1. Tell us, please, about your University’s status

Our university is a small one, judging by the number of students (less than 6.000), but the Faculty of Theology – with its 500 students – is one of middle size [ in comparison, the Faculty of Orthodox Theology in Bucharest has around 2,000 students]. Our Faculty has a governmental recognition and it is functioning with the blessing of the Romanian Orthodox Church, particularly of our local Archbishop Irineu (a Metropolitan, in your terms). The building which hosts our school is the newest building for a theology faculty in Romania. We have good conditions for our academic activities; the University also provides excellent living conditions for our students.

Our faculty is a very dynamic one; although it is a very young faculty (founded in 1991) we have obtained from the Ministry of National Education the licence for school students in all three levels of higher education: Bachelor, Master’s Degree and PhD level.

At the first level our faculty gives the Bachelor Degree under two programmes: Pastoral Theology (for the future priests) and Social work (for the future workers in the field of Social assistance). In the Master studies, our faculty educates its students within three programmes: Comparative Theology, Pastoral Counselling and Religious and Intercultural Mediation.

 2.      Let us say now about your recent Conference. Why did you select this theme for it?

The subject of our Symposium was adjusted based on the general subject proposed by our Holy Synod, which decided for the year 2013 to be dedicated to St. Constantine the Great and his mother St. Hellena. So, our academic body decided to study the influence of Constantine’s important decisions not only from a historical perspective, but also from a political one. In fact, the decisions of this great emperor changed the face of the world, especially because the relationship between the Church and the secular power was changed. On the other hand, within the last decade our faculty has chosen only “modern” subjects for its symposia, such as:  ‘Violence in the name of God’ (2001), ‘The scholars in the face of de-christianization’ (2005); ‘Liberty and Responsibility – Initiatives and Limits on the religious dialogue’ (2009); ‘The invasion of non-values in a multimedia world. Spiritual crisis and the discrediting of the sacred’ (2010); ‘Family, Philanthropy and Social ethics. The Church-State Partnership in Social work’ (2011) etc. (see the Annex)

 3.      Which conclusions did you get from it?

Usually, at our symposia we do not draw any conclusions in order to transmit them to our Holy Synod; we use this meeting as a scientific platform to debate on the important subjects for the Church. But, as it was expressed at the beginning of our scientific meeting, “There is no model of relationship between the Church/religion and the State which can be said to go well” (Mr. Andrei Marga, president of the National Cultural Institute and former minister of education).

Surprising for us was the opinion of some American scholars who consider that nowadays the State has turned into “a fundamentalist secular state” (especially in the USA and Western Europe, where, nevertheless, the states are claiming their neutrality concerning morality and religion). For instance,  Professor H. Tristram Engelhardt jr. (Rice University, USA) considers that “In Europe and in the West, generally, the secular state is explicitly advanced as the replacement for the Christendom St. Constantine established, constituting in its place a new secular dominion. So, in the opinion of professor Engelhardt, there is no neutral state, and the contemporary secular state by definition has an animus against Christianity.”

Professor Mark Cherry, from St. Edward’s University, USA, also says: “Because the secular philosophy adopted by Western countries has usurped God and declared His ‘death’, the fundamentalist secular state has become the surrogate for God.”

 4.      Which exactly was the contribution of Romania’s Church and Theology in this dialogue?

In Romania, during the last two decades, we have had a good relationship with the government – although the secular State, under increasing pressure from European laws and laity, and sometimes ‘intimidated’ by very vocal NGOs, has pursued a continuous de-Christianisation of public life. In response, traditional Christians must seek the re-establishment of the Christian discourse and morals within public reason and in the public space.

 5.      How do you see the present and the future of Orthodox presence in your country?

In the future it will be difficult for Christians to accept the secular State’s morality and its agenda. Rather, I would say that a true Christian could never do this. Perhaps we should find a way to fight against such non-Christian morals imposed by minority groups in the public life. I do not know how that will be, but I know one thing: we must bear witness to Christ for how we live in this world. As priests, we must educate our Christians how to live in this world. It’s very possible that, in the distant future, real Christians become a minority. Our Lord said: “Fear not, little flock” (Lk. 12:32); and sometimes the world and its morality was saved by small groups of people, as in the days of Elijah. Perhaps the time of the catacombs will come back, who knows? But we know the truth is not given by the number, but by the quality and by its evangelic foundation, and the morality of the Gospels cannot be replaced by the law produced by secularized governments.

 6.      What challenges are the Romanian Church and modern theology facing in your country today?

I think the greatest challenge for the future is the oldest one: to live our lives according to the Gospel of Christ. But, apart from the secularization of society and the gradual removal of Christian values, the triumphalism of some priests, theologians and bishops  is the greatest danger to come. The lack of firm decisions within the Church wherever a lack of morality is found will lead to disclosures in the press, which in their turn will give to the lukewarm people the excuse and pretext to forsake and deny the Church. The mass media are always seeking sensational subjects (sometimes even invent them), but I think it would be better if we do not give them topics to use in order to increase the rating of their journals. People do not expect from the Church anything other than to live the Gospel which it is preaches.

Thank you for your time!

It was my pleasure!

]]> http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/on-modern-fundamendalist-secular-state/feed/ 60 http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/ss-constantine-and-helen/ http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/ss-constantine-and-helen/#comments Tue, 21 May 2013 08:03:27 +0000 petrospan http://www.pemptousia.com/?p=25170 Continue reading →]]> At Eastertide, at some undetermined place and year, the Emperor Constantine I made his Oration to the Assembly of the Saints, either in Latin (Oratio ad sanctorum coetum) or Greek (Λόγος τῷ τῶν ἁγίων συλλόγῳ). It is a lengthy and not terribly interesting text, but given the fact that the emperor himself was reading it, if you were sitting at the front it would have been politic to feign interest or at least try to stay awake. In chapter XX (out of XXVI), he makes a reference to Virgil’s Fourth Eclogue:

“Another Tiphys shall new seas explore;

Another Argo land the chiefs upon the Iberian shore;

Another Helen other wars create,

And great Achilles urge the Trojan fate”.

He goes on to explain the comparison by equating Troy with the world and to claim that Achilles was a type of Christ, fighting against wickedness. (Didymus the Alexandrian went even further, comparing not only Achilles and Christ, but Hector and the devil). This is not a comparison with which we feel comfortable today, I would suggest. Homer’s Achilles comes across as petulant and self-centred or, at best, a man with an overdeveloped sense of personal honour. Christ preached non-violence and was humble enough to die on the Cross for us, as Constantine rightly points out in the very first sentence of the Oration.

Outside this text, there is another very well-known link between Achilles and Christ- indeed, between Dionysus, Achilles, Alexander the Great and Christ. This is the artistic composition of the first bath of the god or hero, which passed into Christian culture as the icon of the Nativity of Christ.

What are we to make of this? Not, I think, the tired argument that Christianity is really just a continuation of the beliefs and images of paganism in another guise. All the evidence points to Constantine being a convinced Christian, perhaps even before it was safe for him to declare his faith: he did, after all, live at Diocletian’s court for a while, perhaps as a kind of hostage to ensure his father’s loyalty.

A more likely explanation, perhaps, is that the Gospel narrative is so spectacularly odd that people throughout the ages have struggled to make it somehow more familiar. So, yes, the icon of the Mother of God enthroned bears obvious similarities to the depiction of the goddess Rome, which itself may have been based on representations of Greek goddesses, but this is a long way from the Mother of God as she is described in the Gospels. It seems therefore, to be a question more of acculturation, of the way in which the Christian message is made “manageable” in a milieu outside the Holy Land of the first century. Constantine was addressing the tumultuous world of Late Antiquity and the core message of the Oration was the superiority of monotheism over the pagan polytheism. But he himself was a product of this world. He was well-educated in both Latin and Greek and, like most people  of the day, had a cosmopolitan way of seeing the world. It is likely that he felt that, in airing some of this knowledge, he was actually reinforcing the fundamental thrust of his oration.

When one reads a life of Constantine, there is always a reference to the fact that his mother, Saint Helen, was from Bithynia and of lowly origins (“ex obscuriore matrimonio”). Indeed, Saint Ambrose refers to her as a “stabularia” (livery attendant at an inn), albeit “bona”. And that is usually that. But if we consider the circumstances, it is clear that Helen must have been remarkable. She attracted the attention of a young Illyrian army officer, Constans Chlorus, who was clearly able and ambitious (he ended up co-emperor) and held it to such an extent that he married her and remained with her until political expediency forced him to divorce her about twenty years later. There is a suggestion that Constans and Helen were not legally married, but given the acceptance of Constantine as legitimate and Helen’s later elevation to the rank of Augusta, this seems unlikely. When they met, Constans was campaigning in Asia Minor and already making a name for himself as a coming man. He could have had his pick of a bride from any but the most aristocratic families. Such a bride would have brought him wealth and influence which would, in turn, have furthered his career. And yet there was something about Helen, the daughter of a poor inn-keeper, which made Constans (who must, in any case, have been a good judge of character, given his position and ambitions) marry her and keep her at his side even on campaign. What that was, we shall never know, but the circumstances of her marriage to the future emperor are in themselves sufficient to indicate that she must have been an arresting person in her own right.

]]> http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/ss-constantine-and-helen/feed/ 67 http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/saint-constantine-the-great/ http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/saint-constantine-the-great/#comments Mon, 20 May 2013 21:23:18 +0000 petrospan http://www.pemptousia.com/?p=23961 Continue reading →]]> The very name of Constantine is enough to move the heart of any Greek Christian, not only today, but for very many years now, because it is associated with the legends of the nation, with “again, all in good time, it will be ours again”[1]. It moves us because the first to bear the name Constantine I, the Great, was not merely one of the greatest men in world history, but he was something more besides: a saint.

And when they hear the word “saint”, the trumpeters of atheism and unbelief start to sound off. Is he a saint? General, yes. King and Emperor, yes. Great, yes. But saint? No, he’s not a saint, they say. Because, they say, Constantine the Great committed crimes: he killed his son Crispus; he killed his second wife Fausta; and so shouldn’t be considered a saint*.

What can we say in response to those who are against Constantine the Great for no other reason than that he was a Christian? Had he not been a Christian, but an idolater like Julian the Apostate, who betrayed the Church, then they would be praising him. But, no. Constantine, who supported the Orthodox faith and established firm foundations, is slandered and hated by the enemies of Christ.

We would answer: they either forget or do not know that, in our faith, there is a great thing called repentance. One tear from a sinner, whatever act they’ve committed, one tear at the sacrament of confession, redeems any fault. Were there no repentance, paradise would be empty, we wouldn’t have a calendar of feasts nor any saints, because there isn’t a saint who hasn’t cried and hasn’t repented sins. There’s no other way to Paradise, beloved, than the door of repentance. Constantine wasn’t born a saint, he became one. He made mistakes, but he repented. Let’s not forget that he was brought up in the inhuman surroundings of the courts of Diocletian and Galerius, yet he disagreed with people like them.

He’s a saint because his presence in the world is the light of Christ. This light is also shown in his call, which is remarkably like that of Saint Paul and which is why it is mentioned in his dismissal hymn. Saint Paul was called by Christ in a vision when he was walking along the road to Damascus; he saw a shining light and heard a voice saying: “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” In the same way, Saint Constantine was called in a vision. A historic vision which is reported by contemporary historians[2]. What was the vision? When he arrived outside Rome on 28 October, in the year  312 A. D., the army of his rival was three times larger and defeat stared him in the face. As he sat there pondering, in broad daylight, he saw a great sign: the stars in the heavens formed a cross and below the cross he saw the words: “In this conquer” (In hoc vinca). And from that moment on, he was convinced that the future of humanity rested with Christ. He then adopted the banner which proceeded his troops and, with this sign, “In this conquer”, he defeated Maxentius, entered Rome and proclaimed to the whole city that this victory did not belong to his legions but to the Honourable Cross.

His edicts are light. The first edict, in February, 313, was for the persecutions to cease. Just imagine. The persecution of Christians had lasted 300 years. It was forbidden to be Christian. The very word “Christian” was cause enough for conviction, nothing else needed to be investigated: “Are you Christian?”. That was it. Possessions confiscated, incredible sufferings, horrifying tortures. How many martyrs? 12 million. For 300 years, Christians begged: “Lord, give us peace”. And He did. Peace came into the world through the chosen vessel of divine providence[3], Constantine the Great.

