modest way. In response, Jacob of Nisibis curses them with ‘premature gray hair.’ In praising what he sees as a logical, kindhearted and restrained rebuke, Theodoret writes: Such was the miracle of this new Moses, which did not result from the blow of a rod but received its efficacy from the sign of the cross. I myself am filled with admiration for his gentleness, in addition to his working a miracle. He did not, like the great Elisha, hand over those shameless girls to carnivorous bears, but applying harmless correction that involved only a slight disfigurement he gave them a lesson in both piety and good behavior. I do not say this to accuse the prophet of harshness (may I be spared such folly) but to show how, while possessing the same power, [Jacob] performed what accorded with the gentleness of Christ and the New Covenant. 19

Although all three authors above write in the Syriac Christian tradition, from completely different contexts and times, all three glean a common set of three ideas from the Elisha curse story. First, the prophet is given tremendous power, but the good prophet, the true prophet, must channel it for good. Cursing is a gift and a power that God gives, but it is neither the greatest gift nor a gift that proves fruitful if exercised to its fullest extension, without moderation. Second, words are awe-inspiringly powerful. They can conjure fire, call down rain, and bring about curses and blessings beyond imagination. The holy word can rain down fire, and the evil word can bring unfathomable destruction. It can bring about greatness and powerful change. It also has a deep and terrifying ability to destroy. Third, this prophetic power to declare and make so is promised through the Pentateuch, where the divine blessing and the divine curse is repeatedly aligned with the chosen prophet or 19

A History of the Monks of Syria I.5, as translated in Price, 14.

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with Israel. Although Aphrahat saw Elisha’s curse as an abuse of the divine power and Jacob of Sarug saw it as a ‘necessary’ battle. Ephrem has the same underlying principle but reaches yet another conclusion. Therefore, in all of these writers, cursing is not renounced but tempered. It serves a function. All three writers acknowledge, in some way, the human reactions of emotion as well as the monk’s new ‘prophetic’ call to respond to situations of wrongdoing. However, in a way that echoes the call to excel in good works, and refrain from engaging in disputes, of Titus 3:8, Aphrahat, Ephrem, and even Theodoret use the Elisha curse story to emphasize the ideal that has been missed by the prophet’s excessive response. 20 In this larger Syriac ideology of the role of the monk as prophet, then, the goal and the ideal, in fact, is not to go around with impassioned condemnation at all. In a sense, the more power that one has to curse, the less one should use it. Aphrahat most often lists prophets in the realm of the persecuted who stand as models of ascetical self-denial – and this, including Elisha. 21 They are individuals who accept their persecution and endure while not resorting to impassioned extremes. The true, holy, and indeed prophetic action, therefore, is represented in the blessing and not in the cursing of mockers. One last note should be made of this story of Elisha and the story of these exemplars. These symbols are used to define the potentiality for greatness as much as humanity’s consistent tendency to fall short. Later Syriac texts attempt to address the concerns of the outside Greek world including how to embrace God’s will in utter failure and a defense of the absurd action. 20 In a later Syriac text, Jacob of Edessa in his Scholia will say something quite similar to Origen. God (not Elisha) is the focal point of his interpretation, and Jacob of Edessa’s interpretation, the children were evil and sons of evil. God quickly heard Elisha’s declaration and smote them in anger. See Scholium XXIV. 21 Dem 21.5 (On Persecution). See also Dem. 2.18 (Elisha as model of forgiveness and how to treat enemies, but note the lack of mercy with both the She Bears and Gehazi in Dem. 6.13); Dem 18.7

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In the fifth-century Syriac Book of Steps, one section begins with the story of Elisha providing water for his enemies, as in 2 Kings 6. Then, the manual points out that these enemies die anyway. Immediately thereafter the text declares: In another place, the master lowered (Elisha) from justice and from love. (He) did to these children that thing which (he) would hate for a person to do to him if (he) behaved foolishly toward (someone) who seeks to make vengeance. (Elisha) did good instead of evil and just as he was about to be the one suited to seek perfection, these children laughed and said, ‘Go up baldy!’ and (he) was made to do a thing without love and justice. Despite the desire of Elisha to become the one who feeds the enemy, (his) killing of the youth [lamb] was by a desire of the Lord. 22

At first glance, this passage could be read as simply affirming God’s intent to curse the children and Elisha’s will to give water to the enemy. Yet apart from the fact that such a conclusion would involve a terrifyingly inconsistent view of God, it also misses the reflexive trick of the Syriac language and the story. Elisha wanted to kill the enemy and instead gave them water. But then, Elisha seems not to have wanted simply to go along his way to perfection, and instead was ‘made’ to do something without love and justice. Even more, the concluding line in the Syriac version involves the translator in a complex set of possibilities, including placing the desire of God and the desire of Elisha in a different portion. In the end, this passage in the Book of Steps seems to declare that Elisha’s falling short is not where the story actually ends. The chapter concludes by saying this:

22 Kitchen’s interpretation of this text is that it states that the Lord desired for the children to die, but that is not explicitly clear in the text. For a discussion of his interpretation of this passage in the Book of Steps, see Robert Kitchen, “Making the imperfect Perfect: The adaption of Hebrews 11 in the 9th memra of the Syriac Book of Steps,” The Reception and Interpretation of the Bible in Late Antiquity (Brill, 2008), 244–245.

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Therefore, there exists a scenario in which the master lowers a prophet from justice and from love and all those who come after strive to become Perfection. If he who is innocent in this place and that place and transgresses from justice to without command. The master will punish him to make it known that he has behaved foolishly. So that their folly is washed away and they go up to love and be proved true. 23

In the Book of Steps, bound up in the ascetical striving for ‘Perfection’ is God’s knowledge that humans will fail in the task. Bound up in the giving of this immense gift is the intrinsic tendency of humanity to mess things up. The consequence of the curse falls into the messy area of where human power is limited and divine action is sovereign. In the midst of this equation of divine will and prophetic action, the individual saint is both historically and symbolically placed in is the inescapable position of the larger scheme of things. This leaves the ascetic to err on the side of humble caution in response to the exemplary model of the past and in what is demonstrated of the transcendent journey to be struggled through by all. Also facing the tension of God’s actions and the model of a temperate prophet, Jacob of Sarug addresses the issue in his fifthcentury metrical homilies on Elisha. In the first of the set, he dedicates over 100 lines of script to the story of the boys. At first glance, Jacob seems to paint a similar picture to the Greek writers who talked about Elisha’s destruction of the boys. Jacob describes the children both in the manner of Origen and the manner of Chrysostom. The children are both those who proclaimed, ‘Crucify him,’ and the same children are symbols of the presence of a greater, vaguer, and more transcendent evil: the Adversary or as it is pronounced in Syriac, Aramaic and Hebrew: Satan. Jacob claims that Satan ‘sang through the children,’ and Elisha, accordingly, knew what must be done. 23 The source text for the Book of Steps (Liber Graduum) is taken from Patrologia Syriaca 3 (Firmin-Didot, 1926). An English translation is available. See Robert Kitchen, The Book of Steps (Cistercian, 2004).

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In light of that immense threat of evil’s audible declarations, in both the story of Christ and in the transcendent battle against the ever-contaminating forces of evil, Jacob of Sarug presents Elisha’s curse as neither an over-reaction to a personal insult, nor the bearing down of his full force and might. Instead, this mauling was Elisha’s level-headed decision to ‘perform a surgery that would uproot the evil.’ It was to remove only the small portion, so as not to corrupt the whole. Elisha’s words were powerful because they could attack, but they were a pure action because they were done with precision and a concern to preserve the whole. Jacob writes: When you hear that he cursed children, you should not imagine that his anger got the best of him and that he was prepared to demand revenge for his insult. He was a completely good tree that produced no bad fruit for all of it was splendid. A man who possesses the power of resurrection and prophecy does not do any bad thing out of anger as you might say. The only reason he bothered to curse them was to gain something. 24

Jacob of Sarug says that one can see this if one looks at it with a pure spirit. Looking at it ‘in a pure spirit’ requires, of course, giving Elisha the benefit of the doubt that this was the least that could be done. Early writers will laud this idea of temperance, but they tended not to view Elisha as sympathetically as Jacob. Jacob does not defends the cursing, but not solely because Elisha is a prophet. Instead, he argues that whatever doubt one has from his use of deathly cursing can be assuaged by the miracles of life-giving resurrection. Accordingly, the conclusion of Elisha’s earthly ministry seems significant. Elisha’s greatest act of resurrection comes at the end of his mortal existence and is as strange as the miracles that once filled it. At the end of the 2 Kings retelling, Elisha is dead and lying in an open grave. Elisha does not ascend in a remarkable cloudemblazoned journey as Elijah does, and yet he accomplishes some24 Translation taken from Jacob of Sarug, Homilies on Elisha, translated by Stephen Kaufman (Gorgias, 2010), 45.

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thing that, for early Christian interpreters, was even more remarkable. The Peshitta text reads: When they buried the man, they saw an army of invaders and threw the man into the grave of Elisha and went away. The man touched the bones of Elisha and was revived and raised up to stand on his feet. 25

This miraculous conclusion of the Elisha story is echoed through nearly all of the Syriac Christian commentators as a final coda; a reminder of the most mighty, powerful, skilled and devoted possessor of prophetic power. Despite Elisha’s bold declarations, his mighty feats, and perhaps his excessively severe exercises of power, the Syrians notice how God’s power to resurrect and bring to life, will unfailingly spring forth by such a simple act as falling onto his relics.

25 2 Kgs 13.20. My translation of the Peshitta text, but it has no major variation from the LXX and MT.

RHETORIC AND THE MONASTIC RULE IN BYZANTIUM: FROM ANCHORITISM TO COENOBITISM JULIA KHAN Hellenistic learning (paideia) was an integral part of the mindset and culture ancient world. From Alexandria to Athens and from Caesarea to Rome, pupils who wished to obtain the highest levels of learning were schooled in the art of rhetoric. Rhetoric was the language of public discourse; it was how people discussed topics of import, as well as how they made decisions and settled disputes. 1 Plato, Aristotle, Socrates and Cicero were among the exemplars of the rhetorical craft studied by learned individuals in both Greek and Latin worlds. This was equally true for ancient learned Christians as it was true for the adherents of the state religion of Rome and the old religions’ cultic practitioners in the rising Byzantine Empire. An examination of the rhetorical writings of a given age illuminates the conflicts, controversies and significant transformations that categorize the era due to the quintessential motive for such rhetorical expression, namely ‘the presence of strife, enmity, and faction.’ 2 As the ancient Roman Empire gave way to the Christian Byzantine Empire, the collective discourse also began to shift until it became more thoroughly Christian. With Constantine’s rise to 1 Sharon Crowley and Debra Hawhee, Ancient Rhetorics for Contemporary Students (New York: Pearson Longman, 2004), 1. 2 Kenneth Burke, A Rhetoric of Motives (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969), 20.

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supreme power in 324, the new Empire occupied the void filled by the collapsing and bitterly divided ancien regime. Constantine’s assent to the practice of Christianity as a favored religion also then marked the advent of an increasingly Christianized rhetoric into patterns of public discourse. No longer hampered as the private discussions or muted apologiae of a brutally repressed sect within the old Empire, Christian discourse shifted after the 4th century to become a significant aspect of public life and culture-making. In the fourth and fifth centuries, the Christian church experienced also unprecedented growth. From a sect marked by martyrs and confessors who suffered societal rejection and regular political persecution, the Byzantine Church became, after Theodosius, the state religion. Converts continued to flock to it for spiritual reasons although many surely began to flock to Christianity out of personal ambition. Upward mobility within the empire could now be furthered by belonging to the Christian Church. The impressive growth and changing nature of the church caused its leaders to seek to articulate with growing clarity a common orthodoxy in terms of both moral canons and dogmatic premises and, therefore, the rhetoric surrounding the nature of God, the nature of the Church and what constituted faithful practice similarly increased. These turbulent times of Church formation, are often regarded as the Golden Age of Patristic writing. However, it was a turbulent time when many other aspects of Christian life were being experimented with; not least, a time when rhetorical investigation of monastic asceticism was in full spate. This age of a new rhetoric is witnessed in the letters of the bishops, the archiving of the sayings of desert sages, and the work of great founders and organizers, especially those who begin to compose monastic rules and orders: each of which served to establish and develop Church traditions that would endure for many generations. This paper will focus on an exploration of the rhetoric used in composing and recording the rules of the early Christian monastic communities in the Byzantine Empire, in an effort to gain a better understanding of what was the intended audience for such works: monks or laity? desert or town dwellers? Moreover, this paper will explore ways in which the ancient rhetoric shifted to accommodate and entice its various audiences. The correlation between shifting rhetoric, historical circumstances in the move from the old Roman to the Byzantine Empire, and the dramatic shift from anchoritic (sol-

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itary) ascetical lifestyle and lavriotic (solitary asceticism with significant time spent together in community) towards a more commonalized coenobitic (communal) style, will be made clear. To this end, a specific analysis of the Byzantine document: Pantelleria: the Typikon of John for the monastery of Saint John the Forerunner will be made.

ANCHORITIC, LAVRIOTIC & COENOBITIC ASCETICAL STYLES Ascetic and monastic practices were becoming an integral part of Christian devotion from at least the beginning of the third century onward. The early anchorite tradition was almost entirely oral. In the third century there were few writings emanating from the ascetics themselves whose praxis had preceded their theoria. The focus for the ascetics was communion with God, and not the proliferation of their way of life. Nevertheless, their solitary strivings in the desert soon caused them to be seen as ‘holy’ and revered widely among the Church members and those outside as the new era’s epitome of Christian living. In a time of a decentralized church that appeared not far off from the days of Jesus Christ and the overt persecution of the faithful by emperors such as Diocletian (284– 305), asceticism was clearly a lively eschatological imperative of common people, rooted in a highly personal love for God. With the advent of Emperor Constantine’s conversion, and growing structural favoritism for Christian institutions in the Byzantine Empire, this ascetical imperative of the new faith, along with the religion itself, gained a level of acceptance as never before. Christian life was no longer marked by the heroism of martyrs and confessors. Practicing the faith was no longer a matter of life and death. As a result, more and more people sought purification of the soul either in the experience of the desert, or in the looking towards it as a (literary or inspirational) symbol. Even radical anchorites, such as Saint Antony, found themselves surrounded by spiritual seekers, not only those who move into nearby cells for guidance, but also those who simply read of his exploits. This proliferation of monasticism in short order gave rise to lavriotic practices, for which Byzantine Palestine was especially known: monks practicing solitary asceticism began to live in a complex federation with other adjacent solitaries in order to support one another in worship and daily life.

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In one sense, the movement from a monastic life centered on personal and solitary ascetic practices in deserted places, to communal monasticism in rural, suburban and city locales, commences with Pachomius, who lived from approximately 292–348. Pachomius gravitated to a solitary path of spiritual refinement conducted with deeply-based communal support. He believed, as Rousseau put it, that: ‘Whatever personal relationship with God he might wish to encourage was to be discovered, explored, and expressed in a public and corporate context.’ 3 To this end, around the year 320 Pachomius founded the first concretely thought out and organized cenobitic monastery in Christianity at Tabennisi in Upper Egypt. Following the monastery’s founding, Pachomius is said to have written his Precepts as the monastery’s rule. The Precepts can be considered the oldest example of a monastic typikon upon which many of the later Byzantine typika look back and try to emulate. 4 By the time of Pachomius’ death, there were nearly a dozen monasteries and three nunneries established in the same manner. The character of the Pachomian monasteries was heavily influenced by Pachomius’ prior (and bitter) experience as a drafted conscript of the Imperial army at the close of the Civil War, 5 the conflict between Licinius and Maximin Daia. 6 Pachomius found Christian charity at first hand in his days of unhappiness as a young conscript and described the Christians as treating all with love for the sake of God alone. 7 Drawing on, one presumes, happier and more influential experiences of his military career as an experienced recruit, Pachomius clearly admired the strict and regimented life of the army and reflects it in his Christian institutions. Accordingly, he instituted a highly ordered rule at his monasteries. Growing from a 3 Philip Rousseau, Pachomius: The Making of a Community in FourthCentury Egypt (Berkeley: University of California, 1985), 12. 4 John Philip Thomas, et al. Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents Vol. 1. (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1998), 33. (henceforward BMFD). 5 Cyril Mango, Byzantium: The Empire of New Rome (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson Ltd, 1980), 107. 6 Rousseau, Pachomius, 58. 7 Ibid. p. 58.

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first foundation, these sprang up as loose federations, taking his overall ideas to shape them, as much as any particular written code in the early days. Pachomian houses were noted for centering their daily life on manual labor and regimented common living. 8 At the same time that Pachomian monasteries were hierarchical and well-ordered, they were also categorized by a sense of communal responsibility and servant leadership. 9 Ascetic practices of self-denial were undertaken by choice in a manner that was meant to be physically tolerable and non-competitive. The aim of the Pachomian monastery was to develop purity of the heart rooted in growth through self-knowledge. This self-knowledge was to be gained through vulnerability to God expressed in a loss of selfconsciousness before the divine presence, and through the personal emulation of the Beatitudes. 10 Moreover, the monks were to remain watchful for any ‘unacceptable inclinations’, in either themselves or in others, in order to replace them gradually and inexorably with ‘positive alternatives’. 11 The Pachomian tradition, of course, proved immensely attractive to St. Basil of Caesarea. Like Pachomius before him, Basil, sought to establish a stronger sense of church hierarchy. The dynamic linking of the hierarchy to monastic goals and personnel (Basil is one of the first to use monastics to staff diocesan institutions, as in his renowned Basiliad leprosarium) served as a new and powerful mode of evangelization in the Byzantine world. Following Pachomius’ lead, Basil embarked on a journey to spread the Good News through the increasingly widespread medium of coenobism. Let us now turn our attention to a particular example of how this manifested itself in the Byzantine church experience, using one Typikon from that era as an example.

Thomas, et al. BMF. Vol. 1, 32–35. Rousseau, Pachomius, 110–112. 10 Rousseau, Pachomius, 142. 11 Ibid. 142–144. 8 9

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PANTELLERIA: THE TYPIKON OF JOHN Byzantine early monastic typika are closely tied in with patristic and biblical ‘authorities’. Many of these individual Byzantine typika of the early period can be directly linked with Pachomian and Basilian inspirations. Although there is often a continuance of the early monastic traditions of all types and varieties, the Byzantine typika also show a clear tendency to move decisively, in certain regards, away from anchoritic and lavriotic practice, and towards a coenobitic way of life as the default. This movement is clearly evidenced in the eight century text, Pantelleria: the Typikon of John for the Monastery of Saint John the Forerunner, which sets out the detailed régime for its monastery lifestyle. The typikon of Pantelleria is notably Pachomian in nature. 12 Rather than regulate constitutional, administrative or financial matters, this foundational document sought to regulate the spiritual lives of the monks as its priority. 13 It delineated how the monks were to live a life emphasizing: ‘prayer, singing, genuflections, strict fasting and strenuous manual labor.’ 14 Life in St. John’s was decidedly rigid and austere. Respect for order and the hierarchy of the monastery were paramount as is seen in the requirement that there be a superior 15 for the monastery, along with the leadership of an overseer 16 and the elders 17 of the community. Places in church were to be assigned according to rank: ‘Let each one stay constantly at the place which becomes his rank and have no permission to move from this place and stay at another one.’ 18 Proper behavior during the liturgy was mandated as a necessary: ‘observing the proper order.’ 19 Not to follow the proper order of the liturgy or to not be following its unfolding diligently would incur punishment: ‘Keep [observing] the proper order. Should anyone dare to break the present rule, let him be liable to the punishThomas, et al. BMFD. Vol. 1, 33. Ibid. Vol. 1, 60. 14 Ibid, 60. 15 Ibid, 62, 63–64. Contained in Rule 8 and 13. 16 Ibid, 63–65. Contained in Rule 5, 13, 15, and 19. 17 Ibid, 62, 64–65. Contained in Rule 1, 9, 16, 17, and 19. 18 Ibid, 62. Contained in Rule 1. 19 Ibid, 64. 12 13

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ment of lying face downward.’ 20 Even the exact number of prostrations (prosksyneseis) during prayer, and their form, was stipulated in rules two and three: Let prayers be recited as follows: after the Lord’s Prayer let [the monks] stand a short while and then bow nine times, if they are in good health, and each time they stand up again let them lift their hands to God imploring his grace. {Let them bow three times and lift their hands three times as well.} When they have finished, let them bow three times, and then bow to one another and take leave. 21

Rule 2 stipulates: Let them recite their prayers three times from the first to the third hour, three or four times from the third to the sixth, two times from the sixth to the ninth, until vespers, and three times during the night. 22

Fasting was an integral part of the monks’ spiritual practice. The practice of fasting was to take place and last throughout the day (let [the brother] fast during the day). The only exemption from fasting came when one was ill or weak; however, even ill health did not mean that a monk was exempt from fasting to some degree: Should his body grow thin and look feeble, let him fast on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday [only]). 23 Conversations between monks were to occur only in public. Rule Five strictly forbade private visitation between monks: It is unbecoming either to visit each other and sit on the bed, or to ask concerning any matter. 24 Moreover, conversations between brothers were to occur only with the full knowledge of the other brothers. Rule 5 states:

Ibid, 64. Contained in Rule 10. Ibid, 62. Contained in Rule 3. 22 Thomas, et al. BMFD.Vol. 1, 62. Contained in Rule 2. 23 Ibid, 63. Contained in Rule 4. 24 Ibid, 63. Contained in Rule 5. 20 21

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FROM ANCHORITISM TO COENOBITISM Should anyone be seen drawing one of his brothers aside and taking him to his cell to converse with him, let that one be admonished [two or three times], then, if he is unwilling to hearken, let him be stripped of his garb and banished from the monastery. Again, should it be necessary for [one] to talk about any matter, let him stand and talk [to the other] outside the church before the brothers, so that no one may be misled. 25

And Rule 7: Whoever shall frequently converse with one, but it is not clear what the conversation is about, let him be liable to the aforesaid punishment. 26

Whispering, as a way around this was also strictly forbidden: Do not whisper among yourselves, since whispering presupposes the sin of theft. 27 Intimacy, of any sort, was highly regulated, as several of the above injunctions suggest. While the sharing in intimate conversation was limited, any greater physical intimacy was threatened with dismissal: Whoever is walking with another on a road, and they are seen holding hands or embracing or kissing, should one not hearken to admonitions, let him be expelled from the brotherhood, so that others may not be corrupted at the sight [of this]. 28

In this typikon, coming late to liturgical service was seen as particularly reprehensible: Should anyone fail to come [in time] without any reason, communion is not fitting for him. 29 On the contrary, the monk ought to hasten to church: Rush zealously to the church and even more to the holy liturgy. 30 Likewise, the monks are encouraged to rush to work as if they were making their way to the refectory: Whenever the brethren are called to work, let them hasten [to it] as they do to food. 31 Any transgresIbid, 63. Contained in Rule 5. Ibid 63. Contained in Rule 7. 27 Ibid, 65. Contained in Rule 18. 28 Thomas, et al. BMFD. Vol. 1, 63. Contained in Rule 6. 29 Ibid, 64. Contained in Rule 11. 30 Ibid, 64. Contained in Rule 12. 31 Ibid, 64. Contained in Rule 14. 25 26

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sion in these matters was punishable by either prostration penance (lying face down in public), being deprived of food and/or permanent expulsion from the community. 32 The rule of Pantelleria was codified long after the establishment of the Byzantine Empire and the advent of coenobitic monasticism. By the time of its appearance in the 8th century, many years of formative development had already taken place in the Byzantine church. Orthodoxy was no longer under constant threat by enemies, or perpetually challenged by warring theological factions. There was much higher degree of cohesion among the church leaders. Earlier tensions between the episcopate and the ascetics had by and large fallen away. From as early as the 5th century (as the Nestorian crisis illustrates in the capital city’s monasteries) 33 the monks of the suburban monasteries had even come to serve the clerical functions of the imperial bureaucracy to such an extent that they had more or less become a sub class of the civil servants of the Byzantine Empire. 34 Clearly, then, the Pantelleria foundation document reflects a level of regulation regarding daily life of a new order of specificity. Administrative matters, how the day should be spent, the regulation of prayer life and the level of obedience to the superior all exceed the rules that preceded it. 35 Although not much is known about its founder, the Ktitor John is described as having been both a confessor and the superior of the monastery. 36

Ibid, 60–62. See: J A McGuckin. Nestorius and the Political Factions of 5th Century Byzantium: Factors in his Downfall. Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library. (Special Issue), The Church of the East: Life and Thought. Edd. J.F. Coakley & K. Parry, Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library 78. 3. 1996. 7–21 34 P Charanis. ‘The Monk as an Element of Byzantine Society.’ Dumbarton Oaks Papers. 25. 1971. (accessible at: www.myriobiblos.gr /texts/english/charanis_monk.html) 35 Thomas, et al. BMFD. Vol. 1, 60–61. 36 Ibid. Vol. 1, 59. 32 33

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RHETORIC IN THE TYPIKON OF JOHN As a document that delineates the ins and outs of monastic life and administration, the key to the rhetorical argument employed is logos, a word that ranges in meaning from (divine) Word, to discourse or document, but in this case especially ‘ordered system’. The word or document of the rule, provides an ‘order’ of living, a path to the Logos. This typikon sought, therefore, to define monastic life in a deeply structured way that would appeal to reasoned order, efficiency and obedience, as primary steps towards to God. At the time of the typikon’s writing, this sense of ordered micro-cosmos corresponded closely with what the larger Christian society saw to be God’s manner of dealing with the larger cosmos. The monk’s observance of prayerful order (logos) was here set out as an exemplar of the way purified humanity was meant to be re-ordered back to the service of God. To this extent the Pantelleria typikon is predictably orthodox and theological in nature, and its precepts surely represent the beliefs that were held as axioms by most, if not all, of the community. 37 Section 65 demonstrates the powerful bonding that such a commonality of spiritual kinship as this can create: He who loves his neighbor until death shall offer his own life (for him), and shall serve him and remain with him. 38 The rhetorical argument extends to drawing close parallels between the authority of the typikon and that of the words of Christ himself (in the Gospel of John): 39 He who abides by such rules of our Father, and keeps them, shall have life. 40 By pressing this dramatic theologic, the Pantelleria typikon argues that the love of one’s (monastic) neighbor conveys eternal life comes to the ascetic who abides in the rules of the superior. The Higumen stands for Christ; the neighbour is the fellow monastic. The life of the monastic community thus becomes a microcosm of the world under God’s call to salvation, and the ascetic vocation itself is thus clearly presented rhetori133.

37

Crowley and Hawhee, Ancient Rhetorics for Contemporary Students,

Thomas, et al. BMFD. Vol. 1, 65. Jn. 8.51–52; 14.21. 40 Thomas, et al. BMFD. Vol. 1, 65. 38 39

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cally as fulfilling Christ’s summative commandment: to love God and neighbour as the fulfilment of the Law. 41 This prioritizing of the powerfully cohesive and unanimous community built on solidly maintained orthodox premises, would have been particularly apposite as a counter statement to times in the Empire of loss and stress, or a faltering of a totalist belief in the certainty of the ‘victory of the Cross’ in the Byzantine East at this time; a time of retrenchment of Roman power and influence. Pantelleria’s typikon did not seek to justify a theological position or to argue any controversial biblical exegeses. It did not feel the need to establish lineages, or explicate problems of tradition. The lineage and traditions of monasticism in the Byzantine Empire were already a wellestablished and an accepted reality. The Typikon of John rather, was a document written by a monk, out of his own extensive experience, to set up a re-statement of a classical guide, in sharper detail, and with a more noticeable stress on the need for obedience to the immediate authority of the pneumatikos (spiritual father). This obedience is underlined as not only ‘appropriate’ but even no less than the path to salvation.

CONCLUSION This paper has tried to demonstrate that the rhetoric employed in composing and recording the rules and practices of early Byzantine monastic communities changed according to the intended audience. Depending on whether the audience was the monks of a particular monastery, the members of the Byzantine court, or all the Christian faithful, the terms of rhetoric employed shifted to accommodate and entice (persuade) the various constituencies. Changing historical circumstances in the Byzantine Empire, as well as dramatic shifts in ascetical forms of life, meant that the ‘classical’ idea of monasticism had to be repristinated, reclaimed, and also at the same time readjusted as the generations of the Christian Empire wore on. Pantelleria is one such example of the repristination (and refashioning) of much earlier forms of cenobitic observance.

41

Mt. 22.37.

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The author of the Pantelleria: the Typikon of John sought to position his argument in a manner that would make his outlook more palatable to his audience. The Typikon of John was written in a time marked by societal conflict and uncertainty. The background may explain why such emphasis is placed on conformity and consensus. In his era, in his location, the ascetical focus was no longer on the solitary defeating of one’s personal demons, as it had been in the Lausiac History that had set up 4th century Egypt as the gold standard of monastic lore. Rather, the focus was now squarely set on the controlling of one’s passions, and the purification of one’s soul, for the glory of God and the edification of the community.

BIBLIOGRAPHY ʻAnân-Îshôʻ

Athanasius, Palladius, Jerome, and E. A. Wallis Budge. The Paradise or Garden of the Holy Fathers; Being Histories of the Anchorites, Recluses, Monks, Coenobites, and Ascetic Fathers of the Deserts of Egypt between A.D. CCL and A.D. CCCC. Vol. 1 & 2. New York: Duffield & Company, 1907. A. N. Athanassakis The Life of Pachomius: Vita Prima Graeca. Missoula, MT: Scholars for the Society of Biblical Literature, 1975. A. M. Silvas The Rule of St Basil in Latin and English: A Revised Critical Edition. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press of St. John’s Abbey, 2013. K. Burke A Rhetoric of Motives. Berkeley: University of California, 1969. P. Charanis The Monk as an Element of Byzantine Society. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Center for Byzantine Studies, 1971. S. Crowley, et al Ancient Rhetorics for Contemporary Students. New York: Pearson Longman, 2004. G. L. Kustas ‘Saint Basil and the Rhetorical Tradition.’ Basil of Caesarea, Christian, Humanist, Ascetic: A Sixteen-hundredth Anniversary Symposium. (ed) J. Fedwick. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1981. 221–80. C. Mango Byzantium: The Empire of New Rome. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1980.

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The Westminster Handbook to Patristic Theology. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004. C. Butler (ed) The Lausiac History of Palladius. A Critical Discussion Together with Notes on Early Egyptian Monachism. Cambridge: George Olms Hildesheim, 1967. G. Ostrogorsky History of the Byzantine State. (tr. Joan Hussey). Rutgers, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1969. P. Rousseau Basil of Caesarea. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994. ——— Pachomius: The Making of a Community in Fourth-Century Egypt. Berkeley: University of California, 1985. A. M. Silvas The Asketikon of St Basil the Great. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. J.P. Thomas (et. al.) Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents: A Complete Translation of the Surviving Founders’ Typika and Testaments. Vol. 1. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks. 1998.

THE DEVIL IN THE DESERT KEVIN MCKEOWN And forthwith the spirit drove him into the desert. And he was in the desert forty days being tried by Satan, and he was with the wild beasts, and the angels ministered to him. (Mark 1,12–13) The phrase ‘battling one’s demons’ is hardly an obscure one in our modern day and age. Every person, at some time or another, experiences internal conflict – the divergence between one’s moral ideals and one’s desires, or between one’s reality and one’s wishes and dreams. The conflict is something that can turn the psyche into something of a battle-ground. We characterize ourselves as falling prey to our weaknesses, as falling under bad influences or into bad habits; but the key concept in this notion is that, ultimately, the conflict originates and ends within us. Today we tend praise our quality of self-control, as it symbolizes the triumph of the rational mind over our diverse and ever-changing desires and impulses. This is not how ancients approached the issue, however. For the Christians of Late Antiquity, demons (daimones) were hardly a romanticized allegorical rendering of our internal psychological dilemmas. The spiritual realm of antiquity was heavily populated by unseen powers, and very enmeshed in the affairs of the immaterial world. As Peter Brown phrases it: ‘The sharp smell of an invisible battle hung over the religious and intellectual life of Late Antique

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man.’ 1 This was especially true for the Christian monastic. Brown continues: ‘To sin was no longer merely to err: it was to allow oneself to be overcome by unseen forces … But if the demons were the ‘stars’ of the religious drama of Late Antiquity, they needed an impresario. They found this in the Christian Church.’ 2 To battle one’s demons was understood by the early Christians as an actual conflict with the Devil and his minions to protect one’s soul from their influence, and it mirrored the eschatological cosmic division and conflict between the spiritual forces of good and evil; God and his angels standing against the Devil and all his powers, that Christianity had inherited through late Judaism. 3 Just as this conflict raged eternally, in and around this world, so too did the monk’s combat against the demons on the earthly plane. This understanding of daimonic conflict was definitive to the monastic way of life and was something that could only be dissolved when the ascetic was released from life in the world. After death the monk who had ‘fought the good fight’ would be rewarded for his perfect fidelity and fighting in God’s kingdom by joining the angels. This being the case, it will follow that there is a great deal of demonology to be found in the literature of the Desert Fathers. It is of central importance to the literature and the ascetic experience the literature seeks to describe, because it was of central importance to pass on the experiences and memories of this spiritual conflict from one generation of ascetics to another. This spiritual conflict was of central importance to the monk’s identity. As John Chryssavgis notes, ‘The teaching is fairly clear: if my devils leave me, then my angels will too.’ 4 Much modern literature on asceticism has been embarrassed by the prevalence of the demonology and has ‘chosen not to see it’ in terms of its analyses.

p. 53.

1

P. Brown. The World of Late Antiquity: AD 150–750. Norton. 1989.

Ibid. pp. 53–55. Ibid. p. 55. 4 J. Chryssavgis.In the Heart of the Desert: The Spirituality of the Desert Fathers and Mothers. 2003 p. 38. 2 3

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The importance to the ascetic of combating the devil and his demonic minions is amply summarized in saying 59 from the Anonymous Collection of the Apophthegmata Patrum: One of the old men of the Thebaid used to tell the following story: ‘I was the son of a pagan priest. When I was small I would sit and watch my father who often went to sacrifice to the idol. Once, going in behind him in secret, I saw Satan and all his army standing beside him; and behold, one of the chief devils came to bow before him. Satan said, ‘Where have you come from?’ He answered, ‘I was in a certain place and made much blood flow, and I have come to tell you about it.’ Satan asked, ‘How long did it take you to do this?’ He replied, ‘Thirty days.’ Then Satan commanded him to be flogged, saying, ‘In so long a time have you done only that?’ And behold another demon came to bow before him. He asked him, ‘And you, where have you come from?’ The demon replied, ‘I was on the sea, and I made the waves rise, and small craft foundered, and I have killed many people, and I have come to inform you of it.’ He said to him, ‘How long did it take you to do this?’ and the demon said, ‘Twenty days’. Satan commanded that he also should be flogged, saying, ‘That is because in such a long time you have only done this.’ Now a third demon came to bow before him. He asked, ‘And where have you come from?’ The demon replied, ‘There was a marriage in a certain village, and I stirred up a riot, and I have made much blood flow, killing the bride and bridegroom, and I have come to inform you.’ He asked him, ‘How long have you taken to do this?’ and he replied, ‘Ten days.’ And Satan commanded that he also should be flogged because he had taken too long. After this another demon came to bow before him. He asked, ‘Where have you come from?’ He said, ‘I was in the desert forty years fighting against a monk, and this night I made him fall into fornication.’ When he heard this, Satan arose, embraced him, and put the crown he was wearing on his head and made him sit on his throne, saying, ‘You have been able to do a very great deed!’’ The old man said, ‘Seeing this, I said to myself, ‘Truly, it is a

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THE DEVIL IN THE DESERT great contest, this contest of the monks’, and with God assuring me for my salvation, I went away and became a monk.’ 5

By this we see that not only did the ancient ascetics recognize the all-pervasive evil spiritual presence in the world, but that they also envisioned themselves as the foremost targets of the Devil’s onslaught, the front-line troops in the eschatological battle as it were. It also conveys the importance placed on handing down these experiences for the edification of other monks, to bolster both their faith and their ‘spiritual armaments.’ The ascetics took up the monastic life in imitation of Christ and of the angels and their spiritual combat stood as a direct reflection of Christ’s forty days in the desert, in the New Testamental account, where he was tried by Satan and the wild beasts. 6 Several studies have been devoted to understanding specific aspects of demonology in the literature of the Desert Fathers, and not a few have tried to elucidate their roots culturally and psychologically; however this is not the intention of the present paper. This study will choose, instead, to focus on the importance of the transmission and preservation of demonological teachings in the literature of the Desert Fathers, in hopes of illuminating the central importance of the concept of ‘spiritual combat’ for the early Christian desert ascetics, and the larger (lay) Christian audience for whom the works were also written. While we will look at various passages from the literature of the Desert Fathers, there are some central texts which will take precedence: the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto 7 and the Lausiac History, read in conjunction with the Coptic Palladiana, as well as four most prominent biographies: those of Pambo, Evagrius, and the two Macarii. 8 These works stand out as ‘historical’ 9 endeavors that B. Ward, (tr). The Wisdom of the Desert Fathers: The ‘Apothegmata Patrum’ (The Anonymous Series), pp. 20–21. 6 Mt 4,1–11; Mk 1,12–13; Lk 4,1–13. 7 The translation used here is that by Norman Russell: The Lives of the Desert Fathers: the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto. Cistercian Publications. Kalamazoo. 1981 8 The translation used here is that by Tim Vivian: Four Desert Fathers: Pambo, Evagrius, Macarius of Egypt and Macarius of Alexandria: Coptic Texts 5

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relate the lives, teachings and experiences of the most significant figures of Late Antique monasticism. They also were a great influence on Western monastic thought, and preserved the legacy of the Desert Fathers in the Western churches long after the Christian East and West had fallen out of communion. The other main source utilized in this paper is the Apophthegmata Patrum 10 – an early semi-systematic effort to record the wisdom of the early Desert Fathers to preserve their example and instruction for later generations of monastic practitioners. 11 Our investigation of these passages concerning demonological instruction will be approached first by setting up a few categories of instruction (paideia). We see three main categories of instruction operating, relating to the three common threads in this area of spiritual instruction: 1) lessons on the true physicality of spiritual combat, 2) lessons on pride and deception and their associated demons, and 3) lessons on the importance of communal support in instruction for opposing the demons. These three foci of instruction encompass the core of monastic thought on spiritual warfare and demonology; firstly that combat with the demons is a true physical contest; secondly that pride and its deceptive nature is the chief root of the purchase the demonic forces have against a monk; and thirdly, that the support, instruction and prayers afforded to the relating to the Lausiac History of Palladius. St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, Crestwood. 2004. 9 This statement must be understood in the sense that ancient historiography differed greatly from our modern conception of historiography. The material put forth in these works does not follow the rules of our modern senses of historical accuracy and intellectual taxonomies, but rather accords with the religious and social agenda of its authors. Regardless, (and presenting us with enduring problems of modern classification) these works stand out as writings intended from the outset to be ‘historical’, grounded accurately in the ‘real’ world of (Byzantine) experience, as opposed to the collections of the Apothegmata-, which were much more consciously intended as symbolic collections of passed-down monastic oral wisdom. 10 Specifically for this paper, the Anonymous Collection. 11 Ward. 1975. pp. xi–xii,

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monk by his community were his greatest aid in this eschatological ascesis. However, it is very important to recognize that these works and the lessons contained therein, were not for monastics alone; the wider Christian world, both clerical and lay, were also the intended recipients of these teachings when framed in literary form: something that is especially the case in the Palladian literature. 12 These texts represent an effort to disseminate the wisdom and experiences of the tradition of the Egyptian ascetics into the broader Church. This particular pedagogic concern has had a hand in shaping the three main categories of teaching examined in this paper: in so far as all three realms of spiritual warfare were applicable as desiderata to non-monastics in society.

THE PHYSICALITY OF SPIRITUAL COMBAT One of the most notable features of demonological passages from the literature is the utter physicality of the demons’ assaults. Demons were not just spiritual forces that afflicted the psyche of the monk, they could manifest themselves as physical beings to assault even the more spiritually powerful among the Fathers. If they could not pierce into the psyche to cause damage, through temptations, the demons most certainly could equally settle for beating up the monks. These beatings were both seen and heard. The Life of Piammonas provides us with one such tale. Piammonas is described as a holy and humble man, who received many visions on account of his ascesis. 13 It is said that demons often tormented him physically, rendering him so weak that he could hardly reach the altar to worship. Echoing the synoptic Gospel accounts of Gethsemane, the Vita says an angel would come to minister to him, lifting him up and giving him strength to approach the altar. This was enough to renew his strength to overcome his physical afflictions, the marks of which were visible to his brethren.

D. Brakke. Demons and the Making of the Monk: Spiritual Combat in Early Christianity. Harvard University Press. 2006. p. 136. 13 Historia Monachorum 25. 12

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The Lausiac History’s Life of Evagrius 14 relates several stories of Evagrius’ encounters with the demons during his hermitage in Kellia. In fact, of the four most extensive biographies in the History that of Evagrius contains by far the most demonic encounters. This should come as no surprise to anyone familiar with the works of Evagrius (and thus the school of writers who followed him as a master) because this quintessential monastic theologian was renowned for his spiritual discernment and expertise on the passions and the presence of demons. However even though Evagrius’ own works focus on the spiritual and noetic theory of the passions and demons, the History includes him among those Fathers who were most physically afflicted by the demons. The text recalls a time when Evagrius was attacked by demons bearing ox-hide whips. None of the brethren witnessed the attack, but they reported hearing his cries of pain and the raised demonic voices. These physical assaults, however, were not always so one sided. One notable passage from the Historia Monachorum (HM) concerning Apelles of Achoris is a testament to this. 15 We are told that the Abba of the monks at Achoris was visited by a devil in the guise of a woman, trying to tempt him into fornication. As she approached he pulled a red hot iron from the fire and scorched her face, driving her back in agony, her cries reaching the ears of the other brethren. On account of his courageous resistance, it is recounted that Apelles was graced by God with the charism, from that time onwards, of being able to hold red-hot iron without pain or damage.

PRIDE: CHIEF OF THE DEMONS, MASTER OF DECEPTION Stories and teachings concerning the demon of pride also form a recurring theme in our sources. Just as tortuous to a monk as the demon of fornication, pride is depicted an extra shade of sinister on account of its deceptive powers. Pride, it is argued, was able to even deceive the wisest monks and those whose ascesis and discipline were the most rigorous. As varied as are the manifestations of 14

15

Lausiac History. 38. Historia Monachorum. 13. 1–2.

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pride in our sources, there is a common thread underlying all its exemplars. In the desert literature, it is closely associated with civilization, that is with villages, cities, and their inhabitants. This topos adheres to the most basic ideology of Egyptian monasticism, which is the break with society the monk has undertaken, so as to remove himself from worldly temptations. By the time a majority of our sources had been penned, the fame and fascination associated with the monastics of the Egyptian desert had resulted in pilgrimages by monastics, clerics and lay-people from abroad to experience and mine the wisdom and praxis of these increasingly renowned ascetics. This no doubt put an increase of tension on the ascetic’s deliberate self-separation from society. The increased presence of outside observers could no doubt rouse aspirations of prestige in the monastic being so publicly ‘acclaimed’ as a spiritual master. It therefore stands as an imperative lesson in our sources that monks must learn to expose this added demonic snare and lay bare the root of its power. The pervasiveness of pride is shown clearly in an anecdote from the Lausiac History’s Life of Evagrius. It relates that early in Evagrius’ career, when he was still heavily involved in ecclesial life in Constantinople, his impressive knowledge and learning caused him to fall into pride. On account of his pride: ‘He fell into the hands of the demon who brings about lustful thoughts for women,’ which manifested as an uncon-summated love affair with a married noble woman. 16 An angel is said to come to his aid in realizing this spiritual threat, and this experience ultimately leads Evagrius to abandon life in the city for a monastic life at Kellia. The anecdote attests to the association of pride with civic life, and how its powers lead to further corruption (here appearing as the demon of fornication). This anecdote is also important because of its main character (even a figure as wise and blessed as Evagrius) is not impervious to the wiles of the demons. In fact, his wisdom leaves him vulnerable to the temptation of pride: and pride is the gateway to demonic assault. Lausiac History. 38.3; In our text it is stressed that Evagrius never acted upon his sinful desires because of the shame it would bring him in the eyes of all the heretics he refuted. 16

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Pride is also described as feeding off the monastic’s desire for spiritual excellence through ascesis. In the Historia Monachorum 17 we are told a story of Macarius the Great, student of Anthony the Great, and one of the most revered figures among the tradition of the desert Fathers, concerning his conflict with the Devil. 18 In it, the Devil finds Macarius physically exhausted from is ascetic practice. He tries to tempt Macarius into taking things more easily, saying: ‘Look, you have already achieved the grace of Anthony…’ Macarius valiantly responds with: ‘You shall not tempt the servant of God,’ and drives the Devil away. This story serves as a paradigm meant to check the monastic from aspirational behavior to rise to equal the glory of great monastic figures. As inspiring as the stories of the great Desert Fathers and their feats might be, the present day practitioner is warned here not practice ascesis in the hopes of rising to such a blessed condition. It also serves as a reality check to anyone inspired by such stories, monastic or non-monastic alike, that the graces resulting from ascetic practice are for God alone to bestow and to recognize, and cannot simply be gained through simple imitation of the externals. Another anecdote from the Historia Monachorum reveals another side of this demonic deceit. 19 Apelles of Achoris shares a story of his former brother John: ‘A man of another age, who surpassed in virtue all the monks of our own time.’ 20 In this tale the Devil came to John’s cell dis-guised as a priest, in order to offer him Communion. John, immediately realized who it was, said: ‘O father of all subtlety and all mischief, enemy of all righteousness, will you not cease to deceive the souls of Christians, but dare you even to attack the Mysteries themselves?’ The devil then reveals that he has only just failed in deceiving John, but he had deceived another of John’s brothers in the same way and had driven him mad. It was only through the prayers of ‘many just men’ that latter monk had been brought back to his right mind. This anecdote seems to be a cautionary tale that the demons not only attack from outside the Historia Monachorum. 21. Historia Monachorum. 21. 3–4. 19 Historia Monachorum. 13. 5–6. 20 Historia Monachorum . 13. 3. 17

18

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Church, but also have achieved a level of infiltration in the Church itself. It may very well be a commentary on the role of political ambition, manipulation and deception (three wellsprings of pride) found within the ecclesial hierarchy of the Church. Given that these cautionary tales were written around the same time as the infamous Origenist controversies involving the oppression of several communities of Egyptian monks at the hands of the Alexandrian bishop Theophilus, this interpretation might be a likely context. 21 It also hearkens back to the association of pride and its deceptiveness with civilization, in so far as the ecclesial hierarchy was inherently associated with urbanized areas.

IMPORTANCE OF COMMUNAL SUPPORT STRUCTURE The third main category of instruction in the demon-narrative texts relates to the importance for the individual monk of communal support and instruction, aimed at spiritual growth. While some of the earliest monastic figures, a prime example being Anthony the Great, were known for their extreme solitude and ascesis, there is a common thread in the desert literature that isolation from the brethren and extreme ascesis were more often harmful to spiritual progress than helpful. The figure of the spiritual father (Abba, Geron) is given great importance in these texts, and time and again the prayers and support of the brethren or the holy ‘Old Man’ lead to the healing or helping of afflicted monks. While this lesson has its clear application for the monastic reader, it also seems to carry a message concerning community and education, especially in the realm of spirituality, to the wider Christian Church (the readership) of Late Antiquity. In the Anonymous Collection of the Apophthegmata, the role of the spiritual father and the support of the monastic community are heavily stressed. 22 There are many short anecdotes which show this and sayings 38 and 33 provide clear examples. Saying 38 reads as follows:

21 22

Brakke. 2006. pp.127–128; Vivian. 2004. pp. 26–28. Ward. 1975. pp. xii–xiii.

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The disciple of a great old man was once attacked by lust. The old man, seeing it in his prayer, said to him, ‘Do you want me to ask God to relieve you of this battle?’ The other said, ‘Abba, I see that I am afflicted, but I see that this affliction is producing fruit in me; therefore ask God to give me endurance to bear it.’ And his Abba said to him, ‘Today I know you surpass me in perfection.’

And Saying 33 reads: A brother was attacked by lust, and he fought and intensified his ascesis, guarding his thoughts so as not to consent to those desires. Later he came to the church and revealed the matter to everyone. And the commandment was given to all to do penance for that week for his sake, and to pray to God; and lo, the warfare ceased.

This theme is also to be found in our more historically slanted sources as well. The Life of Evagrius preserves an anecdote where Evagrius consults his famed spiritual father, Macarius, on how he might resist the spirit of fornication. 23 As the text relates: ‘The old man said to him: “Do not eat anything in order to be filled up, neither fruit nor anything cooked over a fire.”’ This story echoes Evagrius’ own teachings in Praktikos 94 where he passes on strikingly similar advice to that given to him by Macarius. 24 The Historia Monachorum speaks of Abba Pityrion’s excellence as a spiritual father. 25 Pityrion was one of Antony the Great’s disciples and the second in line to succeed him as superior in the Thebaid. As the text notes, having succeeded Antony and his disciple Ammonas, ‘It was fitting that he should also have received the inheritance of their spiritual gifts. He delivered many discourses to us on a variety of topics, but he spoke with particular authority on the discernment of spirits.’ Pityrion gives his monks a lesson concerning the manner in which the demons follow the passions. In a very Evagrian turn, stressing the necessity of apatheia, he exhorts his Lausiac History. 38.10. Vivian. 2004. p. 80. 25 Historia Monachorum. 15. 23 24

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disciples: ‘Therefore, my children, whoever wishes to drive out the demons must first master the passions.’ His synoptic teaching as a renowned spiritual father is here presented as stressing in first order of importance the role of spiritual combat.

CONCLUSION: THE ‘WHY?’ OF DEMONS IN THE DESERT This paper is far from being an exhaustive analysis of the topic of demonological instruction in the Desert Literature. This would amount to a study far greater in scope than this paper can aspire to. Instead, this study aims to isolate a set of revealing anecdotes, which elucidate this important theme in three focused areas, areas which I argue had equal relevance and applicability both to monastic and non-monastic audiences. Our first category stands as the physicality of spiritual combat with the demons. It serves a twofold purpose, as a literary topos to serve as a warning on the need for spiritual attentiveness and at the same time as a motif of (what I would designate as) the ‘hagiographical heroicizing’ of the great old monks of the Egyptian desert. No doubt stories and anecdotes of monks physically combating with demons enthralled readers by its employment of supernatural themes so vividly. In doing so it served a pedagogical purpose par excellence. Beyond working as a literary device of encomium for monks themselves, however, this depiction of the desert heroes as battle-hardened veterans with even the wounds to show for it, can also be interpreted as an appeal to that wider circle of readers involved in the realms of politics and military of the Late Antique Church and Empire. Barbarian invasions plagued the Roman Empire in the 4th and 5th centuries. Doubtless the image of the Christian monastic triumphing over the wild (barbarous) demons in physical combat could serve as a parallel encomium to the Christian imperial soldier triumphing over the alien and destructive influence of the barbarians. This association would have brought the monk, appositely enough for a Constantinopolitan readership, from the iconic role of a peaceful recluse to that of a valiant warrior of God, combating the main source of opposition to the security of the Christian world – the hatred of bar-

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barian powers. Such a motive, I believe, was certainly on the mind of Palladius when he penned his Lausiac History. 26 Reflection on the varieties and dangers of pride forms another important category of this demonological literature because, as argued above, its influence was perceived as the most pervasive matrix of rebellion against God present throughout the world, with a species of deceptiveness harmful to the monastic and nonmonastic alike. The sin of pride is that which is most fundamentally associated with Satan and his demons, since it was believed in the Byzantine world that it was precisely because of their pride that they fell from God’s grace. It was equally pride that caused experienced monks who had achieved a rigorous ascesis to fall into the folly of self-reliance and to shun communal aspects of monastic life and the guidance of one’s spiritual father, deceiving them into thinking their ascesis is all they need. 27 The falling away of such leaders doubtlessly caused far greater scandal than the temptations of younger or less important monks, and required a fuller theological explanation. Just as the Devil and his demons in their pride withdrew from their spiritual Father and from the heavenly community of the angels of light, so too did the monk who fell prey to pride. 28 But it also seems clear that our authors had in mind to stress the dangers and destructiveness of pride omnipresent within urban life as well. The tale of Evagrius’ personal struggle with pride and the demon of fornication, and his eventual flight to the desert to combat it, clearly renders intelligible the dangers associated with pride in the ecclesial realm. As we have seen, the anecdote from Historia Monachorum 13 concerning John of Achoris and the devil disguised as a priest, inherently touches on this theme, hinting at the infiltration of demonic influence into the ecclesial hierarchy through political and bureaucratic ambitions of power and prestige. Issues of growing ecclesial ‘worldliness’ in the 5th century, and increasing divisions within the church arising from ecclesial powerplays, can explain a context to this theological anxiety. Palladius, in dedicating his work to Lausus, an official in the court of TheodosiBrakke. 2006. pp. 135–136. ibid. p. 137. 28 ibid. p. 137. 26 27

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us II, and by including such lessons within his work, has an avowed intent to disseminate traditions of the ‘simple’ Desert Fathers to the wider and much more ‘sophisticated’ Christian world. 29 His literary aim is surely to exhort the Byzantine laity, especially those of political importance, to be vigilant about the corruptions pride brings in its train. If pride is able to deceive even the most ascetically prepared of targets, the most senior monks, then how much more was the non-monastic at risk of bringing dark forced into the very heart of the body politic? Finally, the literary theme in this literature pertaining to communal support and instruction can be seen to carry the same message for monastic and layperson. The authors of these demonological themes seem to have wished to use these dramatic monastic examples to influence the wider Christian world. The support of the monastic community and the guidance provided by the spiritual father are central themes in our source literature. When they are lacking, the monk runs aground on the shores of spiritual trouble. Such a lesson, when read by the laity, stresses the importance of participation in the Church community for a virtuous and holy life, free from demonic influence. They also serve to elevate the importance of the clergy’s role in instructing the community, a local and sacramental figure of the ‘spiritual father’. These literary tales stress the importance of having teachers and theologians made wise by experience and rigorous scriptural study within the Church community, so as to ensure its proper guidance and spiritual prosperity. Again, the motive for this argument can be provided by contemporary society. It was a time when the role of the bishops was perhaps seen as having been politically compromised, as their energies were more heavily commandeered by the Imperial Administration in the 5th Century Church: a time of great social expansion, and numerous temptations to generate clerical wealth and power. A figure like Palladius would have been very aware of this, being a senior cleric who had been trained in the traditions of the Desert Fathers at the feet of Evagrius. 30 29 30

ibid. p. 136. Brakke. 2006. pp. 134–136; Vivian. 2004. pp. 28–30.

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I hope this paper has served to highlight the high pedagogical importance of these demonological tales in the literature in the Desert tradition, for both monastic and non-monastic audiences. For monastics, this demonological paideia was a synopsis of the preservation of the teachings of the great elders of previous generations, in the genres of hagiographical icon. For the non-monastic readership, this paideia served as an extremely vivid point of dissemination for this tradition. Stories about demons and the devil captivated the Byzantine reader and sharpened their focus on the prevalence and significance of the other-worldly even in their daily, urban lifestyles. But by their very concentration on the fantastical and alien, they nonetheless contained important religious cautions (about pridefulness and self-reliance) which the non-monastic could use to inspire their own spiritual life. It is a great mistake if we relegate these tales, just because of their lurid supernatural nature, to the sidelines of scholarly analysis.

BIBLIOGRAPHY D. Brakke

Demons and the Making of the Monk: Spiritual Combat in Early Christianity. Harvard University Press. 2006 ——— ‘Ethiopian Demons: Male Sexuality, the BlackSkinned Other, and the Monk.’ Journal of the History of Sexuality 10.3/4 (2001): 501–35. B. Britton-Ashkelony ‘Demons and Prayers: Spiritual Exercises in the Monastic Community of Gaza in the Fifth and Sixth Centuries.’ Vigiliae Christianiae 57.2 (2003): 200–21. P. Brown The World of Late Antiquity: AD 150–750. Peter. W W Norton & Company, Inc. 1989. A. Cain ‘The Greek Historia Monachorum in Aegypto and Athanasius’ Life of Antony.’ Vigiliae Christianiae 67.4 (2013): 349–63. J. Chryssavgis In the Heart of the Desert: The Spirituality of the Desert Fathers and Mothers. World Wisdom, Inc. 2003. A. Crislip ‘The Sin of Sloth or the Illness of the Demons? The Demon of Acedia in Early Christian Monasticism.’ Harvard Theological Review 98.2 (2005): 143–69.

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W. Harmless

‘Remembering Poemen Remembering: The Desert Fathers and the Spirituality of Memory.’ Church History 69.3 (2000): 483–518. The Lives of the Desert Fathers: the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto. Mowbray: London. 1981 Four Desert Fathers: Pambo, Evagrius, Macarius of Egypt and Macarius of Alexandria: Coptic Texts relating to the Lausiac History of Palladius. St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, Crestwood NY. 2004 The Wisdom of the Desert Fathers: The ‘Apothegmata Patrum’ (The Anonymous Series), SLG Press. Oxford. 1975.

N. Russell (tr). T. Vivian (tr).

B. Ward (tr).

AN ANCIENT ASCETICAL DRAMA OF WOMAN AND THE DRAGON: PERPETUA’S RISE INTO THE ANIMUSWORLD JEFF PETTIS Thanks be to God that I am happier here now than I was in the flesh. (Martyrdom of Perpetua, 12.7) In this paper I intend to come at the issue of askesis (the Greek term for the dynamic struggle of the athlete) from the perspective of a major text of an early Christian martyr. In this analysis I aim to scrutinize the first dream-vision contained in the Martyrdom of St. Perpetua, with a specific focus upon the significance of the dragon, representative of Perpetua’s attachment to the earthly realm. This analysis has three parts. Part I explores the text and socio-historical background of Perpetua’s first dream-vision. Part II discusses the details and significance of the imagery of the ladder by which Perpetua ascends into the higher realm. Part III explores the symbolism and significance of the dragon image that appears as a core interaction (complex) in the text, relating Perpetua’s inner struggle with/ between the opposites of matter and spirit. Her command over the dragon occurs inseparably from her journey of ascent into the male animus realm of the transcendent where she is received by the figure of the shepherd into a circle of worshipers. I will then give a brief conclusion.

PART I: TEXT The Latin text Passio Perpetuae et Felicitas was discovered in the middle of the 17th century among manuscripts from Monte Cassino Monastery. A Greek version of the Passio was found in Jerusalem in 127

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1889 and published the following year. 1 The Passio also occurs along with the accounts of other early Christian martyrs collected in the Acts of the Martyrs (Acta Martyrum). Eusebius of Caesarea may have been the first to put together such a document in his Synagoge Ton Archaion, which is no longer extant. 2 The redactor of the Acts of the Martyrs probably had the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitas before him. 3 In my reading, I draw from the Acts of the Martyrs, working from both the Latin text and translation presented by Herbert Musurillo, 4 as well as the translation of the text by Marie Louise Von Franz in her monograph The Passion of Perpetua. Background Observations The simple, dream-like style of the prison diaries of the martyr Perpetua, along with the absence of extensive Christian coloring, lend to the historical authenticity of the vision material. 5 The four 1 Marie-Louise von Franz, The Passion of Perpetua (Irving, Texas: University of Dallas, 1980): 13. 2 ‘Acts of the Martyrs,’ in, F.L. Cross, ed., The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church (London: Oxford University Press, 1957): 14. 3 E.R. Dodds, Pagan and Christianity in and Age of Anxiety: Some Aspects of Religious Experience from Marcus Aurelius to Constantine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965): 49. 4 Herbert Musurillo, trans., The Acts of the Christian Martyrs (Oxford: Clarendon Press. 1972). His is adapted from the critical edition of C. J. M. J. van Beek, Passio sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Nijmegen, 1936): 1–62. Beek groups the 9 MSS in the Latin recension into 5 families. An important Greek version exists also, extant in a single manuscript: H = codex Hierosolymitanus S. Sepulchri I. According the Musurillo, the Greek version is derived from the Latin original (p. xxvii). See also J. A. Robinson, Texts and Studies, Contributions to Biblical and Patristic Literature, Vol. 1 (Cambridge, 1891); P. Franchi de Cavalieri, La Passio SS. Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Rome, 1896); Jacqueline Amat, Passion de Perpétue et de Félicité: Introduction, Texte Critique, Traduction … (Paris, 1996); Marie-Louise von Franz, The Passion of Perpetua, 4–5; Jacqueline Amat, Passion de Perpétue et de Félicité: Introduction, Texte Critique, Traduction … (Paris, 1996). 5 See E.R. Dodds, Pagan and Christian in an Age of Anxiety. 49–53; Marie-Louise von Franz, The Passion of Perpetua, 9–11.

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visions of Perpetua are thought to be actual recordings of an early 2nd century Christian martyr written during her imprisonment in a period of fourteen days prior to her execution in the arena at Carthage in the year 203. Perpetua and Saturus, one of her two brothers, were catechumens of the (Montanist) African church. In 202, a decree of the Emperor Septimius Severus forbade conversions to Christianity. 6 Perpetua indicates that just prior to her imprisonment she received the rite of baptism (3.5). 7 The narrator (possibly the theologian Tertullian) says that Perpetua was a newly married woman ‘of good family and upbringing’ (2.1). She was about twenty-two years of age, and at the time had an infant son at the breast (2.2). The child was brought to her several times while she was in prison. No mention of her husband occurs in the tract. Perpetua relates her experience in the prison: A few days later we were lodged in the prison; and I was terrified, as I had never before been in such a dark hole. What a difficult time it was! With the crowd the heat was stifling; then there was the extortion of the solders; and to crown all, I was tortured with worry for my baby there. (Acts of Perpetua 3.5–6) 8

Perpetua’s religious conviction and subsequent condemnation to the arena drew criticism from her father and sorrow from her close friends. Her text offers a glimpse into the community of the early African church, and it may represent an early 3rd century, proto-

6 Entry, ‘Perpetua, St.,’ F.L. Cross, ed., The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, 1046. 7 ‘For a few days afterwards I gave thanks to the Lord that I was separated from my father, and I was comforted by his absence. During these few days I was baptized, and I was inspired by the Spirit not to ask for any other favor after the water but simply the perseverance of the flesh.’ Acts of Perpetua 3.4–5. 8 The Acts of Perpetua consists of an introductory statement (chs. 1– 2), Perpetua’s visions (chs. 3–10), the visions of a young catechumen named Saturus, also imprisoned to be executed (chs. 11–13), and a conclusion (chs. 14–21).

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Montanist document circulating within the Montanist circle of Tertullian himself. 9 Perpetua’s first dream-vision: synopsis In her first vision, Perpetua is encouraged by her brother to ask for an instructive vision in order to learn whether she is to be condemned or freed. According to the diary, Perpetua then makes a request to God. She says, ‘…for I knew that I could speak with the Lord, whose great blessings I had come to experience.’ She subsequently has a vision. In her epiphany, she sees an image of a bronze ladder having tremendous height, reaching all the way to the heavens. The ladder is narrow, restricting movement to one person at a time. It also has along its sides iron hooks (swords, spears, daggers, and spikes) which will catch and mangle the flesh of one who is careless. At the foot of the ladder lies a great dragon, which terrifies and will try to attack anyone who attempts to climb the ladder. Saturus makes it up the ladder first and then calls Perpetua, warning her of the bite of the dragon. Perpetua however seems not at all disturbed, and with clear authority commands the dragon: ‘In the name of Christ,’ which then sticks out its head. Perpetua uses the head of the dragon as the first step of her ascent. She climbs and reaches the top of the ladder where she beholds an immense garden, and in its midst a gray-haired, male shepherd milking a sheep. Surrounding him are thousands of worshippers clad in white garments. Perpetua informs us that, ‘He raised his head, looked at me, and said: ‘I am glad you have come, my child.’ The shepherd then calls her over and gives her a mouthful of milk, which she takes in cupped hands and consumes. Everyone says, ‘Amen!’ and Perpetua awakes with the taste of milk still in her mouth. She realizes from the dream-vision that she and her brother are going to die and leave this world. Observations on the first dream-vision Perpetua speaks of a ‘vision’ (visionem, 4.1), although her statement at the end of the account that she ‘woke up’ (experrecta sum) suggests 9

Herbert Musurillo, The Acts of the Christian Martyrs, xxvi.

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that she had a vision of the night/dream experience. 10 Her brother’s words: ‘You are greatly privileged; surely you might ask for a vision?’ acknowledges the existence of an ‘inner’ knowledge to be accessed through a dreaming experience which holds the secret as to the plight of Perpetua and others with her. He encourages her to ‘ask’ (postules) for a vision, thus suggesting the parallel (Asclepian) practice of dream incubation. A patron enters sleep with the deliberate intention to acquire some kind of revelation. In Perpetua’s case it is the knowledge of the future: whether or not Perpetua will die or be freed from imprisonment. The dire circumstances of Perpetua and her baby and also the suffering of those close to Perpetua and who pity her, drive the incubation petition and experience (4.9). Unlike the Asclepius cult, for example, no reference to temple setting or rituals occurs here. Perpetua has the capacity, it would seem, for immediate access to divine encounter. She refers to the experta of great blessings and of being able to ‘speak to the Lord’ (4.2).

PART II: THE LADDER: TRANSITUS, SACRIFICE, PREPARATION

Perpetua’s reference to a ‘bronze ladder of tremendous height reaching all the way to the heavens’ relates the transitus from the material world to the spiritual world. The ladder facilitates progressive, step-by-step, movement into an ‘inner knowing’ of the dreamvision revelation, which will consist of the partaking of a portion of milk (4.8). The dream-vision experience thus entails a bringing to (higher) consciousness some inner knowledge within her unconscious. The passage from earth to heaven has dangers and is fraught with difficulty. The very narrow dimensions of the ladder constrict and thus intensify any movement upon the ladder. As we have noted, metal weapons (swords, spears, hooks, daggers and spikes) are attached to the sides of the ladder and will catch the flesh of anyone who tries ‘to climb up or down carelessly or without paying attention’ (4.3). Additionally, only one person can climb the ladder. 10

Cf. 4.10; 7.9; 8.4; 10.13.

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It must be done with extreme concentration and deliberation, and there can be no turning back or looking back. 11 The climb must be done alone, without the help of another. The dream-vision entails a (rite of) passage which is perilous, demanding, and dangerous. We might compare the alchemical tract of the near contemporary Greek 3rd century alchemist, Zosimos, whose vision of fifteen steps facilitate a process of spiritualization of the dreamer transformed from a lower to higher state of consciousness. 12 According to Marie-Louise von Franz, the imagery of ascending steps has its origins in ancient Egyptian mysteries and the planetary spheres through which the posthumous soul journeys to the deity. 13 Additionally, the Mithraic mysteries relate a klimax heptapylos, which entails ascent by means of a stair with seven gates through the metals of the seven planets. 14 As one who ‘was later to give himself up of his own accord’ (4.5), Saturus, Perpetua’s brother, appears to have a sacrificial role in the dream-vision. He is first to climb the ladder, before Perpetua’s own progression takes place. At the top of the ladder he looks back to Perpetua and the lower world, tells her that he is waiting for her, and warns her: ‘Do not let the dragon bite you’ (4.4). 15 The figure of Saturus willingly accepts the immanence of the torturous ladder and martyrdom, and in this way readies earth-bound Perpetua in order to accomplish her own transitus. The dream is ‘preparing’ Reminiscent of Lot’s wife, Gen. 19.26 See C.G. Jung, Alchemical Studies, translated by R.F.C. Hull (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967): 59. 13 Marie-Louise von Franz, The Passion of Perpetua, 26. 14 Marie-Louise von Franz, The Passion of Perpetua, 26. For a discussion on Zosimos spiritualization see C. G. Jung, Psychology and Alchemy, translated by R.F.C. Hull (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1953): 90ff. 15 ‘Saturus was the first to go up, he who was later to go give himself up for his own accord. He had been the builder of our strength, although he was not present when we were arrested. And he arrived at the tip of the staircase and he looked back and said to me: ‘Perpetua, I am waiting for you. But take care; do not let the dragon bite you.’’ (Acts of Perpetua 4.4) 11 12

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Perpetua to come to terms with the reality of her fate in the waking world, that is, her execution in the amphitheater which is only days away. Does Saturus represent a strong, proactive (and un-lived) masculine aspect of the dreamer? He is Perpetua’s animus somehow coming to focus in the experience and giving her impetus, instructions and direction toward the reception of a higher state of being.

PART III: SUBDUING THE DRAGON: DIFFERENTIATION AND RESISTANCE

Perpetua’s reliance on the ‘word’ – Non me nocebit, in nomine Iesu Christi (He will not harm me, in the name of Jesus Christ), protects her from the treacherous bite of the dragon and subdues the dragon which slowly, as if afraid of Perpetua, sticks out its head from underneath the ladder. The dragon serves Perpetua’s purpose of ascent, and provides her with the initial step toward the heavenly sphere: ‘Then, using it as my first step, I trod on his head and went up’ she says (4.7). The imagery recalls Genesis 3.15, where it is declared that Eve and her offspring will crush the head of the serpent. We may also compare Isaiah. 27.1 with its reference to the great mythological sea monster, Leviathan, ‘that twisting serpent’ whom God will punish and destroy with his strong and hard sword. This imagery probably stems originally from the Ugaritic mythology of the dragon Lothan, which battles against Baal on the side of Mot the god of the underworld. 16 The figure of the dragon in the Passio, also relays the strong dualistic perceptions between good and evil characteristic of the Montanist Christianity to which Perpetua possibly belongs. 17 16 Entry, ‘Leviathan,’ in HarperCollins Bible Commentary, edited by Paul Achtemeier (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 1996): 602. See also the dragon account in Rev. 12.3ff, as well as divine victory over sea monsters: Ps. 74.13–14 (‘Thou didst divide the sea by thy might; thou didst break the heads of the dragons on the waters. Thou didst crush the heads of Leviathan, thou didst give him as food for the creatures of the wilderness.’); Ps. 104.26; c.f. Job 3.8; 26.12–13; 41.1–34. 17 Herbert Musurillo, trans., The Acts of the Christian Martyrs, xxvi.

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In Antiquity, serpents also represented ‘regeneration.’ The sinuous, chthonic imagery of the serpent, bound to the earth, renders an instinctive,’ ‘nature-spirit’ quality, as depicted in a fresco of this first Perpetua vision in the Roman catacombs. Here the serpent resides amidst a cornfield, out of which ascends the ladder. 18 The serpent symbolizes an earth spirit of fertility – something found also in the Egyptian dying and resurrection deities of vegetation such as Attis, Osiris, Adonis, and the Phrygian Papas. 19 We may compare the Asclepius cult where the serpent marks, directs and symbolizes the presence and temple of the healing god Asclepius. 20 If we interpret the serpent as an earth-spirit in Perpetua’s dream-vision, the dragon would represent Perpetua’s own, instinctive will to live in the waking world. Is it this which she subdues and steps upon in order to ascend the ladder to a higher realm? In this way the text of Perpetua may reflect African Christianity’s break from this earth-god association. The ladder from earth to heaven relates to Perpetua’s renunciation of the mortal, earthworld, and there can be no turning back. Marie-Louise von Franz writes that in the vision the dragon represents the danger of falling back into the old, pagan spirituality, out of which the ladder reaches into a higher consciousness. 21 Von Franz is rather sweeping in her comment. She makes a sharp distinction between what she calls ‘Christian’ and ‘Pagan,’ and she speaks of a ‘Christian standpoint,’ as if early Christianity was of a unified consensus, as distinct from a 18 Fernand Cabrol, editor, Dictionannaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie (Paris: Letouzey et Ane, 1907): Vol. II, col. 151, and also see under ‘Balbina.’ 19 Marie-Louise von Franze, The Passion of Perpetua, 23. Cf. Number 21.9, Moses places a bronze snake on a pole, and anyone who had been bitten by a snake and looked upon the image was healed. The saviourserpent was read as a symbol of Christ in the early Church. 20 Some instances of cures from the bite of a serpent appear in the Asclepius testimonies. See Inscriptiones Graecae, IV, 966, no. 121–125 [2nd half of 4th c. BCE]. From Edelstein, Asclepius, T423, p. 233. Also, Mabel Lang, Cure and Cult in Corinth: A Guide to the Asklepieion (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977). 21 Marie-Louise von Franz, The Passion of Perpetua, pp. 23–24.

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variety of extant early Christian cults and movements in the earliest ages. However, the strong contrast between earth and heaven in the vision, coupled with the reference to the abyss of separation in Perpetua’s second vision, certainly seems to point toward a differentiation from the ‘bodily, instinctive’ world by early Montanist Christianity in 2nd century Africa. Implicit within the strong contrast between earth and the transcendent realm is the resistance of Perpetua (and her community) to the ‘world’ which she is leaving behind and to which her father vehemently wants her to return: While we were still under arrest my father out of love for me was trying to persuade me and shake my resolution. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘do you see this vase here, for example, or waterpot or whatever?’ ‘Yes, I do,’ he said. And I told him: ‘Could it be called by any other name than what it is?’ And he said: ‘No.’ Well, so too I cannot be called anything other than what I am, a Christian.’ At this my father was so angered by the word ‘Christian’ that he moved towards me as though he would pluck my eyes out. But he left it at that and departed, vanquished along with his diabolical arguments. (Acts of Perpetua. 3.1–3)

Perpetua’s refusal to cede to her father’s passionate request that she renounce her Christian ways (cf. her father’s tearful imploring in Acts of Perpetua. 5.1ff) appears to relate what V. L. Wimbush refers to, in the context of a discussion regarding the ascetic impulse in ancient Christianity, as a ‘critical attitude of resistance, a refusal to orient the body, language, indeed the self in the world in traditional or socially acceptable ways.’ 22 The martyrdom of Perpetua and her cohorts represents a radical opposition to the world. It entails a giving over and spiritualizing of the body as an ultimate sacrifice in 22 V. L. Wimbush, ‘The Ascetic Impulse in Early Christianity: Some Methodological Challenges,’ Studia Patristica, Vol. 25 (1993): 467. See also his essay entitled, ‘…Not of This World …: Early Christianity as Rhetorical and Social Formation,’ in Reimagining Christian Origins: A Colloquium Honoring Burton L. Mack, edited by Elizabeth Castelli and Hal Taussig (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1996): 23–36.

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the community’s battle for self-definition. 23 The African church was one of other early Christian groups in the process of social (re)formation, one of many movements responding to a ‘loss of world’ in the ancient Mediterranean environment. 24 Perpetua’s martyrdom in the arena will make ‘concrete’ the subjugation of and break from the serpent, that is, her attachment to the earth and all that this represents: motherhood, family devotion, ties to her father, and the ‘world’ values and traditions bonding all those things in her waking twenty-one years. So beckoning and poignant is this world that Perpetua cannot look back, as she transcends the ladder into the higher animus realm, lest she be swallowed up by the pull of that world. At the core of the dream there exists an inner resistance to the world below, and the (heroic) task/journey requires the differentiation from its mass by the dreamer through the personal and singular ascent into the ‘transcendent vision’ of the new world with its immense garden, shepherd, white robes and sweet milk. Cf. Wimbush, ‘The Ascetic Impulse,’ 465. Wimbush writes: ‘In comparative-sociological-historical perspective Christianity is not viewed as a unique phenomenon. With respect to the ascetic impulse, it can be viewed as one of many movements having their origins in a period in which ‘loss of world’, some degree of alienation from and critique of world, was not uncommon across many different cultural divisions. The whole of the period from the first millennium BCE through late antiquity is especially significant for such an interest. This period was first designated the ‘Axial Age’ by Karl Jaspers; it has since been taken up by others and further discussed and explained. It is a period characterized by the critique and eventual rupture of the traditional, static ‘holistic’ societies and aristocratic empires of antiquity. The critique was inspired by the ‘transcendent visions’ of group élites. Such visions reflected the conceptual and existential tension that obtained between the traditional order and the Other that was imagined, and eventually led to such a critical evaluation of traditions that they inspired a devaluation and renunciation of the world.’ Wimbush, ‘The Ascetic Impulse,’ 465–66. See also the discussion on Montanus and Montanism in E.R. Dodds, Pagan and Christian, 63–68; W.H.C. Frend, The Rise of Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984): 253–257. 23 24

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In this way, the materia of the waking world has itself propagated into ‘otherness,’ not unlike the philosopher’s stone yielded from the refining process of crude materiality. A ‘spiritualization’ of plant, mineral and animal substance occurs as these things are caught up and themselves ‘transformed’ by and within the early Christian (re)imagining of terminus, that is, the top of the bronze ladder in Perpetua’s vision. The martyr/ prison text of Perpetua thus gives imagistic expression to and experience of, ‘alienation from the world,’ and re-bodies the visioning of another world void of dragons and replete with nurturing and regeneration. It catches up a spirit (ecstasy) of martyrdom. 25 We can consider also the writings of another early Christian martyr, Ignatius of Antioch. As an early 2nd century bishop, he also chose not to participate in the

25 See the history and writings of ancient Israel, including the Maccabean literature and the Book of Daniel. This ‘loss of world’ and its core quality of resistance in Perpetua’s dreams to yield the self to ‘the world’ has resonance with events in Jewish history such as the Babylonian exile, the Maccabean revolt and the literature which issues from these conflicts. Nearer the time of Perpetua there occurs the Roman siege of the Masada fortress in 73 CE, where the Jews inside the fortress martyr themselves by committing a mass suicide, rather than surrender to Roman troops. For post-exilic texts see social reforms of the Book of Ezra (chs. 9–2) and the Nehemia, read in light of Daniel L. Smith, ‘The Politics of Ezra: Sociological Indicators of Postexilic Judaean Society,’ edited by P. R. Davies, in Second Temple Studies 1: Persian Period (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991). For Macabeean texts see H. Anderson, trans, 3 Maccabees, in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, edited by James H. Charlesworth (New York: Doubleday, 1985); H. Anderson, trans, 4 Maccabees, in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, edited by James H. Charlesworth (New York: Doubleday, 1985). For Massada see Josephus, The Jewish War III.70–109; VII.252–408, translated by H. St. J. Thackery, LCL (1927); Christopher Hawkes, ‘The Roman Siege of Masada,’ Antiquity, vol. 3 (1929): 195–213; Yael Zerubavel, ‘The Fall of Masada,’ in Collective Memory and Recovered Roots: the Making of Israeli National Tradition (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1994).

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ways of the world, and offered himself as a sacrifice to the beasts in the arena at Rome. 26

CONCLUSION Perpetua’s dream-vision relates the martyr’s struggle, and coming to terms, with her own impending death in the arena. Implicit to

26 Like Perpetua, he has a radical resistance to his immediate worldcircumstances – including those who care for him want him not to go through with his martyrdom: ‘Grant me nothing more than that I be poured out to God, while an altar is still ready’ (Ignatius to the Romans 2). The text continues: ‘… that forming yourselves in a chorus of love, you may sing to the Father in Christ Jesus, that God has vouchsafed that the bishop of Syria shall be found at the setting of the sun, having fetched him from the sun’s rising. It is good to set to the world towards God, that I may rise to him.’ It is uncertain what happened in Syria to result in Ignatius’ crisis and martyrdom. See William R. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch: a Commentary on the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1985): 3–7; Jeffrey R. Zorn, ‘Epistles of Ignatius,’ The Anchor Bible Dictionary, vol. 3 (New York: Doubleday, 1992): 384–5. Ignatius longs for the teeth of the beasts, that he might have the ecstasy of death and enter into the higher realm. Although his letters do not contain dream-visions per se, there are sections which are certainly ecstatic in tone. To the Romans he writes: ‘I am God’s wheat, and I am ground by the teeth of wild beasts that I may be found pure bread of Christ. Rather, entice the wild beasts that they may become my tomb, and leave no trace of my body, that when I fall asleep I be not a burden to any. Then shall I be truly a disciple of Jesus Christ, when the world shall not even see my body. Beseech Christ on my behalf, that I may be found a sacrifice through these instruments’ (To the Romans. 4; cf. 6). In his letter to the Ephesians, Ignatius interprets the mystery of the Nativity of Jesus in Mt. 2, and the shining of the star, ‘with the sun and moon gathered in chorus around this star … and all magic was dissolved…’ (To the Ephesians, 19). He writes his letters in strong dualistic language that sets up an oppositional view of the world and those who live in it. Cf. the Johannine literature and what Vincent L. Wimbush refers to as the language and rhetoric of ‘kosmos-opposition’ – that is, opposition to all outsiders (‘…Not of This World…,’ 31). Believers live under the rule of the bishop in ‘harmony and in prayer with one another’ (Trall. 12).

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the vision is the narrow bronze ladder upon which Perpetua ascends into the spirit-animus realm. Her ascending is dependent upon her coming face-to-face with the dragon at the base of the bronze ladder. As archetypal earth spirit, the dragon represents Perpetua’s own ties to the earth, and the success of her step-bystep journey to the domain above is presaged upon her power to subdue the dragon and thus gain release from the instinctive, embodied realm. At the same time, at the core of the dream-vision there exists an inner resistance to the material world below, and the (heroic) task/journey requires the differentiation from its mass by the seer through the personal and singular spiritual movement into the ‘transcendent vision’ of the animus world.

THE PURE ‘EYE OF HER SOUL’: THE ASCETICISM OF THE DEACONESS OLYMPIAS AS REFLECTED IN THE WRITINGS OF THE FATHERS V. K. MCCARTY The eye of your soul is clean … and by means of these divine words it looks without hindrance toward the undefiled Beauty. (St. Gregory of Nyssa). 1 We might imagine John Chrysostom’s earliest days coming to serve as bishop of Constantinople at the close of the fourth century: with dawn light angling in through the Baptistery windows before the morning liturgy and the immensity of the Great Church still unfamiliar to his travel-weary eyes. 2 What must Chrysostom initially have thought of his earliest encounters with the Deaconess Olympias, the frail, aristocratic heiress who: ‘would not budge from the church’? 3 As a widow who devoted her life to prayer, ‘zealous for 1 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies on the Song of Songs. Prologue 10–12. RA. Norris. (tr.) Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta. 2012. 3 This work is dedicated to the Sr. Jan McNabb, RSCJ, chaplaincy co-worker of the author, and in memory of Sr. Mary Gregory, CSM, her God-mother. 2 For information about the Great Church of Constantinople before the time of Justinian, see RJ. Mainstone. Hagia Sophia: Architecture, Structure, Liturgy of Justinian’s Great Church. Thames and Hudson, London. 1988. 120–124. 3 See Palladius. Dialogue on the Life of St. John Chrysostom. Robert T. Meyer. (ed.) Ancient Christian Writers. 45. Newman Press, New York.

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the road to heaven,’ 4 Olympias served as founder and higumen for the monastic foundation she herself had developed on her estate adjacent to the Great Church in the capital. Her unparalleled philanthropy and personal ascetical practices had caused the previous bishop of Constantinople to ordain her a Deaconess. While more letters from the hand of St. John Chrysostom to Olympias survive than to any other single person, what can we know of this woman when her share of the correspondence is lost? And what did St. Gregory of Nyssa mean by referring to ‘the pure eye of her soul’ (sou kathareuein ton tes psyches ophthalmos) in his dedicatory preface to her of his work on the Song of Songs? 5 Senior hierarchs corresponded with her, praised her, and rebuked her, even as they enjoyed her generous donations. In the highly patriarchal society of her time, Olympias managed to network and operate among the bishops of the day, and euergesia and megalopsychia were said to run through her veins like any élite Greek man trained in the finest paideia. 6 Furthermore, John Chrysostom’s 1985. 66. Other principle sources for Olympias are: John Chrysostom. Anne-Marie Malingrey. (tr.) Lettres à Olympias. Sources Chrétiennes. 13 Éditions du CERF, Paris. 1947. Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies on the Song of Songs. (tr.) RA. Norris. Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta. 2012. Sozomen. The Ecclesiastical History. P Schaff. (ed.) The Nicene and PostNicene Fathers of the Christian Church, Series II, vol. 9. especially Book VIII. T & T Clark, 1997. Edinburgh. Palladius. The Lausiac History. (tr.) RT. Meyer. Paulist Press, New York. 1964. Especially No. 56. 4 E.A. Clark. ‘The Life of Olympias.’ in: Jerome, Chrysostom, and Friends: Essays and Translations. Edwin Mellen Press, New York. 1979. 128. While the Vita (hereafter noted as Vita with section and page number) is hagiographic in character, the text provides a window into developing fifth century monasticism, offering examples of spiritual virtues held up as role models for ascetical practice. It has been suggested that the text was written by a writer contemporary to the events who knew Olympias and community personally, perhaps Heraclides, who was Bishop of Nyssa around 440 AD. Vita.Intro. 108. 5 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies on the Song of Songs. Prologue.2.10–12. 6 Eugesia means the urge to do good things; megalopsychia is highminded for open-handed gestures of largesse, both attributes considered

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ample and lively correspondence with Olympias, as well as his acknowledgement of her letters, is one indication that the stark lack of extant manuscript evidence authored by Early Christian women is not necessarily a sure measure of their lack of writing productivity. Although much less is known about Olympias than about several of her celebrated male ecclesiastical associates, a portrait of her asceticism and the depth of her Christian relationships emerges from the threads of evidence that do survive. An examination of the texts that cite Olympias also offers a useful glimpse into the ascetical ideals operating in the early centuries of the development of monastic practice. The ascetical life was a burgeoning phenomenon in the Constantinople of Olympias’ day, especially in aristocratic circles. A strong showing of élite women dedicated to a ‘philosophical life’ (philosophou bios) of virginity focused on the church 7 was a feature of the ecclesiastical landscape; and by the end of the fourth century, crowds of chanting virgins as a component of cathedral processions were ‘an integral part of a bishop’s show of power’ as Brown phrases it. 8 Additionally, church widows were a strategic philanthropic resource, which no bishop could ignore. An aristocratic heiress such as Olympias could transform urban churches into what Elm calls, ‘powerful economic enterprises.’ 9 Olympias was born of senatorial Byzantine lineage, probably in 368. 10 She was the granddaughter of Abblavios, a praetorian preevidence of a proper Greek philosophical education. P Brown. Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire. The Curti Lectures. 1988. Univ of Wisconsin Press, Madison. 1992. 83. 7 During the fourth century, the search for the perfect, philosophical life (philosophos bios) came to mean in the Christian sense, ‘nothing less than a life devoted to the fulfillment of the highest Christian ideals, a life of virginity.’ S Elm. ‘Virgins of God:’ The Making of Asceticism in Late Antiquity. Clarendon Press, Oxford. 1994. 44. 8 See P Brown. The Body and Society. 260. This was later attested by Augustine in Letter 23.3 PL33:96. 9 Elm. Virgins of God. 181. 10 Although a birth date for Olympias of 361 can be calculated according to Libanius (EP. 672), more plausibly, an estimation of her birth

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fect of Constantine the Great, 11 and was the daughter of Count Seleucus, a member of the order of imperial companions to the Emperor. 12 However, even with the advantages of august parentage and several relatives close to the imperial throne, Olympias was orphaned at an early age and taken under the wing of the prefect of Constantinople at the time, Procopius. Her education was relegated to a kinswoman of St. Gregory the Theologian, Theodosia, one of the well-known ‘cultivated ladies of her time.’ 13 During this formative period, Olympias and her family were in fact well acquainted with St. Gregory 14 and were instrumental in bringing him to the episcopal throne of the capital. 15 Olympias also came in contact with Gregory’s Cappadocian colleague, St. Gregory of Nyssa, when he was consecrated bishop. Gregory Nyssen participated in the Council of Constantinople in 381 and may have first encountered the pious Olympias then; in the circle of Nicene defenders gathered round his own tutor, Gregory the Theologian. 16 As a cosmopolitan hostess in the Byzantine capital, and a generous benefactor, she had the opportunity to associate with those holding power in the in 368 places her age at eighteen when wedded to Nebridios. Robert Meyer, in his Notes for Palladius: The Lausaic History. 212. 11 See Palladius. The Lausaic History. 56.137. 12 Vita. Notes. 143. 13 Elm. Virgins of God. 179. 14 Part of the understanding of Olympias’s life and relations is generally based on a poem of Gregory Nazianzun written on the occasion of the wedding of Olympias. The thread of her story which has come to be substantiated by this poem, while still plausible, was challenged recently by a few scholars. See M Whitby. ‘Sugaring the Pill:’ Gregory of Nazianzus’ Advice to Olympias (Carm. 2.2.6).’ in: Ramus: Critical Studies in Greek and Roman Literature. 37:1–2. 2008. 79–98. N McLynn. ‘The Other Olympias: Gregory Nazianzus and the Family of Vitalianus,’ in: Christian Politics and Religious Culture in Late Antiquity. Ashgate Publishing Ltd., Farnham. 2009. 227–246. 15 J.A. McGuckin. The Westminster Handbook to Patristic Theology. Westminster John Knox Press, Louisville. 2004. 242. 16 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. xxi.

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church ‘to a greater extent than she could have had in any other role open to a woman.’ 17 In 384 or 385, Olympias was given in marriage along with her massive estates to Emperor Theodosios’ nephew, Nebridios, as a second wife, who was then younger than Nebridios’ son by his first marriage. This marriage arrangement was likely meant as an imperial perquisite in connection with Nebridios’ appointment in 386, as prefect of Constantinople. 18 This nuptial arrangement was shortlived, however; when her husband died after only twenty months of marriage. It is said that: ‘her later admirers were convinced that she had remained a virgin.’ 19 Not surprisingly, the Emperor endeavored to re-align her generous estates in the hands of another of his relatives; but this time she resisted, ‘leaping like a gazelle over the snare of a second marriage.’ 20 Instead, ‘seized with Christ’s flame,’ 21 she experienced a call to a religious life of charity and renunciation, using Melania the Elder, ‘that female man of God,’ 22 as 17 E.A. Clark. ‘Introduction to The Life of Olympias.’ in: Jerome, Chrysostom, and Friends: Essays and Translations. The Edwin Mellen Press, New York. 979. 115. 18 See Clark. ‘Introduction to The Life of Olympias.’110. 19 Brown. The Body and Society. 282. See Palladius. The Lausiac History. 56.137. See also Vita 2.128. 20 Palladius. Dialogue.17.114. 21 John Chrysostom ‘Homily XIII on Ephesians 4:17–19.’ NPNF.XIII.115. 22 Melania the Elder (ca. 342–ca. 410), praised by Palladius as ‘that female man of God’ (Laus. Hist.9.43), was, like Olympias, a prominent heiress; when widowed very young, she sold all she had and traveled to the desert hermitages outside Alexandria, ‘seeking out all the holy men.’ (Laus. Hist.46.123) Finally, for nearly thirty years, she led the monastic community she founded in Jerusalem. Her grand-daughter, Melania the Younger (ca. 385–438/9) followed her in the ascetical life as a hegumen of her own community in Bethlehem, and is said to have visited Constantinople, where it is possible that she may have encountered Olympias before the final chapter of her life in Jerusalem. Both Melania the Elder and Melania the Younger made singular contributions to the development of Christian monastic asceticism in the fourth and fifth centuries.

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her role model, in whose steps she ‘zealously followed.’ 23 Olympias is recorded responding to the Emperor’s demand that she re-marry in words resonant of the Gospel imperative in Mt. 11:29–30: ‘If my King had desired me to live with a male, He would not have taken away my first husband… He freed me from subjection to a man, while He laid on me the gentle yoke of chastity.’ 24 As a celibate widow, she adapted ascetic practices modeled on that of Melania and the monks who had withdrawn into the Egyptian desert. In retaliation for resisting the emperor’s ambitions, Theodosius sequestered Olympias’ vast fortune, which included real estate in Thrace, Galatia, Cappadocia and Bithynia, beside her two palaces in the imperial city. A further stipulation, that she not only stop her pious visits to church but also stop meeting with clerics, serves as intriguing evidence of interactions in which she must have engaged with the clergy of the Great Church, including the bishop Nektarios. 25 Palladius notes that she, ‘addressed priests reverently and honoured bishops.’ 26 Still, one wonders who were among ‘the list of distinguished ecclesiastics entertained by Olympias.’ 27 Finally, however, the emperor ‘heard of her ascetical lifestyle,’ 28 and relented in his imperial displeasure. He allowed Olympias to manage her own property and philanthropic projects again, giving her leave to abandon her life of ‘preparation for courtly marriage.’ 29 In fact, not long after that, Nektarios, ‘notwithstanding her youth,’ had Olympias ordained a Deaconess at only thirty years of 23 E.D. Hunt. ‘Palladius of Helenopolis: A Party and its Supporters in the Church of the Late Fourth Century.’ Journal of Theological Studies 24:2. 1973. 477. Hunt has made the tantalizing suggestion that Olympias could have also plausibly ventured to the Holy Land on pilgrimage and encountered her mentor in asceticism, Melania. 24 Palladius. Dialogue.17.114. 25 See Palladius. Dialogue.17.114. 26 Palladius. The Lausiac History. 56.137. 27 J.B. Cahill. ‘The Date and Setting of Gregory of Nyssa’s Commentary on the Song of Songs.’ Journal of Theological Studies. NS 32. 1981. 447. 28 Palladius. Dialogue.17.114. 29 M.W. Elliott. The Song of Songs and Christology in the Early Church: 381–451. Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen. 2000. 24.

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age, 30 when it was not customary to ordain Deaconesses until they were sixty. 31 In this, she enjoyed something of ‘the ambiguous status attested for Macrina of being both widow and virgin.’ 32 In refusing to marry, widows like Olympias were ‘adapting the ecclesial principle of univira, giving it an additional mystical resonance.’ 33 On the terrestrial plain, Olympias’ philanthropic donations to the church were inestimable; among them, she contributed ‘10,000 pounds of gold, 100,000 pounds of silver, properties scattered all over western Asia Minor, and her family’s share of the civic corn dole.’ 34 It is no surprise that Byzantine bishops courted her; she ‘provided their crucial financial base.’ 35 Palladius even reports that John Chrysostom’s future adversary, Patriarch Theophilus of Alexandria, ‘kissed her knees’ in cringing flattery courting Olympias for church funding. 36 By the time Nektarios died in 397, Olympias had not only made extensive gifts to the church, but had also gathered her relatives, household, and a growing number of her followers into a developing ascetical community; her Vita reports that she

See Sozomen. The Ecclesiastical History.8.9. Clark. ‘Introduction to the Life of Olympias.’ notes. 123. See Tertullian. ‘On the Veiling of Virgins’ available at: http://www.newadvent. org/fathers/0403.htm In the years following, the Theodosian Codex addressed this issue as well; available at: http://www.mountainman.com.au/ essenes/codex_theodosianus.htm 32 Macrina the Younger was the older sister of Gregory of Nyssa and Basil the Great; in the years after her short engagement ended abruptly, she spearheaded the development of a residentially based monastic ascetical community on their estate in Assina. Gillian Cloke. ‘This Female Man of God:’ Women and Spiritual Power in the Patristic Age, AD 350–450. Routledge, London. 1995. 94. 33 Cloke. This Female Man of God. 84. 34 Brown. The Body and Society. 284. Vita.5.130, 7.132. 35 See N Denzay. The Bone Gatherers: The Lost Worlds of Early Christian Women. Beacon Press, Boston. 2007. 191. 36 Clark. ‘Introduction to the Life of Olympias.’ 115. 30 31

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built a monastery to the south of the Great Church with a pathway leading directly into the narthex. 37 John Chrysostom, the new Bishop of Constantinople, brought to the capital in haste from Antioch, soon learned about the monastic heiress whose generosity was said to have ‘maintained’ his episcopal predecessor, Nektarios, ‘to such an extent that he took her advice on ecclesiastical policy as well.’ 38 Even apart from financial considerations, there can be no doubt that John Chrysostom found in Olympias the soul-mate of a lifetime. The friendship he developed with her over time was based on what White calls, ‘shared and whole-hearted devotion to the service of Christ.’ 39 Elements in John’s background undoubtedly worked in favor of a good relationship with Olympias from the start. He admired and respected the ascetical monks he had already encountered at Antioch, and as a young man had come to join their life in the mountain wilderness outside the city, soon after his mother’s death. Also, among John’s relatives was his aunt, the much-respected Deaconess Sabiniana, who was herself described as ‘a venerable woman, on intimate terms with God.’ 40 And in Olympias herself, Chrysostom encountered a life situation similar to that of his own mother, Anthusa. Both women had refused to consider a second marriage after being widowed at an early age. Anthusa had instead focused entirely on the education of her brilliant son. 41 Thus, John could say to 37 Vita 6.131. A neighborhood in Constantinople is even attested from the eighth century as ‘of the Deaconess,’ and it is likely that the identity of this area of the city had threads of origin stretching back to Olympias’s palace near the Great Church which she transformed to house her growing spiritual community. L Neureiter. ‘Health and Healing as Recurrent Topics in John Chrysostom’s Correspondence with Olympias.’ Studia Patristica. XLVII. 2010. 275. 38 Palladius. Dialogue.17.115. 39 See C White. Christian Friendship in the Fourth Century. Cambridge Univ. Press. 1992. 85. 40 A. Lucot, Textes et Documents. 15. Picard, Paris. 1912. See AG. Martimort. Deaconesses: An Historical Study, KD. Whitehead. (tr.) Ignatius Press, San Francisco. 1986. 121. 41 See John Chrysostom. On the Priesthood. I.5. NPNF.IX.34.

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each of them, as he did addressing his Letter to a Young Widow: ‘Your own soul, having once for all torn yourself away from all worldly interests, will display amongst us a heavenly manner of life.’ 42 Let us ask, then, what practical elements of spiritual askesis are indicated when the historian Sozomen describes Olympias as ‘zealously attached to the exercises of monastic philosophy according to the laws of the church.’ 43 Or when Emperor Theodosios learns of ‘the intensity of her ascetic discipline.’ 44 It is fascinating to consider what actually constituted ascetical practice at this very early stage of monastic development in the capital city. Although textual evidence is scarce, Palladius describes the depth of Olympias’ asceticism in this way: ‘She disposed of all her goods, giving them to the needy. She took part in no small contests on the behalf of truth… Those who live at Constantinople number her among the confessors. She died and traveled on to the Lord in her struggles for God.’ 45 Her hagiographic Vita boasts that she practiced hospitality like Abraham, fought for self-control like Joseph, suffered patiently like Job, and was martyred like Thecla. 46 Further on in the Vita, the ‘holy chorus’ of her Olympiad convent sisters, reflecting the piety of their founder, are praised for their monastic virtues; these include: chastity, sleepless vigils, offering praise, charity, and stillness, 47 all similar to ideals expressed by the sayings of the Desert Fathers (Apophthegmata Patrum). 48 As John reminded her congregation of nuns in one of his letters to Olympias 49, ‘Although you were marJohn Chrysostom. ‘Letter to a Young Widow.’ NPNF.IX.126. Sozomen. The Ecclesiastical History. NPNF.IX.404. 44 Palladius. Dialogue.17.114. See Vita.5.130. 45 Palladius. The Lausiac History.56.137. 46 See Vita.1.127. 47 See Vita.8.132. 48 Indeed, John Chrysostom acknowledged that women sometimes ‘outshone men in spiritual warfare and spiritual athletics,’ which were two of his favorite images for the ascetical life. ‘Homily XIII on Eph.’ NPNF.XIII.115–116. 49 Throughout this work, the numbering of John Chrysostom’s Letters to Olympias follows the standard critical Malingrey edition with, par42 43

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ried, you now belong to the band of wise virgins, for you were always mindful of the things of God, through almsgiving and patience in suffering, through self-control in eating and sleeping, and in all other things, but especially through modest simplicity in dress. It is in these things that true virginity lies.’ 50 Furthermore, the practice of radically limited bathing, which was admired as an element of ascetical practice during this period, was considered an important component of renouncing the pleasures of the world in order to seek divine truth. 51 As John Chrysostom cautioned about the ascetical life: ‘There are many young women who are strong enough to observe it; but yet they are not prepared to renounce fine clothes.’ 52 As Olympias’ religious community grew, it drew more than 250 followers to a life of prayer and charity. 53 Like Macrina’s monastic experiment in the Cappadocian community of Annesa, the Olympiad ascetical community embraced the holy life of the desert hermits within the setting of a city residence; and a ‘prestige location and noble profile may have shaped it into a female institution like none other.’ 54 The world of women’s asceticism in the fourth and fifth centuries was, however, a ‘zone of exceptional fluidity and free choice’

enthetically, the Migne Patrologia Greaca numbering included. John Chrysostom. Lettres à Olympias. A-M. Malingrey. (ed.) Sources Chrétiennes. vol. 13. Éditions du CERF, Paris. 1947. 50 Letter VIII (II). C Baur. (tr.) in: John Chrysostom and his Time. vol. 2. Sands & Co. London. 1960. 375. 51 Palladius. Dialogue.17.115. The idea may not be so appealing to us today, but it was not ‘merely’ a matter of renouncing personal cleanliness, but more of dissociating from the social circle attendant on the great bathhouses that were so much a part of the capital’s social scene at this era, and making new kin-circles in relation to the Church. 52 Letter VIII (II). Baur. John Chrysostom and his Time. vol. 2. 376. 53 Vita.6.132. 54 P Hatlie. The Monks and Monasteries of Constantinople, ca. 350–850. Cambridge Univ. Press. 2007. 98.

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as Brown describes it , 55 and Palladius, who was a contemporary of Olympias, and also her friend, 56 does not specifically mention her convent. So, although there may have been great ascetical zeal among certain aristocratic Christian women to follow the command of Christ and embark on the monastic life, especially within the residential structure of the family, nevertheless, monasticism was still in its very early stages of development and still significantly flexible in its styles. Therefore, to impose upon the evidence for the piety of Olympias and her fervor for charitable works (even her zeal for launching and organizing spiritual community) the expectations of a formal structure like that of later monasticism, including the use of its terminology, may pay a disservice to the record of her life. 57 Even so, as McGuckin says, ‘Her work gave a model for the several communities in the capital later led by women aristocrats and ascetics who exercised considerable patronage through their charitable works.’ 58 In addition to Olympias, Ilaria Ramelli notes, bishop John Chrysostom personally, ‘ordained as deacons of the holy church three of her relatives, Elisanthia, Martyria, and Palladia, for the monastery. Thus, by the four diaconal offices, the established procedure would have been accomplished by them uninterruptedly.’ 59 In terms of liturgical monastic practice, this may indicate the offering of a full complement of Daily Office, possibly even the Psalter chanted without interruption. 60 55 In the fourth century, ‘the organization of the ascetic life of any consecrated woman remained remarkably informal.’ Brown. The Body and Society. 265. 56 Cahill. ‘The Date and Setting.’ 451. 57 See Hatlie. The Monks and Monasteries of Constantinople, ca. 350–850. 72–74. Esp. note 34. Nevertheless, Hatlie does maintain that the community of the Olympiads was, ‘likely the first, best organized and most prominent of all these endeavors.’ 58 McGuckin. The Westminster Handbook to Christian Theology. 242. 59 Vita.7. Ilaria Ramelli. (tr.) in: ‘Theosebia: A Presbyter of the Catholic Church.’ Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion. 26:2. 2010. 98. 60 However, it is unlikely that Olympias’s ascetical community was a monastery of the akoimetai or ‘sleepless’ type, offering perpetual psalm-

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In his work as bishop of Constantinople, John Chrysostom was no prince of diplomacy, however; and although the crowds who stood to hear his sermons sometimes interrupted him with applause, his preaching often rankled his fellow bishops, and not least the Empress. Eventually, charges were drawn up against him over several issues, and he was exiled. After a reprieve and a second exile, it is likely that St. John died on the road, force-marched by the empress to evacuate to the farthest reaches of the empire. Olympias, too, came under persecution, and was accused of causing a fire in the Great Church on the night John departed and she is thought to have died in exile in Nicomedia, probably around 408. 61 John Chrysostom expresses profound gratitude for the therapeutic consolation of a lady of ‘such intelligence and wealth of piety (eulabeias ploutos kai philosophias hypsos) that her soul has trampled underfoot the pageantry of daily life.’ 62 Yet we still have only evidence of John’s letters to Olympias; and of those, only examples from the very last years of their long friendship. The letters do provide, though, tantalizing indications of the female voice responding. The fact that their friendship continued with such intensity after Chrysostom was exiled from Constantinople is ‘evidence for its strength.’ 63 For Olympias receiving his correspondence, as for us today when reading John Chrysostom, it is as Archbishop Demetrios says: ‘You are walking in a paradise of literature, theology and aes-

chanting day and night. WD. Ray. Tasting Heaven on Earth: Worship in SixthCentury Constantinople. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids. 2012. 11. 61 A vision of perigrinatio. a favorite topic of asceticism, surrounded her choice of burial ground: the Metropolitan of Nicodemia dreamed that she appeared to him saying, ‘Place my remains in a casket, put it in a boat, let the boat go adrift into the stream, and at the place where the boat stops, disembark onto the ground and place me there.’ The casket landed at Brochthoi and was translated into the Church of St. Thomas there. Vita.11.135. 62 Letter VIII(II). Malingrey (ed.) 141. 63 See C White. Christian Friendship in the Fourth Century. 86.