How, then, can we not honour him? We ought to do so if for nothing other than that edict which he signed with his holy hands. His nobility of soul and forgiving nature were also light. They say that some idolater enemies once decapitated a statue of him. When the news was brought to him he raised his hands, took hold of his head and said: “This is my head here. There’s nothing missing. Don’t punish them”. On another occasion he said that if he saw a cleric sinning, he would cover him with his robes, so as to prevent other people seeing his sins. This showed his intense concern that the Church should not be subjected to scandals.

He abolished the worship of the Roman emperors, who were considered gods on earth.

His legislation was also light. For the first time, Christian legislation was introduced. His vision was rare. What vision? To make a Christian state, on a global scale, and offer it to Christ for sanctification and deification. This is why he’s depicted holding an orb. And just as the Patriarch Abraham heard the voice of God telling him to leave his homeland and settle in a land that God would show him (Gen. 12, 1), so, too, Saint Constantine left Old Rome, the city stained with the blood of innocent Christians criminally killed, and built a New Rome on the Bosphorus, which, after his repose, was quite rightly called Constantinople. And from here he took measures aimed at raising the spiritual state and sanctity of the people.

What measures? He closed all the night-time places of corrupt pleasure. There were places of entertainment where women gathered under the protection of disgusting divinities, Aphrodite centres, Bacchus centres and he closed them all. He closed the oracles and got rid of the magicians who were exploiting people and deceiving them. He forbade blasphemy. He said he would forgive anything, except blasphemy. If anyone blasphemed the name of Christ, they were immediately arrested and exiled.

He honoured Sunday by edict. He declared it a great and splendid day and forbade any shops to open. Horse races, places of relaxation, everything closed.

He supported small land-holders and workers and took measures against usury and every of other form of  injustice. He was the first to support human rights, he protected widows and orphans, and showed particular concern  for social welfare.

He protected the Orthodox faith. When Arius, the leader of the heresy named after him, came along and opened his dirty mouth against our Lord, Jesus Christ, and said that He was not really God and of the same substance as the Father, Constantine convened the First Ecumenical Synod in Nicaea, Bithynia, to write the Creed. He himself went to the convention, not as emperor and ruler of the planet, but in humility and kissed the hands of the holy bishops, many of whom still had the marks of their mistreatment fresh on their bodies. Not being a theologian, when he was asked for his opinion, he replied: “I respect what I do not know”.

He supported missionary work. It was during his time as emperor that the Armenians and Georgians became Christians, and the light of Christ reached as far as India.

It was at his command that the Honourable Cross was found an d the first churches were built in Jerusalem. He was the initiator and founder of a Christian Empire that lasted one thousand one hundred years.

Finally, beloved, when he realized that his earthly end was approaching, he surrounded himself with bishops and confessed his sins and wept. He was then baptized, at the age of about 63, and never again put on the royal robes, the splendid imperial vestments, but wore only his white baptismal robes, telling people that he now really did feel like an emperor. He took communion, the Body and Blood of Christ, and, pure and clean, rejoicing and praying, departed for the heavenly kingdom.

Beloved, even if we ignore all the above, there are two criteria for the Church regarding his sanctity: a) the vision of God and the grace which the saint enjoyed, as we have mentioned; b) his miracles after death.

After his departure from this life, his sacred relics were buried with imperial honours in the narthex of the church of the Holy Apostles, where they gave off a powerful aroma and myrrh and performed many miracles[4]. It may be that some people wonder whether what the Christians say is really the truth. Beloved, even if some people don’t believe, there are two criteria for his sanctity and only two. It is with the seal of God that Constantine is a saint and Equal to the Apostles. History has shown him to be great and the Church to be a saint.

The great Georgian hymnographer, philosopher, and orator, St. Ioane of Shavta, laboured in the 12^th and 13^th centuries, during the reign of the holy Queen Tamar. Few details of his life have been preserved, but we know that he received his education at Gelati Academy, where he studied theology, Ancient Greek, Arab history, philosophy, and literature. He was later tonsured a monk and laboured at the Monastery of Vardzia.

Vartzia – The caves city

When the Georgian army under the command of Queen Tamar’s husband, Davit Soslan, was fighting against Sultan Rukn al-Din, Queen Tamar journeyed to the Monastery of Odzrkhe to pray for its support. Catholicos Tevdore of Kartli, together with many hierarchs and monks accompanied her. Among them was St. Ioane of Shavta, who stood out as a wise theologian, philosopher and exceptional hymnographer.

In the course of the Liturgy, a miracle occurred: St. Evlogi the Fool for-Christ, who was endowed by God with the gift of prophecy, fell to his knees, lifted his hands to the heavens and cried out: “Glory to God! Sweetest Jesus! Have no  fear of the Persians, but depart in peace. The goodness of the Lord is overshadowing the house of Tamar!”

Evlogi’s words were clearly a revelation from God. St. Ioane of Shavta turned to Queen Tamar, rejoicing, “Your Highness! The Good Lord has made known to us our victory in the war from the lips of a Fool-for-Christ!” Evlogi confided his secret to St. Ioane: that is, he pretended to be a Fool, in order to conceal the gift that God had granted him. But now that the gift would become apparent to all, Evlogi quickly disappeared out of sight to escape attention.

St. Ioane of Shavta composed the hymn to the “Mother of God of Vardzia” in thanksgiving for Georgia’s victory at the Battle of Basiani. He is also thought to be the composer of the ode “Abdul-Messiah,” (Servant of Christ), dedicated to the blessed Queen Tamar.

Blessed Father Ioane fell asleep in the Lord at an advanced age and was canonized soon after his repose.

Most venerable Hierarch Ioane of Shavta and divinely-attired Evlogi, the Fool-for-Christ, pray to God for the peace and perfection of our bodies and souls, and enable us to glorify His great loving-kindness.

Their commemoration is on 1 (14) April.

]]> http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/the-venerable-ioane-of-shavta-bishop-of-gaenati-and-evlogi-the-prophet-and-fool-for-christ/feed/ 92 http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/irony-and-belief/ http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/irony-and-belief/#comments Sat, 18 May 2013 07:39:14 +0000 petrospan http://www.pemptousia.com/?p=25156 Continue reading →]]> Irony is probably too much to ask of youth. If I can remember myself in my college years, the most I could muster was sarcasm. Irony required more insight.

There is a deep need for the appreciation of irony to sustain a Christian life. Our world is filled with contradiction. Hypocrisy is ever present even within our own heart. The failures of Church and those who are most closely associated with it can easily crush the hearts of the young and break the hearts of those who are older.

I can think of at least two times in my life that the failures of Church, or its hierarchy, drove me from the ranks of the Church, or what passed for Church at the time. As years have gone by I haven’t seen less that would disappoint or break the heart – indeed the things that troubled me as a young man barely compare with revelations we all have seen in recent years.

No hands are clean. Evangelical, Roman Catholic, Orthodox, Anglican, the failures and coverups are in no way the special province of any. The question of truth remains – but in a contest of the pure, everyone loses. Irony remains. Our failures would not be so poignant if the Kingdom were not so pure. Judas’ betrayal is darkened all the more by the fact that his victim is God Himself.

All of which brings us back to the irony that remains. The greatest irony of all is the God who forgives and remains ever faithful to us despite the contradictions.

When speaking with seekers – those who are asking questions about the Orthodox faith – it’s important early on to be sure that they are not in search of the perfect Church. The One, True Church means something quite distinct from perfect. A good read through Orthodox history (which for a thousand years is just “Church history”) refuses to give up an ideal century – the mark and measure for reform. Any student of the New Testament has to admit that there are no Letters to the Perfect. I find it ironic (in another sense) that there are those who search for the “New Testament Church” as though it were an ideal.

This applies equally to those who seek the flawless argument, the reasonable and logical God. That search will also end in contradiction, to be resolved only by irony, for those who can bear it. It is thought by many of the fathers that the very creation is an ironic act – the gift of existence that will require the gift of forgiveness – such is the irony of freedom and the mercy of Divine Love.

From the moment of the resurrection, Christ continues to gather scattered sheep. Betrayal, denial and cowardice were the hallmark of the Church on Good Friday. But from Christ we hear no blame – if only because He never thought us to be other than we are.

Now when he was in Jerusalem at the Passover feast, many believed in his name when they saw the signs which he did; but Jesus did not trust himself to them, because he knew all men and needed no one to bear witness of man; for he himself knew what was in man (John 2:23-25).

And if we are honest with ourselves and know what is in man, then we can only give thanks for the wondrous irony that, knowing all that, Christ gave Himself for us anyway. It is the very character of love.

I have been asked a few times over the years the meaning of St. Paul’s statement that “love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things” (1 Corinthians 13:7). There is either almost nothing to say about it or far too much to say about it. But it is the irony of the Cross: Love enduring all things. If you know the Cross and the Love that is crucified there, then the verse likely needs no explanation. Christ is His own exegesis.

And when I turn myself to the Church (or myself), I can only reach for Christ and the assurance that the contradictions we offer Him will be forgiven. And this is a thought to cling to even in the best of times. For any who would be His disciples, the Cross and its irony is the only path that is ever offered. Glory to His grace!

The Celts were masters of Christian simplicity. Nowadays there is a movement in our culture to recover some simple basics, but the model is often that of the Quakers or the Shakers or the Amish. Perhaps that’s because those groups are easier and more attractive to imitate; I don’t know. For the Celts, however, simplicity wasn’t so much a question of externals-like furniture, architecture, and so forth. It was something internal, and it was founded upon the Lord’s Prayer-in particular the phrase, “Thy will be done”, as we find in the later commentaries of the Venerable Bede of Jarrow and Alcuin of the court of Charlemagne. This was crucial to living a simple Christian life: “Thy will be done” meant God’s will, not our own–placing absolute trust in the Providence of God for everything-one’s health, one’s finances, the size of one’s family or the size of a monastic community-everything. It meant dying to oneself, not having opinions and not judging others. This was where simplicity began, and from there it easily expressed itself in outward forms, such as not owning five tunics when just two or even one would be sufficient.

Clanmancnoise-Ireland

Simplicity did not necessarily mean “plainness,” as we’ll see shortly when we look at the intricate sacred art of the High Crosses. Celtic Christians were not “Plain People,” like Quakers or the Amish. But they were “Simple People,” in that they were single-minded and intensely focused on the other world and the journey through this life to God.

In common with all Christians at that time, the Celts had no concept of “private prayer” in the sense of spontaneously thinking of words or phrases to say to God. This practice belongs to a much later period in Christian history, when ideas of privacy and individualism had become more important than traditional ways of seeking God through prayer. This didn’t mean that a Celtic Christian didn’t pray outside the divine services, but for them, prayer was primarily liturgical, and this meant the Psalms. Most monks and nuns memorized the complete Psalter. Occasionally a particularly gifted monk would compose a prayer, such as the one I read by St. Columban at the beginning of this lecture. But in moments of need one remembered verses and phrases from the Psalms -such as “In my distress I cried unto the Lord, and He heard me,” from Psalm 120, and “Hide not Thy face from me, O Lord, in the day of my trouble” (Psalm 10, or”In the Lord I put my trust” (Psalm 11).

Even in the 7th and 8th centuries there were so-called Christians who were uncomfortable with the Cross of Christ and chose to ignore it, just as there are today. The Celts, however, had a particularly clear-headed understanding of the Cross. To quote Sister Benedicta Ward, a renowned scholar on the subject of the Desert Fathers as well as monasticism in the British Isles in the early Christian centuries: “The Cross was not something that made them feel better, nicer, more comfortable, more victorious, more reconciled to tragedy, better able to cope with life and death; it was rather the center of the fire in which they were to be changed.” (op.cit.) It reminded them that they must pick up and carry their own crosses in this life and follow Christ, for dying to oneself has always been the great secret of holiness.

Thus, these monks and nuns saw themselves as warriors of the spirit, for to die to oneself was considered a greater act of heroism than dying on a battlefield in defense of one’s tribe. “The Celtic Church was a Church of heroes…of strong and fiercely dedicated men and women.” “The old Celtic warrior spirit was alive in them, [but now] put to the service of the Gospel and the following of Christ, the High King. Today [we might] find it hard to identify many [such] warrior Christians…[with] the active virtues of courage, strength, outspokenness, decisiveness, and the ability to stand up for something.” (Joyce, op.cit.)

Nowhere was the Cross more loved and cherished than in the monasteries, where highly-carved and richly symbolic great “High Crosses”-some of them 15 feet and taller– were set up-many of them still standing today.

These were not the suffering and bloody crucifixions found later in the West, particularly in Spain and Italy. Nor were these the serene and peaceful crosses of the Eastern Church. No, Celtic crosses were a genuine Christian expression all their own. Sometimes Christ is depicted, but often not; however, when He is shown, He is always erect, wide-eyed, and fully vested like a bishop, a great High Priest. In this form He is a symbol of victory over sin and death; He radiates invincibility.

“The way of the cross for [Celtic Christians] was the way of heroic loyalty, obedience, and suffering. It involved study and thought, doctrine and orthodoxy, art and imagination. It was a complete, unified way of life, lived intimately with God….[Our] fragmented modern world, both secular and religious, has a lot to learn from it.” (Cavill, op.cit.)

A common ascetic practice, even for the laity, was called crosfhigheall or “cross-vigil”, and it consisted of praying for hours with outstretched arms. St. Coemgen sometimes prayed in this position for days. Once he was so still, for so long, that birds came and began to build a nest in his outstretched hands.

Scholars believe that the Celtic High Cross patterns probably came from Egypt. There are no loose ends in these patterns; this symbolizes the continuity of the Holy Spirit throughout existence-for God has no beginning and no end.

An example of the love and respect they had for the Cross may be seen in an Anglo-Saxon poem, “The Dream of the Rood” (“rood” being an Old English word for “rod” or “pole”, sometimes it also meant “gallows”). In the “The Dream of the Rood,” Jesus Christ, the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity, is shone as a “serene and confident young hero…[who] prepares for battle. He strips…and climbs up on the gallows [the Tree of the Cross], intent on saving His people. He is in control, self-determining, expressing His lordship         [And] the Cross trembles at the fearful embrace of its Lord.” (Cavill, op.cit.) Listen, now, as the Cross, personified, speaks of how it raised up Christ:

“Unclothed Himself God Almighty when He would mount the Cross,

courageous in the sight of all men. I bore the powerful King, the Lord of heaven;

I durst not bend. Men mocked us both together. I was bedewed with blood.

Christ was on the Cross. Then I leaned down to the hands of men and

they took God Almighty.”

(Ward, Ibid.)

The interlacing, knot-work, plaiting, weaving patterns and spiral designs, with animals and plants and saints, and scenes from Scripture, which decorate almost every surface of a Celtic High Cross, are so distinctive and profound in their symbolism that they are a study all to themselves. Today I can only point out a couple of things.

Scholars believe that these incredibly complex patterns probably came from Egypt, but also may have some Byzantine influences. It’s important to note that there are no loose ends in these patterns; this symbolizes the continuity of the Holy Spirit throughout existence – for God has no beginning and no end; only Christ is the Alpha and the Omega. The same is true of knot-work patterns, which are endless and cannot be untied. Spiral designs symbolized the Most High God Himself, the “motionless mover,” around whom all things move. Some of these are what are called “Crosses of the Scriptures” because they are decorated with panels illustrating scenes from the Bible. High Crosses possess an almost dream-like quality in their complex geometric patterns, dignified and strong, heroic and towering over men, and yet also reminding those Christians of the Christian doctrine of kenosis, the self-emptying of Christ.

One of main factors contributing to the eventual decline and dissolution of a Celtic monastery was when the Cross began to no longer be a focus. “If monastic life…did not have at its center the reality of the Cross, it became a source of corruption….[for] ‘Once a religious house or order cease[d] to direct its sons to the abandonment of all that is not God and cease[d] to show them the narrow way…it [sank] to the level of a purely human institution and whatever its works may be they are the works of time and not of eternity.’” (Dom David Knowles, quoted in Ward, Ibid.)

An essential dimension was asceticism (askesis) which, for the Celtic monk consisted of a kind of martyrdom. “A homily in archaic Irish, probably dating from the last quarter of the seventh century…speaks of [this]: ‘Now there are three kinds of martyrdom, which are accounted as a cross to a man, to wit: white martyrdom, green and red martyrdom. White martyrdom consists in a man’s abandoning everything he loves for God’s sake, though he suffer fasting or labor therat. Green martyrdom consists in this, this, that by means of fasting and labor [a Christian] frees himself from his evil desires, or suffers toil in penance and repentance. Red martyrdom consists in the endurance of a cross or death for Christ’s sake, as happened to the Apostles…’…For this reason, the Celtic tradition regarded monasticism as the Army of Christ (Militia Christi) and the monk as a soldier of Christ (miles Christi). Young men, in their effort to emulate the heroism of their ancestors, entered monasteries-the “Green Martyrdom.” Instead of fighting in the Fianna (the Celtic army), they joined the Militia Christi to wage war against the evil spirits and sin.” (Fr. Gorazd Vorpatrny, op.cit.) Not surprisingly, one writer calls these Celts “Ascetic Superstars.” (Bitel, op.cit.)

“I should like a great lake of ale for the King of Kings;

I should like the angels of heaven to be drinking it through time eternal!”

- St. Brigit of Kildare

And yet, with all of this sober asceticism, the Celts never lost their native enthusiasm, exuberance, and just plain cheer, as we see in a prayer written by the wonderful 5th century Abbess, Brigit, when she exclaims: “I should like a great lake of ale for the King of Kings; I should like the angels of heaven to be drinking it through time eternal!” How could anyone fail to be charmed by such a character – a woman who was a great leader of monastics, both men and women, who was baptized by angels, got out of an arranged marriage by plucking out one of her eyeballs, and fell asleep during a sermon given by the incomparable Equal-to-the-Apostles, St. Patrick!

Finally, the Celts were Trinitarian Christians par excellence. This is partly because even before they were Christian they already thought in terms of threes. And for them-unlike most Christians today-the Trinity was very real, very alive, not something vague and theoretical. What one scholar calls a “Trinitarian consciousness” (Joyce, op.cit.) completely shaped everything about them. As another has said: “‘We are here at a central insight of Celtic theology….Christ comes not to show up or illuminate the deformity of a fallen world but rather to release a beautiful and holy world from bondage  an affirmation, difficult but possible, of [that] which is the created image of the eternal Father and the all-holy Trinity.’” (Noel Dermot O’Donoghue, quoted in Joyce, op.cit.) ”To follow the spiritual world-view of the Celtic Christians is to embrace a way of life that is a real commitment to the belief that the Trinitarian God is alive in this world.” In the Celtic world, “Jesus Christ is our hero, our sweet friend….The Father is High King of heaven, a gentle and beneficent father, a wise and just ruler. The Spirit is a tangible comforter and protector ….This God is never to be reduced to the ‘man upstairs’ or anyone we can capture and box in. And yet this wonderful, mysterious God is close to us….[This] God is extremely good.” (Ibid.)

Brothers and sisters: the sanctity of Celtic monastics is a model for us in that it combines heroism and joy in perfect and beautiful balance. For them, the heroic life was one completely dedicated to living intimately with the God-Man whom they described as “victorious,” “mighty and successful,” “the lord of victories,” a great warrior to whom they pledged undying, fearless, creative and exuberant loyalty. And yet, for all of their heroism, their monastic world-view, could be ‘summed up as the ‘Christian ideal in a sweetness which has never been surpassed.’” (Nora Chadwick, quoted by Joyce in op.cit.) To slip into their world, even for just a few moments, as we’ve done here this afternoon, is, I believe, is not just inspiring; it’s almost breathtaking.

Just as I began my talk today with a prayer of St. Columban of Iona, I would like to conclude with another prayer from this great Celtic monastic saint:

Prayer of St. Columban of Iona

Lord, Thou art my island; in Thy bosom I rest.

Thou art the calm of the sea; in that peace I stay.

Thou art the deep waves of the shining ocean. With their eternal sound I sing.

Thou art the song of the birds; in that tune is my joy.

Thou art the smooth white strand of the shore; in Thee is no gloom.

Thou art the breaking of the waves on the rock;

Thy praise is echoed in the swell.

Thou art the Lord of my life;

No matter how many turbulences we face in life, we ought to remain steadfast and peaceful. The more these difficulties go beyond our strength the more the Lord’s providence overcomes them on our behalf. Nietzsche declared that ‘if couples lived apart, more marriages would remain intact’. Yet Psalm 133 says: “how good and pleasant it is when brothers dwell in unity”.

In the original language, Hebrew, the word ‘together’ does not just mean ‘one with the other’ but ‘each for the other’. In other words, we ought to work in unity and peace for a common future. Contrary to Nietzsche, the Christians believe that “if we live for each other and we remain united, there is no discord or disagreement or disparity which can harm the success of our common life’.

D. “Repent. The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand”

The first week after Epiphany a passage from the Scriptures is read in which the lantern disappears and the Light is revealed, the morning star sets and the sun rises, John the Forerunner departs and Christ comes. When Jesus heard that John the Baptist was put in jail, He came to Galilee and revealed Himself to the people. He began teaching, having first been baptized by John. Thus the Forerunner disappears and Christ is revealed.

Today as in the past, life has been linked with the light in people’s minds. For this reason Jesus called Himself ‘the light of the world’ and declared that He is ‘the life of the world’. Again it is for this reason that Epiphany is also called the Feast of Light. As the hymn says: “You appeared to the world today, and Your light, O Lord, has left its mark upon us”. Thus Isaiah’s prophesy was fulfilled:  “The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined” (Isaiah 9, 2).

Yet when the light shone to the world it was not received by all. People loved the darkness more than the light because their deeds were evil, as John the Apostle says in his Gospel. Therefore, if one is to receive the Light two conditions must be met: Firstly, that It is indeed revealed (this has been fulfilled) and secondly that we receive It (this is what we hope for).

The Beatitude in the Scriptures is very clear: “Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God”. Normally our passions and our material and fleshly needs become like a shroud which prevents us from seeing the light. Our passions force us to turn away from the light and look instead towards the den of some of our desires, since the light harms them.

Generally speaking, people love the light for many important reasons. Light is life. As the Scriptures say, life was created out of water and light. The light also causes warmth and health. Living beings can flourish in the light. We can safely walk when there is light… Darkness has always been a place of fear, of worry and of waiting. The light designates the seasons and conveys vivacity and motion. The light is the starting point of life. In John’s Gospel, when one refers to life one uses the image of light, since life is derived from the light in people’s minds.

At the same time however, one objects to the presence of the light when darkness prevails in his life and deeds. The human tragedy has already been unfolding, because people loved darkness more than the light, since it was annoying to them.

The light reveals to me who some else is. Whoever sits in a dark place cannot see anyone but himself. This pleases whoever is selfish. As a modern day philosopher said: ‘The other person is my hell’. He, who only loves himself, hates the light because he is forced to realize that someone else is beside him. The light shows that there is someone else who may be in need. This bothers those who do not want to share someone else’s pain. The light forces me to see the hardships and pain that people face. This does not suit those who are lazy. He who lives in the darkness rests in his complacency and his introversion and places himself on a high and mighty pedestal. To ascend there becomes the only purpose in his life. Yet the light reveals who he really is by shining on the lies he has lived on. The light assures us that true life does not rest on selfishness but on self-sacrifice and that the other person is my master and my lord… Therefore a man’s life ought not to concentrate on him being isolated but on him coming out of his selfishness.

Therefore, my hell is my selfishness and paradise is the other person, my neighbor. The light calls me and I come out of myself towards the other person, even though this motion is painful. Yet it is the only path towards the true life. Darkness means indifference while the light is my responsibility and my care for others. The light makes someone else’s need as my own.

The light is also unpleasant because it sometimes reveals something of me which I have always tried to ignore. Man is drawn towards praises and egocentricity, thinking highly of himself. Then light shines and demolishes his large ego and reveals his wretchedness. There is no pride, arrogance or conceit in the light.  On the contrary, humility sits on the throne of the heavenly light and causes self-knowledge. All my weaknesses and my strengths come to light. I come to recognize that I am the true cause of many hardships and troubles and no one else.