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thetics;’ 64 for considered together the Letters to Olympias form an effective vademecum of pastoral care, especially for the healing of despondency. The historian Philip Schaff said of them that they, ‘breathe a noble Christian spirit in a clear brilliant and persuasive style.’ 65 On the one hand, John encourages Olympias to bear her sufferings bravely, even to be insensible to them; yet, on the other hand, he vividly describes struggling with his own suffering. Like any good pastor, he works to diffuse his own stress as well as hers, maintaining that patient fortitude in the face of discomfort is the ‘evidence of a robust spirit, rich in the fruit of courage,’ and ‘proof of a most finished philosophy.’ 66 John even has the confidence to describe his letters as ‘a salutary medicine capable of reviving anyone who was stumbling and conducting one into a healthy state of serenity.’ 67 Chrysostom sees Christ’s Passion reflected in his own suffering and the monumental challenges of the Apostles and early followers mirrored in his ‘innumerable stumbling blocks.’ 68 In his last heart-breaking letter to Olympias, he even wryly proffers a thorn of cheerfulness into the side of her ‘tyranny of despondency,’ adding: ‘Are you ignorant of how great a reward, even of sickness, awaits one who has a thankful spirit?’ 69 Ultimately, St. John is convinced that cheerful endurance releases sin: ‘It is the greatest means of purification for those who have sinned.’ 70 He now considers her whole household of Olympiad Deaconesses to have a ‘higher place assigned to it in Heaven by reason of the suffering which it en64 Archbishop Demetrios. ‘What is the Bible? The Patristic Doctrine of Scripture.’ Keynote Lecture. 3rd Annual Symposium in Honor of Georges Florovsky. Princeton Seminary. Feb. 16, 2013. Available at: http://bit.ly/14RRhzE (accessed 9/1/2013). 65 P Schaff. ‘Prolegomena: The Life and Work of St. John Chrysostom.’ NPNF.IX.15. 66 Letter XII (VI).NPNF.IX.297. He uses the term ‘philosophia’ here is in the sense of Christian training and moral discipline. 67 Letter IX (XIV).NPNF.IX.301. 68 Letter VII (I).NPNF.IX.292. 69 Letter XVII (IV).NPNF.IX.293. 70 Letter XVII (IV).NPNF.IX.295.

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dures.’ 71 Although both Chrysostom and Olympias espoused radical asceticism as a component of their faith, his letters to her describe how, even more than the remedies and medical art (tekne) he received, it was friendly affection (sympatheia) which has often helped him to heal from many of his own physical afflictions; 72 therefore, he lavishes vigorous encouragement on the downcast Olympias in his letters, 73 exhorting her to work diligently to overcome the strength of her sadness and suffering. She should endeavor to replace despondency with joy (poetically rendered in the Greek as replacing athymia with euthymia). 74 Before any of these letters of John Chrysostom to Olympias were penned, however, Gregory of Nyssa crafted his Homilies on the Song of Songs as a favor for her. Richard Norris maintains that it was: ‘Entirely consonant with the character of Olympias, who was much given to study of the Scriptures, that she should request of Gregory an interpretation of the Songs of Songs.’ 75 Her commissioning of Gregory, Norris surmises, is ‘best assigned to the year 391, or shortly thereafter, when though still in her twenties, she had emerged as a person of significance in her own right.’ 76 The introductory covering letter and dedication the Commentary bears is: ‘To the great ascetic Olympias,’ 77 and it functions as a sort of apologia to Gregory’s use of allegorical exegesis, since he observes that the Song of Songs is best understood by Olympias as offering secret wisdom, which when uncovered, provides what Norris calls: ‘a glimpse of God’s intolerable beauty.’ 78 Letter XVII (IV).NPNF.296. Letter IV(XII). Malingrey (tr.) 98. 73 See, for example, in Letter VIII(II). Malingrey (tr.) 116. 74 Letter VIII (II). Malingrey (tr.) 141. See L Neureiter. ‘Health and Healing.’ 272. 75 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. Norris (ed.) xx–xxi. 76 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. Norris (ed.) xxi. 77 ‘Its ‘publication’ was doubtless attributable to her desire to have a copy of Gregory’s observations.’ RA. Norris. ‘The Soul Takes Flight: Gregory of Nyssa and the Song of Songs.’ Anglican Theological Review. 80:4. 1998. 518. 78 See Norris. ‘The Soul Takes Flight.’ 532. 71 72

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Gregory Nyssen explains that, by using the rhetorical technique of analogy to unfold its inherent mystery, the Songs of Songs is able to illustrate how ‘lovers of the transcendent Beauty are to relate themselves to the Divine.’ 79 For even as Gregory of Nyssa praises Olympias for her chaste life (semnos bios) and pure soul (kathara psyche), Olympias and her community will encounter in the Song of Songs a wisdom (sophia) that stands hidden (egkekrymmene). 80 By enclosing and concealing (and perhaps protecting) the spiritual sense, 81 the Song of Songs becomes a ‘teaching that guides those who pay careful heed to it toward knowledge of the mysteries and toward a pure life.’ 82 Nevertheless, in choosing such inherently explicit Scripture for her chaste sisters, ‘Olympias can hardly have been oblivious to the paradoxical character of the situation.’ 83 It is interesting to consider whether she may have reached out to Gregory Nyssen to commission a commentary on the Songs of Songs because she and her fellow Deaconesses saw and experienced themselves as brides espoused to Christ. If so, it is completely fitting that Gregory of Nyssa would craft a Commentary on the Song of Songs meant to draw Olympias, with the other virgins in her community, ‘like a bride toward an incorporeal and spiritual and undefiled marriage with God.’ 84 In fact, the opening of Homily 1 appears to address the Olympiad community deaconesses directly: ‘You, who in accordance with the counsel of Paul, have taken off the old humanity with its deeds and lusts like a filthy garment (Col. 3:9) and have clothed yourselves in purity of light in the lightsome raiment of the Lord…’ 85 In conclusion, although it is impossible to state it with any certainty, a ‘likely’ form of early urban monastic profile can be asGregory of Nyssa. Homily 6.183. Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. Prologue.2.4,14–15. 81 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. Introduction. xlvii. 82 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. Prologue.5. 83 H Boersma. Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa: An Anagogical Approach. Oxford Univ. Press. 2013. 77. 84 Gregory of Nyssa. Homily 1.15. 85 Gregory of Nyssa. Homily 1.15. 79 80

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sembled from the textual sources about the ascetical life deaconess Olympias shared with her holy sisters in the religious foundation she established within her Constantinopolitan villa. As virgins consecrated to the church, who had renounced the free use of their wealth redirecting it in charity and almsgiving, so as to follow Christ, then a daily office of psalm-chanting and processions in the Great Church may have comprised an important component of their liturgical life. Prayer vigils, Scripture study, fasting, limited bathing, chaste and simple dress style and stillness (withdrawal) may have aligned their lifestyle in some ways with that of Melania and the hermit monks praying in the desert whom she visited. Olympias’ spiritual community represents a pivotal moment in the development of female monasticism but at a time so early that later institutional terminology, such as ‘convent,’ was not yet used. Nevertheless, her ascetical life and philanthropic works, as attested both by contemporary accounts and in later hagiographic memory, witness to a remarkable chapter in the progress of the practice and faith of the Orthodox Church.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Primary Texts E. A. Clark

‘The Life of Olympias,’ in Jerome, Chrysostom, and Friends: Essays and Translations. New York. 1979. A. M. Malingrey (tr) John Chrysostom. Lettres à Olympias, Sources Chrétiennes, v. 13. Paris. 1947. R. A. Norris (tr) Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Song of Songs. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012. R. T. Meyer (tr) Palladius, Bishop of Aspuna, The Lausiac History, New York. 1964. ——— Palladius, Bishop of Aspuna, Dialogue on the Life of St. John Chrysostom. New York. 1985. P. Schaff (ed) Sozomen, The Ecclesiastical History, Volume IX, The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, Series II, Edinburgh. 1997. pp. 179–427. H. Delehaye (tr) Vita Sanctae Olympiadis et Narratio Sergiae. (Analecta Bollandiana. 15). 1896. 400–423.

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John Chrysostom and his Time. London. 1960. The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity. New York, 1988. J. B. Cahill ‘The Date and Setting of Gregory of Nyssa’s Commentary on the Song of Songs.’ Journal of Theological Studies. 1981. 447–460. Archbp. Demetrios ‘What is the Bible? The Patristic Doctrine of Scripture.’ Keynote Lecture. 3rd Annual Symposium in Honor of Georges Florovsky. Princeton Seminary. Feb. 16, 2013. Available at: http://bit.ly/14RRhzE. (accessed 9/1/2013). M. W. Elliott The Song of Songs and Christology in the Early Church: 381–451. Tübingen. 2000. S. Elm Virgins of God: The Making of Asceticism in Late Antiquity. Oxford. 1994. P. Hatlie The Monks and Monasteries of Constantinople, ca. 350–850. Cambridge. 2007. E. D. Hunt ‘Palladius of Helenopolis: A Party and its Supporters in the Church of the Late Fourth Century.’ Journal of Theological Studies 24. 1973. 456–480. V. A. Karras ‘Female Deacons in the Byzantine Church.’ Church History.73:2. 2004. 272–316. J. N. D. Kelly Golden Mouth: The Story of John Chrysostom—Ascetic, Preacher, Bishop. London. 1995. W. Mayer ‘Patronage, Pastoral Care, and the Role of the Bishop at Antioch.’ Vigiliae Christianae. 55. 2001. 58–70. N McLynn ‘The Other Olympias: Gregory Nazianzus and the Family of Vitalianus.’ in: Christian Politics and Religious Culture in Late Antiquity. Farnham. 2009. 227–246. R. A. Norris ‘The Soul Takes Flight: Gregory of Nyssa and the Song of Songs.’ Anglican Theological Review. 80:4. 1998. 517–561.

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I. Ramelli M. Whitby

C. White

‘Theosebia: A Presbyter of the Catholic Church.’ Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion. 26:2. 2010. 79–102. ‘Sugaring the Pill:’ Gregory of Nazianzus’ Advice to Olympias (Carm. 2.2.6).’ Ramus: Critical Studies in Greek and Roman Literature. 37:1– 2. 2008. 79–98. Christian Friendship in the Fourth Century. Cambridge. 1992.

EVAGRIUS PONTICUS, THE ORIGENIAN ASCETIC (AND NOT THE ORIGENISTIC ‘HERETIC’) ILARIA L.E. RAMELLI Barhebraeus (1226–1286), the Syriac bishop and polymath who wrote in Syriac and Arabic on theology, philosophy, history, science, and else, and admired Origen for his Hexapla, that first multilingual critical edition of the Bible, described Evagrius Ponticus († 399) as ‘the greatest of the gnostics.’ Evagrius is one of the most important ascetic theologians and authors in all of Christianity, and probably the most remarkable in all of Patristic literature. He had a great impact on the development of spirituality, on the Origenist movement, and on the spiritual interpretation of the Bible; indeed, he offered the first complete system of Christian spirituality, as noted by Louis Bouyer. 1 All this is widely recognised. However, 1 The Spirituality of the New Testament and the Fathers (transl. M.P. Ryan; London: Burns & Oates, 1963). See also Irenée Hausherr, ‘Le traité de l’oraison d’Évagre le Pontique (ps. Nil),’ Revue d’Ascétique et de Mystique 15 (1934) 34–118; Antoine Guillaumont, ‘Le problème de la prière continuelle dans le monachisme ancien,’ in L’Experience de la prière dans les grandes religions (Louvain-La-Neuve: Presses universitaires, 1980), 285–294; Idem, Études sur la spiritualité de l’Orient chrétien (Bégrolles en Mauges: Bellefontaine, 1996), 143–150; Gabriel Bunge, ‘Priez sans cesse. Aux origines de la prière hésychaste,’ Studia Monastica 30 (1988) 7–16. See also Columba Stewart, ‘Imageless Prayer and the Theological Vision of Evagrius,’ Journal of Early Christian Studies 9,2 (2001) 173–204; Luke Dysinger, Psalmody and Prayer in the Writings of Evagrius (Oxford: OUP, 2004).

159

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what is often missed by scholarship, still today, is that he was an Origenian, a faithful follower of Origen of Alexandria († 256 ca.) and of his close disciple Gregory Nyssen, and not (as Guillaumont famously suggested, which has been followed by many) an Origenist of the kind of those who radicalized and distorted Origen’s legacy, that is, those known to, and condemned by, Justinian in 543 and 553. Origen’s and Nyssen’s line was essential to the shaping of Evagrius’ ascetic theory and way of life. The same reassessment of Origen’s true thought (beyond the construals that are a heritage of the Origenistic controversy, and partially still hold today) that is needed, and is underway, is also needed for Evagrius’ thought. Evagrius’ ideas also, are undergoing a reassessment, and rightly so. This is necessary, particularly (1) with respect to a unitary vision of his production against a longstanding split imposed between his metaphysical and his ascetic works (the former accepted, the latter deemed dangerously ‘Origenistic’) and (2) with respect to his often misunderstood ‘Origenism.’ With regard to problem (1), Kevin Corrigan rightly pays attention to the Kephalaia Gnostika (KG) and the Letter to Melania (LM) and maintains a holistic approach to Evagrius’ thought. The same holistic approach, without a split between Evagrius’ ascetic and philosophical works, is also correctly adopted by Augustine Casiday and Julia Konstantinovsky. 2 But to fix both problems together and thereby recover a unitary vision of Evagrius’ production and to correct the sore misunderstandings related to his ‘Origenism,’ it is necessary to clarify and reassess Origen’s true thought, for instance recognizing that he in fact supported the anti-subordinationism of the Son (and the Spirit) and described the Trinity as one oὐσία in three ὑποστάσεις, with ὑπόστασις meaning ‘individual substance’ of one Person. 3 On this Kevin Corrigan, Evagrius and Gregory: Mind, Soul and Body in the 4th Century (Farnham/Burlington: Ashgate, 2009). Julia Konstantinovsky, Evagrius Ponticus: The Making of a Gnostic (Farnham/ Burlington: Ashgate, 2009); Augustine Casiday, Reconstructing the Theology of Evagrius Ponticus (Cambridge: CUP, 2013). 3 See my ‘Origen’s Anti-Subordinationism and Its Heritage in the Nicene and Cappadocian Line,’ Vigiliae Christianae 65 (2011) 21–49; 2

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account, Origen can be seen as lying behind the very formulas of Nicaea and Constantinople I. Only in this way, on the basis of a reassessment of Origen’s true thought, will it be possible to determine its exact impact on Evagrius’ system, as well as to investigate the possible role of the Cappadocians in the transmission of Origen’s authentic ideas to Evagrius. 4 Nyssen in particular is the most insightful and faithful follower of Origen among all patristic thinkers, the one who best understood and developed Origen’s genuine ideas. A methodical study of Gregory’s reception of Origen’s philosophy and theology is showing more and more that Gregory is the patristic philosopher-theologian who, instead of misunderstanding Origen’s ideas, and thus either condemning or radicalizing them, best understood Origen’s true thought. Both Origen and Evagrius devoted a treatise to prayer, 5 and both of them considered true theology as theology done in prayer – a ‘theology on one’s knees,’ as Hans Urs von Balthasar would put it much later – to the point that Evagrius stated: ‘If you are a theologian, you will pray truly; and if you pray truly, you will be a theologian’ (De or. 60). Prayer is the nourishment of the intellect, just as bread is the food of the body and virtue is the nourishment of the ‘Gregory of Nyssa’s Trinitarian Theology in: In Illud: Tunc et Ipse Filius. Anti-Subordinationism and Apokatastasis,’ in Volker H. Drecoll–Margitta Berghaus (eds.), Gregory of Nyssa: The Minor Treatises on Trinitarian Theology (VCS, 106; Leiden: Brill, 2011), 445–478; ‘Origen, Greek Philosophy, and the Birth of the Trinitarian Meaning of Hypostasis,’ HTR 105 (2012) 302– 350. 4 See my ‘Evagrius and Gregory: Nazianzen or Nyssen? A Remarkable Issue that Bears on the Cappadocian (and Origenian) Influence on Evagrius,’ Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 53 (2013) 117–137. 5 On prayer in Evagrius, besides the works listed above in fn. 1, see also Irenée Hausherr, Les leçons d’un contemplatif: le Traité de l’oraison d’Evagre le Pontique (Paris: Beauchesne, 1960); Gabriel Bunge, Das Geistgebet. Studien zum Traktat De oratione des Evagrios Pontikos (Köln: Luther-Verlag, 1987); Idem, ‘Aktive und kontemplative Weise des Betens im Traktat De oratione des Evagrios Pontikos,’ Studia Monastica 41 (1999) 211–227; Luke Dysinger, Psalmody and Prayer in the Writings of Evagrius Ponticus (Oxford: OUP, 2005); Casiday, Reconstructing the Theology, 136–166.

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soul subject to passions (De or. 81). 6 In Skemmata 21 Evagrius consistently delineates a progression from asceticism to knowledge and contemplation to prayer as the highest point, in which not only has the soul divested itself of all its passions, but also the intellect has divested itself of all conceptual forms: ‘When the intellect is in praktikē, it stands in the intellections of this world. When it is in gnosis, it passes its time in contemplation. Having come to be in prayer, it is in formlessness, which is called the ‘place of God.’’ Note the equation between knowledge and contemplation, and the transcending of both in prayer and formlessness. The last stage is related to the transcending mystical experience, beyond not only material forms, but also intellectual forms, as becomes the unity of the divine. The expression ‘place of God,’ which expresses this transcendence, is dear to Evagrius, who repeatedly uses it, e.g. in Περὶ λογισμῶν 40: the intellect, in pure impassivity, transcending all the intellections of objects, in prayer can see the ‘place of God’ within itself: Even when the intellect does not delay among the simple intellections of objects, it has not yet attained the place of [true] prayer; for it can remain in the contemplation of objects and be engaged in meditation on their logoi, which, even though they involve simple expressions, nevertheless, insofar as they are contemplations of objects, leave their impress and form on the intellect and lead it far from God. Even if the intellect has transcended the contemplation of corporeal nature, it has not yet beheld perfectly the place of God, for it can be occupied with the knowledge of intelligible objects and so be involved with their multiplicity. (De or. 56–57)

This is the very same argument as used by Plotinus for the exclusion of intellectual knowledge from the encounter with God: 7 all PG 79.1189.23: Ὥσπερ ὁ ἄρτος τροφή ἐστι τῷ σώματι, καὶ ἀρετὴ τῇ ψυχῇ, οὕτω καὶ τοῦ νοῦ ἡ πνευματικὴ προσευχή. 7 See my ‘The Divine as an Inaccessible Epistemological Object in Ancient Jewish, ‘Pagan,’ and Christian Platonists,’ Journal of the History of Ideas 75.2 (2014). 6

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knowledge, including intellectual knowledge, implies a duality of knower and known; this is why God, being Unity, cannot be know, but encountered in a mystical experience beyond knowledge and all intellectual contents and forms. Indeed, for Evagrius the divine Logos Creator manifests itself in prayer (De or. 51) but not as any mental representation or intellectual content: ‘When you pray, do not form images of the divine within yourself, nor allow your intellect to be impressed with any form, but approach the Immaterial immaterially and you will come to understanding’ (De or. 66). In Cap. disc. 78 the light of the intellect, and not its intellections, or contents, or representations, is said to increase in prayer – therefore in a direct relation to God: ‘when the intellect is progressing in prayer, it will see its own light become more brilliant and shining.’ Light and prayer are associated by Evagrius also in Antirrh. 6.16, where he reports John of Lycopolis’ opinion that the mind can be illumined during prayer only thanks to the grace of God. That prayer entails a relation between the praying intellect and God is clear from Evagrius’ very definition of prayer as ‘the intellect’s conversation [ὁμιλία] with God’ in De or. 3, a definition that is so important as to be repeated in Skemmata 28 and 31 and in Schol. in Ps. 140(141):2, and echoed in De or. 4, 34, and 55. This definition comes from Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 7.39.6; cf. 7.73.1–3. 8 According to Columba Stewart, Evagrius’ use of that definition of prayer inherited from Clement of Alexandria is more than just a bow to tradition. Prayer is an encounter with a personal God, and Evagrius keeps biblical words and imagery in play even in his description of the highest stages of prayer. 9 Like Clement, Origen, and Nyssen, Evagrius really built up a theology of prayer, which was surely grounded in his everyday ascetic life. To try and determine, to the extent that is possible, which of the Cappadocians transmitted Origen’s ideas and their interpretaOn this definition of prayer in Clement see Henny F. Hägg, ‘Prayer and Knowledge in Clement of Alexandria,’ in The Seventh Book of the Stromateis (eds. Matyas Havrda, Vit Husek, Jana Platova; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 131–142, esp. 132–135. 9 ‘Imageless Prayer and the Theological Vision of Evagrius Ponticus,’ in Journal of Early Christian Studies 9 (2001), 173–204, esp. 191. 8

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tion to Evagrius (who also had direct access to those ideas) is crucial to the assessment of Evagrius’ intellectual heritage. Even some elements of Evagrius’ life bear on his ideas and his relationship with those of the Cappadocians and consequently with those of Origen himself. Actually, the reassessment of Origen and, contextually, Evagrius’ thought, and the clarification of Origen’s direct and indirect influence on Evagrius, is one of the most important issues to be investigated in scholarship on contemporary Patristic theology. Now, this issue must be addressed on the basis of a careful study of Origen’s authentic ideas, those of the Cappadocians, and those of Evagrius, but even some biographical details may become significant in this connection. The main sources concerning Evagrius’ biography are Palladius HL 38, Socrates HE 4.23, Sozomen HE 6.30, and a fifth-century Coptic biography. Other sources are Gregory Nazianzen’s will, the anonymous (end-fourthcentury) Historia Monachorum (20.15), the anonymous (fourth/fifthcentury) Apophthegmata, (the alphabetical collection s.v. ‘Evagrius’), Gennadius Vir. Ill. 6.11 and 6.17, and Jerome Ep. 133; Dial. adv. Pel. preface, and Comm. in Ier. 4, preface. Evagrius was born in Ibora in Pontus, and his father was a presbyter who had been ordained in Arkeus by Basil of Caesarea (Palladius HL 38.2) and elevated as a ‘rural bishop’ (χωρεπίσκοπος). Evagrius received a good education in philosophy, rhetoric, and the liberal arts, thus being ‘perhaps the best educated in philosophy of all the early monks.’ 10 Thanks to Basil and Gregory Nazianzen, the very probable compilers of the Philocalia, Evagrius became familiar with Origen’s ideas. He was ordained a reader by Basil, some time after whose death (which occurred in late 378 or early 379) Evagrius moved to Constantinople to study, according to Socrates and Sozomen, with Nazianzen. 11 He participated in the 381 Constantinople Council as a deacon. At this Council, during which Nazianzen withdrew from the Columba Stewart, ‘Monastic Attitudes toward Philosophy and Philosophers,’ Studia Patristica 46 (2010) 321–327, praes. 324. 11 ‘He studied philosophy and sacred Scripture under the direction of Gregory, bishop of Nazianzen’ (Sozomen, HE 6.30). 10

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episcopate of Constantinople, Gregory Nyssen surely played a core role. Evagrius was ordained deacon by Nazianzen according to Socrates HE 4.23. Socrates’ affirmation is followed by most scholars, but Palladius indicates Gregory of Nyssa instead. Unlike Socrates and Sozomen, Palladius had known Evagrius personally, as he himself attests in HL 12, 23, 24, 35, 38, and 47 and had been a personal disciple of Evagrius (HL 23). He devoted to Evagrius a whole chapter of his Lausiac History, all of which was composed ‘in the spirit of Evagrius,’ 12 and in Ch. 86 he speaks of Evagrius very highly. Palladius was an Origenian monk himself and a friend of the Origenian monks dubbed ‘Tall Brothers,’ as well as of Rufinus and of Melania the Elder. These were in turn close friends of Evagrius. This is why Palladius represents a reliable source. 13 Now, in HL 86. 14 Palladius reports that it was Nyssen who ordained Evagrius and was a close friend of his: ‘After the death of the bishop saint Basil, saint Gregory, the bishop of Nyssa, a brother of the bishop Basil who enjoys the honour of the apostles, saint Gregory I say, most wise and free from passions to the utmost degree, and illustrious for his wide-ranging learning, became friends with Evagrius and appointed him as a deacon.’ On this account, it is See René Draguet, ‘L’Histoire Lausiaque: une oeuvre écrite dans l’esprit d’Évagre,’ Revue d’Histoire Ecclésiastique 41 (1946) 321–364; 42 (1947) 5–49. 13 Palladius, unlike Socrates, was personally acquainted with Evagrius and is a first-hand source. Socrates wrote his information some forty years after Evagrius’ death, while Evagrius wrote of what happened during his own lifetime. Moreover, Socrates seems to be much better informed on Nazianzen than on Nyssen. This is particularly clear from his HE 4.26, as I have argued in a detailed manner in ‘Evagrius and Gregory: Nazianzen or Nyssen?’. Socrates seems to know nothing of Nyssen’s option for the ascetic life, of his ecclesiastical career, of his anti-Arianism and his theological works. Yet, Nyssen was even more of an Origenian than Nazianzen and Basil were, and this would have been a very interesting aspect to highlight for the strongly philo-Origenian Socrates. 14 PG. 34.1188C. 12

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unequivocally Gregory of Nyssa – ‘the brother of the bishop Basil’ and ‘the bishop of Nyssa’ – who treated Evagrius with friendship and ordained him a deacon. Note Palladius’ most praising description of Nyssen in this passage. The reason is easy to guess. Gregory was the closest follower of Origen and the spiritual father of Evagrius, and Palladius profoundly admired both Origen and Evagrius. The relationship between Nyssen and Evagrius may go back to the former’s sojourn in Ibora, between the late 379 and 380, when the inhabitants of Ibora asked Gregory to supervise the election of a new bishop. In HL 86, Palladius goes on to say, ‘When he left, saint Gregory the bishop handed Evagrius to the blessed bishop Nectarius at the great Council of Constantinople. For Evagrius was most skilled in dialectics against all heresies.’ Here too, the bishop Gregory is regularly identified by scholars with Nazianzen. However, the Gregory whom Palladius mentions in the immediately preceding sentence is Nyssen. Thus, the Gregory who handed Evagrius to Nectarius may also have been the bishop of Nyssa. Also, the source of Socrates’ report in HE 4.23 that Gregory went to Egypt with Evagrius likely referred to Nyssen, since Nazianzen never went to Egypt or Jerusalem after the council of Constantinople, but after the Council Gregory of Nyssa certainly travelled to Jerusalem late in 381 and in 382, as attested in his Letter 3. He may also have gone from Jerusalem to Egypt with Evagrius, when Evagrius left Jerusalem for Egypt. For Evagrius, as all his biographies agree, left Constantinople hurriedly to disembroil himself from a dangerous affair 15 and travelled to Jerusalem (382), where he frequented the Origenians Melania the Elder and Rufinus; the former, as the head of the double monastery where Rufinus too lived, gave Evagrius monastic garb, and suggested him to leave for the Egyptian desert. He first headed to Nitria, a cenobitic environment, and then Kellia, where Evagrius practised an eremitic, extreme form of asceticism, and remained until his death in 399. In Egypt Evagrius was a disciple of Macarius of Alexandria and especially of Macarius the Egyptian, the Great, who was converted to asceticism by St. Antony (an Origenian), founded Scetis, and 15

Sozomen HE 6.30; Palladius LH 38.3–7.

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was, he too, like Origen, Antony, and Evagrius himself, a supporter of apokatastasis or universal restoration. 16 They too, like Origen and Nyssen, taught Evagrius the aforementioned ‘theology of prayer.’ Near Alexandria, Evagrius may also have visited Didymus, the faithful Origenian who was appointed by bishop Athanasius head of the Alexandrian Didaskaleion. Evagrius had disciples himself, among whom were the above-mentioned Palladius, Cassian, 17 and many pilgrim visitors. Evagrius, refused the episcopate at Thmuis that Theophilus of Alexandria offered to him. Indeed, like Origen and Nyssen, Evagrius tended to emphasise the spiritual authority coming from inspiration, prayer, learning, teaching, and even miracles, rather than that which comes from ecclesiastical hierarchy. 18 The possible presence of Nyssen with Evagrius in Jerusalem and later in Egypt, or his being in contact with Melania and Evagrius, would explain the reason why Gregory Nyssa’s own dialogue De anima et resurrectione was translated into Coptic in Egypt very early (possibly before Gregory’s death). 19 This is even more probable in that Gregory in 16 The former seems to be mentioned by Evagrius in Περὶ λογισμῶν 33 and 37 and Antirrh. 4.23 and 4.58; 8.26. In Praktikos 93–94, instead, the reference seems to be to the latter; Robert E. Sinkewicz, however, refers Praktikos 94 to Macarius of Alexandria as well in Evagrius of Pontus, The Greek Ascetic Corpus (Oxford: OUP, 2003), XIX. As for St. Antony and Macarius and their adhesion to the apokatastasis doctrine see my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis: A Critical Assessment from the New Testament to Eriugena (Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae, 120; Leiden: Brill, 2013), the chapter devoted to Antony. 17 For a revisitation of the figure and the works of Cassian, however, see now Panayiotis Tzamalikos, The Real Cassian Revisited: Monastic Life, Greek Paideia, and Origenism in the Sixth Century (Leiden: Brill, 2012); Idem, A Newly Discovered Greek Father: Cassian the Sabaite Eclipsed by John Cassian of Marseilles (Leiden: Brill, 2012). 18 For the derivation of these ideas from Origen see: Ilaria Ramelli, ‘Theosebia: A Presbyter of the Catholic Church,’ Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion 26.2 (2010) 79–102. 19 Ilaria Ramelli, Gregorio di Nissa sull’Anima e la Resurrezione (Milan: Bompiani–Catholic University, 2007), first Appendix. The very ancient

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this dialogue with his sister Macrina supported apokatastasis, like Melania and Evagrius himself. Nyssen was also in Arabia – close to Palestine and Egypt. The Council of Constantinople sent him to a church there, for the rectification of their doctrine. While in Arabia, Nyssen was called to Jerusalem, exactly (as it seems) during the period when Evagrius was sojourning at Melania’s and Rufinus’ monastery. Besides being close to Nyssen, Evagrius was the assistant of Gregory Nazianzen in Constantinople – who mentions Evagrius in his will, written in 381 (PG 37.389–396), as ‘the deacon Evagrius, who has much worked with me’ – and was also educated by him in philosophy and Scriptural exegesis (Sozomen HE 6.30). Evagrius fought against ‘Arians’ and Pneumatomachians, just as his mentors, Nyssen and Nazianzen, as well as Basil, did. It is not accidental that Evagrius’ Epistula de fide was ascribed to Basil as Ep. 8. It supports the Trinitarian description μία οὐσία τρεῖς ὑποστάσεις, which goes back to Origen himself. 20 This letter clearly espouses Cappadocian theology. According to Julia Konstantinovsky, however, Evagrius’ ideas are not very similar to those of ‘the Cappadocians.’ 21 Actually they are not so similar to those of Basil, but they are very close to those of Nyssen, for instance in eschatology, anthropology, and metaphysics. A systematic investigation into Evagrius’ dependence on Nyssen’s ideas yields an impressive amount of elements, from protology to eschatology, from theology to anthropology. Coptic translation is also used here in the establishment of as new edition of De anima et resurrectione, which is included in the same volume. Now these philological contributions are received in the definitive critical edition Gregorii Nysseni, De anima et resurrectione (Gregorii Nysseni Opera, 3/3; Opera dogmatica minora Pars III; ed. Andreas Spira; post mortem editoris, praefationem accurate composuit Ekkehardus Mühlenberg; Leiden: Brill, 2014), based on all the 72 available manuscripts. 20 For the roots of this formula in Origen see Ilaria L.E. Ramelli, ‘Origen’s Anti-Subordinationism and its Heritage in the Nicene and Cappadocian Line,’ Vigiliae Christianae 65 (2011) 21–49 and Eadem, ‘Origen, Greek Philosophy, and the Birth of the Trinitarian Meaning of Hypostasis,’ Harvard Theological Review 105 (2012) 302–50. 21 J. Kostantinovsky, Evagrius Ponticus, chs. 3–6.

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Now, as I mentioned, Nyssen was the most faithful and intelligent disciple of Origen, which means that Evagrius through him absorbed much of Origen’s true thought and spirituality. (This of course does not rule out that Evagrius also read Origen’s works directly). Indeed, it is not a matter of chance that Evagrius was friends with many Origenians such as Rufinus, Melania, the Tall Brothers, John of Jerusalem, and Palladius who admired him just as he admired the other Origenians. Jerome too, for a long period, was an admirer of Evagrius. In Letter 4.2, he called him ‘reverend presbyter.’ However, after his sudden volte-face against Origen, he became hostile to Evagrius no less than to Origen, a clear indication that he perceived Evagrius as a close follower of the great Alexandrian. Besides the number of Evagrius’ intellectual and spiritual debts to Nyssen, it is probable that Evagrius also referred to him at some points. His reference to ‘Gregory the Just’ in the epilogue of his Praktikos is generally taken to refer to Nazianzen; however, it could also refer to Nyssen: ‘The high Sun of Justice shines upon us […] thanks to the prayers and intercession of Gregory the Just, who planted me, and of the holy fathers who now water me and by the power of Christ Jesus our Lord, who has granted me growth.’ As I will show in a moment, Evagrius mentions the same Gregory the Just also in Gnostikos 44 apropos the four cardinal virtues, which were first theorized by Plato. These virtues were in fact treated by Nyssen. This fact, together with the agricultural metaphors and terminology used by Evagrius in this passage, makes it very likely that the Gregory at stake here was Nyssen. Indeed, when Evagrius uses agricultural metaphors in KG 2.25 as well, in reference to the resurrection-restoration, it is virtually certain that he has Nyssen in mind: ‘Just as this body is called the seed of the future ear, so will also this aeon be called seed of the one that will come after it.’ This kephalaion, like KG 1.24, relies on Paul’s seed-ear imagery in 1Cor 15, on which Nyssen commented extensively at the end of De anima et resurrectione in connection with the resurrectionrestoration. 22 While he depicted God as the good farmer who asFull commentary in my study: Gregorio di Nissa sull’Anima e la Resurrezione. 22

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sists the process of development of his plants, liberating them from illnesses and weeds (that is, sins and passions). Gregory was reminiscing about Philo’s De agri cultura, where the cultivation of the fields was an allegory of the cultivation of the soul. Philo was known to Evagrius, too, and to Origen, who often used agricultural imagery allegorically. Nyssen followed in his footsteps. In KG 2.25 Evagrius extends the application of the seed-ear metaphor (used by both Paul and Gregory in reference to the dead and resurrected body) to the present and the future aeon: both the present body and the present aeon are the germ and seed of the body and the aeon to come. Now in Gnostikos 44, too, as I anticipated, Evagrius adopts an agricultural metaphor that is again likely to be inspired by Nyssen, in relation to the cardinal virtues: ‘There are four virtues necessary for contemplation, according to the teaching of Gregory the Just: prudence, courage, temperance, and justice … The reception of the first sower’s seed and the rejection of what is sown secondarily is the proper work of continence, according to Gregory’s explanation.’ Given the above-mentioned allegory of God as the first planter in Gregory’s De anima et resurrectione, and given his description of passions and vice as secondary epigennēmata that must be rejected by means of a life of virtue and asceticism, it is very probable that Evagrius’ reference to ‘Gregory the Just’ is to the Nyssen. Likewise in Praktikos 89 Evagrius expounds the tripartition of the soul according to Plato, with the relevant virtues that are proper to each part of the soul, crowned by justice which is a virtue of the whole soul. However, interestingly he does not attribute this doctrine (again the theory of the four cardinal virtues) to Plato, but rather to ‘our wise teacher’ (κατὰ τὸν σοφὸν ἡμῶν διδάσκαλον). In this case, too, it is usually assumed that this unnamed teacher is Gregory the Theologian, for instance by Antoine and Claire Guillaumont, 23 followed by Columba Stewart, 24 who however admits that it is unlikely that the Nazianzen transmitted this doctrine to Evagrius, but does not propose alternative solutions. For my part, I Antoine and Claire Guillaumont, Evagre le Pontique. Traité pratique ou Le moine (Paris: Cerf, 1971), 680–689. 24 Columba Stewart, ‘Monastic Attitudes,’ 324. 23

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deem it more probable that Evagrius meant Gregory Nyssen, who used this doctrine extensively in De anima et resurrectione and elsewhere. And I have suggested above that this dialogue was circulated in Egypt, and soon translated into Coptic, precisely thanks to the influence of Evagrius there. Evagrius’ sympathy for this dialogue was no doubt enhanced by its defense of apokatastasis, which he also supported. As a consequence of these considerations, then also the ‘Gregory the Just’ mentioned in the epilogue of Evagrius’ Praktikos is likely to be the Nyssen. A good deal of Evagrian ideas influenced by Gregory Nyssen can be found in the KG 25 which offer a compendium of Evagrius’ thinking concerning reality, God, protology, eschatology, anthropology, and spiritual exegesis of the Bible. This is the third and most advanced piece of a trilogy devoted to ascetic, monastic life and also composed by the Praktikos (also called Kephalaia Praktika [KP]) and the Gnostikos. The KG are the masterpiece of Evagrius, lost in Greek apart from scanty fragments, but entirely preserved in Syriac, in two different redactions. 26 The Syriac version discovered by Antoine Guillaumont (S2), unlike the other Syriac version (S1), is not expurgated from what was subsequently perceived as dangerously Origenistic material. Guillaumont first contended in an article 27 that the original text is S2 and offered the first critical edition. 28 His hypothesis concerning the priority of S2 has been folI have recently completed a full translation, based on Guillaumont’s edition with some improvements (emendations and some different textual choices vis-à-vis that of Guillaumont); hopefully I have offered many improvements in the translation and interpretation of Evagrius’ text; for the first time I have also provided a complete, running commentary, in Evagrius Ponticus’ Kephalaia Gnostika: Propositions on Knowledge (Leiden: Brill – Atlanta: SBL, forthcoming). 26 None of the surviving Greek fragments can be dated before the Second Origenistic Controversy. See Casiday, Reconstructing the Theology, 67. 27 Antoine Guillaumont, ‘Le texte véritable des Gnostica d’Évagre le Pontique,’ Revue de l’Histoire des Religions 142 (1952) 156–205. 28 Les six centuries des ‘Kephalaia Gnostika’ d’Évagre, édition critique de la version syriaque commune et édition d’une nouvelle version syriaque, 25

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lowed by all scholars, with the exception that I shall discuss shortly. 29 The KG seem to have been deliberately left incomplete by Evagrius. Babai († 628), who commented on the KG, observes that, instead of the 600 kephalaia promised by Evagrius in his Letter to Anatolius, (i.e. the prologue to his Praktikos), he wrote only 540. According to Babai, the supplement to this incomplete work is to be found in Evagrius’ Skemmata. Babai’s version of this work contained 60 kephalaia, 30 which appear nowhere else. On the other hand, Socrates, when listing Evagrius’ works in about 440, only forty years after Evagrius’ death, designates this as ἑξακόσια προγνωστικὰ προβλήματα (HE 4.23). Either he knew of a complete edition, now lost and unknown to Babai more than one century later, or he was unaware that the KG were never written in number of six hundred. In fact Evagrius seems to have intended this incompleteness, in order to reflect the limits of human knowledge of the divine and theological discourse. As Monica Tobon puts it: The ‘missing chapters’ are in fact ‘silent chapters,’ corresponding to the passage of the contemplative nous beyond the words of

intégrale, avec une double traduction française par Antoine Guillaumont (Patrologia Orientalis 28; Paris: Firmin Didot, 1958–1959). 29 See James W. Watt, ‘The Syriac Adapter of Evagrius’s Centuries,’ in Studia Patristica XVII,3 (ed. Elizabeth A. Livingstone; Oxford: OUP, 1982), 1388–1395; David Bundy, ‘The Philosophical Structures of Origenism. The Case of the Expurgated Syriac Version S1 of the Kephalaia Gnostika of Evagrius,’ in Origeniana V, ed. Robert J. Daly (Leuven: Peeters, 1992), 577–584. 30 See Evagrius Ponticus (ed. W. Frankenberg; Abhandlungen der Königlichen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen, PhilologischHistorische Klasse, n.s. 13.2; Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1912), vol. 2:422–471 = Pseudo-Supplément des Six Centuries des Képhalaia Gnostica. The problem is noted by Antoine Guillaumont, Les ‘Kephalaia Gnostika’ d’Évagre le Pontique et l’histoire de l’origénisme chez les grecs et chez les syriens (Paris: Didot, 1962), 18–22, and Luke Dysinger, Psalmody and Prayer in the Writings of Evagrius Ponticus (Oxford: OUP, 2005), 204.

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human teachers to the Word himself, beyond image and sign to the unconstrained and uncontainable infinity of God. 31 The state of prayer as formless state without intellectual multiplicity, of which I have spoken at the beginning, will correspond to these ‘silent chapters.’ Moreover, Tobon suggests that these ‘missing chapters’ are spoken by God, as God’s Logos or Word, and constitute the final chapters of the KG, where an authority is quoted, just as one is quoted at the end of the two other works of the trilogy. The authority cited in the KG is not human, unlike those cited in the two other works, but divine; this is why it is spoken in silence. A suggestion in this sense of negative theology and apophaticism was already given by Dionysius Bar Salibi in the twelfth century, in his Introduction to his Commentary on the Centuries of Evagrius, ch. 1: We say that the knowledge of the perfected ones here below, compared to that which they will receive in the next world, is incomplete, since now we see as if in a mirror and there we will see face to face. And he has removed ten chapters from each century because the number ten is perfect and complete and symbolizes for us the perfect accomplishment of the divinity of Jesus, he whose name begins with the letter youdh, which is to say ten, and in the world to come it is in Jesus-God that the knowledge of the saints will be completed and accomplished … The number of chapters in the six centuries comes to five hundred and forty: six times ninety gives five hundred and forSee Monica Tobon, ‘Reply to Kevin Corrigan,’ in Studia Patristica LVII, ed. Markus Vinzent, vol. 5, Evagrius Ponticus on Contemplation (ed. Monica Tobon; Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 27–29, esp. 28. Now more extensively Eadem, ‘A Word spoken in Silence: the ‘Missing’ Chapters of Evagrius’ Kephalaia Gnostika,’ in Studia Patristica, forthcoming, who reads the strategy of the missing chapters within the overall framework of Evagrius’ spirituality. On mystic apophaticism in Evagrius see my ‘Mysticism and Mystic Apophaticism in Middle and Neoplatonism across Judaism, ‘Paganism’ and Christianity,’ in Constructions of Mysticism: Inventions and Interactions across the Borders, ed. Annette Wilke, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2014. 31

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Together with these apophatic, voluntary gaps, what makes the KG the most difficult text of Evagrius is their concision and lack of explanations. This is because these short sentences were destined for Evagrius’ most advanced disciples and presuppose a long path of learning, as well as advanced ascetic training. In order to understand something of these propositions, therefore, it is necessary to be very familiar with the rest of Evagrius’ works and his spirituality. Even if Evagrius’ propositions are concise to the point of obscurity, however, the KG are very long. In fact, as Monica Tobon remarks: ‘The Kephalaia Gnostika, the most explicitly contemplative of the three volumes, is four times as long as the other two volumes combined,’ [the two other works of Evagrius’ monastic trilogy, Praktikos and Gnostikos]. 32 But the KG are not to be considered as ‘separated’ from the Praktikos and therefore from asceticism; knowledge itself must be an ascetic practice. The trilogy aims at the spiritual transformation of the whole human person, body, soul, and spirit. I will argue that indeed there is much to be reassessed about Evagrius’ anthropology, as well as about his theology and Christology. As I mentioned earlier, Antoine Guillaumont deemed the S2 redaction of the KG original, and the S1 expurgated. I tend to agree with this view, which has been received by virtually all scholars, but I doubt the validity of the related claims by Guillaumont that Monica Tobon, ‘Introduction,’ in Studia Patristica LVII, ed. Markus Vinzent, vol. 5, Evagrius Ponticus on Contemplation (ed. Monica Tobon; Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 3–7, esp. 4. 32

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Philoxenus of Mabbug was the author of the expurgated version (S1) 33 and, especially, that Evagrius’ own ideas were condemned under Justinian. Augustine Casiday is right to question this last point, which I also strongly doubt, but his argument that S1 is Evagrius’ original redaction and S2 is a later reworking in a radicalizing Origenistic sense 34 is not better demonstrated than Guillaumont’s own representation of Evagrius as a radical Origenist. In fact, I have demonstrated extensively in many points of my commentary on Evagrius’ KG 35 that S2 is perfectly in line with Origen’s true thought, rather than being a radicalized version close to the Origenism condemned under Justinian and is also absolutely consistent with other works by Evagrius himself, including both his ‘Cappadocian’ (that is, Origenian) Epistula de fide and his speculative (and again Origenian) LM. In the KG, version S2, the one I chose to translate and comment on, I find not so much what was condemned by Justinian, as Evagrius’ original assimilation of Origen’s, and Gregory Nyssen’s, ideas, and I deem this version very likely to be Evagrius’ own product, more than a subsequent radicalization. S1 is probably an expurgated version, possibly quite old; it is not even to be ruled out that Evagrius himself provided an alternative redaction, though this is not very likely. If S1 is expurgated, it is expur-gated in an anti-Origenian sense: likewise expurgated, antiOrigenian, redactions were prepared of the Dialogue of Adamantius, the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto, and even of John Scotus Eriugena’s Latin translation of Gregory Nyssen’s De hominis opificio. In all of these works, the parts that were dropped in the expurgated redactions (i.e. the extant Greek texts of the Dialogue and the Histo-

See John Watt, ‘Philoxenus and the Old Syriac Version of Evagrius’ Centuries,’ Oriens Christianus 64 (1980) 65–81; Idem, ‘The Syriac Adapter of Evagrius’ Centuries,’ in Studia Patristica 17.3 (1982), 1388– 1395; Ilaria L.E. Ramelli, ‘Philoxenus and Babai. Authentic and Interpolated Versions of Evagrius’s Works?’ in Eadem, The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis. 34 Casiday, Reconstructing the Theology of Evagrius, 49, 69–70, and passim. 35 In Evagrius Ponticus’ Kephalaia Gnostika: Propositions on Knowledge. 33

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ria, and the Latin translation of De hominis opificio) were all expressions of Origenian ideas, and primarily apokatastasis. 36 Evagrius regarded as heretics those who did not believe in the consubstantiality of the Persons of the Trinity (Exh. ad mon. 45), which is thoroughly consistent with his Epistula de fide. I think that in fact Evagrius’ Trinitarian orthodoxy is perfectly compatible with the Christology 37 that is found in his KG and his LM. This is not, as is often assumed, 38 a subordinationist Christology, and it is just natural that it is not so in a follower of Origen and the Nyssen, neither of whom was a subordinationist, but both of whom combated Christological subordinationism. 39 The supposition that Evagrius was a subordinationist mainly comes from a distorted reading of KG 6.14, which, if read correctly, provides, on the contrary, a strong support to Evagrius’ anti subordinationism. The following is the correct reading I propose: Christ is NOT consubstantial [ὁμοούσιος] with the Trinity; indeed, he is not substantial knowledge as well. But Christ is the only one who always and inseparably possesses substantial knowledge in himself. What I claim is that Christ is the one who went together with God the Logos; in spirit, Christ IS the Lord [sc. God]. He is inseparable from his body and in unity IS consubstantial [ὁμοούσιος] with the Father.

The particle ‘but,’ which I have underlined for emphasis, signals that what comes before is not Evagrius’ own doctrine, but is rather the opinion of an adversary, which Evagrius refutes. Evagrius’ own idea is introduced by: ‘What I claim is…’ For this reason I used 36 See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, chapters on the Dialogue of Adamantius and Eriugena. 37 On which see Konstantinovsky, Evagrius, 109–152. 38 E.g., Antoine Guillaumont, Un philosophe au désert: Evagre le Pontique (Paris: Vrin, 2004), 375; Konstantinovsky, Evagrius, 144; Claudio Moreschini, I Padri Cappadoci: Storia, Letteratura, Teologia (Rome: Città Nuova, 2008), 307, who ascribes to Evagrius ‘un subordinazionismo alla maniera origeniana,’ ‘an Origen-like subordinationism,’ while neither Origen nor Evagrius were subordinationists. 39 See my ‘Origen’s Antisubordinationism.’

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different quotation marks in my edition, to underscore that this is a debate. Indeed, the last sentence, which expresses Evagrius’ own position, flatly contradicts the initial one: ‘Christ IS homoousios with the Father,’ and ‘IS the Lord’ God. This evidently overturns the initial statement by an adversary, that ‘Christ is NOT homoousios with the Trinity.’ The adverb ‘inseparably,’ in reference to Christ who possesses ‘inseparably’ the substantial knowledge that is God (cf. KG 1.89), is the same as the adverbs which at Chalcedon will describe the inseparability of the two natures of Christ, human and divine (ἀχωρίστως and ἀδιαιρέτως). It is no chance that the adjective ‘inseparable’ is used here by Evagrius exactly to describe the union of the divine and human natures in Christ. Of course Christ ‘is the Lord’ in his divine, spiritual nature (‘in spirit’), and not in his human nature. Christ is both fully God and fully human; the fact that he is a rational creature, and in particular a human being, does not mean that he is not divine, or that he is God only incompletely, as accounts of Evagrius’ Christology commonly go. KG 6.14 does not prove that (as is often repeated 40) Evagrius considered Christ not to be consubstantial with the other Persons of the Trinity, but it rather demonstrates that he firmly rejected this latter position and regarded Christ, in his divine nature, as God and as consubstantial with the Father. This was Origen’s and Gregory Nyssen’s view as well, accepted by Eusebius also, who may even have conveyed Origen’s teaching on the homoousia of the Father and the Son (i.e. Christ in his divine nature) to Nicaea 325 through Constantine, 41 while Gregory Nyssen introduced Origen’s teaching on ‘one essence, three individual substances’ to Constantinople 381. 42 Evagrius clearly followed in their footsteps. In Ep. de fide 3, indeed, Evagrius likewise declares that the Father and the Son have the same essence. Christ in his divine nature is the Son, while in his human nature he is a human being. This is why he states that Christ has God the Logos in himself (Ibid. 4). This clearly points to the divine nature of Christ. The Christology of this letter is a perfect parallel to KG 6.14. In the first of his For instance, Konstantinovsky, Evagrius, 144–145. Argument in my ‘Origen’s Anti-Subordinationism.’ 42 Demonstration in my ‘Origen, Greek Philosophy.’ 40 41

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Skemmata, similarly, Evagrius states that Christ qua Christ (that is, qua compound of human and divine nature) possesses the essential/substantial knowledge, that is, possesses God, his own divine nature, which is again the same as is found in KG 6.14. Consistently with this, even in his biography in Palladius Evagrius is represented as supporting, against ‘heretics’ such as ‘Arians’ and Eunomians, the full divinity of Christ-Logos, the Son of God, who also assumed a human body, soul, and intellect. Palladius’ biography reports an epigram that praises Evagrius’ orthodoxy in respect to both the Son and the Spirit and their position within the Trinity. That Christ in his divine nature is the Son is manifest in KG 3.1: ‘The Father, and only he, knows Christ, and the Son, and only he, the Father,’ where Christ and the Son significantly occupy the same position in the equation, which means that Evagrius is using the two terms as synonyms in the intra-Trinitarian discourse. Just as Evagrius was no subordinationist, he was no isochristic theologian either. I absolutely agree with Augustine Casiday that the LM does not give voice to ‘isochristic’ ideas such as those that were later condemned under Justinian, 43 and I would add that neither do the KG voice such ideas. Casiday rightly opposes Antoine Guillaumont’s claim that Evagrius’ Christology is the same as that of the isochristic monks which was anathematised in the 553 Council under Justinian. 44 I cannot agree with Casiday, however, when he remarks that: ‘Origen taught cycles of falling and reconciliation, which is precluded by Evagrius’ reference to the endless and inseparable unity of God,’ 45 with reference to Jerome’s Letter 124. Jerome, however, ceases to be a reliable source on Origen after his U-turn against him. In fact, Origen, exactly like Evagrius, thought that there will be a final unity with God, after which no more falls will be possible, as can be seen from Origen’s own Commentary on Romans and many other passages, some of which preserved in Augustine Casiday, ‘Universal Restoration in Evagrius Ponticus’ ‘Great Letter’,’ Studia Patristica 47 (2010) 223–228. 44 Guillaumont, Les Kephalaia Gnostika, 156. 45 Casiday, ‘Universal Restoration in Evagrius,’ 224. 43

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Greek. 46 Therefore, also in this respect, Evagrius did not distance himself from Origen, but rather followed in his footsteps. In sum, Antoine Guillaumont’s thesis that the doctrine condemned at the fifth to eighth ecumenical councils was not that of Origen (as was previously supposed) but that of Evagrius, 47 needs to be refined in turn: that doctrine, in fact, was neither that of Origen nor that of Evagrius, but those of later Origenists who radicalised and distorted Evagrius’ thinking. Furthermore, the doctrine condemned, even if it does reflect ideas circulating in Origenistic circles, is as such a more or less artificial construct, as it was assembled in a hostile dossier-pamphlet by the anti-Origenistic monks of St. Saba. 48 Evagrius’ ideas rather follow Origen’s authentic ideas, also as transmitted by the Nyssen. Evagrius’ writings are all closely interconnected and concern theology and metaphysics as well as spiritual ascent and ascetic practice; 49 one part cannot be separated out from the rest, as has been too often done in the past: with his ascetic works being read and treasured, while his metaphysical, protological, and eschatological Origenian ideas were rejected. In this system, asceticism (praktikē) leads to knowledge (gnōsis) and is inseparable from it; this is why in his most speculative works there is a great deal about asceticism, and his ascetic works are a preparation for gnosis but also its peak in prayer and contemplation. The inter-connection of all aspects of Evagrius’ thought is clear not only in the KG, but even in In The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, the section on Origen. See Antoine Guillaumont, ‘Évagre et les anathématismes antiorigénistes de 553,’ Studia Patristica 3 (1961) 219–226, and Idem, Les Kephalaia Gnostika d’Évagre. 48 István Perczel, ‘Note sur la pensée systematique d’Évagre le Pontique,’ in Origene e l'Alessandrinismo cappadoce (eds. Mario Girardi and Marcello Marin; Bari: Edipuglia, 2002), 277–297. The comparison between Evagrius’ obscure and concise language and the coherent and expanded system of the anti-Origenian sources seems to confirm Perczel’s thesis. See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, Ch. 4, in the section devoted to Justinian and the Origenists. 49 A complete English translation of Evagrius’ main ascetic works is found in Sinkewicz, Evagrius of Pontus: The Greek Ascetic Corpus. 46 47

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the LM, 50 which deals with the Trinity, protology, eschatology, apokatastasis, and spiritual knowledge; all issues that surface also in the KG. The addressee of the LM in one of the two Syriac manuscripts in which it is preserved, as in other letters by Evagrius extant in Armenian, is Melania the Elder, who converted Evagrius to the ascetic life and changed his clothes into monastic attire. In the Syriac translation Evagrius addresses Melania thrice as ‘my lord,’ but this in my view does not rule out that the recipient was Melania, a woman. For Palladius repeatedly calls Melania ἡ μακαρία Μελάνιον, ‘the blessed, dear Melanion,’ using this neutral form as a sign of endearment (HL 38.8 and 9 51). Evagrius too, like his disciple Palladius, may have used to call Melania Μελάνιον, and Syriac translators may easily have understood Μελάνιον as a masculine, all the more so in that in Syriac there are only masculine or feminine forms, and no neuter; Greek neuters are more similar to masculine than to feminine forms. Some even think that a masculine address to a woman is to be read in a ‘gnostic’ context, as honorific, for a woman who has overcome the purported weakness of women with her intellectual and spiritual strength and prowess. 52 Anyway, both of the possible addressees, Melania and (according to those who have difficulties accepting her as addressee) Rufinus, were strong admirers of Origen and his followers, like Evagrius himself, and this letter is composed against the backdrop of Origen’s theology. Just as the KG have been left incomplete by Evagrius (as I believe, on purpose) so also in the LM does Evagrius refrain from committing to paper some ideas. However, the reasons for the omission seem to be slightly different: in the KG, as I have mentioned, the omission is for an apophatic, mystical reason; in the LM CPG 2438. = 86 (PG 34.1193D). 52 Michel Parmentier, ‘Evagrius of Pontus’ Letter to Melania,’ Bijdragen 46 (1985) 2–38, esp. 5–6. Reprinted in Forms of Devotion, Conversion, Worship, Spirituality, and Asceticism (ed. Everett Ferguson; New York: Garland, 1999). Parmentier includes an English version of the letter. The title Letter to Melania is also kept by Paolo Bettiolo, Evagrio Pontico. Lo scrigno della sapienza: Lettera a Melania (Magnano, Biella: Edizioni Qiqajon, 1997). 50 51

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it seems it is more for a question of prudence (sections 1 and 17). Yet, it might be also for a more structural reason, similar to the apophatic reason for the omissions in KG, since in section 18 Evagrius repeats that there are things that ink and paper cannot simply report. The omissions from the LM do not concern Apokatastasis (of which Evagrius in fact speaks rather overtly, as in KG) but probably with the way the Spirit and the Son communicate with intellects, and with the reasons why the intelligible creation was joined to the sense-perceptible creation, ‘for reasons that it is impossible to explain here.’ Moreover, it is impossible to speak of the divine mysteries, and in this connection, the silence strategy used by Evagrius in this letter may parallel that of his KG. With some rational creatures the Spirit and the Son communicate directly, but with others, less advanced, they communicate by means of intermediaries, that is, God’s sense-perceptible creation, what Evagrius in his KG calls the ‘secondary creation.’ This is the object of ‘natural contemplation,’ 53 φυσικὴ θεωρία, which will deeply impact Maximus the Confessor. 54 In turn, the roots of Evagrius’ natural contemplation lie in Clement, who calls it φυσιολογία, and Origen. 55 This secondary creation, which is the object of natural contemplation, is not evil; on this, Origen had already insisted against ‘Gnostics’ and Marcionites, and Evagrius keeps his line not only in his LM but also in the KG. His doctrine of bodies – which, as I will show, can be reconstructed better with the help of his KG’s Syriac terminology for different kinds of bodies, so far entirely overlooked – is perfectly consistent with this, as I will point out. The secondary creation is providential, and, as Evagrius explains, was wanted by God as mediation, out of love 53 On natural contemplation in Evagrius see D. Bradford, ‘Evagrius Ponticus and the Psychology of Natural Contemplation,’ Studies in Spirituality, 22 (2012) 109–125. 54 See Joshua Lollar, To See into the Life of Things: The Contemplation of Nature in Maximus the Confessor and His Predecessors (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013). 55 See also Paul Blowers, Drama of the Divine Economy (Oxford: OUP, 2012), 316–318. A review of mine is forthcoming in Zeitschrift für antikes Christentum.

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for those who are far from God because ‘they have placed a separation between themselves and their Creator, due to their evil deeds.’ God instituted this mediation through his Wisdom and Power, i.e. the Son and the Spirit. For Evagrius, ‘the whole ministry of the Son and the Spirit is exercised through creation, for the sake of those who are far from God’ (LM 5). All this is close to what Gregory of Nyssa maintained, in the footsteps of Philo and Origen: God’s operations play a core role in the acquisition of the knowledge of God, since humans cannot know God’s essence or nature, but they can certainly know God’s activities and operations, the most important of which is the creation. 56 The rational creatures that are not separated from God due to sin do not need the mediation of creation, because they are helped directly by the Son-Logos and the Spirit: ‘Just as the intellect operates in the body by the mediation of the soul, likewise the Father, too, by the mediation of his own soul [sc. the Son and the Spirit], operates in his own body, which is the human intellect’ (LM 15). Thus, human intellects know thanks to the Logos and the Spirit, who make everything known to them (LM 19); only through the Logos and the Spirit, who are their souls, can they become aware of their own nature (LM 21). Human intellects are the bodies of the Son and the Spirit (LM 21), and the Son and the Spirit are the soul of God. The intellect-soul-body tripartition applies both to rational creatures and to the relationship between God and rational creatures, who, as intellects, are the ‘body of God.’ This is probably a development of Origen’s notion of the logika as the body of Christ-Logos; 57 this concept is also connected with Origen’s equation between the body of Christ and the Temple, whose stones are rational creatures: this is why in Comm. in Io. 6.1.1–2 the Temple is called a ‘rational building,’ λoγικὴ oἰκοδομή, a building made of rational creatures. Humans are part and parcel of the ‘rational 56 See my: ‘The Divine as an Inaccessible Epistemological Object in Ancient Jewish, ‘Pagan,’ and Christian Platonists: A Common Cognitive Pattern across Different Religion Traditions,’ in the Journal of the History of Ideas, 75.2. 2014. 167–188; and for the reflections of this idea in Evagrius see Konstantinovsky, Evagrius, 47–76. 57 See my ‘Clement’s Notion of the Logos ‘All Things as One.’’

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Temple’; they belong to the intelligible creation and are now found joined to the visible creation, with their mortal bodies, ‘for reasons that it is impossible to explain here.’ Evagrius shies away from speaking of the relationship between the fall of the intellects and their acquisition of senseperceptible bodies, a kind of bodies that require the mediation of souls. He ascribes the role of ‘soul’ to the Logos and the Spirit as well, evidently because of the mediation they perform between the Father and the intellects. Evagrius does not specify whether nonsense-perceptible bodies (which, as I will detail, he does postulate) also require the mediation of the soul. Therefore it would seem that it is protology (i.e. the creation, the fall, and its consequences) that Evagrius omits to explain in his LM. Of eschatology, instead, Evagrius does speak, and he does so in terms of universal restoration both in his LM and in his KG. In LM 22–30 Evagrius characterises apokatastasis as a ἕνωσις, a ‘unification’ of the three components of humans – body, soul, and intellect – and of rational creatures with God, in the framework of the elimination of divisions, oppositions, and plurality: And there will be a time when the body, the soul, and the intellect will cease to be separate from one another, with their names and their plurality, since the body and the soul will be elevated to the rank of intellects. This conclusion can be drawn from the words, ‘That they may be one in us, just as You and I are One’ [John 17:22]. Thus there will be a time when the Father, the Son, and the Spirit, and their rational creation, which constitutes their body, will cease to be separate, with their names and their plurality. And this conclusion can be drawn from the words, ‘God will be all in all’ [1Cor 15:28] (LM 22)

The elevation of each level to the superior level, so that inferior levels are not destroyed, 58 but subsumed into the superior ones, must be noted, since it is very relevant to Evagrius’ asceticism and spirituality: I will return to it in a moment, to show that this docSo also Casiday, ‘Universal Restoration in Evagrius,’ 228: ‘There is no compelling reason to think that this elevation destroys rather than, say, consummates or fulfills the body and the soul.’ 58

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trine is reported to go back to Gregory Nyssen, and that it will be taken over by Maximus the Confessor and especially Eriugena. Evagrius teaches that bodies and souls will be elevated to the order of intellects not only here in the LM, but also in KG 2.17; 3.66; 3.68; 3.15; 1.65. Both of the scriptural citations adduced by Evagrius in the block quotation above were among Origen’s and Gregory’s favourites in reference to the telos as apokatastasis and unity: John 17:22 for the final unity or ἕνωσις, and 1 Cor 15:28. 59 As is evident from the LM, Evagrius receives both the body– soul–intellect/spirit tripartition and the Platonic division of the soul into three: the Intellectual or rational faculty or part (νοῦς, λογικόν), the noblest, original, and most excellent, which defines rational creatures by itself; the irascible faculty or part (θυμός, θυμικόν), and the concupiscible or appetitive faculty or part (ἐπιθυμία, ἐπιθυμητικόν). The last two components are not original, but adventitious (as Gregory Nyssen 60 also maintained) and contingent upon the fall, secondary, and against nature; they did not exist at the beginning and will not endure in the end. Evagrius argues that, since all the faculties that humans have in common with animals belong to the corporeal nature, then clearly the irascible and the concupiscible/appetitive faculties were not created together with the rational nature before the movement of will that determined the fall (KG 6.85). That is to say, they are adventitious; they do not belong to the authentic human nature, which is the prelapsarian nature of rational creatures or logika. Evagrius in KG 6.83 squarely declares the irascible and the concupiscible/appetitive parts of the soul to be ‘against nature.’ Their major fault is that they produce tempting 59 See my ‘Harmony between arkhē and telos in Patristic Platonism and the Imagery of Astronomical Harmony Applied to the Apokatastasis Theory,’ International Journal of the Platonic Tradition 7 (2013) 1–49. On the use of 1 Cor 15:28 in support of apokatastasis in Evagrius’ mentors, Origen and Gregory Nyssen, see my ‘Christian Soteriology and Christian Platonism: Origen, Gregory of Nyssa, and the Biblical and Philosophical Basis of the Doctrine of Apokatastasis,’ Vigiliae Christianae 61 (2007) 313– 356. 60 See my Gregorio di Nissa sull’Anima.

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thoughts, logismoi that prevent the intellect from knowing God (the sense in which Evagrius uses λογισμός, as an evil thought inspired by a demon, depends on Origen, as so much else in Evagrius’ thinking). Intellects were created by God in order that they might know God; this is their nature. The faculties of the inferior soul that obstacle this knowledge are therefore against nature. This is why, since passions were not at the beginning (being not included in God’s plan for rational creatures) they will not endure in the end. However, in KG 3.59 Evagrius warns that what is really against nature is not the inferior faculties of the soul per se, but their bad use, that is, again, their use against nature, since it is from this that evilness or vice (κακία) derives: ‘If all evil is generated by the intellect, by the irascible faculty, and by the appetitive one, and of these faculties it is possible to make use in a good and an evil way, then it is clear that it is for the use of these faculties against nature that evils occur to us. And if this is so, there is nothing that has been created by God and is evil.’ Evagrius’ main concern in this declaration is theodicy, the same that constantly guided Origen in his own theology. God is not responsible for evil: Plato’s principle, θεὸς ἀναίτιος, was repeatedly adopted by Clement, Origen, and Gregory Nyssen. The Platonic tripartition of the soul is evident also in Praktikos 38, 78, and 89, and KG 5.27, 4.73, 3.35, 1.84, and 3.30. 61 The excellence of the intellect among the faculties of the soul is proclaimed in KG 6.51: ‘The intellect is the most valuable of all the faculties of the soul,’ and in 3.6 and 3.55, where the reason for the excellence of the intellect is individuated in its relation with God: ‘The bare intellect is that which, by means of the contemplation that regards it, is joined to the knowledge of the Trinity. In the beginning the intellect had God, who is incorruptible, as teacher of immaterial intellections. Now, however, it has received corruptible senseperception as teacher of material intellections.’ This kephalaion is perfectly consistent with Evagrius’ doctrine in his LM: perfect intellects know directly, thanks to God, without I refer readers to my commentary on these kephalaia in Evagrius’ Kephalaia Gnostika. 61

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the mediation of the secondary creation, but after the fall for many rational creatures the material creation has become necessary for the sake of knowledge. Origen regarded the ψυχή as an intellect that has undergone a ψῦξις, or cooling, and due to a lack of ardent love of God and carelessness about its own eternal destiny has fallen down from its original status. Evagrius follows Origen in regarding the soul as a fallen intellect and, exactly like Origen, describes the soul as an intellect that, because of carelessness, has fallen down from Unity (hence the division between intellect and soul, and further intellect, soul, and body, while initially the intellect was undiv-ided) and, due to its lack of vigilance, has descended to the order of the praktikē, being now a soul that needs ascetic training against passions (KG 3.28). The intellect initially enjoyed spiritual contemplation, but after the fall it has become divided into intellect and soul, and, as we shall see, its spiritual body has become a mortal body. The intellect has now descended to practical life, which needs ascesis and the search for virtue and liberation from passions. Πρακτική, πρακτικός, and related terms are also attested in ‘pagan’ Neoplatonism in the same sense of ‘ethics’ (Olympiodorus Proleg.in Arist. Categ. 8). Evagrius offers his own definition of praktikē in Praktikos 78: ‘πρακτική is the spiritual method for purifying the part of the soul subject to passions,’ its aim being apatheia or impassivity, that is, absence of passions or bad emotions. 62 Praktikē is deemed by Evagrius the first component of the Christian doctrine, which is inseparable from the highest component or theology: ‘Christianity is the doctrine of Jesus Christ our Savior, consisting in ethics/asceticism [πρακτική], philosophy of nature [φυσική], and theology [θεολογική]’ (Praktikos 1). The intellect, which is now distinct from the soul and especially the part of the soul subject to passions, ought to proceed along its own contemplative path toward the angels; if, on the contrary, it proceeds on the path of the soul subject to passions (renouncing the πρακτική), while this soul On apatheia in Evagrius see now Monica Tobon, Apatheia in the Teachings of Evagrius Ponticus: The Health of the Soul (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), esp. Ch. 3. 62

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should rather be the instrument of the intellect (just as the body is of the soul), it risks ending up among demons (KG 2.48). Evagrius’ ethics of asceticism and theory of spiritual ascent are grounded in this Origenian tenet of the descent of the intellect to the rank of soul due to neglectfulness, and in the Platonic tripartition of the soul. Evagrius’ related theory of the λογισμοί, tempting thoughts that lead to the death of the soul, also draws on Origen, particularly about the logismos of ἀκηδία. 63 Evagrius is indeed an Origenian ascetic, and not the Origenistic heretic he has often been depicted. In his view the perfection of the intellect, which consists in knowledge, requires the perfection of the inferior parts of the soul, those subject to passions; this sequence itself was a Neoplatonic idea. 64 Thus, in Περὶ λογισμῶν 26 Evagrius insists that it is impossible to acquire knowledge without having renounced mundane things, evil, and, after these, ignorance. 65 Clement, who also influenced Evagrius more or less directly, already posited a similar passage from the cathartic to the epoptic mode, therefore from purification to contemplation (Strom. 5.70.7–71.2). In Evagrius, however, purification-πρακτική and contemplation-γνῶσις-θεωρία are not simply Step 1 and Step 2, but are deeply interrelated. LM 22, quoted above, may also suggest that the hypostases of the Trinity and the distinction between the Creator and creatures will be obliterated in the very end. But Evagrius goes on to declare that the three hypostases of the Trinity will continue to subsist in the ultimate end and that the three components of rational creatures will be absorbed in each of the three divine Persons: But when it is declared that the names and plurality of rational creatures and their Creator will pass away, this does not at all mean that the hypostases and the names of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit will be obliterated. The nature of the intel63

See my commentary on KG 1.49 in my Evagrius’ Kephalaia Gnosti-

This has been rightly shown by Blossom Stefaniw, ‘Exegetical Curricula in Origen, Didymus, and Evagrius: Pedagogical Agenda and the Case for Neoplatonist Influence,’ Studia Patristica 44 (2010) 281–295. 65 See also KG 1.78–80. ka.

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The eventual unity cannot be interpreted in a pantheistic sense: the unity in the very end will be unanimity of wills, and not a merging of substances, for Evagrius, just as for Origen. The three hypostases of the Trinity have the same will, and all rational creatures will have the same will, because in the end everyone’s will shall be oriented toward God. In the present, fallen state rational creatures’ volitions are all different from one another, and moreover each component within a single human has a different will: the intellect wants one thing and the body another, and the soul should align itself with the intellect, but this does not happen at all times and it may be that the soul follows the body and animal life, falling prey to passions. But in the end the two inferior components – the body and the faculties of the soul subject to passions – will be elevated into the intellect, so that they will no longer have wills that are in conflict with the will of the intellect. Evagrius, like Origen, accounts for the present differentiation of rational creatures with the differentiation of their wills, which occurred at the fall. Before the fall, their wills were uniformly oriented toward God, but at a cer-

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tain point they became fragmented into a multiplicity of acts of volition that had not the highest Good as their object. This is the ‘movement,’ as Evagrius, like Origen, calls the movement of will made possible by freedom of will, a gift of God to all rational creatures. Jan Suzuki states that this meaning of κίνησις is ‘unique’ to Evagrius, but in fact it is typical of Origen and his tradition, on which Evagrius relies. 66 Likewise, in KG 6.20 Evagrius notes that God created the first creation, of incorporeal realities, and only subsequently the second: the latter came after the logika’s ‘movement,’ that is, after they dispersed their wills in different directions, instead of toward God alone. This is why Evagrius states in LM 26–30 that sin removed the logika from that unity of will and also diversified the intellect from the soul and the body. At the final apokatastasis, when God will be ‘all in all’ (1Cor 15:28), the dispersion and difference of wills shall cease to exist, since all wills shall finally be directed toward God, the supreme Good. Like fire: ‘the intellect in its power will pervade the soul, when the whole of it will be mingled to the light of the Holy Trinity’ (LM 26). The body will be elevated to the rank of soul and the soul to the rank of intellect, and the intellect in turn will be pervaded by the light of God. The economic epinoiai of God will disappear as well, since they exist now for the sake of the salvific economy but need not subsist in the end. Evagrius drew this conception from Origen (Princ. 4.4.1) and Gregory Nyssen; the latter, like Evagrius, speaks of epinoiai of God more than of Christ, since in his view the epinoiai of Christ as God are shared by all the Trinity. But while the economic epinoiai will not endure in the end, the Persons of the Trinity will never disappear. Evagrius keeps the spheres of theology and economy well distinct: the Son and the Spirit stem from the Father by nature and are ὁμοούσιοι with the Father, while rational creatures derive from God by grace and have a different οὐσία or φύσις. In his Epistula de fide Evagrius is clear that the final θέωσις will depend on grace: humans, who are creatures, will be ‘deities /gods by grace,’ and not by nature as the Persons of the Trinity are. Again, any Jan Suzuki, ‘The Evagrian Concept of Apatheia and its Origenism,’ in Origeniana IX, 605–611, praes. 208. 66

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similarity with the later ‘isochristoi,’ as well as with a Sudhaili-like ‘pantheism,’ is excluded. In LM 26, Evagrius draws an Origenian parallel between protology and eschatology. 67 The descent of the intellect to the rank of soul and further of body at the beginning, as a result of the fall and the differentiation of rational creatures’ wills is paralleled with the eventual elevation of the body to the rank of the soul and of the soul to the rank of the intellect, when all rational creatures’ wills shall enjoy again perfect unity both within themselves (because they will have returned simple) and among themselves, because they will be again oriented toward God alone, who is the supreme Good. The unity of concord of the telos will mirror the unity of concord of the arkhē: There was a time when the intellect, because of its free will, fell from its original rank and was named ‘soul,’ and, having plunged further, was named ‘body.’ But there will come a time when the body, the soul, and the intellect, thanks to a transformation of their wills, will become one and the same thing. Since there will come a time when the differentiations of the movements of their will shall vanish, it will be elevated to the original state in which it was created. Its nature, hypostasis, and name will be one, known to God. What is elevated in its own nature is alone among all beings, because neither its place nor its name is known, and only the bare mind can say what its nature is. Please, do not be amazed at my claim regarding the union of rational creatures with God the Father, that these will be one and the same nature in three Persons, with no juxtaposition or change. […] When the intellects return to God, like rivers to the sea, God entirely transforms them into his own nature, colour, and taste. They will be one and the same thing, and not many any more, in God’s infinite and inseparable unity, in that they are united and joined to God. […] Before sin operated a separation between intellects and God, just as the earth separated the sea and rivers, they were one with God, without discrepancy, but when their sin was manifested, they 67

See e.g. Princ. 2.8.3.

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were separated from God and alienated from God […] When sin, interposed between intellects and God, has vanished, they will be, not many, but again one and the same. However, even if I have said that the rivers were eternally in the sea, with this I do not mean that rational creatures were eternally in God in their substance, since, although they were completely united to God in God’s Wisdom and creative power, their actual creation did have a beginning; however, one should not think that it will have an end, in that they are united to God, who has no beginning and no end. (LM 27–30)

Again, the final ἕνωσις will not be a pantheistic confusion, but a unity of will, that is, concord. The notion that the ‘bare intellect’ alone can see the nature of God, whose name and place are unknown, is found also in KG 2.37 and 3.70. 68 Evagrius’ pure or bare intellect (nous), without form, is strikingly similar to Philo’s ‘purest intellect’ or nous, ‘without form’ (ὁ ἀειδὴς καὶ καθαρώτατος νοῦς, Plant.126). In LM 30 Evagrius, as can be seen in the block quotation, distinguishes between the eternal existence of the ideal paradigms of all creatures in God’s Wisdom-Christ and their creation as substances only at a certain point, so that they did not exist ab aeterno in God in their substance, but only as prefigurations. This distinction also comes from Origen: God the Father existed eternally, eternally having his onlybegotten Son, who at the same time is also called Wisdom. […] Now in this Wisdom, which was eternally together with the Father, the whole creation was inscribed from eternity: there was never a time when in Wisdom there was not the prefiguration of the creatures that would come to existence. […] Therefore, we do not claim that creatures were never created, or that they are coeternal with God, or that God was doing nothing good at first, and then suddenly turned to action. […] For, if all beings have been created in Wisdom, since Wisdom has always existed, then from eternity there existed in Wisdom, as I refer readers to the commentary on these kephalaia in my study: Evagrius Ponticus’ Kephalaia Gnostika. 68

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Evagrius repeats Origen’s argument. Origen also thought that, when rational creatures were created as individual substances, they also acquired a fine, immortal body, which they needed on order to exist as creatures (since for Origen only God is entirely incorporeal and immaterial: if creatures were entirely incorporeal, they would not be creatures, but they would be God). Evagrius remarks that, even if rational creatures began to exist as independent substances only at a certain point and therefore they had a beginning, they will have no end, because in the telos they will enjoy unity with God, who has no end. Evagrius was aware of the ‘perishability axiom,’ according to which whatever has a beginning in time will also have an end in time (this axiom was used by Origen and Basil against the eternity of the world, but Gregory Nazianzen in Or. 29 de Filio dropped ‘in time’ from it in order to maintain that souls had a beginning but will never have an end). The spatial and temporal infinity of God (or better, God’s transcending every διάστημα, in LM 30), was developed especially by Gregory Nyssen. He and Evagrius could find the notion of the infinity of God already in Philo. 70 In LM 30 Evagrius maintains that union with God, who is infinite also in the sense of eternal (as Origen highlighted strongly, also using this argument against Christological subordinationism 71) will 69 Deum quidem Patrem semper fuisse, semper habentem unigenitum Filium, qui simul et Sapientia […] appellatur. […] In hac igitur Sapientia, quae semper erat cum Patre, descripta semper inerat ac formata conditio et numquam erat quando eorum, quae futura erant, praefiguratio apud Sapientiam non erat. […] Ut neque ingenitas neque coaeternas Deo creaturas dicamus, neque rursum, cum nihil boni prius egerit Deus, in id ut ageret esse conversum […] Si utique in Sapientia omnia facta sunt, cum Sapientia semper fuerit, secundum praefigurationem et praeformationem semper erant in Sapientia ea, quae protinus etiam substantialiter facta sunt. 70 See Albert Geljon, ‘Divine Infinity in Gregory of Nyssa and Philo of Alexandria,’ Vigiliae Christianae 59 (2005) 152–177; Ramelli, Gregorio di Nissa sull’anima, the second Integrative Essay. 71 See Ramelli, ‘Origen’s Anti-Subordinationism,’ and, for the allimportant implications of God’s eternity on Origen’s philosophy of histo-

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render the logika eternal too, in the end. Gregory Nyssen based his famous doctrine of epektasis, the infinite tension of rational creatures toward God and their eternal growth in beatitude, precisely in this principle of the infinity of God. 72 So Gregory described human τελειότης as ‘wishing to attain ever more in the Good’ (VM 4–5). For ‘no limit could cut short the growth in the ascent to God, since no boundaries can be found to the Good,’ which is God (VM 116). In LM 32 Evagrius criticizes those who assume that habit becomes a second nature, and claims that a habit can chase away another habit. This is the same argument as used by Origen in his polemic against the ‘Gnostics,’ and especially the ‘Valentinians,’ and their deterministic division of humanity into different natures. Origen refuted this view all of his life long, demonstrating exactly that a habit can dispel another habit and one’s allotted state depends on one’s moral choices. Indeed, Origen’s whole protology, eschatology, and doctrine of free will took shape in his refutation of the ‘Gnostic’ theory of different human natures. 73 Evagrius follows Origen in this respect, too. In LM 38–39 Evagrius also receives Origen’s differentiation of beings into sense-perceptible and intelligible. By mentioning ‘this perceptible body,’ composed by God’s Wisdom from the four elements and subject to God’s providence, Evagrius points to another type, or other types, of bodies, which are not sense-perceptible. This is also consistent with Origen’s view and is confirmed by the Syriac text of Evagrius’ KG, in which there is a specific, and so far completely overlooked, terminological differentiation between sense-perceptible, heavy, mortal bodies and spiritual, immortal bodies. I will return to this shortly. In LM 46 Evagrius remarks that humans assumed heavy, mortal bodies because of the original fall, which points to their being previously equipped with either another kind of body or with no body at all. With the fall, ‘they gave up being God’s image and wanted to become the image of animals.’ This account is identical ry and eschatology, The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, section on Origen. 72 The model is Moses in VM 112–113. 73 See my ‘Origen, Bardaisan, and the Origin of Universal Salvation,’ Harvard Theological Review 102 (2009) 135–168.

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to Gregory of Nyssa’s description of the fall and the equipping of humans with mortal bodies, subject to passions and corruption. Gregory, who thought that prior to the fall humans were equipped with angelic bodies, especially in De anima et resurrectione already described this transformation of the angelic into the mortal body as the abandoning of the image of God and getting closer to animals, exactly like Evagrius. This is why at the end of the dialogue Gregory posits as the telos the restoration of the image of God in humans. 74 This is also the outcome foreseen by Evagrius, who in LM 53–55 repeats that God created humans in his image and will never change his will, and moreover wants no one to be lost (2Pet 3:9). This points to the restoration of all human beings. Likewise in Hom. op. 12 Gregory claims that the human intellect is the image of God and transmits the beauty of God’s image to the soul, which in turn transmits it to the body; if the intellect does not tend to God, but to matter, instead of the beauty of God it receives the ugliness of matter. This is evil, insofar as it is the privation of Good and Beauty (καλόν, which in Gregory often designates both 75). The ontological negativity of evil was shared by Origen, Nyssen, and Evagrius. 76 Consistently with his and Nyssen’s idea that with the fall humans gave up the image of God and took up that of animals, in LM 56–58 Evagrius observes that Christ submitted himself to conception and birth, curse and death, to free humans from all this, which is unnatural not only to Christ himself but, in the plan of God, also to humans, since these were not created to share in the life of animals, but in that of God. This will be realized in the telos, with θέωσις. Evagrius indeed thinks of the eventual restoration as entailing deification (θέωσις), to the point of calling it downright ‘the Holy Trinity’ in KG 6.75. to him. 74

See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, the section devoted

See I. Ramelli, ‘Good/Beauty, ἀγαθόν / καλόν,’ in The Brill Dictionary of Gregory of Nyssa, eds. G. Maspero & L.F. Mateo-Seco (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 356–363. 76 See my commentary on KG 1.40–41 in Evagrius’ Kephalaia Gnostika. 75

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In LM 52 Evagrius also appropriates Origen’s idea of the death of the soul, which was drawn from Paul and also present in Philo and early imperial philosophy. 77 Evagrius observes that, as the body dies without food, so does also the soul without virtue (see also De or. 81, cited above). Origen too had posited vice/sin/evil (κακία) as the cause of the death of the soul. Evagrius in LM 60 describes Christ as ‘the leaven of the divinity who, in its goodness, has hidden itself in the unleavened lump of humanity,’ in order to ‘raise the whole lump to all that God is.’ 78 This comes very close to the definition of Christ-Logos by the Christian Middle Platonist Bardaisan of Edessa shortly before Origen’s time: The Logos is the unknown leaven that is hidden in the (human) soul, which is deprived of knowledge and extraneous in respect to both the body and the Logos. If this is the case, the body cannot adhere to the soul, because it is earthly, nor can the soul adhere to the Logos, which is divine. (Ephrem Prose Refutations, 2, p. 158.20ff.)

Bardaisan, like Origen and Evagrius, assigned to humans a spirit or intellect in addition to a body and a soul. The latter, understood as vital soul or soul subject to passions, possesses no knowledge, which is rather proper to the intellect/ logos/spirit, that is, the divine part in each human (as attested in a core fragment from Bardaisan’s De India preserved by Porphyry). 79 Evagrius in the LM likewise states that the Logos and the Spirit of God are active in the human intellect. It is very possible that Evagrius, who entertained the same concept of the tripartition of the human being, and 77 See my ‘1 Tim 5:6 and the Notion and Terminology of Spiritual Death: Hellenistic Moral Philosophy in the Pastoral Epistles,’ Aevum 84 (2010) 3–16, and ‘Spiritual Weakness, Illness, and Death in 1 Cor 11:30,’ Journal of Biblical Literature 130 (2011) 145–163. 78 This seems to be an allusion to Matt 13:33 and Luke 13:21. 79 See my ‘Bardaisan as a Christian Philosopher: A Reassessment of His Christology,’ in Religion in the History of European Culture. Proceedings of the 9th EASR Conference and IAHR Special Conference, 14–17 September 2009, Messina (eds. Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, Augusto Cosentino, and Mariangela Monaca; Palermo: Officina di Studi Medievali, 2013), 873–888.

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the same view of apokatastasis, knew Bardaisan’s thought. Gregory Nyssen certainly did, just as Porphyry and Eusebius did, and probably already Origen. 80 Evagrius’ notion (LM 60) that God, by becoming a human being, allowed all humans to ‘become God’ in the eventual θέωσις has its roots in Origen; later Athanasius developed it, recapitulating this idea at the end of De incarnatione: ‘Christ became a human being so that we could be deified.’ Evagrius appropriates another pivotal idea of Origen in LM 62, where he remarks that to be in the image of God belongs to human nature, but to be in the likeness of God is beyond human nature and is bestowed by grace as a result of one’s own efforts. Also in his Letter to Anatolius, 61 and 18, Evagrius states that the intellectual soul is in the image (εἰκών) of God as an initial datum in humans, while likeness (ὁμοίωσις) must be acquired voluntarily by each one, by means of virtue: ‘Love manifests the divine image, which is conformed to the Archetype (God), in every human […] Your luminous homage to God will be when, by means of the energies of Good that you possess, you will have impressed God’s likeness in yourself.’ Evagrius’ view of image and likeness in these three passages is exactly what Origen already maintained, for instance in Princ. 3.6.1. Here Evagrius seems to adhere more to Origen’s own position than to Gregory Nyssen’s. For the latter, even while receiving Origen’s ‘theology of the image,’ did not insist on the distinction between image as a datum and likeness as a voluntary conquest and a gift of grace. The last sections of LM are devoted to the telos, characterized by ἕνωσις and θέωσις. At LM 63 Evagrius describes this not as natural, but as a gift of grace: for thanks to God’s grace will rational creatures enjoy eternal union with their Creator, after being alienated from God because of the mutability of their free will. Origen 80 See my Bardaisan of Edessa: A Reassessment of the Evidence and a New Interpretation, Also in the Light of Origen and the Porphyrian Fragments from De India (Piscataway: Gorgias, 2009) on the relationship between Origen’s and Bardaisan’s thought, and here 131–142 on Eusebius’s acquaintance with, and Nyssen’s dependence on, Bardaisan. My conclusions are received by Patricia Crone, s.v. ‘Daysanis,’ third edition of Encyclopedia of Islam (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 116–118.

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likewise conceived the eventual restoration as ἕνωσις and as a gift of grace. In Letter 63, Evagrius again emphasises this element of unity, also applying it to the unification of all kinds of knowledge into the ‘essential knowledge’ of which he often speaks in the KG also: ‘all the different and distinct forms of knowledge will fuse together, into one and the same essential knowledge: all of those will become this only knowledge, forever […] the great ark containing all the treasures of wisdom is the heart of Christ, on which John reclined during the Last Supper.’ It is significant that Evagrius chooses here the figure of John, as a symbol of both love and knowledge together, the apex of Christian life. Just because Christ is the ultimate knowledge, being God who is (as we shall see) ‘essential knowledge,’ he is said to be, for all rational creatures, ‘the very telos and ultimate blessedness.’ Likewise in LM 66 Evagrius describes ‘the telos of all intellects’ as ‘the union of all these different knowledges in one and the same, unique real knowledge’ and as ‘they all becoming this one without end.’ The conclusion of the LM depicts God as a compassionate farmer. This is the same theological metaphor used by Gregory of Nyssa in the conclusion of his own De anima et resurrectione. God, the good farmer, takes care even of the most damaged seeds and makes sure that all seeds become fruitful. As a result, ‘the earth will be blessed, and the farmer, the soil, and those who have been fed will sing glory and praise to the First Farmer, to whom all the seeds of blessing belong, in eternity.’ Evagrius shares with Origen and Nyssen the thesis that evil has no ontological consistency, being a lack of Good as a result of a bad use of free will (consistently, Nyssen used among others the agricultural metaphor of ‘empty seeds’). Evagrius expound this theory especially in Περὶ λογισμῶν 19: the cause of sin is not anything endowed with a substantial existence (ὑφεστὸς κατ᾽ οὐσίαν), but it is a pleasure generated by free will, which forces the intellect to make a bad use of God’s creatures. In Cap. Discip. 118, evil is presented again as a byproduct of free will, being described as ‘the movement of free will toward the worse.’ The moral subject is the only one responsible (αἴτιος) for the appearance of evil, as well as for its disappearance (ibid. 165) – a position that goes back to Plato’s myth of Er: αἰτία ἑλομένου, the responsibility is with the moral subject, who makes the moral choice. In KG 1.1, which Evagrius puts forward as a foundation of his metaphysics, he maintains that: ‘There is nothing that is op-

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posed to the first Good, because it is Good in its essence, and nothing is opposed to its essence’ (KG 1.1). Therefore, nothing is opposed to God, and indeed evil, the opposite of God, who is the Good, is nothing, having no ontological consistency, but being merely a negativity. So in KG 1.89 Evagrius claims that: ‘The whole of the rational nature has been naturally made in order to exist, and to be knowing, and God is essential knowledge. The rational nature has non-being as its contrary, and knowledge has wickedness and ignorance as its contrary, but none of these things is contrary to God.’ Evil, like ignorance, cannot be a principle on a par with God and antithetical to God, like the Manichaean sense of evil, but it is rather a lack of the Good that God is, just as ignorance is a lack of the Knowledge that God is; since God is both the Good and Essential Knowledge. In God, thus, we find virtue and knowledge together, which are the respective goals of the πρακτική and γνῶσις. This is the highest point where these converge in Evagrius’ ascetic-’gnostic’ system. Evagrius’ notion of γνῶσις 81 is the direct descendant of Clement’s. Here, γνῶσις in its highest degree is inseparable from θέωσις. The opposite of knowledge for Evagrius is not only ignorance, but also evil (wickedness) (KG 1.89 and passim). For him knowledge is at one with goodness/ virtue and cannot be separated from it; this results from many points in his KG. This is because knowledge cannot intrinsically be knowledge for evil, but only for the Good. Evil belongs with ignorance, and never with knowledge. In Evagrius’ ethical intellectualism, like that of Origen and Nyssen, the choice of evil is a result of an obfuscated knowledge, a lack of 81 See, e.g., Antoine Guillaumont, ‘La vie gnostique selon Évagre le Pontique,’ Annuaire du Collège de France 80 (1979–80) 467–470; Idem, ‘Le gnostique chez Clément d’Alexandrie et chez Évagre,’ in Alexandria: Hellénisme, judaïsme et christianisme à Alexandrie. Mélanges Claude Mondésert (Paris: Cerf, 1987), 195–201 = Études sur la spiritualité de l’Orient chrétien (Begrollesen-Mauges: Bellefontaine, 1996), 151–160. On Evagrius’ theory of a progression from πρακτική to γνωστική and to θεολογική see Idem, ‘Un philosophe au désert: Évagre le Pontique,’ Revue de l’histoire des religions 181 (1972) 29–56 = Aux origines du monachisme chrétien (Begrolles-en-Mauges: Bellefontaine, 1979), 185–212; Kostantinovsky, Evagrius, 27–76.

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knowledge. Lack of knowledge and lack of goodness/virtue go together. But knowledge and virtue/goodness and the lacks thereof have not the same ontological status: in KG 1.41 Evagrius proclaims the metaphysical (and not just chronological and axiological) priority of Good(ness) and virtue over evil (wickedness) and vice: ‘If death comes after life and illness after health, it is clear that evilness, too, is secondary vis-à-vis virtue: for vice is the death and illness of the soul, but virtue comes before.’ Origen had already stated this principle, for instance in Hom. in Ier. 2.1, where he claimed that in all humans, what is in the image of God (that is, virtue) ‘comes before [πρεσβύτερον] the image of evil’ or vice. Evagrius likewise states that virtue is πρεσβύτερον than vice, just as health is prior to illness. Illness, a lack of health and a degeneration of health, is often understood spiritually by Evagrius, just as by Philo and Origen. 82 Evagrius follows in Origen’s footsteps in seeing Christ as the infallible Physician of souls: there is no illness of the soul that the Logos cannot heal, as Origen had it 83 (see, e.g., Evagrius Περὶ λογισμῶν 3 and 10; Schol. 2 in Ps. 102.3; Schol. 9 in Ps. 106.20; Schol. 6 in Ps. 144.15; Schol. 2 in Ps. 145.7; Letters 42; 51; 52; 55; 57; 60). Like Origen and Gregory Nyssen, from the ontological, chronological and axiological priority of Good and virtue over evil and vice Evagrius deduces the eschatological vanishing of the latter in KG 1.40: There was a time when [the state of] evil did not exist, and there will come a time when it will no more exist [ἦν γὰρ ὅτε οὐκ ἦν κακία καὶ ἔσται ὅτε οὐκ ἔσται]. But there was no time when the Good/virtue did not exist, and there will be no time when it will no more exist. For the seed of the good energies is inextinguishable.

This principle is so important to Evagrius that he repeats it identically in Περὶ λογισμῶν 31, Letters 43 and 59, and Schol. 62 in Prov. See my ‘Spiritual Weakness, Illness, and Death.’ On Christ-Logos as the infallible Physician of souls in Origen see my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, the chapter on Origen; in Evagrius see Monica Tobon, ‘The Health of the Soul: ἀπάθεια in Evagrius Ponticus,’ in Studia Patristica 44 (2010) 187–203. 82

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5.14. In the continuation of KG 1.40 and Περὶ λογισμῶν 31 Evagrius buttresses his assertion of the inextinguishability of the germs of virtue with the parable of Dives and Lazarus: ‘I am convinced of this by Dives in the Gospel, who, albeit condemned to hell because of his vice, entertained merciful thoughts toward his siblings, and mercy is the best seed of the energies of the Good’ (see also Praktikos 1.65; PG 40.1240AB). The seeds of virtue (the Good) never die, not even in hell, since they come from God, the Good. But evil was not created by God; this is why it will disappear in the end. This view was strongly advocated by both Origen and Nyssen; the latter in his short commentary on 1Cor 15:28 in In Illud: Tunc et Ipse Filius described the eschatological triumphal March of the Good that will advance and destroy every evil. 84 Evagrius was directly inspired by both Origen and Gregory of Nyssa, and very probably also by the interpretation of the Dives and Lazarus parable given by the Nyssen in De anima et resurrectione. Indeed, Evagrius understands hell in the same ways as Gregory presented it there, i.e. as ‘the darkness of the ignorance of those who cannot contemplate God.’ 85 Hell is interpreted in the same way in KG 6.8 (‘Just as Paradise is the place of instruction for the righteous, so can Sheol produce the torment of the impious,’ with torment as opposed to instruction and therefore consisting in ignorance) and Gnostikos 36: ‘The highest doctrine concerning the Judgement should remain unknown to mundane and young people, in that it can easily produce scorn and neglect. For they do not know that the suffering of a rational soul condemned to punishment consists in ignorance.’ Here Evagrius voices the same concern as Origen did 86 about the divulgation of his eschatology to morally immature people. 84 Full commentary on this short treatise in my Gregorio di Nissa sull’Anima. 85 Philokalia. Testi di ascetica e mistica della Chiesa orientale (ed. Giovanni Vannucci; Florence, 1978), 49. 86 Ilaria Ramelli, ‘Origen’s Exegesis of Jeremiah: Resurrection Announced throughout the Bible and its Twofold Conception,’ Augustinianum 48 (2008) 59–78, and Mark S.M. Scott, ‘Guarding the Mysteries of Salvation: The Pastoral Pedagogy of Origen’s Universalism,’ Journal of Early Christian Studies 18 (2010) 347–368 insist on Origen’s prudence in dis-

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While the torments of hell consist in ignorance, bliss is perfect γνῶσις and θεωρία of God. One major Biblical passage with which Evagrius buttressed his apokatastasis theory is 1Tim 2:4–6: ‘The ‘gnostic’ must be neither sad nor hostile: for the former attitude is proper to those who do not know what Scriptures say concerning that which is to happen; the latter, of those who do not want ‘all humans to be saved and reach the knowledge of the truth’’ (Gnostikos 22). One must want all humans to attain the knowledge of the truth and be saved, which is what God wants. Evagrius on the basis of Scripture and Neoplatonism draws an equation between salvation, blessedness, and knowledge/contemplation. In KG 1.27 in particular he lists five forms of θεωρία: The contemplation of God the Trinity, The contemplation of incorporeal realities, The contemplation of bodies, The contemplation of the Judgement, and The contemplation of divine Providence.

As I have demonstrated in my commentary, these five contemplations are likely arranged, not in a hierarchical order, from God down to lower and lower realities, as is generally assumed 87 (since it is not clear that the contemplation of Providence, for instance, is lower than that of the Judgement or that of bodies) but rather in a ‘historical’ order. The list begins with God who is the principle of all; it passes on to the creation of intelligent beings, and then to that of material bodies, until the judgements that close every aeon, closing the apokatastasis doctrine to the simple. The latter are the morally immature, those who do good out of fear of punishment and not out of love of the Good, who is God. Origen and Nyssen seem to me to have used two different strategies, while sharing the same eschatological doctrine. Whereas Origen used the strategy of not telling immature people about the eventual salvation of all, because he was aware of the moral danger this can entail, Nyssen wished to tell everybody (and did so in his Oratio Catechetica), but through Macrina he also warned people that evil is hard to purify and the ultramundane sufferings of the wicked will be long and atrocious. 87 Konstantinovsky, Evagrius Ponticus, 48.

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up to the last Judgement that will conclude all aeons, and finally God’s Providence that accompanies creatures during all aeons and that will overcome in the end, at the eventual restoration of all, after all aeons and all judgements. Providence comes after the Judgment and completes it; it does not contradict it, because God’s justice is not at odds with God’s Providence, as Origen also thought. This synergy of Judgment and Providence, of divine justice and divine mercy, was stressed above all by Origen, who had to polemicize against the separation of divine justice and divine mercy hypothesized by ‘Gnostics’ and Marcionites. 88 For Origen, too, the triumph of divine justice is in the judgments after the aeons, and the triumph of divine mercy and Providence will be the eventual apokatastasis. Not accidentally, in Gnostikos 48 Evagrius quotes with deep veneration and admiration a saying by a faithful follower of Origen, Didymus the Blind, concerning the necessity of meditating both God’s judgement and God’s Providence: Always exercise yourself in the meditation of the doctrines concerning Providence and Judgement – said Didymus, the great ‘gnostic’ teacher – and endeavour to remember their materials, since almost all people err in these topics. As for the rationale of Judgement, you will find that this lies in the variety of bodies and worlds; that concerning Providence, instead, lies in the turns that from evilness and ignorance bring us back to virtue or knowledge [ἐν τοῖς τρόποις τοῖς ἀπὸ κακίας καὶ ἀγνωσίας ἐπὶ τὴν ἀρετὴν ἢ ἐπὶ τὴν γνῶσιν].

Providence restores rational creatures to virtue and knowledge; its work will be concluded when this restoration will be universal. Evagrius never separates the idea of the Judgement, with the retribution of rational creatures’ deeds and passions or virtues, 89 from that of God’s Providence, which is prior to that of the Judgement, because it was anterior to the fall, which brought about the necessity of the Judgement: ‘The rationale concerning the Judgement is gen.

88

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See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, the section on Ori-

See, e.g., KG 4.33; 4.38; 6.57.

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secondary, as has been said, vis-à-vis that concerning movement and that concerning Providence’ (KG 5.24). The rationale concerning the movement is rational creatures’ free will, which is a gift of God; this is more important than the Judgment and is prior to the fall, even if it did cause the fall (but not by necessity; indeed, in the end free will shall abide, but it will cause no fall any more). From Schol. 8 in Ps. 138.16 as well it is clear that for Evagrius God’s Judgement is inseparable from God’s Providence: here too, the logoi of Providence and Judgement are joined. Providence cares for the spiritual healing of rational creatures and operates on their intellects, which take care of their own souls (KP 82). This healing is salvific, because it destroys sins (KG 1.28). Evagrius is exactly on Origen’s line in thinking that divine providence, which is universally salvific, is not in the least at odds with individual free will, but divine justice rewards each one according to his or her deeds, and divine providence operates at the same time, always allowing each one’s will to be free: ‘God’s Providence accompanies the freedom of will, whereas God’s Judgement takes into consideration the order of rational creatures’ (KG 6.43). The close affinity with Origen’s thinking in this respect is clear; Origen, for instance, declared: ‘Providence acts in favour of each one, and at the same time it respects each one’s freedom of will’ (Princ. 3.5.8). I have already highlighted how for Evagrius virtue and knowledge go hand in hand. The close connection between the πρακτική, aiming at apatheia as the compendium of all virtues, and knowledge is highlighted in KP 2–3: ‘The Kingdom of Heavens is impassivity in the soul, along with the true knowledge of beings. The Kingdom of God is the knowledge [γνῶσις] of the Holy Trinity, which proceeds along with the intellect’s getting closer to it.’ The intellect’s getting closer and closer to God and acquiring ever further knowledge parallels Nyssen’s epecstatic process 90. The 90 See my ‘Apokatastasis and Epektasis in Nyssen’s Hom. in Cant.: The Relation between Two Core Doctrines in Gregory and Roots in Origen,’ Forthcoming in the Proceedings of the XIII International Colloquium on Gregory of Nyssa, Rome, 17–20 September 2014, ed. Giulio Maspero (Leiden: Brill, 2015).

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knowledge of the Trinity is the highest; the knowledge of created beings is the knowledge of their logoi, their paradigmatic reasons and metaphysical forms. Evagrius cites, not accidentally, Antony the Great, the model of asceticism, as an authority with regard to the contemplation of creation aimed at the knowledge ‘of the nature [φύσις] of creatures’ (Praktikos 92). The knowledge of the Trinity is an end (telos) in itself, unlike the knowledge of creatures which is aimed at the superior knowledge of the Creator: ‘Let us do everything for the sake of the knowledge of God’ (KP 32). The ultimate end of human life is knowledge. This is also based on the aforementioned 1Tim 2:4–6, where knowledge of the truth is tantamount to salvation, and Matth 5:8 (‘Blessed are the pure of heart, because they will see God’) quoted in Letter 56. Thus, seeing God, (i.e. knowing God) is blessedness: Jesus ‘proclaims them blessed not because of their purity, but because of their seeing God; for purity is the ἀπάθεια of the rational soul, whereas seeing God is the true γνῶσις of the Holy Trinity, who must be adored.’ All rational creatures, according to Evagrius, will reach the knowledge of God and the ultimate blessedness. Like Origen and Nyssen, Evagrius maintained that all rational creatures belong to the same nature and were created equal, but have become differentiated into angels, humans, or demons due to their different choices. Humans, through the exercise of free will, can become good like angels (‘the better transformation’) or evil like demons, being intermediate between angels and demons (KG 4.13; 5.9–11). Spiritual death reigns over demons, spiritual life over angels; humans are ruled by both life and death (KG 4.65). Even if humans and demons have chosen evil to different extents, none of the logika is evil by nature, according to Evagrius just as to Origen and Nyssen (KG 4.59). If they were evil by nature, God would be responsible for evil, which would contradict Origen’s, Gregory’s, and Evagrius’ theodicy. The three categories of logika have three kinds of relation to the θεωρία of beings: angels are nourished by it always, humans not always, and demons never (KG 3.4). But at the final restoration, all rational creatures, freed from evil, will enjoy contemplation and knowledge, eternally.

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Evagrius sides here with Origen and Nyssen, though it is usually assumed that he stresses the intellectual aspect more. 91 Evagrius, however, does not regard θεωρία as separate from ἀγάπη, the latter being prominent in apokatastasis according to both Origen and the Nyssen (Origen especially in his Commentary on Romans and in the Commentary on the Song of Songs, Gregory in De anima et resurrectione and in Homilies on the Song of Songs). 92 In KG 1.86 indeed love and knowledge are inseparable: ‘Love is the perfect state of the rational soul, a state in which the soul cannot love anything which is among corruptible beings more than the knowledge of God.’ Gregory of Nyssa very probably inspired Evagrius with the notion of the inseparability of knowledge and love. For Gregory in De an. 96C places knowledge and love together at the highest level, within the divine life: ‘The life of the divine nature is ἀγάπη, since Beauty/Goodness is absolutely loveable to those who know it. Now the divine knows itself, and this knowledge [γνῶσις] becomes ἀγάπη.’ In addition, for Evagrius, as for the Nyssen, ἀγάπη is no πάθος but impassivity: ‘ἀγάπη is the bond of impassivity and the expunging of passions […] ἀγάπη possesses nothing of its own apart from God, for God is ἀγάπη itself’ (Eul. 22). The link between ἀπάθεια and ἀγάπη is also stressed in Praktikos 8: ‘ἀγάπη is the progeny of impassivity’ and especially in Ep. Ad Anat. 8, where Evagrius emphasises the passage from apatheia (the fruit of asceticism) to love and from love to knowledge and thence beatitude: Faith, o child, is steadied by the fear of God, and the latter in turn by continence [ἐγκράτεια]. Continence is made unshakable by patient endurance and hope [ὑπομονὴ καὶ ἐλπίς]: from these impassivity is born [ἀπάθεια], which brings into being charity-love [ἀγάπη]. Love is the door to the knowledge of nature, which leads to theology [θεολογία] and the ultimate blessedness. 93 91 See Hans Urs von Balthasar, ‘Metaphysik und Mystik des Evagrius Pontikus,’ Zeitschrift für Askese und Mystik (1939) 31–47; Brian Daley, The Hope of the Early Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 91. 92 See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, sections on Origen and Nyssen. 93 Translation from Dysinger with some alterations.