Have you ever heard a snob and an arrogant man to confess that he is proud? The haughty person thinks that he is humble and the humble one thinks that he is selfish. The light surprises us, because it reveals what St Paul describes as ‘the old-man’. Only then do I realize that I ought to change. The light teaches me the language of love and convinces me to truly blame myself and no one else.

We have promised to become ‘sons of light’ and walk ‘while the light is with us’. We have promised to live in the light, accepting criticism and loving humility, sacrificing ourselves for the other person. Yet, what are the weapons and the means which steer us on the path towards the light?

The life of the saints is the light. They shed ample heavenly light on our lives. The gospel is the light. The life of Christ is the light.  Yet the holy mystery of confession is the best instrument which reflects the divine light.

One comes to deal with his relationship with the Lord and his neighbor through confession. He recognizes his rights and his responsibilities, sees himself in the light of humility and discards pride. Therefore, confession, spiritual guidance and the Holy Scriptures assist us in facing our reality.

The Church has established this holy mystery as the base of Christian life. Confession makes us ‘pure in heart’ in order to be able to see the Revealed God as the Light of the world. God gives us His light, but it is up to man to receive It. The light is the expression of God’s love. Our enlightenment is our response to His love. It is our decision to permanently live for Him inside the light.

It is not a coincidence that when Jesus revealed Himself as the Light, He had begun His mission with the words: ‘Repent. For the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand”.

Translated by:  Filothei

Monastic life was seen as an absolutely essential part of Christian life-the norm for all Christian life, not the exception-, and monks and nuns, hermits and hermitesses were the great heroes of the common people, who saw them, as St. Guthlac put it, as “tried warriors who serve a king who never withholds the reward from those who persist in loving Him.” (Quoted in Bitel, Ibid.) Indeed, it is this quality of persistent, even stubborn heroism that particularly stamps the character of Celtic Christianity and, particularly, monastic life – for these were a people whose heroes were monks and nuns, not political leaders or other cultural figures.

St. John Cassian, who is still carefully read and studied by Eastern Orthodox monastics today, was well known to Celtic monks. St. John had spent years as a monk in Bethlehem and Egypt-and recorded his conversations with the Egyptian Fathers–later establishing a monastery near present-day Marseilles, France. The Life of the Egyptian Father, St. Anthony the Great was translated into Latin around the year 380, and we know that this was studied by Celtic monks, who depicted St. Anthony and St. Paul of Thebes on some of the great Irish “High Crosses” (about which I’ll say more, shortly).

There is speculation that Iona was a sacred island to the Iron Age inhabitants before the 500s. This is just speculation with no evidence, but it is offered as a possible reason for Columba’s settling here.
Saint Columba, or Golm Cille as he would have called himself in Gaelic, was exiled from his native Ireland in 563. He founded a monastery on Iona, along with twelve companions.

There was phenomenal literacy and very high culture among these monks. In addition, they also learned from the monks of the Egyptian desert how to practice daily “Confession of Thoughts.” Their monastic clothing was primarily made from animal skins, so that in appearance they actually resembled St. John the Baptist out in the wilderness – a far cry from the monastics of Europe in their sometimes rather elaborate woven cloth habits.

Now we come to the interesting part: There are records of any number of Christians traveling to the Desert Fathers from the British Isles, and an old Celtic litany of the saints mentions seven Egyptian monks who came to Ireland and died and were buried there. Scholars believe that most of the contact between Ireland and Egypt occurred before the year 640. On an ancient stone near a church in County Cork, Ireland, there is the following inscription: “Pray for Olan, the Egyptian. Also interesting is the fact that even though there are no deserts in the British Isles, the Celts called their monastic communities diserts or “deserts.” This was particularly true of island monasteries or hermitages -those spiritual fortresses– , where the sea itself was like a desert, as an ancient poet said of St. Columban’s island hermitage:

“Delightful I think it to be in the bosom of an isle on the peak of a rock, that I might often see there the calm of the sea…That I might see its heavy waves over the glittering ocean as they chant a melody to their Father on their eternal course.”

We have a wonderful description of a visit to the monks of Egypt near the close of the fourth century, written by Rufinus of Aquileia. He wrote: “When we came near, they realized that foreign monks were approaching, and at once they swarmed out of their cells like bees. They joyfully hurried to meet us.” Rufinus was particularly struck by the solitude and stillness of life among these monks. “This is the utter desert,” he observed, “where each monk lives alone in his cell….There is a huge silence and a great peace there.” (Quoted in Celtic Saints, Passionate Wanderers, by Elizabeth Rees)

St. David of Wales lived in the 6th century. He came from a monastery which had been founded by a disciple of St. John Cassian. So great is St. David that he deserves a whole lecture to himself, but today I’ll just mention him in connection with the wisdom of the Egyptian desert: he possessed the gift of tears, spoke alone with angels, subdued his flesh by plunging himself into ice cold water while reciting all of the Psalms by heart, and spent the day making prostrations and praying. “He also fed a multitude of orphans, wards, widows, needy, sick, feeble, and pilgrims.” (Edward C. Sellner, Wisdom of the Celtic Saints)The Roman Catholic scholar, Edward Sellner, adds: ” Thus he began; thus he continued; thus he ended his day. He imitated the monks of Egypt and lived a life like theirs.” (Ibid.) The same writer assures us that “because of its [the Celtic Church's] love of the desert fathers and mothers, it has a great affinity with the spirituality of the Eastern Orthodox [today].”

There are many other evidences of Eastern and Egyptian contact and influence, too numerous to list now. But in his interesting study, The Egyptian Desert in the Irish Bogs, Fr. Gregory Telepneff mentions also the fascinating interlacing knots and complex designs found on the famous standing High Crosses, which show Egyptian or Coptic influence. “Celtic manuscripts show similarities to the Egyptian use of birds, eagles, lions, and calves….In the Celtic Book of Durrow, one can find not only a utilization of the colors green, yellow, and red, similar to Egyptian usage, but also ‘gems with a double cross outline against tightly knotted interlacings,’ which recall the ‘beginnings of Coptic books.’ [Henry, Irish Art]. There is at least one instance of the leather satchel of an Irish missal and the leather satchel of an Ethiopian manuscript of about the same period which “resemble each other so closely that they might be thought to have come from the same workshop’ [Warren, Liturgy].” (Telpneff)

Culturally, then, I suggest that Celtic culture was a unique and intriguing blend of Egyptian and other Middle Eastern influences with native or indigenous cultural elements.

Before going further I want to say a few words about the term “spirituality.” In our time this has become a wastebasket word into which we put whatever we want the word to mean. Our English word, “spirituality”, comes from the French, and originally described someone who was clever, witty, or perhaps even mad! But our ancient Christian ancestors, whether from Russia, Europe, the Middle East, or the lands of the Celts, did not have such a concept. Certainly they did not see spiritual life as something separate from the rest of life. For them, spirituality was how they lived, how they prayed, how they worshiped God-and it was all bound up together, not separated out. Today, however, we have managed to artificially compartmentalize ourselves and our lives, making “spirituality” something that we do in addition to or separate from regular life. This has made possible a very artificial approach to the Celts.

Thomas O”Loughlin, one of the best of our present-day writers on the subject of Celtic Christianity, makes the following sage observation in his book, Journeys on the Edges:

“In the last decade interest in the attitudes and beliefs of the Christians of the Celtic lands in the first millennium has swollen from being a specialist pursuit among medievalists and historians of theology into what is virtually a popular movement. In the process more than a few books have appeared claiming to uncover the soul of this Celtic Christianity in all its beauty….[Many writers] operate by offering their own definitions of ‘Christianity’ past and present, and then setting these against their definition of ‘Celt’ or ‘Celtic’. In this way they can reach the conclusion they want.”

Typical of our modern arrogance and intellectual-spiritual poverty, we project our own feeble ideas back onto a more robust and spiritually rich time, treating the world of Celtic Christianity like a smorgasbord, where we take those things we happen to already “like,” and put them together to form our own very distorted and sometimes even perverted “version” of the Celts. An example: It is a fact that in the early Christian centuries, Ireland, Scotland and parts of Wales were never subject to Roman rule-neither the old Roman Empire nor the Church of Rome held sway over “Celts.” But some modern writers interpret this to mean that Celtic Christians, since they were “non-Roman,” were therefore anti-Roman or even anti-authority and against the idea of an organized, patriarchal Church. There is absolutely no evidence for such a conclusion, although in fact Celtic Christians did have a quite different way of organizing communities than did Christians on the continent-but this was not out of rebellion, but because their own models were from Egypt and the East, not from Europe! The simple fact is that “the Irish church had always been at the edges of Roman Christianity, [and considered to be a] a barbarian church of limited interest to the Popes.” (Paul Cavill, Anglo-Saxon Christianity: Exploring the Earliest Roots of Christian Spirituality in England) ”Although the climate and situation of Britain were very different from the hot deserts of Egypt, there were principles-simplicity, prayer, fasting, spiritual warfare, wisdom, and evangelism-that were easy to translate to the communities of these isles.”(Michael Mitton, The Soul of Celtic Spirituality in the Lives of Its Saints) But this means that entering into the spiritual, mental, emotional, and physical world of a Celtic Christian monk is difficult-not impossible, but difficult.

First we must realize that the Celts had no concept of privacy or individuality such as we have today. Families did not live in separate rooms, but all together; no one thought about the idea of “compartmentalizing space” and only hermits and anchorites felt a calling to be alone in spiritual solitude with God, although monks had separate cells, just as monastics did in the Egyptian Thebaid. The idea that people are separate individuals from the group was not only unheard-of, but would have been considered dangerous, even heretical. Self-absorption, “moods,” and being temperamental-all of these things would have been considered abnormal and sinful. It wasn’t until the 13th and 14th centuries that people in the West started keeping journals or diaries, and there were no memoirs-also signs of individuality and privacy, of singling oneself out from the family, group, or community-nor were there actual real-life portraits of individuals, until the 14th century. (The art of realistic portraiture developed in response to the medieval idea of romance-for an accurate portrait was a substitute for an absent husband or wife.)

Furthermore, “‘the dominant institution of Celtic Christianity was neither the parish church nor the cathedral, but the monastery, which sometimes began as a solitary hermit’s cell and often grew to become a combination of commune, retreat house, mission station…school [and, in general] a source not just of spiritual energy but also of hospitality, learning, and cultural enlightenment.”(Ian Bradley, quoted in Mitten, Ibid.) It was only much later that people began to be gathered into separate parishes, and even later before bishops had dioceses that were based on geographical lines rather than just being the shepherd of a given tribe or group, “being bishops of a community, rather than ruling areas of land. The idea of ‘ruling a diocese’ was quite foreign to the Celtic way of thinking.” (Ibid.)

If you think about what all of this means in terms of how we today view ourselves, the world in which we live, and the values that we have today, you can see how difficult it’s going to be for us to enter into the world of the Celts. Today we are quite obsessive about such things as privacy and individuality, of “being our own selves” and “getting in touch with the inner man” and other such self-centered nonsense. But the Celtic Christian understood, just as did and do Eastern Christians, that man is saved in community; if he goes to hell, he goes alone.

So the orientation of those Christian Celts to God and the other world was very different than the orientation of our modern world, no matter how devout or pious we may be, and this makes the distance between us and the world of Celtic monasticism far greater than just the span of the centuries. A renowned scholar, Sir Samuel Dill, writing generally about Christians in the West at this same period of time, said: “The dim religious life of the early Middle Ages is severed from the modern mind by so wide a gulf, by such a revolution of beliefs that the most cultivated sympathy can only hope to revive in faint imagination ….[for it was] a world of…fervent belief which no modern man can ever fully enter into….It is intensely interesting, even fascinating…[but] between us and the early Middle Ages there is a gulf which the most supple and agile imagination can hardly hope to pass. He who has pondered most deeply over the popular faith of that time will feel most deeply how impossible it is to pierce its secret.” (Quoted in “Vita Patrum”, Fr. Seraphim Rose)

But is it really “impossible”? To enter their world-the world of Celtic Christianity, which is the same as Celtic monasticism–we must find a way to see things as they did-not as we do today-; to hear, taste, touch, pray, and think as they did. And this is what I mean by the word “spirituality”-a whole world-view. We must examine them in the full context of their actual world-which was a world of Faith, and not just any Faith, but the Christian Faith of Christians in both the Eastern and Western halves of Christendom in the first thousand years after Christ. Spirituality is living, dogmatic, theology. This is the only way we can begin to understand how Celtic Monasticism can be a model of sanctity for us living today, more than a millennium after their world ceased to be. Remember, I said it would be difficult to enter their world; difficult, but not impossible… When we speak of someone or something being a “model,” what do we mean? In this instance-speaking about Celtic monasticism as a “model”-we mean something that is a standard of excellence to be imitated. But here I’m not speaking of copying external things about Celtic monasteries-such as architecture, style of chant, monastic habit, etc., which are, after all cultural “accidents.” I’m speaking of something inward, of an inner state of being and awareness. It’s only in this sense that Celtic monasticism can be, for those who wish it, a “model of sanctity.”