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So apatheia and love are depicted as a joint between praktikē and gnōsis. Precisely because ἀγάπη is no pathos, this is why it will abide in the end: ἀγάπη is the life of God, who is supremely free from passions and is perfect knowledge. The same close connection between ἀγάπη and γνῶσις is established in KG 4.50, where the good and eternal love is said to be that which true knowledge elects, and which is inseparable from the intellect, and in KG 3.58, where spiritual love is declared to be necessary for one to learn the wisdom of beings. Just as there is no knowledge without virtue for Evagrius, so is there no knowledge without love; for love plays in knowledge the same role as light does in vision (KG 3.58). 94 As I have mentioned, for Evagrius the opposite of knowledge is ignorance, but this in turn is ‘the shadow of evil’: only after the elimination of evil will ignorance also disappear from rational creatures (KG 4.29), at the final restoration. All rational creatures will experience this restoration. All will come to the ultimate end, which is knowledge (KG 3.72), which in turn is inseparable from virtue/goodness and love. Like Origen and Gregory Nyssen, Evagrius interprets 1Cor 15:24–28 as a voluntary, universal submission that implies universal salvation. This will take place through virtue and knowledge: Christ’s two feet are the πρακτική, i.e. the pursuit of virtue, and θεωρία; if Christ ‘puts all enemies under his feet’ (1Cor 15:25), then ‘all’ will ultimately acquire virtue and contemplation. ‘The whole nature of rational creatures’ will submit to the Lord (KG 6.27), this universal submission implying again universal salvation. Origen drew this equation between universal submission and universal salvation commenting on 1Cor 15:28, which was later developed by Nyssen in his own commentary on 1Cor 15:28, 95 and was appropriated by Evagrius again with 1Cor 15:28 in mind. For Evagrius the sentence ‘for he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet’ (1Cor 15:25) means that Christ will have to continue reigning ‘until all the 94 On Evagrius’ theology of light see at least Konstantinovsky, Evagrius, 77–108. 95 See my ‘Christian Soteriology and Christian Platonism’ and ‘The Trinitarian Theology.’

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unrighteous [ἄδικοι] have become righteous [δίκαιοι]’ (Schol. in Ps. 21.29). If Sel. in Ps. 21, preserved in Greek under the name of Origen, is authentic, then Evagrius was repeating Origen’s exegesis literally: ‘‘He must reign until he has put all enemies under his feet’ means ‘until all the unrighteous have become righteous.’’ That this passage is indeed Origen’s is very likely since another, surely authentic, passage from Origen, Comm. in Rom. 9.41.8, states the very same thing, interpreting again 1Cor 15:25–28 together with Phil 2:10: But when Christ has ‘handed the Kingdom to God the Father’ (1Cor 15:28), that is, presented to God as an offer all, converted and reformed, and has fully performed the mystery of the reconciliation of the world, then they will be in God’s presence, that God’s word may be fulfilled: ‘Because I live – the Lord says – every knee will bend before Me, every tongue will glorify God’ (Isa 45:23). The voluntary nature of the final submission, indicated by the glorification, explains why universal submission for Origen, Eusebius, Nyssen, and Evagrius will coincide with universal salvation. Origen insisted that Christ’s reign, during which he will submit all, will finally achieve the conversion and salvation of all. This view was espoused by Eusebius as well, when he spoke of the θεραπευτική and διορθωτικὴ βασιλεία of Christ, during which he will heal all those who will be still spiritually ill and will make righteous all those who will still be unrighteous. 96 Julia Konstantinovsky has suggested 97 that Evagrius was original in this respect, but in fact he was following Origen, Eusebius, and Gregory Nyssen. Evagrius, like Origen, claims that Christ destroys the unrighteous by transforming them into righteous: ‘Once the impious have ceased to be such, they will become righteous [δίκαιοι]. Indeed, in See my ‘Origen, Eusebius, and the Doctrine of Apokatastasis,’ in Eusebius of Caesarea: Traditions and Innovations (eds. Aaron Johnson & Jeremy Schott; Hellenic Studies 60; Cambridge, MA: Center for Hellenic Studies Press of Harvard University Press, 2013), 307–323. 97 Konstantinovsky, Evagrius, 157: ‘’He must reign till he has put all enemies under his feet.’ How this is to happen, however, constitutes Evagrius’ originality. The defeat of Christ’s enemies will come about when all the wicked, including evil men, demons, and the devil himself, become righteous.’ But her book as a whole is very good. 96

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this passage [Ps 28:28] ‘destruction’ [ἀπώλεια] means the vanishing of the impiety of that man. Precisely in this way, the Lord brought about the destruction of the publican Matthew, by giving him the grace of righteousness’ (Schol. in Prov. 355). Evagrius defines righteousness (δικαιοσύνη) in Praktikos 89: its task ‘is to generate the symphony and harmony of all parts of the soul.’ This definition derives from Plato’s definition of justice (δικαιοσύνη), but Evagrius’ idea that the destruction of the unrighteous performed by Christ is their transformation into righteous comes from Origen. Even the examples Evagrius adduces of this destructiontransformation are the same as Origen’s: that of Matthew the publican transformed by the Lord into a righteous man, which is adduced in the scholion quoted above, and that of Paul ‘the persecutor,’ transformed by the Lord into an apostle of Christ, adduced by Evagrius in Schol. in Ps. 17.8–9. Evagrius here identifies the fire from the face of the Lord (Psalm 17:8–9) with God’s ‘destroying evil habits,’ so as to transform people into better persons. Evagrius adduces the examples of Matthew, who was a publican, and of Paul, who was ‘a persecutor and violent,’ but became an apostle of Christ and righteous. Likewise Origen in Hom. in Ier. 1.15–16: ‘Who is the person whom ‘I (the Lord) shall kill?’ It is Paul the informer, Paul the persecutor; and ‘I shall make him live,’ that he may become Paul the apostle of Jesus Christ.’ Origen and Evagrius express the same ideas and use the same examples. Also, Evagrius’ interpretation of God’s fire as God’s burning away evil from sinners, which Evagrius offers again in Schol. in Ps. 17.8–9 and elsewhere, is the same as Origen’s (e.g. CC 6.70; Hom. in Ier. 1.15–16) and the metaphor of God’s destroying evil and planting a new garden in its place, used by Evagrius in Schol. in Ps. 43.3 (‘God eradicates evil and ignorance, and instead plants virtue and knowledge’), is identical to that used by Origen in Hom. in Ier. 1.16: sin and vice, in all its varieties, will be eradicated, so that upon the ruins of evil God may plant the garden of the Good, the new Paradise. Likewise 1Cor 15:24–28 and John 17:21–22, the most important scriptural proofs Evagrius adduces in support of apokatastasis, are the same with which Origen primarily buttressed it: the submission of all enemies and the annihilation of evil and death during Christ’s reign, the handing over of the Kingdom to the Father, and the unity, when God will be ‘all in all.’ This is also the basis of Origen’s and Evagrius’ distinction between the Kingdom

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of Christ and the Kingdom of God, the latter being the ultimate reality: ‘They say the Kingdom of Christ is every material knowledge, while that of God the Father is immaterial knowledge’ (Letter 63). Origen already identified the Kingdom of Christ with the contemplation of the logoi of salvation and the accomplishment of the works of justice and the other virtues, and the Kingdom of God with the blessed, perfect condition of the intellect (De or. 25). The Kingdom of Christ is absorbed into the Kingdom of God. For Evagrius, at the end of all aeons, 98 in the telos, all will submit to Christ, who will entrust all to God (according to Origen’s interpretation of 1Cor 15:28) and thus all will be brought to unity and salvation. When Christ will no longer be impressed in various aeons and names, then he too will submit to the Father (1Cor 15:28), and rejoice in the knowledge of God alone (KG 6.33). This knowledge is not divided into aeons and increments of rational creatures, because after the end of all aeons rational creatures will have stopped increasing. Then the fullness of God’s absolute eternity (ἀϊδιότης) will remain. During the aeons rational creatures will acquire more and more knowledge, with a view to the knowledge of the Trinity (KG 6.67), and at the end, after the aeons, God will have them acquire the essential knowledge of God (KG 6.34). Evagrius adheres closely to Origen when he maintains that the succession of aeons had a beginning and will have an end. E.g. in KG 5.89 he declares that the creation of the first aeon was not preceded by a destruction, and so also the destruction of the last aeon will not be followed by a new aeon. Aeons are necessary to rational creatures’ spiritual and intellectual development. Only once they are perfect will God bestow his goods on them, otherwise they would be unable to receive God’s richness (KG 4.38). Each aeon begins with the end of the preceding one, when a Judgement takes place about the moral choices made by rational creatures during the preceding aeon. In this Judgement, Christ establishes the role and the kind of body that each rational 98 See my ‘Aἰώνιος and Αἰών in Origen and Gregory of Nyssa,’ in Studia Patristica XLVII (eds. Jane Baun, Averil Cameron, Mark Edwards, Markus Vinzent; Leuven: Peeters, 2010), 57–62; Eadem, The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, the chapter on Origen.

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creature will have in the following aeon, on the basis of the moral and spiritual development of each one (KG 3.38; cf. 3.47). Thus, the number of judgments corresponds to the number of aeons (KG 2.75). A Judgment is the creation of an aeon that allots bodies to every intellectual creature according to its moral and spiritual development (Schol. 275 in Prov. 24.22). The division of rational creatures into angels, humans, and demons, and their assignment to different places or states, is the result of every Judgment, so ‘the exact knowledge of these realms/states and the different bodies [allotted to angels, humans, and demons] consists in the logoi regarding the Judgement’ (Schol. 2 in Ps. 134.6). We receive knowledge according to our state’ (Schol. 8 in Eccl. 2.10), and each aeon is aimed at the knowledge of God on the part of rational creatures: ‘An aeon is a natural system that includes the various and different bodies of rational creatures, for the sake of the knowledge of God’ (KG 3.36). Here Evagrius’ definition of αἰών as a ‘natural system’ also depends on Origen. Virtue, the Good, ‘will consume evil, and this will come to pass in the future aeon, until evilness will vanish’ (In Prov. p. 108.9). So the future aeon(s) will last until all evil is eliminated. The eschatological triumphal march of the Good, which progressively conquers evil and consumes it, was already described by Evagrius’ inspirer, Gregory of Nyssa, in In illud: Tunc et ipse Filius. According to Evagrius, during the aeons angels help other rational creatures to attain salvation – as also Origen and Nyssen thought – by means of instruction, exhortation, and the liberation from passions, evil, and ignorance (KG 6.35). For the intellects of the heavenly powers are ‘pure and full of science’ (KG 3.5) and have learnt ‘the intellections that concern Providence, by means of which they quickly push the creatures who are inferior to them toward virtue and the knowledge of God’ (KG 6.76). Note once again the association of virtue and knowledge in the telos that rational creatures must pursue. Evagrius in KG 6.86 specifically lists the different strategies used by angels in their activity of assistance to the work of salvation. The process of improvement and purification that must precede universal apokatastasis involves an amount of suffering proportionate to the amount of sins of each one. Punishment through fire purifies the part of the soul that is liable to passions (KG 3.18), whereas the rational soul needs instruction. The principle that suffering decreed by God is purifying was anticipated by Clement of

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Alexandria and consistently upheld by Origen and Gregory Nyssen; Evagrius took this over from them. The wheat in Matth 3:12 is allegorized by Evagrius as virtue, the chaff as wickedness or vice, and the aeon to come as a purifying instrument that will attract the chaff to itself, thus cleaning sinners from vice (KG 2.26). Consistently with his threefold anthropology, Evagrius distinguishes three kinds of resurrection, each of which is a kind of restoration to the perfect state: the resurrection of the body, or the restoration of the corruptible into an incorruptible body (KG 5.19); The resurrection of the soul, that is the restoration from a passible to an impassible soul (KG 5.22); and the resurrection of the intellect, or the restoration of the intellect from ignorance to true knowledge (KG 5.25), that is, from illness to health (KG 2.15), which happens when it receives contemplation (theōria). Like Origen’s and the Nyssen’s, Evagrius’ idea of the resurrection is holistic, involving the whole of the human being, including its soul, which will be freed from passions, and its intellect, which will be vivified by knowledge, since its life is knowledge (Evagrius identifies knowledge with life, since human life was intended for knowledge: KG 1.73). The eventual resurrection-restoration is in fact a total vivification of the dead (KG 5.20), including the spiritual resurrection of those who have died because of sin and ignorance. This is made possible by Christ, for Evagrius as for all the main patristic supporters of apokatastasis. 99 Evagrius stresses in many passages the indispensable role Christ plays in the process of the restoration of all, with his inhumanation, teaching, death, and resurrection, and Christ’s activity as Logos, Wisdom, Teacher and Physician. Now this depends on the fullness of humanity and divinity in Christ, as Origen, Gregory Nyssen, and Gregory Nazianzen also thought. According to Evagrius, too, Christ is fully God in his divine nature (as I have demonstrated he affirmed, above) and fully logikon and fully human together. He is Life, the Logos of God, and the Wisdom of God. The telos of all rational creatures is the Divinity, who created them for Godself, and Christ, the Wisdom of God, grows in rational creatures (KG 4.1). To allow all rational creatures to return to God, Christ took upon himself the 99

Demonstration in my: The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis.

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very nature of a logikon, died, and was resurrected, calling all to life eternal: this is exactly why he is the Savior (KG 4.26). As Origen had already understood, 100 Christ’s resurrection includes also the resurrection and restoration of all rational creatures, who are now dead because they are unrighteous: in them the justice of God is dead (KG 1.90). But they will be resurrected and be made righteous. For Christ ‘makes’ justice, both because he is the judge and because he is the agent of the justification of rational creatures by means of his sacrifice and of his eschatological reign of instruction and purification. Christ’s justice is evident in the partial Judgements that take place after each aeon, and in which each rational creature is assigned a given body and place in the world according to its spiritual progress, but Christ’s mercy is evident from the fact that he extends divine Providence to all, including those who would not deserve it (KG 2.59) and turns even fools from evilness to virtue (KG 1.72). As I have mentioned, the logoi of judgment for Evagrius are always followed by the logoi of Providence. These logoi of Providence indeed have to do with ‘how Christ leads the rational nature throughout the aeons up to the union of the Holy Unity’ (KG 4.89). Christ is teacher of wisdom to rational creatures (KG 3.57), using mortal bodies to this end: bodies are a valuable instrument in the process of the instruction of intellects that will lead to restoration, as I have mentioned in connection with the LM. Not only does Christ instruct rational creatures, but he also purifies them, with a view to their restoration; this is alluded to by ‘the houses of the impious will receive purification’ (KG 3.9). Only thanks to Christ’s work can Evagrius speak of the eventual participation of all (including those who are now in hell) in the life of the Trinity, ‘the accom-plishment/restoration (apokatastasis) of the orbit of all’ (KG 3.60). What escaped Guillaumont and the other commentators is that Evagrius here is playing on the astronomical meaning of the word ἀποκατάστασις, signifying a return of all the 100 See my ‘Cristo-Logos in Origene: ascendenze filoniane, passaggi in Bardesane e Clemente, e negazione del subordinazionismo,’ in Dal Logos dei Greci e dei Romani al Logos di Dio. Ricordando Marta Sordi (eds. Alfredo Valvo & Roberto Radice; Milan: Vita e Pensiero, 2011), 295–317.

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stars to their original position after the end of a cosmic cycle, a meaning that Evagrius symbolically applies to the eventual restoration of all rational creatures, both those who are in heaven and those who are in hell. 101 Reaching the final unity and delighting in contemplation together with Christ will correspond to participating in divine life or θέωσις (KG 4.8). The ultimate end is described as the knowledge of Unity in KG 3.72 and 4.18. Evagrius, like Origen and Gregory Nyssen, within the framework of Platonism, posits the absolute metaphysical and gnoseological pre-eminence of the Unity (KG 2.3), which characterises both the beginning and the end. 102 This pre-eminence is evident, for instance, in KG 1.19, where the divinity itself is described as ‘the One,’ and the one ‘who only is.’ In KG 3.1–2 and 3.11 Evagrius describes the Father as ‘unique in Unity,’ and the Son as ‘Monad and Unity/Henad.’ Christ is the only one who has the Unity/Henad in himself, in his divine nature; the incorporeal nature both shows the Wisdom of the Unity (this Wisdom being Christ) and is susceptible of the Unity (to the highest degree in the final deification). Similarly, in KG 4.21 Christ only is said to sit to his Father’s right, which indicates ‘the Monad and the Unity/Henad.’ It seems to me clear enough that Evagrius was once again inspired by Origen and his metaphysical principle, that God is Monad and Henad (Princ. 1.1.6). Evagrius explains that: ‘The Monad and Henad/Unity indicates the simple and incomprehensible substance’ of God (Ep. de fide 2.41–42). The eventual Unity will be deification: all rational creatures will be gods: ‘In the Unity there will be no leaders, nor (others) submitted to leaders, but all of them will be gods … There will be only pure intellects who continually satiate themselves from its impossibility to satiate’ (KG 4.51 and 1.65). They will never be entirely satiated in their longing, because of the infinity of God. Origen had already insisted that there will be no κόρος for intellectual creatures in the final apokatastasis, because of perfect love after its manifestation in Christ: this was still lacking in the beginning, when rational creatures fell. Evagrius’ conception Full demonstration in my commentary on this kephalaion in Evagrius’ Kephalaia Gnostika. 102 See Ramelli, ‘Harmony between arkhē and telos.’ 101

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also reflects the Nyssen’s notion of epecstatic progress, which is also based on that concept of absence of satiety, which the infinity of God makes possible. The unity that characterizes the telos also was in the arkhē, but the latter was unstable (according to Origen, because it was before the manifestation of the love of God in Christ), and many logika fell from it. The eventual unity, instead, will be stable and eternal. God’s first creation was of ‘primary beings,’ intelligent creatures, who originally dwelt in a unity of concord that is now lost and will be recovered permanently in the telos. That unity is also described as essential knowledge, which is the definition of God the Trinity. A differentiation of the intellects’ acts of will broke the unity and, as a consequence, the intellects became souls. In KG 3.28, which provides a parallel to the protology of the LM, Evagrius speaks of sin and vice as ‘carelessness,’ as Origen had repeatedly done. After the transformation of intellects into souls, God equipped them with mortal, heavy bodies subject to passions in the case of humans, or dark, immortal bodies subject to passions in the case of demons. This second creation, of ‘secondary realities,’ resulted from the first judgement, operated by Christ, as the first of a series of judgments, each of which will follow an aeon. Christ divided rational creatures into angels, humans, and demons, in accord with the gravity of their falls, and transformed their bodies accordingly as well. This second creation, according to Evagrius as well as to Origen, 103 is not evil: ‘none of the mortal bodies should be declared to be evil’ (KG 3.53). Evil only arises from wrong moral choices. The secondary creation, as I have already mentioned, far from being evil, is rather a providential strategy excogitated by God to help the restoration of souls to intellects. Now bodies are of various kinds, and a regularly neglected 104 terminological distinction in 103 For Origen see my ‘Preexistence of Souls? The ἀρχή and τέλος of Rational Creatures in Origen and Some Origenians,’ in Studia Patristica LVI, vol. 4 (ed. Markus Vinzent; Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 167–226. 104 Even in such insightful papers such as Julia Konstantinovsky, ‘Soul and Body in Early Christian Thought: A Unified Duality?’ Studia Patristica 44 (2010) 349–355.

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the Syriac version of the KG needs to be pointed out here, since it bears on the exact interpretation of Evagrius’ anthropology and, consequently, of his ascetic system. One noun, pgr’, which in Syriac also means ‘corpse,’ refers to fleshly, heavy, and mortal bodies, whereas the other, gwšm’, also includes immortal, incorruptible, and fine bodies. In the original Greek there may have been a distinction, sometimes, between σάρξ and σῶμα (both terms that in his extant Greek works Evagrius uses frequently), though the Syriac in the KG translates σάρξ with yet a third term. Evagrius, like Origen and the Neoplatonists, 105 may also have added adjectives to σῶμα to detail which kind of body he was meaning. He does so, for instance, in some passages that are preserved in Greek: in De vitiis quae opposita sunt virtutibus, a treatise preserved under the name of Nilus of Ancyra, PG 79.1144.45: ἐν φθαρτῷ σώματι, which indicates the corruptible, mortal body; in De octo spiritibus malitiae, another treatise preserved under the name of Nilus, PG 79.1148.19: νεκρωθὲν σῶμα, which designates the dead body, like pgr’, and ibid. 79.1148.20: σῶμα νεκρόν, which is a synonym of the previous expression. In De malignis cogitationibus, also handed down under the name of Nilus, 25.10 Evagrius is speaking of the process of senseperception and of the intellections of sense-perceptible objects: in this process a basic role is played by ‘this organic body,’ which is the mortal body, endowed with organs of sense perception, and conceived as an instrument (ὄργανον) of the soul: διὰ τοῦ ὀργανικοῦ σώματος τούτου. Earlier translators of the KG, such as Guillaumont, Dysinger, and Fr. Theophanes, rendered both Syriac terms ‘body/corps’ (though only Guillaumont really translated from the Syriac; the others tended to translate from his French), but in my translation and commentary I have carefully and consistently differentiated the two. Indeed, many other clues show that Evagrius, like Origen, Gregory Nyssen, and most Neoplatonists, thought of different kinds of bodies. E.g. in LM 38–39 he speaks of ‘this senseperceptible body,’ assembled by God’s Wisdom out of the four elements, thereby suggesting that there are also bodies that are not 105 See my ‘Iamblichus, De anima 38 (66.12‒15 Finamore/Dillon): A Resolving Conjecture,’ Rheinisches Museum (2013).

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sense-perceptible, as Origen also thought. Likewise, in the Greek text of Praktikos 49 Evagrius describes the intellect as ‘naturally constituted for prayer even without this body’ (and not: ‘without the body’ tout court), which points again to another kind of body. In the same way in Praktikos 53.4 he speaks of those who have reached the impassivity of the soul ‘through this body’ (οἱ τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς ἀπάθειαν διὰ τοῦ σώματος τούτου κτησάμενοι), since of course the exercise of praktikē for the attainment of apatheia does not apply to creatures endowed with spiritual bodies. And again in Exp. in Prov. p. 102.12 Evagrius blames those who accuse ‘this body,’ i.e. the mortal body, and thereby insult or offend the creator: τοὺς κατηγοροῦντας ἡμῶν τοῦτο τὸ σῶμα καὶ τὸν δημιουργὸν ἐνυβρίζοντας. Also, in KG 5.19 Evagrius describes the resurrection of the body as a passage from a bad to a good quality, i.e. from corruptible and mortal to incorruptible and immortal. This indicates that at least the bodies of the resurrection will be different from the mortal bodies. And because the resurrection is for Evagrius a restoration to the original state, the restoration of the body to the ‘better quality’ points to the original existence of an incorruptible body. Indeed, in KG 3.36 Evagrius overtly mentions ‘the various and different bodies of rational creatures,’ which implies the existence of bodies that are not mortal, heavy, and fleshly as those of humans in the present, fallen state. Likewise in the Greek fragments from the Gnostikos 48.5 Evagrius speaks of ‘the difference of the bodies’ as a result of the logoi of the judgment (τοὺς μὲν περὶ κρίσεως λόγους ἐν τῇ διαφορᾷ τῶν σωμάτων). This again indicates that different kinds of bodies are allotted to rational creatures as a result of the judgment concerning their moral choices in the past aeon. Evagrius actually remarks on the bodies of angels and those of demons, not only in the KG, but also in works preserved in Greek, e.g. in De malignis cogitationibus 33.12: ψυχρὰ γὰρ λίαν τὰ τῶν δαιμόνων σώματα καὶ κρυστάλλῳ παρεμφερῆ, ‘demonic bodies are extremely cold and somewhat similar to ice.’ These bodies are not fleshly like ours, and indeed are not mortal, and have just an appearance of shape: μορφῆς γλύμμα φορεῖ ἄσαρκος δαίμων; ‘a demon without flesh brings about an impression/appearance of shape’ (Tractatus ad Eulogium PG 79.1117.25). In KG 6.17, Evagrius Platonically distinguishes the incorporeal nature from the corporeal one, and, according to the Syriac

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translation and its terminology of bodies, this distinction seems to be absolute: there are beings that are corporeal, i.e. endowed with any kind of body, thicker or finer, mortal or immortal (gwšm’), and there are realities that are absolutely incorporeal, i.e. without any kind of body, either fine or thick. God, for both Evagrius and Origen, is absolutely incorporeal. In KG 6.20 God is said to have created first the first creation, that of incorporeal realities, including rational creatures, of whom God is the Father; and then the second, that of bodies, which came after the ‘movement’ of rational creatures, that is, after they began to direct their wills in different directions, instead of orienting them only toward the Good. The first creation is kept distinct from the second also in KG 4.58: God the Father, while creating rational creatures, was in nobody and nothing, whereas while creating the corporeal nature and the aeons He was in his Christ, the creative Logos. Thus, when Christ created the aeons and the bodies had God in himself, so that, on account of Christ’s divine nature, we cannot speak of an inferior creative agent, different from God, for bodies. In KG 3.19 the ontological distinction between incorporeal and corporeal realities brings about a parallel gnoseological distinction between the primary and the secondary contemplation, the former immaterial, the latter being in matter. The same distinction between two kinds of know-ledge and two kinds of creation is kept in KG 3.24 and 3.26: the knowledge of the primary nature is the spiritual contemplation which the Creator used in creating the intellects, which alone are susceptible of the divine nature. And the knowledge concerning the secondary nature is a spiritual contemplation that Christ used in creating bodies and aeons. God’s science or knowledge produced primary beings, i.e. intellectual realities; secondary beings, bodies, only came after the afore-mentioned ‘movement’ of rational creatures’ free wills (KG 1.50). Moses’ account of creation in Genesis, according to Evagrius (and Basil), refers to the secondary creation, which took place after the first Judgement of fallen rational creatures, whereas there exists no account of God’s primary creation, which came to existence before the Judgement (KG 2.64). As I have pointed out, the secondary creation in the LM is described as providential in that, while with some advanced intellects the Spirit and the Son communicate directly, with others they must do so by means of the secondary creation. The intelligible creation at a certain point was joined to it, ‘for reasons that it is impossible

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to explain here,’ he says. It is unclear whether Evagrius refers here to the union of souls (already descended from the rank of intellects) with mortal bodies or of intellects with bodies tout court. Sense-perceptible creation makes the object of natural contemplation. As Origen too insisted in his anti-‘Gnostic’ and antiMarcionite polemic, the secondary creation is neither evil nor a punishment (KG 3.53), but God’s strategy for the restoration of souls to intellects. 106 It is mediation for those who are far from God and was created by God’s Wisdom and Power, the Son and the Spirit. When God’s first creation of ‘primary beings’ experienced a dispersion of their acts of will, some intellects descended to the rank of souls. Heavy, mortal bodies were thus provided by God for these. Christ himself assumed one, and after his resurrection he had a body that revealed how human risen bodies will be (KG 4.41). The fact that mortal bodies will vanish at the end of all aeons (KG 2.17) does not imply that they are not good: they serve their purpose during the aeons, but will disappear when all inherit immortality (KG 1.58). For, if the mortal body is a part of this world, and if ‘the form of this world will pass,’ then the form of the mortal body will also pass (KG 1.26). Since Evagrius regards mortal bodies as a positive means for intellects to return to God, as Origen also did, in KG 4.60 he warns that those who hate the mortal body hate the Creator; and KG 4.62 also blames those who ‘disparage our body.’ Mortal bodies will vanish, when evil will disappear, but they are neither evil themselves nor the cause of evil; and all secondary beings, to which bodies belong, will cease to exist as such when ignorance will be removed (KG 3.68; cf. 3.66). The first bodies to disappear will be mortal bodies, which will vanish at the resurrection when they are not annihilated, but turned into immortal. Then all bodies will cease to exist as secondary beings, when the body will be elevated to the rank of soul and the soul to the rank of intellect. In this way, only primary beings (intellects) will remain, because bodies and souls will have been, not destroyed, but subsumed into intellects. 106 Konstantinovsky, Evagrius Ponticus, 27–46, rightly stresses that, according to Evagrius, the body and sense-perception are part of the ascent to perfection.

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What is inferior will be subsumed into what is superior, bodies into souls and souls into intellects. Actually the fluidity of body and soul is hinted at by Evagrius already when he states that in the Gospel Jesus, saying that the eye is the lamp of the body, calls ‘body’ what is in fact the inferior part of the soul, non-rational and liable to passions, what in Platonic terminology is called the irascible and concupiscible part(s): Χριστὸς δὲ ἐν τοῖς εὐαγγελίοις σῶμα τὴν ψυχὴν ὀνομάζει, Ὁ λύχνος, λέγων, τοῦ σώματός ἐστιν ὁ ὀφθαλμός· λύχνον μὲν εἰπὼν τὸν νοῦν, αὐτὸς γάρ ἐστιν γνώσεως δεκτικός, σῶμα δὲ τὸ θυμικὸν καὶ ἐπιθυμητικὸν μέρος τῆς ψυχῆς, ὅπερ τινὲς μὲν ἄλογον, τινὲς δὲ παθητικὸν μέρος καλοῦσιν (In Prov. p. 92.4). The notion of the transformation of body into soul and soul into intellect, and this finally into God at the stage of θέωσις and unity, according to Eriugena (who made the most of it) comes straight from Gregory Nyssen, Evagrius’ teacher. Eriugena significantly chose to cite the Nyssen in reference to the eventual deification, which for Gregory will be universal, just as restoration will be: Gregorius similiter et incunctanter astruit mutationem corporis tempore resurrectionis in animam, animae in intellectum, intellectus in Deum (Per. 5.987C). This is a further important element of inspiration provided by the Nyssen to Evagrius (one of many, as becomes clearer and clearer). This idea of the subsumption of what is inferior into what is superior with a view to unification, which is so clear in Evagrius and which came from the Nyssen, will become prominent in Maximus the Confessor, who was strongly influenced by the Nyssen, and in John Scotus Eriugena, who will follow both Gregory of Nyssa and Maximus very closely, 107 and who explicitly ascribed this doctrine back to the Nyssen. Maximus in his Ambiguum 41 (PG 91.1305B-1308C) postulated in partic-ular the overcoming of the gender division in humanity when this takes up the spiritual body, ἄνθρωπος μόνος instead of κατὰ τὸ θῆλυ καὶ τὸ ἄρσεν ἰδιότης (1305C). Eriugena will follow in this regard, providing the rationale that homo melior est quam sexus, so On the process of unification in Maximus see Doru Costache, ‘Living above Gender: Insights from Saint Maximus the Confessor,’ JECS 21 (2013) 261–290; on this process in both Maximus and Eriugena see my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, the chapters devoted to them. 107

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the mortal body is subsumed into the spiritual body above genders; 108 the earth will be subsumed into paradise (Eriugena too will postulate this unification) and paradise will be subsumed into heaven; all rational creatures will be subsumed into angels and will reach the knowledge of angels; finally creatures will be subsumed into the Divinity in deification: Eriugena too will foresee this final stage. For Evagrius, once the body has been elevated to the rank of the soul, the intellect in its power will pervade the soul, when the whole of it will be mingled with the light of the Trinity (KG 2.29). This will happen at the eventual restoration and deification. When the intellects receive contemplation, then the whole nature of the bodies will be eliminated, not because they will be destroyed, but because they will be transformed into souls and souls into intellects, so that the contemplation or θεωρία concerning them will not disappear, but will ‘become immaterial,’ since bodies themselves will have become immaterial (KG 2.62). Plurality, numbers, and names will disappear along with the aeons (KG 1.7–8) and bodies, which were useful for life in the aeons. Quantity, plurality, and number are attached to secondary beings, what Gregory of Nyssa called diastematic realities. 109 Quantity pertains to the mortal corporeal nature; thus number relates to secondary natural contemplation (KG 4.19). This contemplation pertains to secondary beings, which will be subsumed into the first. So also their contemplation, far from disappearing, will become primary, and the perfection of the intellect will consist in immaterial knowledge. Now immaterial knowledge is only the Trinity; therefore the intellect will become a seer of the Trinity (KG 3.15). The contemplation of the Trinity produces in turn the deification of the creaturely intellect. But this is the last stage of a progression that begins with the praktikē, asceticism, whose goal is virtue and the eradication of passions (apatheia), and not just their moderation (metriopatheia). See also Chapters on Love 2.30: ‘The one who is perfect in love and has advanced to the apex of impassivity (apatheia) knows no difference between male and female’ (PG 90.993B). 109 On which see my Gregorio di Nissa sull’Anima and Hans Boersma, Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa (Oxford: OUP, 2013). 108

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Evagrius shares the ideal of apatheia 110 with Clement, Origen, Gregory of Nyssa, most Neoplatonists, and the Stoics. Apatheia is closely related to knowledge for Evagrius: as virtue and knowledge are entirely interdependent, so are apatheia and knowledge, since virtue is freedom from passions and the very goal of praktikē. The close connection between apatheia and knowledge is clear e.g. in KP 56 and 67: ‘We will say that the absence of passions is the health of the soul, and that its nourishment is knowledge. Impassivity is possessed by the soul that not only does not suffer for the things that happen, but remains imperturbable even at their memory.’ Apatheia is the perfection of the soul liable to passions, knowledge is that of the intellect (KG 6.55). The relation between apatheia and knowledge is made clear especially by KG 4.70: freedom from passions allows for contemplation. The intellect approaches intelligible realities when it does not unite itself any longer to logismoi arising from the inferior soul liable to πάθη (KG 1.81). The intellect possesses a creative power (another notion that returns in Eriugena 111) when it is free from passions, and intellectual knowledge becomes completely independent of sense-perception (KG 5.12). That virtues and apatheia are the prerequisite of knowledge is confirmed in Schol. in Prov. 258: the soul subject to passions is, ‘the mother of the intellect’ because, ‘by means of virtues it brings the intellect to light.’ This is the case in the present life, where praktikē enables contemplation, while ontologically the intellect existed before the 110 See Jeremy Driscoll, ‘Apatheia and Purity of Heart in Evagrius,’ in Purity of Heart in Early Ascetic and Monastic Literature (eds. Harriet A. Luckman and Linda Kulzer; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999), 141–159; Somos, ‘Origen, Evagrios Ponticos and the Ideal of Impassivity’; Corrigan, Evagrius and Gregory, Ch. 4; Monica Tobon, ‘The Health of the Soul: Apatheia in Evagrius Ponticus,’ Studia Patristica 47 (2010) 187–202; Suzuki, ‘The Evagrian Concept of Apatheia;’ Tobon, Apatheia in the Teachings of Evagrius. 111 See my ‘Eriugena’s Commentary on Martianus in the Framework of his Thought and the Philosophical Debate of his Time,’ in Carolingian Scholarship and Martianus Capella (eds. Sinead O’Sullivan and Mariken Teeuwen; Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, 12; Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), 245–272.

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soul, and eschatologically the soul will be elevated to the rank of intellect. For Evagrius, as for Gregory Nyssen, passions are against nature and must be totally eradicated by means of praktikē, but ἀγάπη, charity-love, will not disappear, being no πάθος. Evagrius, like Origen and Gregory, insists that love will never fade away but will endure eternally. Origen had adduced Paul’s argument that ‘ἀγάπη never falls’ to this end. Charity-love, far from being a passion, ‘is the product of impassivity’ (Prakt. 81). Since in turn impassivity is the goal of praktikē, charity-love is the result of asceticism: ‘The end of πρακτική is charity-love; that of knowledge is the doctrine concerning God, and the principles of both are faith and natural contemplation’ (ibid. 84). Not only does love come from asceticism and impassivity, but, reciprocally, charity-love overcomes the passions of the soul: ‘bodily passions are overcome by continence; those of the soul are overcome by spiritual love [ἀγάπη πνευματική]’ (ibid. 35). The interdependence between love and impassivity is made clear in Eulogius 22: ‘Charity-love is the bond of impassivity and the expunging of passions […] Love possesses nothing of its own apart from God, for God is Love itself.’ In KG 4.50 Evagrius remarks that ‘There is one good kind of love, which is forever: that which true knowledge elects, and it is said to be inseparable from the intellect.’ Since in the end only intellects will remain (bodies being elevated to souls, and souls to intellects) then, if love is inseparable from the intellect, love will never vanish. If ‘love is the perfect state of the rational soul, a state in which the soul cannot love anything which is among corruptible beings more than the knowledge of God’ (KG 1.86), then, once all rational creatures have reached perfection, love will always endure. And because love is related to knowledge, whoever has to learn the wisdom of the beings needs spiritual love (KG 3.58). A strong love, which Evagrius, like Origen, the Nyssen, and Ps. Dionysius, calls desire, 112 is the main factor in the continual growth of the intellect in knowledge and approximation to God, similar to Gregory of nysius.

112

See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, section on Ps. Dio-

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Nyssa’s infinite epecstatic movement: ‘the intellect, when it approaches the intellections of beings, will be full of spiritual desire and will never detach itself from admiration’ (KG 5.29). Love is the only movement that will remain in the infinite epektasis toward God. Even though Evagrius’ works on theology/metaphysics and those on spiritual ascent and asceticism have been unfortunately kept apart by scholars and treated very differently (as I mentioned at the beginning: the latter treasured and the former condemned) such a division has no reason to exist and both of these artificially separated sets of works help reconstruct Evagrius’ doctrine of intellects and souls, their origin, their relation to bodies, the different kinds of bodies, and rational creatures’ eschatological destiny. The close connection between Evagrius’ doctrine of intellects, souls, and bodies, and that of universal restoration is particularly evident in the LM and the KG. Here Evagrius’ eschatology is at one with the rest of his thought, all oriented toward the telos, exactly as is also the case with Origen and Gregory Nyssen. For the end is the accomplishment of God’s plan for rational creatures; this is why it reflects the beginning, the pre-lapsarian state. At the same time, however, the end is much better than the beginning: for, as Origen puts it, it will be the voluntary accomplishment of the likeness with God, after the manifestation of God’s love in Christ, and not simply the initial datum of the ‘image of God.’ Evagrius’ protological and eschatological ideas are strikingly close to those of Origen (I mean his authentic ideas and not the misrepresentations that are such a prevalent heritage among commentators of the Origenistic controversy) and to St. Gregory Nyssen. Such parallels extend also to many other aspects of their thought. Indeed Evagrius absorbed Origen’s and the Cappadocians’ theology, as well as that of Didymus, whom he may have frequented personally. What is more, as I have indicated, Evagrius’ closeness to Gregory of Nyssa and his ideas is more substantial than has been generally assumed. I have provided some examples here. The influence of both Origen and the Nyssen on Evagrius’ LM, KG and other works is noteworthy, as I hope to have pointed out, and deserves further investigation. I hope that the present work, and that which still needs to be undertaken, will help recover the true image of Evagrius, the Origenian ascetic and ‘gnostic,’ be-

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yond the mask of the Origenistic ‘heretic’ that has been superimposed over him.

ASCETICISM THROUGH THE LENS OF ANTHROPOLOGY: THE GREEK FATHERS FROM JUSTIN TO GREGORY NAZIANZEN ON THE SOUL AND THE HOLY SPIRIT VICKI PETRAKIS Christian Orthodoxy is distinguished by its doctrine of the Holy Trinity: three Persons in one essence maintaining distinct Properties/Functions. If we take a step back and survey the literature to understand the dynamics of this in relation to creation, we arrive inevitably at physical theories in Aristotle for whom there must be a First Mover, (τό ώς πρώτον πάντων κινούν πάντα) 1 which is common to everything and together with the thing it moves. 2 When Aristotle suggests: ‘It is the mover that makes each one’ 3 (ωϛ τό κινούν ποιεί) 4 we see here a shift from the notion of creation to one of relationship and of assimilating incompatibles. It is a relaMet. Λ 4.1070b35, W.D. Ross (trans.), Aristotle’s Metaphysics,Vol. II, (Oxford at the Clarendon Press1924). 2 C.f. Met. Λ 4.1070b35; Λ 6.1071b 20; Λ 7.1072a 25; Λ 7.1072b 15– 30. 3 Met. Λ 10. 1075b 37–38, G Apostle & L.P. Gerson (trans.), Aristotle Selected Works, Third Edition, (The Peripatetic Press, Iowa, 1991), 421. See H. Tredennick (trans.), ‘…that it is the moving cause that makes them [form and object] one.’ Aristotle Metaphysics X–XIV, Loeb Classical Library, T.E. Page & Ors. (eds.) 173, 175. 4 Met. Λ 10. 1075b 37, Ross. 1

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226 ASCETICISM THROUGH THE LENS OF ANTHROPOLOGY tionship defined by Aristotle as life, (φαμέν δή τόν θεόν είναι ζώον αΐδιον άριστον) and the name he gives to this dynamic relationship is ο Θεός (the divinity). 5 Among the Christian cosmological thinkers, the Incarnation of the Logos can also be said to have taken place for this similar root reason: to clarify how things incompatible can subsist. The early Christian philosophers sought through divine principles to understand how Christ the Logos presided in the individual. This paper will investigate the struggles they underwent in coming to terms with both the language and the metaphysics necessary for defining the terms of this divine union, posited by means of the Holy Spirit’s indwelling in the human soul. This has been a central Christian task of ascetical theology, but one framed in a cosmic (and at the same time highly personalist) scope. Jesus in the Gospel of John appears to be very mindful that following His Ascension there will be a space required to be filled in the human condition: ‘I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you … At that day you will know that I am in My Father, and you in Me, and I in you.’ (Jn. 14:18–20) In the previous passage, He clarifies how this living takes place: ‘And I will pray the Father, and He will give you another Helper that He may abide with you forever – the Spirit of truth … for He dwells with you and will be in you.’ (Jn. 14:15–17). St. Symeon the New Theologian writing about this biblical text advocates for the necessity of the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit in each human person: Turn your mind to what is within the soul’s members, and consider that all its actions … I mean fasting and vigil, sleeping on the ground and a hard bed, non-possession and abstinence from bathing, and everything which follows from these – are like dead bones fastened to one another … So where is the profit if it lies unsouled and breathless, the Holy Spirit not being within? For only when the Latter comes and makes a home

Apostle & Gerson, 414. Greek text in Ross (trans.), Met. Λ 7. 1072b 28–30. 5

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in us does He then come and bind together with nerves of spiritual might the acts of virtue which were dead… 6

This insight was not always so succinctly expressed in the earlier theologians. The early Christian philosophers who had inherited from the ancients, and especially the Middle Platonists, a dualistic capacity of talking about Being, sometimes fumbled with the terms of their Christology and anthropology. It was not until Origen and Irenaeus of Lyons (and as some have argued Clement of Alexandria), 7 that a single commanding notion of the eternal generation of the Logos before all time, and stemming from the Father, started to be clarified among the Christians at large. And, it was not until Irenaeus and Gregory the Theologian that the dualistic tendencies in human anthropology could also start to be harmonized with the detailed concept of the Person of the Holy Spirit. Through the divine activity of Christ the Logos which manifested as different terms, logikon, hegemonikon, pneuma, eikon, kardia, early Christian thinkers continued, in a sense, the Platonic mission of finding ways to bring incompatible essences into relation: God and His mediation within the human condition, not least in that. The place of this assimilation was to be found at the level of the soul and more particularly the soul’s Nous or spiritual consciousness. For Justin Martyr, the divine seed implanted spiritually within the human person was different to the spermatic logos, which emanated as the Logos’ created activity. In Clement’s work, the seed was finally fused with this spermatic logos implanting divine capacity into the human condition. While he and Justin both spoke of the notion of pneuma and its role in facilitating the divinization of the human condition, it was for both referenced back to the Holy Spirit’s relational capacity to the Logos, or as a condition of the soul’s formation. It was not until the work of Origen that we come closer to seeing that participation in the principle of life through the logos, ‘Seventh Ethical Discourse’, A. Golitzin (trans.) in On the Mystical Life The Ethical Discourses, Vol. 2: On Virtue and Christian Life, (St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, New York, 1996), 92. 7 See M.J. Edwards, ‘Clement of Alexandria and His Doctrine of the Logos’, Vigiliae Christianae 54, (Brill NV, Leiden), 2000). 6

228 ASCETICISM THROUGH THE LENS OF ANTHROPOLOGY is fundamentally akin to living in the Holy Spirit. For both of them, however, the manner in which the later fathers can seamlessly relate the pneuma Agion to human anthropology was a step too far. Justin Martyr’s theology centered on the Person of Christ and His cosmic identity as divine activity was affiliated in the human condition as seed. 8 From the First Apology, we learn that the seeds are: ‘from God, which is the Logos.’ 9 However we also note the complete distinction between the seed and that which it seeks to mimic, the divine Logos and His activity: For, through the presence of the implanted seed of the Logos [εμφύτου τού λόγου σποράς], all these writers were able dimly to see what actually is. 13.6. For the seed of something, and an imitation of something … is not the same as the thing of which the participation and imitation are made… 10

This entailed a metaphysical gap between God and creation, and while Justin accepts the Holy Spirit from the Old Testament as a spiritual instrument (Apol. I. 33.2) and from liturgical adoration (Apol. I.6.2), the absence of the Holy Spirit in the human condition is a noteworthy factor in his theology. 11 Justin overcame dualistic difficulties in some respects by the association of the Logos with God’s spirit (πνεύμα) and power (δύναμιs) (Apol. I.33.6), 12 but his methodology for activating the seeds suggested one’s own initia-

‘διά τό έμφυτον παντί γένει ανθρώπων σπέρμα τού λόγου’, Second Apology 7(8).1, D. Minns & P. Parvis (eds.), in Justin, Philosopher and Martyr Apologies, (Oxford University Press, 2009), 296, 299. C.f. Minns & Parvis, note 2, 309. 9 ‘οικεί τό παρά τού θεού σπέρμα, ο λόγος.’ Justin’s Apology on Behalf of Christians, 32.8, Minns & Parvis, 170, 171. 10 The Second Apology, 13.5–6, Minns & Parvis, 321. 11 Cited in A.W.F. Blunt, The Apologies of Justin Martyr, (Cambridge University Press, 1911), xxvii–xxviii. 12 See S.R.C. Lilla, Clement of Alexandria A Study in Christian Platonism and Gnosticism, (Oxford University Press, 1971), note 4, p 22–23. 8

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tive. 13 To his anthropology he introduces the nous, (του νού όμμα 14) or the ‘mind’s eye’ 15 as that which is capable of seeing Being, when it has itself become purified. The affinity between the human person and God is here based heavily on the mind’s purity and its desire for God, the latter being described as the ‘regal mind’ 16 (βασιλικού νού 17). This reflects Philo’s Logos theology, and seems to be what will later become in Origen the concept of pneuma, or the image of the human soul in its assimilation to the divine Logos. According to Justin the soul, which does not have life of its own, partakes in life according to the will of God granted to it through God’s life-giving Spirit (ζωτικόν πνεύμα). 18 Thus, it seems that he adds, through the notion of pneuma, another layer between the human person and God, envisaging it as a mediating principle like the spermatikos logos rather than a permanent human quality. The unclear dimensions of these ideas, and their exact place in regard to the human condition, are certainly confused in Justin Martyr’s work, and in his era. By the time of Clement and Origen, the intellectual landscape is changing. The doctrine of the Logos as a metaphysical principle (a concept very popular among Alexandria’s Jewish Diaspora) was widely utilised in the formation of Christian cosmological theology (the Church’s earliest science). Clement’s anthropology (the human ability to participate in the divine) is essentially a work of unpacking this doctrine stemming from the identity of the Son in the Father. A full examination of this concept is beyond the scope of this paper, but suffice it to say that Wolfson presents an important insight The foundations for the ascetic formula that is to become characteristic of the Alexandrian hermeneutical tradition are well founded in Philo. C.f. De Opificio Mundi VI.25. 14 Dialogue Avec Tryphon, IV. 1, G. Archambault (trans.), Justin Dialogue Avec Tryphon, Tome I, (Librairie Alphonse Picard Et Fils, Paris, 1909), 20. 15Dialogue With Trypho, IV, A. Roberts, & J. Donaldson, (eds.), The Ante-Nicene Fathers Translation of The Writings of the Fathers down to A.D. 325, Vol. I., (WM. B. Eerdmans Pub. Co. 1979), 196. 16 Dialogue With Trypho, IV, Roberts & Donaldson, 196. 17 Dialogue Avec Tryphon, IV. 2, Archambault, 20. 18 Dialogue Avec Tryphon, VI. 2, Archambault, 34. 13

230 ASCETICISM THROUGH THE LENS OF ANTHROPOLOGY from Clement’s Stromata. He suggests that in Clement, the Logos in the first stage with the Father, the Logos Incarnated, and the first principle responsible for creation and all that is implanted in it, are all together under different forms of existence. 19 For Clement the Logos is the unity which assumes everything in Himself, (ως πάντα έν). 20 The Son is the eternal Logos with the Father, the impassable man, (άνθρωπος απαθής) and as the royal Image of the Father (λόγος θείος καί βασιλικός), He presents to the human condition via the nous, its ability to participate in this principle/image by means of what Clement calls a ‘divine correspondence’ (ακολουθίαν…θείαν). 21 The principle he employs for this is reason, logos (or the helmsman of reason) in the human person. 22 When reason has been successful in curbing desires, it then grants to the human person divine-like qualities. Placing this as the principle in the human logistikon (accessed by the mediation of the soul’s nous), Clement takes us one step further. He implants and activates Justin’s concept of spermatikos logos in the human nous, thus showing how it is that the (divine) Image is imaged in the human person. H.A. Wolfson, The Philosophy of the Church Fathers Faith, Trinity, Incarnation, 3rd Edition Revised, (Harvard University Press, 1976), 214. C.f. Stromata IV.XXV, A. Roberts, & J. Donaldson, (eds.), The Ante-Nicene Fathers Translation of The Writings of the Fathers down to A.D. 325, Vol. II., (WM. B. Eerdmans Pub. Co. 1979), 439, Now God, who is without beginning, is the perfect beginning of the universe, and the producer of the beginning. As, then, He is being, He is the first principle of the department of action…as He is mind, on the other hand, He is the first principle of reasoning and of judgment. 20 Stromate IV.XXV, 156.2–157.1, C. Mondesert, (trans.), in Les Stromates, Source Chretiennes, No. 463, (Les Editions Du Cerf, Paris, 2001), 318. 21 Stromata, Book V, XIV Roberts & Donaldson, 466. Greek text V.XIV. 94.3–6, P. Voulet, (trans.), in Les Stromates, Tome I, Source Chretiennes, No. 278, (Les Editions Du Cerf, Paris, 2006), 180. 22 C.f. Strom. I.XXIV (I.159.3); II.XI (II.51.6); V.VIII (V.52.5– 53.1);VI.XVI (VI.134.1–136.3). 19

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Achieved on the model of a divine correspondence, this suggests an ascetical tuning and affinity between Creator and creation. If we move to the case of Origen, we find that in his theology, the being and making of the human person is posited as a relationship founded within the Holy Trinity, 23 but fundamentally that being is understood from the perspective of all life residing in the Logos. 24 Crouzel points out that, for Origen, it is at the deepest level of the human person’s make up (made ‘after the image’), that Being manifests, as we become that for which we are divinely instituted. 25 This deep-spirited sense of the term logos 26 is connected in Origen with the pneuma as part of a Biblically based human anthropology. But even so, the question raises itself: is it grace mixed in with the human condition that was presented as pneuma, or the Person of the Holy Spirit indwelling? The central tenet of Origen’s theology is that the soul undergoes paideia and a return to God (Apokatastasis) along with the added luggage of the body. 27 This recovery of fallen souls to their original place of proximity to the Logos is enabled through their rational faculties, discovered, as Torjesen notes, ‘By an act of knowledge, by penetrating into their hidden nature.’ 28 What exactly this discovery is that the soul makes in relation to its ascent or descent concerns its own personal realization in salvation, and the

23 C.f.

De Principiis, Book I, III.8 C.f. Commentary On John, II.13. 25 H. Crouzel, Origen, The Life and Thought of the First Great Theologian, A.S. Worrall (trans.), (Harper & Row, San Francisco, 1989), 95. 26 C.f. Against Celsus, Book IV. 85; De Princ. II.XI.5. 27 K.J. Torjesen, Hermeneutical Procedure and Theological Method in Origen’s Exegesis, (Walter De Gruyter, Berlin, 1986), 84 writes that Origen describes this return or rest in God using several metaphors, ‘face-toface’, ‘knowledge’, ‘consummation’, ‘contemplation’ as participation in God. In some instances these refer to the soul prior to the fall, elsewhere participation in Him is via a mystical union encompassing contemplation/knowledge that suggests the soul’s restoration in God. 28 Torjesen, 109. 24

232 ASCETICISM THROUGH THE LENS OF ANTHROPOLOGY role it plays in possessing a divine image. 29 In his 2nd Homily on Jeremiah, quoting Genesis 1:26, Origen reflects on this divine image that is found in the human person, distinct from their earthly and inferior human image. 30 The transformation required is a subtle move from the outer and earthly person to the spiritual one. Through his anthropology (consisting of the body, the vital spirit, as well as two souls coexisting), Origen emphasises the higher soul, the nous 31 found in the inner person, as that which deserves investigation for understanding ‘Being’, by which he means primarily the divine pneuma and how this may be accessed. Origen takes the supreme faculty, the nous of the human person (their rational component mediated through the logos), and associates it with the Biblical concept of the heart (kardia), 32 the image (eikon) 33 and the spirit 29 Citing

the work of W. Volker, (1931), Torjesen notes at 72 & 76, a three-fold scheme according to which the soul is being restored, that of purification, knowledge and perfection. This journey fits in with the theme in the Prologue of The Song of Songs based on repentance, instruction and perfection. 30 Homilies on Jeremiah, Homily 2.1, J. C. Smith (trans.) The Fathers of the Church A New Translation, (Catholic University Press of America, Wash., D.C., 1998), 24. 31 Origen utilizes the nous specifically in relation to the Logos, both as to Christ and as to His Being, ‘…for He made the thinking principle immortal in its nature, and kindred to Himself…’ De Princ. Book III, 1.13, F. Crombie (trans.), The Ante-Nicene Fathers Translations of the Writings of the Fathers Down to A.D. 325, Vol. IV, (A. Roberts & J. Donaldson, (eds.)), (WM. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co, 1979), 314, from the Greek, the Latin reads, ‘For He made the rational nature, which He formed in His own image and likeness, incorruptible;’ 32 C.f. Comm. on John, I, 42, A. Menzies (ed. & trans.), The Ante-Nicene Fathers Translations of the Writings of the Fathers Down to A.D. 325, Vol. X, (WM. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co, 1978), 321, …so His heart is to be understood of His rational power, by which He disposes all things, and His word of that which announces what is in this heart of His.’ B.P. Blosser, Become Like the Angels Origen’s Doctrine of the Soul, (Catholic University of America Press, Wash. D.C., 2012) writes at 89 that Origen’s genius lies in connecting the Platonic nous, the Stoic hegemonikon, with the Biblical concept of the heart. In this capacity the pure heart is seen as a governing

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(pneuma) of God. Characterizing the nous as another sense, he suggests that it, ‘bears a certain relationship to God, of whom the mind itself is an intellectual image, and that by means of this it may come to some knowledge of the nature of divinity…’ 34 However in its fallen state, the soul is devoid of the logos that belongs to the nous and also the essential pneuma needed to spiritualise it, as well as matter and all the associated senses. This spiritualisation of the human person, for Origen, 35 involves their participation in the Logos which the pneuma instigates on behalf of the divine economy. 36 What Origen has in mind in principle and an intellectual power. C.f. De Princ. I.I.9; Against Celsus, VI.69 where the heart is likened to understanding; Comm. John, II, 29 (references cited in Blosser, 89, note 50). 33 Blosser notes at 92–3 that Origen’s use of the terms ‘image’ and ‘likeness’ to parallel the work of the nous and its association to the divine was appropriated both from Scripture, Plato and the Middle Platonists. He notes De Princ. III.6.1 at 93, note 62. The importance of the image as cited from Genesis is that it is the part which God exclusively made after Himself. Thus the rational soul is the seat of the image of God in the human person. 34 De Princip. Book I. I.7, Crombie, 245. In Against Celsus, VIII. 49, Crombie, 657–8, noted from Blosser, 93, note 65, Origen likens the soul and the nous in their capacity as the rational and divine element to a ‘spiritual substance’ (πνευματικόν τούτον) an ‘intelligent spirit, holy and blessed’ (πνεύμα νοερόν άγιον καί μακάριον), and a ‘living soul’ (ψυχήν ζώσαν). Greek translations see Contre Celse, VIII.49, M. Borret, (trans.), Origène Contre Celse, Tome IV, Sources Chrétiennes, No. 150, (Les Editions Du Cerf, Paris, 1969), 280. 35 H. Urs von Balthasar, Origen Spirit and Fire, A Thematic Anthology of His Writings, R. J. Daly (trans.), (Catholic University of America Press, Washington, D.C., 1984), 218, writes, ‘Working from scattered words in scripture and from his own doctrine of the ‘double’ human being, Origen was the first to build up the doctrine of the spiritual senses which has remained a core element of all later mystical theology.’ 36 The pneuma is responsible for spiritualising the senses which includes the nous and the kardia. Origen writes referring to Hebrews, ‘…there are other senses in man besides these five bodily senses; these other senses are acquired by training, and are said to be trained when they examine

234 ASCETICISM THROUGH THE LENS OF ANTHROPOLOGY relation to the senses, and the many senses within the soul, as well as those physical ones which belong to the outer person, 37 is their ability, through exercise (askesis), to lead to higher perceptions of reality (Being), and thus partake in this pneuma. His understanding of Being in the human person lies somewhere between this notion of pneuma as sanctifying grace and the work of the intellect as depicted by the nous. 38 Even though it is different to the Holy Spirit, and sometimes endorsed as divine anthropology, the pneuma is a divine created element which guides the nous. 39 In relation to this nous the pneuma is like: ‘grace and its graced recipient’. 40 Hans Urs von Balthasar says, ‘As a result of the theory of the triple division of the human being, the Holy Spirit and the human spirit overlap without sharp boundaries. Now Origen did expressly emphasize their difference. However, the idea of grace as a participation of the human spirit and as a living indwelling of the divine in the human spirit makes this borthe meaning of things with more acute perception.’ Song of Songs, Book I.4, R.P. Lawson, (trans.), in Origen The Song of Songs Commentary and Homilies, Ancient Christian Writers, Vol. XXVI. (J. Quasten, & J. C. Plumpe, (eds.)), (Longmans Green & Co., London, 1957), 79. 37 To the extent that it is associated to the outer man the body does not fair in the equation of being seen as made after the image, unless it is capable of being made by the spiritualized inner man the seat of God. The body is glorified in this sense when it is ‘led’ morally and spiritually otherwise Origen is often found rebuking it as the ‘tomb’ and the ‘prison’ in Dialogue With Heraclides, ch. 23–24, R.J. Daly (trans.), Origen Treatise on the Passover and Dialogue of Origen with Heraclides and His Fellow Bishops on the Father, the Son , and the Soul, Ancient Christian Writers, No. 54, W.J. Burghardt, T. C. Lawler & J.J. Dillon (eds.) (Paulist Press, NY, 1992), 75– 6. 38 See Crouzel, 89. 39 See Blosser 96–7, noting H. Crouzel, ‘L’anthropologie d’Origene: de l’arche au telos,’ (Milan, 1981) 40 Blosser, 96 noting Crouzel, ‘L’anthropologie’ C.f. De Princ. II.VIII.3–4 where Origen shows the distinction between the soul and the pneuma as being the gradual transformation of the former to the latter

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der so to speak fluid.’ 41 Origen thus uses the pneuma as the mediating principle between God and the human nous similar to the way Gregory the Theologian will later utilize the closeness of logos/logoi in a number of different ways to describe God’s activity and formation within the created realm. However, in Gregory the role of the pneuma is transferred in his Orations to the Holy Spirit itself. Thus, what pneuma or any of the other terms used by Origen to denote this activity, whether kardia or eikon, the pneuma presents a dynamic anthropology of shifting barriers in the realization of the divine element in the human condition. For Origen, it was at the realm of moral choices that this pneuma was acquired or engaged with, when one discovered the rightful use of contemplation (theoria) or the wrongful use of matter. This ‘coming and fleeting’ capability of the pneuma as part of the potential divine-human condition is to be distinguished, as Crouzel notes, from the Holy Spirit, because: ‘It is … a kind of created participation in the [Holy Spirit] and the Spirit’s seat when He is present in a man.’ 42 The first to start differentiating the capacity of the Holy Spirit as the image of the Son, as Crouzel notes, was Origen’s pupil, Gregory Thaumatourgos in his Exposition of the Faith which is cited in Gregory of Nyssa’s Life. 43 A clearer identity of the Holy Spirit and its place in the human condition, however, was made in the theology of Irenaeus, who presented both Creator and creation in a unified field of Being, an idea that was highly innovative for its time and unusual in its optimistic outlook. Starting from the traditional line that the human person is body and soul and made in the image and likeness of God (Against Heresies, 5.6.1), Irenaeus anticipates that the Spirit of God must be added to human existence for the latter to come alive and to partake in God. He bases the assimilation between God and the huUrs von Balthasar, 183. Origen accepts the personal Being of the Holy Spirit (c.f. De Princ. I.III.1) and sees It as drawing its dependence on the divine Logos (c.f. Comm. John, II.6). 42 Crouzel, 88. 43 Crouzel, 94. 41

236 ASCETICISM THROUGH THE LENS OF ANTHROPOLOGY man person in the Incarnate Logos, 44 who evidences the image of God, so that in human flesh Christ presented the perfect Man. 45 Both the flesh and becoming divine-like were important human conditions for Irenaeus and it was Christ who affected what Cartwright terms, this ‘existential change’ and ‘mutual identity’. 46 In Against Heresies (5.6.1), the human person is presented in a holistic manner as a unified body, soul, and spirit with the Holy Spirit active in their constitution. Quoting Ephesians Irenaeus suggests that the Holy Spirit (τού Πνεύματος αυτού) also called ‘His Spirit’, or ‘the Father’s Spirit’, is granted to the human condition in portions, and he calls this co-mingling an engagement (αρραβώνα), or ‘an earnest’. 47 In what follows Irenaeus outlines his ascetical formulation for the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit. 48 Cartwright, citing Foster, has suggested that God’s image is enabled Heresies, (V.16.2). The Incarnation was singularly important for resolving and perfecting the human condition, c.f. E. Osborn, Irenaeus of Lyons, (Cambridge University Press, 2001), 213. 45 S. Cartwright, ‘The Image of God in Irenaeus, Marcellus, and Eustathius’, in Irenaeus Life, Scripture, Legacy, (P. Foster and S. Parvis (eds.)), (Fortress Press, Minneapolis, 2012), 175 citing Minns, Irenaeus (1994, 60) shows that the image in Christ presents the assimilation between God and humanity based on flesh. 46 Cartwright, 175, 176. 47 Against Heresies, V.8.1, A. Roberts & J. Donaldson, (eds.) in The Ante-Nicene Fathers Translations of The Writings of the Fathers Down to A.D. 325, Vol. 1, (WM. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., Michigan, 1979), 533. Greek text cited from A. Rousseau (trans.) in Irenee De Lyon Contre Les Heresies, Livre V, Sources Chretiennes, No. 153, (L. Doutreleau, & C. Mercier. (eds.)), (Les Editions Du Cerf, Paris, 1969), 93. 48 Against Heresies, V.8.2, Roberts & Donaldson, 534, (Greek from A. Rousseau, 97)Those persons, then, who possess the earnest of the Spirit [τόν αρραβώνα τού Πνεύματος], and who are not enslaved by the lusts of the flesh, but are subject to the Spirit [υποτάσσοντας εαυτούς τώ Πνεύματι], and who in all things walk according to the light of reason [λογικώς αναστρεφομένους], does the apostle properly term ‘spiritual,’ because the Spirit of God [τό Πνεύμα τού Θεού οικεί εν αυτούς] dwells in them. 44 Against

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within the human person, in Irenaeus’ understanding, by the addition of the Spirit to the body and the soul.’ 49 Furthermore, Minns writes: ‘When Irenaeus says that the human being who is fashioned in the image and likeness of God will not be made up just of body and soul, but of body and soul and spirit, he means by ‘spirit’ the Holy Spirit. We will only be completely and perfectly human when we are partially divine…’ 50 In Irenaeus, the spiritual condition of the human person is directly related to the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit. He commences a new under-standing of anthropology in line with the divine economy of the Trinity, and the bearing of God in creation, a theme which is significantly espoused in the work of Gregory the Theologian. The power of the Holy Spirit in Gregory Nazianzen’s work presents a formidable insight in addressing humanity in a significantly dignified manner. The use of the term logos/logoi in Gregory as a principle of Being (the revelatory and creative Word of God), fuses the nature of the dichotomy between God and His otherness, He does this particularly through the anthropology device of joining the Holy Spirit to the human condition integrally. When Gregory defines the human person he does not suggest that they have pneuma, as well as all the other categories, soul, body, and logos but rather that they possess the presence of the Holy Spirit itself. 51 Gregory infers by this single principle of logos/logoi, how God is 49 Cartwright,

175 noting P. Foster, ‘God and the World in Saint Irenaeus’ (unpublished PhD Thesis, University of Edinburgh, 1985), 310–20. C.f. Osborn, 225, ‘One cannot divide the divine spirit which shapes and saves man from the spirit which is a constituent of man. The spirit of man participates in the spirit of God and thereby brings life to body and soul.’ 50 D. Minns, Irenaeus An Introduction, (T&T Clark, 2010), 93. 51 Letter 101.6, L. Wickham (trans.) in St Gregory of Nazianzus On God and Christ The Five Theological Orations and Two Letters to Cledonius, (St. Vladimir’s NY, 2002), 159, …notice that I myself have had room for soul [ψυχήν], reason [λόγον] and mind [νούν], and Holy Spirit [Πνεύμα άγιον] as well, and that before me the cosmos, this structure, I mean, of visibles and invisibles had room for the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. It is the nature of things ideal to be mixed with one another and with bodies in an indivisible and incorporeal way.

238 ASCETICISM THROUGH THE LENS OF ANTHROPOLOGY inseparably bonded with His creation, and how the human person, (conditioned with this principle) partakes in the Logos via the indwelling (συμπολιτευόμενον) of the Holy Spirit. For Gregory, the Holy Spirit indwelt in the human person acting as the ‘Agent’ leading one to prayer, contemplation and desire for God. He expresses it so: ‘How wondrous is the chain forged by the Holy Spirit with indissoluble links!’ 52 While asceticism was an important factor in averting sin, the Holy Spirit, for Gregory, ultimately reveals Its plans and thus guides one in reason. 53 In his Oration On Pentecost, he has a very corporeal understanding of the Holy Spirit and its place in creation: Then he [the Holy Spirit] acted in the disciples of Christ … and this in three ways…the first manifested him indistinctly, the second more expressly, and the present one more perfectly, since he is no longer present [only] by an energy as at first, but in essence, if one may speak thus, coming to be with them [συγγινόμενόν] and living [συμπολιτευόμενον] with them. For it was fitting, since the Son associated with us corporeally, that the Spirit also should appear corporeally… 54

In Origen, by contrast, the work of the Holy Spirit was reliant on the Father and the Son rather than ever seen to possess the autonomous expression and will of the Trinity. 55 Gregory has a unique understanding of the place of Being as the logoi vested via the Holy Spirit’s indwelling of the human person. The logoi for Gregory are the divine causes implanted in the Or. 36.1, M. Vinson (trans.), St. Gregory of Nazianzus Select Orations, (Catholic University of America Press, Washington, D.C., 2003), 220. 53 Or. 31.6, L. Wickham (trans.) On God and Christ, 121, ‘How comes it then that he [Holy Spirit] does act? He says things, he decrees, he is grieved, he is vexed – all of which belong to a being with motion, not to the process of motion.’ 54 Or. 41.11, N. V. Harrison (trans.) Festal Orations St Gregory of Nazianzus, (St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, NY, 2008), 153. 55 See P. Martens, ‘Holy Spirit’ in The Westminster Handbook to Origen, J.A. McGuckin (ed.), (Kentucky, 2004), 125–126, 128. Note however Crouzel’s comments at 198–203. 52

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human condition where we ‘find’ and live God. Gregory takes the Platonic logistikon of the Soul and makes from this a single principled formula, a place where divine activity operates in an immanent capacity, and this because in the human person is placed the seat of the Holy Spirit. The living presence of the Holy Spirit in the human condition is subject to our acknowledgement of His presence within us, which brings to mind John Chryssavgis’ insight: ‘Pride is not the ultimate sin; forgetfulness of who we are is the ultimate tragedy.’ 56

J. Chryssavgis, In the Heart of the Desert Revised The Spirituality of the Desert Fathers and Mothers, (World Wisdom, 2002), 47. 56

ST. SHENOUTE OF ATRIPE AND HIS MONASTIC ORDER DEACON ANTONIOS THE SHENOUDIAN (A. BIBAWY) After Pachomius, St. Shenoute of Atripe (c. 348 – c. 466 A.D.) is the most important monastic figure of coenobitic monasticism in Egypt. In spite of that, his name is nowhere to be found in the major texts that record Egyptian monastic history and the teachings of the monastic spiritual leaders of his time, including the Lausiac History of Palladius (c. 419–420 A.D.), the Apophthegmata Patrum (The Sayings of the Desert Fathers), the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto (The Lives of the Desert Fathers in Egypt), and the Conferences of John Cassian. There are several theories as to why such a prominent monastic leader disappears from these famous writings, but laying them aside for the moment, we would like to concentrate in this paper on what is currently known and published about Shenoute, resulting from modern scholarly research that has finally begun give him the attention he deserves. There was very little academic attention given to Shenoute until ten to fifteen years ago when his literary corpus was reconstructed by Stephen Emmel (2004). 1 Prior to that the extant manuscripts and fragments which remained of the great White Monastery library in Suhaj, Upper Egypt, were spread throughout the world at various sites. 2 The only major work worthy of mention was that of c.f. Emmel. 2004. C. Louis, develops this theme in: Christianity and Monasticism in Upper Egypt. 2008. 1 2

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Leopold in 1906 3 followed much later (1983) by a translation of his life from the Bohairic Coptic. 4 Now, besides a few versions of Shenoute’s biography, there are several academic studies extant, including translations of nine volumes of his Canons, eight volumes of Discourses, and a number of letters. There is also an international team of researchers at work, directed by S. Emmel, professor of Coptology at the Institute of Egyptology and Coptology at the University of Münster in Germany. This team is working on transcribing, editing, translating and studying these precious manuscripts in order not only to understand Shenoute and his monastic federation, but also to fill in the gaps of understanding concerning various other aspects of life in late antiquity with which Shenoute was involved 5. There has already been a significant increase in dissertations and publications related to Shenoute, and these are bound to increase and open further doors for studies in a diversity of academic fields once the translations become readily available. There are two limitations to the sources currently available. The first is that not many primary texts from what is extant are yet widely available. Thus, we must rely on the studies done to date on the thought of Shenoute, even though only certain isolated quotations have been translated and ‘re-set’ in the context of the author of the particular study (as distinct from the context of the original author and work). Once the work of Stephen Emmel’s team is complete, this limitation should be at least partially resolved, taking into consideration the extent to which the manuscript corpus survives in good (and representative) condition. The second limitation is that all that has been found in the archive are first-hand accounts from Shenoute himself. This is extremely useful, but when looking at the broader circumstances of his day and the interactions he had (at times disagreements) with others, the whole picture cannot be drawn fully, since the other voices are missing. Johannes Leipoldt. Sinuthii Archimandritae Vita et Opera Omnia, 1906–1913. Accessible at: https://archive.org/details/sinuthiiarchiman 04shen 4 c.f. Bell. 1983. 5 See: http://www.yale.edu/egyptology/ae_white_shenoute_ writing.htm 3

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THE VITA SINUTHII Besides the known Bohairic Life of Shenoute that was published by Bell in 1983, there are several other versions of Shenoute’s biography that are extant: Sahidic, Arabic, Ethiopic, and Syriac. All are complete except for the Sahidic. The Arabic version is more than twice as long as the Bohairic and contains many more additional episodes and details, compared to the Bohairic. The Syriac version is the shortest of them all. Nina Lubomierski 6 has analyzed these different versions and come to the conclusion that the original script is most likely the longer Arabic version and that the shorter versions were composed as later abbreviations for different audiences and purposes. Traditionally, Besa, the disciple and successor of Shenoute as leader of the White Monastery federation, was considered to be the author of the Vita Sinuthii, given the many first-person references and events that are related therein, as if he himself had experienced them. But recently, given the multiple versions of how Besa appears in the different episodes presented by these different texts, Lubomierski has concluded that Besa is most likely not the author of Shenoute’s biography. A current working hypothesis is that as Shenoute was remembered yearly on the day of his departure (Abib 7), various sermons and encomia were given in his honor, in which different stories about his life were told. Over time, the compilation of these liturgical memoria would grow to become his Vita.

A CHRONOLOGY OF SHENOUTE’S LIFE The dates of Shenoute’s birth and death are also controverted. The Vita Sinuthii gives him a long life span of 118 years, because God had given him the longevity of Moses the archprophet (who lived 120 years). Shenoute proclaimed: ‘The Lord has favoured me with the lifespan of Moses the archprophet: one hundred and twenty years. But if you anger me, I shall pray that he take me away before those years [are accomplished]’ 7. Stephen Emmel supports this 6 7

With an article in Gabra. 2008 Bell. 1983. p. 89.

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number 8 but others question it, on account of the individuals who appear in Shenoute’s correspondence. 9 The normally posited ‘working dates’ for his life are 348–465 (or 466) A.D. The Vita presents Shenoute as a unique and saintly child. In fact, his name is a purely Christian Egyptian name meaning ‘son of God’ which is in contrast to many other early Christian saints’ names that are derived from pagan Egyptian deities (e.g. ‘Serapion’ from the god Serapis, ‘Ammonius’ from the god Amun, ‘Isidorus’ meaning ‘gift of Isis’, etc.). He was born in ‘a village called Šenalolet in the nome of Šmin’. 10 According to Amélineau, Šenalolet is the modern village of Shandawîl, situated on the west bank of the Nile, and less than a dozen miles from both Akhmîm and the White Monastery. 11 Šmin is the Greek city of Panopolis, now known as Akhmîm. Shenoute was the son of a farmer who owned a flock which he left under the care of a shepherd. At the age of seven, Shenoute began assisting the shepherd. In the evening, the shepherd would send Shenoute home, but on the way, we are told, the boy would make his way: ‘to a water-cistern, and stretch out his hands and pray … with the water coming up to his neck’. 12 When the parents complained to the shepherd that their child was always late coming home, the shepherd decided to follow Shenoute one evening after dismissing him. The shepherd found him under a sycamore tree next to the water-cistern and said: ‘I saw the young boy’s ten fingers, like ten flaming lamps.’ 13 Shortly after this episode, his parents took him to be blessed by his maternal uncle, Apa Pjol, who was the first leader of the White Monastery federation. At this meeting, Apa Pjol: ‘Took Apa Shenoute’s hand and placed it on his head, saying: ‘Bless me, my father and archimandrite!’ 14 From that moment, Pjol took in Shenoute and made him a monk in his monastery. After this, we With an article in Gabra. 2008. See: Lopez. 2013, Appendix A. pp. 131–133). 10 Bell. 1983. p. 42. 11 Bell. 1983. p. 94, n. 7. 12 ibid. p. 42. 13 ibid. p. 43. 14 ibid. p. 43. 8 9

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encounter numerous stories in the Vita Sinuthii of miraculous occurrences at the hands of the ascetic, including exorcisms, prophetic and clairvoyant utterances, multiple visions of Christ (as well as biblical prophets, apostles, and monastic saints), and miraculous increases of food to provide for the monks and the people visiting his monastery. Even though Shenoute came from a simple background, it is clear from his writings that he knew both Coptic and Greek. This is in contrast with Pachomius who, as we know, needed an interpreter to communicate with his Greek-speaking monks. Shenoute’s growing popularity and importance extended outside the boundaries of his Egyptian monastic federation. We know of three patriarchs of Alexandria who corresponded with him: Cyril of Alexandria (412–444), Dioscorus (444–454), and Timothy. 15 It is not clear if this latter was Timothy I (380–385) or Timothy II (454–477). This depends on when Shenoute became the archimandrite of the federation, and also on the date of his death, both of which are uncertain. The patriarch with whom he had the most interaction was St. Cyril of Alexandria. At one point, Cyril wanted to consecrate him as bishop, but Shenoute refused. We know this from Shenoute’s own discourses when he says: ‘How many bishops have spent how many days and nights here (i.e., at Shenoute’s monastery) with a multitude of clerics, the élite, soldiers, and other laypersons by the command of the archbishop, and with his letters, so that I might go to him to be ordained bishop? But I did not go, because I wanted the name of God to be glorified.’ And again: ‘When we went to the great meeting of the holy ecumenical council [in Ephesus 431], the glorious archbishop testified [about me] to other archbishops, bishops, and the whole council, praising me and boasting of me, saying things like: ‘When I sent for him because of that issue (i.e., to ordain him as bishop) he did not come, but when I wrote to him to come to the council with us, he did not place any concern for himself and joined us quickly in this city before other bishops, before we had decided anything’. 16 Though Shenoute never became a 15 16

Lopez. 2013. Appendix A, pp. 131–133. ibid. p. 32 & p. 155, n. 70.

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bishop, we know that he received the rank of priest, from several other references in his biography. This question becomes important when considering whether or not he truly attended the Ecumenical Council of Ephesus, in 431 A.D. Some have questioned his presence at this council, as a part of the Egyptian delegation with Cyril of Alexandria, based on his name not being listed as one of the members and a story in his Vita that is considered by most scholars to be folklore. According to the Vita, at the Council of Ephesus, 431: When they went into the church to set out the seats and sit down, they set out in the middle of the assembly another seat and placed upon it the four holy gospels. When the impious Nestorius came in with a great display of pride and shamelessness, he then picked up the four holy gospels, placed them on the ground, and sat down in the chair. When my father Apa Shenoute saw what Nestorius had done, he leaped quickly to his feet in righteous anger in the midst of our holy fathers, seized the gospels, picked them up from the ground, and struck the impious Nestorius on his chest, saying: ‘Do you want the Son of God to sit on the ground while you sit on the chair?’ In reply, the impious Nestorius said to my father Apa Shenoute: ‘What business do you have in this synod? You yourself are certainly not a bishop, nor are you an archimandrite or a superior, but only a monk!’ Our father replied and said to him: ‘I am he whom God wished to come here in order to rebuke you for your iniquities and reveal the errors of your impiety in scorning the sufferings of the only-begotten Son of God, which he endured for us so that he might save us from our sins. And it is he who will now pronounce upon you a swift judgement!’ At that very moment [the impious Nestorius] fell off his chair to the ground… There and then, the holy Cyril arose, took the head of our father Apa Shenoute and kissed him. He took the stole which was around his neck and placed it round the neck of Apa Shenoute. He put in his hand his staff, and made him an archimandrite. And all who were pre-

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sent at the synod cried out: ‘Worthy, worthy, worthy archimandrite!’ 17

Since, historically, Nestorius never attended the sessions of the council of 431, this story has been met with some skepticism. Even so, there is considerable evidence that Shenoute did attend the council. Another story in the Vita about Shenoute and the Council of Ephesus concerns his thaumaturgical reputation, and turns around the Egyptian delegation’s departure from Ephesus to return to Egypt: When the king had dismissed them so that they could go back to their [own] places, my father Apa Shenoute went to board the ship with our holy fathers Abba Cyril the archbishop and Apa Victor the archimandrite, but because the lesser servants did not know him, they said to him: ‘You cannot go on board with the archbishop’. My father said to them: ‘If not, then the Lord’s will be done!’ Then he and his disciple who had gone with him went a short distance away and he stood in prayer, saying, ‘My Lord Jesus Christ, how will you take me to my monastery?’ While he was thinking these things to himself, behold! a shining cloud came down from heaven, lifted up both him and his disciple, snatched him up into the heights, and flew off with him. And when they reached the open sea, Abba Cyril looked up and saw my father Apa Shenoute with his disciple in the middle of the cloud, and cried out: ‘Bless us, our holy father, the new Elijah!’ My father Apa Shenoute said to him: ‘Remember me, O my holy father’. And in this way the cloud flew off with him and brought him to his monastery. 18

The story continues with Cyril the archbishop interrogating Shenoute about when he arrived back to his monastery. After some

17 18

Bell. 1983. pp. 78–79. ibid. pp. 47–48.

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reservation, Shenoute replies that he had arrived that same evening to pray with the monks in the monastery. 19 Shenoute’s interactions with Nestorius did not end with the Council of Ephesus, of 431. The Coptic tradition concerning Nestorius preserves stories about his exile most of which are not found elsewhere. According to the History of the Patriarchs, Nestorius was being escorted to the Great Oasis when his guard learned that the warlord Mazices had sacked it, and so he was taken immediately instead to Panopolis and incarcerated at Psinblje near Shenoute’s monastery. The Coptic History of the Church in Twelve Books tells of a confrontation between Nestorius and Shenoute while the former was there. Nestorius appears to have asked Shenoute to distribute his goods to the poor, and Shenoute in return is said to have demanded that he acknowledge that Mary is the Mother of God. When Nestorius refuses, Shenoute declines to distribute his goods. The same story appears in other works (such as the Arabic Life of Shenoute) where Shenoute calls down an angel who beats Nestorius to death. Some recent scholars have seen this episode as a possible indication that Shenoute had a hand in Nestorius’ murder. But Nestorius’ death as a result of a fall, is related by Evagrius; and the story of the avenging angel is an obvious theologization after the event. The Coptic History of the Church also mentions a petition sent by Nestorius to the Governor Caesarius at Antinoopolis (since Caesarius was a friend of Shenoute) to ask him to persuade the latter to desist from his enmity. Caesarius is well known from Shenoute’s own letters and from an inscription found at the White Monastery. The existence of such a petition would fit the picture of Nestorius as portrayed by Evagrius. 20 Shenoute had extensive relations with the secular officials in Egypt. There is a certain Theodotos, whom Shenoute claims he ibid. pp. 48–49. This story must have become so popular in Egyptian monastic circles that an addition is included in accounts related to Macarius the Great. In this addition, Shenoute is on the cloud flying over the wilderness of Scete and sees the prayers of the monks there ascending like fire before God (c.f. T. Vivian, Saint Macarius, the Spiritbearer. 2004, pp 109–110. 20 Further see: Aziz. Coptic Encyclopedia, pp. 1786a–1787b. 19

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had spoken with, who is possibly the same Theodotos who was a military governor of Lower Egypt in 435. 21 More importantly, there were apparently close relations with Caesarius, the military governor of Upper Egypt. He is mentioned by Shenoute in two separate discourses and he seems to have visited his monastery at least twice. He is recorded in the History of the Church of Alexandria as a personal friend of Shenoute’s, and, crucially, he is named in an inscription above the main gate of Shenoute’s church as the founder of the temple. 22 There is also some evidence in Shenoute’s discourses that he had communications with the emperor Theodosius II. According to one story in his biography, the emperor once ‘thirsted’ for Shenoute’s presence in Constantinople. The military governor of the Thebaid was therefore commanded to bring him over to the imperial capital where the ‘entire senate’ was looking forward to his visit. Shenoute thought the visit too much of a distraction from his life of prayer and repentance in the monastery, and as a result applied great thaumaturgical power once again. He mounted a shining cloud, flew over to the royal palace in Constantinople, blessed the emperor, and came back the same night. Though this is clearly a variant of the Ephesine travel tale, it speaks about some level of access to the imperial court’s patronage. His own writings do speak about time spent in Constantinople (perhaps in the aftermath of the Council of Ephesus when intense lobbying was being conducted in the capital city and at Chalcedon on behalf of Cyril and Nestorius who were being held under house arrest in the immediate aftermath of the Council of 431). On that occasion the emperor came down decisively in favor of the Egyptian leaders. It may not be surprising, therefore, that Shenoute could later threaten his enemies at Panopolis with the emperor’s disfavor. These political relations would help explain how Shenoute was able to provide so extensively for the poor at his monastery and also how he might have been allowed state funds to build the White Monastery’s great church.

21 22

Lopez, 2013, Appendix A, p. 131. ibid., p. 132.

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Lastly, the Life of Shenoute goes into some detail concerning the time and manner of his death. 23 In order to establish his status with the saints and great monastic fathers, the biography states that after he had been in a coma: Suddenly he cried out: ‘Of your charity, my holy fathers, bless me; come and sit before me in your ordered ranks.’ He said again: ‘Behold! The patriarchs have come with the prophets; behold the apostles with the archbishops; behold the archimandrites have come with all the saints’. And again he said: ‘My father Apa Pšoi, my father Apa Antony, my father Apa Pachomius, take my hand so that I may rise and worship him whom my soul loves, for behold! He has come for me with his angels!’ At that moment, there came a great fragrance. Then, on that day, the seventh of Epiphi, he gave his soul into the hands of God.’ 24

SHENOUTE’S MONASTIC ORDER: THE WHITE MONASTERY FEDERATION Shenoute of Atripe was the third leader of a notable monastic federation near Panopolis in Upper Egypt (present day Akhmim) that included two monasteries for male monks, the White Monastery (commonly known as Deir Anba Shenuda) and the Red Monastery (commonly known as Deir Anba Pšoi), and one for women in Atripe itself. This federation was separate and distinct from the Pachomian Koinonia, or federation, even though it is known that the bishop of Panopolis asked Pachomius to establish a monastery in the Pachomian region. 25 The first leader of the White Monastery federation was Pjol, Shenoute’s maternal uncle. It was traditionally believed, from the Vita, that Shenoute inherited the leadership of the federation after the departure of his uncle. However, from the recent work done on the manuscripts of the White Monastery library, it has become more evident that there was a monk by the name of Ebonh that immediately succeeded Pjol as the head of the ibid. pp. 89–92. ibid. p. 91. 25 Veilleux. 1980–82. Pachomian Koinonia, vol. I pp. 352–353. 23 24

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federation. During the leadership of Ebonh, there was some behavior within the monastery that Shenoute was unhappy with. There was evidence of improper sexual behaviors along with stealing and other disorders that, according to Shenoute, was either not being dealt with properly by Ebonh or was being overlooked. Therefore, when no action was being taken, Shenoute left the confines of the monastery and decided to live in the wilderness. This self-exile into a hermit state resulted in his being recalled as the new higumenabbot. Under his leadership the number of male monks reached 2,200 and female monks 1,800. Shenoute remained the head of the federation until his death in 465/6 at which time his disciple, Besa, became the new leader. After Besa one Zenobius became the abbot. 26

THE STRUCTURE OF THE FEDERATION As was the case with the Pachomian Koinonia, the hierarchical system of authority in the White Monastery federation under Shenoute 27 began with the supreme head being the archimandrite, i.e. Shenoute himself, who presided over all the federation. But then, in each of the three different monasteries there was also an ‘Eldest’ with a supportive council. Of course, for the male monasteries both the eldest and the council were male monks. For the women’s monastery, there was also an eldest female monk with a supportive council. There seem to be times when another senior (male) monk was sent to the monasteries, either as their superior or in the name of Shenoute as his envoy. 28 Last in the hierarchy of officers was the housemaster of the divisions, the buildings where the monks lived. There were also hermits living in solitude in the desert outside of the monastery, but they were still collectively under Shenoute’s supreme authority. When someone desired to enter one of the monasteries in this federation, they were to take an oath: Every person shall say this: I vow before God in his holy place, the word which I have spoken with my mouth being my witBell. 1983. p. 22 & p. 35, n. 126. See: Bentley Layton’s paper in Gabra. 2008. 28 Krawiec. 2002. 26 27

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ST. SHENOUTE OF ATRIPE ness: I will not defile my body in any way; I will not steal; I will not bear false witness; I will not lie; I will not do anything deceitful secretly. If I transgress what I have vowed, I will see the kingdom of heaven, but will not enter it. God, before whom I made the covenant, will destroy my soul and my body in the fiery Gehenna because I transgressed the covenant I made. 29

It is the first known form of a formal monastic ‘profession’ vow. In this oath, we see a great emphasis on each monk’s individual purity and holiness not only for his own sake and salvation, but also because the monastery itself was a holy place and a monk’s life should be compatible, protecting it from defilement. 30 From several letters to the women’s monastery from Shenoute that are extant, it appears that there were some tensions resulting from Shenoute’s interactions with them and his visits to them. 31 It seems that his predecessors Abbots Pjol and Ebonh had not been very involved in the life of the women’s monastery and, therefore, the women had evolved a fairly loose system, with more freedom to choose their own rules. When Shenoute became the head of the federation, he tried to unify the monastic rules and set canons to be followed by both men and women monastics alike. This was not well received at times by some of the women monks, or the elders, an outcome that prompted supervisory visits by an elder male monk, perhaps even Shenoute in person. These visits in at least two instances stirred up further strife in the women’s community. But the long duration of Shenoute’s leadership puts these few instances of dissent among the women’s community into perspective, and they may be explained as a result of change of policy in his early years; settling down in due time. Krawiec’s analysis of Shenoute’s rule over the women monastics is critical of his ‘impositions’. While her study is a closely detailed one, many of her presuppositions about gender roles at play here reflect more of a 21st century theoretical grounding than a 5th century one. She also fails to take into consideration the canonical fact that Shenoute was a Bell. 1983. pp. 9–10. Schroeder. 2007. 31 Krawiec. 2002. 29 30

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priest with not only monastic, but significant sacramental ecclesiastical authority. At that time, as now, the female monastics would have depended on having an ordained male monastic to serve the liturgy, to take confessions, to give spiritual guidance, and to celebrate the Eucharist.

THE DAILY SCHEDULE OF MONASTIC LIFE In analyzing Canons 4 and 5 of Shenoute’s rule, Bentley Layton 32 has been able to reconstruct the probable daily schedule of the monks in the White Monastery. ‘Just before dawn, a great assembly was organized, that is, a collective meeting for prayer and handiwork in each entire congregation (possibly in the church building). At 1st hour (6 A.M.), prayer and handiwork in the houses; at the […] hour (9 A.M.?), prayer and handiwork in the houses; at the 6th hour (12 noon), the daily meal; at the 9th hour (3 P.M.), prayer and handiwork in the houses; at eventide, a great assembly.’ These canonical hours of prayer are identical to the liturgical book of hours used in the Coptic Orthodox Church to this day. Furthermore, on a quarterly basis, the canons (rules or ethos of the house) were read to the entire monastery. It should be noted here that what are commonly called the canons are not a specifically numbered set of rules laid out in a systematic fashion, but rather a set of exhortations given in a sermon-like format on different occasions over time as various situations occurred. However, from early times they have been considered and propagated as canons for the monastic rule, as deriving from Shenoute.

RULES CONCERNING HEALTH CARE AND FOOD: In Late Antiquity, the care of the sick was based mainly on the remit of personal finances available locally. If one had money, available medical care was possible. Otherwise, they could only rely on local patrons (as clientes). However, the patron was often not willing to pay for medical care since the one he was paying for was beneficial to him (usually in a mutual way) through services rendered to him and work performed for him. Once that person became ill, he 32

Layton, in Gabra. 2008.

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or she was no longer useful (no longer a cliens fulfilling the basic duties of that state). The sick person became a liability instead of an investment. Due to this endemic neglect of those who were ill, at the core of this ancient social-patronage system, Christian charity (individual and institutional) became increasingly more important in caring for the sick. Christian charity did not require the mutual benefit of the sick who could render services back to whoever provided them health care. In the coenobitic monastic rule, this behavior became institutionalized in the commands to care for the monks. This can be seen as a notable factor in both the Pachomian Koinonia and in the White Monastery federation. 33 Several of the canons speak directly about the care of sick monks in the monastery complex. An infirmary was provided that was in an isolated area separate from the rest of the community. If necessary, a physician was brought in to examine and treat the monks. Extra food rations and more varied types of food were provided for the ill that were not generally allowed for the healthy monks. In fact, at times healthy monks would feign illness in order to go to the infirmary and get extra food. This ruse was specifically prohibited in the canons (in addition to a severe prohibition about keeping extra food reserved in one’s cell). Crislip (2005) suggests that this aspect of particular care for the sick, witnessed in Pachomian and Shenoutian monasticism, was adopted by Basil the Great and Gregory the Theologian when they developed the great Basileiad project, and through this mediation it came into the great ‘spread’ of Byzantine monastic consciousness. This innovation in antique society is, of course, similar to the invention of our modern conception of a hospital. The Basileiad became a model for the development of monastically staffed hospitals throughout the Byzantine empire and thereafter.

SHENOUTE’S DISCIPLINARY CANONS One of the major themes in Shenoute’s canons is the issue of monastic purity and holiness. 34 This holiness was not just something 33 34

Crislip. 2005. Schroeder. 2007.

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considered at the level of the individual monk, but was seen collectively: in the sense that each monk’s holiness affected the holiness of the entire community. Each monk was to keep his own body pure for his own sake and for the sake of the single monastic body comprised of all the monks in the community. For Shenoute, the defilement by sin of any one monk would risk the entire family of monks being defiled with impurity in God’s sight. Shenoute derived this theme of his theology from the Pauline concept of the Church being the single mystical body of Christ. 35 Therefore, if a monk was unrepentant, he was liable to be expelled from the community, just as the Apostle Paul excommunicated the sinner of Corinth, 36 not only so that he might be shocked into repentance, but also for the protection and salvation of the larger community of ‘pure believers’. In this way Shenoute builds upon the eschatological teaching of Christ when he says: But when he (the Lord) says, ‘If your brother does not listen to you, let him be for you an enemy, like one whom you have never seen,’ because the Lord first wishes that we cut him off from us after we reproach him in order that he perhaps indeed might regret after he has become a stranger with respect to God, since he is our brother, and so that he might return and repent, and we might forgive him up to seventy seven times, such that he does not sin again, since we know to cut him off from us because of his sin. But if it does not please him to turn from sin – because of which we know to cut him off from us – then we will indeed cut him off from us, and he shall not return to us, and we shall not love him. But he shall be for us an enemy with respect to God, even though he is our brother. And in this way, the person who loves God reveals all of his desire for the Lord, since he loved him (the Lord) more than his brother and more than his father and his mother. For it is a great perfection for the person to cut himself off from his brother or his son or his daughter or his father or his mother

35 36

1Corinthians 12; Ephesians 1:22–23; 4:15–16; Colossians 1:24 1Corinthians 5.

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ST. SHENOUTE OF ATRIPE or any other person because of God, whenever they sin against God who created them. 37

Alongside with expulsion (as one of the most severe disciplinary actions against unrepentant monks, there also stood a robust attitude in Shenoute’s federation towards the use of corporal punishment. This application of discipline involved beatings 38 – something that is perhaps shocking to a modern sensibility, but which was an aspect of the social control of ancient villages (in peasant levels of low-ranking citizens – as it was forbidden to the higher ranks of the kalokagathoi). The female monks were beaten on their feet whereas it appears that the male monks were beaten more severely on their upper body. The theological justification for this practice was based on the perception of the monastic community as a family and the application of the Old Testament injunctions such as that from Proverbs: ‘The one who spares his rod, hates his sons and daughters’ (Proverbs 13:24). It is notable that we do not have the same level of physical discipline in the Pachomian Koinonia. It was used in the Byzantine houses later, particularly for lower class and recalcitrant monks. And one imagines it occurred more often than it appears in texts. It is in one’s clear sight in Shenoute because it appears in the canons, and also, one suspects, because the majority of the community were of the fellahin class. The ‘diplomatic silence’ in other Byzantine monastic sources does not allow us a really fair comparison – as to how ‘violent’ Shenoute’s system was in the wider Christian perspective of the time. In one notorious case, however, a monk was beaten for repeated sins in the monastery, and subsequently died. 39 The cause of death is not clear, but Shenoute was apparently greatly blamed for it by a group of monks who used the occasion to lead an uprising against Shenoute’s governance. Shenoute defended himself (again applying a notably ‘direct’ eschatological sense of theodicy) by sayShenoute, Canon 3, YA 426–27, in Leipoldt, Opera Omnia, 4:128. See Mt. 18:16–22, 10:37; Luke 14:26; as cited in Schroeder. 2007. pp. 79– 80. 38 Krawiec. 2002. pp. 28–29, 40–42, 141–143. 39 Krawiec. 2002. pp. 43–45. 37

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ing that it was God’s time for that monk to pass away, according to God’s judgment. Unfortunately, the complete details as to the age, health, sins committed, and the severity of the beatings of the monk who died are not available to us, and whether the beating directly caused the death, and therefore, a clear adjudication of the issue cannot be made. A careless causation of death by a cleric, of course, was a serious canonical offence in the Church systems of the day; and generally would be grounds for deposition. Shenoute evidently survived this rebellion against his authority.

SHENOUTE’S CARE OF THE POOR Perhaps one of the most interesting aspects of Shenoute’s monastic order was his involvement with the lay people of that region 40. In contrast with the Pachomian Koinonia, Shenoute opened his monastery on Saturdays and Sundays to lay people and pilgrims and gave them religious instruction. He was quite generous in providing for the poor and in many cases acted as their patron while at the same time he was robustly denouncing the wealthy, particularly the middle and upper classes of the local capital Panopolis; whom he thought had a careless attitude to the physical and spiritual welfare of their local people. This theme is seen throughout his Letters and Sermons. We even have accounts of Shenoute defending poor Christians in civil suits. There is a detailed story in the Arabic Life of Shenoute of when he and his monastery accommodated 20,000 people (so it says) whose villages had been raided by the Nubians (the Blemmyes tribe in the south). 41 In a short work by Shenoute, entitled Continuing to Glorify the Lord, found in an Appendix to Canon 7 42 he refers to this story himself relating how the Lord worked during this time to provide for the masses of people in need. Putting the two sources together, we learn how the federation fed multitudes of refugees (at times miraculously), buried 94 people, assisted with 52 new births, and provided seven physicians to care for the sick and wounded, entirely from out of the monastery’s own expenses Lopez. 2013. Lopez. 2013. pp. 57–62 42 ibid. p. 57 & p. 166, n. 63. 40 41

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which God had blessed for fulfilling these acts of charity in time of war.

SHENOUTE’S OPPOSITION TO PAGANISM Paganism was still very much alive in Egypt in this period of Late Antiquity despite its adoption as the state religion of the Byzantine empire. Emperor Theodosius I’s anti-pagan decrees opened the door for the abolition of pagan festivals, practices, and the destruction of pagan temples and sites as we see with the Serapeum of Alexandria during the time of Theophilus, the 23rd Pope of Alexandria. Once Egyptian religion lost its state subsidies and extensive taxation rights, it soon financially collapsed. The priesthoods were ruined almost immediately, but the ‘spiritual practices’ of the old religion (never a domestic entity as Christianity would come to be), and its thought patterns still existed in wider society, even if not as openly as before. This was Shenoute’s context in 5th century Upper Egypt. Some pagan temples were transformed into churches at this time and spaces previously used for secular purposes were commandeered; but many sites still existed as pagan cult centers even though a very large number of them were abandoned when they lost their endowment. We have at least three accounts of Shenoute’s involvement with pagan sites and practices. 43 One of these events involved Shenoute’s destroying an abandoned and ancient pagan temple in Atripe because of its symbolic value and the negative effect it’s presence may have had on the Christians in that area. This, surprisingly, did not create the uproar one would expect from the destruction of an ‘ancient religious site’. Shenoute also relates to us another episode when in the middle of the night he took seven monks and secretly stole the household idols of a rich landowner and patron in Panopolis by the name of Gesios. According to Shenoute, this was done without any harm to anyone and for the purpose of exposing this man’s hidden idol worship and hypocrisy (for he regularly appeared to receive public Christian teaching by Shenoute himself). This second ‘raid’ created more of a 43

ibid. pp. 102–126.

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disturbance among the people than the previous instance because Gesios was apparently somewhat abusive and ruthless to those to whom he provided his patronage. The third situation did not involve direct participation by Shenoute. Some of the Christians in the countryside village of Pneuit (Banawit today) located in the district of Panopolis attacked and burned down the village temple. This provoked a furious reaction from the local pagan priests, who in turn accused the Christian mob before the provincial governor. As a result these Christians were taken to Antinoe, the provincial capital. When Shenoute got word of this, he departed immediately to defend them before the governor, and succeeded in getting the Christians absolved from punishment for their act. He was then paraded triumphantly on the shoulders of the (Christian) crowd to the local church in Antinoe where the people sought to touch him and receive his blessing.

CONCLUSIONS There are many important facets of Shenoute which touch on many important aspects about ancient Christianity, monasticism, and general conditions of life in Late Antiquity. His Vita and writings allows us a glimpse into the still obscure culture of his day. His important personality and the larger impact he had on the development of monastic lifestyles is only now being appreciated in its real importance. This small summary certainly does not do him justice, but hopefully it gives some insight into the range and depth of his involvement in the lives of not only the monks under his rule but also the people and society of his day and region. Unfortunately, until the past decade or two we have had to rely on the major focus of earlier scholarship on Shenoute which had caricatured his strict rule as violent and deranged, and his theology (bizarrely since it is passionate and devout) as ‘Christ-less.’ His personality was described as an ‘erupting volcano’ (given his use of corporal punishment, his protocol of expulsion for severe crimes, and his orchestration of the raiding of pagan sites). Most of this depiction of him as an ‘undesirable’ was massively colored by anachronistic expectation of the tenor of ancient societies, and a strange set of adjudications from those who professed to be historians. Today, some of the latest scholarship that has studied Shenoute’s life and ministry from the larger store of manuscripts now available, has begun to put his behavior, teaching, and theology in the perspective of his

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own words and times thereby giving him a greater depth, and allowing us deeper appreciation. We look forward to the ongoing work of transcribing, editing, and translating the remaining primary texts in order to gain an even more comprehensive picture of this important strand of Egyptian monasticism, which should open the door for many more enlightening studies to come.

BIBLIOGRAPHY A.S. Aziz D. Bell, (tr). A.T.Crislip S. Emmel G. Gabra, (et al.) R. Krawiec A. G. Lopez

C.T. Schroeder A. Veilleux (tr). T. Vivian (tr).

Coptic Encyclopedia, New York. 1991. Besa, Life of Shenoute. Kalamazoo. 1983. From Monastery to Hospital: Christian Monasticism & the Transformation of Health Care in Late Antiquity. Ann Arbor. 2005. Shenoute’s Literary Corpus. Louvain. 2004. Christianity and Monasticism in Upper Egypt. Cairo. 2008. Shenoute & the Women of the White Monastery: Egyptian monasticism in Late Antiquity. Oxford. 2002. Shenoute of Atripe and the Uses of Poverty: Rural Patronage, Religious Conflict, and Monasticism in Late Antique Egypt. Berkeley. 2013. Monastic Bodies: Discipline and Salvation in Shenoute of Atripe. Philadelphia. 2007. Pachomian Koinonia. Kalamazoo. 1980–1982. Saint Macarius, the Spiritbearer: Coptic Texts Relating to Saint Macarius the Great. Crestwood, N.Y. 2004.

HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM ATSEDE MARYAM ELEGBA Ethiopia is a place and concept where the mystical and material meet, in story and song, image and stone, on parchment, in greeting, conversation, and even the characters of the fidel (alphabet). Church and monastery, gädäm (desert) or däbr (mountain), are words used interchangeably, because the monasteries are often active places of worship for monks, priests and laity. The church: whether on a mountain, in a cave, or cut out deep in the bowels of the earth, is a place where heaven on earth is realized. Humans become angels and God transcends; not least in the storyteller (gädlat: literally – struggles, hagiographies) and most of all through the examples and persons of the saints. The Ethiopians have always regarded monasticism as a highly elevated form of Christianity. Monasteries have been a centrifugal force of national faith and practice as well as serving as the major regulators for domestic and foreign policy of the Christian kingdom from ancient times until the twentieth century. As Getatchew Haile says: ‘The monks were the voice of the church and the monasteries the heart of the church.’ 1 Many examples of exist of Ethiopian monastics who suffered martyrdom because they publically chastised political leaders for behaving contrary to Christian ethics. Most significantly these Christian holy ascetic men and women have been powerful exponents in the spread of Christianity Haile, 1991. Entry reference CE:990b–995b in vol. 2 of Atiya (ed). The Coptic Encyclopedia. 1

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262 HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM throughout all of Ethiopia and beyond. This great missionary impulse of Ethiopian monasticism is a likely explanation why the institution is so widely and so highly regarded. Monasticism might seem odd, relative to so many and deep African traditions that place such a big emphasis on familial commitment, generational continuum, and the place of the ancestors, and correspondingly nurture a low regard for those who have no children. 2 But like the scriptural commands to leave family and kin for the sake of the Gospel, this paradox has its roots in the foundations of the Christian religion itself. In Ethiopia the ascetic life took root in the very early stages of Christianity’s presence there. Solitary eremitism came to the Ethiopian highlands from the tradition of St. Antony, and communal cenobitism came as exemplified by the Pachomian Koinonia. Indeed, the rule of Pachomius was among the first books ever translated into Ge’ez (an ancient dialectic of Ethiopic). 3 Scholars of Ethiopia today think three events to be singularly responsible for the historical spread of monasticism in Ethiopia: firstly Monks migrating from North Africa; the Mediterranean or Byzantine world, particularly Egypt and Syria in the 5th to 6th centuries; secondly the rise of Abuna Täklä Haymanot (1214–1313); and thirdly the arrival of Metropolitan Ya’eqob (1338–1345) during the reign of Ae’Amd Seyon. Several groups of monks have been identified as coming from the Byzantine world between the 5th and 7th centuries. One group in particular is called the Nine Saints. This important group came, with a strong hierarchical structure they had learned elsewhere (possibly Syria) bringing their advanced books of ascesis with them, as well as traditions of scriptural copying, and, possibly, service books, and other educational materials. 4 Persoon, 1999. p. 61. Haile, 1991. op. cit. 4 Aragawi/Zamikael was leader of the nine saints who came to Ethiopia, and had a profound reorganizing effect. Eachone traditionally established their own monastic center or school. The Nne are: Pantelwon, who is remembered for helping King Kaleb in 525 by praying for his success in rescuing the Christian community in Najran in Arabia. And also for never leaving his cell for 45 years until his death. Yeshaq (Isaac)/Garima- most 2 3

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Monastic values permeate the Ethiopian church especially through the hagiographies that hold up to the laity a standard and image of holiness. Monastic saints are remembered every single day in the Orthodox Church calendar. Legends of sainted monks work their way into every Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church service (EOTC) as a story, a hymn or in iconic form. It is not unusual to hear a conversation referencing the exploits of one of the saints. I Myself have heard such remarks in church as these, repeated by a lay member explaining the contemporary rules of fasting: ‘We only fast a few days … but you know what he did, (pointing to the icon of Täklä Haymanot) and he was standing on one leg all that time.’ 5 And on another occasion: ‘Lalibela had a vision. The churches revealed themselves as he was digging them out. The vision told him where to go. He started digging and the next day when he came back, twice as much was dug out because the angels had helped him’. 6 It is remarkable how close their recollection is to the gadla even likely a prince who left his parents palace to come to Ethiopia at the request of Abba Pantelwon. His monastery is Madera at Adwa, in Tigre. This house is also the keeper of the oldest known illustrated gospel manuscript in the world, as well as the former home and school of two influential monks and ecclesial leaders in the twenty-first century. Afse is said to have ascended to heaven like Elijah. Gubba founded his monastery near Abba Garima but there are no remains surviving today. Alef founded Dabra Halle Luya in Tigre. There is then Yemata but little is known about his activities or person. Liqanos built his hermitage, Debre Qonasel, north of Aksum. Today it is called Dabre Liqanos. And lastly - Sehma settled southeast of Adwa but his monastery no longer exists. All Ethiopian monks today take pleasure in in tracing their monastic lineage to one of these saints; however, most are linked to Arägawi/Zämikael through Yohanni, the 7th abbot of Dabra Damo. Yohanni’s spiritual sons Iyyasus Mo’a of Amhara, Täklä Haymanot of Shoa and Daniel of Tigre have been the most influential in Ethiopia’s monastic history. 5 Girma Tessema, ETOC lay church member (Personal communication, 22 September 2013). 6 Kidane Mariam, ETOC lay church member (Personal communication, 3 February 2014).

264 HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM though the persons speaking might not even remember reading these stories, or hearing them read. In this paper I would like to sketch out some of the ways monastic tradition lives in the Ethiopian theological experience, particularly through the narratives of the saints. These stories, embedded with miraculous elements and legends that can be so frustrating to western historians, are integral to Ethiopian literary, historical, and theological culture. They are not simply random or entertaining folklore, but build on a complex oral, textual and visual pedagogic tradition. They still inform an Ethiopian understanding of theology, identity and also politics. Every significant culture has its own national narrative, or myth, that seeks to establish a more encompassing identity in place and time. In the case of Ethiopia it is lodged in the monastic hagiographies. I propose in what follows to discuss selected saints, and give a brief history and taxonomy of Ethiopian monasticism and canon law, in order to show how monasticism functions in the wider society. The mystical, supernatural and the intentional act of ‘recreating biblical and divine presence in everyday life’ will be recurring themes throughout this paper, since it is our thesis that they are also the leitmotif of the historic Ethiopian culture.

SAINTS AND HAGIOGRAPHIES The saints celebrated by the Ethiopians include: most of the saints of the Christian church who were renowned before the council of Chalcedon (451), all the saints of the Alexandrian Coptic church; and then a large list of indigenous Ethiopian saints. The Coptic Synaxarion is the major source of the Ethiopian hagiographies. Like many other examples of ancient Synaxaria the passage of time has introduced many divergent readings in the different vitae. The list is so massively dominated by monastic saints that one is hard pressed to find a single example of a married saint with a family, with the possible exception of the Kings and Queens of the Zagwe dynasty (1137–1270). A concrete example of a major monastic saint may give us the essential flavor. Abuna Täklä Haymanot the most celebrated of all

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Ethiopian saints is also revered in the Coptic Church. A glimpse of his life, as translated by Wallis Budge, 7 will tell us much about the character of most Ethiopian hagiography. It is worth recording in some length: The head of the monks, Täklä Haymanot was born to a priest and a barren mother, who prayed for a son. After rescuing the couple from danger, Michael the Archangel came back to announce the birth of their son whose righteousness should be heard of in all the ends of the earth …. A son was born on 24 Tahsas (January2) and they named him Fesehha Seyon (or Zara Yohannes in the Synaxarion). On third day after his birth he cried out: ‘One is the Holy Father, One is the Holy Son, One is the Holy Spirit’. As a child he worked signs and wonders and learned the Psalms of David and all the books of the church at the age of seven. As a young man he refused marriage. He sealed himself in his virginity, and he was adorned with holiness … Shortly after the woman to whom his parents betrothed him died. As he was hunting wild beasts in the desert, our Lord appeared to him sitting on the wings of St. Michael saying: ‘O My beloved, hence forward thou shalt not be a hunter of wild beasts, but thou shalt catch many souls in thy net. And thy name shall be Täklä Haymanot, for I have chosen thee from thy mother’s womb, and I have sanctified thee like Jeremiah the prophet, and John the Baptist. And behold, I have given thee power to heal the sick, and to drive out unclean spirits in all the world.’ … Shortly thereafter, his parents died and he became a priest. In the years to come he was beaten and died more than once, but God raised him sound and unharmed. Following God’s orders, he consecrated tabernacles, served with other disciples, taught the books of the Prophets and Apostles, made countless prostrations, worked the flour mill, drew water, and cut firewood

Budge, 1928. for Nehasse 24 (August 30) the day he died. ibid. pp. 714–716; also Budge. life of Takla Hâymânôt 1906. 7

266 HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM without ceasing, performed miracles, raising the dead and healing the sick 8 … When Täklä Haymanot left his spiritual father Abba Iyasus Moa in the monastery at Hayak by the sea, he followed St Michael as he led him, walking on the sea as if it were dry land. He went to Tigre and ascended the mountain and lived in Dabra Damo monastery where Abba Yohanni was the abbot. He received the cowl and the cloak from him and proceeded to emulate the famed nine saints and began to observe the ordinances of the monastic life. After a time God then told him to leave the mountain and go into the deserts and visit the monasteries. 9 Abba Yohanni and the other monks went with him to the edge of the mountain that was impossible to descend without a strong rope. As they watched Täklä Haymanot go down, the rope broke and as our father the holy man fell, six wings were given to him and he rose up through beating the air with them and he flew away for a distance of three stadia whilst the monks of the monastery were watching him. 10

Budge, 1906. pp. 62–63. Budge, 1928. p 716 10 Budge, 1928. 180. 8 9

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Abuna Täklä Haymanot Many years later after passing through all the deserts he came to Showa, and in due course to Gerarya where he built a cell among the rocks in the desert. He began a new and more severe asceticism, so that he might acquire the knowledge of the taste of perfect contending. 11 The cell was just large enough for him to stand and to stretch out his hands to his left and right. He placed sharp iron goads all around him so as to pierce him if he were to sit or lie down. He stood like a pillar without a stick and he said: ‘I will not go up into my bed, and I will give neither sleep to my eyes, nor slumber to my eyelids, nor rest to my jaws until I find the place of God, and the habitation of the God of Jacob.’ He did not eat or take drink except on the Sabbath. He did not speak except to praise God 11

Ibid, 222

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268 HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM day and night. He never left his cell, and many disciples came to him. After standing in his cell for so long, his thighbone broke and one of his legs dropped off. His disciples wrapped it and buried it under the ark of the church. Then he stood up on one foot for seven more years, for four of which he did not even drink water. Eventually he finished his spiritual servitude, having fasted like the prophets, preached the gospel like the apostles, endured suffering like the martyrs and led a solitary life like the monks. One day our Lord Jesus Christ, Lady Mary, fifteen prophets, twelve apostles and multitudes of the hosts of heaven came to set him free from his servitude. 12

St. Täklä Haymanot is a historical figure whose life and works have been heavily embellished (as with most saints) in his gädl (hagiography), to solidify his position as a preeminent national saint. The stated spiritual lineage from one of the foundational ‘Nine Saints’, further validates him, and thus his later disciples and the enduring importance of his monastery. Täklä Haymanot’s gädl traces his spiritual lineage directly to St. Antony. The gädl is our primary source for his life and for many Ethiopian saints the hagiographical note is the only source or record about their lives, their history and works. 13 Historically speaking the saint was born in Shewa (central Ethiopia) during the Zagwe dynasty (1137–1270). According to tradition his ancestors migrated from the north to the central regions and were concerned with the evangelization of an area then considered to be a pagan and Islamic stronghold. As a priest, Täklä Haymanot is known to have converted many in Shewa and Damot. As the hagiography tells, he later went north to study in the ancient Christian centers; namely, with Abbot Basalota Mika’el at Dabra Gol in Amhara; with Abbot Iyyasus Mo’a at Dabra Hayq Estifanos in Amhara; and with Abbot Yohanni at Dabra Damo in Tigre. After receiving the monastic garb and acquired the authority to tonsure monks he returned to Shewa and established the monastery that would eventually become the renowned Dabra Libanos. The 12 13

Ibid, 224 Kaplan. 1984. p.10

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followers of both Iyyasus Mo’a and Täklä Haymanot claim the responsibility for reinstating the Solomonic dynasty in 1270. It has long been thought that it was the support of this monastery’s leading clergy that was most instrumental in overthrowing the Zagwe dynasty and enthroning Yekunno Amlak. Many of the close followers of Yekuno Amlak and Täklä Haymanot were blood relatives of each of them – which would have given them a considerable advantage in terms of close bonding and unanimity of purpose. 14 Monasticism flourished again after the restoration of the Solomonic dynasty. 15 During Täklä Haymanot’s leadership of the renowned monastery, Dabra Libanos wielded enormous political and ecclesial influence and spread Christianity throughout Ethiopia. However the most celebrated stories of this saint, still recounted by the faithful, are more concerned with his personal severe ascetic practice and devotion. Another major figure in the hagiographies is St. (Abuna) Aragawi or Zamika’el. He was the leader of a group of famous saints that came from Egypt to Ethiopia. He founded the monastery of Dabra Damo where Iyyasus Mo’a and Täklä Haymanot were clothed in the monastics habit by Abba Yohanni, ‘a spiritual descendent of Aragawi’. 16 He established and built his monastery, on the top of a mountain that could only be accessed by rope (as it is even today). Abuna Aragawi initially ascended the steep precipice, it is said, holding the tail of a great serpent. Once there, again in Wallis Budge’s translation: He fought countless noble spiritual fights’. ‘God made a covenant with him … he was hidden from the face of death by the grace of God’. He established among his followers the rules of the monastic life that he learned from his spiritual father Pachomius. Abuna Aragawi’s mother, Edna also came with the group and established a nunnery for girls, Beta Danegel (House of the Virgin), nearby. 17 Haile, 1991. article ref. CE:990b–995b Kaplan. 1984. p.12 16 Haile, 1991. art. ref. CE:990b–995b 17 Budge, 1928. p 89 14 15

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Abuna Aragawi St. Gabra Manfas Qeddus is another very popular Ethiopian saint. His Vita has been translated by Budge and can be presented synoptically here: He was born in Egypt to a previously barren mother. He was taken from his mother’s breast and brought to the desert to live with the monks. He was fed with food from the kingdom of heaven and presented to all the hosts of heaven and kissed by Our Lady Mary. He was instructed by God to go into the inner desert and dwell with sixty lions and sixty panthers. Abuna Gabra Manfas Qeddus was naked and hair grew to cover his body and the hair on his head and beard grew very long. Everyday he healed the sick and blind until the crowds of the faithful who had been healed by him amounted to more than fifty thousand. He remained naked in winter and summer and prayed standing in both cold and heat. He devoted himself to prayer, fasting, prostrations and ceaseless vigils.

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He ate intermittently – fruit, roots, plants, and sometimes berries. Angels visited him because ‘he was like them in his behavior and speech’. 18 Abuna Gabra Manfas Qeddus probably came from a monastery in Nehisa (Egypt). Exactly when he came is not known but he taught predominately in the Shewa region, Medra Kabd, before secluding himself on the top of Mount Zeqwala. He died possibly around 1382. He was a people’s saint, having nothing to do with politics or aristocrats. Tradition says that he had the power to split a cliff in half as if it were a blade of grass. Icons picture him with long hair covering his body surrounded by the lions and leopards (themes from the Coptic desert literature), which were his companions and even carried him around. His monastery survives today on the top of Mount Zeqwala. 19 In Ethiopian church tradition, these narratives are imbedded also in the wider culture and are reflected many times over in popularly known images and stories. The stories are alive, and like the liturgy, are repeated often, even in daily conversation. They have thus become narratives that the faithful learn to live by, serving thus to inculcate examples of saintly lifestyle. This kind of storytelling, parables and song, permeate the Ethiopian religious and ecclesiastical psyche in ways that dogma and rhetoric may not. They become a powerful didactic tool. A loose translation 20 from Ge’ez of a popular mezmur (hymn) about Täklä Haymanot demonstrates this when it sings: He went to Dabra Libanos. He stayed there because the angels told him to go. He stayed even when his leg fell off. He started something and finished like a warrior. With prayer and fasting, he finished his mission. Praise him, even when he was in pain he didn’t stop. He was firm in his mission.

The popular song teaches lessons about obedience to God, perseverance in life’s tasks, the value of prayer and fasting, and all using Budge, 1928. pp. 434–435. Haile,1991. art ref. CE:1044a–1056a. 20 Girma Tessema, ETOC lay church member (Personal communication, 22 September 2013) 18 19

272 HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM the medium of the life of the saint: all this regardless of how ‘incredible’ the story may seem to a modern historical analyst (in terms of its legendary accretions).

WOMEN’S HAGIOGRAPHIES According to Ethiopian canon law, 21 nuns and pious widows have the same obligations as men, except that the texts make it clear that she is appointed to serve alongside other widows and holy women, and is not to receive the ‘laying on of hands’ since she is not to offer a priestly service in any form. This is an aspect that mirrors the ancient church orders of the 3rd and 4th centuries. Women are meant to be appointed to the ecclesiastical office of widow when they reach 60 yrs. of age, and have lost their primary family ties. The encomia texts state that it is honorable for a widow to fast and pray much, and to serve the sick and the poor. Virgins have precedence over widows in the monastic context. Today a key EOTC publication recognizes there have been significant women monastic saints. 22 After noting St. Walatta Petros as one of the few women saints in Ethiopian hagiography who founded several comm.unities, the booklet continues: ‘However often there are too few nuns to form a community so they are often living alone, sometimes in a hut in a churchyard. Widows and virgins are eligible monastics but are considered differently. Widows cannot take final vows until their husbands have been dead for a long time and unless they are 60 yrs old. The dietary obligations and rules of conduct are the same as for men. She also wears a rough leather ‘saq’ under her clothes next to her skin at night. Their duties include praying, and serving the sick and poor. She carries a staff and a fly whisk, and may beg for flour to bake tiny cakes to give to the poor’. 23 Salamawit Mecca has analyzed Ethiopic hagiographies of female saints. 24 She notes that of 202 hagiographies written in Geez, Fetha Nagast 10:8. ed. Strauss. 1968. Wondmagegnehu, 1970. 23 ibid. p.27. 24 Mecca, 2006. 21 22

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only nine are about women. Several of these lived during the 15th century. St. Krestos Samra of Shewa left her husband and eleven children, became a nun, and founded a convent. Her grave became a pilgrimage site after her death, reputedly at the age of three hundred and seventy-five. St. Feqerta Krestos of Lasta also left her husband and child, to become a nun, founded two monasteries and is considered a defender of the Orthodox faith. She was imprisoned for rebelling against King Susenyos and his conversion to Roman Catholicism and encouraged the people to remain Orthodox. St. Zena Maryam of Enfraz lived a severely ascetic life as a hermit in caves. She flagellated herself in memory of Christ’s suffering. Miracles were performed at her gravesite. St. Walatta Petros of Gojjam is a martyred defender of the Orthodox faith, again during the reign of Susenyos. She founded about seven monasteries and made them self-supporting. Mecca observes that although there are a lot of similarities in the hagiographies of women to those of men, there are also some marked differences. One of them is that: ‘Women saints are never categorized as virgins, but rather as mothers who pray a lot and receive revelations from God’. 25 I find this interesting in that it contrasts immediately with the image of the Virgin Mary who is sainted, and the Fetha Nagast, which says that ‘virgins have precedence over widows’. These women, operating in their own agency, left their husbands and children (again contrary to the notion of being allowed to be an ecclesiastical widow if the husband died) and are not ‘passively’ widowed or unmarried virgins. They have created a wholly new ‘outsider role’ in taking their monastic vows. Mecca also concludes that when women saints are highlighted by the hagiographers (all of whom appear to be male), ‘they are simply being used to achieve what are basically patriarchal ends’. 26

25 26

Ibid, pp. 161- 162 Ibid.

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SUPERNATURAL ELEMENTS OF ETHIOPIAN HAGIOGRAPHY The extensive mystical and miraculous elements we see in the saints’ lives are, unarguably, foundational for all forms of Orthodox Christianity. But they are especially prevalent in Ethiopian tests. Embracing the mystical strand in Ethiopian theology (and history) requires, for many modern commentators, an uncomfortable position, one that runs against the grain of much modern western analytical customs, one that the historian Craffert argues yet needs to favor: ‘the acceptance of multiple cultural realities and an ontological pluralism [as part and parcel] of the historians’ task’. 27 Craffert is here applying a method of cultural anthropological historiography as a different trajectory for historical Jesus research, which creates a more culturally suitable context for Jesus’ healing miracles (less anachronistic in nature than the Jesus Quests have often proved to be). In researching Ethiopian monastics or saints in the gadlat (the ecclesial literature), often the factual and fantastical appear to be intimately intertwined and conflated. There are many narratives that reenact biblical stories of the prophets being directed by God the Father or Christ Jesus and/or the apostles performing miracles. Likewise, the influence of the Hebrew bible and Judaic practice in Ethiopian culture and theology is immense. Ethiopia is named as a region over fifty times in the bible. The divine or covenant relationship is solidified in the national narrative, called the Kebra Nagast and today most exemplified by the presence of the tabot or Ark of the Covenant, centrally placed in every church. Regarding this tendency, along with certain types of prayers, and an awareness of demonology that was ‘common to the ancient Semitic world’, 28 Edward Ullendorf calls ‘the survival of magical practices’ in Ethiopian Christianity, as something that stems directly from this deep seated allegiance to Hebraic thought patterns and biblical archetypes. The scholar Ephraim Isaac similarly refers to ‘elements 27 28

Craffert, 2008. p.77 Ullendorff, 1968. p79.

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of religio-magic’ as a distinctive aspect of Ethiopian Christian tradition. 29 Modern foreign commentators find it difficult to see anything more in the hagiographies than their legendary ‘phenomena’. But we are not dealing here with concrete ideas of (ever mysterious) time and space in the modern Western sense. Cultural understanding and the very concept of ‘plausibility’ is inevitably concretized within its indigenous cultural context and belief systems. Plausibility structures, or what is intuitively seen as rational and convincing, is culturally determined. Many, if not most, nonwestern worldviews readily accommodate supernaturalism, although they also appreciate the value of scientific empiricism. 30 Perhaps the same is true of the West, for all its vaunted rationalism. Cultural blindness is more readily seen in retrospect. One researcher, regarding the accounts of the life of an Ethiopian saint, contended that: ‘like many legends, it was full of repulsive, trivial, details and assaults on common sense.’ 31 Another summed up the tradition as generally: ‘A tendency to gross exaggerations’. 32 More efficacious, contextualized, and empathetic research would, I suggest, focus rather on what the sources and stories were about, their meaning and purpose, rather than what actually happened and which sources are correct, 33 (and perhaps how the researcher’s own tradition is so clearly ‘superior’ to that being studied in a rather condescending way. For more than anything else, such ‘wondrous stories’ try to articulate the sense of divine intervention in the daily lives of people, and to present it as a power available to the average believer, so as to be able to call on God or one of His emissaries and change one’s circumstances, procure healings or basic life necessities. They show God’s movement on earth within nature, animals, and governmental power: all of which is an expression of the Christian stoIbid p. 79; also E. Isaac, 2012. p27. Keener, 2011, p.211. 31 Hein, 1999. p. 53 (on the late 19th century commentator F. Praetorius, reviewing E. Cerulli’s edition of the life of Tekle Hawarat, the only saint whose gadl was written in the same century in which he lived) 32 Heine, 1999. p.54. (comment by Rudolf Kriss). 33 Craffert, 2008. p.79. 29 30

276 HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM ry, and the Gospel’s proclamation of the Kingdom of God being among us. It is core Christianity that God came to earth in the form of a man and activated a paradigm shift that affected all beings. These tales are about the constant struggle (the central recurring theme of gadlat) of humans aspiring to a holy life, and seeing the church as a heaven upon this earth. Therefore, collapsing heaven and earth (in the way our texts do habitually) allows a liminal space for reciprocal human entry to the divine, just as God entered human history, space and time, through the Incarnation, and its ongoing effects. Through visual, literary and oral narratives and materiality, that is, from such things as the icon, the stone monastery, to holy water and incense, the believer is allowed the grace of ‘spiritual transference’. Exemplified in a very high form in the monastic, who stands as an icon by virtue of his or her separation from the world, the observer too can become ‘other’ or outsider in the world, just as they are, can become disengaged (to an extent) from normal social functions and behaviors. As Kaplan puts it so succinctly: ‘A monk has neither country nor family … he is a stranger and capable of acting as a mediator in the affairs of the faithful’. 34

34

Kaplan. 1984. p.75

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Lalibela Monks in Liturgical Procession The Ethiopian Archbishop and scholar Abuna Yesehaq has called the Ethiopian Tewahedo church: ‘An integrally African church’ 35 – as it is rooted in the earliest period of Christian development. The complicated history of Christianity in Ethiopia, this prevalence and character of the supernatural and miracles that we can see in the monastic hagiographies, and the important relationship of the whole to a broader African cosmology deserves further investigation and attention than I can give in this paper. However, suffice it to say, that more often than not African or non-western spiritual/religious practice, Christian and otherwise, inclines toward nondualist presuppositions: hence not separating but rather integrating the physical and spiritual. Ephraim Isaac puts it this way: ‘The Hebrew bible and certain African monistic traditions can unite the sacred and the profane into one single reality or creator-creation, combining the laws of humanity and nature into one single harmonious principle … Hebraic and certain African traditional religions including ancient Egypt, are in general homo-socio-centric and put emphasis on the unity between the divinity and creation (the mate35

Archbp. Yeshaq. 1988.

278 HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM rial world) and make little or no distinction between the sacred and secular’. 36 There tends to be an active belief or faith in miracles, an affinity with the supernatural, as well as the work of the divine and the devil in one’s private life. It is something that also applies to many African descendants in the western diaspora.

Ethiopian Priest with Holy Water. Dabra Berhan Sellassie Church.

36

Isaac, 2012. p. 77.

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THE MONASTERY: ‘A PLACE WHERE HEAVEN AND EARTH MEET’ There is a strong psychic geography of the Ethiopian monastic landscape, as Niall Finneran observes. 37 Eremitic impulses would, from the beginning, purposely distance the monastic site from society; either vertically on a mountain, or in the depths of the earth, deep in a desert, or hidden in a cave. Walking though the monastery churches in Lalibela, along the trenches from one underground passage to another, is a transformative experience. The smell of wood, fresh earth mixed with incense, and dry air, at once simulates a desert and a cave. The journey through tunnels in complete darkness and then suddenly opening out into dazzling sunshine, is a recurring epiphany of ‘darkness giving way to light’ and vice versa: a paradigmatic symbol of the life of the soul under God’s eye. All there is still and secluded. Layers of carpet cover the sanctuary floors as in most Ethiopian churches. The kebero (drum), maquomia (prayer stick), and ceremonial umbrellas are lined up in various corners, signifying this is a place of active worship. Some monks are available to greet visitors and others are settled reflectively into niches. Evidence of living acetic monks can be seen in the form of the holes and caves in the adjoining rocks and walls. Some have cloth coverings over their entrances. Remnants of monks of former days, who died in their cells, are also visible since their relics are exposed for pilgrims: old bones still covered in mummified skin that did not putrefy. These are reminders to the faithful who come to venerate the saints and renew their commitment to be ‘separate and holy unto God’. Incorruptibility of the relics is taken, throughout the Orthodox world, to be a great sign of the holiness of the monk while alive.

37

Finneran, 2012. p. 253.

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Ethiopian Icon of St. George

Hermit Cave & Relics. Bet Giorgios. Lalibela.

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In the Ethiopian registry it is often hard to establish whether a given religious site is a monastery or not. In the local language two terms are used: gadam and dabra which can both be translated as monastery. Gadam (desert) connotes a place of seclusion where strict ascetic monks live in monasteries called menat. The term Dabra (mountain) chiefly denotes a monastery where monks live in community. A dabra is meant also to be place of common worship and special learning. Such a center can also have daughter monasteries that could be either gadam or menat. 38 But, in much of the literature the words gedam and dabra or church and monastery are simply used interchangeably. A church can only be built with the permission of a bishop. 39 Bishops must take monastic vows; hence according to canon law no church can be established without a monk’s blessing. There are four types of church or monastery buildings in Ethiopia. The most ancient are the monolithic rock-hewn churches of Aksum and Lalibela, the cave churches of Imrahanni Krestos and N’kwuto Leab, but there are also the basilica type of foundations such as Däbr Damo, and the circular shape is the most common in Ethiopia such as at Ura Kidane Meret. All churches are divided in three concentric parts or ambulatories. The outer part is called the qene mahlet, the place where the choir sings or where the debtaras or cantors stand, the next area is the qeddest, the place reserved for liturgical processions and where the laity receives Holy Communion; and the inner and most sacred place is the mäqedäs (sanctuary) or qeddestä qeddusan (Holy of Holies). It is usually square in shape with an altar that holds the tabot, a small replica of the Ark of the Covenant. This area can only be entered by ordained clergy. This spatial arrangement evokes and corresponds with the Hebrew Tabernacle and the layout of Solomon’s Temple. 40 The church building is meant to symbolize the ‘heavenly Jerusalem’. As a new church is being consecrated, the altar is anointed with meron (Myron or Chrism); but it is mainly the presence of the Haile, 2000. pp.454 –460. Fetha Nagast . 1968. p. 11. 40 Wondmagegnehu, 1970. p. 46. 38 39

282 HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM tabot within it that is felt to sanctify the place. 41 Hymns are sung at the four corners of the building. According to one of the consecratory hymns: ‘the church was built to be a symbol of heaven, a place where we receive forgiveness of sin’. The song goes on to include words from the Psalms and Revelations that describe the church of the ‘heavenly Jerusalem’. The very first dictate of the Fetha Nägäst (the Book of Ethiopian Canon Law) concerns the consecration of the church in the likeness of heaven as well as its likeness to the biblical Hebrew Temple. It reads: It must be lighted with many lamps, in the likeness of heaven: especially during the reading of verses from the Holy Books…It shall be lighted with wax tapers and with lamps when the bishop consecrates the Tabot on the altar … seven priests shall be with him, and he shall make the sign of the cross on the Tabot with chrism, which is the oil of happiness, as it is the seal of God. After this has been done the sacred mysteries may be celebrated in the church … If the Tabot breaks or is transferred elsewhere, the church shall be consecrated again. The Tabot shall be such that it can be transferred from one place to another like the stone of the children of Israel which could be transferred from one place to another. The dust which is swept from the sanctuary shall be thrown into a running river. 42

Lalibela is perhaps the most magnificent example of the Ethiopian rock-hewn churches. There are twelve churches concentrated in two large complexes here on one single site, (Bete Giorgis, or St. George) in one small geographic area. Ethiopia’s ancient Christian center at Aksum, is also the inheritor of the Ark of the Covenant traditions. Aksum was called the New Jerusalem, and the Second Zion. Lalibela or Gabra Masqal was one of the saintly kings of the Zagwe dynasty that ruled Ethiopia from 1137 to 1270. He had lived as a monk dedicated to fasting and prayer before he came to power, even while he was married to Masqal Kebra who is also sainted (they both committed to celibacy). His unparalleled legacy 41 42

ibid. p. 46. Fetha Negast. 1968. p. 11.

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in the history of the Ethiopian church is visible today in his construction of the rock-hewn churches of Lasta. When Lalibela (a word that means ‘bees’) was born around 1150: ‘bees encircled him foretelling that he would become king and be escorted by the national army’. 43 The city where the churches were built, once the capital, was called Roha but the name was later changed to Lalibela. Roha derived from the Syriac name of Edessa, the royal city of King Abgar, with its famed Mandylion of Christ traditions. 44 Perhaps, due to the diffusion in Ethiopia of the legend of Abgar and his correspondence with Jesus, the Ethiopic Legend of Abgar flourished strongly in 17th century Ethiopian manuscripts. 45 This cultural diffusion or conflation infers that seeing the churches of Lalibela is like seeing a vision of the face of Christ. 46 The gadla or hagiography of Lalibela tells us that well before he became king, God appeared to him in a vision and transported him to the seventh heaven and said to him: ‘Open the ears of your mind and comprehend what I shall show you, in order that you may build my temple on earth where I shall dwell with my people and where I shall be sanctified by the mouth of my people’. 47 God thus made him King for the purpose of building these churches. Later, the hagiography tells us, God described to him the detailed specifications, including color and spatial delineation, of ten monumental churches hewn from living stone. The churches were also named (denoting clear archetypal relationships): Medhane Alem (Savior of the World), and Beta Maryam (St Mary), Dabra Sina (Mount Sinai), Beta Emmanuel (house of Emmanuel), Beta Masqal (house of the Cross), Beta Golgotha and more. The completion of the churches concurred with the end of Lalibela’s life and his reign in 1270. 48 Current oral tradition in Ethiopia concurs with parts of his gadl to sing that: ‘Angels built Lalibela’s churches … He had an Haile, 1991. art. ref. CE:990b–995b. Heldman, 1995. p.29. 45 Isaac, 2012. p.243 46 Heldman,1995. p. 30 47 Perruchon, 1892. p. 88 48 Haile, 1991; Perruchon, 1892. p.88; Heldman, 1995. p.28. 43 44

284 HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM army of angels and an army of men because the angels came to join to the workmen, with the carriers, to the stonecutters and the diggers. The angels worked with the men during the day and worked alone at night’. Folk traditions tell that each day, on resuming their labors, the builders would find their work had progressed while they were asleep. 49

Lalibela. Church of Bet Gabriel.

49

ibid. Perruchon, 1892.

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CONCLUSION In some way, ‘digging away to reveal’ (an idea prevalent in these churches, which stand as living symbols of Ethiopian monastic life, and as concrete extensions of the lives of the saintly founders who stood behind them and are now enshrined within them), is like a metaphor for God digging away at the soul to reveal Himself in the depth of a believer. The tunnels stand as metaphors for the spiritual journey and Christ bringing light into darkness. Interpreting spiritual meaning in all the ordinary things of life might be intrinsic in an Ethiopian environment that is still predominately agrarian. There is a pattern of biblical reenactment at work throughout the monastic experience that has informed a deep cultural awareness, the relationship of individuals and community to each other and to the divine. At the same time, this fluid spiritual transcendence so omnipresent in daily life seems to stand in contrast with the more rigid insistence so often encountered on maintaining ancient tradition in stubbornly orthodox ways. The monastic experience seems to be offered as the core Christian experience in Ethiopia; almost implied as the only way to be holy, that is to live or sustain the character of a monastic. But, as often is the case within the broader Ethiopian hermeneutic, there are many layers that are not so readily revealed to those outside the tradition. Today monasticism stands at a new juncture in Ethiopia. Monasteries have been on the wane as educational centers, and many are now moving to populated urban areas. The position in the extensive diaspora is complicated in other ways again. With lack of state and social support, in Ethiopia, the monastic centers are struggling to subsist. The education of young men and clergy is still deeply rooted in monastery culture. But now that power and money has shifted from the monastery what does it bode for the future of ecclesial education and even for the ancient Ge’ez language? The study of the monastic traditions of the Ethiopian church, conducted from a perspective of intelligent, empathetic and deeply researched investigation, has never been more apposite or important. It is a field that is opening up in the 21st century and promising great things.

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Bet Gabriel Church. Lalibela.

BIBLIOGRAPHY C. Battell

P. F. Blasewicz

The Ethiopian Orthodox Church and Its Monastic Tradition’. Ampleforth Abbey. Accessible: www.benedictines.org.uk/theology/2005/ battell.pdf ‘Ethiopian Monasticism’. Warszawskie Studia Teologiczne XII/2/(1999): 31–46. Institute of Oriental Studies Warsaw University.

ATSEDE MARYAM ELEGBA P. Brown E. A. W. Budge ——— ———

A. Caquot

ETOC P. F. Craffert N. Finneran

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‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity’. The Journal of Roman Studies 61 (1971): 80–101 The Book of the Saints of the Ethiopian Church. Hildesheim. 1928. repr. New York: 1976. Legends of Our Lady Mary the Perpetual Virgin and her Mother Hannâ. London. 1933 The life of Takla Hâymânôt in the version of Dabra Lîbanôs, and the Miracles of Takla Hâymânôt in the version of Dabra Lîbânôs, and the Book of the riches of kings. London. 1906. ‘L’homélie en l’honneur de l’archange Ouriel (Dersāna Urā’ēl).’ In: Annales d’Ethiopie. Volume 1. 1955. pp. 61–88. Accessible as: http://www.persee.fr/web/revues/home/pres cript/article/ethio_00662127_1955_num_1_1_ 1232# Church of Ethiopia: A Panorama of History and Spiritual Life. Addis Ababa. 1997. The Life of a Galilean Shaman: Jesus of Nazareth in Anthropological-Historical Perspective. Oregon. 2008. ‘Hermits, Saints, and Snakes: The Archaeology of the Early Ethiopian Monastery in Wider Context’. International Journal of African Historical Studies Vol. 45, No. 2 (2012). 247– 252 (The Law of the Kings). Translated from Ge’ez by Abba Paulos Tzadua, Edited by PL. Strauss, Haile Sellassie University, Addis Ababa, 1968. A History of the First Esṭifanosite Monks. Louvain. 2011. ‘Ethiopia’. Pages 454–460 in vol.1 of the Encyclopedia of Monasticism. 2vols. Edited by W. M. Johnston. Chicago. 2000. ‘Ethiopian Monasticism’. Entry reference CE: 990b–995b in vol. 2 of The Coptic Encyclopedia. Edited by Aziz Suryal Atiya. New York.

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———

———

E. Hein M. E. Heldman ——— E. Isaac S. Kaplan C. S. Keener G. Lusini S. Mecca

K. Merahi

1991. Accessible Online: http://ccdl.libraries. claremont.edu/col/cce ‘Ethiopian Saints’. Entry reference CE:1044a– 1056a in vol. 2 of The Coptic Encyclopedia. Edited by Aziz Suryal Atiya. New York. 1991. Accessible Online: http://ccdl.libraries. claremont.edu/col/cce The Mariology of Emperor Zara Yaeqob of Ethiopia: Text and Translations. Pontificium Institutum Studiorum Orientalium. Rome. 1992. (with Brigitte Ewald). Ethiopia, Christian Africa: Art, Churches and Culture. MelinaVerlag.Ratingen. 1999. ‘Legends of Lālibalā: The Development of an Ethiopian Pilgrimage Site’.RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, No. 27. Spring, 1995. 25–38 ‘Architectural Symbolism, Sacred Geography and the Ethiopian Church’. Journal of Religion in Africa XXII, 3 (1992): 222–241. The Ethiopian Orthodox Täwahïdo Church. Trenton, N.J. 2012. The Monastic Holy Man and the Christianization of Early Solomonic Ethiopia, Wiesbaden. 1984. Miracles: The Credibility of the New Testament Accounts, Volume 1, Grand Rapids. 2011. ‘Desanä ‘Ura’el’, in vol.2 of the Encyclopedia Aethiopica. Edited by Siegbert Uhlig. Wiesbaden. 2003. p. 143. ‘Hagiographies of Ethiopian Female Saints: With Special Reference to ‘Gädlä Krestos Sämra’ and ‘Gädlä Feqertä Krestos’’. Journal of African Cultural Studies vol. 18 No. 2 (Dec. 2006): 153–167. Saints and Monasteries in Ethiopia II. Addis Ababa.2003.

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Lalibela: Wonder of Ethiopia: The Monolithic Churches and Their Treasures. Ethiopian Heritage Fund. London & Addis Ababa. 2011. J. Perruchon Vie de Lalibala, Roi d’Éthiopie. Paris. 1892. J. Persoon ‘Ethiopian Monasticism and the Visit of the Holy Family to Ethiopia’. In Kopten en Ethiopiërs: Tweeduizend Jaar Mystiek en Christendom langs de Nijl, pp. 61–68. Uden (Netherlands): Museum voor Religieuze Kunst, 1999. D. W. Phillipson Ancient Churches of Ethiopia: FourthFourteenth Centuries. New Haven. 2009. T. Tamrat Church and State in Ethiopia, 1270–1527. Oxford. 1972. J. Timbie ‘Egypt’. Pages 432–436 in vol.1 of the Encyclopedia of Monasticism. Edited by William M. Johnston. Chicago. 2000. E. Ullendorff Ethiopia and the Bible. London. 1968. A. Wondmagegnehu (et al). The Ethiopian Orthodox Church. (The Ethiopian Orthodox Mission Press). Addis Ababa: 1970. Archbp.Yeshaq The Ethiopian Tewahedo Church: An Integrally African Church, New York. 1988.

Lalibela Monastics.

THE EVOLUTION OF FUNDAMENTAL CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL OF ALEXANDRIA VASILY NOVIKOV In the history of the Church, monastic ascetic practices have been understood not so much as a goal in themselves but rather as an important tool for the ‘one great aim’ of salvation and deification. In St. Cyril of Alexandria’s life, as Archbishop in 5th century Egypt, monastic communities played a large part. His theological formulae reflect this, and were also based on his own spiritual experience, in part deriving from his close acquaintance with monastic praxis. The active support monastics gave to St. Cyril in his controversy with Nestorius, in Egypt, Syria, and Constantinople, was due to the profoundly soteriological base apparent in his Christology, which could be recognized by the ascetics as parallel to their own endeavors. Indeed, the Nestorian crisis begins its literary career, at least, with Cyril’s Letter to the Monks of Egypt, 1 where he carefully shows the ascetics the significant principles at play, and at stake, in the intellectual controversy. Among the scholars examining the theological works of St. Cyril, one finds a variety of views on the interrelationship between his earlier and his later works as regards the sources of his Christology. At the turn of the 20th century church historians 2 and Text in J A McGuckin. St. Cyril of Alexandria and the Christological Controversy. Leiden.1994. pp. 245–261. 2 See e.g.: Болотов В.В. Лекции по истории древней Церкви. Т. IV. С. 180; Карташев А.В. Вселенские Соборы. М., 1994. С. 204, 214. 1

291

292 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL scholars of Cyrilline theology mostly adhered to the opinion that from the start of the controversy with Nestorius, St. Cyril’s Christology underwent significant change in the direction of the Miaphysite position. 3 However, over the last 20–30 years, these views have been largely set aside, and many modern scholars no longer care to contrast early Cyrillian Christology with his later statements. 4 Most of St. Cyril’s early works consist of interpretations of the various books of the Old and New Testaments, exegetical compositions which define the style of the scriptural books and comment on their theological terminology. In addition to this, among the early works are also found extensive Trinitarian studies: On the Holy Trinity and the Thesaurus, in which the Alexandrian prelate considers deep questions of Christology. The writings of St. Cyril, therefore, can be chronologically divided into three parts: 1. Early works (before 428); 2. Works written during the Nestorian controversy (428–433); 3. Late works Lebon J. Le monophysisme sévérien: étude historique, littéraire et théologique sur la résistance monophysite au Concile de Chalcédoine jusqu’a la constitution de l’Église jacobite. Louvain, 1909. P. 21–22. Harnack, A. von, Lehrbuch der Dogmengeschichte, 1909, S. 352–353. Raven, Charles E. Apollinarianism: An Essay on the Christology of the Early Church. Cambridge: University Press, 1923. P. 231, 279–280. Quasten J. Patrology. Vol. 3. Utrecht; Antwerpen, 1975. Р. 136–137; Keating Daniel A. The appropriation of divine life in Cyril of Alexandria. Oxford University Press. New-York, 2004. P. 17. A. Grilmayer, who wrote already in the 70s of XX century, believed that in his later works of St. Cyril took a step toward the real dyophysitism, recognizing the presence of Christ a rational soul. Grillmeier, A., Die theologische und sprachliche Vorberaitung der christologischen Formel von Chalkedon. // Das Konzil von Chalkedon I. T. I. Würzburg, 1951. S. 173. 4 See e.g.: Liébaert J. La doctrine christologique de saint Cyrille d’Alexandrie avant la querelle nestorienne. Lille: Facultes Catholiques, 1951; Koen Lars. The Saving Passion. Incarnational and Soteriological Thought in Cyril of Alexandria’s Commentary on the Gospel according to St. John. Uppsala, 1991; Welch J.L. Christology and Eucharist in the early thought of Cyril of Alexandria. Catholic Scholars Press, 1994; Weinandy Th. G. Cyril and the Mystery of the Incarnation. 3

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(434–444). After the outbreak of controversy with Nestorius St. Cyril’s writing became largely polemical. Perhaps this apologetic sharpness was what had stimulated scholars’ interest in studying the early works, which are written in a contrastingly calm tone. It is exactly these works, of course, that can supplement the understanding of the fundamental and structural ideas of the Cyrillian Christology, around which there has been significant divergence of interpretation among modern commentators. It is known that the specific, but imprecise, terminology of the Cyrilline Christology actually created much of the contentiousness in the Church during the Nestorian crisis. The study of his earlier works (especially the Commentary on the Gospel of John which was most likely written before the controversy), provides a clearer understanding of the Alexandrian’s theological view of these problems. L. Koen compares the views of Protestant theologians who believe that the Commentary on the Gospel of John does not reflect the complete theological scope of St. Cyril’s later thought, with those Roman Catholic theologians who generally tended to consider the Cyrillian theology to be equally deep, before and after the Nestorian controversy. The difference of approach is perhaps explicable on the basis of how the readers appreciated (an unquestioned fact) the depth of Cyril’s theological underpinnings, and the manner in which he was so firmly rooted in Tradition. L. Koen traces the influence of the fathers of the Church on St. Cyril, especially that of his predecessors in Alexandria. Also noteworthy is the interpenetrative relationship of St. Cyril’s Christology with his Soteriology, again something which remained unchanged from the time of the earlier Cyrillian Commentaries. 5 A close study of the early works of St. Cyril shows that the anti-Nestorian struggle was not just a kind of specious trump card in a suspected ecclesio-political rivalry between Alexandria and Constantinople, but rather that fundamental theological ideas of Christology, sacramentology and soteriology had clarified themselves and were present even in the earliest works St. Cyril. And, pace those who think that there is a huge difference between the early p. 24.

5

See e.g.: Weinandy Th. G. Cyril and the Mystery of the Incarnation.

294 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL and the late works, 6 one can now say with some assurance that during the Nestorian controversy we do not see new ideas being constructed, as much as long held views being presented more forcefully and extremely. Bardenhewer, 7 Liébaert, 8 Koen, 9 and Weinandy, 10 hold similar views on this fundamental unity of Cyrillian Christology. From the beginning of the Nestorian controversy, nevertheless, St. Cyril began to assert a number of positions of his Christology, while defending himself against the charges of his opponents. These Christological positions can be expressed in the following sections of our paper.

THE ABSOLUTE UNITY OF THE INCARNATE WORD OF GOD The concept of the Unity of the Son is indisputably the main idea of the Christology of Saint Cyril. Without an understanding of what this Unity entails it is impossible to formulate Cyril’s main soteriological insight: that Christ is connected with humanity not at the (historical and accidental) level of the individual, but rather at the level of the genus, and because of this, and only in this case, does He save all of humanity, not simply saving the individual Jesus. The 136.

6

See e.g.: Quasten J. Patrology. Vol. 3. Utrecht; Antwerpen, 1975. p.

‘Over time, his eyes became more penetrating, thought - more subtle, expressions - clearer, but we can not say that there is a profound difference between the first and the last to clarifications’. Bardenhewer, O., Geschichte der altkirchlichen Literatur. T. IV. – Freiburg-in-Brisgau, 1923. S. 70. 8‘There is the one Cyrillian christology, and we believe that, despite the external changes, it never changed in his manner, even during the Nestorian controversy’. Liébaert, J., La doctrine christologique de S. Cyrille d’Alexandrie avant la querelle nestorienne. – Lille, 1951. p. 237. 9Koen Lars. The Saving Passion. Incarnational and Soteriological Thought in Cyril of Alexandria’s Commentary on the Gospel according to St. John. Uppsala, 1991, p.22. 10 Weinandy Thomas G. Cyril and the Mystery of the Incarnation. pp. 24, 30, 53. 7

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proclamation of the unity of Christ by St. Cyril becomes most pronounced during the controversy with Nestorius. Reviewing the Third letter to Nestorius, which includes the Twelve Anathemas, we can clearly see that the chief literary goal was to defend the concept of the Unity of Christ. But the same intent was present even in his earlier exegesis, where he speaks of the impossibility of separating Christ into two persons, and the necessity of defending the absolute unity of the Son after the Incarnation. 11 To sceptics who might suspect that St. Cyril put these phrases into his commentaries later, during the Nestorian controversy, it can be remarked that parallel statements are easy to find in a range of other early works. For example, in the early 8th Paschal Homily (c. 420), St. Cyril speaks of the unity of the Son, citing the words of apostle Paul: ‘Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever’ (Hebr. 13:8). This unity pertains to not only the bare (γυμνῷ) Word of God the Father, Cyril says, but rather to the Word Made Man, Jesus Christ. 12 Thus, after the Incarnation of the Word, no other entity appears other than the Person of God the Word, now enfleshed. And in the Old Testament interpretations (written before the period of controversy with Nestorius), we find the term ‘Christ’ consistently explained by Cyril as the term denoting his united personal state as God the Word made flesh. 13 For St. Cyril, the Gospels were a primary authority in provide the Church with an image of Christ as a single entity, a single individual, both divine and human inseparably. His favored image was how the divine and human natures were united in one Person of Christ, just as the body and soul are inextricably connected in a human being. This was an imagistic comparison (often referred to as the ‘anthropolog-

11

Commentarii in Joannem. Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in D. Joannis evangelium, 3 vols. Ed. P.E Pusey, Volume 1, p. 224, lines 14–19. 12 Homilia paschalis VIII, PG 77. Col. 568BC. 13 Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in xii prophetas, 2 vols.’ Ed. PE Pusey, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1868, Repr. 1965. Volume 2, page 364, lines 13–15.

296 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL ical paradigm’) which represents this unity, but does not answer the question, how it was reached? 14 The expression ‘One and the Same’ as referred to the Son of God is found in the Acts of the Ephesian Council. 15 But this expression is also found three times in Cyril’s Commentary on the Gospel of St. John. 16 Moreover, the Paschal Letters of St. Cyril can be considered as casting an important light on the early works. J. O’Keefe, has argued that their analysis explains for us the evolution of the Cyrillian Christology. 17 Letters, of course, are not specifically dogmatic treatises, and Cyril’s Paschal Epistles are not particularly complex from a theological point of view – their purpose is defined for a wide range of listeners. Even so, they have the advantage that their appeared annually, and tended to reflect on the nature of the sufferings of the Lord and His resurrection; and this fact allows us to see that the fundamental ideas of Cyrillian Christology, revealed during the controversy with Nestorius at the Ephesus Council in 431, were already present in his theological thought from the very beginning of his episcopate. Indeed, ‘with remarkable consistency’ 18 for thirty years, O’Keefe says, St. Cyril based his writings about Christ on the same set of primary texts from the New Testament, namely: John. 1:14, Heb. 1:3 and Phil. 2:14–17. As was the case in all his other writings, the main ideas of the Christology of Saint Cyril of Alexandria explicitly followed the self-same theological tradition established by his predecessor, St. Athanasius of Alexandria. This determined, above all, his overarching soteriological vision. Thus, Christ, out of 14

p. 35.

See: Weinandy Thomas G. Cyril and the Mystery of the Incarnation.

ἕνα καὶ τὸν αὐτὸν. See e.g: (Schwartz E (ed). Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum, Tome 1, volume 1, part 1, page 53, line 27; page 57, line 18; page 72, line 21; part 2, page 84, line 8; part 4, page 46, line 29; part 5, page 27, line 10. 16 Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in D. Joannis evangelium, 3 vols. Ed. P E Pusey, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1872, Repr. 1965. Volume 1, page 642; Vol. 3, page 152. 17 St. Cyril of Alexandria, Festal Letters 1–12. Washington. 2009. p. 27. 18 Ibid. p. 27. 15

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love for fallen humanity, became incarnate from the Virgin Mary and redeemed mankind from death, lifting human nature to incorruption. Citing an example from the 17th Paschal Letter (c. 429), O’Keefe draws attention to the fact that though this is the dawn of the Nestorian controversy, St. Cyril’s basic Christological ideas remain the same as before the dispute. 19 We can conclude, then, that there was a deep unity of Christological purpose and style throughout the entire episcopate of St. Cyril. As was the case in his other writings, as the dispute with Nestorius deepened, the language of the Paschal Letters of St. Cyril became more acute. Despite this, St. Cyril avoided using the ‘technical’ terms ϕύσις, ὐπόστασις, πρόσωπον, in the Paschal Letters, basing them instead on an interpretation of the above mentioned fundamental Christological New Testament texts.

THE PERSONAL APPROPRIATION OF THE HUMAN NATURE BY THE SON OF GOD Speaking about the connection of the divine and human in Christ, St. Cyril uses the term ‘appropriation’ (from the verb ἰδιοποιέομαι – to appropriate to oneself, or make one’s own). The point in this is, as Cyril phrases it in the cause of defending the Anathemata at Ephesus, that: ‘The Word of God the Father appropriated flesh capable of death so that by means of that which is accustomed to suffering, he could take on suffering for us and because of us, and so liberate us all from death and corruption by making his own body alive, as God, and by becoming the first fruits of those who have fallen asleep (1 Cor. 15:20), and the first born from dead (Col. 1:18). 20 This concept of ‘appropriation’ is contrasted by St. Cyril with the terms οἰκειότης (likeness) and συνάφεια (union, conjunction), which Nestorius used in his Christology, terms that imply that the deity and humanity of the Savior are connected relatively and indi-

Ibid. p. 30. conciliorum oecumenicorum, Tome 1, volume 1, part 5, page 25, line 20–27. 19

20Acta

298 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL rectly, imputing that Christ is a just man in the state of grace, like the prophets and the righteous of old. 21 St. Cyril’s does not only write about the Word taking on the suffering of the flesh, but more to the point, taking on the properties of the human nature in general. Thus, in the one of his earliest works, St. Cyril says that Christ is not ignorant as to the day and hour of His Second Coming and does not pretend to say that he is unaware of it (as a man), but rather speaks this way because when he became flesh he appropriated the infirmities of the flesh to himself. 22 He was not circumscribed by the limitations of the flesh, therefore, but he willingly adopted them as appropriate to his salvific mission in the flesh. Several Cyrilline researchers have paid attention to St. Cyril’s notion of ‘appropriation.’ Using it, Cyril emphasizes again and again that the flesh, in some sense, (however paradoxically) is the Logos. In the flesh, that is, the true identity of the Logos Incarnate develops as a revelation and rescue for mortal humanity. 23 Indeed, the Logos, the Eternal Son, identifies himself with the flesh, and with being a man, even in such a radical way that the flesh is made ‘his very own’ since He is committed to his human existence. Thus, the incarnation of the Son means that the eternal Son appropriated human existence, and He himself became Man. 24 The Cyrilline scholar, B. Meunier, begins his monograph with a detailed description of how St. Cyril understands Adam’s fall: the destruction of our race’s union with God and its material consequences: the range of physical and mental damages it incurs for human nature: chiefly death. Salvation comes with the Incarnation, as Cyril sees it, and it is thought of as the abolition of the power of Satan (holding humanity locked into death and Hades) and as the reconstruction of the whole human nature to a pristine condition. D Fairbairn. Grace and Christology in the Early Church. pp. 106–108. τὸ γενέσθαι σὰρξ͵ καθὸ γέγραπται͵ καὶ τὰς τῆς σαρκὸς ἀσθενείας ἰδιοποιήσασθαι. Thesaurus, PG 75. Col. 376C. 23 Шенборн К. (при участии Конрада М. и Вебера Х. Ф.) Бог послал Сына Своего. Христология. (Пер. с немецкого – Верещагин Е M.). М., 2003. С. 150. 24 Ibid. 21 22

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Christ is the Mediator between God and fallen humanity, possessing a nature common to both God and the whole community of mankind. B. Meunier traces the genesis of these Cyrillian ideas to the earlier tradition of Alexandrian theology, again as expressed primarily in the writings of St. Athanasius of Alexandria.

THE PRESENCE OF CHRIST’S HUMAN SOUL AS AN IMPORTANT SOTERIOLOGICAL FACTOR J. Liébaert in his work on the Christology of St. Cyril before the Nestorian controversy, describes in detail the sources (including the Dialogues on the Holy Trinity, and the Thesaurus), and their history. The author employs the schema of two types of Christological semantics, prevalent, he argues, in the fourth to sixth centuries: the Logos-sarx scheme, most starkly exemplified in Apollinarius and partly assimilated by the Alexandrian tradition; and the LogosAnthropos scheme, more characteristic of the Antiochian tradition. The first scheme denies (Apollinarius) or underestimates (St. Athanasius of Alexandria) the presence and significance of the human soul in Christ; the second one assumes the connection of the Logos with a perfect humanity. The reception of the human soul by the Savior, as St Cyril points out, has a distinct soteriological character: firstly because only with a human soul could the Savior endure His suffering wisely and consciously, according to the axiomatic terms of ancient thought. 25 Secondly, because even if in Christ ‘the human conditions became excited and troubled’, such passions never overwhelmed the Savior as they did with ordinary people, but in his case they were overcome by the force of the indwelling Word and ceased their agitation. In this way, in the exemplar of Christ’s humanity, all of human nature was transformed. What was healed in Him passed on to us. If it has been otherwise, St. Cyril argues, the image of the healing of the passions in Christ could never have been imputed as passing on to the human race and the Incarnation could not have been the salvific event it was 25

Commentarii in Joannem. ‘Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in D. Joannis evangelium, 3 vols.’, Ed. PE. Pusey, Volume 2, p. 316, lines 11–17.

300 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL for humanity. 26 Cyril approaches the weakness of Christ flesh as follows: Being a man, Christ hungered and was troubled. In the same way, being a man, Christ was ‘subject to embarrassment from suffering’. However, this weakness never prevailed over Him, and He returned to ‘His rightful daring’ (as a man). Consequently, it can be seen that in Cyril’s schema (often supposed by commentators to be of the Logos-Sarx type) Christ very clearly and evidently has a rational soul. And to it (and not just to the flesh) extends the saving action of Christ’s grace. Cyril teaches that Human nature is thus reborn directly in Christ. 27 When Cyril says that human nature would never have been freed from the passions, if the Saviour had not undergone them himself, and if he had not suffered, it becomes evident that Cyril has carefully taken notice of the writings of St. Gregory the Theologian. The latter’s axiom (Epistles 101–102) that ‘What is not assumed [by Christ] is not healed’ (itself taken from the works of Origen), is also at the core of Cyril’s elevation of the soteriological motive as the basic rationale of the Incarnation. 28 In his work ‘Christology and Eucharist in the Early Thought of St. Cyril of Alexandria’ L. Welch says that Duran and Grillmeier under the influence of Liébaert were both largely mistaken in propagating the view that Cyril is a Logos-Sarx thinker, and only started to consider the larger role of the humanity of Christ after Nestorius had accused him of being an Apollinarist; thus introducing the concept of the soul of Christ in the later works. This error, as Welch argues, could only have been sustained by someone who had never studied the Cyrillian exegesis. 29 But these early works reveal the Cyrillian doctrine of the Eucharist in more or less complete form, a eucharistic doctrine which is based deeply and substantively on his Christology. It presents a paradigm of the Incarnate salvation. Here, for Cyril, we do not have the ‘bare Logos’ (γυμνῷ) but always the Logos incarnate, in other words, Christ the Lord among us. The Eucharist saves and deifies. It shows that Ibid. p. 317, lines 12–26. Thesaurus. XXIV. PG 75. Col. 397BC. 28 Koen op. cit. p.73. 29 Welch, Christology and Eucharist in the early thought of Cyril of Alexandria. 1994. p. 102. 26 27

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Christ must be God (or He could not save) and Man (or we could not be touched by what he accomplishes in the flesh).

THE NATURAL UNITY OF THE SON OF GOD WITH MANKIND WHICH HE SAVES AS MEDIATOR The Incarnation, according to St. Cyril, has no other purpose than the salvation of mankind, and therefore it was in a sense ‘necessary’. Indeed, the chasm between Mankind and God, introduced by sin, cannot be overcome without the intervention of a mediator, who would be both God and man. Without ceasing to be God and yet assuming all the conditions of human existence, the Incarnate Word became the mediator between God and man (μεσίτης Θεού καὶ ἀνθρώπων). 30 It was precisely at this point, according to J. Liébaert, that Cyril’s soteriology connected with his Christology. 31 In the Cyrillian Old Testament commentaries, this theme of Christ the Mediator is clearly of great importance. This is why St. Cyril insists on both the perfection of the divinity of the Word and the fullness of His humanity, so as to be able to show Jesus Christ as the Mediator and Redeemer, having long before been foretold in the Old Testament 32. St. Cyril speaks of the mediation of Christ, consubstantial with the Father in His divinity and with mankind in His humanity, in his Commentary on the Gospel of John, 33 as well as in the Old Testament commentaries. 34 Beginning with the work On Worship in Spirit and Truth St. Cyril illuminates the soteriological aspects of his Christology as its foundation. I have discussed these

De Adoratione PG 68. Col. 881B; Glaphyra. PG 69. Col. 325B, Col. 596A; Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in xii prophetas, 2 vols. Ed. Pusey, Oxford. 1868, Repr. 1965. Volume 2, page 260, lines 13–16. 31 Liébaert La doctrine christologique de saint Cyrille d’Alexandrie avant la querelle nestorienne. p. 218. 32 Ibid. 33 Commentarii in Joannem. 6.1. PG 73. Col. 1045C. 34 See e.g.: In Aggaeum prophetam. 1. PG. 71. Col. 1041 BC. 30

302 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL aspects about the work of Christ as foretold in the Old Testament at greater length elsewhere. 35

THE HARMONY OF ST. CYRIL’S CHRISTOLOGY AND EUCHARISTIC DOCTRINE Almost all the exegetical and dogmatic-polemical writings of St. Cyril involve the subject of the Eucharist. In accordance with received church teachings, the saint speaks of the reality of the change of bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ, and that through partaking we receive the life-giving and sanctifying power of Christ. Despite the fact that in the Cyrilline works we sometimes find the concept of the bread of heaven being the sustenance of the mysterious word, 36 the overall central emphasis in his interpretation is placed on Eucharistic realism, that is, on the literal interpretation of Christ’s words. In the Commentary on the Gospel of John, the interpretation of the Eucharist is contained mainly in the discussion of the Bread of Heaven (6th chapter), and since the Gospel of John does not speak of a Eucharistic institution narrative, St. Cyril in the respective interpretations only mentions it in passing. In his study of the Alexandrian’s theology, John McGuckin formulates the Cyrillian understanding of Incarnation dynamically; that is, as the sacrament of implemented salvation. 37 This is the archetype of the action by which the Logos saves humanity. 38 For Новиков В.В. Ветхозаветная экзегеза святителя Кирилла Александрийского как источник его христологии. ТРУДИ Київської Духовної Академії, № 16. 36 See e.g.: In Zachariem prophetam. Commentarius in xii prophetas minores. ‘Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in xii prophetas, 2 vols.’, Ed. Pusey, Volume 2, p. 338, line 2; In Habacuc prophetam, p. 142, line 27; In Isaiem prophetam, PG 70. Col.1428C. 37 J. McGuckin. (tr). On the Unity of Christ. New York. 1995. p. 43. 38 J. McGuckin. ‘St. Cyril of Alexandria’s Theology of the Eucharist’. Report at the Vth International Theological Conference of the Russian Orthodox Church Orthodox Teaching on the Sacraments of the Church. Moscow, 13–16 November 2007. http://theolcom.ru/doc/sacradoc/2_07_McGuckin_en.pdf 35

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St. Cyril, the teaching on the Eucharist is one of the main analogies which explains the way the mysterious action of salvation occurs. It became an important method by which St. Cyril evaluated proper theological thought. The Eucharist for St Cyril is a reference to a valid source of salvation, bestowed upon mankind by the Logos in the Sacrament of the Incarnation. Other researchers also note the reality of Eucharistic communion with God in the Eucharistic theology of St. Cyril. 39 God is by nature Life and Giver of Life – this idea runs through all the creative work of St. Cyril. And the Eucharist is spoken of as ‘life-giving’; 40 it is the vivifying Body of Life. 41 One can even say that salvation is understood as the receiving of the gift of vital force. Thus, the possession of this power of life makes it possible to ascend to the communion of divine life. After all, the faithful receive Holy Communion not just as bread, but as the flesh of the Lamb slain for the world. 42 Only the true Body of Christ can be life-giving. 43 The Eucharistic body is inseparable from the Source of Life, Christ Himself. That is, the flesh itself is most closely united and does not permit of any division of unity with the Logos. This doctrine of the Eucharist also has an ecclesiological dimension: in other words the Church as the Body of Christ is viewed in the light of the Christological dogma. After all, St. Cyril speaks of the Church as a communicant of the divine nature. 44 Thus, the Church of Christ, which became ‘According to Christ … See e.g.: B Meunier. Le Christ de Cyrille d’Alexandrie. pp. 180,181. In Isaiem prophetam, PG 70. Col. 96C. 41 Τίνα γὰρ τρόπον ζωοποιή σειεν ἂν ἡμᾶς τὸ σῶμα αὐτοῦ εἰ μή ἐστιν ἴδιον αὐτοῦ ὅς ἐστι ζωή; Quod unus sit Christus, ‘Cyrille d’Alexandrie. Deux dialogues christologiques’, Ed. A. de Durand. p. 722. line 39; Εἰ γὰρ οὐκ ἀμέσως ἰδία τοῦ Λόγου γέγονεν ἡ ἀπορρήτως αὐτῷ καὶ ὑπὲρ νοῦν καὶ λόγον ἑνωθεῖσα σάρξ͵ πῶς ἂν νοοῖτο ζωοποιός; Ἐγὼ γάρ εἰμι͵ φησίν͵ ὁ ἄρτος ὁ ζῶν… A. De Durand p. 776. lines 23–29. 42 Commentarium in Lucam. PG 72. Col. 905BC. 43 E. Concannon. ‘The Eucharist as Source of St. Cyril of Alexandria’s Christology.’ Pro Ecclesia 18.3 (2009). P. 326–327. 44 τῆς θείας αὐτοῦ ϕύσεως κοινωνὸς. Comm. In Isaiem pr. PG 70. Col. 1144CD. 39 40

304 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL in the communion of the Holy Spirit’, 45 is said to be, if not directly the general nature of Christ, then the implied divine nature. Entry into the Church is by no means ‘mechanical’, but implies fighting off in oneself of ‘unclean and earthly thoughts’ along with the purification of the mind. 46 St. Cyril offers a similar interpretation of Zion as the Christian Church in his Conversations on the Psalms. 47 The Body and Blood of Christ are united with the Deity, but are not themselves the essence of the Deity; they do not provide deification themselves, but because of their dynamic connection with the Divine. St. Cyril of Alexandria insisted on this, pointing to the unsolvable problems that Nestorianism created for the Church’s teaching on the Eucharist: here the communicant is not deified by the material nature of the Gifts themselves, but that communicating (via consumption) with the human nature of Christ, which is itself inextricably in communion with the Divine, so that a partaker of this dynamic material communicates with God in and through it. Therefore, for the Nestorians who divide the One Christ, the eating of human flesh is a meaningless ‘anthropophagy’ 48 Cyril argues. At this point the Cyrillian Christology and Soteriology closely converge here. The Cyrilline scholars Concannon, Welch, Weinandy and Keating 49 all agree on this point. The Sacrament of the Holy Communion, ‘gives us life and sanctification,’ and cannot be considered without an association with the confession of the salvific sufferings of the Christ. 50 St. Cyril closely and extensively links the Eucharist with the process of the deification of humanity. When he speaks of our spiritual consecration as supernatural, it is specifically the Eucharist that is the means of ‘natural blessing’ and adoption. Indeed, in his Dialogue on the Incarnation of the Only-begotten, which is a kind of watershed between the earlier and later works, St. Cyril says: Ibid. In Isaiam prophetam. Liber V. PG 70. Col. 1144B. 47 Expositio in Psalmos. PG 69. Col. 1128A. 48 Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum, Tome 1, volume 1, part 5, page 25, line 2–11. 49 Concannon.’ The Eucharist as Source…’ p. 319. 50 Glaphyrorum in Exodum. Liber II. PG 69. Col. 428A. 45 46

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He, being the only-begotten God, through the dispensation of union as man became first-born in us and among many brethren, so that we, in Him and through Him, have become children of God by nature and by grace. By nature – in Him and only (καὶ μόνῳ) in Him; by communion and grace – we are the children of God through Him in the Spirit. 51

Here, we should note the expression καὶ μόνῳ – and only [in Him – in the Son]. In speaking about deification by grace, many Fathers of the Eastern Church have tended to refer it to a work of the Spirit. But it is noteworthy how Cyril so exclusively refers it to the Eucharistic action of Christ: a natural, physical sanctification through the Son, in the Son, and only in Him. This is a unique and distinctive characteristic of the Christology of St. Cyril. Speaking of our bodily consecration, St. Cyril means that consecration that we have obtained by participation in the Eucharist. Christ sanctifies us (even after our departure to heaven) by and with his flesh, using his Eucharistic Body as the instrument of deification. And yet, the flesh of Christ gives life not in and of itself, but only because it is connected to God who is holy and is life. 52 As Cyril puts it: Because the very body of the Lord was being sanctified by the power of Word connected with it, which is why it is effective for us in a mysterious blessing (the Eucharist), so that it can implement its holiness in us. 53

The connection that we have with Christ in the Eucharist is so real, that it is compared by St. Cyril to the interpenetrative connection of two pieces of wax 54 or the combination of dough and yeast. 55 A late Cyrilline treatise On the Unity of Christ provides also the image De incarnatione unigeniti, ‘Cyrille d’Alexandrie. Deux dialogues christologiques’, Ed. de Durand, Paris: 1964; Sources chrétiennes 97. p. 700, line 10. 52 In Ioannis Evangelium. Liber XI. Cap. IX. PG 74. Col. 528C. 53 Ibid. Col. 528B. Русс. перевод: Там же. С. 734. 54 In Ioannis Evangelium. Liber IV. Cap. II. PG 73. Col. 584B. Там же. С. 41,42. 55 Ibid. 51

306 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL of iron and an inter-penetrating fire. For Cyril this transference of divine power through the flesh is not solely an event that happens for communicants; rather, the sanctifying power of Christ is connected with His sufferings in the flesh (never sufferings of the Divinity). 56 Thus, especially as it is located by St. Cyril in the Eucharistic context, the Passion of Christ once again manifests to us the absolute unity of the Christ with His flesh. Interpreting the verses of John’s Gospel in which the Lord speaks of Himself as the vine, 57 Cyril applies the passage to that ‘natural’ communion which we receive from partaking of the holy Eucharist. Along similar lines Keating argues that the spiritual blessing that we receive in Baptism through the Holy Spirit is equally the way to bodily sanctification through the Eucharist. 58 In Cyril’s Old Testament commentaries, we find the expression ‘In Christ, and only in Him’ set out in relation to the Church of Christ. In his treatise On the Incarnation of the Only-begotten and his Commentary on the Prophet Zephaniah, we find the phrase ‘In Christ, and only in Him’ (ἐν Χριστῷ δὴ καὶ μόνῳ). 59 For example: ‘In Christ and only in Him, is the spiritual and holy Sion justified, and that is the Church, or the holy multitude of believers. And through Him and by Him we are saved … and have a Mediator Who appeared in the image of our own King, and the very word of God, of the essence of God the Father’. 60 But our consubstantiality to the Savior cannot by itself serve as an automatic guarantee of salvation. 61 Even so, we cannot bear spiritual fruit and achieve salvation 56

οὕτω πως συνήσεις καὶ ἐν τῷ σαρκὶ λέγεσθαι παθεῖν͵ θεότητι δὲ μὴ παθεῖν τὸν Υἱόν. Quod unus sit Christus. ‘Cyrille d’Alexandrie. Deux dialogues christologiques’, Ed. de Durand, Paris: Cerf, 1964; Sources chrétiennes 97. p. 776, line 17–18. 57 In Ioannis Evangelium. XV, 1, PG 74. Col. 341CD. 58 D Keating, Divinisation in Cyril: The Appropriation of Divine Life . New-York, 2000. p. 166. 59 In Sophoniam prophetam. Commentarius in xii prophetas minores. Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in xii prophetas, Volume 2, p. 235, line 13. 60 Ibid. 61 In Ioannis Evangelium. XV, 1, PG 74. Col. 341CD.

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alone: as individuals, we are united with Christ through the mystery of communion (the Eucharist), which makes us bodily united (or co-bodied) to Him and to each other. 62 And since Christ cannot be divided, the Church is an assembly of the faithful around the Eucharistic meal which is called the Body of Christ. As Cyril puts it: And we … communicating in His holy flesh, acquire unity through His body, which means with Christ … If we all become one body with each other in Christ, and not only with each other but [with] Himself, evidently Him who dwells in us through His flesh; is it not yet clear that the one whole we make with regard one another, is like it is in Christ? Christ is, in fact, Himself an alliance of unity, being together both God and man. 63

It follows, then, that for St. Cyril the sanctification of our flesh is not fundamentally different from the sanctification of the humanity of Christ. After all, Christ does not have a different human hypostasis and His unity with mankind is conceived at the level of natural community, i.e. with the whole human race. One can even concur with Fairbairn who talks about the natural ‘sonship’ of those who are being saved. 64 Based on this, we can see that for St. Cyril, all the perfection which the humanity of Christ possesses, may be transferred to us. After all, if His humanity is sanctified by the power of hypostatic union, it cannot become the source of our sanctification, since it is impossible for us to connect with God in such a unique and substantial manner. But the very same hypostatic union of the natures of Christ, in what is evidently a highly soteriological approach, is clearly conceived as an objective and necessary foundation of the new sanctification of the human nature. As Janssens explains the Cyrilline theology: ‘In fact, since he had all of us in himself, having become man, and since he had resurrected with Himself the whole of In Ioannis Evangelium. Liber XI. Cap. XI. PG 74. Col. 560В–561A. Ibid. 64 As he emphasizes repeatedly elsewhere, there are two modes of sonship, the natural and that by grace. D. Fairbairn, Grace and Christology in the Early Church. Oxford – New York, 2003. p.100. 62 63

308 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL nature, He also received the Spirit for us, in order to sanctify the whole of nature. In light of our solidarity with Christ, we receive the Holy Spirit in Him, and this gift of the Spirit is intended for all of nature.’ 65 This was the very reason that, during the period of controversy with Nestorius, St. Cyril stressed that the Son of God did not take on the human person (i.e., the individual), but became flesh , that is became man. 66 Since in Christ there is no separate human face (a human being), we have in Him rather ‘the total face of humanity’ (τὸ κοινὸν τῆς ἀνθρωπότητος … πρόσωπον), 67 ‘contemplating in humanity the face of the Only-begotten’. 68 Equally the Saviour Himself by virtue of, or in, His humanity, is not simply one of the members of the human race, but rather is revealed as a new beginning, the first fruits of a renewed humanity. 69 It is through Christ that all of human nature is changed. 70 Such considerations permit J. Pelikan to call Christ: the ‘Universal Man’ 71 encompassing the entirety of man (τον Καθόλοv). The same concept of first fruits is also used in On the Unity of Christ to describe our victory in Christ over sin and decay. 72 Thus, the eucharistic doctrine of St. Cyril, which includes his idea of the reality of the Body and Blood of Christ in the Eucharist, and his thought about the sanctification of the body given in it, and about L Janssens. ‘Notre filiation divine d’après Saint Cyrille d’Alexandrie.’ Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses. 1938. T. XV. pp. 242–243. 66 Οὐ γὰρ εἴρηκεν ἡ Γραφὴ ὅτι Λόγος ἀνθρώπου πρόσωπoν ἥνωσεν, ἀλλ᾿ ὅτι γέγονε σάρξ - Ep. 4 ad Nestorium. PG 77. Col. 48С. 67 In Ioannis Evangelium. I, 14. PG 73. Col. 161C. 68 In Ioannis Evangelium. XVII, 18, 19. PG 74. Col. 549D. 69 In Ioannis Evangelium. XIV, 20, PG 74. Col. 276AB. 70 In Ioannis Evangelium. XVII, 18–19. PG 74. Col. 545C. 71Пеликан Ярослав. Дух восточного христианства. Христианская традиция. История развития вероучения. Культурный центр «Духовная библиотека», М., Б/г. С. 76. 72 Ὡς ἐν ἀπαρχῇ δὲ Χριστῷ μετεστοιχειώμεθα καὶ ἡμεῖς εἰς τὸ εἶναι καὶ φθορᾶς καὶ ἁμαρτίας κρείττονες. Quod unus sit Christus, Sources chrétiennes 97. p. 723, line 11–13. 65

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the deification of the human nature in Christ, is all expressed in the same manner, equally in his earlier, and in his later works. Unfortunately, in the case of a desired analysis of the Eucharistic doctrine of St. Cyril of Alexandria, it is not possible to use the Alexandrian anaphora texts, which would have reflected his liturgical practice. The extant text of the Anaphora of St. Cyril, being too late, cannot serve as the basis for such an analysis, but can, at most, be used illustratively. So, for example, when the Egyptian anaphora contains the Cyrillian expression μία φύσις τοῦ Θεοῦ λόγου σεσαρκωμένη, it is used only in the context of refuting the Chalcedonian Oros. 73 In addition, one sees the significant influence of the Christology of St. Athanasius and Cyril of Alexandria on the texts of the Egyptian anaphora which speak about the deification of communicants by the life-giving Body and Blood of Christ. 74 This can be illustrated by reference St. Cyril’s liturgy where it is said that Christ partook of the bread and cup during the establishment of the Eucharist [at the Last Supper]; 75 This is a detail which emphasizes the commonality of Christ and the communicants; but it is far from being unique to Alexandria, as it is also said in some of the Syrian anaphora. 76 However, the presence of the so-called Logos-Epiklesis in St. Serapion of Thmuis’ extant Anaphora (in his Euchologion), in which the Logos himself is called on to sanctify the Holy Gifts, rather than the Holy Spirit, 77 is actually a unique part of the Anaphora of the Church of Alexandria. As to the distinction of two natures and two wills in Christ, the Church formulated these differences in an elaborate semantic, S J Davis. Coptic Christology in Practice Incarnation and Divine Participation in Late Antique and Medieval Egypt. p. 96. 74 Ibid. Р. 174. 75 Собрание древних Литургий Восточных и Западных в переводе на русский язык, составленное редакцией «Христианскаго Чтения», издаваемаго при С.-Петербургской Духовной Академии. Выпуск III: Отдел II: Литургии Александрийские. СПб.: 1876. С. 71. 76 Там же. 77 Православная энциклопедия. [электронный ресурс] http://www.pravenc.ru/text/64464.html 73

310 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL but well after the time of St. Cyril. And although we can find both dyophysite and dyothelite terminology in his early and later writings, it is not as precise and clear as the above-mentioned elements of his Christology. The inadequacy caused by the lack of precision in key semantic terms. was finally overcome in the Church in the sixth and seventh centuries on the basis of differences in the natural action arising from the two natures, real and self-moving, but differing only in ‘deep spiritual thought’ (επίνοια). Despite some minor variegations 78, St. Cyril’s core Christology and, above all, its soteriological content, did not change throughout his career, not even at the time of the Nestorian controversy; and this because it was all built on the same soteriological foundation. Perhaps because of such reasons the communities of the ancient ascetics were strong defenders and supporters of the Cyrilline Christological teaching. In later times Alexandrian monasticism became Monophysite, equating the doctrine of Severus of Antioch with that of Cyril, in which such key soteriological concepts for Dyophysite tradition as sanctification (ἁγιασμός) and deification (θέωσις), and also the understanding of salvation as a real transformation (Μεταμορφωσις) of human nature by virtue of its participation in the real humanity of Christ were actually occluded. The controversy with Nestorius, therefore, did not introduce any significant new elements into the Christological doctrine of St. Cyril of Alexandria. His Christology, as expressed in his early writings, is virtually identical in its theological content, to the Christology of his later works. The eucharistic analogy is critical for understanding how he envisaged the transference of redemption form the divine incarnation to the church of believers. The dynamism of his spiritual vision, explains a pattern for the ascent of the individual, and the church as a collective, to union with God. To this extent it was a perfect paradigm for the ascetical endeavor, which explains why so many monastics, across so many generations, have championed the defence of St. Cyril of Alexandria as ‘The Seal of the Fathers.’

78

Fairbairn. Grace and Christology in the Early Church. pp. 129–130.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY E. Concannon O. Давыденков О. Давыденков S. J. Davis D. Fairbairn D. A. Keating

L. Janssens L. Koen

——— J. A. McGuckin ——— ———

B. Meunier В. В. Новиков

‘The Eucharist as Source of St. Cyril of Alexandria’s Christology.’ Pro Ecclesia 18.3 (2009). P. 318–336. Догматическая система Севира Антиохийского. Мoskva. 2008. Христологические основания православного учения об обожении. Coptic Christology in Practice: Incarnation and Divine Participation in Late Antique and Medieval Egypt. Oxford. 2008. Grace and Christology in the Early Church. Oxford – New York, 2003. Divinisation in Cyril: The Appropriation of Divine Life. In T. Weinandy. The Theology of St. Cyril of Alexandria. A Critical Appreciation. New-York, 2000. ‘Notre filiation divine d’après Saint Cyrille d’Alexandrie.’ Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses. Louvain. 1938. vol. 15. 242 – 243. The Saving Passion. Incarnational and Soteriological Thought in Cyril of Liébaert la doctrine christologique de saint Cyrille d’Alexandrie avant la querelle nestorienne. Lille, 1951. Alexandria’s Commentary on the Gospel according to St. John. Uppsala, 1991. On the Unity of Christ. St. Cyril of Alexandria. SVS Press. NY. 1995. (И.Макгаккин). Богословие евхаристии в творениях свят. Кирилла Александрийского. Доклад на V Международной конференции Русской Православной Церкви «Православное учение о церковных Таинствах», 13–16 ноября 2007 г. Le Christ de Cyrille d’Alexandrie: l’hummanité, le salut et la question monophisite. Paris: Beauchesne, 1997. Ветхозаветная экзегеза святителя Кирилла Александрийского как источник его

312 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL

J. J. O’Keefe В. М. Лурье Я. Пеликан

К. Шенборн

T. Weinandy J. L. Welch

христологии. ТРУДИ Київської Духовної Академії, № 16. Київ, 2012. St. Cyril of Alexandria, Festal Letters 1–12. The Fathers of the Church. CUA Press, Washington. 2009. История Византийской философии. Формативный период. СПб., 2006. Дух восточного христианства. Христианская традиция. История развития вероучения. Культурный центр «Духовная библиотека», М., Б/г. С. 76. (при участии Конрада М. и Вебера Х Ф.) Бог послал Сына Своего. Христология. (Пер. с немецкого – Верещагин . M.). М., 2003. Cyril and the Mystery of the Incarnation. The Theology of St. Cyril of Alexandria. A Critical appreciation. New York, 2000. Christology and Eucharist in the Early Thought of Cyril of Alexandria. Catholic Scholars Press, 1994.

HUMANITY’S RECONCILIATION WITH THE DIVINE THROUGH THE MYSTERY OF THE INCARNATION OF THE WORD IN THE THOUGHT OF ST. ISIDORE OF PELUSIUM & ST. CYRIL OF ALEXANDRIA EIRINI ARTEMI THE INCARNATION OF WORD: PATH TO GOD’S RECONCILIATION WITH HUMANITY In Orthodox theology, Christ is true God and true man at the same time. He is theanthropos. The Hypostatic Union of two natures of Christ is no moral conjunction, no union in a figurative sense of the word; but a real union that is physical, a union of two substances or natures so as to make One Person; a union which means that God is Man and Man is God in the Person of Jesus Christ. 1 The word theanthropos is the key semantic for understanding this mystery of Incarnation; the unity of the Uncreated with Created, for only as God and man could this be effected by Jesus after reconciling humankind with God and thereby making a new creation 2 and a new

E. Artemi, Isidore’s of Pelusium teaching for the Triune God and its relation to the teaching of Cyril of Alexandria, Athens 2012, p. 304. 2 2 Cor. 5:17–19: ‘Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new’. 1

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human being. 3 Christ personally demonstrated man such as he had to be become. He put into practice the ultimate purpose of man, namely deification, and led him within the embrace of the Holy Trinity. The Incarnation thus gives man the possibility of objective salvation. This belief is the foundation for the Orthodox faith and is the great desire for all Christians. This great restoration is also seen as the return to the benefits and state of our earliest created condition, when man participated in the actions of God and was invested in the holiness of salvation. 4 In his soteriological teachings St. Cyril underlines this salvific motive for the Incarnation. He says that: Being God, and by nature God, the Only-Begotten became man in order to condemn sin in the flesh, put death to death by his own death, and make us sons of God, regenerating those on earth in the Spirit and bringing them up to a dignity that transcends their nature. For surely it was well planned that by this method the race which had fallen away should be recapitulated and brought back to its original state, that is to say, the human race. 5

St. Isidore of Pelusium, the contemporary of Cyril, follows the same ecclesial teaching and refers to the fact of the incarnation of Word as the highway to the reconciliation of man with God. Citing St. Paul, Isidore depicts Christ as theanthropos, God and Man at the same time: Who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God: But made himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men: And being found in fashion as a man, he humbled Eph. 2:15: ‘Having abolished in his flesh the enmity, even the law of commandments contained in ordinances; for to make in himself of twain one new man, so making peace;’ 4 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannen, 4, 2, Pusey, vol. I, p. 5352–3 (=PG 73, 584Β). 5 Cyril of Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 72317–18 (=PG 75, 1269C). 3

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himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross. 6

In his theology Isidore consistently argues that the Father intended His Son to be sent into the world as the atonement of humanity’s sins. By this obedience Christ was destined to reveal His own righteousness, and the Father accepted Christ as the sin-offering that removed the animosities between Himself and mortal man, who had fallen from grace. 7 In his approach Isidore was deeply influenced by the Apostle Paul, mainly the letters to the Romans, 8 II Corinthians 9 and Hebrews. 10 Such an approach emphasizes that salvation is subsequent to man’s vindication by God. It comes to fruition with the presence of the incarnate Christ in the world, and is consummated through His sacrifice on the cross. Though Christ was sinless, he freely accepted our sins and bore the pain of crucifixion. Isidore concurred with John Chrysostom who wrote: ‘He made the righteous one a sinner, for the cause of making the sinner righteous’. 11 In this patristic and biblical approach, therefore, the reconciliation of man with God required not only the fact of Incarnation of the Divine Word, but also His Passion and death on the cross. In his work Quod unus sit Christus, St. Cyril says: For He willed as God to render the flesh, which is subject to death and sin, superior to both death and sin, and to restore it to what it was in the beginning 12 … So that through death He

Isidore of Pelusim, Epist. 4, 22 – Zenoni, SC 422, 2646–7, 2668–9 (=PG 78, 1072ΑΒ). Cf. Philip. 2: 5–8. 7 Isidore of Pelusim, Epist. 4, 73 – Eusobio Episcopo, PG 78, 1132C, 1133A. 8 Rom. 1:16–17, 3:25. 9 2 Cor. 5:21. 10 Heb. 2:14. 11 Johh Chrysostomus, Ad Stelechion, II, PG 47, 416D. 12 Cyril of Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 7445–8 (=PG 75, 1305Α). 6

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St.Cyril argues that through the incarnation, passion and resurrection of the Son of God, the fullness of man (body and soul) found the way to be reconciled with God. 14 The Salvation of man and his reconciliation with God, therefore, assumes two things, first the unshared unity of the human nature and second the ontological divine compoundedness with the human in the divine person of Christ. 15 Cyril of Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 72119–23 (=PG 75, 1265D). Hebr. 2, 14–15. Cyril of Alexandria, De incarnatione Unigenitii, SC 97, 6835 (=PG 75, 1197D). Hebr. 2, 14–15. 14 ‘For the Only-Begotten Word of God hath saved us, putting on likeness to us in order that having suffered in the flesh and risen from the dead He might set forth our nature superior to death and decay’, Cyril of Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 77537–42 (=PG 75, 1357B). See also: ‘ We proclaim the death according to the flesh of the only-begotten Son of God, and confess the return to life from the dead of Jesus Christ, and his ascension into heaven, and thus we perform in the churches an unbloody worship, and in this way approach mystical blessings (eulogia) and are sanctified, becoming participants in the holy flesh and the precious blood of Christ the Savior of us all. We do not receive this as ordinary flesh – God forbid! – or as the flesh of a man sanctified and conjoined to the Word in a unity of dignity, or as the flesh of someone who enjoys a divine indwelling. No, we receive it as truly the life-giving and very flesh of the Word himself’, Cyril, Third Letter to Nestorius 7 (trans. John A. McGuckin, St. Cyril of Alexandria and the Christological Controversy [Crestwood: St. Vladimir’s, 2004] 270). See Henry Chadwick, ‘Eucharist and Christology in the Nestorian Controversy,’ Journal of Theological Studies 2 (1951) 145–164; for the Commentary on John, see Lawrence J. Welch, Theology and Eucharist in the Early Thought of Cyril of Alexandria (San Francisco: Catholic Scholars’ Press, 1993). 15 A. H. Armstrong, «Platonic Elements in St. Grecory of Nyssa’s Doctrine of Man», Dominica Studies 1 (1948), 114. K. Ε. Papapetrou, H αποκάλυψις του Θεού και η γνώσις Αυτού, Athens 1969, p.65. Κ. Β. Scouteris, «Eνανθρώπηση καί Θέωση», Efimerios, vol 12, (December 1999), p. 19. 13

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In his turn, Isidore of Pelusium echoes Cyril’s stress that the Incarnate Word, the fullness of revelation, restored to humans once more that principle of vitalization and incorruptibility in human nature, which it once enjoyed before the fall. He sees those who are honored with such a gift, as: Men who are honored with the king’s honors, who partake in the divine mysteries, attributes and gifts. 16 Isidore uses texts from the Old Testament to support his argument. He argues that in the Old Testament, the Word of God does not only reveal the will of the Father but also shows His own creative abilities. He creates the world, visible and invisible, and shapes man, in unity with the other two hypostases of the Trinity. Isidore underlines that Isaiah prophetically saw the ‘incarnation’ of the Savior. 17 In the New Testament, the pre-eternal Logos, consubstantial with the Father and the Holy Spirit, becomes perfect man and remains, at the same time, perfect God. He incarnated in order to free people from their bondage to the effects of ancestral sin and reunite man with God the Creator. This soteriological path was the way the incarnate Word of God revealed Himself throughout the world, calling people to repentance and moral perfection, so that the entire human race could achieve their subjective salvation. 18 The patriarch of Alexandria also explains the incarnation of the Word as the way to salvation for the whole human race. He notes that while God could have saved human beings in a myriad other 19 ways, he chose this path of Kenosis, and made it a transaction of redemption: Isidore of Pelusim, Epist. ΙV, 168 – Joanno Diacono, SC 454, 2509–10 (=PG 78, 1260C). 17 Isidore, Epist. ΙV, 154 – Anatolio Diacono, SC 422, 3567–9 (=PG 78, 1240Β). Cf. Is. 26: 9. 18 E. Artemi, ‘The knowledge of the Triune God according to Isidore of Pelusium’, in The 12th International Symposium of Byzantologists Niš and Byzantium XII ‘Constantine, in hoc signo vinces, 313–2013’ 3–6 June 2013, Antiaireticon Egolpion, 24 June 2013, http://www.egolpion.com/ DCA0ED3E.en.aspx 19 Cyril of Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 434 (=PG 75, 1321C). 16

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HUMANITY’S RECONCILIATION WITH THE DIVINE The Only Begotten did not become man only to remain in the limits of the emptying. The point was that he who was God by nature should, in the act of self-emptying, assume everything that went along with it. This was how he would be revealed as ennobling the very nature of man in himself by making (human nature) participate in his own sacred and divine honors. 20

This, for Cyril, was why the Word of God became perfect man. Moreover, the humanity of Christ reflected the ‘real man’, he who had been created originally in the image and likeness of God. In his treatise De incarnatione Unigeniti Cyril stresses that the Son of God as a perfect and sinless man could better understand the temptations that were faced by mankind. The Word enfleshed (sesarkomenos) thus helps mortals who are in temptation to conquer Satan and thereby escape sin and its deadly effects. 21 For Cyril, the first Adam failed to succeed in his mission to stand in communion with God, but Christ as Second or New Adam managed to accomplish his task with great success: For we are earthy, in that there stole in upon us as from the earthy one, Adam, the curse of decay, through which the law of sin also entered in, which is lodged in the members of our flesh. Even so, we have been made heavenly, receiving this in Christ. For He who was God by nature, and out of God, and from above, has come down in our estate, in a new and strange manner, and was made offspring of the Spirit according to the flesh, in order that we too might remain holy and incorruptible, as He is, that grace descending upon us as from out of a second beginning and root, namely Himself. 22

St. Isidore stresses that Adam received his slavery from a demon. As the legacy of their disobedience towards God’s commandments, Ibid, SC 97, 432 (=PG 75, 1319B), trans. J. McGuckin, On the unity of Christ, SVS Press. New York. 1995, p. 101. 21 Cyril of Alexandria, De incarnatione Unigenitii, SC 97, 68131–44 (=PG 75, 1196CD). 22 Cyril of Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 72113–15 (=PG75, 1265D). 20

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Adam and Eve bequeathed a legacy of corruption and death to all subsequent generations. This disobedience was not to be corrected until the advent of the incarnate Logos as the New Adam. 23 Cyril is insistent that if the Word has not been made flesh, the hold of death over humanity could never have been broken: Otherwise sin could never have been brought to nothing, and we would still have remained subject to the transgressions of the first man, Adam, having no return to what was better, through Christ the Saviour of us all. 24

Christ, then, is the New Adam, whose achievements of obedience manage to lead man back to objective salvation and redemption, which failed at the time of the old Adam. Following Paul’s language, Cyril argues that as we are all in Christ, so we were once all in Adam; and for this reason: The common element of humanity is summed up in Christ’s person, which is also why he was called the Last Adam. He enriched our common nature with everything conducive to joy and glory just as the First Adam had impoverished it with everything conducive of gloom and corruption. 25

Both Alexandrian Fathers make it clear that the transgression of Adam was the cause for God averting his face from humanity. But the incarnation is the sign of promise God gives that, although rational beings had been removed from Him and had become captive to their passions, he would still ‘remodel’ the whole face of creation and release it from the chains with which Satan had dragged it into the slavery of sin and death.

23

1292B.

Isidore of Pelusium, Epist. IV, 204 – Isidoro Diacono, PG 78,

Cyril of Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 72113–15 (=PG75, 1265D). cf . Heb. 2, 14–15. Cyril of Alexandria, De incarnatione Unigenitii, SC 97, 76338–41 (=PG 75, 1337A). 25 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, Ι, 14, Pusey, vol. I, p. 14419 (=PG 73, 165B). 24

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SONS OF GOD BY GRACE: MEMBERS OF THE BODY BY PARTICIPATION IN DIVINE MYSTERIES In Orthodox theology, Salvation is the divine gift through which men and women are delivered from sin and death, united to Christ, and brought into His eternal Kingdom. Those who first heard Peter’s sermon on the Day of Pentecost asked what they must do to be saved. He answered then: ‘Repent, and let every one of you be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins; and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit’. 26 This is why Orthodoxy understands Baptism as the way in which a person can be actually united to Christ. The experience of salvation is thus initiated in the waters of the mystery of baptism. In this mystery we experience Christ’s death and Resurrection. In it our sins are truly forgiven and we are energized by our union with Christ to live a holy life. The baptized have been united to Christ to be part of His Church, his mystical body. Christ saved man from the Original sin, the ancestral sin. 27 Only those who are in Christ have been redeemed and liberated from their sins, as Paul expressed it: In Him we have redemption, through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of his grace, 28 since redemption and forgiveness of sins are located entirely in Christ, and only the members of His body, the Church, can exploit the fruits of this reconciliation between God and Man. Both Isidore and Cyril speak of how God redeems sinners, whom He has adopted as his sons through Jesus’ Christ by the pathway of the Incarnation 29. For both fathers, God gave this adoption through the divine sacraments. Both concur that we must be baptized in the name of the Triune God as scripture demands. 30 Isidore argues that the mystery of Baptism is not only the one pathway for man to Acts. 2:28. Al. Golitzin, On the Mystical Life by Saint Symeon, St Vladimir’s Seminary Press 1995, p.119. 28 Eph. 1: 7. 29 ‘In accordance with His pleasure and will to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves.’ Eph. 1: 5–6. 30 Mt. 28:19. 26 27

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get rid of the ancestral sin and be reunited with God, but also that through this sacrament: Man can be adorned with the great gifts of Divine Grace. 31 For the King of all delivered our nature from the prison and He lifted it up in the greatest honor. 32 St. Cyril adds that Baptism mystically cleanses the totality of our leprous humanity. 33 It is a cure no less radical than the cleansing of the lepers of old: For Christ having our likeness, visited us, outcasts as we were, and forced to dwell outside the holy and sacred city. And having looked upon us, He made us clean through Holy Baptism and His Body. 34 For Cyril, Christ makes us clean, sanctifying us through Holy Baptism and the Eucharist. 35 Isidore highlights a contrast between Moses’ law and Christian baptism. He argues that the former was concerned to punish the faults of transgressors, even setting death as a penalty for great transgressions; but the latter puts to death our mortality itself, and our propensity towards a vicious life, and gives instead a new form of life to man. 36 Since the original sin was the cause for concupiscentia, humanity’s disordered desire for what is harmful, Christ gave us a liberative freedom through Baptism gifting us with the grace of the Holy Spirit. 37 For Cyril baptism is no less than a mystery of cosmic dimensions. 38 Adam lost the image of God because through sin, he lost

Isidore of Pelusium, Epist. ΙΙΙ, 195 – Hermino Comiti, PG 78, 880C. Ibid, PG 78, 881A. 33 Cyril of Alexandria, Glaphyra in Leviticum, L, 1, PG 69, 553A-D. 34 Ibid 35 Ibid, PG 69, 560A. 36 Isidore of Pelusium, Epist ΙV, 168 – Joanne Diacono, SC 454, 2509–10 (=PG 78, 1260C). 37 Isidore of Pelusium, Epist ΙV, 204 - Isidoro Diacono, PG 78, 1292B. 38 R. L. Wilken, Judaism and the early Christian mind. A study of Cyril of Alexandria’s exegesis and theology, Yale University Press, New Haven 1971, 127–142. Idem, ‘The Interpretation of the Baptism of Jesus in the Later Fathers’, in Studia Patristica 272. K. McDonnell, The Baptism of Jesus in the Jordan: The Trinitarian and Cosmic Order of Salvation, The Liturgical Press, Minnesota 1996, p. 71. 31 32

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the Holy Spirit: 39 Our father Adam did not preserve the grace of the Spirit, and thus in him the whole nature eventually lost its God gifted graces. The restoration of the image, therefore, can only be linked to the return of the Spirit. 40 The image once defaced is that image now restored and made new in Christ. 41 The Alexandrian patriarch teaches that through the incarnation of the Word of God and His redemptive achievement for all people, He gave to the Holy Spirit the mission to renew our nature and lead our souls back towards the sweet bosom of the Father: When the Word of God became man, He received the Spirit from the Father as one of us, (not receiving anything for Himself individually, for He was the Giver of the Spirit); but that He Who knew no sin, might, by receiving the Spirit as man, preserve Him to our nature, and might again restore in us the grace which had left us. For this reason, I consider the holy Baptist profitably added, ‘I saw the Spirit descending from Hearen, and He remained upon Him’ (John 1:32). For the Spirit had fled from us by reason of sin, but He Who knew no sin, became as one of us, that the Spirit might be accustomed to stay within us, having no reason to leave or withdraw in Him. 42

Besides Baptism, and its centrally important place, both fathers explain the mystery of the human race’s reconciliation in reference to the Eucharist. The mystery of Eucharist has formed a central rite of Christian worship from the beginning. The Church’s participation in the Eucharist enhances and deepens the communion of faithful not only with the Enfleshed Word, Christ, but also with each another. Isidore refers to the Holy Eucharist, the consecrated Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, V, 2, Pusey, vol. Ι, p. 69214–18 (=PG 73, 751C). 40 Ibid. 41 K. McDonnell, The Baptism of Jesus in the Jordan: The Trinitarian and Cosmic Order of Salvation, The Liturgical Press, Minnesota 1996, p. 72. 42 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, II, 6, Pusey, vol. I, p. 3172–4 (=PG 73, 349AB). Cf Ibid, Pusey, vol. I, p. 3201, 32117, (=PG 73, 352D, 353CD). 39

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elements, as the body and blood of Christ. 43 He argues that the holy Eucharist completes Christian initiation. Those who have been raised to the dignity of the royal priesthood by Baptism and configured more deeply to Christ by the sacred Chrisma participate with the whole community in the Lord’s own sacrifice by means of the Eucharist. 44 For his part, Cyril saw and proclaimed with great ingenuity the organic interrelation of the mysteries of Incarnation and Eucharist. He says in his Commentary on St. John’s Gospel: ‘And the glory that thou hast given me, I have given to them’ 45 ‘And we have seen his glory, the glory as it were of the onlybegotten of the Father’; the same glory which appeared in Bethlehem and in the whole life of Christ, the glory of the Son of God shining through the humanity as through a veil, resplendent in His teaching, in His miracles, in transfiguration, in passion, resurrection and ascension: the splendour of the glory and the figure of the substance of the Father. 46 There is a deep relation expressed in Cyril’s Christology between the unity of the Incarnate Christ’s single (divine) person enfleshed, and the mystery of Eucharist: 47 For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven, and gives life to the world … I am the living bread which come down from heaven; If any one eats of this bread, he will live for ever; and the bread which I shall give for the life of the world is my flesh … Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of man and Isidore of Pelusium, Epist Ι, 109 – Marathonio Monocho, PG 78, 256BC. Idem, Epist Ι, 123 – Dorotheo Cometi, PG 78, 264D. Idem, Epist ΙV, 166- Archibio Presbytero, SC 422, 1961–3 (=PG 78, 1256ΑΒ). 44 Ibid. 45 Jn. 17:22. 46 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, I, Prologue, Pusey, vol. I, p. 65–15 (=PG 73, 16ΑB) 47 P. Gray, ‘The Lifegiving Body of Christ in Cyril’, in The Eucharist in Theology and Philosophy: Issues of Doctrinal History in East and West from the Patristic Age to the Reformation, eds. István Perczel, Réka Forrai, G. Ger’by, Leuven University Press, Leuven 2005, p. 25. 43

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Also, in Cyril’s view, there is a rich connection between Eucharistic piety and Christology. Keating expresses it this way: ‘Cyril’s theology of the Eucharist appears to be quite straightforward: by eating of the consecrated bread, we in fact partake of the flesh of Christ, and so receive into ourselves the life that is in Christ through the medium of his very flesh; flesh which has become life-giving by virtue of the ineffable Union of the Word to this flesh.’ 49

It is evident, then, for St. Cyril, and the Orthodox Church which has followed his teachings closely, that the One who offers this flesh on the Cross must be the divine Son and Word of God Himself; a merely relative conjunction of a man alongside the Word of God, would not have allowed for this hypostatic communication of the life of God through the sacrificed, vivified, and energized flesh of the Word as given to us in the mystery of the Eucharist. Both fathers recognize that Christ: ‘Is the head of the body, the Church’. 50 Believers who respond to God’s word and become members of Christ’s Body, become intimately united with him, for in that body the life of Christ is communicated to those who believe, who, through the sacraments, are united in a hidden yet real way to Christ in his Passion and glorification. 51 This is especially true of Baptism, which unites us to Christ’s death and Resurrection, and the Eucharist, by which really sharing in the body of the Lord, we are taken up into communion with him and with one another. 52 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, I, 6C, 51–54. Th. G. Weinandy and D. A. Keating, The Theology of St. Cyril of Alexandria, a critical appreciation, publ. T & T Clark, New York 2003, p. 163. 50 Col. 1:18. 51 1 Cor. 12:13. 52 Rom 6:4–5; 1 Cor 12:13. 48 49

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Isidore and Cyril argue that from the beginning of Christ’s public ministry, Jesus associated his disciples with his own life, revealed the mystery of the Kingdom to them, and gave them a share in his mission, his joy, and sufferings. 53 Jesus spoke of a still more intimate communion between Him and those who would follow Him when he said: ‘Abide in me, and I in you … I am the vine, you are the branches’. 54 And he proclaimed a mysterious and real communion between his own body and ours with the words: ‘Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him’. 55 When his visible presence was taken from them, Jesus did not leave his disciples orphans. He promised to remain with them until the end of time; sending them his Spirit as a pledge (arrabon). 56 As a result communion with Jesus has become, in a way, more intense, for the Church of later days. By communicating His Spirit, Christ mystically constitutes as His body those brothers and sisters of His who are called together from every nation. This mystical body is the Church. Isidore is at pains to point out that the true meaning of ‘Church’ is derived from union with Christ and does not depend on buildings or temples. He defined the church as: The assembly of saints knit together by correct faith and excellent manner of life, adding that it: should abound in spiritual gifts, for holy conversation is the bright ornament of the Church. 57 The Church as the body of Christ in the present moment, he says, ought to be crowned with divine and heavenly graces just as the apostolic ages once were 58 and for this reason people who are members of Church should try to live according the teaching of Christ. 59 Isidore insists that Christians must be careful about their behaviour, because their sins could contaminate the

30.

53

Cf. Mark 1:16–20; 3:13–19; Mat 13:10–17; Luk 10:17–20; 22:28–

Jo. 15:4–5. Jo 6:56. 56 Jo 14:18; 20:22; Matt 28:20; Acts 2:33. 57 Isidore of Pelusium, Epist ΙΙ, 246 - Theodosio Episcopo, PG 78, 686C. 58 Ibid, PG 78, 686D. 59 Ibid. 54 55

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Church. 60 Isidore distinguishes the word ἐκκλησιαστήριον and Ἐκκλησία: The first is referred to the building the second is the congregation 61 of souls who meet there. 62 For his part, St. Cyril of Alexandria does not make the previous semantic distinction, but like Isidore, asks that his readers: Think carefully about the way in which we too are one in body and spirit in relation to one another and also to God. 63 And so the Church, the Ecclesia, is also called body of Christ and we individually are limbs, as Paul teaches in 1. Cor. 12–27. For we are all united to the one Christ through the holy body, since we receive him who is one and indivisible in our own bodies. Our obligation then as limbs of his is to him rather than to ourselves. The Saviour’s role is that of head and the Church is the remainder of the body, made up of the various limbs. 64

So Cyril as Isidore believe that the Ecclesia becomes the nexus of the union between the divinity and the mankind. Baptism, Anointing and Eucharist are the ‘chain’ which gives to the believer the chance to become true members of the Ecclesia and to be led into salvation.

CONCLUSIONS Both fathers explain that only in the Ecclesia can Christian believers become the real Sons of God, through participating in the holy mysteries. Baptism is obligatory for anyone wishing to enter into the body of Christ, of the Church. For both fathers Christians become sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus. They were baptized into Christ, where there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for all are one in Christ Jesus. When the Alexandrian fathers consider this mystery, generally, Cyril and Isidore choose to articulate the revela-

Isidore of Pelusium, Epist ΙΙ, 16- Maroni, PG 78, 189BC. Isidore of Pelusium, Epist ΙΙ, 246 - Theodosio Episcopo, PG 78, 686C. 62 Ibid. 63 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, XI, Pusey, vol. II, p. 68126 (=PG 74, 500C). 64 Ibid. 60 61

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tion of God through His Word in the Incarnation. Both writers stress that through the Son’s self-revelation to the world in the incarnation, He simultaneously reveals the Father to man. This happens because the Son is always the archetypal image of the Father. Both Alexandrians agree that the revelation of God the Word in the world is the most important gift of the revelation of the Triune God to man. Humanity after the Incarnation now no longer knows the God-man Jesus Christ, but is also given the opportunity to begin to appreciate the energies of the Triune God; both in itself as self communicating Trinity, and as the source of all grace bent on breaking down the prison of sin and death that had enveloped humanity. This revelation in Christ is lived out by believers and delivered in the church by preaching and the participation of the faithful in the Eucharist and the other Mysteries, which bestow the grace of the Holy Spirit. Because of the revelation of Jesus Christ in the world, the God-man, theanthropos, becomes the supreme starting point and source of divine knowledge for each human person. Although the grace of the Spirit is not a permanent and inalienable possession of any individual member of the Church. The energy and the sanctification of the Spirit are entirely the charismatic gifts of God; but they spring up unfailingly in the Church, are always reallocated to the believers, and shall abide forever in Christ’s communion of the Ekklesia.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Artemi, E. ———

Benz, E.

Isidore’s of Pelusium the teaching for the Triune God and its relation to the teaching of Cyril of Alexandria, Athens. 2012. ‘The knowledge of the Triune God according to Isidore of Pelusium’, in The 12th International Symposium of Byzantologists Niš and Byzantium XII ‘Constantine, in hoc signo vinces, 313–2013’ 3–6 June 2013, Antiaireticon Egolpion, 24 June 2013; http://www.egolpion. com/DCA0ED3E.en.aspx The Eastern Church Its Thought and Life, Garden City - New York 1957.

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Chadwick, H. Dratsellas, C. Évieux, P. ——— Florovsky, G. Gray, P.

Golitzin, A. Keating, D.A. Kefalopoulos, C. Lynch, J. J.