But what do I mean by “sanctity”? We must be careful not to slip into some kind of vague, New Age warm “fuzzies” which are more gnostic than Christian and have more to do with being a “nice” person than encountering the Living God in this life. By sanctity I mean what the Church herself means: holiness—which is nothing more or less than imitation of Christ in the virtues, and striving to die to oneself through humility, so as to be more and more alive to Christ, successfully cutting off one’s own will in order to have, only the will of Christ, as St. Paul says in his epistle to the Galatians (2:20): “I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me… ” So, holiness means dying to oneself and especially to one’s passions, more and more, so as draw closer and closer to the Lord God Himself, through Jesus Christ, and Him crucified and risen. In addition, Celtic Christians had the concept of “hallowing” or “hallowed”-an old fashioned term that today has survived only in the unfortunate pagan holiday called “Halloween” (from “All Hallows Eve”-which began as the vigil for the Western Feast of All Souls Day and later took on vile pagan overtones). To early British Christians, something or someone that was “hallowed” was “set apart” from others and sanctified for service to God. Thus, a priest’s ordination or a monastic’s tonsuring was his “hallowing.”

“This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased” 

“The Lord is God and has revealed Himself to us, blessed is he

who comes in the name of the Lord”.

During the feast of Epiphany the church flock chants this hymn, which praises two events: The revelation of the Triune Lord to us and the coming of the God-Man Jesus Christ ‘in the name of the Lord’. During Epiphany the Triune Lord was revealed to man and man was revealed to the Lord, namely, the man who pleased the Lord’s heart. These are the beloved Son and Man ‘in whom the Lord was well pleased’.

It was also revealed to us how the Lord’s delight is realized. The prefigurement of the image, which we ought to acquire and preserve in order to please the Lord, was also made clear.

In a beautiful exclamation Lord the Father names the Man who pleased Him: ‘this is my beloved Son’. The Lord ‘is love’ and He loves everyone without exception, but the beloved Father’s Son, is the One who loves the Father.  In other words, the human form which was revealed and pleases the Lord’s heart is not simply the image of the beloved man whom the Lord has created, but the image of the man, who loves the Heavenly Father unto the end, unto death, even unto the death of the cross.

Many people, Christians or heathen, have been trying to please their gods, according to the measure of their faith. They have been offering worship and sacrifices to the gods in order to gain their favor. Similarly the fathers in the Old Testament have kept the Lord’s commandments to the letter and offered sacrifices and whole burnt offerings as a sign of their reconciliation with the Lord.

Nevertheless, the prophets have often made clear that the Lord does not find pleasure in whole burnt offerings, neither is He reconciled through sacrifices, since repentance is the true sign of reconciliation and the Lord does not despise a broken and contrite heart.

The Lord ‘is love’ and expects that all His children to always be ‘beloved’ to Him. Our relationship with the Lord cannot be one of fear neither of gain. It can only be a relationship of love and this is what He expects and looks forward to receive from us.

The Lord does not need our fasting, prayers, almsgiving or any of the other virtues. It is us who need them but not in order to offer them as a gift or atonement since the Lord is neither a judge nor an adjudicator. He is the Lord of love. We need these virtues if our heart is to be flooded with love for the Lord and for our fellow human beings. All of these virtues are the means which will evaluate whether a tough person has been transformed into a kind one and whether our love has been withdrawn from volatile things and turned towards the One, Who is our Heavenly Father.

We fast in order to love the Lord; we engage in prayer and doing good deeds for the same purpose. Any virtue, which does not assist us in acquiring even more love and eros towards our Lord Jesus Christ and our neighbor, is nothing but labor without gain.

The Lord is love and expects us to love Him. Our salvation depends on this.

The Lord took delight in calling His Only Son ‘beloved’ and expects to be able to call us in the same way. The Lord revealed Himself as a man-loving Father during Epiphany. Therefore, we also ought to pray on this day so that we may become His beloved children, full of goodness, so that He can tell each one of us: ‘This is my beloved son’. Amen.

B  The World

The Church is not a shelter which cuts us off from the rest of the world in order to protect us but a school which equips us and dispatches us to preach to the world. The Divine Liturgy begins with the entrance to the Kingdom: ‘Blessed is the Kingdom of the Father…’ and ends with the exit towards the world: ‘let us go in peace’!

We stand before the world not in fear, in insecurity, in contempt or as if we are departing from it, but with responsibility.

Translated by:  Filothei

Pascha service

It is impossible to describe the profound, almost visceral shock I received when, as a new convert, I came face to face with my first Good Friday in the Greek parish in London, Ontario. Only weeks before, I had been received into the Orthodox Church by chrismation in that very ethnic community. My whole first Pascha as an Orthodox Christian was therefore, understandably, somewhat overwhelming. Though now incongruously “one of them,” I was still very much an extremely self-conscious anglophone outsider.

My visceral shock on that Good Friday did not come about, however, from not having previously experienced an Orthodox Good Friday. Ten years before, while a graduate student in Paris, I had lived through an entire Orthodox Holy Week with great devotion, following the long daily offices at St. Sergius’ Russian Seminary. It was, in fact, the Easter celebration crowning that week that had brought me to the conclusion that I had, at long last, by some sweet miracle, found my own kind of Christianity there among those Russians in Paris. They made it very plain indeed that they really believed that Jesus Christ had come out of the tomb.
From the time I was a little Southern Baptist boy growing up in Florida I had always believed in the physical Resurrection of Jesus Christ, just as stated in the Gospel. And I had certainly believed it with no less intensity when, during my university years, I embraced the more sacramentally-oriented form of Christianity I had discovered in high Anglicanism. An Anglican monastery located outside our university town had  allowed me even to familiarize myself with the rich, pre-Vatican II Pascal ceremonial of the Roman Church, so scrupulously observed, in excellent English translation, in that very high Anglican milieu.
Still, it was only in Paris on that Saturday night leading into Easter morning in 1957, when I heard the Russians shouting, over and over again, “Christ is risen!  Indeed He’s risen!” with all the fervour and unbridled joy of fans at a football game, that I knew I had at last, and after a very long journey, really reached my goal. Tears of joy bathed my face. I had found a joy which could not be taken from me.
Was it perhaps by some ancestral call, by some atavistic grace inherited from my ancient Celtic forbears and their so very Orthodox church, that I felt so resolutely sure of everything that night? I sensed very deeply that I had finally discovered what, by instinct, I sensed must exist somewhere, but which I had never been able to discover until then either in Protestantism or in Catholicism. It was a joy surpassing all desire. For me it represented a fullness of the presence of the living, risen Christ in the midst of His people.
So it was that, as a Christian, I felt completely at home that night in Paris, and completely at ease for the first time with what I was religiously. Strange as it may sound, it seemed to me that I had at long last finally touched the power of His Resurrection, that mysterious power which, I realized, had proven the great driving force behind Christianity’s miraculous expansion in the first centuries of its history. Yet I had never imagined it possible in the twentieth century, even if one could discover it, to be able to partake of it in such a graphic way. Whether by sight, sound, smell, or – what was most important – by the very heart and soul, all of my being seemed able to participate with no rational reservations whatsoever in the extraordinary and unprecedented event of the Resurrection of Christ.
That evening I was, for once, totally free of the too-familiar human equivocation I had so often encountered in Easter sermons. No poor preacher tried his best to make Easter “relevant for us today” as he deified all intellectual odds to explain exactly what had happened at the tomb, how it had happened, and how such an event might still be of significance to “modern man.”  What blessed, sweet relief to find that those shouting Russians had no need for such a preacher!  Not only did they already know exactly what had happened at the tomb, but also, with no one having to say anything at all, they knew as well that it was the single most important truth in human life. And that truth was, quite simply, that “Christ is risen!”
I had not, however, I hasten to say, arrived at my conclusions that night totally all on my own. Due credit for a large part of my grasp of the deep implications of what was happening that Easter night in 1957 must certainly be given to a great servant of God placed on my path in Paris two years before.

II

Throughout Paris’ large Russian community Sophia Mihailovna Zernoff was known and admired for her selfless devotion in assisting eastern European refugees and their children to settle in France. For a quarter of a century an unending flow passed through the humble little office she called simply her “Assistance Centre.”  Once she had found housing and jobs for the parents she would assume full responsibility for their children’s housing, secular education, and Orthodox religious instruction. For this purpose she had acquired an impressive chateau with a mill in the Parissuburbs at Montgeron. To this establishment she again gave a very simple name: “The Children’s Home.”  The acquisition and maintenance of “The Children’s Home”  claimed a great portion of Sophia Mihailovna’s heart and mind over the years as she fought fearlessly for its survival as a Russian institution. Moreover, by an on-going series of rather startling miracles wrought by her prayers, “The Children’s Home” flourished until after her death in 1972. In Orthodox tribute to her great heart and soul a small, exquisite Serbian-style church she herself had had constructed there and dedicated to her beloved St. Seraphim of Sarov, today stands within the grounds of the Moulin de Senlis at Montgeron.
Some months before my first Easter in Paris, Sophia Mihailovna had invited me to supper in her little maid’s flat, high up above the rooftops. Also invited that evening were an American Methodist pastor and his wife who were passing through Paris. They were friends of Sophia Mihailovna’s well-known Oxford-professor brother, Dr. Nicholas Zernov, from one of his American university visits. Ever zealous to proclaim her conviction that the fullness of Christ is found only in Orthodoxy, Sophia Mihailovna did not fail her three non-Orthodox American supper guests that evening in speaking of her own vision of God and His “beautiful world.”   Her subject was Orthodoxy’s Saturday midnight Easter service.
Why is it, she asked, that in the very first hours of Easter morning, when the shouts of “Christ is risen!”  “Indeed, He’s risen!” first burst forth from the crowd, the non-Orthodox outsider suddenly sees everyone around him start kissing everyone else? Her unforgettable pale blue eyes, aflame with holy zeal, reflected the flickering candles on the table. Forcefully, as always when she spoke of such things, Sophia Mihailovna tried to convince us that, just as Orthodoxy holds, Easter night makes all men brothers.
Certainly, since my first meeting with her two years before, I had never failed to be struck by Sophia Mihailovna’s frequent reflections on God and His relationship with man as manifested in Orthodoxy. Even her most casual remark could prove memorable. Whenever she spoke of God she always seemed to challenge one with the potential for a much fresher and far greater relationship with God, a relationship which, as in her own case, ever moved towards greater and greater intimacy as our love and fear of Him grew.
Indeed, it seemed to me that man’s relationship with God was the one question dominating Sophia Mihailovna’s whole life. I thus had had no difficulty at all in grasping, even from my initial encounter with her, that as great as her humanitarian work for refugees and their children was – a work gratefully recognized and honoured even by an admiring French government – it was not that work which really preoccupied her great heart’s deepest love. Alone mattered to her that great, dynamic force fuelling her selfless and complete consecration of her energies to her work: her holy Orthodox faith.
I do not think I exaggerate at all in saying that as the Methodist pastor and his wife and I listened to her that evening, we were all equally filled with awe. No one of us, I feel sure, had ever heard anyone speak of Easter as she was speaking to us. Nor, I dare say, would any of us ever again find Easter taking on the challenging, cosmic dimension she gave it as she spoke.
“Why do you see the Orthodox all kissing one another as soon as the priest announces ‘Christ is risen!’ on Easter night?” Sophia Mihailovna asked, as though challenging us, none of whom, in fact, had ever even seen an Orthodox midnight Easter service. Our collective gaze fixed on her, we waited as she moved to what was obviously, for her, the great and essential Orthodox revelation she wanted to share with us.
“It is because on that night we remember that we are all brothers. By nature we are all born brothers, but brothers because we are all destined for death. Yes! We are naturally all born to die. But on Easter night we remember that through our baptism in Christ we have all been born again. We have all been reborn in Him!  At our baptism we all put on Christ and now, at Easter, we remember: Christ is risen!  It is our baptism into Christ that makes us all brothers in His Resurrection on that night!  That’s why in our joy we kiss one another and exchange the greetings, “Christ is risen!” “Indeed He’s risen!”  Death has been trodden under foot by Jesus Christ!  We are now all truly brothers in the life given us by His Resurrection. At Easter we remember we have all been set free from death!”