Mavrodes, G. McDonnell, K. McGuckin, J. A. Mckinion, S. A.

‘Eucharist and Christology in the Nestorian Controversy,’ Journal of Theological Studies 2 (1951) 145–164. Man in his Original State and in the State of Sin according to St. Cyril of Alexandria, Athens 1971. ‘Isidore de Péluse, état des recherches’, RSR 64 (1976) 321–340. Isidore de Péluse, TH 99, Paris 1995. ‘The Ethos of the Orthodox Church.’ The Ecumenical Review 12 (1960) 180–200. ‘The Lifegiving Body of Christ in Cyril’, in The Eucharist in Theology and Philosophy: Issues of Doctrinal History in East and West from the Patristic Age to the Reformation, eds. István Perczel, Réka Forrai, G. Ger’by, Leuven University Press, Leuven 2005, pp. 25- 29. On the Mystical Life by Saint Symeon, St Vladimir’s Seminary Press NY. 1995. ‘The baptism of Jesus in Cyril of Alexandria: the Re-creation of the Human Race.’ Pro Ecclesia 8 (1999) 201–222. The Patristic Theology of the Eucharist, St. Luke’s Evangelical School of Biblical studies, California 2011. Πρόσωπον and the Dogma of the Trinity: A study of the background of conciliar use of the Word in the writings of Cyril of Alexandria and Leontius of Byzantium, Fordham University, New York 1974. Belief in God, New York 1970. The Baptism of Jesus in the Jordan: The Trinitarian and Cosmic Order of Salvation, The Liturgical Press, Minnesota 1996. St Cyril of Alexandria the Christological controversy. (Its history, theology and texts), Brill. Leiden. 1994. Words, Imagery and the Mystery of Christ. A reconstruction of Cyril of Alexandria’s christology, Brill. Leiden. 2000.

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Papapetrou, K. Ε. H αποκάλυψις του Θεού και η γνώσις Αυτού, Athens 1969. Scouteris, Κ. Β. ‘Eνανθρώπηση καί Θέωση’, Efimerios, vol 12, (December 1999), p. 19. Weinandy, T. (ed) The Theology of St. Cyril of Alexandria, a critical appreciation, T & T Clark, New York 2003. Welch, L. J. Theology and Eucharist in the Early Thought of Cyril of Alexandria (San Francisco: Catholic Scholars’ Press, 1993 Theology and Eucharist in the Early Thought of Cyril of Alexandria (San Francisco: Catholic Scholars’ Press, 1993. Wilken, R. L. Judaism and the early Christian mind. A study of Cyril of Alexandria’s exegesis and theology, Yale University Press, New Haven 1971, 127– 142. ——— ‘The Interpretation of the Baptism of Jesus in the Later Fathers’, in Studia Patristica. 272.

THE MONK AS MOURNER: ST. ISAAC THE SYRIAN & MONASTIC IDENTITY IN THE 7TH C. & BEYOND HANNAH HUNT The ascetic life embraced by the earliest Christians remains vital and sincere in the Eastern Christian world of today. As Galadza puts it, modern secular society’s obsession with bodies and what they do ‘resonates well with the postmodern stress on symbols, imagery and paradox.’ 1 Asceticism must always find a way of bringing together the body and the soul. Saint Isaac the Syrian covers in his writings a vast range of spiritual concepts and advice. A recurring motif is the importance of weeping; tears are a physical phenomenon as well as expressing an inner penitence. Whilst Syrian monks often identify themselves as ‘solitaries’ Isaac connects to this the identity of the monk as mourner (abila). He is not a systematic writer, or even a systematic thinker; he writes from experience as well as to exegete scriptural and other sources, and his theology of mourning is gleaned from many different references to tears scattered throughout his texts. In places he does write about various schema, such as the tripartite stages of the development of the human soul towards perfection, and the duality of body and soul. But to see him as offering a clear, unambiguous statement about the place of mourning is to oversimplify him. Likewise, to attribute his awareness of the conflicted relationship between body and soul to a dualistic anthropology is a misrep-

P. Galadza, ‘Eastern Catholic Christianity’, in K. Parry (ed.), The Blackwell Companion to Eastern Christianity, (Oxford, 2007), p. 300. 1

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resentation of his subtle and varied teachings. However Saint Isaac makes clear statements about the monk’s core identity as a mourner and a solitary. Being abila, a mourner, is not simply to do with the task of the monk, to grieve for his own and others’ sins. It is an existential statement, and speaks not of the function but the substance of the monastic life. Today’s paper seeks to look at how this might connect to the Semitic culture which was geographically and intellectually so close to Isaac. This entails exploring the JudeoChristian tradition and other religious cultures in the seventh century. At the time Isaac was writing, the East Syrian church had suffered persecution and exile several times over. In AD363 Nisibis fell to the Sassanids, causing the East Syrian Christians to flee to Edessa. The School of Persians they established there was closed by Emperor Zeno in AD489, resulting in a further exodus to Antioch. 2 This experience of exile is shared with the Jewish people whose exodus and oppression underlies much of their sense of identity and their search for the homeland promised to Abraham. 3 Other examples of the sharing by East Syrian Christianity of ‘Semitic’ views of the world and humanity’s place within it include the use in Syrian churches of a ‘veil’ drawn across the sanctuary, in imitation of the veil over the Holy of Holies in the temple in Jerusalem. 4 Christian monks’ reading is dominated by the Hebrew Psalms; they were known ‘by heart’, and many of them focus on themes of grieving and alienation from God. More so than other branches of the Christian church, Isaac’s tradition was rooted in Jewish thought and practice, and these became absorbed into the East Syrian tradition. 5 P. Hagman, The Asceticism of Isaac of Nineveh (Oxford, 2010), pp. 28– 30 and see also comments in D. Miller, tr., The Ascetical Homilies of Saint Isaac the Syrian (Boston, 1984), pp. 481–515, passim. 3 Miller suggests that, what he calls, ‘the Hebraic elements’ of fourth century Persian Christianity were in closer contact with the synagogue than their western counterparts, op cit., p. 481. 4 G. Panicker, ‘Prayer with Tears: a Great Feast of repentance’, The Harp vol. 4, nos. 1–3, July 1991, pp. 111–133. 5 Hagman, Asceticism, pp. 227. 2

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The destruction of Jerusalem, powerfully recalled in Ps. 137, recalls the Lamentations of Jeremiah 6 and feeds into much New Testament appropriation of lamenting. Grief for loss is readily expressed in Ps. 42.3: ‘My tears have been my meat day and night’ and elsewhere the grief is tinged with remorse, as in Ps. 80.4–5: ‘O Lord God of hosts, how long wilt thou be angry against the prayer of thy people? Thou feedest them with the bread of tears, and givest them tears to drink in great measure.’ The ‘exile’ of the people of Israel is reconfigured by Christian exegesis: Egypt becomes the ‘alien land of the passions’ into which the sinner is cast, far from God’s favour. 7 The city lament is found not only in the Old Testament; it resembles the Lamentation over the Destruction of Ur which is ‘the best known and prototypical member’ of Mesopotamian City Laments. 8 The closing book of the New Testament presents the ‘New’ Jerusalem as a place where lamenting and grief has ended, a metaphorical city representing the new covenant of love of God for humanity. In this place ‘God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor shall there be any more pain for the former things have passed away’ (Rev 21. 3– 4 cf. Isa 25.8: ‘He will destroy death for ever, the Lord will wipe away the tear from all faces’).The connection of the New Jerusalem with a place where mourning has ceased is explicitly connected to a time of God’s favour; the prophecy places the comforting of those who grieve in the context of the ‘swallowing up of death in victory’, a phrase found both in Isa. 25.8 and 1 Cor 25.26: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory’. Is there a conscious echo of this in Isaac’s assertion that at the point of transition into a place of pure prayer and tranquillity, excessive grief and incessant weeping is replaced by a calmer state in which tears occur only occasionally? ‘Sweet tears’ he says, along with ‘groans, prostrations, heartfelt requests and supplications’ are all forms of prayer that the mourner may F.W. Dobbs-Allsopp, Weep, O Daughter of Zion: A study of the CityLament genre in the Hebrew Bible (Rome, 1993), p. 154. 7 See H. Hunt, Joy-Bearing Grief: Tears of Contrition in the Writings of the Early Syrian and Byzantine Fathers (Leiden, 2004), pp. 77–8. 8 Dobbs-Allsopp, Weep, p. 1. 6

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use. 9 They show the transition into ‘pure prayer’ which transcends the physical in an apophatic state of ecstasy. As Isaac puts it: When you attain to the region of tears, then you know that the mind has left the prison of this world and set its foot on the roadway of the new age, and has begun to breathe that other air, new and wonderful. 10

For all ‘religions of the book’ scripture provides one of the sources informing cultic practices. Wensinck, writing in 1917, finds parallels between Hebrew, Syrian and Islamic uses of liturgical mourning. He points out that Sūra 17.10 ff talks about the men ‘falling down on their beards weeping’ with repentance and suggests that weeping may have occurred as a religious rite among the earliest generation of Muslims very much at the time Isaac was writing. 11 In the world people mourn the physical death of a relative, friend, monarch, and (in the case of Christians) their Saviour. The monk grieves for the death of innocence through sin, and for the impact sin has on others. The Psalmist is expressing or exhorting the grief of the people; 12 the Christian monk as mourner expresses his grief for the people, for loss of the closeness they felt towards God before sin divided them. The vicarious or altruistic mourning determines the actual identity of the monk. Turning to Saint Isaac; from the little that is known of him it is believed he was born and educated in Beth Qatraye and after becoming a monk was consecrated as bishop of Nineveh some time during the 660s or 670s. However his desire for solitude was such that within a few months he resigned his see and withdrew to Hom. 23, Miller, p. 116. Hom. 14, Miller, p. 82. See Hagman, Asceticism, p. 70 for more discussion of this point. 11 A. J. Wensinck, Some Semitic Rites of Mourning (Amsterdam, 1917), pp. 84–85. 12 This altruistic type of mourning is readily expressed in Discourse XVIII of the Liber Graduum. The relevant extract may be found in The Syriac Fathers on Prayer and the Spiritual Life, S. Brock, (ed.), (Kalamazoo, 1987), pp. 55–6. For an entire translation of the text, see The Liber Graduum, R. Kitchen/ F.J. Parmentier Martien, (tr.), (Kalamazoo, 2004). 9

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the mountains of Khuzistan. 13 Several key texts survive and are still being edited and translated. Here I refer to the 82 discourses known as the First Part, which soon after his death were translated from Syriac to Greek, and the Second Part, discovered and translated towards the end of the twentieth century, which provides a further set of texts of which forty two have been translated into English. 14 In both these texts he explores the nature as well as the function of monastic life, to which we now give some background. In the Syrian tradition there are two words for monk, the first of which is ihidaya. This word, meaning literally ‘the single one’, is related to the Hebrew yahid (single). 15 It is used to translate the Greek monogenes (which has layers of meaning associating the monk’s solitary way of life with the only-begotten nature of Christ) and the prototype of the ihidaya is seen as Christ, the only Son of God. Applying this term to human solitaries immediately elevates the status of the monk; he is in imitatione Christi and the Syrian term, compared to the Greek, is primarily scriptural. Within the monastic community those ascetics who consciously ‘put on’ the persona (parsopa) of the Ihidaya from the bosom of the Father’ do so in conscious imitation of the kenosis of the incarnation. 16 The monk’s ‘singleness’ is not only a single-minded focus on God but also living in solitude, and this is much valued in encratic circles; this is not to say that there were not communities of hermit monks in Syria but the life and witness of the solitary was especially valued. Isaac’s Hom. 64 states: ‘The man who follows Christ in soli-

54.

13

S. Brock, A Brief Outline of Syriac Literature (Kottayam, 1997), p.

S. Brock, Isaac of Nineveh: The Second Part, chapters IV-XLL (Louvain, 1995). Paolo Bettiolo is in the process of translating the remainder of this text. Sabino Chialà is working on another text and the so-called Third Collection is also being edited. 15 H. Alfeyev, The Spiritual World of Isaac the Syrian (Kalamazoo, 2000), p. 61. 16 S. H. Griffith, ‘‘Singles’ in God’s Service: thoughts on the Ihidaye from the works of Aphrahat and Ephraem the Syrian’, The Harp vol. 4, nos. 1–3, July 1991, pp. 145–59, p. 156. 14

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tary mourning is greater than someone who praises God in the congregation of men.’ 17 An ihidaya was not necessarily the same as one called an abila or mourner, the other key term used to define monks in Syria. The ihidaya would live separated from the world and seek to heal it through prayer. The abila on the other hand undertakes a work of grief and mourning which is so physical as to carve channels down the face of the one who weeps continually. Isaac himself makes the distinction: ‘A mourner (abila) is he who passes all the days of his life in hunger and thirst for the sake of his hope in future good things. A monk (ihidaya) is he who remains outside the world and is ever supplicating God to receive future blessings. A monk’s wealth is the comfort that comes of mourning.’ 18 The solitariness is what allows the monk to discover the mourning. Alone in his cell: ‘what meditation can a monk have … save weeping? Could he have any time free from weeping to turn his gaze to another thought?’ he asks. 19 Not only does it take up all his time, it is the best choice and grows from his solitude because his cell is like a tomb, which ‘teach[es] him that his work is to mourn’. 20 In a key passage from Homily Thirty Seven Saint Isaac explains that ‘the very calling of his names urges and spurs him on to this, because he is called ‘the mournful one’ (abila), that is, bitter in heart.’ 21 This homily clearly states the identity of the monk as abila, the mourner: it is an ontological state as well as his labour on behalf of humanity. The passage is steeped in the language of inner contemplation, the monk gazing at his soul in an almost Ignatian visualisation of the soul wounded by sin lying at his feet, in need of the ‘medicine of repentance’ 22 and observed with a compassionate detachment: Miller, p. 61. Hom. Six, Miller, p. 54, and see Alfeyev, Spiritual, p. 135 for a discussion of this passage. 19 Hom. Thirty Seven, Miller, p. 178. 20 Hom. Thirty Seven, Miller, p. 178. 21 Hom. Thirty Seven, Miller, p. 178. 22 S. Brock, Isaac of Nineveh: The Second Part, chapters IV–XLL Second Part (Louvain, 1995), XL. 8, p. 76. 17 18

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And if the perfect and victorious wept here, how could a man covered with wounds endure to abstain from weeping? He whose loved one lies dead before him and who sees himself dead in sins – has he need of instruction on the thought he should employ for tears? Your soul, slain by sins, lies before you; your soul which is of greater value to you than the whole world. Could there be no need for you to weep over her? (Hom.37)

The great blessing achieved by weeping is not confined to an élite, as far as Saint Isaac is concerned. Any who are truly penitent can achieve it; ‘All the saints have left this life in mourning’ he says, 23 it is ‘something which the majority of right-minded brethren experience’. 24 It is a state that can be found by ‘entering stillness and patiently persevering there’, 25 asking for the gift of tears as a gracious charism and not the reward of righteousness. Indeed if salvation depended on true righteousness, he says, only one in ten thousand people would achieve a place in the kingdom of heaven. 26 In places, though not systematically, Isaac expands on his teachings on tears. They can be bitter or sweet. Copious tears from one who is naturally humble are of less value than scant drops from one who has wrestled with his nature rather more. 27 Isaac goes to some lengths to categorize the tears themselves, dividing them into flowing from different causes and for different reasons. 28 The key point he makes is that tears of grief are: ‘a kind of boundary between what is bodily and what is spiritual and between passionateness and purity.’ 29 In mourning, therefore, the monk transcends the limitations of physical human existence to take part in the ‘hidden things of the spiritual man’. 30 Casting tears as a boundHom. Thirty Seven, Miller, p. 178. Brock, Second Part, II, 14.46, p. 82. 25 Hom. Thirty Seven, Miller, p. 178. 26 Brock, Second Part, XL, 8, p. 176. 27 Brock, Second Part, 18, 7–15, p. 97–100. 28 Brock, Second Part, 18, 4–6, p. 97. 29 Hom. Thirty Seven, Miller, p. 174. 30 See Hagman, Asceticism, p. 71 for more on this point. 23 24

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ary marker in a spiritual journey places the monastic identity of the mourner within a hierarchy of virtues. Isaac appears concerned with deciding whether he can call himself abila or the more generic ihidaya. ‘O Lord, hold me worthy to taste of this fountain!’ he prays. 31 It is God who grants ‘a sorrowing heart’ (lebbā abīlā), which relieves the heart constricted by sin, through the ‘comfort which comes from sorrowing and from the gift of tears.’ 32 And he eulogises the experience of weeping, which he describes in terms so graphically physical as to refute any suggestion that Isaac takes a dualistic approach to the human person. 33 He describes being so overwhelmed with tears during the office that he is unable to continue his prayers, his whole body becoming as it were ‘a fountain of weeping, stemming from the groaning of heart produced by the grace that has been stirred within him; he is drenched in tears’ and rendered speechless. Such intense weeping is accompanied by joy and ‘an indescribable hope’. 34 So having established Saint Isaac’s self-identification as a mourner as well as a solitary, how can we connect this to the practice of cultic mourning in the Jewish tradition? I suggest two points for discussion here? The first way relates to Jewish mourning practices, both Biblical and Rabbinic. Wensinck lumps these together as ‘Semitic’ and contrasts them to Mandean and Islamic practices: ‘Semitic weeping for the dead is a distinct rite, consisting in elevating the voice and crying aloud, sometimes in uttering the zagharīt.’ 35 Ritual mourning for the death of loved ones (like mourning for the fall of a city) gives a role for the mourner in relation to both God and society, just as the monk who mourns both deepens his relationship with God and benefits those for whose sins he weeps. The Hebrew Scriptures give various examples of mourning the death of individuals; Gen 50.10 shows Joseph obeying Moses’ command to Brock, Second Part, XVIII.16, p. 100. Brock, Second Part, V. 3, p. 7. 33 On Isaac and dualism, see Hagman, Asceticism, p.71. 34 Brock, Second Part, II, 14.46, p. 82. 35 Wensinck, p. 78. 31 32

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lament Jacob’s death for 7 days. 36 2 Samuel 8.4–6 describes both men and women fasting in repentance. 37 Mourning in the Jewish tradition is associated with silence, a key feature of Christian monasticism. Lev. 10.3, Isa. 23.3, Ps.4.5, ps. 30.13, Lam 2.10 and Lam 3.28 all make the connection between silence and mourning and Ps 94.17 (‘My soul had dwelt in silence’) is glossed by midrash as dumah meaning death, from the Accadian and Ugaritic cognates of drum meaning to mourn or moan. 38 I have written elsewhere about the role of women in cultic mourning. 39 Mourning by men had quite different connotations and had serious ramifications on the mourner’s place within the community. Men were required to mourn the death of someone close to them but becoming an onen, a mourner, rendered a Jewish man estranged from God. The defilement of death meant that the mourner’s relationship with God was ‘temporarily suspended’ and he was effectively ‘desacralized.’ 40 This resonates with the tripartite sequence commonly found in ritual as identified by anthropologist Victor Turner in the 1960s. He described the stages of rituals in many contexts as being separation, liminality then reintegration. 41 The normal ritual practices enjoined on Jewish males (such as wearing phylacteries, pronouncing the blessing over food, reciting the sh’ma prayer) are actually forbidden to a mourner. These restrictions are ones imposed on priests; Feldman argues there is ‘no open and clear mourning legislation

E. Feldman, Jewish Mourning Customs: Biblical and post-biblical defilement and mourning; law as theology (New York, 1977), p. 80. 37 Ibid, p. 84. 38 Ibid, p. 98. 39 ‘The monk as mourner: gendered Eastern Christian self-identity in the seventh century’, Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies 2 (2013), pp. 19–37. 40 Feldman, Jewish, pp. 81–2. 41 See Hagman, Asceticism, pp.128–131 for an illuminating appraisal of V. W. Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (London, 1969). This was discredited by John Millbank in 1990 but remains pertinent to our discussion. 36

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directed to non-priests.’ 42 Similar prohibitions apply to excommunicants. 43 There is some circularity here: the mourner may not enact the ritualised relationship to God. He therefore behaves as a dead, or incomplete, person himself, hence the deliberate neglect of the mourner’s body and personal appearance. 44 Jewish mourning habits therefore ostracize the mourner from God, creating a further sense of mourning in the man who wants to be close to God. In the context of the Jewish heritage to East Syrian theology outlined above it is plausible that Isaac and other Syrian mourners were aware of the constraints and implications of mourning. As an act of humility, expressive of the alienation from God caused by sin, the Syrian male monk’s self-identification as mourner takes on a new dimension. The Christianization of this attitude to mourning allows for the grief for sin to engender joy, to break down rather than sustain the barrier between the mourner and God. Whereas the Jewish priest’s lamenting for physical death rendered the male mourner desacralized, the Christian’s mourning for the metaphorical ‘death of sin’ broke down the barrier between man and God and turned lamenting into joy, as expressed in the passages from Revelation cited above. We come now to the second and final point about monastic identity in the writings of St. Isaac. A very characteristic feature of Syrian ascetic writing is the use of typology. Because Syrian ascetic writers were poet-theologians imagery, metaphor, typology and other literary devices are their tools for explaining how God’s word became flesh. Syrian typology tends to work in pairs and opposites; the inner/outer, the visible/invisible, the first/second. But we can perhaps add a third ‘type’ to the pair. The first Adam’s sin is redeemed by the sacrificial death of Christ, the Second Adam. The Syrian monk as mourner, mirroring the desacralized Jewish priest lamenting a physical death, extends the typology of first and second Feldman, Jewish, pp. 91 and 103. Feldman, Jewish, p. 105. 44 Some of this neglect, such as the rending of garments and placing of ashes on the head, were also done in order to render the mourner unrecognisable to the dreaded spirits of the dead. Ibid, pp. 91, 93. 42 43

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Adam. Adam cast out of Eden and lamenting his exile is paralleled typologically with Christ’s triumphant entry into the New Jerusalem, where there will be no more tears. The monk as mourner is an ‘Adam’ acting in imitation of Christ, lamenting for sin and leading his fellow men out of the exile of sin and into the new heaven, like a new Moses. So a tripartite typology gives us Adam-Christ-monk as mourner. In Isaac’s teaching, compunction, expressed by tears, ‘defines the very identity of the monk. He is abila, the mourner, as much as he is the solitary one.’ 45 The first Adam weeps as he is cast out of Eden. 46 The second Adam weeps over his dead friend (John 11.35). The mourning monk weeps in order to regain entry to heaven, not just for himself but for all humanity.

Hom. VI, on which see H. Hunt, ‘The Soul’s Sorrow in Syrian Patristic Thought’, Studia Patristica vol.33, 1997, p. 532. 46 Canticle Six, Ikos, The Lention Triodion, K. Ware and Mother Mary, tr., (London, 1977), p. 175. 45

THE DYING CHURCH: HIERARCHY AS SELF-SACRIFICE IN PSEUDODIONYSIUS KATE MCCRAY Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite is one of the very few eastern monastics to have as large an impact in the West as he did in the East. His Divine Names and Mystical Theology became some of the most quoted texts in Roman Catholic discussion of ecclesial structure, as well as negative theology, with Thomas Aquinas referencing the Areopagite so often that he is perhaps bested only by St. Thomas’ use of Scripture. During the Protestant Reformation, Dionysius represented, for western theologians, an unflinching affirmation of papal structure; curiously so considering his reference to ‘hierarchs’ (in the plural) at the top rung of Dionysius’ church. 1 Correspondingly, the bourgeoning Protestant churches often vilified and cautioned against ever reading this Latin Dionysius. Martin Luther famously said, ‘Stay away from that Dionysius, whoever he was!’ and of the Mystical Theology and other works that they should, quite literally be ‘[shunned] like the plague.’ 2 See Rorem, P., Pseudo-Dionysius: A Commentary on the Text and an Introduction to Their Influence (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 29–35. 2 Martin Luther, ‘Disputation of Dec. 18, 1537,’ cited by Froelich, K., in Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works (transl. Colm Luibheid and Paul Rorem; New York: Paulist Press, 1987), 44, notes 45 and 46; see also Alexander Golitzin, ‘Dionysius Areopagita: A Christian Mysticism?’ Pro Ecclesia Vol. XXI, No 2 (2003):128–29. 1

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344 HIERARCHY AS SELF-SACRIFICE IN PSEUDO-DIONYSIUS Perhaps corresponding to the split in Western Christianity, a split in the Dionysian corpus divides the so-called mystic, apophatic texts from those that discuss structure. On the one hand, Dionysius recommends the apophatic spiritual method, the process of constant denial by which a Christian seeks God, ascends progressively toward the divinity, and becomes more and more like God. But when it comes to the hierarchy, especially when digested by modern scholarship, Dionysius appears to be proscriptive and structural, not at all the same personality that asserts only to deny. At best Dionysius can be classified according to these split personalities, siphoning off the structural works from the mystical to salvage his meritorious writings. At worst, Dionysius represents a combination of muddied theological statements mixed with an unflinching, immovable hierarchy. His Letter Addressed to the Monk Demophilus is perhaps an example of this, as he knocks the mouthy monk down a peg and asserts that no priest can be corrected by a Christian of a lower status. Additionally Dionysian descriptions of hierarchy not only seem to contradict his basic apophatic logic, in the light of massive failures in church leadership, one of his most core statements, that ‘there is no unmediated light,’ rings especially painful for those having experienced trauma justified by ecclesial power. The criticism of Denys’ hierarchy and statement that there can be no unmediated light usually indicates that there is a blanket acceptance and affirmation of power, that the hierarch is unchecked and that the divine cannot or will not interact with a person outside of a very ‘papal sounding’ handing down of information. The criticism is, of course, validly founded in that historically-minded critics fear that those at the bottom of the ladder may not receive any light at all. This, of course, is a paradigm of a self-serving hierarchy rather than a self-sacrificing hierarchy, and calls to mind countless examples: a parishioner who when bringing sexual allegations against a pastor is told that she missed the timeframe for filing; priests who rather than being de-frocked are moved from parish to parish and hidden within the hierarchy; like the thin blue line, the corrupt hiding the corrupt and perpetuating their own existence by keeping the flock in the dark, shepherds who feed on their sheep. In such a light of bitter experience of the failures of a hierarchical structure, what do we do we than make of Dionysius? Did the Areopagite have a split personality, such that he could simultaneously maintain that all

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suppositions should be denied (apophatic theology) at the same time as coldly (kataphatically) affirming an unflinching, unyielding hierarchical principle? Here I contend that not only is the bifurcation of mystical versus hierarchical writings in the Dionysian corpus an artificial and a-textual distinction, but in fact the same denial and kenosis that tie together the Mystical Theology and the Divine Names also undergirds the Celestial and Ecclesiastical Hierarchies. In the same way that the Areopagite asserts with the purpose of then denying that assertion within his other more mystically regarded texts, he speaks of hierarchy as a denial of self, a total transparency at every level. Before turning attention to the structured hierarchy of the Church, toward the monastics and priests and hierarchs, it is crucial to pin out the two categories in which Dionysius discusses capacity. Firstly, regarding the universal aspect of capacity, the Areopagite describes the capacity of all human beings to experience divine light, detailing the catechumen’s transition into the Church as a progressive pouring out of self in the context of community: He will not yet be sufficiently initiated into complete union with and participation in God nor will his longing for this come from within himself. Only gradually will he [the catechumen] be uplifted to a higher state and this because of the mediation of people more advanced than he. Helped on by those at a higher level, helped on as far as the very first ranks, following the sacred rules of order he will be uplifted to the summit where the Deity is. The divine blessedness grants a share of itself to someone uplifted thus, marks him with its light as a certain sign, receives him into the company of those who have earned divinization and who form a sacred assembly. 3

Clearly Dionysius regards the hierarchy here as little more than the structure of the community and the method by which light is disPseudo-Dionysius (the Areopagite), ‘The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy,’ in Pseudo Dionysius: The Complete Works, trans. Colm Luibheid and Paul Rorem. Classics of Western Spirituality. (New York: Paulist Press, 1987): 400C–400D. 3

346 HIERARCHY AS SELF-SACRIFICE IN PSEUDO-DIONYSIUS seminated, rather than a salvific order in which those above the level of catechumen experience a greater quantity of the divine promise. All predicated upon this one’s participation in the divinity, he pours himself out to the point where even his longing comes from outside of himself. Additionally, this universal description of human capacity includes all, drawing all into the community and marking them with light regardless of particular ability or individual gifts. The participation of the catechumen is essential; it forms the partnership that draws him into the community. Dionysius describes this participation as either a sort of kinetic receptivity that chooses to accept a measure of electric energy or a malleable receptivity that chooses to mold to the pressure of a stamp, forming an imprint. Depending on the level of participation, the human matter receives the divine energy on a spectrum and either ignites into flame, burns as a piece of wood, burns less brightly as a coal, or heats up, without the possibility of igniting, as water. 4 The more receptive the person, the more easily the light-energy changes her. Likewise, according to the receptivity of the human being, when the divine presses it in as a stamp or seal, the material forms a clear imprint like wax, a less clear imprint as hardening clay, a still more opaque imprint as the material resists the contours of the image. 5 Dionysius continues in the same way by describing light through various transparent media, and then throughout the Celestial and Ecclesiastical Hierarchies alluding to the transparency requires in all levels of the hierarchy so as to transmit the divine light. 6 Because the individual’s receptivity is determined by personal choice and participation, Dionysius also warns that ‘intelligent beings, because of their free will, can fall away from the light of the mind and can so desire what is evil that they close off that vision, with its natural capacity for illumination.’ Ever optimistic, however, Dionysius immediately describes the light benevolently following the willful blind and ‘[shining] on their unseeing eyes.’ 7 The universal capacity of the human being to see and transmit divine light thus Dionysius, ‘The Celestial Hierarchy,’ 205C, 301B. Dionysius, ‘The Divine Names,’ 664A–664C. 6 Dionysius, ‘The Celestial Hierarchy,’ 13:3:301B-D. 7 Dionysius, ‘The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy,’ 400A. 4 5

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ebbs and flows, depending on that individual’s participation, his or her willingness to see, to be ignited, to be malleable. If the reader is unaware that Dionysius speaks of capacity in two distinct ways, universal and particular, it may seem at first blush that the receptivity or conductivity of an individual is grounded in a predetermined or predestined nature. Quite the opposite; when Dionysius specifies that the malleability depends on human participation, he is including the human being in his or her continued creation with human agency and choice determining the substance of the person’s composition. Now understanding that all persons in the community are marked with light and share in the light according to their progressive participation and transparency, we can turn our attention to the particular aspect of Dionysius’ idea of human capacity; specifically the predetermined gifts that mark each as a member of a certain rung in the hierarchy. These capacities are skills that allow the individual to carry out a role within and for the community, always with that same goal of ultimate and complete transparency undergirding that rank or status: If one talks then of hierarchy, what is meant is a certain perfect arrangement, an image of the beauty of God which sacredly works out the mysteries of its own enlightenment in the orders and levels of understanding of hierarchy, and which is likened toward its own source as much as is permitted. Indeed for every member of the hierarchy, perfection consists in this, that it is uplifted to imitate God as far as possible and, more wonderful still, that is becomes what scripture calls a ‘fellow workman for God’ and a reflection of the workings of God. Therefore when the hierarchic order lays it on some to be purified and on the others to do the purifying, on some to receive illumination and on others to cause illumination, on some to be perfected and on others to bring about perfection, each will actually imitate God in the way suitable to whatever role it has. 8

The structure Dionysius indicates for the hierarchy is like a Church we have never seen: it is outside, above, within, and hidden just like 8

Dionysius, ‘The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy,’ 3:2:165B-C.

348 HIERARCHY AS SELF-SACRIFICE IN PSEUDO-DIONYSIUS the ever present-divinity that the Church ever seeks. The structure of the hierarchy serves as an icon of the celestial organization, and how could that serve as a practical rule or guiding rubric for human order? In the same way that Dionysius asserts and denies in a continuously upward moving direction, setting the bar for holiness way above our grasping fingertips, so too his articulation of hierarchy serves as a placeholder for perpetual self-denial. And this selfdenial is not without direction; for each one in the hierarchy pours out himself (or herself, in the case of female monastics although he does not mention them), for the sake of the other. While Frs. Georges Florovsky and John Meyendorff as well as Arch-bishop Alexander Golitzen all reference a possible contradiction between an individual ascent and this other-oriented communal one in Dionysius’ description of divine encounter, Golitzen goes on to argue that when the order of Dionysius’ texts are read in the Greek manuscript tradition, which leads with the hierarchies, this priority establishes that the ascent described in The Divine Names does not take place individualistically but communally, and reveals the corpus as a ‘deliberately progressive ‘mystagogy.’’ This nuanced and important point her argues here has been largely ignored by the commentators. 9 In The Divine Names, Moses is precisely Florovsky and Meyendorff’s representation of this possible individual encounter, as he ascends the mountain alone to meet with God. Alongside The Mystical Theology and Ecclesiastical Hierarchy, though, the Areopagite offers a more nuanced and complicated representation of Moses, one in which this patriarch is called a hierarch and rather than encountering God on an individual level alone, Moses ascends the mount accompanied by other priests and only glimpses the back of God. 10 Also one cannot forget that while Moses climbs Sinai to meet with God, he does so to lay hold of the tablets of the Law on behalf of the people. This ascent, then, cannot represent the life of the general lay individual because the movement up the mountain Golitzin, A., ‘Dionysius Areopagita: A Christian Mysticism?’ Pro Ecclesia Vol. XXI, No 2 (2003): 170. 10 Dionysius, ‘The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy,’ 501C; Dionysius, ‘The Mystical Theology,’ 1000D. 9

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is not complete without Moses’ descent from the mountain. Although, like St. Peter, he may have wanted to make tabernacles for those on the mountain and stay with God forever, he was the representative of the people and, as such, pours himself out by handing the Law and his experience of God to the people. In his letter to the monk Demophilus, (a name which ironically would indicate he was born to be ‘a lover of people’), Dionysius begins by setting Moses’ meekness as the reason he glimpsed God; thus, recommending meekness to Demophilus. 11 The Areopagite then responds to a previous letter addressed to him by the junior monk who brags about one particular pious accomplishment. A man whom Demophilus regards ‘as an impious sinner,’ threw himself at the foot of the presiding priest as the holy things were presented to the people. Demophilus takes it upon himself to correct the priest, admonish the sinner, and rescue the elements from ‘defilement,’ presumably because the man seeking forgiveness came for confession literally before the Eucharist rather than at the proper time. While Demophilus expects support and affirmation for bravely standing guard over the holy things, Dionysius rather harshly reminds the monk of his purpose: that is, to specifically pour himself out in direct service to the laity. Within Dionysius’ hierarchical taxonomy the monastics form the top rung of the lay people, charged with praying always for the people and transmitting the divine light they receive from priests and hierarchs to those worshiping. It is precisely with this role and responsibility in mind that Dionysius disassembles Demophilus’ logic, and pride, reminding him of his station and status in a way that proves the Dionysian hierarchy to be more idealistic and less rigidly structured than the classical Western scholarship has maintained. We might expect from Dionysius a defense of the priest’s actions, but rather than go into the minutiae of the man’s movements and their religious significance, the Areopagite surprisingly makes no mention of the priest’s pious or impious behavior, focusing in contrast on only Demophilus’ decisions to seize the elements and Pseudo-Dionysius (the Areopagite), ‘The Letters,’ in Pseudo Dionysius: The Complete Works, trans. Colm Luibheid and Paul Rorem. Classics of Western Spirituality. (New York: Paulist Press, 1987): Letter Eight, 1084B. 11

350 HIERARCHY AS SELF-SACRIFICE IN PSEUDO-DIONYSIUS turn away the penitent. On the surface, Dionysius is merely scolding a fellow monk to stay in line, since a monk he should never jump rank and try to supplant a priest or take it upon himself to admonish him. But truly each rank in the hierarchy accomplishes the same goal, that is connection with the divine, by pouring themselves out on behalf of the other, but how the ranks accomplish this is determined by their pre-established inward capacity and calling. Correspondingly capacity relates to responsibility; the hierarchs are responsible for oversight and doctrine, the priests are responsible for transmitting knowledge and maintaining apostolic ritual, and finally the monastics are responsible for supporting and praying for the laity. In Dionysius’ classifications, monastics belong to the top rung of the laity, so not only is Demophilus subverting another order’s responsibilities and violating their special calling and election to those responsibilities, he is actually neglecting his own sacred responsibilities, namely his kenosis for the sake of the people. It is no coincidence that this monk, before usurping the priest’s position, calls the one approaching the altar a ‘sinner,’ the only title, in fact, that Demophilus gives him. Dionysius anticipates Demophilus’ objections, especially the cry for justice, purity, holiness in sacramental movements, but embodying the justice of God is only a task for those who are worthy: It is not permitted, according to the words of scripture, to perform what may even be a work of justice, except worthily. Everyone must look to himself and, without thinking of more exalted or more profound tasks, he must think only about what has been assigned to his place. 12

To describe more fully the ranks and places assigned to humanity, Dionysius explains that God is the center of ranks, each conforming to him more fully the more directly they are located to the light. And lest one would think he describes a structure by indicating ranks, he specifies:

12

Dionysius, Letter Eight, 1092A.

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Do not imagine that the proximity here is physical. Rather, what I mean by nearness is the greatest possible capacity to receive God. If then the rank of priests is that most able to pass on illumination, he who does not bestow illumination is thereby excluded from the priestly order and from the power reserved to the priesthood. For his is unillumined. A man thus deprived is, in my view, insolent if he muscles in on priestly functions, when, without fear or shame, he unworthily pursues the divine things. 13

Dionysius intimates that Demophilus is such a person, assuming his vision of the light grants him the power to correct someone with a rank and responsibility that has not been given to him. The Areopagite even goes so far as to call one like this ‘unillumined,’ referencing baptismal language. Since the purpose of all members in the hierarchy is to transmit light in a transparent way, giving to those below freely. The monk is so concerned with the rituals not entrusted to him that he becomes derelict in his responsibility to transmit light to the laity. He chooses to focus his attention on the holy things, which have not been entrusted to him, and ignore the person before him, casting himself before the priest in pursuit of holiness. Demophilus is more concerned with maintaining holy things than empowering holy people. In refusing to transmit the light of his knowledge, he in essence becomes opaque, and for this Dionysius calls him ‘unillumined.’ Now one might contend at this juncture that Dionysius’ admonishment toward the younger monk is a perfect example of practical theology and concrete rather than apophatic or denialbased language about hierarchy. To this, I point to the middle of the letter where Dionysius describes the content of Demophilus’ original letter. Surely the junior monk remembers his own descriptions without Dionysius’ vivid retelling. By reiterating the details of Demophilus’ letter, Dionysius opens up the audience in broader way, including us in what would otherwise be a private dialogue between brother monks. This poses the possibility that Demophilus is a rhetorical construct in classic Greek polemical style, de13

Dionysius, Letter Eight, 1092C.

352 HIERARCHY AS SELF-SACRIFICE IN PSEUDO-DIONYSIUS signed to highlight Dionysius’ specific concerns and provide the perfect counter to which Dionysius’ superior arguments must stand. In this way Dionysius possibly uses the conversation, conflict, and recommendations to Demophilus, not as a structural dictum to which the Church should adhere but as a didactic tool used to highlight the core need to sacrifice oneself regardless of status or station. Dionysius famously maintains that ‘there is no unmediated light’, and while, at first glance this Letter’s argument might sound like a support of quasi papal dictats, or the giving to ordained clergy a heavy and unchallengeable power, when read alongside Dionysius’ descriptions of sacrifice, this ‘unmediated light’ reveals itself to be based on the general Christian discipline of ascetical self-giving. In direct defiance to a static Church organization, where powerful men choose when and to whom they dispense divine wisdom, Dionysius’ hierarchs are defined by their transparency: that literally light-transmitting clarity which allows the beam on one side to pass through unchanged to the other. Additionally, those who fill the seats of power, for Dionysius, are apparently predetermined. Dionysius imagines hierarchs being born that way in a sort of ecclesial spiritual election that, again, has nothing do to with limiting the salvific principles in divine light. In this aspect, Dionysius speaks of vocation and calling as a fulfillment of one’s internal disposition, a dispensation of gifts that reach their full realization when the person lives into the light. Fr. Andrew Louth describes the hierarchy in this way: One does not go up the hierarchy, but rather into it. 14 While divine light may purify on a general and more universal level and draw all the worshipful upward and inward, the way each moves and grows in this illumination follows a discernible structure, that is hierarchy. The light activates each human being’s nature. A child is born and as he strives toward holiness and understanding, the method of his discovery and the shape of his life makes itself evident to others such that the community affirms: Axios!, he is worthy; he indeed is a monk, or a Louth, A., ‘Denys the Areopagite,’ in The Origins of the Christian Mystical Tradition: From Plato to Denys (New York: Oxford University Press, 1981), 171. 14

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priest, or a hierarch. The inclinations and spiritual gifts that equip someone to be a member of these orders come from within and are lived out when each and all enter into the Christian discipline of self-sacrifice. Regardless of what our individual capacities are, they exist for the community, to be poured out for a total human uplifting into the divine light. As there is no unmediated light, so too there is no isolated light, no light achieved through power or selfbuilding. Hierarchy, for Dionysius, is a light-bearing three-fold system wherein each member seeks full transparency and transmits light from the divinity to others. The interaction with divine light is not an individualistic ascent, although it is personal. Dionysius, perhaps naively or perhaps resolutely, maintains that light is not transmitted without the pouring out of the entire community, each to the other. It could be read, then, that there is no un-sacrificed light or no non-kenotic light. The stability of the entire Dionysian order rests on the a priori that the fully actualized human being will have selfsacrifice as his disposition in all things. First will be last, last will be first. Every person in the community is obligated and responsible to the other, and no one stands without peers. And what of Demophilus’ actions toward the repentant sinner? Is his flaw only stepping out of line toward a superior, his priest? Dionysius has not forgotten the man sent away by the young monk’s pride and sternly reorients Demophilus’ priorities, saying that he is so ashamed of these actions that he recommends to Demophilus that he should: ‘Look for another God and for other priests, among whom you will not be perfected. Instead you will become like a wild beast, the harsh minister of an inhumanity agreeable to yourself.’ Continuing, Dionysius reminds Demophilus of his own weakness and his own pressing need for forgiveness as well as the fragility of the priests themselves, saying: I would never have believed that Demophilus could have so little awareness of God’s goodness and of his love for humanity, that he could forget how much he himself needed a merciful Savior, that he could take it upon himself to reject the priests who are made worthy, out of goodness, and out of a sense of their own frailty, to bear the errors of the people … [Christ] denounces as wicked the servant who refused to par-

354 HIERARCHY AS SELF-SACRIFICE IN PSEUDO-DIONYSIUS don the debt of his fellow servant and who did not share in even the smallest way, the immense kindness that was bestowed on himself; that he should suffer the fate which he dealt out is plainly shown to be right. And this is something about which Demophilus and I must be careful. 15

Dionysius routinely includes himself in these monastic admonishments and reminders and even calls the hierarchy ‘our hierarchy,’ 16 including himself in the requirements to which he calls Demophilus’ attention. Dionysius does not end there but reminds the monk of Christ’s great love for humanity and the Savior’s reticence to punish; that meekness is the mark of anyone in the hierarchy as they reflect the light of Christ’s own self-sacrifice: Those who do not know must be taught, not punished. We do not hit the blind. We lead them by the hand. You, however, beat back that man who was beginning to raise his eyes toward the light. Full of goodwill he came toward you and you (how woeful this is!) you dare to drive him away. 17

The monastics, as senior laity, are responsible to those seeking the light as first responders. Demophilus’ rejection of this sinning man violates everything a monk is meant to be, and indeed any hierarch or any Christian. To end his letter, Dionysius repeats a story that he was told by a holy man in Crete. Directly following his baptism, a parishioner, influenced by another, turns away from the Church and toward his former godless life. The priest, Carpos, who presumably baptized this man, although expected to pray for their penitent return, feels overcome with anger rather than mercy. His anger solidifies over time and when he normally would rise in the night to pray, his anger motivates him to request gruesome curses on the two men who left the community. Just as this priest imagines the deaths of those whom he now regards as enemies, he sees exactly what he prayed for, a bolt of lightning ripping open the sky Dionysius, Letter Eight, 1096A–1096B. Golitzen highlights this inclusivity: Golitzin, A., ‘Dionysius Areopagita: A Christian Mysticism?’ Pro Ecclesia Vol. XXI, No 2 (2003): 182. 17 Dionysius, Letter Eight, 1096D. 15 16

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and a chasm ripping through the ground, threatening to swallow up these two sinning men. Carpos looks into the sky only to behold Jesus surrounded by angels. He looks below to see the two men he had cursed surrounded by serpents, torturing them and attempting to pull the men into the pit. At this point in Dionysius’ graphic story, he turns his attention to Carpos’ face, which his audience expects to be repulsed and remorseful. In contrast, however, Carpos is overjoyed, swelling with a sense of validation and pride. Anxious to see the men die, Carpos attempts to aid the serpents without success, growing increasingly angry. Finally Christ intervenes, coming down to the level of the two who are being tortured, placing his body in between the men and Carpos, whose hand is still outstretched to strike them. Carpos now interacts with the Savior: Then Jesus said to Carpos: So your hand is raised up and I now am the one you must hit. Here I am, ready once again to suffer for the salvation of man and I would very gladly endure it if in this way I could keep men from sin. Look to yourself. Maybe you should be living with the serpents in the pit rather than with God and with the good angels who are the friends of men. 18

Here Dionysius hauntingly ends his letter, affirming: These things, which I heard myself, I believe to be true, reminding Demophilus that each one in a position over others has been placed in that rank to be a reflection of the love, protection, and salvation offered to all people. The hierarchy Dionysius imagines, protects rather than dominates, transmits light and knowledge rather than hoards power. Ultimately every member of the hierarchy transparently points to the supreme Hierarch, Christ Philanthropos the friend of humanity. For Dionysius this vision serves as a reminder for those in positions of ecclesial authority, and specifically here the monastics, that Christ is the lover, protector, and advocate of humanity and that anything done to impede Christ’s own self-emptying is a violation of Church order. 18

Dionysius, Letter Eight, 1100D.

356 HIERARCHY AS SELF-SACRIFICE IN PSEUDO-DIONYSIUS The hierarchy Dionysius describes is, therefore, not primarily something historical and institutional, neither is it something in full that Dionysius has experienced, but rather a spiritual vision that welcomes and ushers in a way of seeing the Church that pulls the community into ever greater levels of service and sacrifice. It is the ‘ought to be’ rather than the status quo, and for this reason Dionysius scolds Demophilus precisely because this junior monk refuses to extend his vision past the current crisis. Rather than pouring out his own concerns and replicating the icon of self-sacrifice commemorated in the Eucharist, Demophilus is concerned with the order of the physical with no attention to transmitting light or receiving light from the priest stationed above him. For Dionysius, order always gives way to divinization. The transparency of each member of the hierarchy obligates one to the other and knits together disparate parts to form a communal body. The transparency he describes involves sacrificing the opacity that defines one as separate and self-oriented. It requires kenosis, the pouring out that St. Paul calls dying to oneself. For Dionysius the hierarch is so transparent, so illuminated with the light transmitted from the divine, and so ignited in partnership with that divinity, that onlookers can barely see him. He leads the community toward the transparencies they can accomplish according to the capacity of each in constant participatory progression. The hierarch ultimately teaches the community how to reflect light, how to be stamped by the heavenly hierarch, and how to conduct the fullest measure of divine energy, culminating in the dissolution of their self-oriented opacities. As the hierarch teaches the community to die, transmitting that same Light who died to defeat death, the entire community radiates and reflects that selfless divinity.

PLOTINUS AND THE ESSENCE – ENERGEIA DISTINCTION: A NEOPLATONIC INFLUENCE ON DIONYSIUS AREOPAGITA JOSHUA PACKWOOD In some strands of Eastern Orthodox theology there has been an attempt to distance the Neoplatonic philosophy of Late Antiquity from Greek Patristic thought. 1 In contemporary philosophy, however, Neoplatonic metaphysics has been a rather flourishing area of study. One of the most prominent contemporary philosophers of Late Antiquity, Professor E. K. Emilsson of the University of Oslo has written a variety of illuminating works on Neoplatonic philosophy. I will argue, in this paper, that through Emilsson’s exposition of Plotinus’ double act theory of emanation, we can come to a better grasp of the Eastern Orthodox distinction between the essence and energeia in God. 2 In fact, I believe that Plotinus’ metaphysics play a fundamental role in understanding the concept of the essence and energeia. However, in this essay I will not address specifically the Orthodox doctrine of the essence and energeia of God. 3 For example, Lossky (1997 & 2001), Meyendorff (1979 & 1983). I refrain from referring to the energeia as energies as it is frequently done in contemporary Orthodox theology. The word energies in English generally has a rather scientific connotation. Thus I prefer to use the term in Greek to maintain its meaning and limit its modern confusion. 3 For a theological account of the essence/energeia distinction, see Divine Essence and Divine Energies: Ecumenical Reflections on the Presence of God 1 2

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358 NEOPLATONIC INFLUENCE ON DIONYSIUS AREOPAGITA Rather, my purpose is simply to show that there is metaphysical insight to gain from Greek philosophy’s notion of the One as unity and diversity, in relation to Orthodox theology. The essence/energeia distinction will be alluded to here through the metaphysics of Plotinus’ double act theory of emanation. While there are certainly differences between Neoplatonic philosophy and Christian theology, my purpose here is to elucidate the similarities with the hope of gaining some clarity regarding how Orthodox Christianity can understand this distinction within the Trinitarian God. To begin, Plotinus’ metaphysics hinges on the central idea that there are different ontological levels of reality, and the source of those levels is the first principle, referred to, in Neoplatonism, as the One. The One is the most simple and unified. In fact, the One is so simple and unified that there are no parts in it. For Plotinus, a being has limits, and these limits presuppose some type of distinctions; thus the One, considered to be beyond all limits and distinctions, is thought to be beyond all being. Ultimately, the One is so completely other, that nothing can even be said about the One. The One cannot be known or thought because one cannot know what the One is. However, it is this One which is the cause of all else. The One can be known, however, not directly but rather through that which is caused by it. Having begun his metaphysics with the First Principle, which is the One, the One emanates from itself what is called the intellect or Nous, which is the second hypostasis. The intellect and the content of intellect’s thoughts (the intelligibles) are what make up being. 4 Central to Plotinian metaphysics is the idea that being as such is not to be understood as ‘coming forth’ in space and time. Instead, emanation is the outpouring of an atemporal but ontologically dependent being. In emanation, the One is not separating itself into different parts. Though something is coming about from within Eastern Orthodoxy (2013). This text was suggested to me by Father Dr. Lev Smith. 4 As with Aristotle’s Unmoved Movers that think themselves, the intellect (the thinker) and the intelligibles (the content of thought) are the same ontologically.

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in the One, this in no way takes away any of the unity or simplicity of the One. That which emanates from the One, is the most beautiful, the most good (other than the One), and an image of the One because it is closest to the One. The way in which it comes about is as follows: all things that come from the One ultimately desire to go back to their source, and this is true of the inchoate intellect. The general idea behind the inchoate is that it is what being is, as it is coming forth from the One. It has not yet completely become being, and thus it is inchoate or potential. (It is important to remember again that though the language here implies temporality, emanation is not temporal.) Although the inchoate intellect attempts to grasp the One, it cannot do so because the One cannot be known. In attempting to think about the One, the inchoate intellect can only think about that which is closest to the One, namely itself. That is to say, in order for there to be thought, then there must be something to think about, but because the intellect is thinking about itself, it must therefore be dual. The intellect has the highest degree of unity possible, second only to the One. But this unity that the intellect has, cannot be something provided by itself because it is not complete unity. Therefore, the intellect is dependent upon the One for its unity, and this makes the intellect’s unity second to that of the One. As a Platonist, Plotinus knows that in order to have a sensible world there must be a world of Plato’s Forms. That is to say, Plotinus will follow Plato, using the existence of the Forms to give an account of everything in the sensible world. Take for example the human person; our ability to reason and have sense perception presupposes, according to Plotinus, an intellect which is free from limitations due to sense perception and discursive reasoning. 5 Plotinus believes that in order to explain the sensible world, or rather, to make sense out of the sensible world, there must be something else on which the sensible world depends. Therefore, we can see that at this level Plotinus has a unified ontology and epistemology in the Forms. For Plotinus, unlike Plato, the Forms are the thoughts of the intellect, and they are what constitute the many in the intellect. 5 Emilsson

(2007:2).

360 NEOPLATONIC INFLUENCE ON DIONYSIUS AREOPAGITA This is to say, in its thinking of multiple objects (i.e., the Forms), intellect contains a plurality within it. Now that we see the basic ontological distinction within Plotinian metaphysics between the One and the intellect, we can better understand what is commonly referred to as the activity of the One.

DOUBLE ACT Plotinus describes the internal and external activity coming from the One in an illuminating passage: But, how, when that abides unchanged, does Intellect come into being? In each and every thing there is an activity which belongs to substance and one which goes out from substance; and that which belongs to substance is the active actuality which is each particular thing, and the other activity derives from that first one, and must in everything be a consequence of it, different from the thing itself: as in fire there is a heat which is the content of its substance, and another which comes into being from that primary heat when fire exercises the activity which is native to its substance in abiding unchanged as fire. So it is also in the higher world; and much more so there, while the Principle abides ‘in its own proper way of life’, the activity generated from the perfection in it and its coexistent activity acquires substantial existence, since it comes from a great power, the greatest indeed of all, and arrives at being and substance: for that Principle is beyond Being. (Enneads. V.2.2, 21–37)

Here we find that in each thing the activity is what constitutes it, which is to say, its activity completes what it is. In other words, it seems that the internal activity is fundamentally the essence of whatever it is. Subsequently, an external activity comes from each and every internal activity. This external activity becomes, ontologically, the next stage below in the hierarchy and is brought into completion by a ‘conversion’ towards its source. 6 Plotinus uses fire Ibid. It is this external act to which i am alluding the energeia of the Christian God. 6

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here as an analogy of the internal and external acts. The internal act represents the heat itself (in the fire), whereas the external act represents the heat that surrounds the fire. While his argument may be wrong scientifically, Plotinus is not primarily concerned with elucidating sensible phenomena. The important quality here is that the physical phenomena are meant to provide a picture of an ontological reality. In other passages Plotinus says that the external act is not ‘cut off’ from the internal. For example: The sun, too, is an example since it is like a centre in relation to the light which comes from it and depends on it; for the light is everywhere with it and is not cut off from it; even if you want to cut it off on the one side, the light remains with the sun. (Enneads. I.7.1, 27) 7

The external act depends completely on the internal act. If the internal act does not continue to be what it is, the external act cannot itself be. Consider, for example, a mirror. If the object is removed, the mirrored image is ‘cut-off’ from its source and ceases to exist. The external act is thus an image of the internal. The intellect, for example, is to be seen as an image and representation of the One. This idea of an essence and its image certainly comes from the Platonic tradition, and it should not surprise us to see it in Plotinus. As Plotinus says: Just as the image of something, like the weaker light, if cut off from that which it is, would no longer exist, and in general one cannot cut off and make exist separately anything at all which derives its existence from something else and is its image, these powers also which came from that first could not exist cut off from it. But if this is so, that from which they derived will be there simultaneously where they are, so that again it will be present itself everywhere all at once undivided as a whole. (Enneads. VI.4.9, 36–40). Also see V.2.1, 13–22; V.3.12, 44; VI.2.22, 33–35; VI.4.3, 8–10; VI.4.9–10. 7

362 NEOPLATONIC INFLUENCE ON DIONYSIUS AREOPAGITA The external image can be compared to a mirror in that the mirror image does not have any effect on the thing itself (i.e., the internal act). The internal act is not changed by the external act. 8 The internal remains or abides the way it is. The unchanging nature here can be seen clearly by the self-containment of the internal act. 9 The distinction here is quite important; the internal act is completely self-contained whereas the external act is completely otherdirected, toward the internal, as it were. As Plotinus explains: But peace and quiet for Intellect is not going out of Intellect, but the peace and quiet of Intellect is an activity taking its rest from other activities, since for other beings also, which are left in peace and quiet by other things, there remains their own proper activity, above all for those whose being is not potential but actual. The being, therefore, is activity, and there is nothing to which the activity is directed; so it is self-directed … For it had to be first in itself, then also directed to something else, or with something else coming from it made like itself, just as in the case of fire it is because it is previously fire in itself, and has the activity of fire that it is able to produce a trace of itself in another. (Enneads.V.3.7, 13–25).

Of course the self-containment here does not imply that the internal act cannot affect something external. 10 Instead, the significance of the passage shows us that just by the internal act being ‘in itself’, the external (energeia) is the effect of what the internal is (its essence).

DIONYSIUS AND THE DOUBLE ACT The metaphysical account of Dionysius depends on the understanding of the double act theory that we saw in Plotinus, which is that by the One’s being what it is a multiplicity comes forth from it as manifestations or images of the One, or for Dionysius, God. Emilsson (2007: 28). Plotinus is here giving a philosophical justification for the Christian understanding that God is immutable. 9 Ibid. 10 Emilsson (2007: 29). 8

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These images are the result of what God is. Or to say it differently, what God is doing. With this overflowing of the first image, intellect, we have something that comes to be because of its source, the overflow of the One’s isness, as it were. Therefore, the intellect comes into being as the external activity of the One. Again, the internal activity is simply God’s (or for Plotinus, One’s) being what it is, which is, of course, beyond being. In the external act, however, the image of God becomes that which is most like the One without actually being the One. Now that we have set out this understanding of the double act we come next to an important element of Neoplatonic metaphysics, which is the dynamic and not static relationship between all that is, i.e., the world, and its source, God. This relationship, though it is non-temporal, is dynamic in that it is in a state of process. This state of process is referred to by Dionysius as remaining, procession, and reversion (or return). Now we will turn and see how this state of process is elucidated by the double act of Plotinus’ ontology. Dionysius Areopagita takes the notion of procession and reversion from Proclus (and other Neoplatonists), and it becomes his metaphysical structure for how he can give names to God. Dionysius does this most famously in Chapter Four of the Divine Names in which he gives an account of why God is good, light, beautiful, love, ecstasy, and zeal. However, the most important divine name given to God by Dionysius is, of course, the Good. Dionysius says: It is the Good … from which all things originate and are, as brought forth from an all-perfect cause; and in which all things are held together, as preserved and held fast in an all–powerful foundation; and to which all things are reverted as each to its own proper limit; and which all things desire. (DN. IV.4, 700a–b).

Here we can see the Good as the source of all that is, thus for Dionysius all beings have their proper isness (being) from the Good. For example: Because of this they have their own orders beyond the cosmos, their own unities, their mutual relationships, their unconfused distinctions … They remain supremely constant in their desire for the Good … Everything … comes from the universal

364 NEOPLATONIC INFLUENCE ON DIONYSIUS AREOPAGITA Cause and Source of the goodness. From this Source it was given to them to exemplify the Good, to manifest that hidden goodness in themselves, to be, so to speak, the messengers of the divine source, to reflect the light glowing in the inner sanctuary. (DN IV.2, 696 b–d).

Dionysius makes this point in reference to angelic beings, but he also intends it to apply to all beings. 11 Here he is emphasizing that the existence of any being is its goodness. Or to say it differently, the Good is what gives being its form (DN IV.3, 697a), which means each being’s differentiation is its goodness. In order for anything to be, it must, in some sense, have the Good which makes it be, and conversely, makes being itself good. 12 For Dionysius the very being of everything in existence is its procession and reversion to God. The proper activity of each being, which constitutes what that being is, is the distinct way in which it reverts to God. 13 It is important to note how the metaphysics of emanation not only gives an account for the One [God] and the many, but also explains what each thing essentially is. The external activity of God is the internal activity of being. Each being’s activity is its way of reverting to the One. The activity, reversion, is also what Plotinus calls the internal act, or remaining, according to the Proclean/Dionysian terminology, of that being. This nontemporal sequence of activities continues not just in being, but in the images of being which include everything that is. The internal and external activity will be different depending on the particular image of being, of course. For example, a stone is merely existing as a stone while exercising its own distinct activities of being hard, solid, and heavy; a plant has a distinct activity of living; an animal of living sensitively; and a human being in living rationally. 14 Essentially each thing by being what it is, i.e., being in its proper way, is actively proceeding from and reverting to its source. The activity of this occurrence is each thing’s desiring the Good Klitenic Wear (2007: 20). Ibid. 13 Perl (2007: 42). 14 Ibid., 43. 11 12

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(though each in a different way), according to its unique determination. Both the procession and reversion are what constitute what the being is and thus both are necessary for the being to be. Since we cannot make a temporal distinction between procession and reversion of being, a thing’s being made to be by God is not temporally prior to its desire for God. Oddly enough, the generation of being depends on its tending toward God just as much as on its coming forth from God. This explains how reversion, as the activity of the being, is in fact how the being shares in its own beingness. Thus, for Dionysius, as well as in Plotinus and Proclus, being must act in order for it to exist. In other words, God does not cause being to ‘be’; apart from being’s own wanting or acting. The implication here is that God does not cause or bring anything into being without that being’s cooperation (or activity). 15 Consequently, at every level of being, animals, plants, etc. there is an aspect of ‘self’, but only insofar as it shares in its own being by being what it is. Most notably, for the human being the self would be human personhood and the freedom to act. But more importantly, this idea of freedom to act must occur at every level of being. Plotinus made this point most poignantly when he stated that ‘all things contemplate’ (Enneads. III.8) – specifically, the life of a plant is a ‘growth-thought’, an animal is a ‘sense-thought’, and so on. 16 In every level of being there is some form of ‘thought’ taking place, though, of course, some are higher forms of thought than others, depending on their level of being. For Plotinus, as well as others in ancient Greek philosophy, the earth itself is living and thus this principle of thought extends to everything in the earth. 17 Dionysius agrees that ultimately, if each being did not have this It is also true, for Dionysius, that salvation cannot take place unless the being works or acts in a way corresponding to the One. This means that God does not create and does not save any being apart from that being’s cooperation. While it is beyond the scope of this work, this Dionysian understanding has important ramifications for the problem of evil in his metaphysics and theology. 16 Perl (2007: 45). 17 See III.8.1.4 15

366 NEOPLATONIC INFLUENCE ON DIONYSIUS AREOPAGITA active ‘self’, it would have no identity. 18 Therefore it would not be distinct from any other thing, which is to say, it would not be. Dionysius understands reversion (or conversion) as the ontological account of love or desire that all things naturally have for God. 19 Just as in Plotinus and Proclus, the existence of all things depends on each being’s desiring its source, the Good, and so Dionysius says of the angels that ‘by desiring God they have both being and being good’ (DN IV.1, 696a). Only by desiring goodness can anything exist at all. This implies that no being can in fact be unless it desires or reverts to God. Moreover, because there is no temporal succession in Dionysius’ ontology, all things can only be insofar as they are both proceeding from and reverting to God, which is to say, loving or desiring that from which they come forth. In conclusion, what we find in the Neoplatonic ontology of Dionysius is not a denigration of everything that is, with the hope of getting on to the next life, as some rather superficial readings of Platonism (and Christianity) seem to infer. Rather, what we find is a sense of goodness and value in everything that exists. Therefore, the monastic following this Neoplatonic tradition does not see the world, or her body, as something evil or bad. Instead, through Dionysius we find that everything, because it exist, is something holy and thus something through which we can find God. Therefore, I suggest that understanding Plotinus’ double act theory might help us to understand the vital distinction between the essence of God (internal activity) and the energeia of God (external activity); which implies that we see all of creation, (animals, plants, humans, etc.) as being images of God, simply because they exist. Thus, in Dionysius’ metaphysics, we can conclude with George Herbert when he states, ‘In everything God is seen.’

BIBLIOGRAPHY E.K.Emilsson,

18 19

Plotinus on Intellect. Oxford: Oxford University Press. (2007)

DN IV.7, 704a-c. Ibid.

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S. Klitenic-Wear, & J. Dillon Dionysius the Areopagite and the Neoplatonic Tradition. Aldershot: Ashgate. (2007). V. Lossky The Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church. New York: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press. NY. (1997) ——— In the Image and Likeness of God. New York: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press. NY. (2001) J. Meyendorff Byzantine Theology: Historical Trends and Doctrinal Themes. New York: Fordham. (1983) ——— Living Tradition. New York: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press. (1979) E. Perl Theophany. Albany, NY: SUNY. (2007)

MAXIMOS AND NEUROBIOLOGY: A NEUROTHEOLOGICAL INVESTIGATION OF ASCETICISM AS EROSION OF THE PASSIONS & THE GNOMIC WILL LUIS JOSHUA SALÉS This past summer I was finally able to return to my native Mexico City after a prolonged absence due to my studies. I met my best friend from high school who was then completing his philosophy licentiate thesis which argued for an environmental ethics through utilitarianism. He proposed that utilitarianism was the best of the three ethical theories available (that is, virtue ethics, deontology, and utilitarian consequentialism) to investigate ethical dilemmas in environmental science. The argument ran somewhat as follows: Utilitarianism is easily adapted to the natural sciences because it can show cause and effect, action and consequences, and on these bases it postulates normativity for human action through which we can effect change in the world. In other words, if humans can know the consequences of their actions and visually apprehend the repercussions of their deeds, they are sure to act differently. In the following brief communication I have two objectives. First, to show that a logical step is missing between positing that an agent’s knowledge of what is right is sufficient for an agent to do what is right. The simple form of this objection would take the following form: I assume, quite safely I am sure, that a doctor I know understands that smoking is noxious for her health, but her knowledge somehow seems insufficient to prevent her from filling her lungs with toxic smoke three times a day. Second, I attempt to provide a neurotheological synthesis that offers a more sophisticat369

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ed account of human behavior than consequentialism and which therefore is more successful in achieving moral human action. My method follows what I term a neurotheological synthesis. This method consists in placing two different disciplines side by side to speak to an investigated phenomenon and through their combined efforts to illuminate some aspect unapparent when viewed unilaterally. 1) The theological account of my neurotheological synthesis draws from the field of historical theology, more specifically Patristics, and focuses exclusively on a seventh-century Byzantine theologian, Saint Maximos the Confessor. I employ three key concepts the ancient monk developed, namely, a) the gnomic will, b) the passions, and c) the asceticism of virtue. Put briefly, I am attempting to develop a virtue ethics on the basis of the Confessor’s texts. 2) The neurobiological account of my neurotheological synthesis draws from the field of behavioral neurobiology and focuses exclusively on a) neuroplasticity, b) the dopaminergic reward structure in the ventral tegmental area, the nucleus accumbens, and the cingulate cortex, and c) the orbitofrontal cortex and ways of bypassing it. Put briefly, I describe the brain structures which form on the basis of sustained activities and elucidate the possibilities and pitfalls of ‘rewiring’ them. With regard to 1 & 2, above, the synthesis of them both consists in postulating a neurotheological virtue ethics modeled on Saint Maximos the Confessor’s thought and behavioral neurobiology. On this basis I promote the thesis that a neurotheological synthesis of Maximian virtue ethics and behavioral neurobiology casts light on the shortcomings of consequentialism and offers a more effective alternative for human morality. I ask the reader for some charity and indulgence, since this is to the best of my knowledge (and I would be glad to be corrected) the first neurotheological study of any Eastern Christian figure and the first neurotheological attempt to dialogue with virtue ethics, especially recent Orthodox Christian virtue ethics, which is just about as fledgling a field as neurotheology itself.

THE THEOLOGICAL ACCOUNT In the course of his disputations with the monothelites St. Maximos the Confessor developed the concept known as the gnomic (or deliberative) will, as raised in the third and seventh Opuscules. The gnomic will represents the locus of human deliberation, which

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is definitionally liable to bi-directional movements through appetencies. While the idea of deliberating seems to us a daily and normal occurrence, for the monk it belies a serious human shortcoming, especially when applied to ethical deliberation. It denotes the inability to see the good clearly and distinctly and therefore to have to weigh different options before acting, much as a consequentialist would presuppose for a utilitarian calculus. Herein virtue ethics exposes itself to an admittedly harsh critique. If its proponents postulate that the consummate virtuous human agent does the good for no other reason than for the sake of the good itself, requiring deliberation prior to action might indicate space to weigh selfinterest in the balance of decision and therefore to make selfinterest constitutive of the decision, even if the deed is itself good. Thus, even a morally upright choice arrived at through the deliberative will is liable to be marked with self-interest, calling into question the possibility of a truly selfless deed. I address this critique in the third part of this section and again in the conclusion. The deliberative will as we encounter it, however, is not an objective and abstracted intellect without debilitating histories of behavior. Implicit in the definition of the deliberative will is the possibility of making a mistake, perhaps at first through ignorance, but afterward through habitual disposition. The cumulative effect of poor choices begins to attach certain negative valuations to states of affairs, not simply seeing things for their non-axiological features (that is, non-valued characteristics), but attaching a certain feeling, a certain emotion to them. Thus, a truly simple (as opposed to synthetic) thought is, for Maximos, a rare, albeit inceptionally desirable, occurrence. Maximos calls these (negative) attachments to the nonaxiological features of states of affairs the passions, which are reprehensible movements of the soul against nature. 1 The passions aggravate the process of deliberation by either occluding or distorting the range of possibilities from among which one can choose; in this way they at least negatively affect moral perception, but can also impel a person dispositionally to the degree that certain actions are very difficult and some truly impossible 1

Chapters on Love 1.35.

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and/or/because unthinkable. Moreover, the passions are not confined to the realm of decision-making, but go beyond and color our perception of reality, that is, of other humans and how we perceive them, of animals, of nature. Consequently, if the Confessor is correct in identifying these passions, which he calls: ‘Reprehensible movements of the soul contrary to nature,’ 2 as impairments to the gnomic will, itself problematic, then the idea of being able to do something good simply because we know it to be good is patently absurd. First, we may not even be able to identify the good, being blinded by the passions. Second, even if we can identify the good despite the distorting power of the passions, we might find that their dispositional character, for which we are culpable to some extensive degree, does not allow us to do what we wish. The Apostle summarized this well when he said: ‘For I do not carry out the good which I wish, but the evil which I do not wish, this I carry out’ (Rom 7:19). Worst of all, a habit of the passions only feeds the fire for more passions and has, as such, a profoundly intoxicating and addictive nature. Fortunately the Confessor does not leave us hanging. The key here is to fight habit with habit. The asceticism of virtue provides the dispositional antidote whereby not only the passions are slowly mitigated but, in its highest form, this antidote even bypasses deliberation without sacrificing moral uprightness or laudability in the process. Asceticism was originally a term which referred to the process of athletic training to which youths in the Greco-Roman world were subjected in hopes of physical excellence in its various forms. In time the term came to be applied to monastic discipline, which bore all the marks of a rigorous method of training, perhaps no less physical but more spiritually focused. As a result I find the following analogy entirely justified. When I was in college I ran the four hundred meter hurdles. Our coach required us to practice our hurdling technique almost daily so that our muscle memory could repeat the precise motion during a race without needing to think about how to hurdle properly, which could prove disastrous in a competition. Through constant training we were able to perform a beautiful and perfect movement without recourse to deliberation. 2

Ibid.

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A simple trigger, like proximity to a hurdle, sufficed to complete the action. I and, I believe, a sizable segment of the monastic tradition before me, see no reason to hold that such discipline cannot be equally applied to our ‘moral muscle memory,’ as it were, and prove equally effective. Maximos divided this process into three stages. Two still imply the deliberative will; one transcends it. All three stages, nevertheless, imply doing the good to another, even if the first two are for the wrong reasons. First, we may do the good out of fear. In the gnomic will we determine that we ought to do x because not to do x would entail punishment or pain. Second, we may do the good out of an impending reward. In the gnomic will we determine that we ought to do x because not to do x would be accompanied by no reward or pleasure. Third, we do the good out of a fixed or habitualized state (ἕξις) which allows us to act prior to deliberation. In this final stage the human acts rightly out of a virtuous disposition gained through asceticism and which structurally bypasses the deliberative will. Let me conclude this section, then, by adding that if none of my major contentions thus far can be defeated, the previous criticism leveled at virtue ethics is, if not entirely groundless, at least not unqualifiedly applicable.

THE NEUROBIOLOGICAL ACCOUNT One of the first findings in the history of neurobiology was neuroplasticity. Ironically, outsiders to the field might think there is a stable and universally agreed-upon definition of neuroplasticity among neuroscientists, but this is simply not the case. Nevertheless, this much can be said: Neuroplasticity refers to the capacity of the brain to adapt its synaptic and non-synaptic components to new circumstances which arise out of behavioral and/or environmental changes. For example, damaged axonal connections involved in certain patterned behaviors can usually be repaired by what is known as ‘new axonal sprouts.’ 3 While the process of repair See Rothi, L.J. and J. Horner, ‘Restitution and Substitution: Two Theories of Recovery with Application to Neurobehavioral Treatment,’ (Journal of Clinical Neuropsychology, 5:1, 1983), 73–81. 3

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goes on, however, we can reasonably expect to see decreased performance in the activity in which the damaged brain cells were involved. Similarly, new and sustained behavior will require the brain to adjust so that in time the activity engaged in does not seem as difficult to perform. Very much like muscles, neural circuits are strengthened through repeated use. Sometimes, if the available connections are insufficient to perform on the level which a behavior is requiring, the brain is likely to develop additional and thicker connections to make an activity possible on the level needed. Most established connections, barring direct damaging intervention, remain in place perpetually. The degree of sophistication of a neural pathway depends extensively on behavior that stimulates and thereby strengthens it. While reduced use will weaken the neural circuit previously established, it is truly uncommon for connections and circuits to disappear entirely, even if they can be rendered largely ineffective. One of several well-traced neural circuits is commonly referred to as the dopaminergic reward pathway, structure, or system; it is also known as the mesolimbic pathway. We might be better off thinking of this structure as hardware rather than software. The dopaminergic reward structure relies extensively on the behaviors that activate it and it in turn reinforces those behaviors by associating a reward with their performance; sustained activation of the dopaminergic reward system through consistent behavior of a certain kind strengthens the neural circuits necessary for that behavior and can lead to codependency. This structure is obviously not inherently bad, since it is the effective mechanism which teaches humans that eating and drinking are very good things. This process can be described fairly accurately in neurobiology. The mesolimbic dopaminergic pathway, the most relevant for our present purposes, projects dopamine from the ventral tegmental area (VTA) into the nucleus accumbens, in the ventral striatum, and in the cingulate cortex, in the limbic lobe. Now there are at least three different theories about the role of dopamine in the reward system, but let us stop here to consider one. The most common suggestion is that the reception of dopamine in the nucleus accumbens is associated with what we could describe as pleasure

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(the hedonic theory). 4 It should not be surprising that dopaminergic release into the nucleus accumbens is a functional feature of heroin and cocaine consumption as well as sexual arousal. Now the absence of said behavior can in time induce a person to feel some degree of anxiety until the behavior is repeated. This is where the orbitofrontal cortex comes in. The orbitofrontal cortex is engaged when we modulate our emotions and make our decisions. Dopaminergic release, for example, indicates desire for something which in turn can activate the orbitofrontal cortex so that it pursues what is desired. When we make a decision it is largely the orbitofrontal cortex that is involved, although the process that causes us to make a decision is clearly more complicated. Sustained behavior of a certain kind does not only activate dopaminergic release into the nucleus accumbens and cingulate cortex, but also strengthens the very neural structure which permits that behavior to take place to begin with. Thus, the behavior can be seen to influence the system through which the orbitofrontal cortex is made to desire something. Now, if this behavior is noxious and an agent wishes to change it, a number of problems may present themselves. First, the new behavior requires time to form strong neural pathways and might not necessarily stimulate dopaminergic release as directly or effectively as the older circuit – in fact, it will not. Second, absence of dopaminergic release can be accompanied by anxiety or stress, which can lead to reinforcement of the behavior one is trying to overcome and the more the behavior is indulged the stronger the neural circuitry becomes. 5 Third, even if one is successful in establishing an alternate behavioral circuit, it will not always manage to circumvent the previous one; moreover, the older circuit will not disappear and can resurface at any time given the appropriate stimuli are in place. Nevertheless, the problems are not insurmountable. Certain behavioral neural pathways can be established that do not engage the reward system Kelley, Ann and Kent Berridge, ‘The Neuroscience of Natural Rewards: Relevance to Addictive Drugs.’ (The Journal of Neuroscience, 22:9, 2009), 3306–3311. 5Everitt, B., A. Dickinson, and T. Robbins. ‘The Neuropsychological Basis of Addictive Behaviour.’ (Brain Research Review 36, 2001), 129–138. 4

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and therefore circumvent the orbitofrontal cortex, eliding what could be considered addictive behavior. This is known as the thalamocortical pathway, which essentially bypasses the primary sensory cortices. Needless to say, behaviorism can strengthen its effectivity such that activities are possible without recourse to the orbitofrontal cortex. These lower-cortical activities often are considered irrational impulses or instincts, but human behavior is able to affect lower-cortical activity and influence non-cognitive responses. 6

CONCLUSION So what aspect do the two foregoing accounts illumine that would otherwise remain hidden? Allow me to suggest a few findings which should be carried forward if my neurotheological synthesis has proven accurate and insightful. First, the theological and the neurobiological accounts I have given posit a human agent who deliberates about courses of action. Put differently, deliberation is real, not an illusion, and thus a constitutive element of ethical theory. Second, the two accounts resonate strongly about the human capacity to develop relatively fixed states of behavior through sustained repetition. St. Maximos would have called this ἕξις and neurobiology a reinforced behavioral neural pathway. We may add that while neurobiology does not address the moral features of a reinforced behavioral neural pathway, theology attempts to identify the positive or negative nature of the ἕξις under question and to offer an alternative. Here again we have a third resonance between the two accounts, both of which seek to find alternate paths while acknowledging the permanence of the previous structure. Now it seems that on Maximos’ account one would expect, in neurobiological terms, something akin to the thalamocortical pathway in order to circumvent the locus of decision-making, the orbitofrontal cortex. And perhaps herein lies one of the valuable insights of this neurotheological synthesis, that on this account the lower and nonSee Bechara, A. H. Damasio, and A. Damasio. ‘Emotion, Decision-Making, and the Orbitofrontal Cortex.’ (Cerebral Cortex 10:3, 2000), 295–307. 6

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cognitive brain functions, until recently and still today prevalently derided in ethical considerations, might in fact be constitutive of a person’s morality and show that rational decision-making is only one small and fragmentary view of the impenetrable mystery of human ethics. Let me close by suggesting that a virtue ethics which is concerned with the totality of a human person, and how such a person acts in the world, is not only ultimately more effective than any consequentialist ethical theory, but is also more human.

CONVERTING THE USE OF DEATH: THE ASCETIC THEOLOGY OF ST MAXIMUS THE CONFESSOR IN AD T H ALASSIUM 61 GREGORY TUCKER The theology of St Maximus the Confessor (c. 580–662) represents the epitome of Greek Christian thought of the early Byzantine period, and its author was declared by Hans-Georg Beck in the mid20th Century to be: ‘the most universal spirit of the seventh century, and perhaps the last independent thinker of the Byzantine Church.’ 1 Though the precise contours of Maximus’ life are no longer as certain as they once were, it is surely beyond doubt that he received an education of some quality. 2 At an early date, he enHans-Georg Beck, Kirche und theologische Literatur im byzantinischen Reich (Munich: 1959), 436; quoted in translation in Aidan Nichols, Byzantine Gospel: Maximus the Confessor in Modern Scholarship, (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1993), 216. The judgment is perhaps a little extreme on both counts! 2 The most-well known and widely-rehearsed account of Maximus’s life derives from the Greek Vita, which is thought to be rather late in date (10th Century). The discovery in the later–20th Century of an earlier Syriac life has prompted a revision of the traditional narrative and a reconsideration of the Confessor’s background and career. This has been most thoroughly and recently treated in Philip Booth, Crisis of Empire: Doctrine and Dissent at the End of Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013). For the Greek Vita: J.-P. Migne, PG 90. 68–109; for the Syriac Vita: S. Brock, ‘An Early Syriac Life of Maximus the Confessor,’ Analecta Bollandiana 91, 299–346. 1

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tered the monastic life, and from then on acquired a growing reputation as a theologian, who ultimately would suffer torture and die alone and abandoned for the defense of a doctrine which would receive ecumenical authority less than twenty years after his death. St. Maximus was no doubt immersed in the literature of the monastic tradition to which he committed himself, and Andrew Louth has noted that three main streams of Greek monastic theology, Evagrian, Macarian, and Diadochan, can be seen to fuse and underscore Maximus’ ascetical theology. 3 Of course, Maximus wrote numerous works specifically addressing the concerns of the monastic life, his Liber Asceticus and various collections of Centuries, to name only the most obvious, but the ascetical tone of his theology was not limited to these works alone. This paper will examine closely just one well-known and much-loved text of the Confessor, in which he tightly weaves the weft of asceticism and the warp of positive dogmatic theology into a very fine brocade. Though the text is addressed to a monastic (the Abbot Thalassius) it is clearly speaking to a wider audience, and I believe that it shows most beautifully how Maximus conceives of the whole economy of Christ and the creation and salvation of humankind in ascetical terms. Ad Thalassium 61 considers verses from 1 Peter 4 which, with their discussion of suffering in the flesh for the hope within, sober living, and life in community conducted in love, have natural resonances for those engaged in the ascetic struggle of the monastic life. Specifically, Maximus’ attention is drawn to the meaning of two phrases within verses 17 and 18: the first: ‘[The] time (kαιρός) of the beginning of the judgment from the House of God’; and the second: ‘If the righteous man is scarcely saved.’ We shall focus only on Maximus’ treatment of the first of these, which occupies him for the larger part of Question 61. The saint constructs his arguments by carefully linking words and achieving an internal exegesis in the matrix of Scripture. Therefore his analysis of ‘the time of the beginning of the judgment from the House of God’ starts from his understanding of kαιρός time, or more precisely, the definitive moment, Andrew Louth, Maximus the Confessor, The Early Church Fathers (New York: Routledge, 1996), 23–26. 3

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the appointed time. This time, Maximus well knows, is Christ, to whom Peter refers kαιρός at the beginning of his epistle when he writes: ‘[The prophets] are searching into who or what kind of time (kαιρός) the Spirit of Christ within them was making visible, [when] forewitnessing the sufferings [which lead] into Christ and the consequent glories.’ 4

The Confessor makes these connections clear when he writes: If, in Adam, death existed as the condemnation of nature – the pleasure of his own origin (γένεσις) being the beginning (ἀρχή) – fittingly, death in Christ has become a condemnation of sin, [death] having received the origin of nature in Christ, pleasure again [being] pure. So that, just as in Adam the sin according to pleasure was a condemnation to corruption through the death of nature and became time for the condemnation of nature to death on account of sin; in this way in Christ, according to righteousness, nature has condemned sin and become time for the condemnation of sin to death, on account of righteousness, the origin of nature from pleasure being entirely eliminated in Christ. 5

Thus, for Maximus, time (kαιρός) is the decisive intervention of Christ in human life, made known beforehand in the prophets as sufferings which lead to glory. This time is understood in terms of origin or generation (γένεσις) and death, and we see that in Christ, there is a complete overturning and reversal of the perceived order of the world: that which in Adam condemns nature, in Christ condemns sin. In Adam, sin condemns nature to corruption through death; in Christ, nature condemns sin to death, and the origin of nature in illicit pleasure in worldly things is overcome. But it is nevertheless the very same nature which, once condemned, now condemns; it must be the same nature for human beings to be able to share in the soteriological victory. 1 Peter 1.11 – a rather literal translation, but one which preserves the sense of the epistle, that the prophets searched into the salvation of which Peter is writing, rather than the sufferings of Christ himself. 5 AdTh 61, l. 194–206. 4

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The primary locus of this transformation of nature is, unsurprisingly, baptism. Maximus states that: All who have been willingly reborn of Christ in Spirit, through the bath of regeneration, have by grace put off the former origin of Adam according to pleasure, and they preserve the grace of sinlessness [received] in baptism and the undiminished and undefiled power of the mystical adoption in Spirit by guarding the law of the evangelical commandments. Fittingly they activate the use of death for the judgment of sin, having received time to judge sin in the flesh, [which means] in general, the very time of the incarnation (σάρκωσις) of the Word, which pertains to the same great mystery of becoming human (ἐνανθρὠπησις), according to the nature of grace, and specifically, according to the operation of grace, each has received the grace of adoption through baptism. Thus, through this [time] they freely activeate the commandments, alone having origin in Spirit, establishing the condemnation of sin through many sufferings, retaining the use of their death. 6

Spiritual rebirth through the water of holy baptism grants one the power to put off the former origin which was according to pleasure, in favor of the active use of death to condemn sin, if one keeps the evangelical commands. This rebirth constitutes a mystical adoption, a new origin in [the] Spirit, in which one acquires the use of death for the purpose of life. Whereas death once was the condemnation of nature, now that it is purified again in Christ it becomes the condemnation of sin, if one endures the many sufferings which remain. Thus, Maximus concludes: [Divine and unending life] indeed [awaits] the saints who, for the sake of truth and righteousness, through the many sufferings of [their] true birth, have completed the course of life which is at hand. 7 This is the mystery of becoming human (ἐνανθρώπησις).

6 7

AdTh 61, l. 228–244. AdTh 61, l. 248–251.

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So we can see the basic structure of the anthropology with which St. Maximus is working in this text, and how he arrives at it from the passage from 1 Peter which is the subject of this Question. Christ is the decisive moment, the time (kαιρός), who, on the basis of the fundamental righteousness of human nature establishes death as the condemnation of sin; this is appropriated to human beings through baptism in which they receive a new origin in Spirit and acquire the use of their death as a condemnation of sin, the culmination of the course of this life lived through many sufferings. Such is the basis for Maximus’ lengthy exposition of the nature of man and his recapitulation in Christ which begins Question 61, and which, at first glance, may seem a strange starting point for an elaboration of the verses from 1 Peter about which Thalassius had enquired. However, given this baptismal context and the general literary context of 1st Peter, we can see that Maximus’ reflection on Adam and Christ is a deeply practical one, rooted in the universal experience of suffering which is transformed through baptism into ascetical discipline with a pedagogical purpose. Thus, Maximus begins Ad Thalassium 61 by painting a picture of Adam, surrounded by the mercy of God, who orders all things ‘according to [his] foreknowledge, [being] the one who is concerned for our salvation.’ 8 In the beginning, God did not create man with a capacity for sensual pleasure to which was attached pain, rather with a capacity for pleasure derived from contemplation of the divine. 9 Pleasure is proper, therefore, to human nature when directed towards God, but at the same instant of creation, man, in his very first movement, directs his mind to sensible things (τα αἰσθητά) and thus activates the unnatural pleasure in sensible things. 10 But, as the one who is always the Savior and for the purpose of salvation, ‘God … affixed pain alongside this sensible pleasure, in the manner of an avenging faculty, whereby the Law of Death was implanted by Wisdom in the nature of our body, markAdTh 61, l. 17. AdTh 61, l. 8–12. 10 AdTh 61, l. 12–16. 8 9

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ing a boundary for the unnatural frenzy of the mind (νοῦς) in the motion of its appetite towards sensible things.’ 11 There is no sense of temporality to these opening observations. God creates human nature with a capacity for pleasure in the mind, which is activated as ‘unnatural’ (παρὰ φύσιν) by man through its being directed towards sensible things at the very moment of creation. In Question 61, the Genesis account of the origin of transgression in humankind is not one which attests to a period of time in which man enjoyed existence unconditioned by the transgression, so any consequence of this within creation is not subsequent to the origin of man but atemporally concurrent with it. Hence, the affixing of pain to sensible pleasure is not consequent in time to either the act of creation or the misdirection of the capacity for pleasure. This observation impacts significantly our reading of the clause which follows: ὥσπερ τινὰ τιμωρὸν δύναμιν. Pain is not affixed to pleasure as a subsequent reaction by God in time to man’s turn to sensible things (it is not the unrolling of Plan B) but in one and the same instant of creation and turning, and so that the force of ὥσπερ is perhaps more ‘like’ than ‘as,’ rendering the clause, ‘like a kind of avenging faculty.’ 12 St. Maximus therefore achieves two important things in this opening passage. First, he shows us that he understands Genesis to be speaking of the first-formed man in terms of kαιρός rather than χρόνος, and this is consistent with the way he treats Adam later in the Question, and established an understanding of both Adam and Christ as χρόνοι, consistent with Paul’s understanding of creation. Second, Maximus defines both the transgression and its correction AdTh 61, l. 18–21. The footnote Paul Blowers supplies to this passage in his translation (p. 132, n. 3) is unhelpful. He introduces the term ‘the fall’ which is not found in Maximus’ text, and potentially encourages the attachment of alien ideas to Maximus’ theology, not least that of a pristine human existence ‘before’ the fall. Further, his comments on a ‘dialectic of pleasure and pain’ would seem to fit uneasily with the text, in which there is more clearly a dialectic between the rational and irrational use of pleasure, with pain being attached by God to the irrational use of pleasure, as a kind of merciful limiting device. 11 12

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in the terms of ascetical discourse: pleasure and pain, the νοὺς and appetite, and death. The Confessor goes on to explain how the Law of Pleasure, which is God’s response to Adam’s transgression and his attempt to correct Adam’s noetic misdirection, was intended to work pedagogically: On account of the entry of irrational (παράλογον) pleasure alongside nature, rational pain has entered in opposition by means of many sufferings (τα παθήματα), in which and from which death effects the removal of the pleasure contrary to nature – but does not truly and perfectly remove it – in accordance with which grace has revealed the divine pleasure which accords with the mind (νοὺς) to be exalted. 13

Pleasure derived from the senses is irrational (παράλογον), but the pain that enters alongside and against it accords with reason (κατὰ λόγον). 14 Death, through and in many sufferings (παθήματα), effects the removal of unnatural pleasure, but not its complete destruction, by which the grace of pleasure taken in the divine is shown to be exalted. 15 So pain and death accord with reason and the correct disposition of the mind in that, by testing a person, they point to the fact that pleasure found in God is superior. Maximus goes on to explain that every labor or toil (πόνος) has as the cause of its origin the logical precedent of the activity of pleasure, as the result of which it is to be understood as a natural debt to be extracted from those who share in human nature. Thus he extends the point made above, that through pursuing sensible things unnatural pleasure is activated, and he sees that what befalls man – his suffering – is to have to labor, in accordance with the account in Genesis 3. AdTh 61, l. 22–27. Παράλογον is used rather than ἄλογον, perhaps deliberately echoing παρὰ φύσιν earlier in AdTh 61. 15 Παθήματα, ‘sufferings,’ ought to be taken in the sense of ‘things which come upon one as a passive recipient’ rather than with the modern implication of ‘painful things,’ and certainly distinguished from πόνος (‘work, toil, labour’) which Paul Blowers also translates as ‘suffering.’ 13 14

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God implements the Law of Pleasure, by which pain is established in opposition to the maniacal wanderings of the mind, in order that, through sufferings and finally death, the sensual pleasure which is opposed to nature will be removed and the noetic pleasure of contemplation will be promoted. Maximus argues that grace reveals the true purpose of humanity through death, by which he presumably intends to convey the sense that, from our present perspective at least, the contemplation of death ought to reorient the mind to God. To this end and by these means, God has established in Adam, from the very moment of creation, the passage by which man can return to God, despite the transgression in which he initially turned against him. In what follows, Maximus moves from speaking of the particular case of the first man to the general situation for all men, which amounts to repeating much of what he has already said, considering that he does not speak of the situation of the first man as an historical one. After the ‘first’ transgression, pleasure preconditions the origin of every human being, and no person is free from an origin according to nature which does not involve the sufferings which accompany this pleasure. 16 The point which Maximus seems to be making here is that the condition of all people is the same as that of the first man, who, from the point of his origin turned to sensible pleasure and thus suffered pain and the labors which accompany this, for the sake of his salvation, limiting the horizon of sensible pleasure. Labor or toil (πόνος), therefore, conditions all human existence. We can see that there is perhaps an apologetic dimension to Maximus’ work, seeking to explain the human condition as it can be observed in the terms of a Christian theology of the positive value of creation as the handiwork of God, and the real possibility of salvation through the lived experience. Maximus is emphatic that there is no ‘escape’ from this situation: the way of freedom from the Law of Pleasure was wholly without passage to those who

16

AdTh 61, l. 36–39.

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were under the tyranny of unjust pleasure and the just labor and most just death which naturally proceed from it. 17 In order to effect release from the corruption (φθορά) of unjust pleasure and just death, and the correcting of human nature, it is necessary to contrive the opposite: unjust and likewise uncaused labor and death. This release is necessary not because the creation is somehow ‘broken’ but because the pedagogical lesson designed by God to work in creation was unheeded by man: The suffering man (ὅ ἄνθρωπος) was being pitifully torn asunder [by unrighteous pleasure and righteous death], holding fast that the beginning/principle (άρχἠ) of the origin according to pleasure [was] from corruption, and that the end (τέλος) of life concludes in corruption through death. 18

That is to say, rather than educating man and bringing him back to God, the Law of Pleasure fretted his mind, and led him to the false and sinful conclusion that he originated not as the handiwork of God but from corruption or ruin. In short, man fails to learn the lessons which are written into the cosmos for his benefit: his mind is so tormented by his sufferings, that he is unable to focus on God. The reality of God’s original will for man to derive pleasure from the noetic contemplation of the divine would, Maximus postulates, be revealed by one who could show that the principle of origin is not sensible pleasure (by accepting labor and its limiting death without having sought pleasure) and freely embrace death (because it is not the end of life). 19 And so we find ourselves delivered to the recapitulation which is wrought in Christ, the exegesis of 1 Peter 4.17. Maximus asserts that: Maximus seems to mean ‘unjust’ (ἄδικος) in the sense of ‘opposing the divine plan for man to take pleasure in God’ and ‘just’ (δίκαιος) therefore, in the sense that God, by implementing the Law of Pleasure which binds pain and labour to sensible pleasure, places a limit on the noetic madness of the pursuit of sensible pleasure. AdTh 61, l. 41–43. 18 AdTh 61, l. 46–49. 19 AdTh 61, l. 44–61. 17

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THE ASCETIC THEOLOGY OF ST MAXIMUS For the purpose of setting aright the suffering nature [it is necessary] to think of unjust and likewise uncaused labor and death…in order that…the human race might again have an origin free from pleasure and pain, receiving the good fortune of nature from the beginning (ἀρχή). 20

Thus he establishes that the work of Christ will be a full share in the human experience but without any preceding transgression, in order to show to humankind that they have misunderstood the condition of their nature, and that the death in which their life appears to end is not a true end in itself. And so: For this reason, the Word of God, being truly God by nature becomes truly man (ἄνθρωπος), from a noetic soul and suffering body, being together alongside us according to nature, except alone without sin, on the one hand in no way whatsoever having the pleasure from disobedience preceding his birth from a woman in time, yet on the other hand, through philanthropy, voluntarily appropriating to himself the pain derived from it [the pleasure], being the end of nature. 21

This is the first point at which Maximus introduces the word ‘sin’ (ἁμαρτία), quoting Hebrews 4.15, and the first mention of ‘birth’ (γέννησις). It is important to note two things which here shed light on the nature of Christ’s birth from a woman: first, the perfect body of this man, who is the Word of God, is passible, and so the ‘fault’ (which must be absent in Christ for him to effect salvation) does not lie in one’s being liable to affliction by sufferings; hence, and secondly, the sin must be that which makes man subject to the Law of Pleasure (which does not govern Christ), that is the transgression which is seeking pleasure in sensible things. Christ is able to sympathize with our propensity to sin because he shares with us a passible human nature and knows temptation, but he remains without sin, unmoved in the orientation of his capacity for pleasure to the noetic contemplation of the divine. In this way, therefore, pleasure in no way precedes his birth: it is not that his birth in the 20 21

AdTh 61, l. 49–59 with omissions. AdTh 61, l. 61–68.

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flesh is necessarily unconditioned by pleasure in sensible things, but that the one who is born is not preconditioned by this pleasure. Thus, Maximus goes on to say, the death and suffering which the Lord endures inaugurate a new beginning (ἀρχή) and a second origin for humankind, a new time (kαιρός). Christ has liberated ‘those [who] no longer have the pleasure which is from Adam as the origin from Adam, but only the action of the pain from Adam in them – not as a debt owed for sin, but according to the economy, in which death surrounds nature, opposing sin.’ 22 Out of love for humankind, Christ accepts the unjust suffering so that he might end the tyranny under which the unjust sensible pleasure is thought by man to be the origin of nature. The economy of Christ, according to Maximus, does not eliminate the experience of suffering, pain, and ultimately death, for human beings, but rather reveals the underlying pedagogy of these things, by which those who embrace them turn suffering and death from a condemnation of sin-afflicted nature into a condemnation of sin itself, converting the use of death. In the action of his incarnation in which he accepts suffering, labor, and ultimately death, Christ does not overturn divine justice but displays its equity through the greatness of the condescension, demonstrating human passibility to be the tool through which sin is eradicated, and through that, death as the end of man. 23 Maximus here restates in different terms the point he made at the outset of Question 61: the pain (suffering) affixed to pleasure which is directed towards the sensible world is for no other purpose than salvation. God establishes this pain as just, not as a punishment but to correct human perception as to the source of true pleasure. Christ further confirms the justice of this situation by willingly embracing these sufferings which lead to death, in order to show that the pursuit of sensible pleasure should not rule human nature and, furthermore, that death is not the end of human life. This situation properly accords with God’s nature, which is said to be ‘wise and just and capable.’ 24 Moreover, it is through Christ’s redemptive AdTh 61, l. 131–135. AdTh 61, l. 85–92. 24 AdTh 61, l. 77. 22 23

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action – ‘becoming a man without undergoing any kind of change or alteration’ – that this state of affairs is revealed, Christ manifesting the divine plan (λόγος) in the way he effected the cure. 25 Christ reveals his power by establishing a new, changeless origin for human nature in his death. 26 He gives to human nature impassibility through sufferings, rest through labors, and eternal life through death. 27 St. Maximus summarizes this conclusion, saying: ‘In truth, then, the God-man came to be, and rendered to nature another beginning (ἀρχή), a second origin, which through labor, ends in the pleasure of the life to come.’ 28 Christ, the God-man establishes a new principle (ἀρχή) for human existence, through a life unmoved by the sufferings which afflict it, overcoming pain through a series of contradictions. The death of Christ thus becomes a second origin (δευτέρα γένεσις) because Christ, having no sin and therefore not being subject to the just limiting of sensible pleasure by death, willingly embraces it nonetheless, effecting restoration (ἀποκατάστασις). This origin in death is changeless (ἄτρεπτον) because death is itself the only unchanging factor in human life, after our birth in a body, and moreover because it is not subject to χρόνος but rather is kαιρός. Having outlined the nature of Christ’s saving restoration, Maximus returns to the narrative of Adam: 29 ‘The forefather Adam, having transgressed the divine command, established another AdTh 61, l. 83–84. AdTh 61, l. 100–103. 27 AdTh 61, l. 103–104. 28 AdTh 61, l. 109–111. 29 Curiously, though Maximus goes on to exegete the deception of the serpent, he nowhere mentions Eve, though she is the one who was beguiled in Genesis 3. Maximus is obviously drawing on the Pauline formulation of Christ as the New Adam, though it may also be relevant that Eve’s naming in Genesis is subsequent to God’s establishment of the Law of Pleasure following the transgression, whereas Adam is referred to as such throughout (in the LXX). However, it is quite clearly the case that Maximus is not beginning with the exegesis of Genesis which defines the ‘problem’ but with Christ, who reveals the truth of the human condition and its restoration, and through this the meaning of the Scriptures. 25 26

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principle (ἀρχή) of [human] origin from sensible pleasure, culminating in death through labor.’ 30 The counsel of the serpent caused Adam to think that pleasure terminates in labor rather than follows from antecedent labor. 31 This is a slightly complex point which benefits from further comment. It is not the counsel of the serpent which leads Adam into the transgression, because, as Maximus explains at the outset, the transgression occurs simultaneously with Adam’s origin. Rather, the counsel of the serpent misguides Adam as to the meaning of labor. Maximus’ deliberately slippery use of terminology easily deceives us, too! Of course, pleasure derived from sensible things (which has been the sense in which Maximus has most often used ἠδονή throughout) does terminate in labor, in accordance with the Law of Pleasure established by God in the beginning, for the correction of our primordial error. The first deception of the serpent is to cause man to think that pleasure (which man thinks of as sensible pleasure) naturally ends in labor, whereas in fact it is on account of sensible pleasure that labor is introduced to limit the noetic madness. The second deception of the serpent is to convince man to think that this sensible pleasure is the pleasure according to his nature (which should be pleasure contemplating the divine), and to obscure the truth that through antecedent labor (which is rendered on account of sensible pleasure) God makes true natural pleasure a possibility for man even after he has chosen to pursue sensible pleasure in the transgression. 32 AdTh 61, l. 111–115. Maximus does not explain what ‘the divine command’ is. 31 AdTh 61, l. 115–117. 32 It seems to me that the only way to make sense of this passage is to understand, as I have tried to explain, that Maximus uses ἡδονή here in both senses of ‘unnatural pleasure oriented to sensible things’ and ‘natural pleasure oriented to the divine.’ By so doing, Maximus identifies – and indeed immitates for our edification – the wiley deception of the serpent, which is a multifaceted and persuasive lie about the origin (ἀρχή/γένεσις) and end (τέλος) of human pleasure and labour, with the intention of obscuring in the frail mind of man the fact that God always wills his salvation and has ordered the cosmos to this end. 30

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All who, like Adam, are begotten in the flesh, through which they have pleasure as their unjust principle, are led with him into the end (τέλος) in death through labor. 33 Maximus immediately contrasts this birth in the flesh with the second origin for human nature in the Holy Spirit which Christ fashions, having himself become man; the contrast is not between the first origin of man in the flesh and the second origin in the Holy Spirit, but between birth in the flesh and the second origin. 34 The Lord effects the destruction of both the beginning/principle (ἀρχή) and end/goal (τέλος) of the origin according to Adam, in the manner described above, neither having their precedent in God. He liberates all who are mystically reborn in his Spirit from these things, such that they no longer have the pleasure of Adam’s origin, but only the action of the pain in them. This pain, which includes labor and death, is not a debt owed for sin, but rather death accords with the economy, surrounding nature (with no negative connotation) after sin. 35 So the work of Christ reveals a second principle of origin in which sensible pleasure no longer governs the disposition of man, and this is entered through birth, not in the flesh, but in the Spirit of Christ. Whilst this rebirth and AdTh 61, l. 117–120. Maximus has only used ‘birth’ once up to this point in AdTh 61. When he did, he wrote of ‘τῆς ἐκ γυναικὸς ἐν χρόνῳ γεννήσεως’ of Christ (AdTh 61, l. 66) not of his birth ‘ἐν τῇ σαρκί’ specifically. This suggests to me that Maximus thinks of ‘birth in the flesh’ as something subsequent to the origin of human nature (which is perpetuated through procreation) specifically related to the perception that sensible pleasure is the ἄρχη of human origin, which all humans in the type of Adam undergo, but which Christ does not, never having the sensible world as the source of his pleasure. Moreover, Christ’s birth from a woman is in the Spirit, according to the nativity accounts in the gospels of Matthew and Luke. Furthermore, Adam was not born in the flesh – he was created by God from the dust of the earth; thus for all humankind to share in Adam’s ‘birth,’ we must not think of the origin of his human nature. 34 AdTh 61, l. 120–122. He must surely have in mind John 3.5–6. The verb Maximus uses, δημιουργήσας, is the same one he used in the opening clause of AdTh 61 to describe the creation of human nature. 35 AdTh 61, l. 226–135. 33

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second origin eliminate the tyrannical reign of sensible pleasure, they do not eliminate suffering, labor and death, instead transforming these. Thus Maximus concludes this first section of Ad Thalassium 61: Death, once it has ceased having pleasure as its ‘birth mother’ … clearly becomes the ‘father’ of everlasting life. Indeed, just as Adam’s life according to pleasure became the mother of death and corruption, so too the Lord’s death for Adam’s sake, being free of the pleasure from Adam, became the progenitor (γεννήτωρ) of eternal life. 36

Thus Christ ‘converted the use of death’ into a condemnation of sin, rather than of human nature which in itself is good, and effected the judgment of sin in the flesh. 37 For those who reject sensible pleasure as the principle of the origin of human nature and enter into birth in the Spirit receiving a second origin, suffering becomes that through which one is led to death passing over into life. Christ overcomes both the ἄρχη and the τέλος of the Law of Pleasure, opening human nature to the contemplation of the divine, for which it was created in the beginning. In a very real way, the work of Christ does not alter the human experience of the world (of pleasure, suffering, and death) in the sense that these things are changed or irradiated, but in the sense that they are renewed and experienced in a fundamentally different way, through a worldview which sees the human experience as pedagogically oriented to salvation. Through Christ, the decisive moment (kαιρός) who establishes a new origin for humankind, suffering, pain, and death, which were implanted in creation at the moment of the first-formed man’s transgression for the very purpose of his salvation, are revealed to be the means of salvation which, in the victory of Christ, become a condemnation not of the God-fashioned nature of humankind, but of the sin which leads us away from God. For St. Maximus, all human begins are involved in an ascetic contest with suffering and death, but it is only through 36 37

AdTh 61, l. 135–141. AdTh 61, l. 161–164.

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the waters of the mystery of holy baptism in which one receives a Spiritual rebirth in Christ, that one is able to take hold of death and experience it as the condemnation of sin itself; that is to say, to experience suffering, pain, and finally death, as salvific. Asceticism, therefore, is for Maximus the basic disposition of all human beings, but it receives life-giving power only in Christ, by whom suffering is redeemed, and through whom this present life is known to be for salvation.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Maximus Confessor, Quaestiones ad Thalassium, t. II, Qu. LVI– LXV, Corpus Christianorum Series Graeca 22 (Turnhout: Leuven University Press, 1990). Maximus the Confessor, On the Cosmic Mystery of Jesus Christ, tr. Paul M. Blowers & Robert Louis Wilken (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2003). Hans Urs von Balthasar, Cosmic Liturgy, tr. Brian E. Daley (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2003; Kosmische Liturgie: Das Weltbild Maximus’ des Bekenners, 2nd Edition, 1961). Paul M. Blowers, Exegesis and Spiritual Pedagogy in Maximus the Confessor: an Investigation of the Quaestiones ad Thalassium (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1991). Philip Booth, Crisis of Empire: Doctrine and Dissent at the End of Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013). Andrew Louth, Maximus the Confessor, The Early Church Fathers (New York: Routledge, 1996). Aidan Nichols, Byzantine Gospel: Maximus the Confessor in Modern Scholarship, (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1993). Lars Thunberg, Microcosm and Mediator: the Theological Anthropology of Maximus the Confessor (Chicago & La Salle, IL: Open Court, 1995).

THE MONK PHILOSOPHER IN YAḤYĀ IBN ‘ADĪ (D. 974) AND SEVERUS IBN ALMUQAFFA’ (D. C. 987) ZACHARY UGOLNIK Philosophy is rendered as the cultivation of right reason (logou orthotetos): so that, necessarily, all that comes about through error of reason is a mistake, similarly called sin (hamartema). For example, since the first man sinned and disobeyed God, it is said, he became like the beasts. 1 (Clement of Alexandria) Clement of Alexandria (c. 150–215) is famous for his harmonization of Hellenic philosophy and Christian theology, a process that continued through much of early Christianity. As the Greek term philosophia (falsafa in Arabic) reminds us, to be a philosopher is to be a lover of wisdom. The Christian way of life, from early times, was associated with this path of seeking knowledge. Monastics, as exemplars of Christian piety, despite their severe appearances on occasion, were often considered the best exemplars of the human ideal as made in the image of God. As lovers of eternity and wisdom, monastics were a specific type of philosopher. This tradition continues in tenth century Arabic Christianity. This paper will examine the treatment of asceticism and monasticism in the works of two tenth century Arabic Christian writClement of Alexandria, Paedagogus 1:13, PG: p. 372B–373A. My translation adapting Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers. Philip Schaff. (ed). Christian Classics Ethereal Library. Grand Rapids, MI. 1819–1893, p. 235. 1

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ers: Severus ibn al-Muqaffa’ (d. c. 987) and Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī (893– 974). I will focus on one text by Severus, his Ṭibb al-Ghamm waShifā’ al-Ḥuzn, which has been translated, in its critical edition, as ‘Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow,’ 2 but can also be rendered ‘The Medicine of Grief and Cure of Sorrow.’ I will focus on two texts written by Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī: his Kitāb tahdhīb al-akhlāq, 3 which has been translated as ‘The Reformation of Morals,’ but can also be rendered the ‘Cultivation of Morals’; and also his ‘Treatise on Virginity.’ 4 These various texts come to us from two different thinkers and two different geographical contexts: the philosopher and married layperson Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, a Syrian Orthodox Christian working in Abbasid Baghdad and the celibate Coptic Bishop Severus of Egypt. Despite these differences, both of these writers were concerned with presenting Christianity in apologetic terms in their Muslim environments and, as I will argue, ground asceticism and monasticism in a philosophical framework. Though Sidney Griffith has written extensively on the role of Christian philosophy in Baghdad and has commented on the treatises under discussion in separate occasions, this present study, through a close reading of the texts, hopes to further articulate how Yaḥyā and Severus articulated the way of the monk. 5 For both thinkers, the angelic life is Severus ibn al-Muqaffa’. Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow (Ṭibb al-Ghamm wa-Shifā’ al-Ḥuzn). Edited and Translated by M.J.L. Young and R.Y. Ebied. [Secretariat du CSCO]. Louvain. 1978. All translations of this text in this article are cited from this volume. 3 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī. The Reformation of Morals: a Parallel Arabic-English Text. Translated by S.H. Griffith. Brigham Young University Press. Provo, Utah. 2002. All translations of this text in this article are cited from this volume. 4 This text is available in French and Arabic in ‘Traité Sur La Continence De Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī.’ Edited by Vincent Mistrih. Studia Orientalia Christiana Collectanea 16. Cairo, 1981. All translations from this text cited in this article are my own. 5 See Griffith, S. H. ‘The Virtue of Continence (al-’iffah) and the ‘Perfect Man’ (al-insān al-kāmil): An Islamochristian Inquiry in Abbasid Religious and Philosophical Circles,’ in Gotteserlebnis Und Gotteslehre: Christ2

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associated with rationality and abstinence is the best means to attain this state. Monks, as experts in abstinence, seek the highest forms of knowledge and are thus counted among the true philosophers of this world.

PRIMARY PREMISES: PHILOSOPHY AND THEOLOGY

Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī (whose full name is Abū Zakarīyyā’ Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī) was born in Takrīt in Iraq, a major center of Miaphysite Syrian Christianity. He moved to Baghdad in his youth as a professional scribe and by the 940’s was firmly established in the Baghdad school of Aristotelians, becoming one the leaders of the ‘Peripatetic’ school of thought, and earning the title al-Manṭiqī, or ‘the logician.’ 6 He studied under the famous Muslim philosopher Abū Naṣr Muḥammad al-Fārābī (c. 872–950) and, as major figure in the renaissance of Baghdad, translated many of Aristotle’s texts, including his Topics and Physics. 7 Unlike Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, who wrote mathematical and philosophical treatises as well as theological, Severus wrote in explicitly religious terms under his office of Bishop. He seems to have originally gone under the name Abū ‘l-Bishr, but he took the name Seliche Und Islamische Mystik Im Orient, edited by Martin Tamcke, Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden, 2010; ‘Yaḥya Ibn ‘Adi’s Colloquy on Sexual Abstinence and the Philosophical Life,’ in Arabic Theology, Arabic Philosophy. From the Many to the One: Essays in Celebration of Richard M. Frank, edited by James E. Montgomery, Peeters Publishers & Department of Oriental Studies, Leuven; Paris; Dudley, MA, 2006; The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam, Princeton University Press, Princeton, N.J., 2008; ‘The ‘Philosophical Life’ in Tenth Century Baghdad: The Contribution of Yaḥyā ibn ʿAdī’s Kitāb tahdhīb al-akhlāq,’ in Christians at the Heart of Islamic Rule: Church Life and Scholarship in ‘Abbasid Iraq, edited by David Thomas, Brill, Leiden; Boston, 2003; and for Severus see ‘The Muslim Philosopher al-Kindī and His Christian Readers: Three Arab Christian Texts on ‘The Dissipation of Sorrows’ Bulletin of the John Rylands, University Library of Manchester 78, 1996, 111–127. 6 Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, p. 122. 7 Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, p. 122–123.

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verus (Sāwīrus in Arabic) when taking the habit of monasticism. 8 He later became bishop of al-Ashmūnain in Upper Egypt. 9 Aware that many of his parishioners were forgetting the Coptic language, he is one of the first Egyptian Christians to write theological treatises in Arabic. 10 His work titled Miṣbāḥ al-’Aql (‘Lamp of the Intellect’) outlines basic theological positions of the Christian church. The work we will be focusing on today contributes to a genre of literature that applied philosophical constructs to the alleviation of life’s sorrows, in the tradition of Islamic scholars, such as Ya’qūb ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī (c. 800- 873), and the Roman Philosopher Boethius (d. c. 525). Severus in his ‘Afflictions,’ written sometime around 955, 11 cites by name and nearly quotes verbatim al-Kindī’s work entitled Risālah fi al-Ḥilah li-Daf’ al-Aḥzān (‘Epistle on the Means for Repelling Sorrows’). In Sidney Griffith’s words however, Severus ‘theologizes’ al-Kindī’s philosophical approach through incorporating biblical references. 12 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, on the other hand, has been described as doing something of the opposite. Joel Kraemer, writes: ‘Ibn ‘Adī treated theological notions as embodiments of philosophical concepts.’ 13 However, where Kraemer sees a subjugation of theology to reason and philosophy in the thought of Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, Griffith sees a harmony. Griffith has argued persuasively that Arabic Christian theologians in the 9th and 10th centuries, particularly in the Griffith, ‘The Muslim Philosopher al-Kindī and His Christian Readers,’ p. 117. 9 Griffith, ‘The Muslim Philosopher al-Kindī and His Christian Readers,’ p. 117. 10 Introduction to The Lamp of the Intellect of Severus Ibn Al-Muqaffa’, Bishop of Al-Ashmūnain. Edited by R. Y. Ebied and M. J. L. Young. [Secretariat du CSCO]. Louvain. 1975, p. VI. 11 Griffith, ‘The Muslim Philosopher al-Kindī and His Christian Readers,’ p. 117. 12 Griffith also points to the influence of al-Kindī’s Risālah fi al-Ḥilah upon two other Christian Arabic writers: Elias of Nisibis (d. 1046) of the Church of the East and Elias al-Jawharī (fl. 893). Griffith, ‘The Muslim Philosopher Al-Kindī and His Christian Readers,’ p. 124. 13 As quoted in the introduction to The Reformation of Morals, p. xxii. 8

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Baghdad Milieu, ‘were thinking and writing within a tradition that had long since learned to present the claims of their religious convictions in the Greek Idiom of Aristotelian logic.’ 14 According to Griffith, Muslim thinkers and mutakallimūn were faced with a different set of issues than their Christian counterparts due to the influx of Greek logic and philosophy in the Abbasid translation movement, texts that were not earlier available in the development of classical Islamic thought. This encounter produced a conflict between Aristotelian philosophers who wrote in Arabic and classical Muslim scholars of Arabic grammar in the 9th and 10th centuries. 15 Christianity, however, encountered these philosophical schools from its earliest development and had grown accustomed to employing philosophical categories as supplemental to theological arguments. Griffith points out that many scholars focusing on Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī’s translations of classical philosophy and his Reformation of Morals, overlook his overtly theological works, including treatises on the incarnation, the defense of his Miaphysite faith, and celibacy. 16 Rather than characterize Yaḥyā as a humanist, we find a cohesion of philosophy and theology in his writings, each drafted with a fine sense of his audience. Severus, also, though primarily addressing Christians, is just as comfortable citing Aristotle or Plato as he is citing Paul or the Psalms. We can thus imagine from this context, that for both writers, the ascetic is viewed as an ideal type of Philosopher. In order to illustrate how they accomplish this, in not always explicit terms, let us begin with a brief examination of our thinkers’ anthropology.

THE RATIONALITY OF THE ANGELIC LIFE

In both writers we find rationality equated with eternity, divinity, and the highest ranks of existence. Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, adopts Plato’s tripartite division of the soul. He writes, in the Reformation of Morals: Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, p. 123–124. Griffith, ‘The ‘Philosophical Life’’, p. 148. 16 Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, p. 124. For the works of Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, see Endress, G. The Works of Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī: An Analytical Inventory. Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verglag. Weisbaden. 1977. 14 15

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‘The soul has three faculties…the appetitive soul, the irascible soul [which can also be translated as the ‘spirited soul’], and the rational soul.’ 17 For Yaḥyā, much as we saw in the opening excerpt from Clement of Alexandria, rationality distinguishes man from the animals. Man can reach perfection through subjecting the lesser parts of the soul to this higher form of rationality. As I mentioned, however, there is debate over the religious dimensions of the program Yaḥyā’s proposes. Irfan Shahîd, of Georgetown University, characterizes The Reformation of Morals as a secular treatment of ethics. 18 In his reading of the text, ‘there is no trace of any religious sentiment, only a slight reference towards the end with no significance.’ 19 The reference to which he is referring, often quoted by Griffith, reads as follows: Men are a single tribe, related to one another; humanity unites them. The adornment of the divine power is in all of them and in each one of them, and it is the rational soul. By means of this soul, man becomes man. It is the nobler of the two parts of man, which are the soul and the body. So man in his true being is the rational soul, and it is a single substance in all men. 20

Throughout this work Yaḥyā seems to be addressing the intellectual or ruling elite of Baghdad, both Muslim and Christian, with special references to princes and kings. As Shahîd notes, Yaḥyā avoids explicit Christian terminology and thus the genre of the text can be characterized as ‘secular’ in the sense of not being addressed to one particular religious tradition. However, in my reading, the reference above is very important in understanding Yaḥyā’s overall anthropology. Yaḥyā’s audience was either Muslim or Christian, and Yaḥyā clearly equates the rational soul with the ‘adornment of divine power,’ a statement amenable to both groups. This association beThe Reformation of Morals 2.1, p. 15. Shahîd, I., ‘Review: The Reformation of Morals.’ Journal of Semitic Studies 50:2, 2005, 410–413, p. 412. 19 Shahîd, ‘Review: The Reformation of Morals,’ p. 412. 20 The Reformation of Morals 5.14, p. 107. 17 18

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tween the divine and the intellect is found in the prayer that concludes the treatise: ‘Praised be the One who endows the intellect always and forever. Amen.’ 21 What is also interesting in the excerpt above is Yaḥyā’s phrase ‘Man becomes Man,’ rather than the Christian formula, anathema to Muslims, that through emulating Christ and empting oneself of selfish desires, i.e. cultivating morality: ‘Man becomes God’. In this text, however, Yaḥyā explains his notion of the perfect man (al-insān al-kāmil), and thus we can imagine this phrase just as easily being read: ‘Man becomes the Perfect Man.’ Regardless of whether of the secular/ religious binary can be applied in this context, for the purposes of this essay, Yaḥyā’s treatment of rationality as divinely inspired is important when considering his understanding of the Perfect Man and its potential parallels to his notion of the ascetic. In the beginning of the text, in one of the few other explicitly theological references in the work, Yaḥyā writes of the perfect man: The complete man is the one whom virtue does not bypass, whom vice does not disfigure. A man seldom ends up at this point. But, when a man does finally come to this point, it is the angels he resembles more than he resembles men. 22

In this passage, Yaḥyā sets up the exemplar of the Perfect Man in terms that are evocative – for his Christian readers – of the association between the angelic habit and the monastic vocation. In the Christian tradition, the life of the monk has long been described as emulating the angelic life in order to regain humanity’s true nature as made in the image of God, an image which ‘vice does not disfigure.’ We find this association between celibacy and the angelic life, for instance, in Gregory of Nyssa’s treatise On Virginity. Gregory, in reference to the kingdom of heaven, writes: The peculiarity of the angelic nature is that they are strangers to marriage; therefore the blessing of this promise has been al-

21 22

The Reformation of Morals 5.27, p. 119. The Reformation of Morals 5.2, p. 93.

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THE MONK PHILOSOPHER ready received by him who has not only mingled his own glory with the halo of the Saints, but also by the stainlessness of his life has so imitated the purity of these incorporeal beings. 23

Of course, to ascribe this monastic association to the Christian readers of the Reformation of Morals is speculative. Nonetheless, it is clear from the prior passage quoted above, that Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī equates the apogee of the rationality, the perfect man, with an angelic image. We find a similar connection of rationality and the angelic life in Severus. Though following his program of extinguishing sorrows (which in many ways can be paralleled to the cultivation of the morality in the soul), Severus explains that man can ‘become a rational being, living the life of the angels and behaving as a spiritual being, and in the hereafter thou shalt come to the Most Exalted Abode and the highest rank, and shalt resemble the creatures of light.’ 24 Severus refers to celestial beings as ‘the rational angelic powers.’ 25 Just as the rational soul is the highest aspect of man’s nature and is divinely endowed, for Severus, rationality is associated with eternity and divinity. When recounting the creation story before the expulsion from the Garden of Eden, Severus explains that God created man ‘to dwell in a higher abode than that of the world of generation and decay, but below the rational world, that is to say in the Paradise of Grace, of whatever nature that Paradise may be.’ 26 Mortality, however, befell man after his departure from Eden, setting up an arduous and long-suffering journey in life. Severus, though, hints ever so slightly at a theology of theosis or deification (for those readers familiar with the concepts), when explaining our path to regain our status in the Garden of Eden. For Severus, our attachment to this world is the cause of our misfortunes and abstinence is the remedy for our sorrow. Severus writes that in regard to the world of temporality and decay, ‘our course should be to be abstemious towards it and to reject it, but to desire Gregory of Nyssa, On Virginity, 13. Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow, trans. p. 2, Arabic p. 3. 25 Ibid. trans. p. 3, Arabic p. 4. 26 Ibid. trans. p. 4, Arabic p. 6. 23 24

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that rational world and seek it. Thus we shall achieve for ourselves a state better than that which we were in before we erred and committed sin.’ 27 Thus salvation lies in seeking the rationality of the heavens. As we shall see, for both Yaḥyā and Severus the ascetic seeks this very path.

THE WAY OF ABSTINENCE

For both writers the primary virtue in the path towards rationality is abstinence (al-’iffah), or chastity. Yaḥyā, in his reformation of morals, lists twenty virtues to strive after and twenty vices to avoid when pursuing the status of a perfect or complete man. 28 Abstinence is listed first among the virtues. 29 In his treatise on virginity, where he defends the Christian practice of celibacy, he explains that Christ taught man four chief virtues, of which he lists Abstinence first. 30 In his Reformation of Morals he defines abstinence at length: It is the soul’s control of the appetites, and the constraint of them to be satisfied with what furnishes the body with the means of subsistence and preserves its health, and no more. It is also the avoidance of intemperance, the curtailment of all pleasures, and the endeavor to be moderate. 31

Abstinence, in the description above, is a virtue for all classes. However, Yaḥyā also lists ‘high ambition’ among those desired virtues, 32 clearly not an ideal quality for monks. Yaḥyā obviously has different types and classes of people in mind when explaining particular virtues, a distinction he makes plain in his explanation of moral qualities that are ‘virtues in some people but vices in others.’ 33 Among these qualities, he lists ‘the love of pomp and splendor,’ which Yaḥyā clearly deems unsuitable ‘for monks (al-ruhbān), Ibid. trans. p. 10, Arabic p.14–15. The Reformation of Morals, 3. 29 Ibid. 3.2, p. 29. 30 Traité Sur La Continence, 129, p. 61. 31 The Reformation of Morals, 3.2 p. 29. 32 Ibid. 3.20. p. 45. 33 Ibid. 3.1- 3.41, pp. 29–59 27 28

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ascetics (al-zuhhād), elders, and scholars.’ 34 Yaḥyā explains, ‘what is to be considered good for them is clothing of hair and coarse material, traveling on foot, obscurity, attendance at churches and mosques and so forth, and an abhorrence for luxurious living.’ 35 Renunciation (al-zuhd) 36 is also listed among such qualities, which we can consider as a more extreme version of abstinence. Renunciation, Yaḥyā writes, ‘is for scholars, monks, religious leaders, orators, preachers, and whoever gives people an interest in eternal life. It is not to be deemed good for kings and leaders, nor is it appropriate for them.’ 37 Monks are not of the world of pleasure and vice but direct their attention to things of eternity, which Yaḥyā has already established as being equated with spiritual rationality. This quality of monks makes them great companions. At the beginning of the cultivation of morals treatise, before listing these various qualities, Yaḥyā explains his reasoning for describing the perfect man. He writes, ‘We shall describe the way…so that those who gaze at the high rank will yearn to be like him, and so that those who keep their eyes on the farthest goal will long to imitate him.’ 38 This same premise of mimesis or emulation is applied to the monk. Yaḥyā recommends that ‘Whoever wants to tame his appetitive soul must frequent the company of ascetics, monks, hermits, pious people, and preachers, in addition to attending the gatherings of leaders and scholars.’ 39 He also recommends reading books on morals, deportment, the sciences, ‘as well as accounts of ascetics, monks, hermits, and pious people.’ 40 Through following this program, however, one will not necessarily join their social class, but rather adopt their qualities of abstinence and thus ‘join the rank of those who are extolled in the assemblies,’ 41 that is, the ruling class. Moderation leads to advancement in this world and Ibid.3.43, p. 61. Ibid., 3.43, p. 61. 36 Ibid., 3.45, p. 63. 37 Ibid. 3.45, p. 63. 38 The Reformation of Morals, 1.3, p. 7. 39 Ibid. 4.11, p. 73. 40 Ibid. 4.11, p. 75. 41 Ibid. 4.11, p. 75. 34 35

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the next. For ‘the ordinary citizen and commoners,’ Yaḥyā recommends always frequenting the ‘sessions of scholars and sages,’ but those of the highest class, such as Kings, are more limited in their interactions and must first take nobles as their entourage. 42 Regardless of a man’s class, however, Yaḥyā recommends following ‘a rule according to which he will restrict himself in eating and drinking.’ 43 We also find a premise of mimesis or emulation in the Severus. Severus, in his characteristic manner of navigating between biblical and philosophical references, cites Aristotle when commenting on the Psalms and the constant glorification of God by the angels. Severus explains the Aristotelian notion of the constant movement of the higher world towards its cause and Creator in heaven, continuing: ‘There is no way to attain it except by becoming like its dwellers and imitating those who reside therein.’ 44

THE MONK AND THE PHILOSOPHER

While Severus’ audience is clearly a Christian layperson or a fellow celibate, the lifestyle that he describes as a remedy for sorrows (or at a least a means of better embracing life’s inevitable sorrows) can be described as highly ascetical. In a near exact quote of the Muslim philosopher al-Kindī, Severus cites the cause of suffering as falling under two categories: ‘the loss of that which is cherished, and the failure to attain something desired.’ 45 Like al-Kindī, Severus also makes use of Socrates when offering a solution: ‘If you wish your sorrows to be few make your possessions few.’ 46 Severus also cites Aristotle in order to illustrate that all our possessions will decay and are not worthy of cherishing. 47 Not to acknowledge the inherent degeneration of this world is a form of ignorance. Severus lists those who fall prey to this delusion and when describing the Ibid. 5.4, p. 95. Ibid. 5.7, p. 99. 44 Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow, trans. p. 4, Arabic p. 5. 45 Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow, trans. p. 10, Arabic p. 16. 46 Ibid. trans. p. 12, Arabic p. 18. 47 Ibid. trans. p. 11, Arabic p. 17. 42 43

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ideal approach, he uses imagery that is very evocative of asceticism. In regards to those that make the right choice, he writes: There are others who make the correct distinction, and allow the intellect to judge correctly, and so reject this world, and seek what will bring them to that precious state. They may be likened to the person who voyages on the sea and endures its terrors, who travels over deserts and wildernesses, falling among robbers and murderers, searching for what is more valuable and more profitable, and seeking a pearl of great price or some advantageous bargain of which he has been informed. 48

As Ebied and Young point out in their introduction to the Severan text, Severus conflates the metaphor of a perilous sea journey (employed by al-Kindī) with the New Testament parable of the Pearl of Great Price (Matthew 13:45–46). 49 His reference to wandering in the wildernesses, though, can easily be applied the life of a monk, who in the early Christian centuries often ventured into the desert either aimlessly or for the duration of Lent, forgoing the pleasures of this world for the grace of the world to come. Interestingly, Severus describes this choice as an act of the intellect that judged the pros and cons correctly. Unlike Yaḥyā, Severus goes on to explicitly describe monastics as a type of ideal philosophers, eschewing sorrows, ironically, by embracing them. He writes: ‘I believe that whoever follows the true philosophy, which was chosen by Antonius, Makarios, Pachomius and their like, will never be sad, nor grieved.’ 50 For Severus the ‘true philosopher’ (alFaylasūf al-Ḥaqīqa) is ‘the one who has preferred the excellent way of life and rejected this world.’ 51 Severus, like Yaḥyā, also promotes moderation and thus his category the ‘true philosopher’ is not limited to monastics, though they certainly espouse its ideals. In addition to the founders of monasticism listed above, Severus cites the 48

VI.

49 50 51

Ibid. trans. p. 13, p. 20 Arabic. Introduction to Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow, Tomus 35, p. Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow, trans. p. 14, Arabic p. 21. Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow, trans. p. 14, Arabic p. 22.

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wisdom of Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nyssa, John Chrysostom, as well as Aristotle, Hermes Trismegistos, and Galen of Pergamon. We can turn to Yaḥyā’s defense of Virginity in order to find a similar cohesion of the monk and the philosopher. Much like Severus’ goal of eradicating sorrow, Yaḥyā presents the goal of philosophical inquiry as the acquisition of happiness, which ThérèseAnne Druart in her essay on this work, describes as being focused on obtaining knowledge in the sciences and divine wisdom. 52 In Druart’s reading, the term ‘divine wisdom’ (al-ḥikmat al-ilāhiyyah) can mean both knowledge in the religious sense and in the metaphysical sense, as Yaḥyā seems to employ both meanings and oscillates between them. 53 Yaḥyā’s main objection to procreation is that it hinders one’s ability to pursue knowledge. He believes procreation is justified if it aims at producing a prophet, a just king, a pious priest, or a learned scholar. 54 Additionally, intercourse is permissible when undertaken as a preventive measure or cure for dis-eases resulting from a lack of sexual activity. 55 In a Muslim environment that saw celibacy as abhorrent to natural divine order, Yaḥyā’s treatise can be read as a defense of the practice of celibacy in Christianity and a defense of the monastic lifestyle in general. Yaḥyā connects celibacy with the lives of the ancient philosophers and presents it as means of obtaining philosophical illumination. Those great sages that had wives and children, Yaḥyā argues, procreated under the permissible conditions, all the while, maintaining their focus on the pursuit of knowledge. 56 While the Qur’an refers to monasticism as a corrupt innovation, Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī presents celibacy and monasticism as being as old as philosophy itself. The Qur’an 57:27 reads: Druart, T. ‘An Arab Christian Philosophical Defense of Religious Celibacy Against Its Islamic Condemnation: Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī,’ in Chastity: A Study in Perception, Ideals, Opposition, Edited by Nancy Van Deusen, Brill, Leiden. 2008, p. 80. 53 Druart, ‘An Arab Christian Philosophical Defense of Religious Celibacy,’ p. 80. 54 Traité Sur La Continence 59. 55 Traité Sur La Continence 59. 56 Traité Sur La Continence 120, 125–127. 52

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THE MONK PHILOSOPHER We sent Jesus son of Mary: We gave him the gospel and put compassion and mercy into the hearts of his followers. Monasticism (rahbāniyyah) was something they invented – We did not ordain it for them – only to seek God’s pleasure, and even so, they did not observe it properly. 57

Yaḥyā, however, equates images of classical philosophy with monasticism. In one of the more fascinating sections of the text, a Muslim interlocutor describes those who pursue a solitary life in the desert as more similar to wild animals than man. 58 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī’s response, which deserves an extended quotation and translation, references Plato’s allegory of the cave: As for your words regarding the life of savage individuals that you compare with beasts – best God reconcile you. The discussion of this matter (and the attempt to indicate its merits) is superior to the subject matter (ṭabaqa) with which we now speak, and more refined than what can grasped in understanding by those who have not trained in the renouncing of physical desires. By that means one is capable of the knowledge of what happens to those individuals in their training (which is despised by those who have not experienced it): the psychic power (al-quwwa al-nafsaniyya) of a clear intelligence and an intelligent mind and gentleness in psychic powers through divine illumination. This is not the perspective from which to turn’s one attention to delving into the subject, for there is no way for interlocutors to imagine it and even if one desired to explain it to them to decipher, he would become to the hearers of his words like the man Plato describes in his comparison of the world to a cave and its inhabitants. That man realized happiness upon turning from the side of the cave to which he was chained to the side of the luminous entrance until he came out to the place of light. As he told the inhabitants of the cave, who had not seen this, what he had experienced and saw, they considered him crazy and a fool. Therefore we should not pro-

Translation from Abdel Haleem, M.A.S. The Quran: A New Translation. Oxford University Press. New York. 2010, p. 361. 58 Traité Sur La Continence 93, Arabic p. 45, French, p. 111. 57

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ceed in speaking about this matter because it is also out of our scope. 59

This passage illustrates a number of interesting points. First of all, in response to his opponent’s characterization of monks as beasts and savages, Yaḥyā subverts this image through his description of their great mental abilities including a clarity of mind and an intelligence. Yet these psychic abilities are so beyond the ken of those who have not participated in their training, that any discussion by non-monastics regarding the merits of their way of life, is idle. For this reason, Yaḥyā dismisses the subject of monks as irrelevant to this particular discussion (perhaps due to the apparent philosophical grounding of the debate) yet in doing so, through his use of Plato’s cave describes monks in terms evocative of true philosophers. Yaḥyā equates monks with the enlightened cave dweller who eventually ascended out of the cave into the light of the sun. Even so, Yaḥyā and his respondent occupy the role of those still chained to the wall of the cave, only able to decipher shadows that they mistake as reality. Just as the imprisoned cave dwellers mistake the wisdom of the man freed as foolishness, Yaḥyā’s and his respondent are not in the position to identify the true wisdom of the way of the monk, a lifestyle often interpreted in the Baghdad milieu as uncivilized and unnatural. In Plato’s text, Socrates uses the cave allegory to represent the way of philosophy and whether our nature is ‘educated’ (witnesses paideia) or ‘uneducated’. 60 Similarly, through conflating the freed cave dweller and the monk, though Yaḥyā does not claim to understand the life of the hermit completely, he presents the illumination found in the desert as a rational knowledge. In this sense, for Yaḥyā, the monk is a philosopher of a different order than ordinary seekers of knowledge. This is perhaps a most effective example of how Yaḥyā and Severus present monasticism in philosophical terms. The monk or ascetic according to Yaḥyā and Severus should be regarded as a specific type of the larger category of a ‘true philosopher’ or ‘perTraité Sur La Continence 124, Arabic p. 58–59. French, p. 129–130. The Republic of Plato, Volume 2: Books VI–X and Indexes. Edited by James Adam. Cambridge University Press. Cambridge. 2009, p. 88. 59 60

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fect man.’ Both writers conceive of rationality in spiritual and celestial terms and thus man’s pursuit of knowledge is likened to a monk’s pursuit of the kingdom of heaven. Abstinence is the primary means of reaching this state and its champions, monks and ascetics, provide an ideal to be emulated, though not necessarily copied.

WHAT IS THE ‘BREATH OF GOD’? – BIBLIOGRAPHIC THEOLOGY IN ARMENIAN HISTORY FROM ASTVACASHUNTCH TO ST. GRIGOR NAREKATSI’S THE BOOK OF SADNESS ANTHONY J. ELIA In the somewhat storied ‘history of books’ as venerated, holy, and powerful objects, there has accompanied that history a parallel hermeneutic, which is not often recognized. Among those engaged in the historical and historiographic tradition of ‘book history,’ (Darnton, Chartier, Febvre, and Johns, among others), many of their questions about books as objects come to us as critical observations of the physical embodiments of these objects, some as relics, others as works of art. They are determined to have meaning and presence and a history based on their corporeal constructions and physical appearances and the composition of their vellum or leather bindings. Yet, this parallel hermeneutic I speak of is the oft silent, yet interpretive instrument of how all individuals have encountered, engaged with, and responded to these physical objects in very distinct, powerful ways. As a sub-discipline of ‘the history of books,’ where we engage in exploring these understandings, the ‘theology of books’ (or, ‘bibliographic theology’) as defined variously in articles beginning in 2008 1 continues to be of interest to me, precisely as an expression of philosophical and phenomenologSee A. Elia, ‘Beyond Barthes and Chartier: On the Theology of Books in the Digital Age’ and ‘On the Hermeneutics of Books’. 1

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ical importance. It may be considered in contemporary academic circles as an obvious statement: that ‘books have meaning and importance.’ But a simplistic statement as this must be qualified with another two: a) that books have held semiotic influence and importance from the time of their invention; and b) that the meaning of ‘book’, which is multivalent (and multi-definitional) today, has been so since the beginning, and will continue to be such in the future (e.g. book, volume, codex, e-book, e-text and so on). In this short essay, I will be looking at the historical development, description, and use of key Armenian religious texts, especially the Armenian Bible or ‘Breath of God’ and Grigor Narekatsi’s medieval masterpiece, ‘The Book of Sadness’ (or, Lamentation). With this examination, a ‘bibliographic theology’ emerges, which describes the phenomenological and hermeneutical importance of ancient books, and expresses the reach of their semiotic power from priestly respect of the ‘Breath of God’ (Armenian Sacred Scripture) to folk veneration of Grigor Narekatsi’s ‘Book of Sadness.’ The intrigue in this history is the relationship between the book as mere object, and the religious book, specifically the Bible (or types of Bibles). The Greek root biblo has a dozen or so occurrences in the New Testament, each indicating a specific type of object: ‘book of the generation of Jesus,’ ‘in the book of Moses,’ ‘in the book of the words of Isaiah,’ ‘in the book of Psalms,’ and so on. The nature of these statements leads the historian to suggest these are both collections and objects of specific content and dimension; while to the theologian, specifically fixed to understanding the phenomenology and experiential theology of books, these statements carry a different weight. Throughout history, the human expression of thought into a specific product (whether an intangible shared tradition such as an oral myth or physical object such as a book) has given rise to traditions embodied in a meaningful corpus. The evocation of ‘books’ in antiquity did not mean bound hard covered editions of a text, especially when such physical objects had not yet been invented. The scroll (or even ‘volume’ / ‘volumen’ – or ‘rolled object’) predates the so-called ‘book.’ That said, the issue at hand for us is the relationship between those using socalled physical objects of texts and the importance of the power vested in these objects to create enhanced theological, spiritual,

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emotive, and even historical feelings around such objects, so as to guide one’s own religious directions and opinions.

TREE BARK BECOMES HOLY, OR ‘WHEN GOD BREATHED’ The historical foundations of physical books come to us through their etymological descriptions, specifically in the Greek and Latin terminologies of Late Antiquity: ‘Codex/Caudex,’ ‘Liber,’ ‘Volumen,’ and ‘Biblos,’ to name a few. Each of these comes from the physical object that made them: tree bark, the act of peeling bark, and sheets of such materials. Yet these terms conflated the more ancient ideas of ‘book,’ which were created on tablature or scroll, were now becoming bound in vellum or other material, to create more hand-held, durable, and portable objects. But more importantly, they represent a wedding of ‘textual idea’ and ‘textual object’ such as came together in the evocation of 2 Timothy 3:16, where the Greek text uses (πᾶσα γραφὴ θεόπνευστος καὶ ὠφέλιμος), specifically noting ‘Theopneustos,’ a term translated in various ways including ‘God-breathed,’ ‘breathed out by God,’ ‘inspired (by God),’ and ‘written by the Spirit’ to name a few. ‘Scripture is God-breathed.’ Or as the Armenians took it, ‘the Breath of God,’ that is, Scripture IS ‘the Breath of God’ (Arm. Astvacashuntch). The Hebrew Bible often used terms more readily to distinguish between ‘breath’ (‫ )נשימה‬and ‘spirit’ (�‫)רוּ‬ ַ – see Job 34:14, for example; while the Greek of 2 Timothy sticks to this very specific word ‘theopneustos.’ The ‘Breath of God’ in the Armenian context, as it is wedded to the physical object of the Bible as Book, makes it a paradigmatic example of our phenomenology and bibliographic theology. First, the divinely delivered or ‘inspired’ text comes into existence as an idea, written down by those to whom it is revealed; Second, those revelations become corporeal, in the form of ink on the scrolls and objects peeled from physical, organic material; as a result, the Godbreathed, God-inspired objectification weds itself to the physical object, making the item both holy and venerable in itself. Thirdly, these objects in the pre-Mashtots, pre-Christian Armenia had their own symbolic and semiotic values among Christians, distinct among their vernacular groups (Syriac, Coptic, Greek, Latin). Once the Armenian alphabet took shape, and Masrop Mashtots began to teach the language at the Amaras Monastery in the region of

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Artsakh, and Isaac 2 of Armenia (354–439) began a translation of the scriptures into the newly devised Armenian writing system, we are able to identify a wedding of a distinct Armenian theology of the book: the Breath of God as a vernacularized and venerated object. 3 The present examination is an attempt to understand the relationship between the ‘God Breathed’ book-object, which takes shape in Late Antiquity as something holy and venerated, and those who see the book-object as holy and venerate it. The object becomes, then, a theological manifestation, whereby not only is God’s word objectified, it may be considered anthropomorphized, as physical embodiment, tangible, visible, and engaging to the polity and body of the Church itself. 4 This embodiment is easily and often seen in the iconography, both accurate and anachronistic, whereby saints in the Church, such as Gregory the Illuminator, Moses of Chorene 5, and others are depicted holding tightly onto the Holy Scriptures, as if they are not merely objects of accompaniment, but loyal, unrelenting, and devoted partners in this world, and the foundation of all that they believe in.

‘THE BOOK OF SADNESS’ AND GRIGOR NAREKATSI’S MEDIEVAL ‘THEOLOGY OF THE BOOK’ Turning to the later medieval period, I want to focus attention on Grigor Narekatsi (951–1003) and his masterwork ‘The Book of Or, ‘Sahak’. The observance of wearing white gloves in liturgical settings to hold and read the Scriptures may be referred to here in the discussion of the book-object’s axiology and determination of types of spiritual, theological, or mystical value. 4 Further discussions might consider the mystical or theological natures (if or how they changed) between earlier Syriac biblical texts and the earliest Armenian texts. What relationship did each have to each other, and did the Armenian versions have some more robust or greater power attributed to them among Medieval communities? 5 Armenian: Movses Khorenatsi. 2 3

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Sadness,’ 6 which is a substantial piece of medieval Armenian theology. I offer these remarks from Prof. James Russell on the subject, from his monograph Yovhannes T’lkuranc’i and the Medieval Armenian Lyric Tradition, which have a significant bearing on our present discussion: St. Gregory of Narek (Arm. Grigor Narekac’i) is best known as the author of a series of mystical poems called the Book of Lamentation (Arm. Matean Olbergut’ean), or simply Narek. Many Armenians ascribe magical properties to the pages of this book; they tear these out, fold them into diamond shapes, and hang them on their children’s necks as talismans. Different poems are believed to have different powers and properties. A 1926 edition of Narek has, in addition to a printed list of poems according to the power of each, another list scrawled in ink opposite by a former owner: (6–3) For protection from a demon; (91) And the destruction of the latter’s power; … (18) For all kinds of cures … and so on. A number of popular legends have grown up around Narekac’i’s life, about which a few facts may be stated with relative certainty. 7 Or, ‘Book of Lamentation,’ depending on one’s translation – Russell uses this term. In the modern sense, we would expect to use the Armenian word ‘գիրք’ (girk), though in the ‘Book of Sadness’ or ‘Book of Lamentation(s),’ the word commonly used is the term hearkening back to the Grabar language (Classical Armenian). This word is ‘matean’ (as with the whole title ‘Matean Oghbergut’ean’). See James Russell’s work and introduction to the 1981 facsimile reproduction of the 1948 Buenos Aires Edition. For a comprehensive listing of texts, translations, and studies of this work (Matean Oghbergut’ean), please see p. xxv of Russell’s introduction to this facsimile. In the French translation from 1961 by Isaac Kéchichian, S.J., the French word used is ‘livre.’ 7 James Russell, Yovhannes T’lkuranc’i and the Medieval Armenian Lyric Tradition, Chapter 5: The Marvels of Narekac’i, p. 149. (Note also: Text about Gregory of Narek, he lived ~951CE-born to ‘Xosrov, Bishop of Anjewac’ik’; and he spent most of his life at the monastery of Narek … and died as a hermit in a cave overlooking Lake Van shortly after he had completed the Book of Lamentation, in 1003.’) 6

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What struck me from my own reading of Narekatsi’s book was how vigorous and alive a work it is, and especially the emphasis he puts on the physicality of the book that he has just written, and what that means in the theological context. The more that I read of this work, the more I realized that there was an expression of theological reasoning here, which I’d not come across before, and which demonstrates a form of ‘theology of books’ (or bibliographic theology), that is both unique and powerfully evocative for readers. The context of Narekatsi, and the legacy of his work is also something remarkable, because it is the very text that he has created, which possesses an almost magical and mystical power. The mere presence of the book he wrote had over centuries been cherished as an object containing restorative power, as Russell noted above. One of the most intriguing statements about Narekatsi’s work comes from a translation by Khachatoor Khachatoorian, who comments on the status of The Book of Sadness, but also on the role that it has played and taken on throughout its history. Khachatoorian writes: The Book of Sadness is the principal literary masterpiece of the great Armenian writer St. Grigor Narekatsi (951–1003). Through the centuries it has been revered as a holy thing. The wonder-working strength of The Book of Sadness is featured in multiple legends and traditions … Being a masterpiece of Medieval Christian writing, this book has been largely unknown to the Christian world because it is written in Old Armenian which is presently familiar only to a restricted number of scholars. […] The text contains allusions and references to the Bible almost in every line, in fact it serves as an illustration of the at-oneness of the Bible and a Christian’s life. The reader finds himself in a situation where his soul and the truths and events of the Bible are closely intertwined, he eventually perceives the Holy Book as a room for his own existence rather than as a story to read. 8

The translator’s introduction goes on to cite a specific segment of The Book of Sadness text, which embodies this claim. The text reads: My emphasis. See pp. 5–8, The Book of Sadness, by Grigor Narekatsi. (trans. by Khachatoor Khachatoorian) Yerevan, ‘Nairi,’ 2001. 8

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I crave, not only through the touch of your extended hand, O God, compassionate and proximal, But even at a great distance I shall be cured by the power of your word. I cannot tell between the possibility and grace, By using words expressing doubt, For you desire as the graceful, and have capacity as the creator. Say only your word, and I shall be relieved. I join the faith of the centurion, Trusting that not at a short stretch only, As if it were from house to house, You can provide recovery and cure, 9 But even seated in the heaven supreme, Down below, on earth, you do miracles to perfection Which I can recompense with nothing. 10

Khachatoorian speaks of how this text has grown to become talismanic: ‘Throughout the centuries this book enjoyed a reputation of a universal healer. It has been believed that a person will be cured of all ailments by its mere possession. This special quality of the book is many times mentioned even by the author. The book is extremely powerful proof of God’s existence, the mere acquaintance with its contents will convert thousands of people into genuine faith and repentance.’ 11

In Prof. James Russell’s work 12 on Narekac’i, we find similar discussions of the power of his book, describing cases where individuals would actually take the object, and use it as a form of protection, almost as a panacea. 13 My emphasis. ‘The Book of Sadness,’ (XVII. B) – see p. 79–80. 11 Introduction by Translator, ‘The Book of Sadness,’ (p. 7–8). 12 James Russell, Yovhannes T’lkuranc’I and the Medieval Armenian Lyric Tradition, (Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press; UPenn, Armenian Texts and Studies), 1987. 13 Russell, see p. 149: Chapter 5: The Marvels of Narekac’i. 9

10

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The idea of a ‘theology of books’ in the Armenian tradition – specifically in the case of The Book of Sadness – seems to have expressed itself in a way that engaged the textual materials and meanings with the physical object, so that the object would take on palliative and protective powers. The referral to the book itself within the text appears strong and constant, such that the author is selfreferential throughout the text. For instance, one finds such evocations so often that one might ask if these references prompt a ‘selfsacralizing’ of the text, or perhaps the book’s mastery of divine evocation prompted the sacralization of the text? Here are but a few examples of this idea at play: O, omnipotent palm of Jesus, Extend to me the holy hand of your favors, Dwell in me, join me, Do not leave the love cell Of my exhausted heart, And your incorruptible image – The glorious bread Of the lighting salvation of Christendom, Will remain in me, So, appealing to you in this book With eternal commandments of life That your spirit annunciated From heaven to your procreator, And to you, the single and only source, And to you, the single one of the single cause, And to the possessor of the single cause A praise is due from the heavenly dwellers And throngs of the saints, For the ages and ages. Amen! 14

And from Book 33: G. of the same:

tion

14

The Book of Sadness, p. 160 XXXII: D – Khachatoorian transla-

ANTHONY J. ELIA And since one of your Trinity is sacrificed, With the other accepting it, Accessing us through the blood of your firstborn, So receive our prayers And prepare us as an honorable cell Fitted with everything so as to taste worthily Of the heavenly lamb… 15

From Book 34: H… This shout of hidden thoughts Embodied in this book I will send up to your all-hearing ears, great God, Only armed with them, I will enter a conversation, Not because for the sake of your fame You need the sounds of my voice, For even before creating all, Before the emergence of heaven and its immortal eulogizers Or intelligent entities created from earth, You had been glorified with your excellence;…’ 16

From p. 313: LXVI: A: Now, if anyone should accept prayer as a remedy, By praying with this humble book, And if the praying one might be a sinner, I would adjoin with my speech to him; Provided that the moaner be a righteous person, Along with him and for his sake I will be pardoned for this prayer, If however that one will regard himself as blissful, Leaving the moans to myself alone, I will assert the same things about myself, But then let him remember Solomon and his inspired saying… 17 The Book of Sadness, p. 168 XXXIII: G The Book of Sadness, p. 177 XXXIV: H 17 The Book of Sadness, p. 313: LXVI: A 15 16

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Ibid. C: This book, in my voice, as if it were myself, Will shout in my stead, Spread the hidden, Reveal the mysterious, Lament what has occurred. It will resound the unremembered, Make clear the invisible, Call out the charges, Announce what is deeply covered, Recount the sins, Disclose the unseen, Show their hidden likeness. Let this book Make traps tangible, Pitfalls located, Display what is unsaid, Strain off remnants of evil …’ 18

In Armenian attitudes to the book as talismanic, two things are remarkable: first, the idea that scripture becomes something more dynamic than simply a story, or even the object of a book; it becomes, as Khachatoorian suggests in his preface to the translation, a: ‘Room for his own existence,’ which allows a place for ‘his soul and the truths and events of the Bible’ to cohabitate. This curious interpretation by the translator should not be dismissed, as the role of the Holy Book (i.e. the Bible, as described by Grigor Narekatsi) becomes not simply a mystical idea, but a mode of hermeneutical interpretation and discourse, remotely akin to the mnemonics and memory palaces of Simonides of Ceos and Matteo Ricci. 19 Second, as Russell, commented, the texts are invested with quasi ‘magical properties in the pages of the book,’ 20 which pages are often seen The Book of Sadness, pp. 432–434: LXXXVIII: B See Jonathan Spence, The Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci. (NY: Penguin, 1985). 20 i.e. The Book of Sadness (or, Lamentation). 18 19

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to be torn out and venerated as protective, palliative, and curative elements against multiple evils. A simple and short analysis of these expressions shows an enhanced sense of understanding about not simply the texts, but the objects which embodied God-inspired works. The ‘Breath of God’ (the Armenian Bible) was and is something of great spiritual and individual importance. But a medieval text such as The Book of Sadness creates its own set of interpretive powers, highlighting the power of scripture, while enhancing its very own powers as a testament of divine inspiration, and physical/metaphysical power, as an object sought after for protection from evil. Without that physical object of The Book of Sadness, medieval (or early-modern) Armenian adherents would not be able to construct text amulets to hang around their children’s necks. In trying to assess what exactly is the place of a bibliographic theology (or, theology of books) within this classical part of Armenian Church History, one thing that is clear enough is that there is a fine expression of the semiotic and interpretive power of early books, from the Armenian Bible itself, to this monumental text of Grigor Narekatsi in the early 11th century. The Book of Sadness is a complex text, and yet from our brief discussion and treatment here, a preliminary offering has been made, for the consideration of further elements of hermeneutical discourse and study. With such a rich and variegated history in the Armenian Church and its theological tradition, I would venture to say that there is a far more bountiful trove of bibliographic theology in the Armenian corpus than we are presently aware of. Narek died as a hermit in a cave overlooking Lake Van shortly after he had completed the Book of Lamentation, in 1003. It survived to enjoy a thousand years’ deep and enduring influence among the Armenian monastic communities.

BIBLIOGRAPHY A. J. Elia ———

‘Beyond Barthes and Chartier: The Theology of Books in the Digital Age,’ in ATLA Summary of Proceedings, 2008, pp. 105–116. ‘On the Hermeneutics of Books: How Seminary Students Read and the Role(s) of Theological Libraries,’ in ATLA Summary of Proceedings, 2009, pp. 183–197.

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Gregoire de Narek Le livre de prières. Introduction, traduction de l’arménien et notes par Isaac Kéchichian, S.J. (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 29. Maubourg, 1961. Grigor Narekatsi The Book of Sadness. Trans. by Khachatoor Khachatoorian. (Yerevan: Nairi, 2001). ——— Matean Oghbergut’ean (Book of Lamentations): A Facsimile Reproduction of the 1948 Buenos Aires Edition with an Introduction by James R. Russell (Delmar, NY: Caravan Books, 1981). J. Russell Yovhannes T’lkuranc’I and the Medieval Armenian Lyric Traditio. (Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press; UPenn, Armenian Texts and Studies, 1987). J. D. Spence The Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci (NY, NY: Penguin, 1985).

A ROYAL FAMILY: THE SIGNIFICANCE OF SAINT SAVA AND HIS PARENTS FOR THE ESTABLISHMENT OF SERBIAN MONASTICISM AND THE SERBIAN CHURCH V. REV. ŽIVOJIN JAKOVLJEVIĆ As a young man of seventeen years, Rastko, the youngest son of the Serbian ruler Nemanja and his wife Ana, fled his father’s court in Serbia around 1190 and joined the monastic community of the Russian monastery of Saint Panteleimon on Mount Athos, Greece, taking the monastic name, Sava. Sava’s decision at first greatly disturbed his parents. Shortly after his flight, according to the biographer, they were ashamed to call him son anymore, but instead began to address him as a ‘teacher and intercessor.’ 1 Five years later, following the example of their son, Saint Sava’s parents, Nemanja and Ana, also took vows and joined monasteries. I should note here that the Serbs, as is true of other Eastern Orthodox Slavs, do not have separate words for monastery and convent, but call both Orthodox institutions a ‘monastery,’ sometimes adding for clarity, ‘women’s monastery.’ His parents were tonsured by bishop Kalinik I in 1295. Ana became the nun Anastasija and joined the Monastery of Holy Theotokos in Toplica. Nemanja became Simeon and at first went to the monastery he founded, Studenica, near Kraljevo. Upon Saint Sava’s insistence, monk Simeon Kašanin, M. 1968. ‘Studenica.’ Studenica Monastery. Belgrade: Književne novine. 5. 1

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joined his son on Mount Athos. 2 In 1198, Saint Sava and Saint Simeon rebuilt the monastery of Hilandar on the ruins of an old Greek monastery, which the Byzantine Emperor Alexios III (1195– 1203) gave to them as a ‘gift in perpetuity to the Serbs.’ 3 The fact that Stevan the First Crowned, the middle son of Nemanja, was the son-in-law of Emperor Alexios III, certainly had influence in obtaining the permission from the Emperor to rebuild Hilandar. In addition to building the monastery Saint Simeon and Saint Sava ensured the financial stability of the monastery by affixing territories with residents to work the land and support the central monastery. This latter type of property is known by the Greekborrowing metochion, or metoh in Serbian, (monastery land). Thus, for example, the official name Kosovo and Metohija, literally signifies that it refers to monastic property. By the 15th century Hilandar monastery had 360 villages under its authority. 4 This property was given by special documents known as chrysobulls, or gold-sealed letters, issued by Serbian rulers. When Hilandar monastery was established it had only 15 monks. When Saint Sava came to Serbia in 1207 the monastic community numbered 200 monks. 5 In addition to rebuilding Hilandar, Saint Sava established the Rules by which the monks lived. They were similar and often patterned after the rules and regulations followed by monastic communities in Greece as well as in Palestine and Egypt. In 1199, he wrote the Karyes’ Typicon, with rules and regulations for a monk, ‘who distinguished himself in ascetic life and literacy,’ and was therefore selected to live in the Karyes cell. This Typicon was unique in the entire Orthodox world. Generally in Eastern Orthodox monasteries the entire Psalter is supposed to be read once during the weekly services, and twice during Great Jireček, K. 1952. Istorija Srba. Beograd:Naučna knjiga. p. 159. Matejić, M. 1983. The Holy Mount and the Hilandar Monastery. Columbus: The Ohio State University. p. 28. 4 Vuković, S. 1996. Srpski jerarsi od devetog do dvadestog veka [Serbian Hierarchs from ninth to twentieth century]. Beograd:Evro; Podgorica:Unireks; Kragujevac:Kalenić. p. 422. 5 Spasović, S. 1994. History of the Serbian Orthodox Church and Serbian Nation. Libertyville: St. Sava School of Theology. p. 28. 2 3

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Lent; but the Karyes’ Typicon requires that the entire Psalter be read in one day. 6 Because of the greater severity of the Rule, the selected psalteric monk was granted special privileges. He was allowed to spend the rest of his life in this cell. No one was supposed to disturb him, and Hilandar was supposed to contribute basic supplies to this cell. Later this rule was modified by the monks of Hilandar. According to subsequent changes, Hilandar was no longer supposed to supply the cell, and the person living in it was not allowed to stay there if he did not show diligence and excellence in spiritual and literary activity. 7 Contrary to Lazar Mirković, who suggests that it was Saint Sava himself who amended this Rule, it seems rather that it was the monks who did so at a later period. The monks added paragraph 42, which states that Hilandar had no obligations toward the cell and the cell had no obligation toward Hilandar. 8 The monks, consequently, could remove any monk who was unworthy to live in it. 9 Saint Sava compiled two more very important legislative documents, the Hilandar Typicon in 1207, and the Nomokanon in 1219. The Hilandar Typicon was the governing document and Rule for the conduct and life of the monks of Hilandar monastery. It was based on the rules and regulations used in the monastery of the Mother of God the Benefactress (Euergetes) in Constantinople. The Nomokanon, based on Byzantine laws, was the collation of rules and regulations which established the relationship between the Serbian state and the Serbian church: and it was used for the following 150 years. According to Saint Sava’s biographer, Teodosije, Saint Sava lived a very strict ascetic life. Although of a royal ancestry, he was very severe toward himself yet very merciful toward others. WalkVuković, op. cit. 421. Živojinović, M. 1972. Svetogorske kelije i pirgovi u srednjem veku. [Mount Athos Cells and Towers in Middle Century]. Beogard: Vizantološki Institut SKA. p. 95. 8 Mirković, L. 1934. Skitski Ustav Sv. Sava [Skitski Constitution of St. Sava]. Belgrade: Bratstvo. p. 56. 9 Živojinović, 95. 6 7

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ing barefoot, he even became used to sharp stones underfoot. And as for food and drink, he ate very little and even drank water in moderation. He would sleep an hour or two and the rest of the time he spent in prayer in vigilance. The biographer concludes, ‘With painful efforts he achieved the life without pain.’ 10 One of the great undertakings of the Saint was achieving the Autocephaly of the Serbian Church in 1219, which was granted by the Byzantine Emperor Theodor Laskaris and the Patriarch of Constantinople Emmanuel I Haritopoulos Saranten. The Serbian Church was granted the right to choose its own Archbishop without having to come to Constantinople for approval. The only obligation that the Serbs had toward Constantinople was to mention the Patriarch during church services. Upon the insistence of the Patriarch and the Emperor, Saint Sava became the first Serbian Archbishop. The biographies, that is, the Lives of Saint Sava’s parents, Nemanja and Ana, are not as replete with what might be considered firm historical data, and therefore, much less is known to us about them. Mostly, historians focus on Nemanjas’ life as a ruler from the period when he received an area around Dubočica (the present day Leskovac region) from the Byzantine Emperor in 1168. The date of his birth, however, is unknown. He was married to princess Ana, whose origin still continues to be a subject of scholarly debate. Some historians think she was a daughter of the Bosnian Ban Stefan Boric; others, of the Hungarian king Koloman I; some say that she was French, while others that she was daughter of the ruler of Zeta. Most, however, including Saint Sava’s biographer, Domentijan, claim that she was a daughter of the Byzantine Emperor Romanos. 11 Predrag Puzović provides a very useful summary of the state of research relating to Princess Ana’s origin, but he does not resolve this question. 12 Slijepčević, Đ. 1962. Istorija srpske pravoslavne crkve od pokrštavanja Srba do kraja XVIII veka [The History of the Serbian Orthodox Church from the Baptism of Serbs until the End of 18th Century]. Vol. 1. München: Iskra Druckerei und Verlag. p.39. 11 Puzović, P. 1997. Prilozi za Istoriju Srpske Pravoslavne Crkve [Contributions to the History of the Serbian Orthodox Church]. Niš:Ogledalo. pp. 9–10. 12 Ibid., 12. 10

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In my opinion, the most plausible argument is that she was a Byzantine princess. If Domentijan, as Karanović argues, indeed states that Ana was a Byzantine princess, and daughter of Byzantine Emperor, 13 then I suggest that greater weight should be given to Domentijan’s opinion, as he was Saint Sava’s biographer and a contemporary. 14 Juraj Pavić correctly points out that ‘Domentijan deserves to be fully trusted. He is the contemporary, friend, and sojourner of Saint Sava, and for this reason the Life of Saint Sava belongs to ‘first level’ sources.’ 15 As someone who personally knew Saint Sava and who accompanied him during his second journey to the Holy Land, Palestine, and Egypt in 1234, he must have been informed about Saint Sava’s parents. Sima Ćirković discusses the names, which are mentioned by Domentijan, and says that Ana, as Nemanja’s wife, (pp. 118–119) and Saint Sava’s mother (p. 45), of 41 names mentioned, is the only woman mentioned in his biography; and yet he does not say anything about Ana’s origin. 16 A second argument in favor of Ana being a Byzantine princess would be the peace treaty Nemanja concluded with Byzantium. It was after this peace treaty with the Emperor Emmanuel, that Nemanja received the territory of Dubočica in 1168, and the rank of Tsar. If we take into consideration that peace treaties were often confirmed with marriages between the royal families, and that these titles were given by the Byzantine court only to immediate family members such as sons, daughter, sons-in-law, it is plausible that Nemanja could have received this title and the land as a family Ibid.,10. Cf. Pavić. J. 1938. Domentijan, Život sv. Save i sv. Simeona [Domentijan, Lives of Saint Sava and Saint Simeon]. Beograd: Srpska književna zadruga. p. 237. ‘Domentijan nije svoje djelo pisao u namjeri da služi kao povjesni izvor, nego da čita na dan smrti svetiteljeve među monasima i da im služi kao primjer u duhovnom životu. Ali i kao povjesničar zaslužuje Domentijan puno povjerenje. On je savremenik, drug i pratilac sv. Save, pa zato Život sv. Save i spada u izvore prvoga reda.’ 15 Pavić, 237. 16 Ćirković, S. 2008. ‘Domentijanova Prospografija’ [Domentijan’s Prosopography]. In Zborik Radova Vizantološkog Instituta [Collection of Papers of Institute for Byzantine studies] 45: 145. 13 14

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member of the Byzantine Emperor, upon his marriage within the royal house. 17 Thirdly, Nemanja received permission to build churches on the territory which was under the jurisdiction of the Ochrid Archdiocese, which shows that Nemanja was in good relationship with Ochrid’s Archbishop. This too supports the hypothesis of Nemanja’s possible family relationship with the Byzantine royal family. 18 Mihailo Laskaris in his dissertation titled ‘Byzantine princesses in Medieval Serbia,’ provides a very useful discussion, but also opens up a number of questions and issues about the complexity of determining the facts about the period of the marriage of Nemanja’s son, Stefan the First Crowned, to Evdokija, daughter of the Byzantine Emperor Alexios III. He does not, however, give any information about Nemanja. Ivan Pavlović claims that Evdokija’s marriage to Stefan the First Crowned was the reason Nemanja abdicated from his throne and that he had to yield the throne to Stefan, the son in law of the powerful Byzantine Emperor. 19 This argument cannot be completely accepted for the simple reason that St. Simeon’s biographers emphasize Nemanja’s and Ana’s devotion to God as their primary reason for leaving worldly affairs. This is evident from Teodosije the biographer’s statement that Nemanja and Ana joined a monastery as a tribute to God for granting them the wish to have one more child, Rastko (in monasticism, Sava) who would in time become Serbia’s national saint. In return, they promised that they would live a celibate life until the end of their lives. Additionally, although, it remains unclear to what degree Byzantine politics had an effect on Nemanja’s life at the time of his abdication, the fact that both he and Princess Ana had both built and endowed several monasteries much earlier in their lives, while ibid., 10–11. Kalić, J. ‘Srpska država i Ohridska arhiepiskopija u XII veku’[‘Serbian state and Ochrid’s archbishopric in 12th century’]. In Zborik Radova Vizantološkog Instituta [Collection of Papers of Institute for Byzantine studies] 44: 204–205. 19 Laskaris, M. 1926. Vizantijske princeze u srdnjevekovnoj Srbiji [Byzantine princesses in Medieval Serbia]. Second edition. Beograd:Knjižnica Franje Baha. p. 7. 17 18

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still in active power, testifies they were significantly moved by religious rather than purely political motives. Of the five monasteries that Nemanja built, four were completed prior to his abdication: the monastery dedicated to the Mother of God in Toplica, Saint Nicholas in Kuršumlija, Saint George in Ras (also known as St. George’s Pillars, Studenica, which is dedicated to the Mother of God and is near Kraljevo), and, together with his son, hieromonk Sava, Hilandar Monastery on Mount Athos. All of these factors suggest that Nemanja’s and Ana’s motives for joining monasticism were based on authentic devotion rather than political expediency. Nemanja’s age and date of birth is similarly a matter of a debate. 20 We do not have precise information when he was born or how old he was at the time of his death. When he met the Byzantine Emperor Emmanuel in 1168, Nemanja was described as being a youngish man. If we take into account that Emperor Emmanuel was born around 1123, it means that the Emperor at the time of meeting was around 45 years old. This reference consequently means that Nemanja was very significantly younger than has been thought. Saint Sava, in the life of Saint Simeon, compares him and Ana to Abraham and Sarah who prayed to God to grant them one more child to be a comfort to them. If Saint Sava was born around 1173 this would mean that Vukan and Stefan, the two older brothers of Saint Sava, must have been much older, especially if the typical practice of parents to marry off their children while at a younger age was followed. Jireček points out that the account of Saint Simeon’s life written by Saint Sava is a copy, which dates from 1619, which underwent changes and interpolations. 21 This may be part of the explanation of the discrepancy between these accounts. The fact that we possess so many conflicting views and arguments about the lives of these two very significant Serbs, the forefathers of the Serbian state and church, due to lack of the original data, means that these and many other questions must remain unanswered and stand in need of further research. Nevertheless, I wish here to mention a great resource for scholars who wish to pursue such study in the field of medieval Serbian history, liturgics, 20 21

Jireček, 148. Ibid.

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language, literature and other related disciplines: namely the Slavic manuscript library of Hilandar Monastery. This library preserves many Slavic Cyrillic medieval manuscripts which reflect the internal prolific scribal activity of the monks who lived in it, as well as the monastery’s role as a place of learning, as well as of spirituality. Not counting those manuscripts which were taken away over a long period of time and are presently found in libraries all over Europe, the Hilandar library still currently has 833 codices, which were written in the period of the eight hundred years following the establishment of the monastery. Of those 833, 47 are written on parchment, one on bombicine (hemp, an older non-watermarked European paper), and 785 on paper. In addition, the library has 230 Greek codices. There are 208 imperial and church edicts of which 147 are issued by Serbian medieval rulers. In addition we can find considerable numbers of Russian, Bulgarian, Moldavian and Turkish edicts. 22 Of particular importance is the Hilandar Research Library of The Ohio State University in Columbus, OH, which preserves and makes accessible microfilms of all the Slavic manuscripts of Hilandar library. Thanks to the great effort of two scholars: V. Rev. Dr. Mateja Matejić, professor Emeritus of the Ohio State University, and his son Dr. Predrag Matejić, curator of the present Hilandar Research Library in Columbus, who photographed these manuscripts in the period between 1970 and 1976, these important resources are available and easily accessible to scholars. This is particularly significant for women scholars who are unable to go to Mount Athos in person. 23

CONCLUSION Stanimir Spasović beautifully summed up the role of Hilandar monastery when he said: ‘The works of art bear witness to the cultural wealth of Serbian Medieval times and the genius of its creators – the Serbian monks.’ 24 The most deserving of these Serbian Matejić, 33. Ibid. 24 Spasović, 28. 22 23

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monks are certainly the monastery’s originators, Saint Sava and his holy parents, Simeon and Anastasija. Among the treasures that Hilandar possesses, in terms of churches, frescoes, icons, jewelry, land, and a very rich library, perhaps the most significant of all of them is that still active and vibrant monastic community at the heart of the Serbian Church. Although established over 800 years ago, Hilandar monastery was able to overcome all manner of physical and spiritual dangers, and continues to endure up to the present day. The example set by Saint Sava and his parents in establishing and supporting the Serbian Church and the Hilandar Monastery, set a precedent that was faithfully followed by their descendants, and even by many other Christian queens and princesses (including several who were not even Serbian). It is for this reason, in part, the preference of the aristocracy to build churches and monasteries rather than castles and cities, that virtually every member of the Nemanjić dynasty and many of their wives who lived in the 13th and 14th centuries were canonized as saints of the Serbian Orthodox Church. There is even a striking visible representation of this, a famous fresco portraying the ‘Family Tree of the Nemanjić Dynasty’ as a type of the Tree of Jesse.

The House of Nemanjić, (Vine fresco) from the Visoki Dečani Monastery

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In Serbian, rather than ‘Tree’, the word used is ‘vine,’ that is ‘grape vine.’ The ‘Nemanjić Vine’ in this fresco is to be found in the Dečani Monastery and is believed to date from 1346–1347. It is headed by Saint Sava and his parents, and includes several more saints who were descended from them. Somewhat later versions show more than a dozen descendants along with several of their wives, almost all of them who today are canonized saints of the Serbian Church.

St. Sava.

THE 15TH CENTURY TYPIKON OF NEILOS DAMILAS FOR THE CONVENT OF THE MOTHER OF GOD ON VENETIANCRETE MARY MCCARTHY Abstinence quenches desire, love calms the temper, prayer presents the very mind to God. 1 So speaks Neilos Damilas, founder of the convent of ‘Our Most Holy Lady the Mother of God and Ever-Virgin Mary, Queen of All’ at Baionaia. The convent was located in southeastern Crete at or near the modern village of Vaina. Its construction is believed to have been completed around 1399 and Damilas is believed to have written the rule or typikon for this convent around 1400. Almost everything known about both the convent as well as its founder comes from the pages of this typikon. 2 Another document

J. Thomas and A. Constantinides Hero (eds), Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents, A Complete Translation of the Surviving Founder’s Typika and Testaments, ‘Testament and Typikon of Neilos Damilas for the Convent of the Mother of God Pantanassa at Baionaia on Crete’, trans. Alice-Mary Talbot, (Dumbarton Oaks Project, internet version, 1998), pg. 1470. Hereafter to be referred to as Damilas, Typikon. 2 Alice-Mary Talbot has done the only English translation of the Damilas Typikon. The edition from which she worked (as described in the notes to her translation) was the Testament: S. Pétridès, ‘Le typikon de Nil Damilas pour le monastère de femmes de Baeonia en Crète (1400)’, IRAIK 15 (1911), 92–111, with text at 95–109. The manuscript itself (Parisinus graecus, 1295, fols. 108–117v (15th and 16th c) is inventoried at the Bodlein Library, Oxford, the Codex Baroccianus 59, fols. 226v–227v 1

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attached to the typikon and dated April 22, 1417 is an inventory of the author’s library. 3 The text provides a fascinating glimpse into the life and workings of a Byzantine orthodox convent making the transition from an idiorhythmic to a coenobitic way of life. 4 That this is occurring in Crete is of interest given that the island had been a Venetian colony since 1211 when it was first sold to Venice by Boniface of Montferrat. One of the leaders of the Fourth Crusade, Boniface had received Crete as part of the spoils of war and: ‘Latin victors divided up conquered territory in feudal fashion among themselves.’ 5 Venice maintained possession of Crete until 1669 when the island was finally ‘surrendered to the Turks.’ 6 Not much is known about Neilos Damilas other than that he was a hesychast monk from the monastery of Ton Karkasion in Hi(15thc). As also noted by Talbot (p.1462), there is one other extant reference to Neilos Damilas found in the State Historical Library of Moscow which contains the manuscript of his treatise ‘On the Procession of the Holy Spirit’. It is in this document that Damilas is identified ‘as an ordained monk of the monastery of ton Karkasion in Hiera Petra’ (Damilas, Typikon. 1462). 3 It is not certain whether or not this inventory of Damilas’ books was in fact left to the convent of the Mother of God (Theotokos) at Baionia or whether Damilas left his books to his own monastery, but regardless the inventory has been included with the Damilas Typikon as an Appendix. 4 In contrast to a coenobitic monastic lifestyle where all property was owned in common and monks lived as hermits or were enclosed together, the term idiorhythmic was specifically applied to the monastic community of the house at Mt. Athos (today in Halkidiki, Greece) where monks were allowed a greater degree of freedom including the right to maintain personal property. 5 P. Whiting, ed. Byzantium, an Introduction. New York University Press, 1971,113. 6 C. Maltezou, ‘Crete Under Venetian Rule: Between Byzantine Past and Venetian Reality’ in (A.Drandaki, D. Papanikola-Bakirtzi and A. Tourta, eds.) Heaven and Earth, Art of Byzantium from Greek Collections,Benaki Museum, Athens, 2013, p. 308

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era Petra which was about three miles southeast of the convent. Damilas was acquainted with Joseph Bryennios (c1350–c1438), a well-known monk, writer and teacher who was a staunch defender and supporter of the Orthodox faith. Between the years of c1382 and 1402, Bryennios came from Constantinople to Crete where he lived and worked as a missionary and preacher. 7 The Damilas typikon opens with a plea to preserve and obey the canons of orthodoxy. ‘First my sisters’, writes Damilas, ‘I exhort you to maintain the confession of orthodox faith unchanged and without innovation’, that is, ‘believe in One God, as it was transmitted to us by the first holy and ecumenical council, assembled at Nicaea … for all the saints and most holy fathers … condemn to anathema those who dare alter this creed.’ 8 The typikon concludes with a stern admonition not to stray from the rules Damilas has set down. ‘If anyone dares to transgress this present typikon of mine … may he find the most holy Mother of God, the protectress of the convent, as his opponent and enemy on the Day of Judgment, and may he be subject to the curses of the 318 divinely inspired fathers of the Council of Nicaea, and may his lot be with that of the traitor Judas.’ 9 It is interesting that Damilas feels so compelled to begin and end his typikon with strong admonitions and the invective of judgment. Olga Gratziou, writing on Cretan architecture and sculpture during the Venetian period, discusses some of the religious conflicts native Cretans would have faced. And as such, her writing allows a glimpse into the world of Damilas and his fellow monks and nuns, providing a small piece of historical context. She argues that: ‘religious conflicts did not simply arise out of the imposition of the Latin Church on the Orthodox population of the island. Points of friction appeared between the Vatican and Venice over the handling of ecclesiastical issues on the island. Venetian policy was obliged to keep a balance, but itinerant monks, Dominicans and Franciscans, as well as Greek Orthodox’ (perhaps such as JoA. Kazdan, ed. Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, Oxford Univ. Press, online version, 2005. 8 Damilas, Typikon. 1467. 9 Ibid, 1478. 7

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seph Bryennios, as mentioned earlier) ‘preached fiery sermons as to the orthodoxy of their beliefs, attempting to proselytize, and stirring up fanaticism.’ 10 Additionally, over the course of the fourteenth century, churches on Crete were being constructed with the expectation that they would house ‘services according to the rites of the Roman or the Greek Orthodox Church. This is confirmed by the fact that in some, formerly Greek, churches with tripartite sanctuaries, which had been given to the Latins, there was an altar intended for the celebration of the liturgy according to the Greek Orthodox rite.’ 11 Gratziou believes that such an accommodation within the structure of the church ‘was an attempt on the part of the Latin Church to reach out to the Orthodox, possibly with a view to proselytizing.’ 12 Regardless of motives, by the mid-fifteenth century onwards ‘the practice of celebrating both (the Latin and Greek Orthodox) rites within the same, usually Greek, church became widespread.’ 13 This is the world in which Neilos Damilas lived and worked, worshiped and prayed and exhorted his nuns to hold fast to the confessions of the orthodox faith ‘unchanged and without innovation.’ 14 In between his opening and closing admonitions, two primary themes are woven into the typikon text. First and foremost, Damilas as (re)founder, is concerned that the convent, in its governance and structure, should fully transition from an idiorhythmic to a coenobitic institution and that this should be evident in the conduct, work and worship of the nuns living within its walls. Second, Damilas finds great value in education (paideia), and as such he acclaims the worth of books and prioritizes the value of reading. We will look more closely at both of these larger themes. All this is not to say that Damilas neglects to address the spiritual life he intends Olga Gratziou, ‘Cretan Architecture and Sculpture in the Venetian Period’ in (A. Drandaki, ed.), The Origins of El Greo Icon Painting in Venetian Crete, Alexander S. Onassis Public Benefit Foundation, New York, 2009, p. 19. 11 Gratziou, 22. 12 Ibid, 22. 13 Ibid. 14 Damilas, Typikon, 1467. 10

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for his nuns. He stresses that of the commandments of the Lord: ‘the most important of them all and the uniting bond is pure and honest love for one’s neighbor.’ 15 He advises that apt instruction as to how to love one another can be found in ‘the ascetical works of St. Maximos, St. Zosimos and St. Makarios,’ 16 and he then encourages his nuns to read these treatises directly. As noted by AliceMary Talbot, Damilas’ ‘special concern for the convent library suggests that it may have received his bequest’ 17 and therefore his books were in fact contained within the convent walls. Regardless, his particular recommendation of the writings of St. Maximus the Confessor, St. Zosimos and St. Makarios suggests that ‘the nunnery must have (at the very least) possessed copies of these works.’ 18 He requests that his nuns not be too attached to their possessions. Damilas includes children in the category of ‘possessions’, citing Job as an example of one for whom ‘neither the loss of so many possessions, nor the sudden death of his children could sway him from his love of God. This’, continues Damilas, ‘is the attitude all we Christians, and especially monastics, ought to have in the face of adversity.’ 19 (This being said, Damilas still seems quite attached himself to the books he possesses as well as the books owned by the superior of the convent, as he is loathe to allow these possessions to leave the convent grounds for any reason.) 20 He writes, as well, about the virtues of virginity, describing the practice thereof so important that: ‘Our Lord wishing to honor virginity, was born of a holy virgin.’ 21 And finally, Damilas uses the words of the 7th century monk, John Klimakos in order to speak to humility and chastity: Ibid, 1467. Ibid, 1468. 17 Alice-Mary Talbott, ‘Blue Stocking Nuns: Intellectual Life in the Convents of Late Byzantium’ in Women and Religious Life in Byzantium, Ashgate Publishing, 2001, p. 613. 18 Ibid. 614. 19 Damilas, Typikon, 1468. 20 Ibid, 1477. 21 Ibid, 1469. 15 16

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THE 15TH CENTURY TYPIKON OF NEILOS DAMILAS Anxious repentance, and sorrow purified of every blemish, and the holy humility of the novices are as different and distinct from each other as leaven and flour in bread. For the soul is worn down and attenuated by manifest repentance, and is somehow united and, so to speak, kneaded together with God through the water of genuine sorrow, by which blessed humility which is unleavened and not puffed up, baked by the fire of the Lord, is made into bread and made firm. 22 And as to chastity: Entrust to the Lord the weakness of your nature, recognizing your own frailty once and for all, and you will receive imperceptibly the gift of self-control. 23

Therefore, Damilas says, returning to his own voice of admonition: ‘If you wish to be relieved of and liberated from all evils, strive to achieve abstinence and love and prayer.’ 24 He concludes with the following: ‘I have said enough on these matters; now I wish to give you certain instructions, which you will find beneficial and advantageous for your souls if you follow them. But if you disregard them and do not follow them eternal punishment lies in store for you.’ 25 Eternal punishment thus punctuates the end of his remarks in regard to the spiritual life of his nuns and Damilas moves from talk of love, virginity, chastity and humility to the first of his larger concerns: the transformation of the convent from idiorhythmic to coenobitic lifestyle. The number of protestations, threats of judgement and firmly worded directives that Damilas includes in his typikon all seem to imply that, formerly, the nuns enjoyed a great deal of freedom in their life and work as well as a considerable amount of contact with the outside world. As such, Damilas addresses what is and is not the appropriate relationship for nuns to maintain with the outside world; organizes the administrative structure of the convent in the appointment of a superior and advisors; as well as setting up specific criteria for the selection of a spiritual father (pneumatikos). Damilas, Typikon. 1470. Ibid. 1470. 24 Ibid, 1470. 25 Ibid. 1470. 22 23

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In regard to the relationship between the nuns and monks (it is assumed they would have come from Damilas’ own adjacent monastery) he writes: ‘When I was building the convent and the church and the other buildings which I had constructed in your convent, I did not have my lodgings nearby; for this reason I and the other (laborers) associated and lodged with you … this situation occurred because of the pressing necessity of circumstances.’ 26 ‘When it was necessary, monks and laymen did perform tasks at the convent. But now, through the grace of Christ, as I have already said, the necessary common work is finished. Moreover, the work took place in my presence and with my knowledge and consent, as is permitted by the thirty-eighth canon of the Council of Carthage.’ 27 And therefore ‘I forbid any work to be done inside or outside the convent by a monk … for I do not permit monks to stay or sleep in the place even one night now that I myself have departed from the convent.’ 28 ‘Neither should they approach (the nuns) freely or speak with them, nor eat alone with them … therefore, we authorize you to have all your work inside and outside the convent performed by virtuous laymen … we forbid monks to do any work within the convent, except what they can make for you in their cells, that is, a habit, shoes and other handiwork. In the same way you should make nothing else in your cells for monks except their habits.’ 29 In regard to familial relationships, Damilas is determined there be a definite separation between the nuns and their families. He writes: ‘Henceforth I forbid a nun to have any private conversation, either with her own brother or child, or with a stranger, except in the presence of the superior’. And, ‘from this moment on, any nun who is found to have a passionate attachment to her relatives or children and wishes to give them money from her own work, even one coin, in accordance with previous custom which you wrongfully followed, is to be excommunicate for one year.’ 30 Ibid, 1473. Ibid, 1472. 28 Ibid, 1471. 29 Ibid, 1472. 30 Damilas, Typikon. 1471. 26 27

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The text leaves us with the idea that the nuns have been previously selling items they have made and as such have been able to help feed and support their families. Damilas goes on: ‘Nor do I permit the nuns to give anything to their relatives except food … If one of her relatives or a stranger wishes to buy or sell anything, whether they are laymen or monks, let the purchase or sale take place in ‘the presence of the superior and one or two elderly nuns.’ 31 The position of ‘superior’ is a new one for the refounded convent. Damilas sets in place a hierarchy consisting of a superior as well as two nuns who serve as stewards and who together: ‘have the responsibility for the administration of the affairs of the convent.’ 32 A nod to the Venetian authorities in charge of this island is found here as Damilas explains that he is: ‘recording in the officially registered document how there should always be three of them (superior and two nuns)’ and then he goes on to explain that as the ‘official document’ is written in Latin ‘which (the nuns) do not know how to read’, he will also ‘write it in our language (Greek).’ 33 This statement offers another small window into the everyday experience of fifteenth century Cretans. As a result of the Venetian occupation, ‘the local government was made up of Venetian officials (a duke, councillors, rectors, higher functionaries and others) closely monitored from Venice, herself.’ 34 Additionally, Venetian officials attempted to assert a further level of control over the populace by ‘making Orthodoxy subject to the Latin Church. Catholics were installed in place of Orthodox bishops while priests and preceptors who declared allegiance to the Venetian state (which paid their salaries) were appointed to head the Orthodox clergy.’ 35 To put it mildly, this action did not go over well with the people. Cretans resisted, ‘refusing to Ibid. 1471. Ibid, 1147 33 Ibid. 1147. 34 Chryssa Maltezou, ‘Crete under Venetian Rule: Between Byzantine Past and Venetian Reality’ in (A. Drandaki, D. Papanikola-Bakirtzi and A. Tourta, eds.) Heaven and Earth, Art of Byzantium from Greek Collections, Benaki Museum, Athens, 2013, p. 305. 35 Maltezou, 306. 31 32

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fall in line with the preaching of Catholics and insisted on maintaining the same religious climate as the one prevailing in the free Byzantine territory.’ 36 In the end, ‘forced to deal realistically with the new situation, the Cretans naturally shifted their (political) allegiance to Venice while at the same time remaining ideologically attached to the world of the Byzantine Empire, whose language, religion, and cultural traditions they shared.’ 37 As such, it seems logical to presume that the local population would only (or predominantly) speak Greek, while the Venetian authorities would conduct the business of Venice in the language of the conquering kingdom. As for the spiritual father whom Damilas feels the nuns should have, he intends a fairly narrow liturgical role for him. He does not want ‘him as a teacher in everything, so that he can, God forbid, alter my instructions (for this I do not permit), but so that you may summon him to come to your convent when you wish to partake of the divine mysteries.’ 38 Damilas further presses the point as to the limits of authority granted the spiritual father, insisting that he be ‘elected to his position by common consent of all or the majority (of the nuns)’ and that at no time may he ‘remove from the convent any nun whom he tonsures therein. For they are not under his authority, but should render obedience to their superior and to the rules of the convent.’ 39 And yet while effectively tying the hands of the ‘spiritual father’ in all things outside of participation in the ‘divine mysteries’, Damilas does concede him ‘the rights appropriate to a spiritual father over all; for this is the case in all the venerable female convents which are subject to the authority of the Roman Empire and also in male monasteries.’ 40 Ibid. 306. Ibid. 306. 38 Damilas, Typikon, 1473. 39 Ibid, 1476. 40 Ibid, 1476. ‘Roman Empire’ is the way in which Greeks would have referred to the Eastern Empire. As such it is important to remember, as John McGuckin states in his book Standing in God’s Holy Fire, (Maryknoll, NY 2001, p. 16) that ‘the last of the Roman emperors, Con36 37

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In a typikon constructed of only twenty-one ‘rules’, a second notable theme centers in and around books. Damilas owned 41 books, 7 of which he had hand-copied himself. An inventory of the books is attached to the typikon and of the two documents, the inventory is the one that bears a date, April 22, 1417. Alice-Mary Talbot describes Damilas’ (large) library of 41 volumes as containing the expected and ‘standard liturgical books and patristic works’ as well as ‘a volume containing the writings of Boethius, Cato, and Manasses.’ 41 From the text it seems clear that the newly appointed superior was also in possession of books of her own and Damilas insists that on no account should her books be loaned ‘outside the convent and church.’ 42 His reasons seem pragmatic for he says: ‘If they are damaged, you do not have anyone to restore them.’ 43 But it also seems that he intends the superior’s books to become part of the convent’s holdings as he adds the additional request that: ‘with regard to the books which are your personal property, [I require] that you not bequeath them to anyone outside the convent after your death.’ 44 Additionally, Damilas suggests that as part of her duties, the superior should ‘strive to teach other nuns their letters, so that this may be to your eternal memory. This is a fine and admirable deed.’ 45 Indeed, nuns who are unable to read upon entering the convent appear assured of an education. Another such reference is found earlier in the typikon in regard to who may or may not be admitted for tonsuring. Damilas says that: ‘under no circumstance should you admit a woman with a little girl under the age of 10; but even then only if the child wishes to learn her letters and become a nun for I forbid her to learn any other skill until she dons the novices habit at 13.’ 46 Damilas approaches reading with ‘an enthusiasm stantine XI, actually fell in battle defending the Christian capital in 1453, at the St. Romanos gate of Constantinople’. 41 Talbot, Women in Religious Life in Byzantium, 613. 42 Damilas, Typikon, 1477. 43 Ibid, 1477. 44 Ibid.1477. 45 Ibid. 1477. 46 Damilas, Typikon. 1470.

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not seen in the other documents found in the Byzantine Typika collections.’ 47 And whereas Alice-Mary Talbot argues that in general, ‘education was not an important function of the Byzantine convent,’ 48 the approach taken at Baionaia under the direction of Damilas seems something else entirely. The convent founder holds the act of reading in such high regard that he instructs the entire community in this, asking that: ‘every night you (should) read aloud at least twice, if not more, for prayer and reading are like two eyes; and St. Isaac sets reading before psalmody with the following words: ‘If possible, honor reading even more than assembly for prayer.’ 49 Given that almost all that is known about Neilos Damilas and the Convent for the Mother of God is found within the text of this typikon, the picture emerging from its pages has much about it that is remarkable. The implication of the text leads one to the assumption that Damilas has founded an educated community of nuns devoted to the practice of the Eastern Orthodox faith ‘unchanged and without innovation,’ 50 who are training and educating the younger members in the faith as well, everyone encouraged to read, out loud, ‘at least twice’ every single night. They have been enjoined to ‘have prayer in (their) hearts night and day’ and to perform the services ‘slowly … rhythmically, in a dignified manner … reciting psalms with contrite heart and sedate character and attentive mind.’ 51 Damilas reminds his community that ‘abstinence quenches desire, love calms the temper, prayer presents the very mind to God.’ 52 Here, in this small corner of southeastern Crete, which had already been a Venetian colony for almost 200 years, the orthodox faith looks to be not only healthy, but flourishing. Damilas, Typikon. 1464. Talbot, Women in Religious Life in Byzantium, p. 609. 49 Damilas, Typikon. 1475. Annemarie Weyl Carr makes the point that ‘most reading in Byzantium was done aloud. To read was to give voice to the text, making it speak’. (Heaven and Earth, Art of Byzantium from Greek Collections, Benaki Museum, Athens, 2013, p. 181.) 50 Damilas, Typikon. 1467. 51 Ibid, 1474. 52 Ibid, 1470. 47 48

CONTEMPORARY MONASTICISM: WHY JOIN A MONASTERY? + METROPOLITAN JONAH (PAFFHAUSEN) ‘What must I do to be saved?’ This is the essential question that motivates men and women to seek monastic life. The Lord answers: ‘Go, sell all that you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come follow me.’ (Lk. 18.22). Another equally important insight: ‘the world holds nothing for me.’ It is the beginning of renunciation, but is itself a dropping away of the veil of illusions about this life and life in the world. One comes to a point where nothing of the old man has meaning: possessions, relationships, even family, position and status. The only thing that matters, that has any lasting, unchanging and eternal meaning, is our communion with God. The Lord says, ‘If you love father or mother more than me, you are not worthy of me; if you love wife, children, possessions, more than me, you are not worthy of me.’ (Mt. 10.37). When we come to a point where we see that our life is in crisis, that we have messed up our life by our behavior, attitudes, and actions, and know that we have to change, then the Lord’s preaching echoes in our hearts: ‘Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.’ (Mt. 3.2). Monasticism is our feeble attempt to live a life according to the Gospel, the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, in community, in repentance, in renunciation. This Way has been handed down to us through the ages by the holy Fathers who have gone the same path, to sanctification and salvation. As St Ignatiy Brianchaninov writes, ‘Unless our monasticism is rooted in the Gospel, it is not authentic.’ Real monasticism has nothing to do with following external forms and rituals, being all dressed up and expecting support 447

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and honor from the people in the world. Rather, real monasticism is about a life lived solely in relationship to Christ, striving to live as He lived, to live with His life; whether that means to be loved or hated, embraced or rejected, lauded or persecuted. It means to follow the Gospel without compromise. It is a great trap, especially in the contemporary West, to think that if it looks right, sounds right, smells right (just the right combo of stale sweat and incense), has the right diet, and so forth …then it is right. How much of that is to please people, and make them think that we monks are holy? How much of it is projection of a romantic vision/illusion/delusion, of how things ‘should be’? It is easy to recreate the external forms of medieval monasticism. What is very hard, is to recreate the content. The form without the content is meaningless. The forms, when they proceed from the content, are there to nurture and protect the content; but it is the life lived in repentance and transformation of heart, striving for God in love, that is the true core of monasticism. St Maximos once said that the real monk is not the one who is all dressed up, but the monk who is a monk in his heart. To be a monk in one’s heart is to renounce all the passionate thoughts, and to live in communion with God. It means, in the vein of St Symeon the New Theologian, to live in unbroken conscious awareness of God; or, in the tradition of St Isaac the Syrian, to dwell in the stillness of contemplation of God, alive in God and conscious in God; or, back to the Apostolic vision, it is as St James writes: ‘Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this: To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unspotted from the world’ (James. 1:27). As the lives of the great Fathers have shown us, monasticism is not simply about our own spiritual life, but about the ministry that proceeds from it. While not all in the monastery are called to active ministry outside the community, their lives and their witness should be more than adequate to convey to others what it means to live according to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Those who are so equipped and blessed for ministry, especially to serve those who come to visit the monastery, play a crucial role for many pilgrims. If the Church is a hospital, the monastery is the intensive care unit; not only for those who come to join, but for those coming to visit it for spiritual guidance and consolation. One of the contemporary Athonite fathers has said that what matters most is that

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people can find someone who is authentic, who can hear and understand the woundedness of people today, their broken hearts, their demoralization, and address it and lead them to healing. This is what monasticism is about: to develop people who have an ear to listen and a heart to understand, and the ability to relate to and console those who are suffering, and to provide a place for people to heal from the wounds inflicted by life, and be transformed. We live in a pornographic culture completely dedicated to self-gratification, whether sexual, material, culinary or emotional. Everything in the culture is a constant assault for sensual stimulation or, even more important, the desire to purchase and possess. The primary values of wealth and power – ability to spend and ability to possess and control – are constantly reinforced by all the cultural means of communication. Personal gratification is the goal of life for this culture. However, it leaves us ever wanting more, with nothing able to satisfy our lusts for sex, power and material goods; and hence leaves us frustrated, angry, and demoralized. It is no wonder that aspects of the pop culture idolize death. It is a culture without hope, a culture of despair, and it is a culture sick with selfhatred. If the élites in the culture, who are most caught up in the endless cycle of the addictive pursuit of wealth, sex and power, are in despair; it goes without saying that the poor, trapped in their poverty by lack of education and training, as well as the demoralization that leads to lack of initiative and motivation, have even less chance of escaping their plight. Every Ad. on television or in the media reinforces the message that they don’t measure up, because they could not possible afford what is being advertized. Even cults of wealth, the so-called ‘prosperity gospel,’ have developed exalting wealth as God’s blessing, and poverty as God’s curse. So the poor descend lower and lower into demoralization and despair. Truly this world is vanity. The Lord teaches us through the Beloved Disciple: ‘Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lust there of: but he that doeth the will of God abideth forever’ (1Jn 2:15ff). And St James reminds us that to be a friend of the world is enmity with God. But the monastery is a place where we can go to try to leave

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the world behind, whether for a few hours, weeks, years or our whole life. We can leave it at the door of the monastery, or we can cling to it and bring it in with us; or rather, realize that it clings to us, and it is incised into our minds and thoughts. The monastery is a place where we go to learn how to shake off the horrific effects of the world: the constant bombardment with provocative images, words and impressions; the constant appearance of self-deprecating thoughts, shame and guilt; the endless desire to anesthetize our minds to the bitter recriminations and resentments of our past. People join a monastic community to bring their minds and hearts, their lives, under control, in a disciplined lifestyle in which they can be healed. It is nothing instant, but a process of spiritual life and discipline in discipleship to an elder, that by the grace of God works healing. Once the process of healing begins, the process of growth to spiritual maturity kicks in. Young people in our society are often the victims of the world and its dysfunction: abused, neglected, bathed in self-hatred and self-loathing, afraid and just plain broken. Our society leaves our young people desperately immature, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Family life and the work-a-day world may, or may not, lead them to maturity. Monastic life is a program to bring people to maturity, to be able to take responsibility for themselves, their thoughts and emotions, and for others. Spiritual growth is also the ability to control one’s thoughts and emotions, and deny oneself; and ultimately, spiritual maturity is to become free of selfishness, selfish goals and ambitions, both for oneself and projected on others. Deep spiritual maturity leads us to constant consciousness of God. Spiritual maturity, to put it another way, is the most profound freedom. It is the freedom that comes from hearing the Word of God, and doing it; of intuitively knowing the will of God, and conforming oneself to it. The highest level of spiritual maturity is synergy with God; this is the realm of the saints. The way this is done is to follow the Gospel, and the Lord’s teaching: ‘Repent, for the Kingdom of God is at hand.’ (Mt. 3.2). Repentance, μετανοια, is the essence of Christianity and of monasticism. Repentance does not mean to feel guilty and beat yourself up. Repentance, as St Paul unpacks the rich word, means to ‘be transformed in the renewal of your mind’ (Romans 12:2). Repentance also means conversion, and both turning toward God, as well as away from sin. To live the monastic life means a to live a lifestyle

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of repentance, a constant process of turning away from sin and the ego, and turning towards God and the other; of conversion of life, of mind and heart. It means the process of dying to the old man, and living according to the New. Repentance is worked out through discipleship to an elder. The great elders, those who are truly advanced in the spiritual life and have been transformed by grace through repentance, are few and far between. We who are broken and immature can benefit greatly from them, if we know how to receive their words. However, we are incapable of the strict obedience that is required for such an advanced level. For our situation, however, the elders that we have recourse to may not be not so advanced, but should still be long experienced in the spiritual life. Instead of the radical obedience of the more mature, we live by their advice. We take their words and weigh them and discern what we can and can’t do; on their part, they are responsible for the advice, but not for how we apply it. The great elders even take responsibility for their disciples’ actions, but we cannot begin to live up to it. We remain responsible for our own actions. One of the great traps is for a seeker to desire an elder ‘worthy’ to hear his confession, to whom he can offer his obedience. Sadly such a person would find shortcomings in Christ Himself. What is critical here is mutual humility. Finding a spiritual father is a matter not so much of discerning the gifts of the elder, but rather, finding someone to whom you can relate, to whom you feel you want to expose your most intimate wounds, for healing. You recognize your spiritual father by his love for you, and your love for him. Through him you realize you can receive the divine milk of healing, until you are ready for the meat that will nourish you to spiritual maturity. When the disciples brought a demoniac to the Lord, whom they could not heal, the Lord told them that some demons can only come out by prayer and fasting. This refers, I think, not only to the spiritual power to cast out demons that comes from a life of prayer and fasting; but that we can only overcome the demons that afflict ourselves by prayer and fasting. Monastic discipline consists of prayer and work, in a context of constant fasting. The prayer consists not only of the hours per day of liturgical services, the Psalter and cycles of hymnography; but also of personal prayer alone in one’s room, the prayer of stillness or the Jesus Prayer, hesychia.

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Fasting consists of a constant attitude of abstention not only from certain kinds of foods, but of abstention from all kinds of actions that gratify the will and the senses. Fasting from certain foods reminds us of that greater fast, and helps us keep the discipline. Prayer and fasting support one another: the better one fasts, the better the prayer; the better the prayer, the more disciplined the fasting. When we fast from the things that distract our attention, the passions, then we are able to focus when we pray. The most powerful tool for the work of healing and spiritual growth is the prayer of stillness, or hesychia. It is the contemplative discipline that is at the heart of Orthodoxy, and leads us into true communion with God. The Jesus Prayer is a practice that is used to lead us to the point of stillness, of contemplation; and then it is the Holy Spirit who takes us deeper. What happens is that during this prayer, we open ourselves to God to allow Him to heal our souls, to show us what we need to confess and repent of, and to illumine us and transform our awareness as we are freed from the effects of the burden of sin and resentment we are carrying around. Most of this is accomplished by the process of forgiveness; the rest, through renunciation and detachment. Once the bulk of the detritus of a lifetime has been dealt with, our soul itself is illumined and deified, transformed and transfigured by grace. Here again, this is a very long process, consisting of years and years. The monastic vows of poverty, chastity, obedience and stability are really evangelical virtues that form the context of our prayer and work, and are held up as goals towards which we are striving. They have both a literal and spiritual sense. Poverty, nonacquisitiveness, means not only owning no thing, but also being detached from all things; the community owns everything, and each is given what he needs (but not necessarily what he wants!). Chastity, celibate virginity, also means striving towards complete integrity of personhood, free from any selfish agenda to use anyone or anything for sensual gratification. Obedience not only means cutting off the will, and conformity to the requests of the Elder, but it means to bring oneself into synergy with the will of God, and cut off any contrary motives. Stability means both the commitment to remain in the monastic life until death, but also inner emotional and personal stability, which comes from being purged of the ego. These virtues become the essential foundation for spiritual life.

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One cannot proceed to the higher levels of spiritual maturity without having made progress in these virtues. To enter the spiritual path is to go by the way of renunciation and detachment. The Lord said to the rich young man who came to him, ‘If you wish to be perfect, go, sell all you have and give it to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. And then come follow me’ (Matt. 19:21). Naked we come into this world, and naked we leave it. The way to freedom is through renunciation, to renounce the things of this world and to detach from them. Again, the Lord said, ‘If you love father or mother more than me, you are not worthy of me; if you love brother or sister, wife of children, lands and possessions more than me, you are not worthy of me.’ (Mt. 10.37). This is the way of the Cross. We follow Jesus in the way of renunciation when we leave all these things behind, and thus, as he says, receive back a hundredfold, with persecutions, in this life; and in the world to come, life everlasting. (Mt. 19.29). Renunciation and detachment go together. To renounce does not mean to curse, but rather to withdraw from something; to detach means that we cut off all emotional ties and any ties of ownership. To go by the way of renunciation means that we begin the process of renouncing and detaching from the things of this world, putting our hope on God to supply us with our needs, and seeking the Kingdom of God first above all things. The Fathers tell us this goes by stages; at first, it is difficult; later, things fall away. First, we renounce our external possessions and relationships. With people, we don’t renounce the people themselves, but we order our relationship with them aright, subordinate to the Gospel. For example, with our parents, we have a sacred responsibility to honor them; but, it must not keep us from following Christ. It is not absolved by monastic vows. But we detach from them, and derive our identity from Christ and our relationship with Him. The next phase is to cut off our internal attachments to our thoughts and to our ego, our self-created idea of ourselves, and detach from them. Finally, when our prayer has reached a certain level, we cut off our attachment to concepts and conceptual images. It is only then that we experience the radical freedom of knowledge of God. We must be crucified to the world, and the world to us, in our relationships, in our minds, and in our hearts; and then we will be able to live and behold freely the grace of God in our lives.

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Monastic life is structured by the services and by work, with times designated for private prayer. The work is assigned and accomplished as an act of obedience, like everything else in the monastery. Work is an equally important discipline in monastic life, and takes on a whole new meaning in the context of a monastery. There are two basic kinds of work, the daily housekeeping and tending the garden and whatever; and the second kind, incomeproducing work. Few monasteries in our days are so endowed that the monks or nuns need not generate an income. People have expenses, monastic or not. But rather than being meaningless drudgery, the work – whatever it is – takes on the meaning of contributing to the life of the whole community, a task done in love for the sake of one’s brethren. It could be dipping candles or making incense, gathering fruit or tending the goats, making cheese or whatever; even doing the bookkeeping, shopping or auto repair. It is not the task itself, but rather the attitude with which we approach it. While it brings in money, that is only part of the goal; rather, the goal is the welfare of the community, and of my brothers or sisters. Given our broken culture, many people do not know what it is to be loved. They may know sex. They may know what it is to be used. They may have had checks thrown at them, instead of love. But it is the love of Christ that is healing and transformative. If they have not known love, they probably don’t know how to love. That too, changes and is revealed in their lives as they heal and grow, through the love of the spiritual father and brethren, or spiritual mother and sisters. St Silouan was given the word: ‘My brother is my life.’ Community is not simply a bunch of guys living together and sharing chores and expenses. It is rather a brotherhood gathered in love, caring for one another and serving one another, and all those who come to participate in the life of the community. When it is done right, the love overflows and embraces all around them, because it is the love of Christ, and He is both the One who loves, and the Beloved, all at once, in each person. The point of all the asceticism, of detachment and renunciation, of prayer and fasting, and of the struggle to be purified, is to be able to love. To love purely, unselfishly, without any agendas or expectations – this is the goal. This is the likeness to Christ that is itself salvation.

A TRIPTYCH OF CONTEMPORARY ROMANIAN SPIRITUAL ELDERS + HIS GRACE THE RT. REVD. DR. MACARIE DRĂGOI At the beginning of the 20th century, after the First World War, Romanian monasticism experienced a movement of renewal and an increase in vocations related to the hesychastic revival of the spirituality of the Jesus Prayer and the Philokalia, the rediscovery of which was encouraged by the translation of the first four volumes of the Romanian Philokalia by Father Dumitru Stãniloae at Sibiu from 1946–1948. This rebirth was also a result of the spiritual impact of the ‘Burning Bush’ movement centered at the Antim Monastery in Bucharest. A group of important Romanian intellectuals and monks had gathered around the figure of Sandu Tudor (1896– 1960), a Romanian poet and journalist who became the Monk Agaton and subsequently the Schemamonk Daniel, a dedicated seeker of the Jesus prayer and deep hesychastic experience. The group also encountered the Russian Priest John Kulîghin (born 1885), who had taken refuge from 1943–1946 at the Cernica Monastery near Bucharest. Under the guidance of these two spiritual fathers, and aided by the texts of the two volumes of the Sbornik from Valaam, the group was initiated into the practice of hesychasm. Fr. John would be arrested by the Soviet troops in 1947 and would after that ‘disappear’ in Siberia; while Fr. Daniel would withdraw to the Rarău Skete in Moldavia, where he would be arrested in 1958 and condemned by the communists, along with the rest of the members of the Antim group, many of them dying as confessors in

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the dreadful prisons of Romanian Communist system. The survivors were freed in 1964. 1 During the time of the communist regime the greatest setback to Romanian monasticism took place in 1959 through a government decree and a new regulation which dissolved an entire series of monastic communities, forcing monks under the age of 50 to leave the monasteries for many years. The monasteries became nursing homes, production cooperatives, museums or tourist attractions. In 1968 this repression was eased and a significant number of monastics returned to the monasteries. During the liberalization period of the first years of the Ceauşescu dictatorship, the monasteries benefited from a time of relative tolerance. Between 1975 and 1981, Fr. Dumitru Stăniloae was allowed to publish the fifth to tenth volumes of the Romanian Philokalia, while Archimandrite Ioanichie Bălan of Sihăstria Monastery succeeded in publishing, between 1980–1988 his monumental trilogy dedicated to Romanian monasticism. 2 At the fall of the communism in 1989, Romanian monasticism found itself, paradoxically, in a relatively flourishing situation, grouped around a few important fathers who had survived the persecutions and were now being sought out by thousands of the Deacon Ioan I. Ică Jr., Monahismul românesc şi spiritualitatea lui, in the volume Mărturii de sfinţenie românească. Monahi îmbunătăţiţi din secolele trecute, Sibiu, 2002, pp. 24–25. 2 Ibid. p.25. This massive trilogy dedicated entirely to Romanian monasticism includes: Vetre de sihăstrie românească (1981, 570 p.), dedicated to the beginnings of monasticism in the Romanian area and an inventory of monastic sites; Patericul românesc (1980, 736 p., ed. III, 1998; Greek translation 1984; American translation 1994), a concise presentation of the characters and words of the most memorable figures of the monks in the Romanian territories, from the origins until the first half of the 20th century; and Convorbiri duhovniceşti, (in two volumes, 1984, 1988, 632 + 808 p.; volume 1, Greek translation 1985 and American translation in 1994; fragmentary Italian translation in 1991 by Elia Citerrio, Volti e parole dei Padri del desserto romeno, Bose, 1991). These consist of dialogues with the most important living spiritual and theological figures of Romanian monasticism and Romanian Orthodoxy from the second half of the 20th century. 1

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faithful each year. The most influential were two great figures, famous startsi of the Sihăstria Monastery in Moldavia: Paisie Olaru (1897–1990), ‘a genuine Romanian Seraphim of Sarov’, and Cleopa Ilie (1912–1998), ‘a true Abba Pimen and the uncrowned Patriarch of Romanian monasticism’, as they have been described by the well known theologian Ioan I. Ică Jr. from Sibiu. 3 Together with other startsi, these great spiritual fathers’ influence resulted in hundreds of monastic vocations, both during the communist period and later. I myself chose the monastic life following an encounter I had with Abba Cleopa. I first came to know him in my childhood, through the accounts of several good Christians from my native village in Transylvania who visited him at the Sihăstria Monastery. I was fascinated by their stories, the blessings and teachings they received together with many other pilgrims from all over the country, when Father Cleopa would speak at certain times during the day, on the veranda of his room inside the monastic compound. I later read some of his works, but the direct encounter would take place long afterwards, when I started my theological studies in Moldavia, in the city of Suceava, not far from the monastery where Elder Cleopa lived. My first visit was made together with other colleagues from the Theological Seminary during the summer of 1994, when I simply listened alongside hundreds of other pilgrims, and could not approach him in person. The direct encounter would take place a few months later through the help of a seminary professor, Fr. Constantin Cojocaru, whom Abba Cleopa had known very well for many years. I was thus able to get access to his room on an autumn morning, at the time when Fr Cleopa was saying his morning prayers. He put aside his large prayer book in old Romanian script and spoke to us almost for an hour. We knelt piously at his feet while he sat on his small bench, as was his custom. He enveloped us with his love and his sweet voice. He spoke of some of the hardships he had experienced during time of persecution, when he lived in solitude in the mountains. He even showed us the box where he had kept the Holy Eucharist during that period of rigorous asceticism, moments of which the elder spoke extremely rarely. In the end, he prayed a 3

Ibid. pp. 25–26.