Holy Week

III

My first Orthodox Easter at St. Sergius had thus been much enlightened by Sophia Mihailovna’s burning words as I followed the long Saturday night ceremonies, culminating, in the early hours of Sunday morning, in the celebration of the Pascal Divine Liturgy by the white-clad bishop and priests. Ten years later in London, Ontario, however, as deeply as her holy memory still burned within me, no words she had ever said made my shock any easier to bear on that first Greek Good Friday. My mind flayed around, groping for something to grab hold of. How to cope with what the Greeks made so blatantly obvious that Good Friday evening? It contrasted so sharply with my first Orthodox Good Friday evening at St. Sergius in Paris!
Indeed, in Paris, I had been surrounded by all that deep piety for which the Slavs are known. Russian piety in Paris moreover always seemed of a very rare fervour to me. So many of those who prayed with such zeal had, I knew, lost everything this world had to offer save their holy Orthodox faith and their fervent prayer.
Even more special to me, however, was the zeal in prayer I discovered at St. Sergius Seminary. Indeed, St. Sergius had long been a unique site, a high, holy place for Russians throughout the world. During the Great Soviet Persecution prior to World War II it was, in fact, the only functioning Russian Orthodox seminary in the world.
Standing there for hours on end that first Good Friday in Paris, with aching feet and tired back in the packed, hot church, pressed in by my fellow worshippers and unable to budge, I had sweatily, wearily clutched my candle. Yet I sensed that my discomfort could only mean that I was consciously making some poor effort to participate in the great mystery of the Passion of Christ. My heart had been at peace, whatever may have been my body’s discomfort.
At the solemn procession in the afternoon, with the winding sheet of Christ suspended above the bishop’s head, the greatest expressions of piety and humility had been displayed by the faithful, with prostrations and endless signs of the cross. That same evening, during the hushed procession carrying the image of the dead Lord around the church three times, I recall asking my American seminarian friend in a whisper just what they were so solemnly singing. His whispered reply that they were singing the familiar “Holy God! Holy Mighty! Holy Immortal!  Have mercy on us!” had provided me with yet another clue to Orthodox truth which at once burned into my consciousness. What else indeed could men pray at such a commemoration? Our own human race had not only slaughtered the Creator of heaven and earth when He came to save us the first time, but would most surely do exactly the same thing again.
The solemnity of the music that Good Friday night in Paris, the very serious demeanour of the people: how it was to contrast with the joyous shouting and jubilant singing I was to hear the next evening!  That sharp contrast in Paris, however, was something I expected and, to me, seemed normal and very much within the natural order of things. A sombre, mournful Good Friday, it seemed to me, should be followed by a bright and glorious Easter. First there is sorrow, then joy. Yet ten years later in London, Ontario, with my Greek co-parishioners, how vainly I was to search for an atmosphere vaguely reminiscent of what I had known at St. Sergius!
Liturgically, of course, I could not complain. The Greeks sang the long lamentations over the image of the Lord’s dead body. They duly carried that image around, in solemn procession. The icons of the Lord’s Crucifixion and Descent into the Grave – called “The Divine Humility” – were set out for veneration. Everything I could have anticipated and might have imagined from my Paris experience was there with my new Greek co-religionists. But what upset me was that there was also something more.
That something more, neither expected, nor even imaginable for me, was a veritable outpouring of celebratory Pascal joy, already bursting out on Friday night, twenty-four hours prior to the Saturday night Pascal celebration!  The fact that it was so generally present, and truly inescapable, astounded me. My religious aesthetics felt violated by that incessant and irrepressible assault of Pascal joy welling up from so deeply within all my Greek fellow-parishioners. It was there with no apology: before me, behind me, beside me, all around me.
Everyone, it seemed to me, was decked out in their finest, brightest Easter dress. The Greek ladies sported new Easter bonnets, the men their best suits, the children all their Easter finery, many holding ornate, special festive candles bedecked with ribbons, tinsel and artificial flowers as though it were already Pascha!  What a jarring, slightly tawdry, and totally inappropriate contrast, I reflected, with the very proper funereal austerity of that slavic Good Friday I had experienced ten years before!
But the worst was the Greeks’ very audible manifestation of their celebratory joy. Unashamedly they greeted one another enthusiastically with one greeting: “Happy Easter!” unquestionably confirming for me that all that so inappropriate joy I found assaulting me from every side was indeed a Pascal joy. Their pointed politeness in courteously wishing me “Happy Easter!” in English did not fail to touch me, of course, but such joy on such a day completely confounded me.
Indeed, when the attendant behind the candle-stand in the church narthex had first wished me “Happy Easter!” upon my arrival at church that Good Friday evening, I found myself, as it were, biting down hard on my wounded religious sensitivity. Completely startled, I fear I managed only a feeble, and very half-hearted “Happy Easter!” in reply. Yet, by the end of the long evening, though still as baffled as at the beginning, I actually found myself wishing people “Happy Easter!” almost without a wince. Greek Pascal joy was contagious!  It was after all, I realized, a very Christian joy, even if I judged it a bit misplaced in regard to the day.

IV

What was of course being revealed to me that evening was an aspect of Orthodoxy I could never, ever have dreamed up, or even have imagined. Yet it was an aspect I would subsequently find borne out by Orthodoxy’s liturgical texts as well as by her practices. But that I had yet to discover.
What I did sense immediately, however, was the Greek refusal to play-act in commemorating the burial of Christ. They made no hollow pretence of somehow bottling up the presence and joy of the risen Christ until the next day, or of pretending that there was to be a sort of magical “moment” of Resurrection which would allow man to control the situation, decreeing that there were indeed certain solemn moments, such as Good Friday evening, when this joy was neither relevant nor available.
Logic alone moreover immediately convinced me that pretending there has to be a special “moment” of Resurrection at midnight on Saturday, and that the deepest sorrow must reign until that precise moment, could never be more than an extremely tenuous concept – relative, even. Did that “moment” not always depend upon where one lived, differing from time zone to time zone, given the world order that is ours? Man’s imposition of the International Date Line in the Bering Sea pushes the whole concept of a precise “moment” to the absurd, particularly among the Orthodox. Orthodox natives in the islands attached to Russia are celebrating their “moment” of Pascha twenty-four hours ahead of their native Orthodox cousins situated only a few miles away and attached to the United States. Yet, the mystery of the Resurrection is no less valid for either of them.
It is good, of course, that this is so, for man always needs to be reminded that though he may be used by God to do very great works as a saint, he is ever incapable of actually duplicating any great work of God. To try to duplicate God is the work of the Enemy, after all. Therefore, within the Church, recalling the great works wrought by God and entering into them mystically through liturgical commemoration is one thing. To attempt to re-create them is another.
In addition to these reflections I also found myself asking a very simple question. Who was I, after all, to question these Greeks? Some of them no doubt had ancestors converted by St. Paul himself at a time when my own pagan Celtic ancestors were still suspending the heads of their enemies outside their primitive huts in the British Isles.
I knew myself moreover unworthy of participating in the fullness of this Christianity I had discovered, just as I was also unworthy of this people whose Christian pedigree was so far superior to my own. Had they not provided martyrs from the beginning? Had they not seen the fall of the Roman Empire as also that of Byzantium? Living for generations under the Turks they had proven themselves capable of furnishing numerous “new martyrs,” whereby the tradition of martyrdom, handed down by their first Christian ancestors, was continuously renewed.
So it was that the shocking greeting of “Happy Easter!” on Good Friday became for me a matter for thoughtful reflection, not for judgement. As Good Friday ended and Holy Saturday began I pondered deeply on all this, trying to grasp what could possibly be behind the Greeks’ Pascal joy on Good Friday.

V

Was it those twenty-four hours of intense reflection that were responsible for my sensitivity to the strange paradox I encountered the next evening as the Saturday night Resurrection service began? The long and seemingly interminable chant which had begun the Good Friday service, was, I discovered, being sung again, word for word, all the way from beginning to end as the Resurrection Service began. Why sing that long text a second time? What could it possibly contain that justified its double duty as overture for the two most notable – yet contrasting – services of Orthodoxy’s entire liturgical calendar?
Thanks to a squat little volume containing the Holy Week services presented me by my Greek Godmother for Pascha, I could set myself to scrutinizing the long text as the Greeks sang it again that Saturday evening. My squat little book informed me that this long affair, punctuated throughout with the incessant refrain of “Glory to Thee, our God, glory to Thee!” was called the “canon.”
As any Orthodox convert soon learns, there is no lack of canons in Orthodox worship. One or more canons comprise a major portion of Orthodox Matins, and canons may also be integrated into other offices. Composed of a series of thirty or more short texts, or “troparia,”  a canon is normally divided into a familiar pattern of nine odes. In practice, however, as a convert soon learns, only eight odes are utilized, the second, deemed too long, being normally left out. Once seasoned to Orthodox ways, the convert blithely passes from Ode One to Ode Three without the slightest blink!
Be that as it may, each of the nine odes is inspired by a particular biblical canticle or prayer dealing with a revelation of God as Saviour of His people in Jewish history. The first eight odes are based on Old Testament examples, the ninth on the two canticles found in the first chapter of St. Luke’s Gospel: that of the Holy Virgin, “My soul doth magnify the Lord” (Lk 1, 46-55), and that of Zacharias, father of St. John the Baptist (Lk 1:68-79). The First Ode draws its inspiration from the canticle of Moses celebrating his triumph in leading the Hebrews through the Red Sea (Ex 15:1-9), as does also the Second (usually omitted) Ode, based on a much longer text of Moses (Deut 32:1-43). The Third Ode is inspired by the canticle of Hannah (I Sam 2:1-10), mother of the prophet Samuel, who joyously conceived in her old age and cried out, marvelling: “There is none holy but Thee, O Lord!”  The Fourth Ode takes as its inspiration (Hab 3:2-19) Habbakuk the prophet who foresaw that in coming to save man, the Lord would empty Himself of His glory: “Thou wentest forth for the salvation of thy people.”  The prayer of Isaiah (Is 26:9-20) where the prophet announces the resurrection of the dead and the disappearance of the impious on earth inspires the Fifth Ode, while the Sixth is based on the Prophet Jonah’s prayer for deliverance from the belly of the whale (Jon 2:3-10). Both the Seventh and Eighth Odes are based on texts from the Septuagint’s book of Daniel where the three Hebrew youths are condemned to the fiery furnace in Babylon. Their final prayer before that ordeal inspires the Seventh Ode (Dan 3:26-56), their canticle of praises actually sung in the furnace (Dan 3:57-88), the Eighth. This then leads directly to the Ninth Ode with the magnification of “God my Saviour” by the Theotokos (Lk 1: 46-55) and the canticle of Zacharias (Lk 1: 68-79) in celebrating the birth of John the Baptist: “And thou, child, shalt be called the prophet of the Highest, for thou shalt go before the face of the Lord to prepare his ways.”
For the most part, however, the original biblical texts served as mere points of departure for the Byzantine poets composing the four or more highly poetic troparia making up each ode. Though some subtle reference to the original biblical text is frequently discernible in the first troparia of each ode, as a whole a canon composed for a feast completely takes on the identity of the feast.
Of course, on my first Holy Saturday evening as an Orthodox Christian I knew nothing at all either about canons, their derivation, or their significance in Orthodox worship. Be that as it may, the deep, underlying pascal joy announced in the texts I was scrutinizing was overwhelmingly evident as I attentively followed along. Even though aesthetically my feathers were a bit ruffled by the fact, there was no doubt that the Greeks had valid theological grounds in wishing each other “Happy Easter!” on Good Friday evening. The Ninth Ode actually proclaims the ultimate, definitive victory of Christ over Death. At the end of last troparia the Word of God Himself announces in that text (already sung the night before for Good Friday): “Hell is harrowed, the Enemy destroyed!”
So it was that upon confronting Orthodoxy’s canon for Good Friday evening I was forced to allow that my very western idea of Easter’s being, first and last, a matter of the myrrh-bearing women’s discovery at the tomb, was terribly limited and sadly wanting. It left no place whatsoever for the vast, cosmic mystery of the “universal kingdom” announced by St. John Chrysostom in his liturgical text universally read at Pascha as Orthodoxy’s Easter sermon. In that sermon we are told that Hades has been harrowed and, by Christ’s Resurrection, the vast, cosmic mystery of the universal kingdom has been revealed.
Yet the harrowing of Hades, I must confess, was as alien to my own consciousness as it was obviously inextricably entrenched in the whole of Orthodox consciousness. For a western Christian’s ever-grappling and self-centered logic, belief in the mystery of the Resurrection was, I knew, already problematic. But how much more then must that logic be painfully challenged by the mystery of the harrowing of hell!
I knew, of course, that Christ’s descent to the realm of the dead by the Lord is alluded to by St. Peter (I Pet 3:19; 4:6). It must therefore, I realized, have been a basic tenant of Christianity since apostolic times. As an Anglican I had moreover learned the familiar phrase, “He descended into Hell” as an article of the apostolic faith taught in the short “Apostle’s Creed.”  Never, however, would I have dreamed that the implications of this “descent into hell” could prove of such importance, or that it could take on the cosmic dimensions I had discovered in Orthodoxy.
Though the short “Apostle Creed” is not generally used in Orthodoxy, and though Orthodoxy’s Nicean Creed makes no reference whatsoever to the “descent into hell,” her liturgical texts do bristle with the boldest and most insistent references to it, repeatedly announcing Christ’s victory over the kingdom of death through that descent. It is to be noted, moreover, that though the harrowing of hell long provided a popular subject for artists in the Christian West, the radical reforms effected by the Counter Reformation to all aspects of the Latin Church’s ecclesiastical life mysteriously seem to have caused that mystery to pass into almost total eclipse.
Orthodoxy, on the other hand, uncompromisingly maintains the importance of this mystery of the holy Christian faith, taught by St. Peter himself. Even in its Resurrection icon Orthodoxy insists upon this mystery as the fundamental one of Easter. In that holy image one sees the Lord standing on the broken doors of the kingdom of the dead, stretching forth his nail-pierced hands to draw Adam and Eve and all their descendants out of realm of Death and into His kingdom of the Resurrection.
Nothing, however, is more enlightening on this subject than the texts making up that canon I had discovered common both to Good Friday and Holy Saturday evenings. These texts demonstrate not only what Orthodox Pascha is all about, but, what is more important, how this basic dimension of the apostolic faith remains pristine and intact in Orthodoxy today. Untouched either by the Reformation or the Counter Reformation, these texts graphically illustrate just what the mystery of the harrowing of hell represents to the Orthodox Christian psyche.