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blessing upon us, invoking from memory as mediators a long succession of saints, prophets, apostles, hierarchs, martyrs and hermits. Fr. Constantin asked him to bless me so as to become a ‘good married priest’. Fr. Cleopa hesitated, in spite the insistence of my teacher, and finally uttered, decidedly and emphatically, blessing me on the head with the sign of the Cross: ‘No, let him become a good monk’. After a while, even though my situation had not changed, since I was still attending the Seminary, Fr. Cleopa reconsidered his blessing, not to change it as much as to add to it, and he told me: ‘Become a good bishop as well’. At our last meeting, before he left to go to the eternal places, he gave me the prayer rope with which I was tonsured a monk and which I preserve with great devotion, hoping that my spiritual father’s advice and prayers will continue to accompany me. 4 Ever since his passing, a great number of pilgrims continue to visit the Sihăstria Monastery, praying in Abba Cleopa’s room, which became a small sanctuary, and at his grave, from which even the clods of earth are taken by the pilgrims for a blessing and cure. Many miracles have taken place through the intercessions of Fr. Cleopa. I believe that his canonization as a saint will be not be long in coming. From among this cloud of great contemporary Fathers, I can also mention Elder Arsenie Papacioc from the St. Mary Skete in Techerghiol (the Dobrogea region), and Elder Teofil Părăianu from the Brâncoveanu, Sâmbătă de Sus Monastery (in Transylvania). The first published dialogues from both of these elders can be found in Archimandrite Ioanichie Bălan’s book, Convorbiri duhovniceşti, issued in 1984 and 1988 before the fall of communism, a publication which was of great spiritual benefit in those times of censorship and the general paucity of spiritual books in Romania. Fr. Arsenie was born in 1914 and was tonsured at Antim Monastery in Bucharest. He was a close friend of Elder Cleopa, with whom he lived for a while at Slatina Monastery in Moldavia, although their visions of the spiritual life were different, as Father Arsenie recalled: See this account as well as those of others who met Fr Cleopa in the memorial volume, Părintele Cleopa Ilie (1912–1998). Prieten al Sfinţilor şi duhovnic al creştinilor - in memoriam, Iaşi, 2005. 4

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It is true that I lived with Fr Cleopa in the wilderness. We had long discussions, and the special object of our arguments was the following disagreement: he was more inclined to an asceticism characterized by intense fasting, prayer, and tears, while I rather emphasized spiritual vigilance. And I still maintain that point of view. For it is not asceticism itself that God seeks in us, but rather a broken and contrite heart that is aware every moment of His continual presence in our lives. 5

Like many others, Father Arsenie too was condemned in 1959 by the communist regime and sentenced to 20 years of imprisonment and forced labor. He was freed in 1964 through a decree of general pardon for political prisoners. 6 For a while he served as parish priest in a village in Transylvania (Filea), then became Father Confessor at the Dintrun Lemn Convent. Since 1976 he has been Father Confessor at St. Mary Skete in Techerghiol. Until his departure, aged 97, although weakened and ill after a tumultuous life of privations as a hermit and then sufferings in communist prisons, Fr. Arsenie continued to give advice to pilgrims, albeit with some diminution of his former zealous energy and accessibility. In the last years of his life it was difficult for him to get to the church, and he had only certain hours designated for confession and counsel, as compared to the past, when the door of his room was always open. In 2005, I had the great joy of meeting him personally for the first time at St. Mary’s Skete, and we twice concelebrated the Divine Liturgy at the altar of the tiny wooden church inside the monastic compound. I was overwhelmed by his kindness and spiritual attention to me. When we first met, I kissed his hand, a natural gesture for a younger monk, but he kissed my hand too, which he does to all priests, as he tells us in one his books: ‘I do this, even if

Arhimandrit Arsenie Papacioc, Cuvânt despre bucuria duhovnicească. Convorbiri, Cluj-Napoca, 2003, pp.162–163. 6 Andrei Andreicuţ, Mărturistori pentru Hristos, volume I, Alba-Iulia, 2005, pp. 111–112. 5

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the priest is younger; I kiss his hand publicly to show that I recognize his authority’. 7 I had the opportunity to discuss with him, in the intimacy of his cell, a few issues that were troubling me, and I especially appreciated his spiritual sensitivity and depth. I particularly remember his words to me: ‘Getting out of harmony creates stridency’ and, ‘Every moment is a period of time, and every sigh is a prayer’. I bought from the Skete some of his works on spirituality 8 and asked him to write a few words in them. He was kind enough to write in each of them words which could be added to the Paterikon of the contemporary Fathers. Here are a few: ‘The good Lord sends down His grace only on heroes. Beggars waste it. Always be a hero!’ ‘Don’t let the sword of the Word be shaky in your hand.’ ‘Come, rejoice!’ ‘Ah, humility, humility, great reward awaits you!’ ‘Reward in battle does not come at the first step, but at the last step!’ ‘Remain a hero of Christ!’ I met Abba Arsenie again in 2007 when he came, discreetly, on account of medical problems created by his increasingly fragile health, to Cluj-Napoca, the Transylvanian city where I lived. I say discreetly, because if news of his visit had got out, the courtyard of our Metropolis head-quarters would have been filled with great numbers of Christians wishing to ask him for prayers, blessings or advice for their various problems. Our Metropolitan, Bartolomeu Anania, received him with great joy, especially since he himself is one of his spiritual sons. Father Arsenie had been the Metropolitan’s Confessor since the latter’s youth. Bartolomeu met the starets in the 1950s, when the Patriarch of the Romanian Orthodox 106.

7

Ne vorbeşte Părintele Arsenie Papacioc, volume II, Sihăstria, 2004, page

The majority consist of verbal dialogues, further transposed in letters sent to spiritual sons. We can mention: Iată,Duhovnicul.Părintele Arsenie Papacioc, vol. I, Dervent Monastery, 1999, vol. II, Bucarest, 2006; Cuvânt despre bucuria duhovnicească, Cluj-Napoca, 2003 ; Ne vorbeşte Părintele Arsenie, vol. I–III, Sihăstria Monastery, 2004; Veşnicia ascunsă într-o clipă, Alba-Iulia, 2004; Singur Ortodoxia, Constanţa, 2005. 8

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Church at that time, Justinian, commissioned him, together with Fr. Cleopa, to visit all the monasteries in the country to give spiritual guidance to the monks. On that occasion, the current Metropolitan of Cluj met Fr. Arsenie and chose him as his Confessor, impressed by what the wise man uttered, after a long spiritual conversation, regarding his confession: ‘This is no longer an issue for two, but from now onwards, only one’. I was assigned by my then superior, Metropolitan Bartolomeu, to help Fr. Arsenie during his short stay in Cluj. I took him first to visit the Cathedral, which the Elder had not seen for more than 40 years, when, after being freed from prison in 1964, he had served two years as a parish priest in this diocese, from Transylvania. It was during the afternoon, and there were only a few people praying in the church. Those few noticed the presence of the well known Father Arsenie and came quickly to ask for blessings. Among them there was a couple, husband and wife, who came with tears in their eyes to ask for his prayers. He counselled them gently and then asked if they had been religiously married. They responded that they were not and tried to make various excuses. Father advised them to do so and no longer live in sin, but they kept making excuses. He scolded them calmly, saying, ‘Be careful what you do, because Hell is full of good intentions!’ Shortly after his visit to the Cathedral, many Christians found about Father Arsenie’s presence in Cluj, and several gathered at the door of the guest house where he was staying. Among them was a distinguished professor of philosophy, who came with his daughter, a student, to ask for a blessing, because, as he maintained, the birth of his daughter was the fruit of Fr. Arsenie’s prayers. Only after his departure from Cluj, the Faithful found out about his visit and regretted they could not at least have seen him. The last time I met Fr. Arsenie was in the autumn of 2008, shortly after the beginning of my Hierarchical mission amongst the Romanians in the Scandinavian lands. I received word and blessing. I asked him, among other things, what counsel would he give the young? Spontaneously he gave us his marvellous answer: ‘Young ones, give your youth to me, the ninety year old one, if you do not know what to do with it.’ The second spiritual father about whom I would like to speak now, could be referred to as the ‘Itinerant Confessor’. In contrast with Fr. Arsenie, whose mission was to be the only permanent

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priest available at the convent to conduct services and receive pilgrims, Fr. Teofil from Sâmbăta de Sus received seekers at the monastery, but also traveled a great deal, especially during the two great fasts of the Eastern tradition, Lent and Advent. During these periods, the Associations of Orthodox Youth customarily organize conferences with the senior spiritual fathers in Romania, and Fr. Teofil missed none of them each year. He responded to all invitations, either from large cities with famous academic centers, where he addressed audiences in large halls and cathedrals, or from small cities and village parishes, and he even travelled also to the Romanian communities in the European Diaspora. Fr Teofil was born in 1929 in a Transylvanian village near Sibiu called Topârcea and he died peacefully in 2009. His parents were peasants and he was the oldest of four siblings. He began his conscious life blind; that is he was born blind. From 1935–1940 he attended a special school in Cluj, which he was forced to discontinue because of the war; then from 1943–1948 he went to high school in Timişoara. From 1948–1952 he attended the Theological Institute in Sibiu and earned a degree in theology. On April 1st, 1953 he entered the Sâmbăta monastery, desiring to become a monk. Because of his theological studies, as well as his spiritual background, he was tonsured the same year. In 1960 he was ordained deacon by an exceptional act of Metropolitan Nicolae Bălan, and in 1983 was ordained priest by Metropolitan Antonie Plămădeală. On September 8, 1988 he was elevated to the rank of archimandrite. From my first encounter with him during my adolescence, I sensed him as man of joy. He imparted much optimism and peace, and his discourse was full of spiritual joy. His dialogues were always seasoned with humor, which created an atmosphere of spiritual intimacy and made him very pleasant. He had extraordinary success with young people, with whom he liked to spend much time, because, as the abbot confessed, ‘the young are malleable’. The result was that Fr. Teofil was increasingly sought out by young people and was often invited to address them in various locations. 9 Several books emerged from his preaching, conferences and dialogues with the young, of which we mention: Ne vorbeşte Părintele Teofil, 9

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From my very first contacts with him I gave attention to the ‘life handbook’ which he constantly recommended in his lectures, which he also heard for the first time from the well known Father Arsenie Boca (1910–1989), a system captured in five points: (a) ‘Oxygen’, living in fresh air as much as possible; (b) ‘Glycogen’, referring to good mental food; (c) ‘Sleep’, having an appropriate amount of rest so as to be able to work at our full capacity; (d) ‘Preserve your hormones’, that is lead a correct sexual life, without dissipating the sexual energy; and (e) ‘Have the concept of a Christian life’, that is, offer your life in service to God. After I was tonsured a monk, I again met Fr. Teofil on the occasion of a conference held close to the monastery I lived in. He asked me my new monastic name and I responded ‘Macarie’. With his characteristic humor, he told me I would need to pass a few more stages to measure up to the name of Macarie, which in Greek means ‘blessed’: first, Teopist, faithful to God, because he who believes in God is a servant of God and becomes Teodul, the servant of God. He who is Teodul then comes to know God, because to him who fulfils God’s commands, God reveals Himself, as St. Mark the Ascetic said: ‘Christ is hidden in His commands and reveals Himself to those who fulfil His commands’. Therefore, he who knows Roman, 1997; Lumini de gând, Cluj-Napoca, 1997; Gânduri bune pentru gânduri bune, Timişoara, 1997; Prescuri pentru cuminecături, Timişoara, 1998; Cuvinte pentru tineri, Craiova, 1998; Din visteria inimii mele, Craiova, 2000; Întâmpinări, Bucarest, 2000; Pentru cealaltă vreme a vieţii mele, Sibiu, 2001; Veniţi de luaţi bucurie.O sinteză a gândirii Părintelui Teofil în 750 de capete, Cluj-Napoca, 2001; Darurile Învierii, Craiova, 2002; Cuvinte lămuritoare.Articole şi scrisori, ClujNapoca, 2002; Amintiri despre duhovnicii pe care i-am cunoscut, Cluj-Napoca, 2003; Maica Domnului-raiul de taină al Ortodoxiei, Cluj-Napoca, 2003; Să luăm aminte!, Alba-Iulia, 2003; Cine sunt eu, ce spun eu despre mine, Sibiu, 2003; Hristos în mijlocul nostru, Cluj-Napoca, 2003; Credinţa lucrătoare prin iubire: predici la duminicile de peste an, Făgăraş, 2004; Bucuriile credinţei, Craiova, 2004; Gânduri senine, Bucarest, 2005; Sărbători fericite! Predici la praznice şi sărbători, Făgăraş, 2005 Puncte cardinale ale Ortodoxiei- Îndrumar duhovnicesc, Bucarest, 2005 ; Din ospăţul credinţei, Craiova, 2006, 2007; Gânduri de altădată, pentru atunci, pentru acum şi pentru totdeauna, Craiova, 2006.

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Christ through the fulfilment of His commands comes to be called Teognost, the one who knows God. And He who knows God comes to love God, that is Teofil, and he who loves God is Macarie – truly blessed. Also, after my call to the Hierarchical mission I had the joy of meeting him and serving the Liturgy with him several times at the Monastery Sâmbăta de Sus (the Upper Saturday), where he used to live. He was glad for the fact that his niece from his sister’s side, who was very dear to him, lived in Stockholm. I invited him to pay us a visit in Stockholm and he answered he would come willingly. In 2009, a few months before his death, he felt weakened. While serving a Liturgy at Sâmbăta de Sus (the Upper Saturday Monastery) he answered me with his well known humour: ‘My dear bishop, I would come for the mission in Stockholm, but I feel very weakened and here I receive confessions and counsel always. The ones here would leave me for being tired and the ones over there, in Scandinavia, would take me as a rested man.’ My last encounter with Fr. Teofil took place at the end of October 2009, only a few days before his departure from this world. I had arrived in Romania for the duties of the Holy Synod, but before the synodal session took place in Bucharest, I made a stop in my natal village, near the town of Cluj-Napoca, in Transylvania, to pay a visit to my parents. I found out that Fr. Teofil was in poor condition in one of the hospitals in Cluj. I went to see him and found him to be bright, but very weak. I read him the prayers of absolution. He asked me, as I was leaving to go to the Holy Synod, if I would send them the message that he was praying for the Holy Synod. As his farewell he told me: ‘My dear bishop, this is our last meeting in this world’. I tried to encourage him: ‘Father Teofil, it is not our last, we have to meet again in peace and good health’. He confirmed: ‘Indeed, it is not the last one.’ While attending the Synod, in the morning of October 29th, we were informed that Fr. Teofil had passed to the eternal places. Together with other Hierarchs, we hastened as soon as we could to his funeral at the Sâmbăta de Sus Monastery. Indeed, Fr. Teofil was right, our last meeting took place there, at his requiem, when we stood by him on his departure from this world. In what follows, I would like to say a few words about other two confessors who have had a great impact on spiritual life in Romania since the collapse of the communist regime. They are Fr. Rafail Noica and Fr. Ioan Cojanu. Fr. Rafail Noica, born in 1942, is

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the son of the great Romanian philosopher, Constantin Noica. At home, he received very little Orthodox Christian education, and at the age of 13 left for England with his English mother and his sister, in order to obtain a good education. He went through a period of spiritual searching, seeking fulfilment in various religions that he found in the West. One day he sensed, as he recalls: ‘Like a light in my soul, the thought of returning to Orthodoxy. And I became increasingly reconciled with the idea, without any logical explanation’. 10 Providentially, he met Archimandrite Sofronie Saharov (1896–1993), the abbot of St. John’s monastery in Essex, England, who inspired him to choose the monastic life. In 1961 Fr. Rafail returned to Orthodoxy and 1965 he was tonsured at Essex, monasticism being for him: ‘The answer to the questions I had asked in my childhood, and with the passing of time I had come to understand that death holds the meaning of life, and now I see that our existence here on earth is but the second stage of our passing from nothingness into what God is calling us, God’s Being, or immortality’. 11 In 1993, Fr. Rafail, after 38 years abroad, ‘like the paralytic in the Gospel’ 12 returned to Romania. First he came for a short visit, then subsequently settled in a hermitage in the Western Carpathian Mountains, where he started to translate and publish into Romanian the works of Starets Sofronie Saharov from Essex. He chose the life of solitude so as not to be disturbed in his spiritual work by the many faithful who wanted to visit him, seeking advice and prayer. From time to time, usually during Lent, he comes down to the nearby city of Alba Iulia, the Archdiocesan Center of the area he lives in, and holds a conference which has been publicized a few weeks beforehand, and then he opens up to answer questions from the audience. The great Auditorium of the Cultural Center in Alba Iulia is usually filled to capacity, and some have to listen via loudspeakers specially installed outside the building. Since Fr. Rafail 10

Celălalt Noica. Mărturii ale monahului Rafail Noica însoţite de câteva cuvinte de folos ale Părintelui Symeon, edited by Fr. Eugen Drăgoi and Fr. Ninel Ţugui, Bucarest, 2002, p. 44. 11 Ibid. p. 31. 12 Ibid. p. 75.

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comes down so rarely from the mountain, veritable pilgrimages are organized on these occasions. Monks, nuns and the faithful come from far afield in cars and buses especially rented for the event. Several of the lectures and dialogues from these meetings have been transcribed and published in a volume called Cultura Duhului (The Culture of the Spirit), Alba Iulia, 2002. Many of them also circulate throughout the country and abroad in video or audio format. I have had the joy and spiritual privilege to meet Fr. Rafail several times, but I was satisfied just to receive his blessing. As the Paterikon says: ‘Just to see him’ was enough for me. The simple fact of seeing him brought an intense peace and joy in my soul, a thing which can be felt only around the saints. In closing I would like to quote a single passage from a dialogue included in the volume Cultura Duhului, where he argues, like Fr. Teofil, for a return to frequent communion, a practice which is (unfortunately) not very common in several parts of Eastern Orthodoxy: Having communion with God, we now have the power to carry on, to perhaps experience what we request in the Liturgy, ‘that the whole day may be perfect, holy, peaceful and sinless’. Without God, nothing can be done, just as our Savior said: ‘Abide in Me, as the branch abides in the vine, because you can do nothing without Me’ (John 15:4) – for if we cut a branch from a tree it withers. And I would say that, to a certain extent, a day without Holy Communion is a day in which we spiritually wither. 13

Fr. Ioan Cojanu is the abbot of St. John the Baptist Monastery near Alba Iulia, an establishment founded after the fall of the communism in 1989, and the place where I myself was tonsured. He was born on January 27, 1959 in a Transylvanian village near Sibiu called Caşolţ, and after primary studies he attended the Orthodox Theological Seminary of Cluj-Napoca. Following graduation, at 22 years of age, he came to Archbishop Teofil Herineanu and requested to be ordained as a celibate priest for a very poor parish, where a priest with a family could not survive. The hierarch from Cluj 13

Ieromonahul Rafail Noica, Cultura Duhului, p. 158.

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made a good discernment and ordained him, sending him to a mountain village (Măguri Răcătău) where homes were widely scattered among ancient forests. Here he remained for some nine years, carrying on a remarkable missionary, pastoral, and, at the same time, administrative ministry, so that upon his departure he left a spiritually vibrant community gathered around the Holy Altar. He built a new rectory, and the church was restored. During his entire time at Măguri Răcătău, Fr. Ioan was under the careful spiritual guidance of the elderly Hieromonk Gavriil Miholca, from a parish located not far from that of his disciple. In 1990, after the fall of communism, Archbishop Andrei Andreicuţ of Alba-Iulia, who was successful in attracting to the monasteries of his diocese great spiritual fathers like Fr. Rafail Noica or Fr. Ioan Iovan from the Recea Convent, also called Fr. Ioan Cojanu from his mountain parish and tonsured him, appointing him abbot of the skete which later became ‘St. John the Baptist’ Monastery. One of the great spiritual qualities of the young Abbot Ioan is the fact that he harmoniously combines spiritual work and administrative work, and does not allow the latter to overwhelm him. One cannot, for example, that the monastery is still under construction, with its main church currently being built. Besides the new church, there is a wooden church, a historical monument dating from 1768, repositioned here from a nearby village. In addition to the spiritual help given to the many faithful who visit the monastery, the community concentrates on a life of prayer, work and study. I might also note that until recently a monthly spiritual newspaper called Epifania was published by the monastery, something that has been temporarily halted because of the construction projects; while the same publishing house brings out several spiritual books every year. Great emphasis is placed on both physical labor and worship here, with the daily liturgical cycle beginning at 2 a.m. Fr. Ioan himself has no bed in his room. He spends his few sleeping hours sitting in an armchair or lying on the floor of his room, seeking of course to do so discreetly (but we who are close notice these things). Like Fr. Teofil Părăian, Fr. Ioan is also to be found during Lent and Advent all across the country and in the communities of the Romanian Diaspora, engaged in so many meetings with young people and the faithful, in academic halls, cathedrals and churches. I met him at a turning point in my life, when I was ardently seeking a ‘starets’ to guide my development in the monastic life. I entrusted

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myself to him and I have benefited from his good counsel, even to this day being under his spiritual care. My youth needed a firm and solid model. During one of the meetings last year in Cluj with young people, Father Ioan was asked: ‘What is the meaning of youth?’ He replied that: It means to remain childlike in your heart. When God created man, He did not want to think that man would grow old. Not even his body. Yet, He did envisage growth and development of maturity and completeness. Thus nothing that God put into man must disappear: first of all, his youth, although man must be transformed inwardly. It is not really a matter of the mind, brainpower, memory or bodily capacities, though the goal is obvious: God wants man to grow spiritually. My beloved, what does youth mean for us? It can mean anything, but the unique dimension of a young person is this, for each one of us, being available to God. 14

I have given an overview of just four of the most well known spiritual fathers of Romania, yet, as pointed out by Fr. Nicolas Stebbing in his book which constitutes a genuine modern Paterikon, beside the Romanian confessors who are ‘national figures’, there are numerous monk priests or laypersons who continually guide the faithful in the way of salvation and communion with Christ: ‘We have already seen that many people are more than happy with their own parish priests and do not seek out monks or well known theologians to give them guidance and to hear their confessions’. 15 Currently within the Romanian Orthodox Patriarchate there are 400 monasteries and about 200 sketes operating, with more than 8,000 monastics. Certainly in our country too the influence of secularization is being increasingly felt, but we believe that as long as spiritual Fathers exist to guide the destinies of the monks and the faithful in the spirit of the Gospel, God will preserve alive in our souls the faith which works through love (Galatians 5:6). St. Pr Ioan Cojanu, Rolul nevoinţei în formarea tânărului, ‘Filocalia’, supplement of the ‘Renaşterea’ journal, no. 4/2006, Cluj-Napoca, p. 2. 15 Nicolas Stebbing, Bearers of the Spirit. Spiritual Fatherhood in Romanian Orthodoxy, Kalamazoo, Michigan, 1999, pp. 272–273. 14

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Philaret of Moscow said: ‘Give me a hundred good confessors and I will change the face of the world’. 16 Therefore, we remain full of optimism.

16

After Ne vorbeşte Părintele Arsenie, Sihăstria, 2004, p. 111.

THE BEAUTY OF SILENCE IN CHRISTIAN MONASTIC TRADITION TEODOR DAMIAN Silence is the mystery of the age to come. (St. Isaac the Syrian). When St. Isaac the Syrian affirms that ‘silence is the mystery of the age to come,’ he contrasts it with ‘words that are instruments of this world.’ 1 If one thinks of words as language, and if words are the language of this world, then silence can also be understood as the language of the future ages. The idea of silence as language is hidden in his comparison (or rather contrast) of silence with words. However, silence as language is a notion that, while not excluding mystery, is full of sense, challenge and beauty, because it involves communication, meaning, conscious being and purpose. In the monastic tradition silence is fundamental to this particular way of life. It is not only considered the fastest way to virtue, but also the mother of all virtues, a pathway to transfiguration and of experiencing the divine.

SOME DEFINITIONS Among the many ways in which one can define silence, one general monastic definition regards it as inner peace or rest of heart and mind, or the liberation of the mind (nous) from any external influence, from worldly thoughts. Even if one can distinguish nuances The Ascetical Homilies of Saint Isaac the Syrian, Tr. D Miller. (Holy Transfiguration Monastery), Boston, MA, 1984, p. 321. 1

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in the concept, as for instance when silence is viewed as quiet (sigè, σιγἠ) and rest as hesychia (ἡσυχἰα), 2 these nuances are used most of the time interchangeably, silence being considered as implying both, quiet and rest (hesychia, for instance, is understood as the practice of inner silence and constant prayer, or the emptying of mind of any visualization, of any thought). According to St. Basil the Great hesychia, used to refer to silence in general, is an ideal not only for the monastic but for Christian life in general, 3 and indeed, this ideal has penetrated so deeply in people’s consciousness in some cultures that the words monasticism and hesychasm became synonyms. 4 Silence normally implies abstinence from many words, and in that case it is called silence of the tongue, while there is a silence of the body, too, as well as a silence of the mind. However, silence does not have to be necessarily physical; it can also imply discernment when it comes to a question of what to say and what not to say, as Abba Poimen describes: ‘A man may seem to be silent, but if his heart is condemning others, he is babbling ceaselessly. But there may be another who talks from morning till night and yet he is truly silent, that is, he says nothing that is not profitable.’ 5 In its multiple aspects and manifestations, silence is a spiritual exercise Denys L’Aréopagite, La Hiérarchie Céleste, Sources Chrétiennes, Introduction par René Roques, Etude et Text Critique par Gunther Heil, Traduction et notes par Maurice de Gandillac, Les Editions du Cerf, Paris, 1970, p. xi. 3 The Fathers Speak, Translated and Edited by George Barrois, St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, Crestwood, NY, 1986, p. 47. 4 In Romania, for instance, the hesychastic spirituality is so much embedded in the Orthodox Tradition that another word for a hermit monk is ‘sihastru,’ and an isolated place where he lives is called ‘sihastrie’, which is also a word for a smaller, sometimes more remote monastery. The term ‘sihastru’ (from hesychia) is not a new borrowing in the Romanian language. It is attested already in the 15th century when the spiritual advisor of theMoldavian Prince Steven the Great (1457–1504), the monk Daniil, was called: Daniil Sihastru. 5 Sayings of the Desert Fathers: available at: www.gypojenny.wordpress. com/2011/08/25/the-desert-fathers-on-silence. 2

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that takes one away from the world in order to help see better one’s right position in the world.

BIBLICAL FOUNDATIONS The idea of silence as a way of being in human relationships is present in the Bible in many ways and places. The monastic concern for discernment, when it comes to what one is saying, can be found in Psalm 39.1–2 for instance: ‘I told myself: ‘I will be careful not to sin by what I say, and I will muzzle my mouth when evil people are near’’, or in Psalm 141.3: ‘Help me to guard my words whenever I say something,’ or in James 1. 26: ‘If you think you are being religious, but can’t control your tongue, you are fooling yourself, and everything you do is useless,’ or in Proverbs 14. 3: ‘Proud fools are punished for their stupid talk, but sensible talk can save your life.’ In terms of discernment when it comes to words, the monastic practice of silence also has in view Christ’s warning about the dangers of verbiage and His advice for brevity and simplicity in communication: ‘When you make a promise, say only ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Anything else comes from the devil’ (Mt. 5. 37). And also ‘I promise you that on the day of judgment everyone will have to account for every careless word they have spoken. On that day they will be told that they are either innocent or guilty because of the things they have said.’ (Mt. 12. 36–37). This last warning by Christ is commented on in this way by Abba Poimen: ‘If we only remembered that it is written: ‘By your words you will be justified and by your words you will be condemned,’ we would choose to remain silent.’ 6 However silence is also viewed as an instrument of inner concentration that allows one to hear God’s voice or calling. That is the reason why sometimes God leads certain people into the desert: because the desert offers the context of such an attentive, concentrated, faithful hearing, as in the case of Hosea 2. 14): ‘Israel, I , the Lord, will lure you into the desert and speak gently to you.’ God proceeds this way because the desert’s silence has an effect, an impact, an influence, on one’s soul. Also, the desert is the place 6

The Desert Fathers, see: www.orthodox.net/gleanings/silence.html.

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where one is solely dependent on God. It is as if the desert’s silence transfers itself into the soul of the one brought in the desert. That move, by itself, takes one away from passive listening, as in the world, where one listens to God among many other things, and towards active, reflective, conscious listening. The desert simply offers this chance for deep, quiet listening. The desert thus becomes a kind of laboratory of listening. In the world things happen in a different way. The world does not teach you how to listen. In other words, one needs to know how to keep silent in order to know how to listen. If one talks too much, one listens too little. And this is what monks and nuns try to avoid by their way of silence. As I heard an 8 year old child once put it: ‘Monks are not as talkative because since they have God talk to them constantly they got used to listening to Him. They can’t interrupt Him.’ 7

SPEAKING AS OPPOSED TO SILENCE The polarity of world versus desert leads directly to another one, that of speaking versus silence. In the monastic tradition silence is preferred to speaking. However, there are rules, circumstances, exceptions when speaking is a chance given to some monks in special situations. According to St. Basil’s Rules, speaking, in a monastic community, is a charge given only to some, and with special purpose. The regular monk must do whatever he is supposed to do in silence: ‘Those who work should apply themselves quietly (meta hesychian) to their tasks and leave speeches of exhortation to those entrusted with the judicious dispensation of the word for the edification of the faith.’ 8 Even when speaking about God or when one is trying to theologize, the Church Fathers encourage silence. Meister Eckhart, for instance, believes that the best way to speak about God is to keep silent because speaking about God makes one lie

See www.anatolasarab.ro/cugetari-ale-copiilor-despre-divinitate [in Romanian]. 8 George Barrois, op. cit., p. 53. 7

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and sin. 9 Silence thus becomes a sort of via negativa where one feels perfectly comfortable to live with the mystery of the divine, and without any attempt to decipher it in order to satisfy human rational needs. As part of the via negativa, when it comes to approaching God, the discipline of silence, which implies and ascesis of language, intends to protect the human heart from the invasion of words. Just as Jacques Ellul spoke of a proliferation of images to the detriment of the word 10 in modern society, so, the ascetics fear, there is a proliferation of the word and even thoughts, in the detriment of silence. Not only when one talks about God is silence recommended, but even when one talks to God, when one prays, many monks recommend no use of words and advise mental prayer, including the prayer of the heart: ‘Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, sinner,’ which brings rest (hesychia) to the inner being. The assumption is that because God is silence, one prays to God in silence.

THE DIVINE SILENCE In Christian mysticism the foundation of the discipline of silence ultimately resides in God who can be best approached apophatically, in contemplation, because God is silence. From the first centuries Desert Fathers like Isaac the Syrian, or Evagrius Ponticus to Pseudo-Dionysius, Symeon the New Theologian, Meister Eckhart, John of the Cross, and many other inspired theologians and mystics, all spoke about God in negative terms in order to demonstrate the inability of any human capacity, be it reason, imagination, feeling, intuition or anything else, to describe God appropriately. That is why they portrayed God as darkness, silence, beyond being, as God beyond God, hyper-substantial, the ‘cloud of unknowing’ and so on. One of the most beautiful ‘definitions’ given to God, for Meister Eckhart, The Essential Sermons, Commentaries, Treatises and Defense, Classics of Western Spirituality, Translation and Introduction by Edmund Colledge and Bernard McGinn, Preface by Huston Smith, Paulist Press, New York, 1981, p. 207. 10 Jacques Ellul, The Humiliation of the Word, Translation by Joyce Main Hanks, William B. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, Michigan, 1985. 9

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example, comes from Meister Eckhart who wrote that God is a Word at the end of silence. 11 The way John of the Cross put it is also beautiful: ‘Silence is God’s first language.’ 12 One of the Church Fathers who, in his writings places a special emphasis on God’s silence (sigè) was Ignatius of Antioch. Speaking of the Incarnation of God’s Son, he explains that the divine Logos came out of God’s silence or broke God’s silence 13 and that the three great mysteries in Christian religion, the virginity of Mary, her pregnancy and our Lord’s death on the cross were all taking place in the silence of God. 14 In fact God created everything in silence even though He spoke, and it is silence that makes all things worthy. As the divine Logos participated in the act of creation, His creative power was manifested silently. In conclusion, Ignatius advises that anyone who truly possesses the word of Christ can listen to His silence, too, because the divine silence is just as efficient as the divine word, and this is how one can advance on the way to spiritual perfection. 15 St. Ignatius’ idea about breaking God’s silence is also present in Pseudo-Dionysius. In his work The Celestial Hierarchy the great mystic writes that one of the functions of the created order is to make God come out of His silence. 16 Even the angels, who are part of the created order, have the mission to reveal to us the unity and the silence of God and to bring us to this unity and silence that precede all multiplicity and expression. 17 This divine silence that preceded everything, including the creation of the world, in which no creature dwells, is, in Jacob In French: ‘Dieu est une parole à l’extremité du silence.’ This description is also attributed to St Isaac the Syrian (see: www.cles.com/chronique/retrouver-la-vie-de-l-esprit). 12 See: www.diversejourneys.com/?tag=meister-eckhart. 13 Ignace d’Antioche, Polycarpe de Smyrne, Lettres; Martyre de Polycarpe, Introduction, Traduction et notes de P. Th. Camelot, O.P., Les Editions du Cerf, Paris, 1969, p. 87. 14 Ibid. p. 75. 15 Ibid. p. 71. 16 Denys L’Aréopagite, op. cit., p. LXX. 17 Ibid. p. xci. 11

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Boehme’s understanding, paradoxically, accessible to the person who strives diligently to hear God and be in communion with God. In Boehme’s rendering of a conversation between a teacher and a student we read this: The student said to the master: ‘How may I come to the supersensual life so that I can see God and hear Him speak?’ The master said: ‘If you can sweep up for a moment into that in which no creature dwells, you can hear what God speaks.’ The student said: ‘Is that near or far?’ The master said: ‘It is in you. If you could be silent from all willing and thinking for one hour, you would hear God’s inexpressible words.’ The student said: ‘With what shall I see and hear God since He is above nature and creature?’ The master said: ‘When you move silently, then you are that which God was before nature and creature, [that] out of which He created your nature and creature. Then you will hear and see with that with which God saw and heard in you before your own willing, seeing and hearing began.’ 18

The silence these authors describe is not something empty, it does not indicate absence; on the contrary, it is a silence full of presence, and just as God inhabits the divine silence, so is the ascetic supposed to come to the level where, empty of all worldly preoccupations, he can immerse himself into this type of silence where he is fully present and God is fully present.

THE USE OF SILENCE If Plato is right when he asserts that man is built on conflicting desires, on contradictions, then silence can be understood as an instrument that brings to us a much needed inner harmony and balance. According to the mystical Christian tradition, silence brings a type of ineffable light in the soul, it clears the soul from distractions or earthly thoughts, and it helps one reach the depth of one’s soul and dwell there. In doing that, which allows one to rid Jacob Boehme, The Way to Christ, Classics of Western Spirituality, Translation and Introduction by Peter Erb, Preface by Winfried Zeller, Paulist Press, New York, 1978, p. 171. 18

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oneself of the strong human tendency to vain speech, and to listen more effectively to God, silence sacralizes the human heart and mind by helping us set ourselves apart. Holiness implies being set apart for special use, in this case for doing the divine work of clearing God’s image in the soul by fighting the corrupted, false ego. Silence in the Orthodox ascetical tradition is also used as a tool to attain dispassion (apatheia), detachment and purification. According to Evagrius Ponticus, if one reaches total apatheia, impassibility, one becomes angelical, 19 or ready for the union with God, through grace, which is theosis or deification, since silence (sigè) and rest (hesychia) are characteristics of the mystical state that lead to this ultimate purpose of one’s spiritual life. 20 Deification, according to the doctrine of the uncreated energies promoted by Palamite theology, is the most important goal for all human beings, as it responds to the highest aspiration of man and is perfectly consistent with the imago Dei theology. 21 It implies the constant longing for God, and it is achieved only insofar as it is possible in this life. 22

THE RULE OF SILENCE As a monastic, spiritual value, silence is regarded as leading to selfknowledge, self-assessment and a more harmonious inner life. It brings about nepsis, watchful, focused attention that helps eliminate worldly thoughts, called by some mystics ‘thieves,’ and discard verbiage (polylogeia). In other words, in order to reach a mystical state where one experiences the Ineffable 23 progressive elimination of Evagre Le Pontique, Traité Pratique ou Le Moine, I, Sources Chrétiennes, Introduction par Antoine Guillaumont et Claire Guillaumont, Les Editions du Cerf, Paris, 1971, p. 108. 20 Denys l’Aréopagite, op. cit., p. xi. 21 Theodor Damian, ‘A Few Considerations on the Uncreated Energies in St. Gregory Palamas’s Theology and His Continuity with the Patristic Tradition’ in The Patristic and Byzantine Review, vol. 15, Nrs. 1,2,3, 1996–1997, New York, pp. 105–106. 22 The Cloud of Unknowing, Classics of Western Spirituality, Edited and with an Introduction by James Walsh, SJ, Paulist Press, New York, 1981, p. 29. 23 Denys l’Aréopagite, op. cit., p. XXIX. 19

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intelligible discourse is required, 24 because one is entering the divine darkness, the divine unknowing in silence. As PseudoDionysius put it, man cannot meet God except in silence. 25 St. John Cassian praises the very strict rule of silence observed by the Tabennesiote monks in Egypt and lists it among other characteristics of the monastic life such as manual labor or reading, 26 while Ignatius of Antioch believed that silence has to be a main feature of a bishop’s personality, even if he has administrative duties, because it is silence that gives him the quality of representing God, since God is silence and silence is the symbol of God. 27 As a general rule Ignatius advised that it is better to be silent and be, than speaking and not being, 28 which indicates how crucially important silence was for the bishop of Antioch who thus gave it an existential dimension. The monastics learn how to be silent even when they are talking, praying, working or singing. Their style of chanting might have influenced liturgical Byzantine music where some of the prayers are chanted in a way that not only shows how transparent silence is therein, but also induces and introduces the participant believer to its experience; as is the case with the cherubic hymn or the troparion chanted during the sanctification of the offering in the divine liturgy. Silence is also liturgically practiced, with great effect in that it helps internalize the prayers, in the Roman-Catholic and Protestant traditions where, during the liturgy, at a certain point there is a pause where no words are spoken or sung. There are many beautiful stories about silence, in terms of how it was observed by monks or what its role was and how important it was for them. One such tells about Abba Pambo. It is said that one day Theophilus, bishop of Alexandria, went to Sketis (in Egypt) to visit Abba Pambo. Some monks told Pambo: ‘Say a word to the bishop Ibid., p. xxxviii. Ibid., p. xxix. 26 Jean Cassien, Institutions Cénobitiques, Sources Chrétiennes, Introduction, Traductions et notes par Jean-Claude Guy, Editions du Cerf, Paris, 1965, pp. 137; 145. 27 Ignace d’Antioche, op. cit., pp. 38, 63. 28 Ibid. p. 71. 24 25

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so his soul can be edified by this place’, to which the old man replied: ‘If he is not edified by my silence, there is no hope that he will be edified by my words.’ 29

SILENCE AND CONTEMPLATION There is the physical world that reveals itself to us phenomenologically, and there is a noumenal world waiting to be discovered. And just as there are signs of the time that one must learn to read in order to decipher some of the Eschaton’s mysteries, (Mt. 24. 3–33), so also is there the phenomenal world that stands as a sign of the world beyond, which is the real home we are all called to; just as the prodigal son was awaited by his father to come home from the strange world he chose to go to. The perception of this ‘home,’ our authentic world that we have been made for, is achieved through contemplation, which is a non-verbal prayer or reflection or an attempt to see God’s presence in any given thing in the created order, and also an attempt to rid the mind of any thought whatsoever. Anoushka von Heuer put it beautifully: ‘contemplation repatriates the soul into being.’ 30 The contemplation of the divine purity, which implies emptying oneself of anything that occupies the inner space which needs to be filled with the divine presence only, can be achieved only in silence. 31 One common metaphor the monastics use to explain contemplation is that of clear water. If you want to see your face in the water, it has to be still and clear. If it is troubled, for the soul can be troubled by alien thoughts, you can’t see clearly. In other words, if one wants to see God, one’s mind has to be filled with God’s presence exclusively. However, according to one medieval author, this attempt is taking place in the silence of a paradoxical darkness: For when you first begin to undertake it, all that you find is darkness, a sort of cloud of unknowing; you cannot tell what it is, except that you experience in your will a simple reaching out See, www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aophthegmata_Patrum. Anoushka von Heuer, Le huitième jour ou La dette d’Adam, Jean-Luc de Rougemont Editeur, Genève, 1980, p. 38. 31 Jean Cassien, op. cit. p. 389. 29 30

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to God. This darkness and cloud is always between you and your God […] so, set yourself in this darkness […] for if you are to experience Him or to see Him at all, insofar as it is possible here, it must always be in this cloud and in this ness 32

We are given an explanation for this terminology: ‘Darkness is a privation of knowing; whatever you have forgotten or do not know is dark to you.’ ‘That which is between you and your God is termed, not a cloud of the air, but a cloud of the unknowing. 33 There are several types of contemplation, and according to Symeon the New Theologian, the highest of all is that mediated by ‘words without sound’ when one wants to speak but is speechless. 34 Through such an experience a person can arrive at the level where they can see the divine light with physical eyes, 35 just like those who realized such an achievement in the Palamite hesychastic tradition. Silence, which brings about liberation of the mind, is the necessary platform for contemplation of both created things, and of the ideas of the created things, and, in order to achieve it, there is an entire process that the mystic has to go through which implies personal effort. St. Maximus the Confessor explains this process as follows: When the mind is completely freed from the passions, it journeys straight ahead to the contemplation of created things and makes its way to the knowledge of the Holy Trinity. When the mind is pure and takes on ideas of things, it is moved to a spiritual contemplation. But when it has become impure by care-

The Cloud of Unknowing, pp. 120–121. Ibid. p. 128. 34 Syméon Le Nouveau Théologien, Traités Théologiques et Ethiques (I), Sources Chrétiennes, Introduction, Texte critique, Traduction et notes par Jean Darrouzès, Les Editions du Cerf, Paris, 1966, p. 401. 35 Vasile Borca, ‘Neoisihasmul de la Lainici,’ [in Romanian] in Familia română, An 14, Nr. 3 (50), Septembrie 2013, Baia Mare, p. 16. 32 33

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Purity of mind, which is equivalent to the silence of the mind, silentium mentis, implies that emptying of worldly thoughts and this indicates a new type of inner dynamics, like a mental re-programming which is obtained through constant exercise and which leads to a new existential condition, to the formation of a different kind of consciousness and perception. This is a self-transcending experience that shows a re-centering of the self. The common self, full of worries, that apparently are important but in fact prove to be inessential, and that together constitute its center, by virtue of becoming empty, becomes also ‘lighter’ and thus begins to perceive extrasensorially the divine; to be filled by it and have it as the new inner center. The Divine Liturgy in the Orthodox tradition represents a significant exercise in this sense, because it helps the participant believer to re-center him or herself in God. This is done through different means, one of which is prayer as a general context, and in particular, prayer that is repeated cyclically, such as ‘Lord have mercy.’ Also during the cherubimic hymn the believer is exhorted to leave behind every worldly worry, to empty the mind in order to contemplate silently the mystery of the transformation of the Eucharistic offering. It is only when the mind is completely empty that one offers oneself to be completely inhabited by God, as St. Paul testified: ‘From now on it is no longer I that live, but it is Christ who lives in me’ (Galatians 2. 20). This kind of inhabitation indicates an authentic personal union with God, union (henosis) which is the third level of Christian perfection after purification and illumination. Many mystics call this union theosis. The need to leave behind every worldly worry is emphasized by St. Ephrem the Syrian as well, in his beautiful prayer used in liturgical services of Great Lent: Lord and Master of my life, take away Maximus Confessor, Selected Writings, The Classics of Western Spirituality, Translation and notes by George C. Berthold, Introduction by Jaroslav Pelikan, Preface by Irenee-Herni Dalmais, OP, Paulist Press, New York, 1985, p. 45. 36

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from me the spirit of sloth, faint-heartedness (meddling or idle curiosity or inquisitiveness – periergeias), lust of power and idle talk… Of course, beyond the prayer that God help in this sense, the monk needs to participate by using diakrisis, discernment of spirits, of thoughts, in order to make sure he eliminates the mental ‘thieves.’ Our many worries, if not left behind, risk becoming idols, and the idols, in turn, monsters. 37 The theological idea behind the freedom from many worries is that these worries lead to the reification of the mind, to a distortion of the imago Dei in man. The elimination of these worries then is part of the process of man’s re-modeling, restoration in Christ according to God’s image. Jesus warns about this in Jn.14.1: Do not let not your hearts be troubled; trust in God, trust also in me.

CONCLUSION Silence in the Christian monastic tradition, therefore, is a complex phenomenon that leads to inner transformation to the point where one’s life becomes authentically theocentric. It is transcendence that gives meaning to human existence; and silence (and after it contemplation), are efficient tools for one’s opening and advancement towards it. Cultivating silence is like weeding the land of the soul in order to prepare it for the Word of God which, once fallen on good fertile ground, will produce hundredfold fruit (Lk. 8. 15). Through their practice of silence with all its implications, and the theology it is based on, the monastics are effectively proposing a new definition of man, a revision of our understanding of who we really are, of our original vocation and destiny, in other words, they propose a radically new anthropology, 38 all the more important since ascetic practices are not reserved exclusively to those who withdraw from the world but are meant for anyone in the world A. Heschel, Who is Man?, Stamford University Press, Stanford, CA, 1965, p. 86. 38 Theodor Damian, Theological and Spiritual Dimensions of Icons according to St. Theodore of Studion, The Edwin Mellen Press, Lewiston, New York, 2002, pp. 269–270. 37

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who wants to internalize monasticism and live a holy life dedicated to God and to the service of others.

THE ‘MYSTICAL MUNDANE’ IN FR. NIKON OF KAROULIA’S LETTERS TO GERALD PALMER CHRISTOPHER D. L. JOHNSON Today the Philokalia is widely known as one of the primary texts relating to Orthodox spiritual life, asceticism, and prayer. It can be found at any number of bookstores and is often read even by those far removed from the Orthodox Church or even from Christianity. On the other hand, next to nothing is known of the story behind the English translation of the Philokalia. One of the text’s translators, Metropolitan Kallistos Ware, has written several articles that address aspects of this story (1994, 2008). Beyond a few short, scattered references elsewhere, 1 these are the only sources one can find on the subject. Little is known of the Philokalia’s editor, Gerald Eustace Howell Palmer, and even less is known of his spiritual father and the monastic inspiration behind Palmer’s translation project, Fr. Nikon Strandtman. Palmer, though playing a very public role in politics earlier in his life, left none of his own writings other than a one-page description of silence on Mount Athos in a 1968 issue of Holy Transfiguration’s Orthodox Life and three books on consultation and co-operation in the British Commonwealth from the 1930s and 1940s. In Ware’s articles on Palmer, he relies on what Examples of such sources on Fr. Nikon Strandtman are Bolshakoff, 2001; Christensen, 2010; Cavarnos, 1953, 1959, 1973, 1997; Doren, 1961a, 1961b, 1964; Kaestner, 1963; Karambelas, 1987; Maloney 1963a, 1963b. 1

485

486 FR. NIKON OF KAROULIA’S LETTERS TO GERALD PALMER Palmer had told him in personal conversations and states that he knows of no written account of his life (2008: 144, note 6). The same elusiveness can be said to describe Fr. Nikon, who has remained the mysterious figure who inspired the English translation of the Philokalia and is seen in a single photograph in Graham Speake’s Renewal in Paradise. It seemed as if he would only be indirectly known by his influence on Palmer and for a single quote, which was often repeated by Palmer and quoted elsewhere: ‘Here [on Athos] every stone breathes prayer’ (2008: 144). Fortunately for posterity, Palmer kept meticulous records of his correspondence. Much of what has survived of this material was discovered during a research trip in England over the summer of 2013. As a result, many of the missing pieces of the story behind the English Philokalia will now become available to help interested scholars put together a more complete picture of this fascinating story. This chapter will focus on the figure of Fr. Nikon as discerned in his letters to Gerald Palmer from 1948 until Fr. Nikon’s death in 1963, in Palmer’s journal of his first visit to Athos in 1948, and in several other contemporary sources. While much remains to be gleaned from these sources, the primary aim of this chapter is to show Fr. Nikon’s life as an example of what could be called the ‘mystical mundane’. This concept suggests that if the mystical can be considered hidden, it is often hidden in plain sight among life’s ordinary daily duties and activities. In these sources, Fr. Nikon is shown to have one foot on earth and the other in the heavens and his letters alternate (often within a single letter) between profound spiritual advice, expressions of personal unworthiness and love, descriptions of the weather and everyday life in Karoulia, outstanding humor, and desperate requests for material aid and visitors. Often our only interactions with ascetic hermits take place in the realm of hagiographic stories of the miraculous or in the form of advice on profound spiritual matters. Rarely do we get a glimpse into the everyday frustrations and quirks that can add up to a life of solitary holiness. More traditional hagiography rarely gives such glimpses, though perhaps Pavel Florensky’s Salt of the Earth could be considered an unconventional modern exception. These letters ultimately challenge the common hard and fast distinction between ‘this-worldly’ and ‘other-worldly’ and, rather than detracting from Fr. Nikon’s saintliness, reveal a very human figure in a lifelong struggle for holiness who was often seen by oth-

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ers as especially grace-filled. Recently, the otherworldly image of the saint has been challenged by scholars such as Michael Plekon in his works Hidden Holiness and Saints As They Really Are: Voices of Holiness in Our Time and in the extremely popular Everyday Saints and Other Stories by Archimandrite Tikhon Shevkunov. Fr. Nikon’s letters continue this recent shift and reveal a very human figure who struggled with sorrow, loneliness, poor health, and poverty but who was also profoundly joyous, gregarious, indomitable, humorous, and the inspiration for what was to become one of the most influential Orthodox texts in the Anglophone world. First it is necessary to give a brief sketch of who Gerald Palmer and Fr. Nikon were and how it was that they met. Gerald Eustace Howell Palmer was born in 1902 as heir of the successful English cookie manufacturer, Huntley and Palmer, in Reading, England. Palmer decided to go into politics rather than take over the family business and served as the Conservative M.P. for Winchester from 1935–1945. He was a spiritual seeker and disciple of P.D. Ouspensky during part of this time. Before Ouspensky’s death in 1947, his teacher had mentioned the use of the Jesus Prayer as one authentic spiritual path, which was affirmed by Ouspensky’s personal secretary Evgeniya Kadloubovsky as a practice that was still in use on Mount Athos. Ouspensky asked the two to embark on a translation of parts of the Philokalia. 2 After his teacher’s death, Palmer traveled to Athos to learn more about this prayer and to meet several monks, one of whom was Fr. Nikon, a Russian hermit living in the ‘terrible Karoulia’. This visit and contact with Fr. Nikon was to have a profound, though not immediate, effect on him and, through his influence, many others. As Palmer’s colleague Ware says, the ‘immense and far-reaching influence throughout the English-speaking world [of the Philokalia] can be traced back to a single source: Gerald Palmer’s visit to the Holy Mountain in May 1948 and his providential encounter with Fr. Nikon’ (1994: 26). Palmer soon overcame initial doubts and hesitations following this trip and was chrismated as an The role of Ouspensky in Palmer’s translation is clear, but details of his influence require further research, which I hope to pursue in the near future. 2

488 FR. NIKON OF KAROULIA’S LETTERS TO GERALD PALMER Orthodox Christian in London in 1950. He was never to marry and neither did his sister Elizabeth, who also converted to Orthodoxy and played a part in early translations efforts of Orthodox texts into English. In fact, Gerald Palmer considered becoming a monk himself on the Holy Mountain. While he didn’t take this step, he did return there on pilgrimage at least once a year until his death in 1984 at his family estate at Bussock Mayne near Reading. After his conversion in 1950, Palmer was to visit Fr. Nikon once a year or more until the monk’s death on September 20, 1963; this in addition to their lengthy correspondence. Palmer and Fr. Nikon wrote hundreds of letters and postcards to each other between 1948 to 1963, many of which have survived. When Fr. Nikon died, Palmer was to continue visiting Karoulia and other locations in the southern part of the Athonite peninsula until the end of his own life on February 7, 1984. Palmer stayed with other Russian monks at Karoulia, such as Fr. Seraphim and Fr. Nikodim, and with the Greek iconographer Fr. Elias at Great St. Anne’s Skete until he was unable to make the steep climb to Karoulia. While Fr. Nikon was his first spiritual father, after his death Palmer still felt compelled to visit Athos for its holy atmosphere and other holy inhabitants. From the 1970s on, he stayed at nearby Grigoriou Monastery, which was easier to access by boat. The abbot of this monastery, Fr. George, urged Palmer to consider staying at the monastery for the rest of his life as a tonsured monk. As his close friend, Ware suggested to Palmer that his vocation seemed to be ‘in the world’ rather than at a monastery. 3 While Palmer considered this invitation, he ultimately chose to spend his last years at his family estate Bussock Mayne near Reading. Yet Ware notes Palmer’s ‘sense of the nearness of the Eternal in every part of the Mountain’ and his overwhelming love for the Mountain which was such ‘that he continued to travel there even when severely crippled; his last two visits had to be made on crutches’ (Ware 2008). Fr. Nikon Strandtman was born in Gradno, Belarus, having as his godfather none other than Tsar Alexander II and serving as Page at the time of Nicholas’s coronation. His father was a general This episode was related in a personal conversation with Bishop Ware (2013). 3

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of the Tsar’s household and his brother was later the Russian ambassador to Serbia. He was also a big game hunter and decorated veteran of three wars, including the Russo-Japanese War, leading a Regiment as a Colonel on the First World War front. Before becoming a monk he had been a member of the Indian branch of the Theosophical Society in St. Petersburg and later met Krishnamurti in 1931 but lost all respect for his teachings when, asking about the role of love, he was told that ‘love was a degradation and that the mind was the highest thing.’ 4 In 1920, after the First World War, Fr. Nikon was living in Belgrade and followed up on a rumor that the Tsar was still alive. When his hopes were dashed he retreated to a monastery on the coast of Yugoslavia, which he then recognized from a childhood dream he had of himself as a monk there. He later moved to the Cell of St. John Chrysostom near Karyes on Mount Athos, raised funds in England and the U.S. from 1929– 1934 and eventually moved to Karoulia in 1941 where he lived near a community of six other Russians. This is where Palmer met him in 1948 at age 72. Palmer was to visit him at least once a year until Fr. Nikon’s death in 1963 and then continue visiting Athos until his own death in 1984. Palmer was lucky to find Fr. Nikon when and where he did both because the monk rarely left Karoulia and because he was one of the few monks of his kind left on Athos. Sydney Loch, the Scottish humanitarian and author, mentions him in his account of Athos: Father Nikon, charming, educated, a Russian, and once a man of the world, survives there [in Karoulia] in his chapel cell, lying down to sleep with a stone for a pillow and the skulls of seventeen of his predecessors staring at him from a shelf. There he shed his association with courts and kings, and gained an ease of soul that shines from him. He is possibly the last of the educated solitaries left on the Mountain, and to spend an hour or two in his company is something out of this All quotes without citations are from the unpublished materials of Gerald Palmer, either journals or correspondence. I have the Eling Trust to thank for access to these materials. 4

490 FR. NIKON OF KAROULIA’S LETTERS TO GERALD PALMER world. Only the stout-hearted can face the chains leadings down to his eyrie. 5

Ware gives a similar description of this hermit with a very cosmopolitan background and explains how this was to help Palmer’s seeking: Fr. Nikon was an altogether unusual kind of Athonite monk. He was of noble birth, well educated, with a startling and sometimes caustic wit … Despite his eremitic seclusion, Fr. Nikon continued to take a lively interest in the outside world … At the same time Fr. Nikon was a strict ascetic, devoted to the Jesus Prayer and profoundly rooted in the Hesychast tradition of the Philokalia … In the person of Fr. Nikon, Palmer had found the one Athonite monk who was qualified par excellence to assist him with his spiritual quest … his wide experience of the world before entering the monastic life enabled Fr. Nikon to understand Palmer’s social and cultural milieu. 6

Fr. Nikon’s letters to Gerald Palmer make clear that, while Fr. Nikon lived a very solitary life, he also maintained lifelong connections to many Russian nobles, pilgrims, and other friends through their visits to his cell, his periodic trips to mainland Greece, the United States, and other countries, and primarily through his written correspondence. As with the slightly earlier example of St. Theophan the Recluse and many other such figures going back to St. Antony the Great, pilgrimage and written correspondence can often link solitaries in complex and powerful ways to the world outside their cells, making theirs a very qualified kind of solitariness. Fr. Nikon may have been a quasi-solitary but his life was filled with the virtual presence and mutual assistance of his many friends: he advised them and kept them in his prayers while they offered gifts, financial assistance, companionship and a degree of connection to the world outside his remote hut. His letters provide an unusual insight into the life of a rigorous ascetic and from them we 5 6

Loch 1957: 220. Ware 2008: 146–7.

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find that his links to the world are not as few as might be suspected. This and Fr. Nikon’s multilingual cosmopolitanism tend to complicate the all too common assumptions that hermits are uneducated or illiterate, completely otherworldly, and not interested or connected to anyone or anything in the outside world. There are many references to Russian Duchesses and Princesses in his letters and it is clear that he knew and kept in touch with many royals who escaped after the October Revolution. Among his many visitors were David Balfour, Edward Howell whose incredible survival story was recorded in the book Escape to Live, humanitarian and author Sydney Loch, theologian Boris Bobrinskoy, and Swiss layman Rene Bruschweiler, who later became Elder Symeon at the Orthodox monastery in Essex founded by Elder Sophrony Sakharov. While Fr. Nikon’s life of luxury was now behind him, Palmer’s journal recounts the hermit fondly describing what were once his favorite hotels and champagnes and the pastimes of his ‘previous life’, such as big game hunting. As expected in letters to a serious seeker interested in the Jesus Prayer, Fr. Nikon instructs Palmer on how to practice this prayer, giving him details on physical posture and on inner struggle: (1) Before beginning my prayers, I stand awhile silent, pushing every idea aside, then I say to myself ‘Attention,’ after which I say ‘In the name of the Father and Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen,’ and then I begin my prayers. In time, this ‘Attention’ will be as a whip to cheer me up. (2) To say the prayers slightly loudly or silently depends of the circumstances. Better for the beginner to say them slightly loud, the eyes half shut. (3) In the beginning, keep your attention on the words themselves – the development will come. (4) Better to leave the ideas related to the heart for the future and do not think about them at all, as you say. By and by, accustom yourself to the Prayer everywhere and at every time and never stop it if it goes on by itself.

Fr. Nikon also gives more general advice on the spiritual life: You have two forces to help you on: one most mighty and the other a meek whisper, but this must and will develop. The first is the Supreme Help through your Holy Guardian Angel and the second is your so minuscule and weak will. And you have

492 FR. NIKON OF KAROULIA’S LETTERS TO GERALD PALMER two very strong but not mighty adversaries: the enemy of humanity and yourself with all the countless affinities and tendencies, abstract and physical, the existence of which you never even suspected. There are many unknown monsters hiding in the deepest recesses of the bottomless abysses of our souls.

To give Palmer encouragement in the struggle for prayer of the heart, Fr. Nikon admits: ‘I was in a monastery since 1921 and only in the first year of the 1940s was it given me to have a practical notion of the heart. All will come in time.’ Yet, while insisting on the purity of mind and purity of life that is require for prayer of the heart, Fr. Nikon gives supreme authority to the divine initiative in the encounter: ‘Make the Prayer at home in your mind, never losing sight that it is exclusively a Gift of the Almighty, that man neither had, has, nor will ever have, the possibility to achieve it by his own efforts and actions.’ On several occasions, Fr. Nikon gives Palmer life advice and mentions the subject of marriage. Initially he says: ‘About the question of marriage, let me think it over. Principally, I do not think it will be wrong, but the effect on the prayer is to be thought of.’ In a subsequent letter he mentions a passage from Gregory Palamas in the Philokalia that describes a certain Constantine who ‘was married and had children and was very active with the state and his particular affairs and duties.’ As mentioned earlier, Palmer never married and later thought about becoming a monk at Grigoriou Monastery but eventually decided not to, with the encouragement of Metropolitan Ware, who told him he thought Palmer’s vocation was in the world. The relationship between Palmer and Fr. Nikon also occasionally shows that the relationship between spiritual father and disciple is not always one of unquestioning obedience, especially in its first stages. In Palmer’s journal from his first visit to Athos in 1948, he reveals his sense of deep gratitude and awe for Fr. Nikon, but also the tensions and hesitations that resulted from their originally divergent worldviews: A certain strain has now entered the position with Father Nikon as was, I suppose, inevitable … he spoke too today of the impossibility of my keeping promises or resolutions, and of the differences of outlook between West European thought and Orthodoxy. What it all seems to come to is that I am absolute-

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ly set in my antipathy to the outward religious forms, crossings and bowings, kissings etc. which go against my Quaker blood horribly … This morning pressure was mounting and I really feel quite glad of a day or two alone. … I think there will be enough common ground for a lasting friendship on a limited basis – but not on the one he has clearly begun to hope for. The fact that he should have done so has also rather shaken my view of his level.

This was written at a time when Palmer was still influenced by Ouspensky, though he would soon become an Orthodox Christian. Less than two years later, Palmer seems to have more or less completely overcome his aversion to such ‘exoteric’ religious practices: he was baptized at a London parish in 1950. Fr. Nikon also occasionally mentions the initial translations Palmer was working on with Evgeniya Kadloubovsky. Palmer asks Fr. Nikon to write a foreword to Writings from the Philokalia on the Prayer of the Heart, which was published in 1951. Fr. Nikon is reluctant and expresses doubts about being up to such an important task: About the question of the introduction, I am not fixed at all. I have no capacity or cleverness to write an introduction of such importance and I feel myself absolutely unworthy that my name could be mentioned in connection with the so blessed influence your devoted work could have in the future. I also have not the courage nor the daring to do it. In first instant, I was ready to try and I even I wrote down some ideas but, thinking it over, grave hesitations arose in my mind.

Eventually Fr. Nikon relented and sent in materials for a foreword but the text he originally sent is very much unlike the published version. It seems Palmer edited the original piece significantly. Fr. Nikon also gives more general advice on translation, stressing the seriousness of Palmer’s project: You mention, dear, your interest in the huge responsibility of working on the very important translation. Do not lose sight that the books were written when the whole world was Orthodox, and while working on them, you breathe, you inhale the purest essence of genuine Christianity. My dear Brother Gerald, you ask me how would I view the idea of publishing what

494 FR. NIKON OF KAROULIA’S LETTERS TO GERALD PALMER you translate. There can be no hesitation to tell you that all my wishes of success are with you, but only with one express condition: that the translation is absolutely correct, conforming to the text with the most careful observance of the most delicate nuances, shades of abstract ideology, and expression … the translation is a very, very serious responsibility.

One might expect that the main subject of Fr. Nikon’s letters to Palmer would be on the publication of the Philokalia. Though he does give such advice in several letters, most of his letters are not directly concerned with this matter at all. In fact, many of them do not have content that could be considered ‘spiritual guidance’ in the strict sense, though Fr. Nikon certainly does fill the role of spiritual guide for Palmer. Instead most deal with the difficulties of living in Karoulia, the needs of his small community, accounts and postcards of his travels, and messages to give greetings to mutual friends. When spiritual guidance does come up, it is typically at the end of a letter after more practical concerns have been covered. Additionally, much of the spiritual instruction is found in the first few years of letters before Gerald became George at his chrismation. At this point, the letters assume a much more casual tone and deal mostly with seemingly ‘mundane’ matters, though I do not believe this indicates that his instruction has come to an end. Instead, it seems that when the formal instruction has ended, the equally important lived instruction begins. As can be expected for someone living in Fr. Nikon’s primitive conditions in Karoulia, the weather is often a topic of conversation. While many stylites and ascetics are portrayed struggling against nearly insurmountable natural conditions, rarely do readers imagine them complaining about, and needing commiseration for, their battles with the elements. His letters are filled with descriptions of the weather and occasional emergencies such as fires and floods are described in detail. Fr. Nikon often paints a vivid picture of the weather on Karoulia: ‘The sky is gloomy; the sea is wild, hazy; large drops are falling; the dear fig tree before my window is losing its last, quite yellow, old leaves; decidedly the major chord of a winter symphony.’ On a flight from Athens to Salonica, Fr. Nikon depicts clouds that: ‘were like stalagmites towering into the blue sky, white and pink with reflections of blue from the sky and sea. It was marvelous.’ This keen eye for beauty is noted in Palm-

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er’s journal and its description of his first walk with Fr. Nikon who rarely left his cell: ‘He saw every flower, every stone, every person and every building with fresh eyes and infinite delight.’ Often Fr. Nikon’s letters mention the various health conditions he was struggling with, from a foot abscess, to repeated falls, to a mangled hand. He also complains of being lonely and even seems to question his resolve to keep up his spiritual life in Karoulia but always ends with a statement about his trust in God’s will. Increasingly, he speaks of his physical weakness and old age as the letters progress. Yet in many of the same letters he reflects on the spiritual significance of humorous daily occurrences: These last days I had a mouse in my cell. Nothing was safe from it. It was a perpetual nuisance, but she was very interested in the tick-tock of the watch on my window, as if inquiring ‘what can that strange creature be and who made it?’ (as so many of us poor, dear humans looking and even studying the munificence of God’s creations ask so many strange questions and accompany them with no less barbarous deductions and conclusions). What an ocean of difficulties to find the Way. It is a proof of our utter impurity.

We learn of the many liturgies he struggled to celebrate in his old age but just as often we hear about the food he is preparing such as the beans he occasionally burns. Many times he requests medication, insecticide, or new shoes to be sent, giving us an indication of his practical needs and daily struggles. Some of the most entertaining moments of the letters are requests for National Geographic magazines and science fiction books, such as Inhabited Universe and The Flying Saucer Pilgrimage, which seem to be his favorite genre. These requests grew especially during his later years when he was less able to write and travel and he considered these gifts to be one of his primary links to the outside world. In addition to his correspondence with Fr. Nikon, Palmer also kept a brief letter from Fr. Nikon’s neighbor hermit, Fr. Seraphim, dated September 23, 1963, which informed him of Fr. Nikon’s ‘good, peaceful’ passing on September 20 and his burial on September 21st. The brevity of this simple letter stands in contrast with the complex character it describes. As Palmer says in his journal: ‘It would be impossible for me to give an exact impression of this man, but his force is undeniable.’ Fr. Nikon is revealed in his letters

496 FR. NIKON OF KAROULIA’S LETTERS TO GERALD PALMER as a man of incredible tenacity, fervent prayer, with an overwhelming trust in God, as a solitary who loved the silence of Karoulia but also cherished letters and visits from friends. His lasting influence on Gerald Palmer’s conversion and subsequent life, and through Palmer’s translations, on the entire English-speaking Orthodox world is a testimony to his charisma and sanctity. At the same time, his letters to Palmer also reveal him as profoundly human, as someone who was often lonely and exhausted and had anxieties and circumstances ‘rushing at his throat’ just like the rest of us, even in his relative isolation. This by no means detracts from the holiness that also pervades his letters, but rather makes this ideal more comprehensible to the reader and makes Fr. Nikon into a more approachable figure who, by his wonderful eccentricity, shows that holiness is often hidden in the mundane. When traveling with Fr. Nikon, Palmer said: ‘It was clear that he was regarded by people with whom he came in contact as someone possessing quite unusual qualities.’ Perhaps it is best to end with excerpts from Palmer’s first impression of some of these qualities from his journal, an impression that was to leave a mark on Palmer and was later to grow into a lifelong relationship and a monumental publishing project: His surroundings are utterly poor. The roof of his bedroom does not leak, but the remainder of the building must certainly does. He eats but once a day – beans and bread, and I suppose sometimes oil – drinks nothing but water. His description was ‘we are quite wild’ … He has basically no books, but the keenest interest in everything, and full of fun and amusement. He confessed that learning not to be clean when he first became a monk was one of his hardest tasks … Father Nikon is genuine … His face is nearer what I imagine a Saint’s to be than I can remember seeing. … Really this man frightens me … he concerns himself primarily in pursuit of his own development with a singleness of purpose and a discipline which I have met nowhere. He is at the same time very humorous, kindly and genuinely concerned as to why God has sent me … To be in the presence of such a person is certainly an experience of a very particular character.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY S. Bolshakoff D. Christensen C. Cavarnos ——— ——— ———

DM Doren

Wisdom for the Journey: Conversations with Spiritual Fathers of the Christian East. New York: Alba House, 2001. Father Seraphim Rose: His Life and Works. Platina, CA: St. Herman of Alaska Brotherhood, 2010. Nikon the Hagiorite. Κιβωτός (Ark) 19 (1953): 260–262. Anchored in God: an inside account of life, art, and thought on the Holy Mountain of Athos. Athens: Astir, 1959. The Holy Mountain. Belmont, MA: Institute for Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, 1973. Blessed Hermit Philaretos of the Holy Mountain. Modern Orthodox Saints 12, Belmont, MA: Institute for Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, 1997. ‘Vision from the Past: The Cliff Dwellers on Mount Athos.’ Massena Observer, November 21, 1961, 6.

498 FR. NIKON OF KAROULIA’S LETTERS TO GERALD PALMER ——— ——— E Kaestner C Karambelas G A Maloney ——— M Plekon ——— T Shevnukov K Ware

———

‘Letters from Europe: Doren Meets ‘The Last of the Russians’.’ Massena Observer, December 5, 1961, 6. ‘Hiking the Holy Mountain.’ The Saturday Review, March 14, 1964. 44–46, 137–139. Mount Athos: The Call from Sleep. London: Faber and Faber, 1963. Recollections of Mount Athos. Brookline, MA: Holy Cross Orthodox Press, 1987. ‘Monks on Mount Athos Differ on Possibility of Unity.’ Catholic Northwest Progress, January 11, 1963, p. 2. ‘A Priest Visits Haven of Orthodox Monks,’ Catholic Northwest Progress, January 18, 1963. P. 2. Hidden Holiness. South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2009. Saints As They Really Are: Voices of Holiness in Our Time. South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012. Everyday Saints and Other Stories. Dallas, TX: Pokrov Publications, 2012. ‘Gerald Palmer, the Philokalia, and the Holy Mountain.’ The Friends of Mount Athos, Authorized Reprint from the Annual Report, 1994, 23–29. ‘Two British Pilgrims to the Holy Mountain: Gerald Palmer and Philip Sherrard.’ In Monastic Magnet: Roads to and from Athos, edited by René Gothóni and Graham Speake, 143– 157. Bern: Peter Lang, 2008.

PURIFYING THE HEART IN ORDER TO SEE: PRAXIS AND PERCEPTION IN DOSTOEVSKY’S B ROTHERS

KARAMAZOV

TEA JANKOVIC Dostoevsky was interested in the artistic challenge of depicting holiness. We know from his personal letters 1 that he considered this task an important one, one he felt was being ignored by contemporary literature. The figure of Elder Zosima in Brothers Karamazov is perhaps the most prominent example of a holy literary character. He is a monk and the novel thus indirectly depicts the monastic life as a particular manner of striving for holiness. Yet Zosima’s holiness is not described as a static set of characteristics he had acquired over the years. Rather, it is shown in his increasingly refined perception – in his sensitivity to beauty and his almost supernatural ability to read people. The subchapter on Elder Zosima’s homilies starts with the question ‘What is a monk?’ He contrasts monks with people of the world who strive to fulfill their insatiable needs: Obedience, fasting, and prayer are laughed at, yet they alone constitute the way to real true freedom: I cut away my superCf. Dostoevsky’s letters on this topic (written in 1870 to Maikov and Katkov) cited by Joseph Frank in The Mantle and the Prophet, 1871– 1881, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002, 455–57, as well as Sven Linnér in Elder Zosima in the Brothers Karamazov. A study in the mimesis of virtue. Stockholm Studies in Russian Literature. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1975, Chapter I. 1

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fluous and unnecessary needs, through obedience I humble and chasten my vain and proud will, and thereby, with God’s help, attain freedom of spirit, and with that spiritual rejoicing! Which of the two is more capable of upholding and serving a great idea – the isolated rich man or one who is liberated from the tyranny of things and habits? 2

He recommends the practice of active love, as opposed to any theoretical piece of knowledge. The love of others is closely related to smirenie, the conquering of oneself that is the measure of spiritual development in Orthodox practice. It is the goal of ascetic practice for both monks and laity. Zosima addresses this recommendation to everybody, but it is a monk that is the most free to pursue it. He says, ‘A loving humility (smirenie) is a terrible power, the most powerful of all, nothing compares to it.’ 3 Apart from achieving perfect freedom, Zosima sees the world and other people more clearly towards the end of his life, through the practice of active love. He succeeds in loving others by means of ascesis: obedience and fasting which lead to smirenie. By continually combating passions that blind him, he sees others’ needs more clearly and is able to love them in an appropriate way. His character development reveals how the lifetime of monastic ascetic practice changed him. We learn about his life story retrospectively, in a hagiography his spiritual son Alyosha composes after Zosima’s death (in Book VI). We are given an account of his decision to enter a monastery. It all started when he fell in love – or thought he was in love – with a girl. He fancied that she loved him too, visited her often, but never professed his love. Then suddenly, he hears that she has married someone else, that she was engaged to be married all the time he knew her. He describes this so: I was so struck by this unexpected event that my mind even became clouded. And the chief thing was, as I learned only then, that this young landowner had long been her fiancé, and that I myself had met him many times at their house but had Fyodor Dostoevsky Brothers Karamazov, Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky (trans.), London: Vintage, 2004, p. 314. (henceforth BK). 3 BK. p. 319. 2

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noticed nothing, being blinded by my own merits. 4 He challenges his rival to a duel. But then he changes overnight. Struck by the beauty of the world, and remembering his childhood and his brother who died young, he is ashamed of himself. He remarks that the world is paradise, and that he has not seen this before. At the duel, he lets the other take a shot at him but then throws his own gun away, without having taken a single shot. Then he announces that he will enter a monastery.

The decision to become a monk is not depicted as a defeated retreat from the world, but precisely as the way to actively love the world. It is the monastic practice of purifying the heart, conquering the desires that distort his view on the world and other people that allows him to see in an increasing clarity. The decision is foreshadowed by his brother, Merkel’s, story, who experienced a conversion at the end of his life. Despite his terminal illness, he shares his own joy about ‘the beauty of the world’, a phrase Zosima, too, takes up in the night before the duel. Zosima’s change of heart is retrospectively put in the tradition of St. Paul’s conversion narrative, in which Saul, a Roman prosecutor of Christians is blinded by a vision of Christ. When he regains his sight three days later, he is converted, changes his name to Paul and eventually becomes known as St. Paul, after dying as a martyr. 5 In the night before the duel, Zosima’s eyes are opened to the beauty of the world; he is repeating his brother Merkel’s words. Later on in his monastic life, he is described as highly susceptible to this beauty, as in the scene where he and a youth he meets on his travels are completely immersed in the beauty of nightfall in the country. It is suggested that he would not have even registered such a scene before his change of heart, and that it is thanks to his

BK. p. 295. Acts of the Apostles, 9.1–31; Elder Zosima especially emphasizes the importance of Saul’s story in his recollections on the influence the Holy Scripture has had on his life (cf. BK.p. 290ff). 4 5

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newly won innocence and purity that he is able to see the scene before him. 6 Furthermore, when we compare this hot-blooded young man to the Elder we meet at the beginning of the novel – which is the end of his earthly life – we see another striking development. From a man described as blinded, as having a clouded mind, at the end of his life Elder Zosima, an old monk, is described as having the extraordinary ability to read people. From their faces, gestures, he can see their character, their thoughts, even their future: Many said of the elder Zosima that, having for so many years received all those who came to him to open their hearts, thirsting for advice and for a healing word, having taken into his soul so many confessions, sorrows, confidences, he acquired in the end such fine discernment that he could tell, from the first glance at a visiting stranger’s face, what was in his mind, what he needed, and even what kind of suffering tormented his conscience; and he sometimes astonished, perplexed and almost frightened the visitor by this knowledge of his secret even before he had spoken a word. 7

A striking example is Elder Zosima’s encounter with Fyodor Karamazov, the father of the family. He is described as an insolent, selfish, lustful, irresponsible and bad tempered character. When he meets the Elder, he cannot help playing the fool, and making ridiculous scenes to get everyone’s attention. He throws himself on his knees in front of the Elder. He addresses the Elder in various quotations: while on his knees he cries, ‘Teacher! What should I do to inherit eternal life?’, quoting the young man asking the same question of Christ in the Gospel according to Mark. Later on, he quotes Schiller’s Robbers, by calling himself Graf von Moor and his sons Ivan and Dmitry Karl and Franz Moor. Charles H. Arndt III argues this in his ‘Material in the Spiritual World: Dostoevsky’s Use of Everyday Objects in His Descriptions of the Supernatural’ Arndt draws attention to Dostoevsky’s description of this youth as innocent, sleeping a ‘sinless sleep’ (p. 12), which is arguably why he can behold as Elder Zosima does. 7 BK. p. 29. 6

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In this manner, Fyodor hides behind various quotations, never speaking openly, perhaps out of fear to reveal his true self. However, Zosima sees through Fyodor’s grand gestures as mere poses. Furthermore, he sees Fyodor’s fundamental flaw, his insincerity, which roots in his constant self-deception. It is precisely untruthfulness towards himself, that he believes his own lies, that is the deepest cause of Fyodor’s immoral life. When the Elder gently tells him that, Fyodor is at first touched and admits to lying. But even this admittance is theatrical: ‘[…] and I’ve lied, I’ve lied decidedly all my life, every day and every hour. Verily, I am a lie, and the father of a lie!’ Thus quoting one of the biblical names of the devil. He corrects himself, unintentionally admitting his insincerity: ‘Or maybe not the father of a lie, I always get my texts mixed up; lets say the son of a lie.’ 8 [my italics] By referring to ‘his texts’, which he always gets ‘mixed up’, he reveals, though jokingly, that his words are ‘texts’ of others and not his own, that he is lying to himself even in his supposed admittance that he is lying. In conclusion, Dostoevsky’s art depicts the monastic striving for holiness as a dynamic and quite practical struggle for a more truthful relationship to the world. In Zosima’s example, Dostoevsky shows a life devoted to the practice of actively loving others, which changed the character’s perception of the world and others. Zosima transforms from a youth blinded by his passions into somebody acutely sensitive to the world and other people, somebody who can see others more clearly than they see themselves.

8

BK. p. 44, in Russian: „это я всё в текстах сбиваюсь’

THE CENTRALITY OF ST. ISAAC THE SYRIAN’S ASCETICAL THEOLOGY IN DOSTOEVSKY’S T H E B ROTH ERS

KARAMAZOV

RICO MONGE Although Friedrich Nietzsche was, without doubt, one of the most openly hostile philosophers towards Christianity, he was also an outspoken admirer of the Russian Orthodox novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky, calling him the ‘only psychologist from whom I have anything to learn.’ 1 Does Nietzsche’s affinity for Dostoevsky lend credence to the view of certain scholars, notably Sergei Hackel and Steven Cassedy, that Dostoevsky’s ideas, especially as presented through the Elder Zosima’s teachings in The Brothers Karamazov, have little to do with Eastern Orthodoxy and its ascetic tradition at all? Are they correct to argue instead that Zosima is advocating a form of ‘nature’ or ‘earth’ worship foreign to Orthodox Christianity? 2 The ideological underpinnings of the asceticism and monastiNietzsche, The Twilight of the Idols, in The Twilight of the Idols/The Anti-Christ, trans. R.J. Hollingdale (London: Penguin, 1990), ‘Expeditions of an Untimely Man’ §45, p. 110. 2 Holding a view that still finds supporters, Sergei Hackel argues that Zosima’s religious vision is about earth-worship and has nothing to do with Orthodox Christianity. Such a view would make Dostoevsky quite ‘Nietzschean,’ but seemingly un-Orthodox. See Hackel, ‘The Religious Dimension: Vision or Evasion? Zosima’s Discourse in The Brothers Karamazov,’ in New Essays on Dostoevsky, ed. Malcolm Jones and Garth M. Terry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 139–68. Following 1

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506 ST. ISAAC THE SYRIAN IN THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV cism that constitute the Elder Zosima’s theological vision in Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov have indeed been long debated. Some scholars have attempted to place Zosima firmly within Russian Orthodox traditions of monasticism by arguing that he is a composite figure blending Tikhon of Zadonsk and Ambrose of Optina. 3 However, the presence of Tikhon’s actual ideas in Zosima’s thought is rather minimal, and the teachings of Ambrose are virtually non-existent. 4 This absence has been taken as evidence that the Elder Zosima is indeed a ‘corruption’ of Orthodoxy – Dostoevsky’s attempt to imagine an alternative to traditional Orthodox monasticism. Contra Hackel and Cassedy, the work of other contemporary scholars, most notably the Italian Dostoevsky scholar Simonetta Salvestroni, has uncovered the significant role that the ascetical theology of Isaac the Syrian plays in Zosima’s teachings. 5 My argument develops her groundbreaking work by exploring the pivotal role that Isaac’s theological vision plays within the novel – both for the characters who follow Isaac and for those who do not. Isaac’s teachings are internalized and embodied by Zosima (and his disciple Alyosha). At the same time, Isaac’s thought remains both literally and symbolically external to Ivan Karamazov, his disciple Smerdyakov, and the Karamazov family’s servant, Grigory – i.e. for Hackel closely is Cassedy’s Dostoevsky’s Religion (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005), 160. 3 One such ambitious example is John B. Dunlop, Staretz Amvrosy: Model for Dostoevsky’s Staretz Zossima (Belmont, MA: Nordland Publishing Co., 1972). 4 Cf. Hackel, ‘Zosima’s Discourse,’ 142, for a discussion of the tenuous, at best, relationship of Ambrose of Optina’s teachings to those of Dostoevsky’s Zosima. Cassedy points out that Dostoevsky is reported to have violently argued with and contradicted Ambrose in his visits to the Optina monastery, Dostoevsky’s Religion, 87. 5 Cassedy nowhere examines Isaac’s significance to Dostoevsky. Hackel, on the other hand, admits Dostoevsky may have been familiar with Isaac, but maintains that Isaac’s thought is not thoroughly present in Zosima’s teachings, especially inasmuch as Zosima espouses love of the natural world. See Hackel, ‘Zosima’s Discourse,’ 153–155.

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all three characters Isaac remains something to be, at best, ‘thought about,’ but this thinking is never converted into actual praxis. Elucidating this pivotal place Isaac plays in the novel sheds light on Dostoevsky’s well-known statement that the passages on the life and teachings of the Elder Zosima are his response to Ivan’s tale of ‘The Grand Inquisitor.’ That is, my interpretation is that, for Dostoevsky, mere cognitive engagement with the ideas of Isaac is inadequate; rather, only through ascetic internalization and embodiment of his teachings does one become the answer to Ivan and Smerdyakov’s nihilism. Zosima the person and Zosima’s way of life were constructed by Dostoevsky by forging an amalgam of disparate persons and texts in Eastern Orthodoxy. The life and works of St. Tikhon of Zadonsk are indeed woven into the text, as they were in earlier novels, including Demons. 6 Perhaps more distinctive in The Brothers Karamazov is that Dostoevsky not only had a historical and hagiographical figure to work with in Tikhon, but, in his grief over the death of his three-year-old son, he began to visit Elder Ambrose of the Optina monastery (now canonized as St. Ambrose). Events from Zosima’s life are also taken from The Life of the Elder Leonid, a text Dostoevsky found in the Optina library. But much of Zosima’s teaching derives primarily from Isaac of Niniveh. Indeed, as Salvestroni points out, Dostoevsky owned and read a copy of Isaac’s Ascetic Homilies (1858 edition), and he quotes from Isaac in order to articulate what he understands to be central to ‘the Orthodox Conception.’ 7 This ‘Orthodox Conception’ is a theme pervasive in Dostoevsky’s writings: it is the belief that affliction, temptation and suffering are the path to experiencing the kingdom of Heaven in this present earthly existence. Salvestroni notes several deep resonances between See Rowan Williams, Dostoevsky: Language, Faith, and Fiction, 202. The most important study uncovering this relationship between Zosima and Isaac is Simonetta Salvestroni’s ‘Isaaco il siro e l’opera di Dostoevskii,’ Studia monastica 44 (2002): 45–56. The impact of her study has led to Isaac’s influence being documented in recent critical editions of The Brothers Karamazov, including The Brothers Karamazov: A Norton Critical Edition, trans. Constance Garnett (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2011). 6 7

508 ST. ISAAC THE SYRIAN IN THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV Zosima and Isaac, three of which are worth briefly summarizing here. First, one of Zosima’s (and Isaac’s) pervasive teachings is that one can access the kingdom of Heaven, or paradise, in this life by embracing suffering in a manner that transfigures one’s experience of existence itself. Zosima frequently speaks of this transfigured existence, but perhaps nowhere more poignantly than in his recollections of his 17 year-old brother Markel’s process of dying from tuberculosis. Rather than descending into nihilism due to his fate, which given his circumstances would be understandable, rather Markel embraces his suffering and makes peace with himself and with life in a way that leads him to proclaim that ‘life is paradise.’ 8 While St. Isaac does not use the phrase, ‘life is paradise,’ he does argue in his second homily that dealing with one’s passions through the embrace of suffering transfigures existence and allows one to experience the kingdom of Heaven in the here and now. 9 Along these same lines, for both Zosima and Isaac, avoiding nihilism and transfiguring life necessarily involves cultivating love for all of creation. Zosima, for example, teaches that one must love not only every human being, but also every element of the created world, including ‘every leaf, every ray of light.’ 10 Isaac, likewise, argues that one must come to have a heart burning with mercy for everything in the created order, including the demons. 11 Finally, for both Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, trans. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2002), 288–290. 9 Isaac the Syrian, The Ascetical Homilies of Saint Isaac the Syrian, tr. D Miller. (Holy Transfiguration Monastery, Boston, MA: Holy Transfiguration Press, 2011), Hom. 2, p. 11. Here Isaac advises, ‘Be peaceful within yourself, and heaven and earth will be at peace with you. Be diligent to enter into the treasury that is within you, and you will see the treasury of Heaven: for these are one and the same, and with one entry you will behold them both. The ladder of the Kingdom is within you, hidden in your soul. Plunge deeply within yourself, away from sin, and there you will find steps by which you will be able to ascend.’ 10 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 319. 11 Isaac the Syrian, Ascetical Homilies, Hom. 71, p.344. Isaac answers the question, ‘what is a merciful heart?’ thus: ‘It is the heart’s burning for 8

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Zosima and Isaac, it is the failure to love in this way that itself causes one to experience the torments of hell or Gehenna. Zosima succinctly defines hell as, ‘the suffering of being no longer able to love.’ 12 For Isaac, the torments of Gehenna result from the ‘scourge of love’ and the bitter regret that the failure to love produces. 13 For both Zosima and Isaac, like paradise, these torments begin in this present life. In Zosima’s teaching, the result of this inability to ascetically cultivate such love is that ‘you become indifferent to life, and even come to hate it.’ 14 The centrality that Isaac’s ascetical theology holds for the entire novel is emphasized by the fact that, despite all of these clear resonances and influences in Zosima’s teachings, Isaac’s writings make only two explicit (and indeed physical) appearances in the novel. Of some significance is the fact that, paradoxically, neither of them occurs in the passages to do with the Elder Zosima, nor do they show up even with Alyosha. This enigmatic presence and absence, I suggest, symbolically relates to the types of asceticism (or lack thereof) displayed throughout the novel. In the case of Zosima and Alyosha, Isaac’s text never appears, nor is his name even mentioned, because his teachings and way of life have been internalized and inscribed on Zosima and Alyosha themselves through their asceticism. Where Isaac’s writings do appear, the appearance is symbolically tied to the degree to which the way of life the sake of the entire creation, for men, for birds, for animals, for demons, and for every created thing; and by the recollection and sight of them the eyes of a merciful man pour forth abundant tears. From the strong and vehement mercy which grips his heart and from his great compassion his heart is humbled and he cannot bear to hear or to see any injury or slight sorrow in creation. For this reason he offers up tearful prayer continually even for irrational beasts, for the enemies of the truth, and for those who harm him, that they be protected and receive mercy. And in like manner he even prays for the family of reptiles because of the great compassion that burns without measure in his heart in the likeness of God.’ 12 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 322. 13 Isaac the Syrian, Ascetical Homilies, Hom. 28, p. 141. 14 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 320.

510 ST. ISAAC THE SYRIAN IN THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV he advocates remains external to the individual in question. 15 The first appearance of the text occurs when we are told that the Karamazov family’s servant Grigory had ‘somewhere obtained a copy of the homilies and sermons of ‘Our Godbearing Father, Isaac the Syrian,’ which he read persistently over many years, understanding almost nothing at all of it.’ 16 The second appearance of the text occurs late in the novel during the fateful encounter between Ivan Karamazov and Smerdyakov, the encounter in which Smerdyakov not only confesses to the murder of Fyodor Karamazov, but insists that it was Ivan’s nihilistic desires and philosophy that convinced him to carry out the murder. In contrast to Grigory’s persistent, but uncomprehending, reading of the text, we are told, ‘Smerdyakov was not reading it, he seemed to be sitting and doing nothing.’ 17 When the book’s title enters Ivan’s view, the narrator relates that ‘Ivan Fyodorovich read it mechanically.’ 18 Also significant is that when Smerdyakov reveals the money to Ivan, which proves that he, not Dmitri, is Fyodor’s murderer, he uses the physical text to conceal the money from the servants when they enter the room. The narrator relates that after the servants left the room, ‘Smerdyakov removed Isaac the Syrian from the money and set it aside.’ 19 As Dianne Thompson has noted, however, this translation misses the force of Dostoevsky’s language, which should actually read, ‘Smerdyakov removed Isaac the Syrian from the money and set him aside.’ 20 For contrasting readings of the significance of these scenes see, Diane Oenning Thompson, ‘Problems of the Biblical Word in Dostoevsky’s Poetics,’ in Dostoevsky and the Christian Tradition, ed. George Pattinson and Diane Oenning Thompson, 69–99; and Ivan A. Esaulov, ‘The Categories of Law and Grace in Dostoevsky’s Poetics,’ in the same volume, 116–134. 16 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 96. 17 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 621. 18 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 625, emphasis mine. 19 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 632. 20 See Thompson, ‘Problems of the Biblical Word in Dostoevsky’s Poetics,’ 133 n.23. 15

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In these brief symbolic moments, one can see that Orthodox ascetical theology, specifically Isaac’s ascetical theology, is thematically embedded throughout the novel and is not a curious afterthought. Grigory, we are told, is good-hearted, but often severe and cruel. He raises the Karamazov boys as a surrogate father due to the negligence of their actual father, Fyodor, but he also represents a form of Christianity typical of resentment, and that contrasts with the teachings of Isaac/Zosima. 21 He is cruel to Smerdyakov due to the latter’s skepticism of Christianity (in contrast to Zosima’s and Alyosha’s generous treatment of Ivan’s skepticism), 22 and this cruelty and abuse play a role in forming Smerdyakov into the villain he becomes. In short, Grigory is one who is drawn to Isaac’s writings, but he does not understand them and has not inscribed them into himself and his way of life. Smerdyakov, on the other hand, does not read Isaac at all, and in his total rejection the saint’s way of life becomes the novel’s consummate nihilist – full of cold hatred he commits both murder and suicide. The description of Ivan reading the book’s title ‘mechanically’ calls to mind his deep familiarity with the Christian message, but also his deconstruction of it by subjecting it to the rigors of Euclidean logic, rather than putting it into practice through asceticism. Accordingly, he remains paralyzed and unable to apprehend the truth of Christianity because he desires to first make logical sense of it, rather than discover its truth by embodying it through praxis. In stark contrast, Dostoevsky never depicts Zosima or his disciple Alyosha interacting with the physical text of Isaac, nor do they explicitly quote him, because both of these characters ascetically embody Isaac’s teachings in their words, actions, and way of being-in-the-world. Hence, the physical presence of Isaac’s writings with Grigory, Smerdyakov, and Ivan, together with their physical absence with Zosima and Alyosha, highlights the manner in which Isaac’s theology is efficacious in Dostoevsky’s final novel only when ascetically embodied. Moreover, Zosima’s teachings are not foreign to Orthodoxy, nor are they mere ‘nature worship,’ but stand in line with Isaac’s theology. 22 Cf. Zosima’s statement to Ivan, ‘May God grant that your heart’s decision overtake you still on earth, and may God bless your path!’ Dostoesvsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 70. 21

ENGAGED MONASTICISM: MOTHER MARIA SKOBTSOVA AND TWENTYFIRST CENTURY AMERICAN ORTHODOX MONASTICISM FR. PETER M. PREBLE In 1932, when Maria Skobtsova made her monastic profession, she was in a very different place than most monastics. She was alone, in Paris, surrounded by Russian immigrants who had fled the upheaval in Russia and were facing starvation and poverty. She found herself ‘not behind strong monastic walls … but on all the roads and crossroads of the world.’ 1 It was this experience that would shape her vision of what she called ‘engaged monasticism.’ What Mother Maria needed was a new vision of the monastic life, as all the preconceived notions of ‘traditional’ monasticism were gone. Orthodox monasticism did not exist on the streets of 1930s Paris, and there were no other Orthodox monastics to form a community with her. What she discovered was that a new way of thinking about monasticism was needed. She did not reject the past, but she would not cling to the letter of the laws of traditional monasticism, and she felt she needed to adapt her idea of monasticism to fit her situation and the circumstances surrounding her. For Mother Maria, monasticism was ‘determined not by a way of life, not by the monastery, not by the desert; monasticism is deJim Forest, Mother Maria Skobtsova: Essential Writings (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2003), p. 90. 1

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514 MOTHER MARIA SKOBTSOVA AND AMERICAN MONASTICISM termined by the vows made during the rite of tonsuring.’ 2 One of the mainstays of the Orthodox Church worldwide is her ability to adapt to her surroundings and situations. Of course Scripture reminds us that the Church of Jesus Christ will ever prevail, but it is the simple idea of adaption that has allowed the Church to survive in some of the worst conditions. The Church has survived the Turks and Communism, and today we are struggling to survive modernity’s relativisms here in America. An American Orthodox parish looks very different from an Orthodox parish in Romania, for example. As the local parish needs to adapt her ministry to the present situation – and by adaption I do not in any way mean we need to compromise on matter of faith – Orthodox monasticism itself needs to adapt to the American ethos if it is not only going to survive but also to be of any help to the Orthodox Church here in America. The Orthodox Church is at her best when monastics are present and working in concert with the local church to bring about the mission of Orthodoxy. What I hope to present here, is a system of monasticism that is not foreign to the Orthodox Church but certainly has not been practiced to its fullest extent in generations. Can the typical, historical monastery of monks or nuns, isolated from the world, survive here in twenty-first-century American, and is the Church willing to support such an endeavor? Let me say, right from the start, that I believe there is a place for traditional Orthodox monasticism here in America, but we need a new philosophy for it. Mother Maria was insistent on the fact that the monastic vocation is not that of escape from life or from the world. No one can run to a monastery to get away from something, because that something will follow him or her to the monastery. The monastic vocation, rather, is one of service and of solidarity – solidarity with others in the monastery and also solidarity with the suffering of those around the monastery and in the world. Let me begin by offering the very briefest of biographies to set the stage for the larger argument to follow. Maria Skobtsova was born into a noble family in 1891 in Riga, Latvia, which was 2

Ibid. p. 97.

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then part of the Russian Empire. After her father died when she was a teenager, she turned to atheism. She and her mother moved to St. Petersburg, where she was involved with radical intellectuals. In 1910 she married, but that marriage soon ended. As she began to understand the humanity of Christ – ‘He also died. He sweated blood. They struck his face’ – she was drawn back toward Christianity. She moved – now with her daughter – to the south of Russia, where her religious devotion increased. Maria became involved in politics and was elected deputy mayor of the town she lived in. When the anticommunist White Army took control of the city, the mayor fled, and thus became mayor by default. She married again, but the political tide was turning. Fearing for her life and the life of her family, they fled the country and arrived in Paris in 1923. There she was introduced to Orthodoxy and was converted. With her marriage on the rocks, one of her children deceased and the other two grown, her bishop encouraged her to take vows as a monastic. She agreed on the condition that she would not have to live in a monastery, secluded from the world. In 1932, with the permission of her second husband, Daniel, she was granted an ecclesiastical divorce and took vows as a nun. Mother Maria made a rented house in Paris her ‘convent.’ Its door was open to refugees, the needy, drug addicts, and the lonely. It also soon became a center for intellectual and theological discussion. In Mother Maria these two elements – service to the poor and theology – went hand in hand. What she did was very similar to what Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin were doing in 1932 in New York City, with the Catholic Worker Movement. In an essay titled, ‘Towards a New Monasticism,’ Mother Maria wrote, ‘Today there is only one monastery for a monk – the whole world.’ 3 The theme here is very much that the monastery has to be the entire world; monastics need to come down from the mountain and engage people where they are. Perhaps the monks and nuns will lead them back up that mountain, but they first need to come down the mountain. We do not enter the monastic life to run away from the world – at least, that is not why I became a mo3

Ibid. p. 94.

516 MOTHER MARIA SKOBTSOVA AND AMERICAN MONASTICISM nastic. The primary goal of monastics is to work out our own salvation. How do we do that if we cut ourselves off from our neighbors and not assist them when they need us? How do we live the gospel command of feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and visiting the sick and those in prison if we isolate ourselves from all but a few? The monastery needs to be the entire world. One of the more famous sayings of Mother Maria, and the first saying of hers I ever read, lays out her philosophy of not only the life of the Christian but, I believe, the life of the monastic: At the last Judgment I shall not be asked whether I was successful in my ascetic exercises, how many bows and prostrations I made [in the course of prayer]. I shall be asked, did I feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and the prisoners. That is all I shall be asked.

This philosophy of monasticism, if you will, drove Mother Maria to do what she did and is the inspiration for all my argument which follows. Before we move forward in defining what might be a new way of thinking about monasticism here in America, we must first look at monasticism from an historical perspective. I am trained as an historian as well as a theologian, so I always look at things in a backward way, through history. The search for why we do something can be answered only by looking at the question through the lens of history. In the year 369, St. Basil the Great was a newly ordained priest ministering in and around the area of Caesarea. That year a great drought hit, followed by famine, as the crops had all dried up. He delivered four homilies that have been collated in the book On Social Justice, 4 which spoke to the heart of how people act in times of dire physical suffering. Many of the themes from these homilies are repeating themselves today, just as they have throughout history. St. Basil had a vision of a new social order based on simplicity of life and sharing rather than on competition and private ownership. He had a vision for what would be called ‘the New City.’ Part of this new city involved an engaged monasticism, a C. Paul Schroeder, St. Basil the Great, On Social Justice (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2009). 4

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monastic vision that was more urban than rural, a monasticism that has at its very heart service to the needy. He had a vision for what was later called the Basiliad, a complex of buildings where the poor and needy would come and find support and rest. Food and clothing would be provided as well as medical care by skilled physicians. But it would also be a worship center with church services and a chapel – a place to truly live out the gospel message of love of neighbor in line with monastic concepts. The monks would practice the practical trades, such as carpentry and blacksmithing, and the money generated from those trades would be used to support the work of the Basiliad. In his sermon, ‘In Time of Famine and Drought,’ St. Basil speaks of this new community not as a new kind of charitable institution but as a place where a new set of relationships would be formed. A new social order would both anticipate and participate in the creation of ‘a new heaven and a new earth where justice dwells.’ St. Basil used his vision of the first church at Jerusalem as an example: ‘Let us zealously imitate the early Christian community, where everything was held in common – life, soul, concord, a common table, individual kinship – while unfeigned love constituted many bodies as one and joined by many souls into a single harmonious whole.’ 5 The vision of the Basiliad laid the groundwork for what Mother Maria was trying to create in Paris. She opened the doors of her home to Russian refugees in the Paris of the 1930s. She provided them with food and clothing, much of it given to her by the French government, just as in the time of St. Basil, imperial donors aided him. But she did much more than just feed and clothe them; she listened to them, cared for them, prayed for them, and showed a genuine concern for what they were going through. She would give all she had, sometimes her own food and clothing, to help those that came to her – or should I say, that God sent to her. The most remarkable part of it all was that she did this only with faith. She had no income, no way to pay rent or to purchase food; she took enormous leaps of faith to do what she did, and because of her reliance on God, it was blessed. How many of us are willing to do such a thing? 5

Ibid. p. 38.

518 MOTHER MARIA SKOBTSOVA AND AMERICAN MONASTICISM But it was not all work; there was prayer as well, as she believed that balance was needed. In the first house she rented in Paris were stables that she transformed into a church, a beautiful space for prayer and worship. Reflecting on this transformation, I think of how Christ Himself was born in a poor stable surrounded by animals. Mother Maria transformed a stable, once again, into a church. Balance will always be necessary in this engaged monasticism, if the monastics are to survive. The mainstay of the monastic life is prayer but also work. St. Benedict, the father of Western monasticism, borrowed many ideas from St. Basil when he wrote his Rule for monastics. In it, he lay out the course of each day with a balance between prayer and work, ora et labora was his motto [Work and Pray!]. There needs to be a balance in the monastery between the work of prayer and the work of our hands. Monastics come to the monastery for many reasons, and the salvation of our own souls is chief among them, but Benedict believed that we must give as well as receive, and he taught all his monks to receive all their guests as if they were Christ Himself. ‘Prefer nothing to Christ,’ St. Benedict instructed his monks. If we see each other as Christ, if we see the poor and needy as Christ, service to them must become our preferential option. If we are living icons, service to each other becomes service to what the icons represent – and that is Christ. A balance between prayer and work will be necessary in the life of the monk in this engaged monasticism. So, taking a page from St. Basil, from St. Benedict, and from Mother Maria, what would this modern Basiliad look like? All the work of the Church needs to be built around the local parish. I will use my parish in Southbridge, Massachusetts, as an example. It was founded ninety years ago by Romanians who came to the New World to find a better life. They were not fleeing war like the refugees that came to Mother Maria’s doorstep, but economic hardship, and they were seeking the promise of a new life. They came, found work and housing, and established churches. The same story can be said about most Orthodox parishes here in America. But today my parish is no longer an immigrant parish. At ninety years old, it has entered the fourth generation of parishioners. And the neighborhood around the Church has also transformed. We are literally in the middle of a neighborhood that used to be all Romanian, Albanian, and Greek and is now anything but

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that. Our neighbors are mostly Latino; the new immigrants have come to make Southbridge their home. They are facing some of the same issues that the founders of St. Michael once had. They do not speak the native language, it is hard to find work, and it is hard to find acceptance from the local population. Southbridge has a 12% unemployment rate and more than 15% of the people live at or below the federal poverty line. Half of that population is either above sixty-five or under eighteen, the two most vulnerable segments of society. Although they are certainly not as desperate as those in the time of St. Basil, they are desperate nonetheless. These living icons are suffering almost daily, and they are only one small part of the population here in America. Mother Maria believed that if monasticism was going to flourish in the New World, innovation would be needed in monastic life. She did not have a traditional monastery with strong walls. She lived in a rented apartment that became her monastery. There were no defined traditions that she could draw on when building her monastery. Russian monasticism was becoming extinct, and any documents relating to monasticism were just not available. She wrote, ‘The result of this absence of normal monastic life is a certain impression of archaism, of unattachment, almost of untimeliness of contemporary monasticism in the world.’ And she added, ‘Today’s monasticism must fight for its very core, for its very soul, disregarding all external forms, creating new forms.’ 6 She was not saying the past needs to be forgotten, but rather a new future has to be discovered. Mother Maria would surely agree that monasticism is perennially needed, just as it was needed in the Paris of her day, and she would say too that monasticism is needed: ‘on the roads of life, in the very thick of it. Today there is only one monastery for a monk: the whole world.’ 7 Monastics need to be engaged with the community and the Church and to assist those that need them, the poor, the marginalized, the voiceless in society. This work fulfills the gospel command to love our neighbor as ourselves. Jim Forest, Mother Maria Skobtsova: Essential Writings (Orbis: Maryknoll, NY, 2003), p. 94. 7 Ibid. 6

520 MOTHER MARIA SKOBTSOVA AND AMERICAN MONASTICISM What I am suggesting as a useful pattern, then, is a regional monastery, a ‘Mother House’ if you will, perhaps in a large city, and smaller ‘houses of ministry’ scattered around the region. One or two monks might live together in a rented apartment in Harlem, or perhaps they would occupy a rectory of a small Orthodox parish that can’t afford to pay a priest full time. Maybe they would have secular jobs, or if they are handy, they could use their talents to earn a living. But they would also assist the poor in that area. They would create a small community where they are, but would come back to the Mother House for a time of rest and retreat, perhaps twice a year. They could bring the Sacraments to a community that might not otherwise have them, and they could set up services to the poor in the area. They would not be isolated on the mountaintop but down in the thick of it with those they have been called to serve, rolling up our sleeves and making a difference in people’s lives. As an example of this concept, in 1967 Roman Catholic Franciscan Fr. Benedict Groeschel founded what became known as St. Francis House in the heart of Brooklyn, New York. The mission of St. Francis House is to provide a safe haven and highly structured home environment designed to meet the needs of young men who, having run out of alternatives, are looking for a new start in life. These are the ones who fall through the cracks. This can be accomplished by establishing a caring environment, nurturing spiritual growth, building a Christian work ethic, and preparing these men for the future. St. Francis House is similar in scope and mission to the early Catholic Worker houses, started by Dorothy Day. St. Francis House exists in the darkest part of the city and is on a mission to bring light into that darkened world. It is a beacon of hope in a neighborhood that has fallen into despair and gang violence. The daily witness of the monks in Brooklyn has saved countless numbers of young men who might be dead today if it were not for their work. There are also examples within the Orthodox Church right here in America. In 1977, what is now called St. Herman’s House of Hospitality, opened in a neighborhood in Cleveland, Ohio. It was a monastery that opened its doors to the poor and needy around them. It no longer functions as a monastery, but the ministry continues today with help from FOCUS North America. Furnishing meals, clothing, housing, and spiritual help and guidance,

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St. Herman’s House is doing what Mother Maria and St. Basil were doing, living the gospel message in a very clear way. For this to happen on a large scale, we need men and women from all walks of life. We need doctors, nurses, lawyers, carpenters, teachers, social workers, counselors, and priests. These might be single monastics as well as families and couples who are drawn to dedicate their lives to the work of the Church in a very concrete way and to teaching others to do the same. I see such houses of hospitality springing up all over America. As I have already mentioned, we need monastics living on that hill, who have dedicated their lives to prayer, and we need monastics who have dedicated their lives to the relief of suffering in a very physical way. We need both. We need the balance that St. Maria and St. Benedict wrote about. The monastic, traditionally free of family obligations, can take the love of Christ to places where others cannot. What is needed are monks and nuns that are not running away from the world but running to the monastery to help make the world a better place. As Mother Maria wrote: ‘It should be remembered that all its forms – social work, charity, spiritual aid – are the result of an intense desire to give one’s strength to the activity of Christ, to the humanity of Christ, not to possess but to spend it for the glory of God.’ 8

8

Ibid. p. 103.

PSYCHIC CRISIS IN MONASTIC COMMUNITIES: THE ASCETICAL WRITINGS OF EVAGRIUS OF PONTUS IN THE LIGHT OF MODERN UNDERSTANDINGS JOHN L. GRILLO In the very early hours of June 11, 2012 a 27-year-old former monk by the name of Scott Nevins drove to the gates of the St. Anthony’s Greek Orthodox monastery in Florence, Arizona, had an encounter with the night watchman on duty, then drove a short distance away from the monastery and shot himself in his car. Nevins was airlifted to an area hospital, where he later died of his wounds. His death was determined to have been a suicide by the Maricopa County Medical Examiner’s Office. 1 Nevins had been a novice at the St. Anthony’s Monastery for six years before departing precipitously and under strange circumstances about fifteen months prior to his suicide in 2012. 2 The strangeness around Nevins’s death and the controversial reporting

Greek Orthodox Metropolis of San Fransisco. ‘Update on the Death of Scott Nevins.’ Last modified September 29, 2012. Accessed November 11, 2013. http://sanfran.goarch.org/news/update-on-the-deathof-scott-nevins/ 2 Theodore Kalmoukos, ‘Troubled Monk Apparently Commits Suicide in Arizona,’ The National Herald (USA), 21 June 2012. 1

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524 THE ASCETICAL WRITINGS OF EVAGRIUS OF PONTUS done on it 3 has only continued since the incident itself, and serious and troubling questions have been raised in the aftermath: Was Scott Nevins subjected to abusive treatment during his tenure at St. Anthony’s Monastery, as has been insinuated in some of the journalism? 4 Do Elder Ephraim, the leader of St. Anthony’s Monastery, or the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America bear any responsibility for Nevins’s tragic death? And is Elder Ephraim a living saint or just a charismatically persuasive cult leader? 5 Whether or not Scott Nevins’s experience at the St. Anthony’s Monastery was in any way abnormal – i.e., whether he was subjected to coercion or abuse when he resided there – and whether that abnormal experience led to his tragic suicide has been impossible to determine with any certainty from the available material. A question that can be addressed in this paper, however, is whether there is something inherent in the monastic way of life that poses certain but real dangers to the psychic wellbeing of those who undertake it (suicide, of course, being one of the graver signs of deep psychic distress). The answer to that question is an emphatic yes; it is an One of the main reporters on Nevins’s death, Theodore Kalmoukos, has been seriously criticized by others within the Orthodox churches for his reporting, e.g., blogger Fr. Peter Preble (‘Kalmoukos on Monasteries.’ Last modified August 20, 2012. Accessed November 11, 2013. http://www.frpeterpreble.com/2012/07/kalmoukos-on-monaste ries.html). Another instance of online strangeness is the disappearance of pokrov.org, a website devoted to the investigations of clergy abuse within the Orthodox churches in North America. When writing the first draft of this paper, it was one of the main online repositories of journalism about Scott Nevins’s suicide that I utilized; it now only exists as screen shots and dead links. 4 Theodore Kalmoukos. ‘Parents of Suicide Monk Might Sue Monastery and Archdiocese of America.’ Last modified February 14, 2013. Accessed November 11, 2013.http://www.bishopaccountability.org/ news2013/01_02/2013_02_14_Kalmoukos_ParentsOf.htm 5 Richard Cimino. ‘Orthodox Church: monastic movement raising new controversy in Greek Orthodoxy in America.’ Last modified November 24, 2011. Accessed November 11, 2013. http://religion.info/ english/articles/article_555.shtml#.UoEYhig5g_s 3

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answer that the Orthodox tradition has known for the last 1600 years; and it is an answer that I believe has been corroborated and confirmed by the findings modern psychiatry. Our main ancient source for the Orthodox answer to this question is the writing of Evagrius of Pontus, who, in my mind, is the most ‘clinical’ of the ancient ascetical writers. At the outset, I should state clearly one key assumption I am making as I read Evagrius’ works: I am reading the texts referenced in this paper as being written in a ‘journalistic’ style, meaning that Evagrius is reporting direct observations of the experiences of the monks who were under his care. Evagrius does, at times, write using a highly metaphorical style to describe spiritual experience and ascetic labor, but at those times there are clear signals he is doing so; he makes use of simile, and some of his favorite comparisons are between ascetical practice and military or athletic training. But he was also an experienced director of real monastic disciples, and his writings also show this direct and unmediated awareness of the psychic states of his disciples, and his own readiness to advise and guide them. The Evagrian text known as the Foundations of the Monastic Life 6 can be taken as a sort of manifesto, or the most basic set of practical principles one must follow in the pursuit of stillness (hesychia). The Foundations is a remarkable document both for its slimness and the severity of its asceticism. The instant pen hits papyrus marriage is prohibited, backed by the substantial scriptural weight of the prophet Jeremiah and the Apostle Paul. Evagrius is, on the one hand, talking about literal marriage, but marriage here is also code for ‘entanglement’ in any worldly care. Evagrius goes on to detail further renunciations necessary for the practice of hesychia. He recommends that the monk adhere to a ‘frugal and meagre diet;’ 7 to ‘fast as much as you are able before the Lord,’ eating only once daily whenever possible; 8 to ‘bear gladly with sleep deprivation and Evagrius of Pontus, Foundations of the Monastic Life: A Presentation of the Practice of Stillness, trans. Robert Sinkewicz (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003). 7 Ibid., 5. 8 Ibid., 10. 6

526 THE ASCETICAL WRITINGS OF EVAGRIUS OF PONTUS sleeping on the ground;’ 9 to minimize social contacts, even (and perhaps especially) with one’s family: Do not let yourself be carried away by worries for your parents or by affection for your relatives. Rather avoid frequent meetings with them, lest they rob you of the stillness in your cell and lead you to involvement in their own circumstances. 10

In support of this last piece of advice, Evagrius cites one of the starker utterances of the Lord himself: ‘Leave the dead to bury their own dead, but you come follow me.’ 11 Lastly, there are the counsels against more possessions than are absolutely necessary for the most austere existence; such as: ‘And nothing good has ever come to any monk through keeping a serving-boy.’ 12 On top of these admonitions to heavy ascesis, physical mortifications and social withdrawal, the monk is urged deliberately to envision the ‘day of your death, and then look at the dying of your body … Call to mind the present state of things in hell; consider how it is with the souls who are there…’ 13 And then the monk is to meditate on the resurrection, the judgment before God and Christ, the punishments and horrors awaiting the wicked, and the rewards of the righteous. 14 I bring up the Foundations in the context of this discussion in order to highlight the high level of stress inherent in the practice of these ascetical principles. Restriction of daily food intake, change of diet, sleep deprivation, plus an increased demand for manual labor are all significant physical stressors. Anachoresis entails, by its very definition, disruption in existing social attachments, which creates an initial experience of loss and grief – a psychological and emotional stressor. The ongoing social isolation of anachoresis heavily taxes the monk’s capacity to keep himself affectively regulated without recourse to the supportive social relationships to which he Ibid., 11. Ibid., 7. 11 Matt. 8:22. 12 Foundations, 6. 13 Ibid., 9. 14 Ibid., 10. 9

10

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may be accustomed. 15 Lastly, the deliberate meditation on eschatological events of a terrifying and absolutist nature can lead the monk into extremities of both thought and feeling, which further challenge his ability to manage negative affect and remain moored to reality. So what happened to people back then – back in the late fourth century when Evagrius was writing these instructional works – under the strain of this self-imposed exile and these ascetic labors? Sometimes they cracked. Evagrius issued warnings about disturbing experiences that a monk may have in anachoresis. In his treatise On Prayer he advises monks to ready themselves for the experience of terrifying perceptions: Like an experienced fighter, be prepared to avoid being shaken with confusion, even if you all at once see a fantasy; do not be troubled, even if you see a sword drawn against you or a light rushing at your eyes; should you see some unsightly and bloody figure, at all costs do not let your soul become downcast, but take your stand, making the good confession, and you will look upon your enemies with ease. 16

Elsewhere he describes affective states (in this case, sadness) so oppressive and painful that the monk may wish for death (perhaps contemplate suicide?): But if the demon [of sadness] persists for a longer time, he begets thoughts that counsel the soul to make its escape or force it to flee far from its place. This is what the saintly Job once considered and suffered when he was harassed by this demon, For a more in-depth discussion on the theoretical foundations of attachment (social attachments, emotional self-regulation, and psychopathology throughout the life course), see John Bowlby, ‘Disruption of Affectional Bonds and its Effects on Behavior.’ Canada’s Mental Health Supplement 59 (1969); and John Bowlby, Attachment and Loss. Separation: Anxiety and Anger, vol. 2 (New York: Basic Books, 1973). 16 Evagrius of Pontus, Chapters on Prayer, trans. Robert Sinkewicz (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 203. 15

528 THE ASCETICAL WRITINGS OF EVAGRIUS OF PONTUS for he said, ‘If only I might lay hands on myself or at least ask another to do this for me.’ 17

Sometimes monks were able to have these experiences, eventually recover, and in the end find themselves strengthened and spiritually fortified by them. In his instructions to a certain Eulogios, Evagrius relates this anecdote: While one of the brothers was keeping vigil at night, the demons formed for him terrifying fantasies, not only in his outward eye but also in his inner sight so that during the following night, struggling with anxiety, he ran the risk of losing his wits, and for several nights the battle was waged against his soul. 18

This monk got better by calling to mind all his faults, confessing them to God, and conjuring a healthy fear of judgment (exactly the tactic Evagrius counsels in the Foundations 19). The monk was thereby able to trump one fear with another and win that particular battle for his soul. But sometimes, we learn, they didn’t get better: We have known of many among the brothers who fell afoul of this shipwreck, whom the others brought back again to the Evagrius of Pontus, On Thoughts, trans. Robert Sinkewicz (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 161. See also, LXX Job 30:24. The reading of this passage as referring to suicidal intent depends on the connotative meanings one accepts for the Greek word used in the LXX and reproduced in the Evagrian text, χειρώσασθαι. Other, but not all, attestations of the verb χειρόω (worst, master, subdue) in Greek literature carry with them connotations of violence. If the less violent connotations of χειρόω are accepted, then the passage about the soul making its escape may refer to akedia, or restlessness (as Sinkewicz reads it). If the more violent connotations are accepted, then the soul’s wish to «flee far from its place (i.e., the body)» may be taken as a euphemistic expression of the monk’s wish for death. See Henry George Liddell and Robert Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon (1996), s.v. χειρόω. 18 Evagrius of Pontus, To Eulogios. On the Confession of Thoughts and Counsel in their Regard, trans. Robert Sinkewicz (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 54. 19 Foundations, 10. 17

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humane life with tears and prayer. But some who were caught in an irreversible forgetfulness no longer had the strength to lay hold of their first state, and till this day we in our humility behold the shipwrecks of our brothers. This condition for the most part occurs as a result of thoughts of pride. When someone takes up the anchoretic life in such a state, he first sees the air of his cell all afire and lightning flashes at night all around the walls, then there are voices of people pursuing and being pursued and chariots with horses figured in the air, and the whole house is filled with Ethiopians 20 and tumult; and from overwhelming cowardice he then falls victim to folly, becomes exalted, and out of fear forgets his human state. 21

The importance of this passage lies, first, in the fact that it furnishes us with a piece of fourth-century documentation that psychic disturbances of a florid and irreversible nature – involving mental functions of perception, thought, and mood – did indeed take place within monastic communities from the earliest days of Christian monasticism. The second detail of importance in this passage is Evagrius’ suggestion that anachoresis may be more dangerous for certain individuals than it is for others. Here, Evagrius identifies thoughts of pride (hyperēphania) as the risk factor within the individual that disposes one to the disorganizing experiences described in the passage above. In other places, Evagrius identifies thoughts that can lead, in perhaps counter-intuitive ways, to other thoughts or affective states. With sadness in particular, Evagrius sees anger at its root: Sadness is a dejection of soul and is constituted from thoughts of anger, for irascibility is a longing for revenge, and the frustration of revenge produces sadness. 22 A code word in the desert literature for demonic forces, since the (real and warlike) Nubian tribes of that era frequently attacked the Egyptian monastic centers, and had killed many ascetics. 21 Thoughts, 169. 22 Evagrius of Pontus, On the Eight Thoughts, trans. Robert Sinkewicz (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 81. 20

530 THE ASCETICAL WRITINGS OF EVAGRIUS OF PONTUS When Evagrius writes of ‘thoughts’ (logismoi), he infers certain psychic tendencies, or dispositions in the individual monk, which create risk for the disturbances we have discussed. Despite the decidedly unsystematic character of most of Evagrius’ writings, he developed a clear framework – a kind of fourth-century diagnostic manual – that described eight basic disordered thoughts (or, rather, patterns of thought) that posed the greatest spiritual and psychic dangers to the individual monk and the success of the monastic enterprise. If those risk factors (the thoughts) are not addressed early in a monk’s career – during the coenobitic stage of his monastic life – then anachoresis becomes risky indeed. In the Treatise to Eulogios Evagrius gives a thoroughly rational piece of advice that anachoresis be undertaken in stages, and that, if the monk encounters difficulty in isolation, he return to the communal life to avoid a crisis: The elders approve highly of an anachoresis that is undertaken by degrees, if indeed one has come to this after attaining a level of accomplishment in the virtues in community. If one is able to make progress in anachoresis, let him prove himself; but if because of his inability he falls short of virtue, let him return to the community for fear that, being unable to counter the devices of the thoughts, he lose his wits. 23

What emerges from Evagrius’ writings is the idea that the crises we have been discussing develop out of an interaction of two sets of factors. There are the thoughts (logismoi) within the individual, which constitute an internal vulnerability, a set of cognitive and affective tendencies, or dispositions, that elevate risk for these crises. Then there are the stresses inherent in anachoresis that act as triggers to the kinds of experiences that lead to the ‘irreversible forgetfulness’ and loss of a ‘human state;’ 24 stresses that are either totally absent or present only in attenuated form in coenobitic life. It is on the basis of this idea that our discussion now turns to modern psychiatry. These formulations that Evagrius came to through intuition, observation, and borrowing from the philosophy of his day are remarkably similar to the conceptualizations of psy23 24

Eulogios, 56. Thoughts, 169.

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chopathology that modern psychiatry has developed about 1500 years later through medical and behavioral research. One of the most important theoretical constructs developed within the last fifty years to explain the etiology of mental illness is what has come to be known as the diathesis-stress model. 25 The model, originally developed in the field of schizophrenia research, hypothesizes a latent genetic/biological predisposition or vulnerability (diathesis) to the development of the illness. Active symptoms are triggered when the individual carrying the vulnerability encounters a psychosocial stressor of sufficient intensity to induce a significant disruption in that individual’s emotional, cognitive, and physiological equilibrium. 26 The diathesis-stress model has been applied to other areas of psychiatry, psychology, and psychotherapy research. The field of cognitive psychology and therapy has hypothesized (and generated) a considerable body of empirical support 27 – that vulnerabilities to the development of illness (in this case major depressive disorder) are not confined to biology alone, but may be constituted from sets of potentially-pathogenic cognitive tendencies, referred to as ‘schemas.’ Schemas, in this sense, are relatively stable constellations For one of the earliest articulations of the diathesis-stress theory of mental illness, see David Rosenthal, The Genain Quadruplets: A Case Study and Theoretical Analysis of Heredity and Environment in Schizophrenia (New York: Basic Books, 1963). 26 Advancements in medical technology since the first articulations of the diathesis-stress theory, such as brain imaging technology, have enabled researchers to identify abnormalities in the brain, both on the structural and cellular levels (e.g., reduction of hippocampal volume and irregular interconnections between neurons) that support the biological diathesis hypothesis in schizophrenia research. See Elaine F. Walker and Donald Diforio, ‘Schizophrenia: A Neural Diathesis-Stress Model,’ Psychological Review 104, no. 4 (1997): 667–685. 27 Christine D. Scher, Zindel V. Segal, and Rick E. Ingram, ‘Beck’s Theory of Depression: Origins, Empirical Status, and Future Directions for Cognitive Vulnerability,’ in Contemporary Cognitive Therapy: Theory Research and Practice, ed. Robert L. Leahy (New York: Guilford Press, 2004), 31–36. 25

532 THE ASCETICAL WRITINGS OF EVAGRIUS OF PONTUS of attitudes, negative inferential styles (i.e., the tendency to apply excessively negative interpretations to neutral or ambiguous sensory data, experiences, and social interactions), and beliefs about self, other, and the world that become activated in times of stress and lead to the development of psychopathology. The idea that habitually maladaptive cognitive tendencies can constitute a diathesis, or disposition toward certain negative psychiatric outcomes, is especially intriguing in the context of our discussion of Evagrian logismoi. The main conclusion that we are able to draw from the material arranged and interpreted in this way is that, yes, it is indeed possible that the stresses inherent in the more severe practices of Christian monasticism (such as anachoresis) can, in themselves, be enough to precipitate a serious psychic crisis in vulnerable individuals. Furthermore, this conclusion supports the plausibility that Scott Nevins’s experiences at St. Antony’s monastery may have, after a lengthy incubation period, contributed to his suicide, even if those experiences did not include coercion or abuse, as some suspect. Finally, the ancient Evagrian material on this subject reminds us that these kinds of individual psychic crises are not problems only of modernity. The tragically sad end of Scott Nevins’ life illustrates that this is not a problem only of the secular world. And so, the question that arises from these conclusions is, how are the Orthodox churches and their monastic communities to respond to, and move on from, events like this? I think one of the most rational and potentially productive ways forward would be for the churches to support systematic and further research into mental health issues within monastic communities. The reflections in this paper amount to a case study. Studies of single cases yield valuable, but limited information. The very fact that Nevins fell into a crisis that unfolded (at least in part) during his residence at the St. Antony’s Monastery suggests that crises of this nature can happen in monastic communities; and most things that are found to be at least possible, probably will happen at some point. The Evagrian material surveyed in this paper further suggests that psychic crises befell members of monastic communities with some regularity – at least they did in the remote past, and at least with enough frequency that Evagrius felt compelled to commit some instructions to writing to address the issue. What remains unknown at this point, however, is just how often these mental

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health crises actually happen in modern monastic communities. Without any clear idea of the prevalence of severe psychic crises in Orthodox monastic communities broadly, it is impossible to interpret the meaning of particular events like this. In other words, it is impossible for us to know at this point whether Nevins’s experience was in some way aberrant and isolated, or whether his story is one of many like it, that point to troubling trends afoot within the monasteries of the Orthodox churches in the modern era. Developing a body of data on the prevalence of severe psychic crisis in monastic communities – and then comparing those statistics with the general population – will be the next step, should the Orthodox churches decide to take up this research project and carry it forward. As a psychotherapeutic counselor and a theologian of Christian antiquity, I recommend it to the hierarchs as something to weigh carefully.

MARKETS AND MONASTICISM: A SURVEY & APPRAISAL OF EASTERN CHRISTIAN MONASTIC ENTERPRISE DYLAN PAHMAN In fact the whole history of monasticism is in a certain sense the history of a continual struggle with the problem of the secularizing influence of wealth. ~ Max Weber 1 Adolf von Harnack, lecturing in the early twentieth century on the history of monasticism, gives no indication that monasteries of the Christian East had any significant interaction with economic matters: ‘To work they give only just as much attention as is necessary for a livelihood … still must conscience smite the working hermit when he sees the brother who neither toils nor spins nor speaks.’ 2 By contrast, ‘in Western monasticism we have to recognise a factor of the first importance in Church and civilisation.’ 3 His contemporary Max Weber, in The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, shared roughly the same out-look: ‘Labour is … an approved ascetic technique, as it always has been in the Western Church, in sharp contrast … to the Orient.’ 4 Thus to one of the foremost Church Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Talcott Parsons (London; New York: Routledge, 1992 [1930]), 174. 2 Adolf von Harnack, Monasticism in idem, Monasticism: Its Ideals and History and The Confessions of St Augustine, trans. E. E. Kellet and F. H. Marseille (London; Edinburgh: Williams and Nortgate, 1911), 56. 3 Ibid. p. 65. 4 Weber, 1992 [1930]), 158. It is unclear precisely what he means by ‘Orient’ here, but he clearly contrasts it with the ‘Western Church,’ implying that the more positive, ascetic attitude toward labor only, or at least 1

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historians and one of the foremost sociologists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, monks of the Eastern Christian world, by and large, apparently have had their heads in the clouds for most of history, only for a passing moment glancing down toward the earth, and then only to offer their scorn. Unlike the history of the economic activity and influence of Western monasticism, Eastern monasticism has been largely neglected in such studies since Harnack and Weber. 5 As Victor primarily, applies to Western Christianity. With regard to Eastern asceticism in general (of all religions), he seems to take a slightly more nuanced view elsewhere, giving credit to the positive influence of Buddhist asceticism in Tibet. See, e.g., idem., General Economic History, trans. Frank H. Knight (New York, NY; London: Collier Books; Collier-MacMillan Ltd, 1961), 267. Schluchter writes that for Weber, ‘religiously motivated world mastery … is unique to the Occident.’ Wolfgang Schluchter, Rationalism, Religion, and Domination: A Weberian Perspective, trans. Neil Solomon (Berkely; Los Angelas; Oxford: University of California Press, 1989), 273. See also the chart on 144 where he distinguishes between Western monasticism as an expression of ascetic, salvation religion turning away from the world with the goal of overcoming the world, the Protestant ethic as an expression of ascetic, salvation religion turning toward the world with the goal of world mastery, and Oriental Christianity as a contemplative or ecstatic salvation religion turning toward the world with the goal of accepting one’s fate in the world. Weber contrasted asceticism and mysticism but did acknowledge that sometimes they do coexist. See Max Weber, ‘Religious Rejections of the World and Their Directions,’ in H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills, ed. and trans., From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology (New York, NY: Routelege, 1948), 324–326. 5 See, e.g., R. H. Tawney, Religion and the Rise of Capitalism (London: John Murray, 1926), 53–54, 114; Henri Pirenne, Economic and Social History of Medieval Europe (New York, NY: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1937), 68–69, see also 75–77, 83, and 151; Maurice Dobb, Studies in the Development of Capitalism (London: Routelege & Kegan Paul Ltd, 1946), 40, 50, 59, 75, 79–80; Robert Lekachman, A History of Economic Ideas (New York, NY; Evanston; London: Harper & Row Publishers, 1959), 23; Murray Rothbard, Economic Thought Before Adam Smith, An Austrian Perspective on the History of Economic Thought, vol. 1 (Brookfield, VT: Edward Elgar, 1995), 31–64; Rodney Stark, The Victory of Reason: How Christianity Led to

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Roudometof and Michalis N. Michael write, ‘The analysis of the economic functions of Orthodox monasteries lags considerably behind in relation to the state of scholarly knowledge about their Western counterparts.’ 6 The relationship between Orthodox monasticism and economic enterprise is typically only studied as part of broader, historical studies, and these typically only assess economic value. There exists no introductory survey of the history of this interaction in the Christian East. Yet, contra Harnack and Weber, the interaction between markets and monasticism in the Orthodox East was extensive, as I will demonstrate in the first section of this paper. This ought not to be surprising. As Nathan Smith writes: How did/do monasteries support themselves? Even nations are typically not economically self-sufficient, so naturally monasteries are too small to supply all their own needs. From the Egyptian desert to the present day monks have engaged in trades and sold goods to lay people in order to purchase necessities. Ancient Egyptian hermits wove baskets; one modern Russian Orthodox monastery in Washington (state) sells coffee. 7

Even monks need to pay the bills, so to speak. While Weber may not be correct about the Eastern monastic attitude toward labor, he is right when he says: ‘In fact the whole history of monasticism is in a certain sense the history of a continual struggle with the problem of the secularizing influence of wealth.’ 8 This history shows Freedom, Capitalism, and Western Success (New York, NY: Randomhouse, 2006), 57–67; Dierdre N. McCloskey, The Bourgeois Virtues: Ethics for an Age of Commerce (Chicago; London: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 461. 6 Victor Roudometof and Michalis N. Michael, ‘Economic Functions of Monasticism in Cyprus: The Case of the Kykkos Monastery,’ Religions 1, no. 1 (2010): 55. (henceforth Roudometof Kykkos). 7 Nathan Smith, ‘The Economics of Monasticism,’ ASREC Working Paper Series (2009): 14, see also 3–4 where he also briefly mentions the importance of Russian monastic enterprise, though his study focuses otherwise on the West. 8 Weber, 1992 [1930]), 174.

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that monks still need the world to survive, which historically has led to a tension between the monastic ideal of poverty and ‘the secularizing influence of wealth.’ This is the basis of the interaction between markets and monasticism, just as much in the East as in the West. In light of this gap in scholarship, this paper consists of two sections: the first offers an introductory, if incomplete, survey to the history of markets and monasticism in the Christian East; the second offers a brief appraisal of this history and how it may condition the context of monastic teaching on wealth, work, business, and enterprise in the Orthodox Church. Ultimately, I demonstrate that the historical record reveals a positive view of enterprise as a means to serve others, supply one’s needs, and build a surplus for charitable activity, as well as serving as a warning about the dangers of avarice and the exploitation of positions of privilege and power in the accumulation of wealth.

FROM ANCIENT EGYPT TO THE UNITED STATES In the Sayings of the Desert Fathers, there is an illustrative story of the economic relationship between the earliest Christian monks and the world they fled. One monk overhears another worrying: ‘The trader is soon coming, and I have no handles to put on my baskets.’ The first monk then removes the handles from his own baskets and gives them to the other. 9 In order to provide for their own needs, have something to give as alms, and work to stave off the noonday demon of acedia, 10 the desert fathers and mothers would often make handicrafts and other products to sell. In the figure of the trader, the world they fled journeyed to the desert to find them for the sake of economic exchange. Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 17.16 in Owen Chadwick, trans., Western Asceticism (Philadelphia, PA: The Westminster Press, 1958), 184. 10 See, for example, St. John Cassian, On the Eight Vices 6 in St. Nicodemos of the Holy Mountain and St. Makarios of Corinth, The Philokalia, vol. 1, ed. and trans. G.E.H. Palmer, Philip Sherrard, Kallistos Timothy Ware (London: Faber & Faber, 1979), 113: ‘by persevering in work the monks dispel listlessness [acedia].’ 9

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Yet their economic activity cannot be restricted to a minimal production of crafts. According to James A. Goehring: Abba Esias appears to have been involved in a sharecropping arrangement. John the Dwarf wove ropes and baskets and had an agreement with a camel driver who picked up the merchandise from his cell. He also apparently left Scetis during the harvest season to work for wages. Isidore the Priest went to the market to sell his goods. Lucius plaited ropes to earn the money with which he purchased his food. In the collection of sayings associated with Abba Poemen, one reads of meetings with the village magistrate, of the plaiting and selling of ropes, of monks who went to the city, took baths, and were careless in their behavior, of a monk who worked a field, and of one who took his produce to the market. 11

Goehring notes as well the many monks who did not participate in the anchoritic or coenobitic life but rather lived on the outskirts of villages. 12 In fact, the first known use of the term monachos to describe an ascetic comes from a petition dating to 324 that records how a monk named Isaac ‘intervened in a village dispute over a cow.’ 13 James E. Goehring, Ascetics, Society, and the Desert: Studies in Early Egyptian Monasticism (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1999), 45–46. 12 See also Goehring, 1999, 89–90: ‘While isolated monasteries flourished in Egypt as a result of the discovery of the desert, Egyptian monasticism was neither in its origins a product of that discovery nor in its subsequent expansion a result of an ensuing flight from the inhabited world … to the newly found isolation of the desert … The growth of monasticism in Egypt did not follow a simple linear path from an ill-defined urban ascetic movement in the later third and early fourth centuries to the withdrawn desert monks of the fourth-century classical period, to the large well-defined urban and suburban monasteries of the later Byzantine era … While it expanded into the desert in the fourth century, it continued to grow and develop as well within the inhabited regions of the Nile valley where it first began.’ 13 Goehring, 1999, 45. 11

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He continues to examine coenobitic monasteries, who met their needs ‘by frequent forays outside the monastery wall to gather the materials needed for their livelihood,’ including gathering materials for making ropes and baskets as well as agricultural production, sheep herding, and goat shearing. 14 As time went on, Goehring notes, the scope of Egyptian monastic enterprise continued to grow from mats, baskets, and plaited ropes to sandals and other goods. ‘As the community obtained its own boats,’ he writes, ‘the products were shipped down the Nile as far as Alexandria.’ 15 These ‘[c]ommercial dealings required careful control,’ he continues, detailing the record keeping of each monastery’s ‘great steward,’ the financial manager of the Pachomian communities. 16 In addition, St. Shenoute’s White Monastery also ‘had considerable commercial exchange with the outside world.’ It functioned as a sort of work cooperative, serving as ‘a source of relief to the poor Coptic farmers by offering them at reduced prices such necessities as cloth, mats, and baskets.’ 17 Perhaps surprisingly, Goehring writes, ‘Ownership and transfer of property by monks was relatively common’ in Egypt. 18 Private property apparently did not conflict with the ideal of poverty and communal ownership of resources for some. 19 This is noted by Ibid. 47. Ibid. 48. 16 Ibid. 48. Goehring also notes the proximity of these monasteries to civilization: ‘The Pachomian monasteries were not located in the distant desert or even on the marginal land where the desert begins, but in or in close proximity to the towns or villages whose names they bore’ (108). 17 Goehring, 1999, 48–49. 18 Ibid. 50. 19 Ibid. 61–62, where Goehring notes that in Pachomian and Shenoutean communities eventually it was required that monks donate all personal property to the monastery, thus ensuring literal renunciation of all property. Nevertheless, he notes, ‘The Pachomian innovation of donating personal property to the monastery was not universal among communal ascetics in fourth-century Egypt’ (64). He goes on to detail, ‘In the case of the monastery of Apollos at Bawit, where the documentary evidence indicates private-property ownership in the ninth century, it is just 14 15

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Rhee as well, who additionally comments, ‘[W]hether one was an anchorite, semi-anchorite, or cenobite, a monk did not necessarily live in destitution with ‘total’ renunciation of private property … The monastic poverty in reality was more patterned after economic self-sufficiency than destitution.’ 20 Most monks did not follow the standard of St. Paul the Hermit, who according to St. Jerome stitched together palm leaves to wear so as not to even own a cloak. 21 Furthermore, though to an extent Rhee is right that ‘monastic poverty in reality was … patterned after economic selfsufficiency,’ 22 Goehring summarizes the economic interdependence of Egyptian monasticism with the secular world, arguing that: ‘Such interaction was part of the monastic self-understanding in Egypt from the beginning … [Monasticism’s] significance and success in Egypt lay not only in its religious import to the surrounding communities, but also in its social and economic interdependence with them. It enlivened dying villages, increased agricultural production and trade, and produced various necessities … for the peasants. Its leaders were also among the new purveyors of social and economic as likely that the monks of this monastery had always been able to own property as it is that their original rule shifted in later years to allow it’ (Goehring, 68). 20 Helen Rhee, Loving the Poor, Saving the Rich: Wealth, Poverty, and Early Christian Formation (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2012), 184. She additionally notes, ‘While these monks individually renounced all worldly attachments, including possessions, many, if not most, cenobitic monastics could count on sufficient shelter, clothing, regular meals, and ‘excellent’ health care for the rest of their lives due to the economic stability of monastic communities’ (183). The major exceptions were certain Syrian monks who lived entirely off of begging (184). 21 See St. Jerome, The Life of Paulus the First Hermit in NPNF2 6:301. 22 Rhee, 2012, 184. She additionally notes, ‘While these monks individually renounced all worldly attachments, including possessions, many, if not most, cenobitic monastics could count on sufficient shelter, clothing, regular meals, and ‘excellent’ health care for the rest of their lives due to the economic stability of monastic communities’ (183). The major exceptions were certain Syrian monks who lived entirely from begging (184).

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power in the hinterland. Its success in Egypt was dependent upon both elements.’ 23 Egyptian monks were self-sufficient in the sense of providing for their own needs with their own work, but they depended on others inasmuch as such work could not provide for their needs apart from economic exchange.

BYZANTINE PALESTINE Doron Bar’s study of the Christianization of rural, Byzantine Palestine, western Galilee and the Negev in particular, includes further insight into this history. He writes: ‘Many of the monasteries included such devices as oil and wine presses, indicating that agriculture was central to the monastery’s daily routine,’ 24 noting that ‘more than 170 such establishments’ were ‘in Palestine’s countryside.’ 25 The founding of monasteries at the edges of rural villages was common. 26 Following St. Basil, these monasteries engaged in social welfare activities. 27 Unlike Egypt and Syria, however, these monasteries did not arise out of local piety but were part of the advancing Christianization process of the region. As the monks, then, commonly spoke Greek rather than Aramaic, interaction with the people and customs of the villages in Palestine was a challenge. ‘There was a complicated give-and-take between the monks and villagers,’ Bar writes. ‘The local villagers enjoyed the protection, religious patronage, and various religious services that the monks offered them, elements that previously were lacking in these remote areas.’ 28 He continues, ‘The monks themselves sought the presence of the villagers … In those rural areas, the monks became well-known figures and fulfilled a major sociological role. The monks helped the farmers to confront problems typical in those Goehring, 1999, 51–52. Doron Bar, ‘Rural Monasticism as a Key Element in the Christianization of Byzantine Palestine,’ The Harvard Theological Review, 98, no. 1 (Jan., 2005): 51. 25 Ibid. 51, see also the map on 52. 26 Ibid. 55–56. 27 Ibid. 57. 28 Ibid. 59. 23 24

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regions, and in return the farmers made handsome donations to the monks and their monasteries.’ 29 According to Bar, the monasteries of the region cannot be easily classified in purely religious or economic terms: ‘Many of the monasteries were built not in isolated areas but close to a village, sometimes integrated into its fringes, and most frequently connected to the village by a short path. This phenomenon can be observed not only in Palestine but also in some other regions of the Byzantine world, and suggests that in such cases, both the monks and the villagers were interested in being neighbors.’ 30 This interaction shows that not only did the monasteries need contact with the villages for survival, but the villages also needed the monasteries. The result was a higher economic, religious, and cultural standard of living for both the villagers and the monks. 31

THE KYKKOS MONASTERY ON CYPRUS Founded at the end of the eleventh century by Emperor Alexios Komnenos, the economic history of the Kykkos monastery up to the present day is one of widespread and expansive enterprise. Victor Roudometof and Michalis N. Michael offer extensive detail of the monastery’s property holdings and business ventures. Along with several other monasteries on the island, Kykkos significantly increased its land holdings from the fifteenth century onward. In 1554, ‘there were 30 monks and a few employees – a shepherd, two vineyard guards and six other employees in the monastery…’ 32 Kykkos continued to expand its holdings under Ottoman rule. ‘The monastery did not simply manage land that was within the wakf framework. It also used land for which it had only the right of usufruct (tassaruf). Additionally, for a large number of lands located nearby or far away from its main complex, it had the right of comIbid. 60. Ibid. 63. 31 Rhee’s summary (Loving the Poor. 2012, 183–184) of the lifestyle of early Christian monks applies here as well. 32 Roudometof Kykkos. 58. 29 30

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plete ownership (mülk).’ 33 The monastery obtained land and other property in a variety of ways, such as purchasing public land, acquisition of land for which they previously only had the right of usufruct, purchase from private owners, donations received from the Orthodox faithful, and property inherited from private owners. 34 Most land acquired was cultivatable, but the monastery also ‘bought houses with yards, shops, building plots in the cities, vineyards and gardens.’ 35 After 1850, the monastery hired more workers, operated markets, increased its land holdings, annexes, estate holdings, pastures, and mills. 36 Mills represented the most important enterprise in the local economy, and Kykkos owned more than 16. 37 Roudometof and Michael write that ‘the monastery was probably one of the most important producers on the island.’ 38 Mills required a large amount of capital to purchase, equip, and operate. More broadly, these holdings were cultivated either directly by the monks, by renting, or by the tenant farmer system. 39 The monastery also owned many trees, which under Ottoman law were separate possessions than the land on which they stood. 40 In the case of the Kykkos monastery on Cyprus, one cannot study the market apart from studying the monastery, because in many cases the monastery itself was the market. It operated shops and markets for oil and leather vending and held the title deeds for 59 shops and laboratories by the second half of the nineteenth century, including wine, grocery, and coffee shops. 41 By the end of the Ottoman era, the monastery owned 72 shops, 13 annexes, 10 churches, 15,148 acres of land, 8,797 olive trees, 1,402 other trees, Ibid. 59. A wakf, under Islamic law, is an inalienable religious endowment. 34 Ibid. 62–63. 35 Ibid. 62. 36 Ibid. 64. 37 Ibid. 66. 38 Roudometof Kykkos. 66. 39 Ibid.64–65. 40 Ibid. 65. 41 Ibid. 67. 33

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429 vineyards, 11 water mills, and 11 olive mills; it had its own goldsmiths, its own commissioners for exportation, and even owned part of a ship. 42 Its major products in the nineteenth century included ‘silk, grain, wine, cotton, oil, sesame and various other products of stockbreeding, like wool and leather.’ 43 Additionally, as there were no banks on Cyprus, Kykkos itself acted as a bank, loaning money to be repaid with interest and borrowing money as well. 44 In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, however, British rule eliminated political privilege for the monastery and brought government antagonism toward the Church. The British seized land from the monastery. The monastery, for its part, refused to comply with the new regulations on property and payment of taxes and supported the anti-British nationalist rebels in the 1950s. 45 Since 1950, and especially since the establishment of the Republic of Cyprus in 1960, the monastery sold land in the booming real estate market. Since the 1970s urban expansion on Cyprus brought a newfound economic prosperity. Annual income for the monastery increased tenfold from 1983 to 2003 (approximately from 770,000 to 7.7 million Euros). 46 ‘This income has been used to fund several actions,’ they write, including charity work, renovations, and ‘the creation of the Byzantine Ecclesiastical Museum’ as well as ‘the Archangel Cultural Foundation of the Kykkos Monastery.’ 47 Writing in 2010, Roudometof and Michael write that the ‘Kykkos Monastery is, today, one of the most financially powerful monasteries in Cyprus.’ The monastery owns one factory for wine and another for bottling water and rents out many buildings. ‘At the same time,’ they write, ‘it remains the owner of extensive real estate property holdings. The monastery is also one of the main Ibid. 67–68. Ibid. 67. 44 Ibid. 67. 45 Ibid. 68–71. 46 Roudometof Kykkos. 71. 47 Ibid. 71. 42 43

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stakeholders in the Hellenic Bank of Cyprus.’ 48 Far from idealizing ‘solitary contemplation and mortification,’ waiting idly ‘for the holy light of God to shine at last on [them],’ 49 the monks of Kykkos have a long history of successful enterprise and charitable activity.

RUSSIA Russian monasticism, too, has a long history of economic enterprise. ‘Monasteries in Muscovite Russia served a variety of functions, ranging from prayer and meditation to banking and commerce,’ writes Isaiah Gruber. 50 In some cases, unfortunately, the charitable activity and other contributions to broader socioeconomic well-being did not match up to the example of Kykkos. No doubt this is not unique to Russia but likely represents the spectrum of success and failure among Eastern monasticism in general in this regard. In my research, nevertheless, by far the worst examples of monasteries that, by all appearances, failed in the ‘continual struggle with … the secularizing influence of wealth’ 51 come from Russia. During the fourteenth century in Russia, Gilbert Rozman writes, ‘Ownership of votchiny [inherited landed properties] was divided between clerical authorities representing churches and monasteries, nobles … and the prince himself.’ 52 Monasteries were some of the few property owners in medieval Russia, and among some of the most enduring. He writes: ‘In … conditions of growing commercial involvement, many estate owners fell into debt, while others, including certain monasteries, adapted to the changed Ibid. 71. Adolf von Harnack, Monasticism in idem, Monasticism: Its Ideals and History and The Confessions of St Augustine, trans. E. E. Kellet and F. H. Marseille (London; Edinburgh: Williams and Nortgate, 1911), 56. 50 Isaiah Gruber, ‘Black Monks and White Gold: The Solovetskii Monastery’s Prosperous Salt Trade during the Time of Troubles of the Early Seventeenth Century,’ Russian History 37 (2010): 238. 51 Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Talcott Parsons (London; New York: Routledge, 1992 [1930]), 174. 52 Gilbert Rozman, Urban Networks in Russia, 1750–1800, and Premodern Periodization (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), 51. 48 49

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circumstances by securing grants of land in still unsettled areas or through rights of inheritance from private owners seeking salvation, by engaging in usury, or by taking advantage of monopoly trading rights in such goods as salt and fish.’ 53 Lawrence N. Langer notes that in medieval Russia, unlike in the West, there were no guilds. 54 Thus, monasteries claimed a significant share of the market by taking advantage of their taxexempt status. 55 Langer speaks of ‘brotherhoods (bratchina) which existed in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries [that] were primarily organizations of monastic servitors and certainly did not represent separate crafts [unlike guilds].’ 56 Additionally, Maurice Dobb notes, ‘It was precisely wealthy monasteries like the Troitsa Sergeievsky near Moscow or that of St. Cyril on the White Sea, among the most enterprising and successful traders of the period, that were the earliest to impose labour services (instead of dues in money or kind) upon peasantry on their estates.’ 57 Rozman compares the acquisition of property by the Church and Orthodox monasteries to the Church in the West in the ninth and tenth centuries, writing: ‘Christian religious rural areas were increasingly active in accumulating resources in rural areas during this phase of decentralization. Eventually, efforts to reorganize the movement of local resources together with various improvements in rural conditions would result in the widespread emergence of Gilbert Rozman, Urban Networks in Russia, 1750–1800, and Premodern Periodization (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), 52. 54 Lawrence N. Langer, ‘The Medieval Russian Town’ , in Michael F. Hamm, (ed). The City in Russian History (Lexington, KY: The University Press of Kentucky, 1976), 24–27, see also 12. For a simple and straightforward account of the importance and function of guilds, see Robert Lekachman, A History of Economic Ideas (New York, NY; Evanston; London: Harper & Row Publishers, 1959), 18–19, and for some of the common problems 22. 55 See Lawrence N. Langer, ‘The Medieval Russian Town’, 25. 56 Ibid. 25. 57 Maurice Dobb, Studies in the Development of Capitalism (London: Routelege & Kegan Paul Ltd, 1946), 40. 53

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periodic markets.’ 58 Thus, in Russia, as in France and England centuries before, the accumulation of capital by the Church did help to bring political stability and economic development. ‘Actually many of the early markets’ in mid-fifteenth-century Russia, writes Rozman, ‘were not located in typical villages, but were found outside the walls of monasteries, which as owners of large estates had long served as gathering points for craftsmen and as accumulation points for goods.’ 59 Langer goes on to detail the monasteries’ sometimes questionable economic activities: The monasteries … accumulated the greatest amounts of capital and during the second half of the fourteenth and the fifteenth century expanded their economic activities, for example resorting increasingly to hiring free labor (naimiti). In smaller towns like Beloozero, monasteries nearly monopolized the entire market; consequently Ivan II had to restrict somewhat their privileges in trade. Nevertheless, the monasteries controlled some of the largest salt works and served to fulfill an important economic function, the movement of foodstuffs in large bulk from one market to another. 60 The largest and most financially successful of such monastic salt works can be found in the case of the Solovetskii monastery, which in purely economic terms, by far represents the most successful Eastern monastic enterprise. The salt mines, along with many other enterprises of the Solovetskii monastery, were originally founded by St. Philip II, who served as its abbot in the midsixteenth century before becoming Metropolitan of Moscow. 61 Solovetskii’s salt works in particular were extremely lucrative, salt being ‘a vital necessity and hence a highly profitable cash crop.’ 62 Gilbert Rozman, Urban Networks in Russia, 1750–1800, and Premodern Periodization (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), 55. 59 Ibid. 61. 60 See Langer, ‘The Medieval Russian Town’. 25. 61 See, e.g. Victoria Clarck, Why Angels Fall: A Journey Through Orthodox Europe from Byzantium to Kosovo (New York, NY: MacMillan, 2008). 62 Isaiah Gruber, ‘Black Monks and White Gold: The Solovetskii Monastery’s Prosperous Salt Trade during the Time of Troubles of the Early Seventeenth Century,’ Russian History 37 (2010): 239. 58

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Isaiah Gruber writes: Major institutions such as the ‘state within a state’ centered at Solovki commanded impressive revenues and, as Queen Elizabeth’s ambassador Giles Fletcher put it, ‘deal[t] for all manner of commodities.’ These were the mega-corporations of a society continually professing spiritual motives in all realms of life – whether political or social, intellectual or economic, sexual or military. In fact, the vast majority of ecclesiastic documents that have survived for the perusal of historians are simply business records of income and expense. 63

Gruber examines the financial success of Solovetskii in the Time of Troubles (1599–1615). Gruber compares the medieval salt industry to the modern oil industry, and Solovetskii had the largest market share in medieval Russia. 64 ‘The first two-thirds of the Smuta [Time of Troubles],’ he writes, ‘actually profited the Solovetskii monasterial business, which had the good fortune to control large supplies of a high-demand natural resource.’ 65 How were they able to do this, given the severe hardship in Russia during this time? Gruber explains: I speculate that the situation with regard to salt – the ‘white gold’ of its day – was similar to the situation with regard to oil today. Demand was always high, even regardless of cost, but it could vary somewhat – especially in crisis situations. Meanwhile, the volume of the commodity that could be supplied remained almost constant … However, suppliers were able to manipulate prices to a more or less significant degree by restricting or opening supply as they saw fit. The Solovki monks – not to mention other businessmen in Russia – may well have exploited these realities for their own advantage during the Time of Troubles. 66 Ibid. 238–239. Ibid. 242. 65 Ibid. 244, see also 247. 66 Ibid. 245. 63 64

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He notes, furthermore, that the monastery functioned as a wholesaler. Thus it did not sell directly to those who needed salt but to merchants who may also have raised the price of this scarce and needed the commodity even more. 67 The comparison to oil cartels and mega-corporations is quite apt when it comes to the amount of income and capital that Solovetskii enjoyed. Gruber details their spending habits as follows: Typically, the elders in Vologda would spend the majority of their proceeds from salt sales on purchases of grain and other supplies for the monastery. In the year 7120 (1611–1612), they had enough money to spend more than 9,000 rubles for such purposes – an amount well above average annual expenditure. Such figures prove that this enormous monasterial corporation had considerable sums of money available to be spent all throughout the Troubles, even during years of horrible famine and war. In fact, in the sixteen years 7108–7123 (1599–1615), the Vologda office of the Solovetskii Monastery recorded purchases totaling 116,517.095 rubles.

‘Using my rough approximation,’ he writes, ‘this would correspond to perhaps a quarter billion U.S. dollars today. Remarkably, most if not all of this money came from income, not savings.’ 68 Despite such huge expenditures, profits, and the surrounding destitution of the time, very little funds were dedicated to almsgiving. ‘[T]he prosperity enjoyed by the monastery during Smutnoe vremia [the Time of Troubles] stands out against a background of great suffering among the common population.’ 69 Examining the year 1605 alone, Gruber notes: In addition to these large expenses, a laconic entry at the end of the document read, ‘nishchim rozoshlosia [to the poor was expended] 5 altyn, 2 dengi [0.16 rubles].’ This minimal almsgiving – scrupulously recorded by the business-like monks – contrasts starkly with the tens of thousands of rubles brought in Ibid. 246. Gruber, (2010): 246–247. 69 Ibid. 248. 67 68

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by their commercial activity. Of course, after three years of famine and one of war, it was as likely as not a dearth of poor people that kept charity expenses so low. 70

In sharp contrast to the sanctity of its founder, who was martyred for his resistance to Ivan the Terrible in defense of the Russian people, Solovetskii seemed to all but forego its spiritual calling during the Time of Troubles. Gruber concludes: What have we learned from the black monks and their trade in white gold? First, the Time of Troubles was not an unmitigated disaster for all segments of Muscovite society. For some, the country’s misfortune was to a certain degree their windfall, at least during the first two stages of the period. Second, the goal of an ostensibly spiritual institution remained to a very significant extent economic profit, not (for example) relieving widespread poverty or resisting supposedly illegitimate tsars. 71

While on the one hand Gruber is right that Russian monastic operations have historically displayed certain failings regarding their raison d’être, Rozman and Langer show how the reality was more mixed – Solovetskii cannot be taken as a microcosm of the whole of Russian monasticism. Another mixed picture can be found in eighteenth century Kiev. At this time as Kiev grew in population from the 1720s to the 1750s, ‘[g]reat monasteries, particularly the Monastery of the Caves,’ as well as a fortress, ‘dominated the city and its economy.’ 72 Michael F. Hamm records that in Kiev: Monasteries were … prominent in the two most important local trades, milling and distilling. Monks from the Monastery at the Caves had fourteen taverns in Pechersk District in the 1750s, one on each street. In 1766 it seemed to one observer that ‘the making of vodka and other drinks was the main, if not the only, form of production in Kiev.’ For all of the city’s Ibid. 247. Ibid. 248. 72 Michael F. Hamm, ‘Continuity and Change in Late Imperial Kiev’ in Michael F. Hamm, ed., The City in Late Imperial Russia (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1986), 81. 70 71

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It would be uncharitable to assume that corrupting good men was the aim of this enterprise of the Monastery of the Caves, but their taverns certainly could not have helped. Kiev, at least, was known for its ‘miracle-working icons,’ and we can hope that the men of Kiev were ‘charitable to the poor’ in part due to the teaching and example of local monks. In any case, the enterprise of the monasteries of Kiev, including the Monastery of the Caves, was instrumental in improving the quality of education in Russia as whole, printing books and participating in an international exchange of ideas. ‘Kiev’s importance as a center of learning should not be overlooked,’ writes Hamm, ‘for its monasteries helped introduce Western ideas into seventeenth and eighteenth-century Russia. From 1616 the Monastery at the Caves operated a press which contributed greatly to the development of book-printing in the Empire.’ 74 Lastly, while he does not cite the sources of the funding used, it is worth mentioning here Scott M. Kenworthy’s account of the social engagement of the Trinity-Sergius Lavra in the nineteenth century. ‘Trinity-Sergius actively engaged in a wide array of philanthropic activities,’ he writes, ‘providing services such as an almshouse for the elderly poor both of Sergiev Posad and other regions as well as a hospital for both local residents and pilgrims, a hostel for pilgrims, and educational institutions for both orphans who lived in the monastery and poor children of the surrounding region.’ 75 He continues to write about monasticism more broadly: ‘Moreover, in 1840 private individuals or societies supported half Ibid. 81. Ibid. 82. 75 Scott M. Kenworthy, ‘Russian Monasticism and Social Engagement: The Case of the Trinity-­Sergius Lavra in the Nineteenth Century’ in M.J. Pereira, ed., Philanthropy and Social Compassion in Eastern Orthodox Tradition, The Sophia Institute: Studies in Orthodox Theology, Vol. 2 (New York, NY: Theotokos Press; The Sophia Institute, 2010), 178–179. 73 74

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of the hospitals and almshouses located on monastery property; by 1914, these non-monastic sources accounted for a mere 6.9 percent of the funding.’ 76 In addition, he notes the bottom-up nature of these reforms, arising from individual monasteries more than from hierarchical mandates.

THE UNITED STATES IN THE PRESENT DAY In December of 1997, Our Merciful Saviour Russian Orthodox Monastery in Washington State found itself facing potential litigation from Starbucks. The monastery operated a small business selling coffee over the internet, and Starbucks charged it with violating its trademark of the label ‘Christmas Blend.’ 77 While two other businesses responded by changing the names of their blends, Our Merciful Saviour refused. A year later, embarrassed over the negative publicity that threatening a monastery with a lawsuit engendered, Starbucks dropped the charges. 78 Today Our Merciful Saviour uses the story as a marketing point for its ‘Christmas Blend’ coffee on its website: ‘Made famous by our battle with Starbucks some years ago … this wonderful seasonal blend of Arabica beans is perfect for drinking around the hearth.’ 79 Due to their persistence, many other coffee makers still use the label as well. Our Merciful Saviour is not the only modern monastery benefitting from globalization, conducting business over the internet and benefiting from high speed shipping. 80 I offer here a sample of Ibid. 179. William Patalon III, ‘Starbucks’ ‘Christmas Blend’ Stirs Brouhaha: Local Firm, Monastery Warned on Trademark,’ The Baltimore Sun, December 25, 1997, accessed October 8, 2013, http://articles.baltimoresun. com/1997–12–25/news/1997359001_1_christmas-blend-starbucks-reg istered-trademarks. 78 Lee Moriwaki, ‘Starbucks Ends Fight Over Name,’ The Seattle Times, February 3, 1998, http://community.seattletimes.nwsource.com/ archive/?date=19980203&slug=2732309. 79 ‘Coffee,’ All Merciful Saviour Orthodox Monastery, October 8, 2013, http://vashonmonks.com/coffee.htm. 80 I use the term globalization in its standard, neutral sense, meaning the deterritorialization, the growth of interconnectedness, and the in76 77

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only a few American Orthodox monasteries and the products they produce and sell. St. Paisius Monastery, a Serbian convent in Arizona, specializes in prayer ropes but also sells books, music, icons, crosses, and rings. 81 The Hermitage of the Holy Cross, a Russian monastery in House Springs, Missouri, features pumpkin spice bar soap and also sells other bath and body products, books, incense, food, greeting cards, icons, jewelry, and various Orthodox CDs and DVDs. 82 Holy Transfiguration Monastery, part of the un-canonical ‘Holy Orthodox Church in North America’, is well-known for its icons and books. In addition, they also sell prayer ropes, crosses, oils, incense, lamps, CDs and DVDs, and prosphora seals. 83 St. John Chrysostomos Greek Orthodox Monastery in Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin sells icons, candles, jewelry, and other devotional items. The monastery’s website entirely consists of its online store. 84 The Monastery of St. John of San Francisco, part of the Orthodox Church in America and located in Manton, California, has a bookstore that also sells candles, soaps, icons, crosses, scarves, honey, prayer ropes, and greeting cards. 85 St. John the Forerunner, a Greek convent in San Francisco, sells various baked goods as well as prayer corner items, icon cards, natural soaps and lotions, honey and jams, fresh roasted coffee, and sterling silver creased velocity of social activity that has come as a result of technological advancement over approximately the last 200 years. See William Scheuerman, ‘Globalization,’ The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N. Zalta (Summer 2010 Edition), accessed October 17, 2013, http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2010/entries/globalization/. 81 ‘St. Paisius Monastery Gift Shop,’ St. Paisius Monastery, accessed October 8, 2013, http://www.stpaisiusgiftshop.com/. 82 ‘Hermitage of the Holy Cross,’ Hermitage of the Holy Cross, accessed October 8, 2013, https://store.holycross-hermitage.com/. 83 ‘Holy Transfiguration Monastery Store,’ Holy Transfiguration Monastery, accessed October 8, 2013, http://www.bostonmonks.com/. 84 ‘Home Page,’ St. John Chrysostomos Greek Orthodox Monastery, accessed October 8, 2013, http://www.stchrysostomoscrafts.com/. 85 ‘St. John’s Bookstore,’ Monastery of St. John, accessed October 8, 2013, http://www.stjohnsbookstore.com/.

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Jesus Prayer rings. 86 Paracletos, a Greek monastery in Antreville, South Carolina, has its own, separate website for its store where it sells icons, neck crosses and gifts, censers, incense, oil lamps, and prayer ropes. 87 Dormition of the Mother of God Romanian Orthodox Monastery, a convent in Rives Junction, Michigan, sells books, prayer ropes, vestments, and specialty items, including handcrafted monk and nun dolls. 88 This brief survey gives no indication that the Orthodox tradition of monastic enterprise shows any signs of diminishing or, for that matter, has any uneasiness about participating in the global markets of the twenty-first century.

APPRAISAL On the structural side, I would argue that though he claims his account is ‘unduly focused on Christian and Western monasticism,’ Nathan Smith’s basic economic analysis fits Eastern Christian monasticism as well. 89 To simplify, he notes the following seven points: (1) monasticism began eremitically and only later became coenobitic; (2) there existed competition between monastic orders and practices; (3) internally, monasteries resemble the structure of socialist communes (though contra Smith I would say only generally and not ‘precisely’ 90); (4) monasticism is a lifelong commitment; (5) ‘St. John’s Monastery Bakery,’ St. John the Forerunner, accessed October 8, 2013, http://www.stjohnmonastery.org/. 87 ‘Orthodox Byzantine Icons, Censers, Incense, Vigil Lams, Prayer Ropes, Neck Crosses and Gifts,’ Paracletos Monastery, accessed October 8, 2013, http://www.orthodoxmonasteryicons.com/. 88 ‘Dormition Monastery » Welcome to Our Gift Shop,’ Dormition of the Mother of God Orthodox Monastery, accessed October 8, 2013, http://www.dormitionmonastery.org/?page_id=4. 89 Nathan Smith, ‘The Economics of Monasticism,’ ASREC Working Paper Series (2009): 17. 90 Ibid. 11. Some class division existed between novices and monks, abbots and others, clergy and non-clergy and, as we have seen, ownership of private property was not in actual fact completely abolished. We may add as well the division between monks and lay brothers among the Cistercians. See Ludo J.R. Milis, Angelic Monks and Earthly Men: Monasticism 86

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unlike secular communes, monasteries are incredibly resilient institutions (he notes the average lifespan being about 450 years); (6) ‘monasteries made great contributions to civilization and often acquired great wealth’; and (7) there is ‘a monastic reform cycle, with repeated decay and renewal.’ 91 Smith then notes how, among those disaffected by any particular society, there will always be some who embrace an eremitic lifestyle. When this is done for spiritual purposes, the individual cultivates spiritual capital (or, we might say, heavenly treasure), which, in turn, attracts others to follow the hermit’s example. After a while, enough monastics group together and form coenobitic communities. Monasteries are more stable than secular communes because (nearly) everyone there joins voluntarily, for life, embraces celibacy (thus having no children who do not choose to join the community), and a life focused on worship is self-reinforcing. That is, the more people develop spiritual capital the more attracted they are to the sorts of activities that develop spiritual capital, 92 and the more attractive monastic life will be to others. Reinforced by strict obedience and a strong work ethic, monasteries accumulate capital and contribute to civilization. As they grow in wealth, however, they naturally attract more people for purely economic reasons rather than for the sake of spiritual development, diminishing the spiritual vitality of the community, making it less attractive, and and its Meaning to Medieval Society (Woodbridge, UK: The Boydell Press), 39–40. Thus, the idea that internally they were ‘precisely’ socialist seems to overstate the reality. They certainly strove for communal ownership and classlessness, but they did not perfectly achieve this. Furthermore, while Smith discounts the idea that monasteries can be classified under the model of the firm, we have seen at least in the case of Solovetskii that a comparison to business institutions may be quite apt. Indeed, one can say about a business that the property is owned corporately, though, of course, not always in the sense of the sort of shareholder model in which everyone owns a portion of the company that fits better with socialism. 91 For this list in greater detail, see Nathan Smith, ‘The Economics of Monasticism,’ ASREC Working Paper Series (2009): 17. 92 In this context Smith (2009) cites the Russian spiritual classic The Way of a Pilgrim. Ibid. p. 31.

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leading eventually to a decrease in membership. At the same time, this motivates the more zealous to embrace the eremitic life in effort to return to the initial spiritual purity, starting the cycle over again. Sergey Bulgakov cites the Russian historian Vasily Osipovich Klyuchevsky, who records precisely this phenomenon with regards to Russian monasticism. He additionally notes how many Russian villages formed around monasteries, confirming the role of monasticism on the development of Eastern civilization, Klyuchevsky writes: Three quarters of fourteenth and fifteenth century monasteries in depopulated areas were such [agrarian] colonies; they were established by monks who left other monasteries, from similar depopulated areas. A desert monastery would nurture in its brotherhood, at least among the most susceptible brothers, a very special mood: a specific concept of monastic objectives was formed; the founder has left for the woodlands in order to attain salvation in a quiet solitude, convinced that would not have been possible in the secular world, among peoples’ squabble. He would attract similar searchers of voicelessness and they would build a desert home. The rigid way of life, [and the] glory of the deeds attracted from afar not only prayers and contributors but also peasants who would settle around a prospering cell on which they could rely as both religious and economic support; peasant[s] would cut the forest around, build villages, clear up fields, ‘alter the desert,’ as the hagiography of Rev. Sergey Radonezhski tells us. In such cases monastic colonization meets peasants’ … and serves it as unintended guide. Thus, from a hermit’s cell in solitude grew a populated, rich, and noisy monastery. Often, however, there would be a disciple of the founder among the brothers, disturbed by this non-monk noise and wealth; following the spirit and the word of the teacher, with his blessing the disciple would leave for another untouched desert and there in the same order would emerge another forest cell. Sometimes, even

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One notable element of this analysis is that in order for monasteries to have maximum, positive social effect, the desire for spiritual purity needs to persist. That is, monasteries tend to do their best work for the common good when monastics continue to toil primarily for the kingdom of God and do not lose sight of their spiritual vocation. While the Orthodox are caricatured by Harnack and Weber as being too far to the spiritual extreme, the most egregious historical example of a poor attitude toward wealth, Solovetskii, appears to have had precisely the opposite problem. We may note again, as well, those Russian monasteries that took advantage of their tax-exempt privilege to monopolize the market on various goods. This raises an important question: how did Eastern monastics view wealth and enterprise? What appears to be the case, in fact, is that in general they actually did live according to their own teachings on the subject: wealth is neither inherently good nor bad, but only good or bad depending upon its use. St John Cassian records the following teaching of Abba Theodore, one of the desert fathers: Altogether there are three kinds of things in the world; viz., good, bad, and indifferent. And so we ought to know what is V.O. Klyuchevsky, ‘Lecture 24,’ The Course of Russian History (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1968), quoted in Sergey Bulgakov, ‘The National Economy and the Religious Personality (1909),’ Journal of Markets & Morality 11, no. 1 (Spring 2008): 165. Notably, Bulgakov’s essay may be the earliest Orthodox response to the Weber thesis. Importantly, and contra Harnack as well, he notes the high value Eastern monastics placed on physical labor. For a summary of Bulgakov’s economic philosophy in general, see Daniel P. Payne and Christopher Marsh, ‘Sergei Bulgakov’s ‘Sophic’ Economy: An Eastern Orthodox Perspective on Christian Economics,’ Faith & Economics 53 (Spring 2009): 35–51. For a contemporary Orthodox response to Weber, see Irinej Dobrijevic, ‘‘The Orthodox Spirit and the Ethic of Capitalism’: A Case Study on Serbia and Montenegro and the Serbian Orthodox Church,’ Serbian Studies: Journal of the North American Society for Serbian Studies 20, no. 1 (2006): 1–13. 93

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properly good, and what is bad, and what is indifferent … We must then believe that in things which are merely human there is no real good except virtue of soul alone … And on the other hand we ought not to call anything bad, except sin alone … But those things are indifferent which can be appropriated to either side according to the fancy or wish of their owner, as for instance riches, power, honour, bodily strength, good health, beauty, life itself, and death, poverty, bodily infirmities, injuries, and other things of the same sort, which can contribute either to good or to evil as the character and fancy of their owner directs. For riches are often serviceable for our good, as the Apostle says, who charges ‘the rich of this world to be ready to give, to distribute to the needy, to lay up in store for themselves a good foundation against the time to come, that’ by this means ‘they may lay hold on the true life’ [1 Timothy 6:18–19]. 94

While, certainly, St. John Cassian also taught about the dangers of avarice, 95 here wealth itself is understood as indifferent and ‘often serviceable for our good.’ In the light of the history of Eastern monastic enterprise, we can see how the monastic vow of poverty did not preclude monasteries from owning and using wealth not only for their own good, but for others, through industry, trade, and charity, the best example in this brief survey perhaps being Kykkos. A similar attitude toward globalization seems to be at work in American monasteries today. While we ought to be wary of St. John Cassian, Conferences, 6.3 in NPNF2 11:352–353. This same teaching in particular can also be found in St. John Chrysostom (‘Homily Against Publishing the Errors of the Brethren,’ 2 in NPNF1 9:236) and in general in St. Basil the Great (Epistle 233 in NPNF2 8:273). The good/evil/indifferent distinction among Greek philosophical schools is originally Stoic and may have found its way into Christian ethics as early as the New Testament. See, e.g., Niko Huttenson, ‘Stoic Law in Paul?’ in Tuomo Rasimus, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, and Ismo Dunderberg, ed., Stoicism in Early Christianity (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2010), 39–58, esp. 44–46. 95 See St. John Cassian, Institutes, 7 in NPNF2 11:248–257. 94

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its potentially destructive use, just as we ought to be wary of avarice in general, nevertheless this increase in interconnectedness, deterritorialization, and velocity of communication is also ‘often serviceable for our good’ and the good of others. 96 It has allowed Orthodox monasteries with access to the internet to make and sell products to a much broader customer base than they would otherwise have, serving the needs of those purchasing devotional items and other products while allowing monasteries to pay their bills and continue their ministry of prayer on behalf of all the world. If ever there was a mutually beneficial exchange, monastic market activity, where it has not succumbed to ‘the secularizing influence of wealth,’ 97 would be it.

CONCLUSION The history of Eastern monastic enterprise reveals a broadly positive interaction between monasteries and markets. Trade can be (and often is) a very positive social good. An ascetic attitude toward enterprise can help to put in check the corrupting tendency of wealth when those who labor work primarily for the heavenly treasures of holiness and virtue, i.e. spiritual capital. Business and banks ought not to be viewed as per se bad, since often monasteries in fact were businesses, banks, and even markets, with great spiritual and social benefit for all. Even today, many monasteries depend on the networks of trade and communication provided by globalization to survive. The question, it seems, is one of virtue and selfdiscipline; not simply being pro- or anti-market or business. In the context of faith and asceticism, the history of Eastern monasticism shows that the market and enterprise can be a powerful means to love one’s neighbor and serve the common good, even while laboring for God alone. Ultimately, the many positive examples from For a basic introduction to globalization, see William Scheuerman, ‘Globalization,’ The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2010 Edition), ed. Edward N. Zalta, http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/ sum2010/entries/globalization/. 97 Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Talcott Parsons (London; New York: Routledge, 1992 [1930]), 174. 96

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the history of Eastern monastic enterprise recommend saturating one’s economic activity, whether one lives in the desert or in the world, with the spirit of Orthodox asceticism as a means for combating social injustice and serving the common good in the face of the passionate forces of secularism, consumerism, envy, and greed.

SPIRITUAL WARFARE AND THE STRUGGLE FOR APATHEIA THEODORE GREY DEDON When the devils see that you are really fervent in our prayer they suggest certain matters to your mind, giving you the impression there are pressing concerns demanding attention. In a little while they stir up your memory of these matters and move your mind to search into them. Stand resolute, fully intent on your prayer. Pay no heed to the concerns and thoughts that might arise the while. They do nothing better than disturb and upset you so as to dissolve the fixity of your purpose. (Evagrius of Pontus, Praktikos 9–10)

WE TOO HAVE A WAR TO WAGE The problem of apathy and indifference is one which plagues modern society quite unlike any other. ‘We have become used to the suffering of others. It doesn’t affect us. It doesn’t interest us. It’s not our business,’ so Pope Francis lamented recently. Hearing about this or that issue is so commonplace in our everyday discourse. We are confronted with an almost apocalyptic sense of the world we live in. Because of the multiplicity and diversity of the world’s problems, it becomes too easy to meet them with the response of apathy. Apathy is defined, in English, as a ‘lack of concern or interest.’ Its synonym is indifference. If one is to take seriously the problems of the world and indeed take them as a personal concern, one might well be overwhelmed. But, as Pope Francis says, we have become so accustomed to suffering as an omnipresent reality that we are rendered numb and try to remove it from our own realm of effect. Pope Francis has argued that this phenomenon has been so embedded in our public consciousness that 563

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it has taken on a character he aptly names, ‘the globalization of indifference.’ 1 This is reminiscent of similar problems described in Antiquity. But there are differences. The current phenomenon of apathy is usually charted by external measurements – the suffering of others and, in general, our lack of personal relation to this. In ancient times, while suffering was sharply appreciated as an ever-present reality, spiritual practices were often applied to combat it. As the Christian tradition reminds us, we are all sinners. Whatever our characters, natures, or even our habits, we stand under constant temptation towards sinful behavior. Theological anthropologies in the Christian tradition suggest that, because of our fallen nature, we must strive to overcome this tendency through the grace of God. Varying Christian traditions argue this is accomplished by faith, or works, or a combination of both. The early ascetic tradition of Eastern Orthodoxy has made it clear that this problem of the tendency towards sin can be solved by intense labor undertaken in what is often described as ‘spiritual warfare’. Spiritual warfare, in Eastern Orthodoxy, is a unique set of practices and beliefs. Orthodoxy has a rich and vibrant history of understanding spiritual warfare in a distinctive style. Above all, the spiritual labor it involves (Ponos, podvig) is inspired by God, and directed not against the world, but against an individual’s selfishness. That is to say, it is a war against the narcissistic Ego and the forces of temptation.

INCEPTIVE PRAYER AND THE NAME OF JESUS This tradition of spiritual warfare in the Orthodox Church, is closely related today to the monastic Hesychastic movement. It is rooted in the words of scripture, the teachings of Jesus, and the practices of monastic life. Fr. John Meyendorff reminds us that the Christian monastic movement was not part of the ancient Church of the earliest centuries. As he says, ‘the primitive Christian community had J. Hooper. “Pope Francis Condemns Global Indifference Towards Suffering.” http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/jul/08/pope-fran cis-condemns-indifference-suffering. Accessed: July 13th, 2014. 1

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no permanent monastic institutions.’ 2 Rather it derives from a species of desert spirituality representing what we mistakenly call today, ‘flight from the world.’ Meyendorff says further: ‘to the people of the Middle East … all nature is hostile to man, subject to Satan, God’s enemy.’ 3 The ancient Jewish ritual of the ‘scapegoat’ driven out to the desert to die is an ‘expiatory victim for the evil spirit Azazel.’ (Lev. 16.8ff). The Jews (and ancient Egyptians along with them) conceived the desert as the dwelling place of the demons and, in turn, the New Testament adopted this basic concept: ‘When the unclean spirit goes out of a man, it wanders in dry places seeking rest.’ (Mt. 12.43). The Name of God so regularly invoked in the New Testament exorcisms is a central construct necessary to understand the relationship between this ancient ‘desert spirituality’ and the theology later developed in the Hesychastic movement. Meyendorff quoting Von Allmen, explains how, ‘God leads His people, and His Son, and later anchorites and hermits [into the desert] … not to cause them to flee from the world, but on the contrary to be bring them to its heart so that there, in the hardest place of all, they may manifest His victory and His rights.’ 4 This is precisely what the early Fathers believed Jesus did when he faced the Evil One in the desert during his Temptation. It becomes a paradigm of monastic ascesis, and the core of the monastic ‘spiritual warfare.’ The method is called by the monks, talking back to demons (antirrhesis), and is one of the most basic principles of desert spirituality modeling the example of Jesus in trying to drive out evil from this world, especially symbolized in the casting out of demons. As Irénée Hausherr says, ‘The Lord Jesus, son of Mary, has many names.’ 5 In his famed study on ‘The Name of Jesus’ he argues that the invocation of the holy name is one of the core elements behind J. Meyendorff. St. Gregory Palamas and Orthodox Spirituality. (St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press. Crestwood, NY. 1974.). p. 5. 3 Ibid. 4 Ibid. p. 6. 5 I.Hausherr. The Name of Jesus. Kalamazoo. 1978. p. 4. 2

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the rise of Hesychastic theology in the ancient world. 6 ‘A name,’ says Origen of Alexandria, ‘is a term which summarizes and expresses the specific quality of the thing named.’ (De Oratione, 24. PG 11:494B). In the Gospels, Jesus is called ‘Jesus of Nazareth’ (Mk. 1:24; Lk. 4:34), ‘Jesus, Son of God most high’ (Mk. 5:7; Lk. 8:28), and ‘Son of David’ (Mk. 10:47; Lk. 18:38), among other titles. These evocations of his presence and energy were taken up by generations of post-New Testament Christians, especially the desert ascetics, as the focus of their ‘prayer of the heart’. Such short invocatory phrases are found throughout scripture. It is what Joseph Maréchal calls ‘inchoative prayer,’ or inceptive communion with the Divine Name. 7 It means to invoke something primal by using a proper name in a simple form of chant. As the tradition of the prayer of the name of Jesus was taken and shaped by the desert ascetics, the short prayer tradition developed out of examples taken from Jesus in the Gospels, to the version which today stands as the customary Prayer of the Heart: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.’ The goal of the prayer is purity of heart, and as Hausherr says, ‘Purity of Heart has another name, Love.’ 8 Its telos is the Kingdom of God to which Jesus points throughout his life and ministry. The prayer is the method used to stabilize the means of perfection, it is not necessarily perfection itself, because the one who practices inchoative prayer moves toward the ultimate end, who is named as Love. Here ‘Love’ stands for two things: first, the highest possible human response, or heart’s attentiveness, in prayer; and second, a synonym for God’s own self. There are many examples of this inchoative prayer in the Gospels, such as, ‘Jesus, master (epistata or rabbi), have mercy on us’ (Lk. 17:13) which provides almost the second half of the Jesus As with the definition of Hesychasm provided by Bp. Kallistos Ware, the Jesus Prayer itself is a crucial tenet in the practice of Hesychasm itself. Therefore, it is common to associate the rise of the Jesus Prayer with Hesychasm in general. 7 J. Maréchal. The Psychology of the Mystics. pp. 160–161; 164–165; 168– 186. 8 I. Hausherr. The Name of Jesus. Kalamazoo. 1978. p. 193. 6

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Prayer as practiced through the ages. Another is, ‘Lord, if you wish, you can make me clean.’ (Mt. 8:2). St. Peter offers two which are highly significant: first, ‘Lord, if it is really you, tell me to come to you over the water,’ and secondly, ‘Lord, save me!’ (Mt. 14:28; 30). In the Western catholic tradition this style of prayer was designated as ‘ejaculative.’ 9 This implied it was a form of prayer which was quite spontaneous; meant to come directly from the heart. From this it follows that inchoative prayer is inceptive, rather than receptive or conceptive. It is as if it were already planted in the soul just waiting to be shouted out. Here, we begin to see the imperative of the Divine Name and specifically the Name of Jesus. To those who cry out the Divine Name, it is not insignificant how Jesus is addressed. The tradition regards the use of the name as critical: since power is bestowed in the Name of Jesus. The wooden repetition of the Divine Name alone, then, cannot save. The ascetics knew rather that it takes a serious praxis that moves beyond the crying out of short prayers and into the realm of what we may call ‘hesychastic combat.’ George Maloney described the desert monks as ‘God’s athletes,’ or ‘athletes of Christ.’ 10 These men and women were God’s heroes on Earth. They had devoted their lives to more than just a hermetic existence, sealed away from the world, in so far as they had undertaken asceticism for the goal of instantiating the Kingdom on earth, committing themselves fully to the combat necessary for God’s Word to reign on Earth in ‘the age to come.’

EVAGRIAN SPIRITUAL COMBAT AND UNSEEN WARFARE The ancient worldview was one of an earthly plane inhabited by a variety of spiritual forces, not only angelic beings, but also demons and other negative spiritual forces. Perhaps no one explains better G. Maloney. The Prayer of the Heart: The Contemplative Tradition of the Christian East. (Ave Maria Press. Notre Dame, IN. 2008. Originally published in 1981). Kindle Location, L67; 274; 648; 654; 665; 756; 1389; 1432; 1492; 1568; 1676. 10 Ibid. L56; 186; 591; 776; 853; 1117; 1170; 1228; 1349; 1493; 1692; 1942. Also referred to as ‘athletes of God’ or ‘desert athletes.’ 9

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than Evagrius of Pontos what was going on in the minds of the early ascetics who saw their lives lived out against this backdrop of a spiritual-cosmological battlefield. For Evagrius, the good life begins with a strong ascetic Praktikos or focused practical discipline. This is how one maps the quest for God. The spiritual laborer must have a strong external disposition so that the internal life and its particular struggles will develop positively in the life of the monk. Evagrius lists the eight evil thoughts that tempt monks. They are not exactly sins in themselves, but logismoi or mental ideations that can lead a spiritual seeker astray. The thought is not sinful of itself, to give in to it is the sin. Evagrius in Praktikos 75 says, ‘A sin for a monk is the [free] consent [of the will] to the forbidden pleasures of the thought.’ 11 In the same book he says, ‘Whether or not all these thoughts disturb the soul does not depend upon us. However, whether they linger or do not linger, arouse our passions or not, that does depends on us.’ As does Origen, Evagrius follows the line of thinking that the so-called ‘first suggestion’ is not in our control. By knowing the ways in which demons attack, an ascetic can increase his awareness of the occasions of sin. For Evagrius, the root cause is that, ‘The first thought of all is that of love of self; and after this, the eight thoughts.’ 12 The Love of Self, as Evagrius understands it, is the root of all human evils. Through our self-referential gaze, we miss the reality of God around us. For the monk in the desert, this was named as the demon of akedia. This demon set out to attack the monk’s very way of being. In the very first story of the Apophthegmata Patrum, it is said, ‘The holy Abba Antony, when he lived in the desert, fell prey to akedia and a great gloom of thoughts.’ 13 For Evagrius, this is especially manifested in a sort of spiritual slackness, an inner restlessness, a sense of despondency, or (using a modern term) ‘boredom.’ Ibid. Evagrius’ Skemmata, transl. by W. Harmless in Theological Studies 62 (2001). pp. 498–529. 13 Bunge, Gabriel. Quoting the Apophthegmata in his book, Despondency: The Spiritual Teaching of Evagrius of Pontus. SVS Press. NY. 2009. 11 12

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This word ‘boredom’ is what William Harmless, a Jesuit scholar who specializes in Evagrius, suggests is the most accurate modern term for translating akedia. This is what Evagrius talks about when he describes how the monks fantasize about visits from their brothers, how they become sick and tired of the work they do, and want to dissipate their time and energy; seeking the pretence of conversations with women while ‘wishing to do evil things to their bodies.’ This sense of spiritual boredom and aimlessness is something Evagrius sees as prior to every other thought. It is a dissatisfaction with reality inducing an inability to move forward in the right direction. This is the demon that gives the spiritual seeker the most trouble because it is a two-pronged attack. As Evagrius says, akedia is, ‘an entangled struggle of hate and desire, for the listless one hates indiscriminately.’ 14 The ascetic practice of prayer persevered in, drives away akedia. Ascetic praxis leads towards mystical knowledge or, to phrase it better, mystical theology. As Evagrius says, ‘If you are a theologian, you pray truly: if you pray truly, you are a theologian.’ 15 Praying engenders, in a real sense, sacred knowledge. It is the Holy Trinity that the mind seeks when it is engaged in true prayer, and whom it ultimately encounters. This is what, in the Skemmata, Evagrius calls, ‘the Sapphire Light of the Mind,’ or the ‘Blue Flame.’ 16 The monk who knows this, not merely as a thought, but an established fact of experience, must turn to approach his demons face-to-face in a way that Špidlík says, retains in the Church the old the Stoic ideal. And what is that ideal which Orthodox spirituality refurbishes from the Stoics? It is expressed in the phrase: ‘nobis quoque militandum est…’ (we too have a war to wage). Apatheia is the disposition by which the monk, should approach demons, as Evagrius teaches. It is not an apathy which is indifferent, rather it is apatheia which is passionless. The translators of the Philokalia called it a ‘dispassionate’ holiHarmless, William. Desert Christians: An Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism. (Oxford University Press. New York, NY. 2004). p. 326. 15 Evagrius, De Oratione 60 (PG 79:1180; trans. Harmless). 16 Harmless, William. ‘The Sapphire Light of the Mind: The Skemmata of Evagrius Ponticus.’ Theological Studies 62 (2001). pp. 498–529. 14

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ness. Evagrius calls apatheia ‘the flower of the ascetic life’ and sees that form this flower comes the fruit of charity (agape). For Evagrius, the goal of ascetic life is charity. This is not a war that ends in destruction or results in hatred, but rather finds its resolution in Love itself.

LORENZO SCUPOLI’S SPIRITUAL COMBAT While the Hesychasts have been the primary inheritors of this great spiritual tradition of warfare of the soul, they are not the only ones who took a serious interest. The idea of the spiritual combat was brought westwards and highly popularized by Lorenzo Scupoli, a 16th Century Venetian priest. It was he who wrote the very influential text, Unseen Warfare: The Spiritual Combat and the Path to Paradise. It was a book that St. Nicodemus the Hagiorite, and St. Theophan the Recluse, in turn disseminated throughout their Orthodox worlds in the 18th Century. The book, while today nearly forgotten, reignited, in its time, the spiritual traditions of Evagrius and Macarius. It centers on the pursuit of Christian perfection, achieved by waging war ceaselessly and courageously. 17 Scupoli says, ‘A true warrior of Christ, filled with a wholehearted desire to achieve the fullness of perfection, must set no limits to gain success in all things.’ 18 Warfare is the word which describes the general thrust of how one attains to perfection, but what are the methods or exact pieces which allow us to actually achieve this? Scupoli says there are four. First, a lack of reliance on the self; second, trust in God; third, constant efforts in this struggle; and fourthly and most importantly, attentive prayer. Prayer is, according to him, ‘the putting of the battle-axe into God’s hand, that He should fight your enemies and overcome them.’ 19 The actual battleground for this war is, as it was for Antony, Macarius and Evagrius, one’s own heart. The final goal, when perfection of this Lorenzo Scupoli. Unseen Warfare. Ed. Theophan the Recluse. Transl. Kadloubovsky, E.; Palmer, G.E.H. (St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press: Crestwood, NY. 1987.) p. 110. 18 Ibid., p. 179. 19 Ibid., p. 200. 17

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kind is achieved, is a state Scupoli calls ‘Spiritual peace of Heart.’ 20 Of this, he writes, ‘your heart, beloved, is made by God for the sole purpose of loving Him alone and of serving as a dwelling for Him. So He calls to you to give Him your heart, saying: ‘My son, give me thy heart’ (Prov. 23:26).’ 21 Before one is able to do this, one must acquire more perfect virtue and guard one’s heart. Like the Hesychasts, and also influenced deeply by Macarius and Evagrius, Scupoli believes it is in prayer above all else that we can guard our heart and purify it. He describes it as follows, ‘Mental or inner prayer is when a man at prayer collects his mind in the heart, and from there sends out his prayer to God, not aloud but in silent word, praising and thanking Him, confessing to Him his sins with contrition and begging for his needs in spiritual and bodily blessings.’ 22 Eventually, when one acquires the ability to pray in silence in such a way, one will realize the spiritual nature of the Heart as the dwelling place of God’s Self. Scupoli describes this as follows, ‘There also exists, through the grace of God, prayer of the heart only, and this is spiritual prayer, which the Holy Spirit moves in the heart. The man who prays is conscious of it, but does not do it; rather it acts by itself. This prayer belongs to the perfect.’ 23 He goes on to suggest that praying short prayers or even ‘short prayerful sighings’ is the best way to attain some level of mastery in this style. For the Orthodox tradition, of course, the Jesus prayer is undoubtedly the most effective form of all this style of inchoate prayer. While Hesychasm may be something broader in conception than the Jesus Prayer alone, the Prayer is unquestionably the core and heart of the hesychastic movement.

ON SPIRITUAL PEACE & THE STRUGGLE FOR APATHEIA But how can one actually attain spiritual peace of heart? For Evagrius it is precisely apatheia which is the goal of the purified heart. This is not apathy in the sense against which Pope Francis Ibid. p. 257. Ibid. 22 Ibid. p. 205. 23 Ibid. 20 21

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warned the modern world. It is a seeking after a state of spiritual peacefulness that allows a spiritual striver to gain a clear vision, and a sense of stability when the guarded heart has won out against the demons, regardless of what they are, and has set itself in such a way to remain strong and pure and, most importantly, a worthy offering to God and His glory. In Scupoli’s words, ‘human life is nothing but unceasing warfare and endless temptation. Temptation provokes struggle, and so warfare ensues. Because of this warfare you should always keep awake and do your utmost to guard your heart and watch over it, to keep it peaceful and quiet.’ 24 This is a holy war worth waging. It is concerned with the guarding of the heart and with its purification from many temptations and assaults. It is a war that leads to peace, however, as Scupoli can tell us in conclusion: Your heart, beloved, is made by God for the sole purpose of loving Him alone and of serving as a dwelling for Him. So He calls to you to give Him your heart, saying: ‘My son, give me thy heart (Prov. 23:26). But since God is peace passing all understanding, it is quite indispensable for the heart, which wishes to receive Him, to be peaceful and free of all turmoil. For only in peace is His place, as David says. So strive above all things to establish and make firm the peaceful state of your heart. All your virtues, all actions and endeavors should be directed towards achieving this peace, and especially your valiant feats of struggling against the enemies of your salvation; as the great practicer of silence, Arsenius says: ‘Make it your whole care that your inner state should be in accordance with God, and you will vanquish your outer passions’ … So, when passionate turmoil steals into the heart, do not jump to attack the passion in an effort to overcome it, but descend speedily into your heart and strive to restore quiet there. As soon as the heart is quietened, the struggle is over. 25

24 25

Ibid. p. 227. Ibid. p. 257.

THE CONCEPTS OF TIME AS APPLIED TO MONASTICISM & ASCETICISM NICHOLAS SAMARAS The only subject of writing is Time. The only subject of Time is death. Therefore, writing, time, and death are inextricably bound with the subjects of faith and monasticism – because monasticism, asceticism, and faith equally practice time, writing, and death. It is all we are concerned about. Writing, then, is a race against Time and Death. Writing, in the forms of hymnography and worship, and even of silence, is a fundamental practice of monasticism, both in theme and in content. We think alone. We write alone. We are essentially monastic in this practice. The monk gives his time to prayer. The writer gives his time to writing, which is the commemoration of prayer. All writing is a prayer to the God of survival. Both human history and Divine history require us to consider the concept of Time as a reality of multiple concepts: for example, there is one of my favourite phrases: ‘The Kingdom of Ordinary Time.’ There is Absolute time, relative time, spatial time, even the situational-ethics of time. My ongoing work in expressing Orthodox concepts through contemporary literature requires me to investigate the various natures and concepts of Time, from multidisciplinary readings, throughout Humanist sub-genres, and write new, varied poetry on the subject, positing that possibly the only subject of all poetry is Death, as the only subject of Monasticism is union with God: essentially, the same end. In this study, I have found a new appreciation of time that has been changing me as a person, changing the core of the way I think and write, and changing even the way I read and understand litera573

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ture; and certainly, the way I consider prayer and spirituality. It is true that Time is perception, just as the presence of God is a perception. The Journal of Experimental Psychology states: There is a reason why days seem so much longer when you are a child: new experiences have an effect on how we perceive time. When we encounter new experiences in life, time seems to pass more slowly. Routine behavior then makes time seem like it goes much faster. Routine time can be thought of as a straight line; new experiences can be thought of as jagged lines – and they include new perceptions. That is why, as we age, time seems to go faster and we click over to autopilot, which also affects memory. That’s why new and unusual experiences also seem to embed in our memories much more strongly.

Routine is a form of inaction, explains Dinah Avni-Babad, a psychologist at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. So, as we get older, time flies and we remember less of what we do because we do fewer and fewer new things. Relatively, we may appreciate the theories of the Russian Formalist, Viktor Shklovsky, who notes in his essay, Art as Technique, that: If we start to examine the general laws of perception, we see that as perception becomes habitual, it becomes automatic. Thus, for example, all of our habits retreat into the area of the unconsciously automatic; if one remembers the sensation of holding a pen or of speaking in a foreign language for the first time and compares that with his feeling at performing the action for the ten thousandth time, he will agree with us. Such habituation explains the principles by which, in ordinary speech, we leave phrases unfinished and words half-expressed. Habitualization devours works, clothes, furniture, one’s wife, and the fear of war. Art exists that one may recover the sensation of life; it exists to make one feel things, to make the stone stony. The purpose of art is to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived and not as they are known. The technique of art is to make objects ‘unfamiliar,’ to make forms dif-

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ficult, to increase the difficulty and length of perception because the process of perception is an aesthetic end in itself and must be prolonged. 1

Shklovsky advocates ‘defamiliarization,’ a process Tolstoy used repeatedly, to keep the mind and the writing fresh and removed from habitualized ‘blindness.’ On a personal note, I would suggest that prayer helps us ‘recover the sensation of life.’ The monastic is one who ‘defamiliarizes’ himself from the bog of time. The monastic is one who focuses on the present, and slots away thought of the past and the future. Therefore, the monastic’s concept of Time shifts. It is disciplined and focused. Like many, I have, from childhood, been fascinated with the science- fiction notion of time travel. In adulthood, I believe I have discovered perhaps the one spot on this earth where time seriously does not exit – at least, not in the normal sense of ‘societal time,’ as dictated by American society. Frequently, in my adult life, I have journeyed to what is now the ‘second home’ in my heart: ‘The Holy Mountain,’ Mount Athos, Greece, which incorporated its first institutionalized monastery in the year 981. With some of these monasteries still having their original plumbing, I literally spent parts of my life there hurled back in time. There was no electricity, no telephones. Light was provided by lamp-oil. The bell-tower clocks were set to Byzantine time (five hours ahead of secular time). I was cautioned to be inside the monastery gates by eight p.m. when the medieval doors closed; if I were caught outside after that time, my chances for survival would decrease – as the area was populated with wild wolves and wild boar. I was summoned from bed by bells at 3 a.m. to attend Matins services. I heard wolves howling in the distance. In the monastery library I read manuscripts in Ancient, Hellenistic, and Modern Greek, dating back to the Great Schism of the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic Churches: original, handwritten documents. Of great significance to me, I recall accompanying a monk to help bring dinner to an old monk in his hut secluded in the forest. 3–24.

1

Shklovsky, Art as Technique, in Russian Formalism, Mouton & Co. pp.

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When I met the old monk, I learned he was 102 years old (at the time of my visit) and had entered the monastery on Mount Athos in 1912, coming from his home in Russia. Since that day in 1912, he had never left the seclusion of Mount Athos. I looked at this man and realized that, for him, Czar Nicholas was still Emperor. The Russian Revolution had never happened. The World Wars never happened. As he spent his life on Mount Athos, traveling short distances by foot or donkey, automobiles never happened. He told me he had never known electricity or telephones, but knows about them. This monk had never been off the mountain for eighty-eight years. I was looking at a man historically stopped in time. Mount Athos is, in part, a functioning time capsule. Because of my family duties, it took me years to be able to return to Mount Athos – but again, for only a week this time. I learned from this trip that there is such a thing as time in relationship to emotional maturity and observation. I saw things I never considered before. It was like reading a book twenty years apart, and gaining a completely transformed insight from the same material. I consider how the concept and practice of monastic time may benefit and focus how we live through this secular world. For me, the monastery, if functioning correctly, holds time like a crucible. With the recent ‘importation’ of monasteries from Mount Athos to America, it is easy for me to be able to spiritually discern how the new monasteries function by how they interact with and treat time here. I ask two simple questions: firstly, who do they commemorate? If they commemorate the local hierarch, along with the Yeronda, then they are recognizing the element of time within geography. And secondly, what time do they hold the Divine Liturgy? If their Holy Services remain at 3:00 a.m. and conclude at approximately dawn, then they are holding to the discipline of true monastic time. If they hold the Divine Liturgy at 9:00 a.m. on Sundays, for the ‘benefit’ of pilgrims, then they clearly have abandoned monastic time and, instead, are functioning only as parishes. From my living the monastic hours and inspirations of Mount Athos, it has become important for me to experience that sense of monastic time in its purity and development. Everything I read now revolves around the concept of time, and my interpretation of it. I write differently now. I read and pray differently. In my reconsideration of form, I note that Marianne

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Shapiro in her book Hieroglyph of Time: The Petrarchan Sestina, argues convincingly that Petrarch in his sestinas found a new way to represent time so that, within the poem, time could simultaneously exist in both the linear present and also in a spiraling eternity of past, present, and future. This point alone radically changes the way I approach my craft of writing, how I write, even in choosing what form to write in. It’s funny that I ran out of time on Mount Athos. I had to return to my life in America, and job-responsibilities. But from that brief time, I was able to return with multiple pages of notes and images and lines to fuel new vision and new work. My next poetry book, American Psalm, World Psalm, is forthcoming in March 2014, at which time I’ll resume lecturing and reading. Here, overleaf, is one sample of a poem from that work, centered upon the concept of monastic time: an Orthodox consideration of time with which I shall end. When reading, it is important ‘to read out’ the numbering system also. It is part of the point of the poem.

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THE CONCEPT OF TIME LIVING ON THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 2 Nicholas Samaras

1. The sun rises Eastern, and I look that way.

1. Yesterday, the channel sky was Alexandrite blue. Today, I sat on a broad stone at dawn and watched the channel sky blend into an Alexandrite blue.

Gradually, I learn the changing sea and its constancy – the aquamarine, the green to gold, the many folds of water. 1. I paced to ocean glitter. I walked to sky. I gazed into the dusty path rising, turning out of sight into the green crease of the forest. I looked back to ocean and night had covered us both together.

1. At the summit of darkness, I woke in my bed and whispered to the black air, ‘What time is it?’ I heard the distant wolves in the ravine. I laid my head back down and pulled the musty blanket up to my throat. A few more hours of sleep. Then, the walk to chanting.

The Reader needs to read out the numbers also, in order for the point to be made. 2

NICHOLAS SAMARAS 1. Azure. What colour is azure?

1. There is no time, but seasons. There is no time, but the white tissues of clouds.

I sat rickety on my hermitage’s balcony and remembered a phrase from my childhood French: ‘le temps,’ signifying either ‘weather’ or ‘time.’ Truly then, what is time but weather?

1. In a late day, when the lowered sun was the width of three fingers above the horizon, I asked my windowsill, ‘What time is it?’ It is misty, on the edge of a turning season. I asked the threshold of my hut, ‘No, I mean, what time is it?’ It is when the green leaves glisten with prismatic rain.

1. Every daybreak and twilight now, I smile. All my life, I have pined for a landscape of perpetual mist. The days, finishing and unfinishing me. 1. During one daily morning on the dirt trail above Ksenofontos Monastery, the wisps of clouds touched the earth where I walked too swift with purpose.

On the rise and slope of my journey, I looked into the weather-shrouded valley and saw myself walking down into a low cloud below.

The cloud touched me and it was like silver tingling all over. It touched my face, my hands and I lifted my arms to embrace its vapour. The cloud touched my whole body,

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lifted me out of my body and I’ve never been the same. 1. Oh, Panayia, I walked and breathed in the soul of the air.

1. I was hungry, so I ate crusty bread. I was hungry, so I tilled and planted for the next hunger.

1. At dawn, I drew water from the cistern and sprinkled my garden. When I felt five minutes go by, I looked up and blinked to see the bright stars in the black sky. 1. It snowed today. I woke, and there was a world of snow.

1. In a heathered cusp of spring, I saw an old monk walking by my trees. He spoke to me from the depth of his grey beard and I was happy.

What moves: the shadows of clouds quilting the earth. I’ve seen no one else these weeks and I am happy. 1. Every day, the world resumes. I take my place in it. The clarity of distant bells again.

1. What do I do with this same day? I prayed yesterday, and last night. Perhaps, this morning, I can try praying.

1. What is time but my beard and its colour?

NICHOLAS SAMARAS 1. The only enemy is thought. The only friend is thought before thought.

1. I breathe the name and do not say the name.

1. In the autumn-russet slumber of the field, an olive grove shivers. All as one, their branches show me the silver wind. By this, I am home. The world telescopes. This turning acreage. This hut and plot.

My tiny, endless Heaven.

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Dr. Eirini Artemi is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute, holding a Masters degree and a Doctorate in the History of Orthodox Doctrine, Patrologia and Patristic Theology. She is an independent scholar in Athens. The focus of her doctoral dissertation was the triadology of St. Isidore of Pelusium and its relation to the teachings of St. Cyril of Alexandria.

Revd. Hierodeacon Antonios the Shenoudian, (A. Bibawy) is a monastic of the Coptic community of St. Shenoude in New Jersey, USA. He is a graduate of Union Theological Seminary where he studied for the STM degree, and is currently a doctoral candidate in Early Church History at General Theological Seminary in the City of New York. V. Revd. Prof. Teodor Damian is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute. An Archpriest of the Romanian church, he is internationally known as a poet, sociologist, publisher and theologian. He has written extensively in all fields. He currently teaches graduate level students in sociology in New York City.

Theodore Grey Dedon is an independent scholar, who gained his MA majoring in Early Christian Studies at UTS New York. He was the Co-Editor of the Sophia Institute’s 2013 publication: Love Marriage and Family in Eastern Orthodox Tradition.

His Grace + The Rt. Revd. Dr. Macarie (Dragoi) is the Romanian Bishop of Northern Europe based in Scandinavia. Alongside his pastoral responsibilities he is a published scholar in modern Church History, author of a monograph on Archbishop Soderblum and his pioneering ecumenical efforts which made significant outreaches to the Orthodox churches. Preasfintul Macarie is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute. 583

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Atsede Maryam Elegba is a theologian of the Ethiopian Orthodox (Tewahedo) Church. She gained her MDiv and STM theology degrees at Union Theological Seminary, in the city of New York, and is presently pursuing higher research studies. She has served a chaplain’s ministry to the sick and dying, and is a noted professional photographer.

Anthony J. Elia is Director of Library and Educational Technology at Christian Theological Seminary; a scholar with a specialization in Armenian cultural and religious history. In addition he is a gifted composer, and has had several performances of his musical works in cities across the USA. Dr. Jill Gather, a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute, studied for her doctorate at Union Theological Seminary in the city of New York, and is now a freelance scholar in Cambridge, England. Her monograph: The Prayer of the Heart in the Syrian and Byzantine Fathers was published by Gorgias Press in 2010.

John L. Grillo MA, MSW, is a graduate of Union Theological Seminary in New York, where he majored in Early Church History focusing on the Byzantine church and the early Christian ascetical tradition. He currently resides in Boston, where he practises as a social worker and psychotherapist. Dr Hannah Hunt is Reader in Eastern Christianity, and Associate Principal Lecturer in Theology at Leeds Trinity University, England. She is widely published in the fields of spirituality and religious anthropology in both the Late Antique and Middle Byzantine periods. She is currently researching the works of Sts. Isaac of Nineveh and Symeon the New Theologian.

V. Revd. Fr. Zivojin Jakovljevic PhD, is an Orthodox Archpriest serving in the Serbian Cathedral in Ohio. He is the lecturer in Serbian language and culture at Cleveland state University. Fr Zivojin is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute, specializing in Serbian literature and theology.

Tea Jankovic is an advanced graduate researcher at the General Literature Department at the University of Fribourg, in Switzerland. She has previously studied Philosophy and English Literature at the Universities of Basel, Fribourg and Harvard.

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The Revd. Mary Julia Jett is an Episcopal priest and doctoral student at Union Theological Seminary. She is a graduate of General Theological Seminary (M.Div./S.T.M.) and presently continues advanced work in Church History and Biblical interpretation, with special focus on the use of Old Testament in Late Antiquity. She serves as an associate priest at the Church of Transfiguration and St. Ignatius of Antioch, both in New York City.

Dr. Christopher D. L. Johnson is Assistant Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Fond du Lac. He has previously taught in Religious Studies and Global Christianity at the University of North Dakota, the College of the Bahamas, and the University of Alabama. His monograph, The Globalization of Hesychasm and the Jesus Prayer: Contesting Contemplation, was published by Continuum in 2010 and this year shall see the issue of several of his articles in the Journal for the American Academy of Religion and Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses.

Robert Najdek is currently pursuing advanced theological studies in the period of Late Antiquity, at Union Theological Seminary in New York, prior to his doctoral level studies in the field of Classical Antiquity. His Beatitude + Metropolitan Jonah (Paffhausen) was, until July 2012, the presiding hierarch of the Orthodox Church in America. Before his episcopal election (and since) he spent many years in the monastic life, and was founder and higumen of a thriving monastic community in California. His book on the spiritual life: Reflections on a Spiritual Journey, was published by SVS Press in 2011. Metropolitan Jonah is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute. Julia Khan is currently finalizing her Masters of Divinity degree at Union Theological Seminary in the City of New York. Her scholarly interests include theological aesthetics, Christian monasticism, intentional communities and embodied theology.

Mary McCarthy is currently pursuing Masters level researches in theology at UTS in the City of New York. She is specializing in the varieties of cultures of the monastic experience in the eastern and western churches.

V.K. McCarty is Acquisitions Librarian of the C. Keller Jr. Library of General Theological Seminary, in New York. She is also an in-

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dependent scholar focusing on the life and ministry of women in antiquity and the present. She is an Ecumenical Fellow of the Sophia Institute. Kate McCray is currently a doctoral student in Early Christian studies at Toronto. She gained her Master’s degree in theology from St. Vladimir’s Theological Seminary in 2014. Her speciality is the culture and thought of the Early Christian world.

V. Revd. Dr. John A. McGuckin is an Archpriest of the Romanian Orthodox Church. He is the President of the Sophia Institute, and currently serves as Rector of St. Gregory’s parish, in New York. He is the Nielsen Professor of Early Church History at Union Theological Seminary; and Professor of Byzantine Christian Studies at Columbia University. He has published widely in Early Christian studies.

Kevin Patrick McKeown, specialized for his MA degree in New Testament and Church History, writing his research thesis on the Shepherd of Hermas and the issue of social accommodation in postApostolic age Christianity. He currently resides in Astoria, New York, as an independent scholar focusing on translations of Early Christian texts from Greek and Latin.

Revd. Dr. Rico Monge, a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute, is an Orthodox deacon who is the Asst. Professor of theology and Religious Studies at the University of San Diego. He gained his Ph.D in Religious Studies, from the University of California-Santa Barbara in 2013, and is a graduate of St. Vladimir’s where he took his MDiv in 2008. He is currently heading up a large scale research project on hagiography.

Dr. Vasily Novikov is a Russian theologian who specializes in patristic theology, with particular focus on the theology of St. Cyril of Alexandria. He has an active taken part in several of the Russian Orthodox Church’s international theological Conferences arranged by the Moscow Patriarchate.

Dr. Joshua Packwood is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute, and Asst. Professor at U.A, Fort Smith. He holds a doctorate in Philosophy from Arkansas, and specializes, in his teaching and research, in the thought of Plotinus and the late Antique religious

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thinkers who had such a deep influence on the early Christian fathers.

Dylan Pahman, MTS, is a Fellow of the Sophia Institute, who works as a Researcher at the Acton Foundation, specializing in economic programs. His areas of special interest and research are the Early Church’s social teaching, and the interface of faith and economics.

Vicki Petrakis, a mother of two, holds degrees in several disciplines, and formerly practised commercial law. She is currently pursuing doctoral studies in Early Christian thought at Macquarie University in Sydney, with a focus on spirituality and anthropology in the patristic period (with special reference to the theology of St. Gregory of Nazianzus). She is a Fellow of the Sophia Institute.

Professor Jeff Pettis gained his doctorate in the world of Early Christian origins at UTS in the City of New York. His latest book: Seeing the God: Ways of Envisaging the Divine in Ancient Mediterranean Religion (Gorgias Press. 2013) emerged from a summer colloquium arranged by the Sophia Institute. He currently teaches in New York.

The V. Revd. Dr. Peter M Preble is a Protos and Hieromonk of the Romanian Orthodox Church in America. He has served in the past as Chaplain at Harvard University and currently teaches (alongside his pastoral responsibilities) at Nichols College, Mass., in the fields of Psychology and Religion. Fr Peter is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute. Dr. Ilaria Ramelli is Professor of Theology and Bishop Kevin Britt Endowed Chair in Dogmatics at the Graduate School of Theology at Sacred Heart Seminary of the Aquinas University, the ‘Angelicum’ (Rome and Detroit). Prof. Ramelli is also Director of international research projects, Senior Visiting Professor of Greek Thought, and Senior Fellow in Religion at Erfurt University and in Ancient Philosophy at Sacred Heart University, Milan. She has been Senior Research Fellow in Classics and Patristics at Durham University. She is a distinguished and internationally renowned scholar of Christian Antiquity, who has authored many important books and essays on patristics, ancient philosophy, the New Tes-

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tament, and the relationship between Christianity and Classical Culture.

Luis Joshua Salès is a graduate of Holy Cross College, and Boston College where he pursued masters level work in Patristics. He is currently researching Ancient Christian thought, towards his doctoral degree at Fordham University, New York. His areas of specialization are the Cappadocian Fathers, and St. Maximus the Confessor. He brings to his work in Late Antiquity insights from contemporary neurological science. Nicholas Samaras is a published poet whose work has appeared in numerous prestigious magazines (The New Yorker, The New York Times, The Paris Review, Poetry, The New Republic, Kenyon Review). His first book of poems Hands of the Saddlemaker won the Yale Series Award for younger poets. His latest collection, American Psalm: World Psalm, appeared from Ashland Poetry Press in 2014. He earned his MFA from Columbia University and his doctorate from Denver. He is the son of the renowned Orthodox bishop + Kallistos Samaras.

Revd. Fr. Sujit T. Thomas is a priest of the Indian Orthodox Church. He is currently serving as a parish rector, while preparing his doctoral researches in Early Syriac Christianity. He recently completed his STM degree in Patristics at UTS, New York. Gregory Tucker graduated from the University of Oxford with a first class BA in theology, and then an MSt., and recently graduated from St Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary with the MA degree. He is currently working towards his doctorate in Early Christian studies at Fordham University, New York.

Zachary Ugolnik is currently pursuing doctoral level researches in Columbia University’s Religion Department, focusing on Early Christian and Byzantine theology and culture. He received his Master of Theological Studies from Harvard Divinity School in 2009, where his interest was sparked in Arabic Christianity and the relations between Byzantium and Islam. Karri Whipple is a doctoral research scholar at Drew University, specializing in the interpretation of New Testament literature. She received her Master’s degree in New Testament Origins from Union Theological Seminary in the City of New York.