VI

Ode One
The First Ode’s initial troparion immediately links the burial of Christ to the miraculous passage of the Hebrews through the Red Sea. The dead Christ is, after all, none other than the Second Person of the Holy Trinity, the Word of God, who once caused the old tyrant, Pharaoh, to disappear in the waves of the Red Sea. Yet He has now, quite incongruously, been buried by the descendants of those He saved that day. It is not for man to judge this divine irony, however, but to praise Him as being glorified in glory, just as did the Hebrew maidens who praised Him for saving them from Pharaoh and the Red Sea.
The second troparion affirms our resolve to honour Christ’s burial not just with funeral dirges, but also with paeans of praise. Has He not, by His death, caused us to enter into Life? Has His death not caused both Death and Hades to die? This thought continues into the third troparion where we are reminded that the paradoxical nature of simultaneously singing dirges and paeans of praise is experienced not just by us men, but also by the angelic hosts. Unlike us men, these incorporeal beings, situated both above and below the earth, can behold Him simultaneously seated on His throne on high, and lying in the grave. They tremble at seeing that He, the very Element of Life, is truly dead in a way that transcends human minds.
In the fourth troparion we recall that He descended, in all the splendour of His Godhead, to fill all Hades with His glory. Recalling the creation of the first man, we confess that our future existence, totally invisible and only latent in Adam, was nonetheless not at all hidden from the all-knowing gaze of the second Adam, whose burial we now hymn. As the great Lover of Mankind, He who by His rising has renewed each of us in our corrupt state, had,  from the beginning of time, foreseen our hidden existence in Adam.

Ode Three
The Third Ode starts with the paradox of the Creator of the world, He who had once suspended the earth in the midst of the waves, now being suspended on Golgatha from the tree of the cross. Beholding this ironical situation Creation cries out in wonderment, as did Hannah, the prophet Samuel’s mother: “There is none holy but Thee, O Lord!”
The second troparion recalls that many visible signs were given us by the Lord at the time of His burial. But it is only now, with His descent into Hades, that the hidden secrets of God have been fully revealed to those imprisoned there since the death of Adam. They too now cry out: “There is none holy but Thee, O Lord!”
The third troparion states that the Lord, by stretching His arms out on the cross, had gathered unto Himself all that had formerly been dispersed. Now, by submitting to the bonds of being restrained in a linen shroud, He also loosens the death-bonds of those captive in Hades. Whence their cry: “There is none holy but Thee, O Lord!”
The paradox is pushed further still in the fourth troparion. He, the uncontainable God, has been contained both by a grave and by seals. Still, through these divine acts, God has made His great power known to all those who cry out: “There is none holy but Thee, O Lord!”

Ode Four
The Fourth Ode emphasizes the kenosis of God in Jesus Christ, that is His self-willed emptying out of the glory of His Godhead in order to become accessible to mortal, fallen man and thereby harrow hell. The first troparion notes that the prophet Habbakuk had foreseen this divine condescension of God through which he would offer up His only-begotten Son, Jesus Christ, incarnation of the Second Person of the Holy Trinity. The prophet also foresaw how the unassailable and ancient prestige of Death and Hades would be shattered when the immolated, crucified Word appeared there, transforming all by His presence. For the Almighty’s divine condescension in stooping to such lengths in His love for man so utterly dazzled Hades that its previously definitive power was shattered.
The second troparion reminds us of the holiness of the Sabbath whereon God rested after creating the world, and states that by resting in the tomb He is now once again keeping the Sabbath, His great work of re-creation accomplished. Through His Passion and Death, the Lord of glory Himself has not only brought forth everything, but has renewed and restored it to its first, unfallen state.
The third troparion probes the theology of the suffering and death of incarnate God. Though His soul was separated from His body, the Word’s power has won out, bursting asunder the bonds of Death and Hades through His unassailable might as the only-begotten Son and Word of God. This is further pursued in the fourth troparion. Hades was truly vexed in beholding the Almighty One appear in its depths as a defied Man, marked with wounds. At such a terrible and paradoxical sight, almighty Hades itself at last cried out in fear.

Ode Five
The Fifth Ode, inspired by the prayer of Isaiah (Is 26:9-20), invokes the resurrection of all those in the tombs, saying that Isaiah made this prophecy because he had foreseen the light of the divine condescension of Christ coming in pity to visit mankind. Thus was he enabled to proclaim that all in the tombs would arise and that all on the earth would rejoice.
The second troparion states that all earthly being was renewed by its Creator when He Himself became an earthly being. The linen and grave both point to this hidden plan of the divine condescension, a plan fulfilled by Joseph of Arimathea who came to shroud the immolated body of incarnate God by which we have all been renewed.
The third troparion describes how our mortality itself was transformed from death and corruption through the burial of Christ. Through His divine power, the human nature He took upon Himself was rendered immortal, His flesh was made incorruptible, and His soul, in a strange manner, was not left to abide in Hades.
Finally, the fourth troparion recalls that the Word was born from a Virgin who knew no labour in giving birth. Utilizing the image of Eve’s being fashioned by God from a rib from the sleeping Adam’s side, we are told that through the piercing of the side of this New Adam, the re-creation of Eve has been made possible. Moreover, through the supernatural sleep into which the New Adam has fallen, the Almighty has renewed both nature and life from the corruption into which it had fallen.

Ode Six
The Sixth Ode, based on the prayer of Jonah (Jon 2:3-10), draws a parallel between the belly of the whale and the tomb of Christ, recalling that Jonah too was buried and came forth from his tomb. Moreover, aware of God’s great mercy to men, he cries out as a prophet to those keeping watch at the tomb: “Ye are watching in vain, O watchmen, for you have neglected to consider mercy.”
The second troparion teaches us that the Word was not separated from the slain body which He shared with us men. Though the bodily temple was dissolved at the time of the Passion, His humanity and divinity were still intact in the one Person He is: both God and Man, the only-begotten Son and Word of God.
The third troparion recalls that the fall of Adam did not result in the death of God, but rather in the death of man. Whence it is that although the earthly substance of Christ suffered in His passion, His divinity did not suffer. Thereby was the corrupt transformed into incorruptibility: by His Resurrection He has uncovered the incorrupt fountain of Life.
The fourth troparion recalls that though Hades long ruled the race of men, it was not destined to be forever. For when placed in the grave He, the Almighty One, the very Element of Life, demolished the locks of death with the palm of His hand, proclaiming a true salvation to all those who had been sitting in darkness throughout the ages. Thereby He indeed became the first-born of the dead.
Ode Seven
The Seventh Ode begins with a marvelling exclamation, for it is indeed an ineffable wonder that He who delivered the holy children from the fiery furnace in Babylon has now, as a lifeless body, Himself been placed in the grave for our deliverance and salvation. Whence our song: “O our God! Deliverer!  Blessed art thou!”  Next, the second troparion states that Hades itself was pierced and destroyed by divine fire when, for the salvation of us who sing, “O our God!  Deliverer!  Blessed art thou!” it received into its heart Him whose own heart had been pierced by a spear thrust into His side.
The third troparion states that the tomb, in receiving within itself the Creator, the Treasure of life, is happy and has become divine. Indeed, He who had been placed there is slumbering for the salvation of us who sing: “O our God!  Deliverer!  Blessed art thou!”
In the fourth troparion we contemplate the Life of All willing to lie in a grave, in complete accord with the law of the dead, thus making the grave appear as the fountain of resurrection for the salvation of us who sing: “O our God!  Deliverer!  Blessed art thou!”  Finally, the fifth troparion probes the theological question of the Godhead of the crucified Christ. It was for the salvation of us who sing: “O our God!  Deliverer!  Blessed art thou!” that His Godhead was ever with the Father and the Holy Spirit. For the Godhead of Christ remained ever one, and was without separation, whether in Hades, in the tomb, or in Eden.

Ode Eight
The Eighth Ode opens with yet another paradox. He who dwells in the highest heaven has been counted among the dead and been a guest in an humble tomb. The text calls upon the earth to quake and upon the heavens to be amazed. It concludes with the refrain, “Wherefore all ye priests praise Him! And all ye youths bless Him!  Let people now exalt Him unto all ages!”
The second troparion sees the crucified Lord as the pure Temple – or tabernacle – which has been destroyed. But, in rising, He raised up with Him the fallen tabernacle, Adam. Indeed, this second Adam who dwelt in the highest heaven had been obliged to descend to the depths of Hades to save the first Adam. Whence the refrain: “Wherefore all ye priests praise Him!  And all ye youths bless Him!  Let nations now exalt Him, unto the ages of ages!”
Recalling the very human fear of the disciples, the third troparion begins by saying that their courage had come to an end, but Joseph of Ramah (i.e. of Arimathea) had shown valour. On beholding the God of all, dead and naked, he had sought out His Body and clothed Him, shouting: “Wherefore all ye youths bless Him!  And all ye priests praise Him!  Let nations now exalt him unto all ages!”
The fourth troparion evokes the dazzling wonder, the endless goodness and the ineffable endurance of God’s great and divine mercy. For He who dwells in the highest heaven has been sealed up under the earth by His own will. God the Creator and Redeemer of mankind has Himself been slandered by man, His creature, as being a criminal: “Wherefore O all ye youths bless Him! And all ye priests praise Him!  Let people now exalt Him, unto all ages!”

Ode Nine
The Crucified addresses His holy Mother in the first troparion, telling her not to mourn for Him in seeing Him in the grave. For He, her Son, whom she conceived in her womb without seed, shall rise and be glorified. And since He is God, He will always exalt and ennoble those who, with faith and longing, magnify His mother.
The second troparion consists of her answer. She recalls that at His strange birth she was supernaturally blessed in being spared the normal sufferings of childbirth. Now, however, beholding Him dead and breathless, she is pierced with the spear of bitter sorrow. She pleads with Him to arise that she may be magnified by Him.
The third troparion gives His reply. He assures her that the earth has hidden Him only by His own good will. Moreover, the gatekeepers of Hades trembled at beholding Him, clothed in a robe splattered with the blood of man’s revenge. But He, being God, has vanquished His enemies by the Cross and will arise and magnify her.
In the fourth and final troparion all is summed up. He Himself calls upon all creation to rejoice, and upon the earth to be glad. For “Hell is harrowed,  the Enemy despoiled!” He proclaims. Anticipating the Resurrection, He invites the myrrh-bearing women to come forth now with their spices to meet Him. He is indeed redeeming Adam and Eve and all their descendants, and will rise on the third day.

VII

As we have seen, the basic thrust of biblical texts serving as inspiration for the canon’s nine odes is the revelation of God’s will to save His people from the dilemmas and disasters that befall them, be it Pharaoh and the Red Sea, the sterility of Hannah, Jonah and the whale, or the furnace of Babylon. The supreme revelation of this divine will for the salvation of the human race, however, came only in the fullness of time. With the Annunciation to the most holy Virgin, it was at last revealed that God was to be incarnate in Jesus Christ through her assent to cooperate with the Holy Spirit in bringing Him forth into the world.
Orthodoxy’s firm insistence on the correct translation of the original Greek text of the Creed of Nicea should moreover be underlined at this point. In the Greek text the holy Fathers of Nicea insisted that Jesus Christ was incarnate “by the Holy Spirit AND the Virgin Mary,” making her role both an active one, and one equal to the role of the Holy Spirit. This Greek text, faithfully translated over the centuries by the Orthodox, therefore stands in sharp contrast to the erroneous Latin translation consistently utilized throughout the whole of western Christendom. There, instead of “et” it was “ex” that was used to render the Greek “kai” (i.e. “and”). Whence the normal western rendering of that phrase: “and was incarnate by the Holy Spirit OF the Virgin Mary.”  Too trusting of its Roman mother, Protestant Christianity failed to go back to the Greek text, thereby perpetuating the Latin distortion throughout the reformed churches. As a result, throughout the West a far more passive and submissive role has come to be envisaged for the Theotokos than that one seen by the holy Fathers of Nicea.
As minimal as this nuance might seem on the surface, it is by no means minimal when its Orthodox dimensions are understood. Orthodoxy regards the Theotokos is the prime example of “synergy,” that is of man working together with the Holy Spirit to bring forth Christ into the world. In Orthodoxy therefore the Theotokos is consciously held up as the supreme role-model for all Christian vocation, be it male or female. The image of the Theotokos hangs therefore from the neck of Orthodox bishops, for her vocation to bring forth Christ into the world is as applicable to a bishop or to the Ecumenical Patriarch as it is to the lowest monk or nun, or the humblest man or woman in the congregation.
To be baptized into Christ is one thing. To show Him forth and make him present in the world by working with the Holy Spirit is another. This is, of course, the vocation of a saint, a vocation to which every Orthodox Christian knows he is called from the time he puts on Christ in his baptism. Regardless of one’s sex, regardless of worldly status or ecclesiastical position, regardless of one’s wealth or poverty, all Christians are called to the vocation the most holy Theotokos has shown us.
The western mistranslation of the Greek word “and” in the Latin Creed has unfortunately had its consequences. A lamentable shift – one might even say a denigration – has resulted whereby the active role envisaged for the Theotokos in the text of the First Ecumenical Council has become primarily a passive role, a role most suitable for women. Shrill cries for “equality for women” as priests and bishops do not come so thoughtlessly, however, from those who, praying in awe before the icon of the Theotokos, marvel at the fact that, in eternal glory, she alone, out of the whole of the human race, past and future, will eternally outshine all priests, bishops and patriarchs, even the holiest of them. She, the human race’s supreme offering to God, bore the Creator of heaven and earth in her womb, thereby making her “higher than the Cherubim and incomparably more glorious than the Seraphim.”
It is curious to note that where the Theotokos has been viewed only as a submissive, passive vessel, and a role-model for females rather than for males, the image of her holding the merciful Christ yields its place as the supreme Christian image to the crucifix. Such concentration upon the crucifix echoes yet another basic theological distortion in the West, long reflected in the interminable juridical debates about how man’s salvation was accomplished at Calvary. Such debates, concentrating almost uniquely upon the sacrifice on Good Friday, exclude almost every other dimension of the Incarnation.
Orthodoxy’s timeless equilibrium insists however that it is in the Incarnation as a whole that is to be found the supreme manifestation of God’s will to save man, His creature, from the lordship of Death. In her texts and liturgical expressions, moreover, Orthodoxy attempts to demonstrate the extent to which God, as the great Lover of mankind, ever bears man a selfless, suffering love. Since man could not bear to behold the divine glory in all its fullness, He, the Immortal One, emptied Himself of that glory to become mortal. He suffered and died as man in order that he might, as God, harrow hades.
The ineffable goodness and divine condescension of God in stooping to such lengths is therefore repeatedly emphasized in Orthodoxy’s canon celebrating the harrowing of hell for, as is usual with all canons, it is preoccupied with historic revelations of God’s desire to save man. The supreme revelation of this divine desire, however, was that action which crowned His death and burial: the harrowing of hell prior to His Resurrection. The immolated Christ’s great, divine work of redeeming the dead through His own death and descent into the place of departed spirits thus rises in Orthodoxy as the pinnacle of the divine condescension. It was, and is, a veritable on-going kenosis on which the salvation of the human race continues to depend. Orthodox Christians moreover continue today to insist that they can know, and that they can experience this divine condescension in their liturgical worship where they are given the means to partake of its life-giving glory. It is to this that the Orthodox are referring in so incessantly speaking or singing of the “Great Mercy.”
The fact that, as St. Peter plainly states in his First Epistle, the Divine Logos of God, even as His body lay sleeping in the tomb, actually continued his saving action for the human race by preaching to the “spirits in prison” (I Pet 3:19), does indeed greatly enlarge our conception of the vastness of God’s unimaginable mercy to the whole human race. Though hidden and totally unseen by mortal eyes, that on-going work of mercy to save the race by descending into Hades proved far greater than the human sorrow and the very human desolation experienced by those who had watched Him die and buried His body. It is moreover to this unimaginable, thorough-going redemption of the race of men through His descent into hell that St. John of Chrysostom is referring when he proclaims in his Easter sermon: “the universal kingdom has been revealed.”
How legitimate then that bright paschal joy I found expressed by the Greeks on that first Holy Friday evening I found myself Orthodox and in their midst!  To partake of it, it is not imperative at all that one await the culmination of these great events effected by the announcement at midnight on Holy Saturday that Christ is risen. That midnight announcement is but the climax of the hidden, cosmic drama of the Lord’s victorious descent into hell, as first announced by St. Peter and still vibrantly celebrated each year at Pascha by the Orthodox throughout the world.

VIII

What I learned about Pascha from the Greeks has thus taken me much further than merely justifying their cry of “Happy Easter!” on Good Friday. Subsequently I was to become aware of numerous liturgical examples underlining the fact that Pascal joy is by no means something to be bottled up until the announcement of the women’s discovery at the tomb is made at the midnight service.
Does not the purest of paschal joy burst forth Holy Saturday morning at the vesperal liturgy of St. Basil when, according to Greek custom, the priest, prior to reading the Gospel announcing the Risen Lord’s appearance, emerges from the Holy Doors, scattering bay leaves and singing, “Arise O God, and judge Thou the earth…”? Also, at the beginning of that same vesperal liturgy other  liturgical texts insist on the Resurrection. The second troparion accompanying the psalm-verses of “Lord I cry unto thee” invites the people to go about Zion and give glory to God Who, in her, “rose from the dead,” while the third troparion admonishes: “Come ye people, let us praise and worship Christ, and glorify His Resurrection from the dead…”
In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, it is during the repeated singing of the vesperal hymn, “Phos Ilaron” early on Holy Saturday afternoon, that the miraculous Holy Fire descends each year, gladdening the hearts of Orthodox Christians world-wide. It is also salutary to recall that in the West, the first Mass of Easter is celebrated in Rome on Saturday, not on Sunday. The tendency therefore to want to “hold off” on the joy of Easter until midnight of Holy Saturday is neither indicated, nor called for, in either the liturgical texts, or the liturgical practices of the Orthodox Church – or even those of the Church of Rome.
Should this really be surprising? The joy of the Resurrection is the basis for the whole of Christian consciousness. More especially is this true of the Orthodox consciousness with its deep commitment to the fullness of the revelation of God in Jesus Christ. On Holy Thursday evening, as Good Friday matins with its twelve Passion Gospels is sung by anticipation, and precisely at a moment when the whole thrust of the service is upon the graphic reality of the Crucifixion, the Resurrection is nonetheless dramatically invoked.
This occurs following the Fifth Gospel, during the singing of the Fifteenth Antiphon, at which point Greek custom dictates that a large, almost life-sized cross with the flat image of the Crucified attached to it, be brought out of the altar and slowly borne in solemn procession around the church by the chanting priest. Mournfully he chants the first of the many paradoxes making up that Antiphon’s text: the Creator who suspended the earth in the midst of the waters is today Himself suspended from the tree of the cross. The tolling of bells, clouds of incense, and the tears of the prostrate faithful accompany the Antiphon’s paradoxical exclamations until the priest, having reached the centre of the church, sets up the large crucifix for veneration, thrice proclaiming: “We bow before thy Passion, O Christ!” Each time the answer comes back: “Show us also Thy holy Resurrection!”
It is said that at the end of his life, when he finally opened up his cell to the world, St. Seraphim of Sarov unfailingly greeted each visitor with one, universal cry: “Christ is risen, my joy!  Christ is risen!”  The news that Christ is risen after harrowing hell and vanquishing death is moreover proclaimed, week in and week out, in the texts touching the Sunday offices of the Orthodox Church, be it Saturday Vespers or Sunday Matins. In Orthodoxy every Sunday truly commemorates the one Resurrection, specifically recalling man to the fact that, through the great mercy of a God who would harrow hell for him, he has been destined for something other than death and oblivion.
At His Transfiguration the Lord discussed the divine plan of His Passion with Moses and Elijah. Yet we know that the Uncreated Light of the Resurrection poured forth on the three chosen Apostles during that discussion, causing St. Peter (who, when the time came, however, would deny Him) to discover something so wonderfully positive (even if he failed to understand its implications at the time) that he never wanted to leave that site. This unique fusion of the Passion with the glory of the Lord’s Uncreated Light manifested at both the Transfiguration and the Resurrection holds a particular place in Orthodox devotion.
It is fitting that tears and extraordinary acts of devotion on Good Friday take their place in Orthodox worship, as they always shall amongst the pious and God-fearing. How vividly, and with what humble gratitude do I recall examples of extraordinary piety among my Greek fellow-parishioners!  As alive in me today as on the Holy Thursday evening it took place is the memory of an elderly, distinguished Greek lady, modestly waiting until most of the congregation had left, before quietly undertaking to creep all the way up the central aisle of the church on her knees to approach the large crucifix set up for veneration. Such a noble expression of man’s very human love for the wounded humanity of God is part of that human nature He renewed at such a terrible price to Himself through a kenosis crowned by His descent into hell.
Still, it was even as God’s divine plan to save His people through the passion and death of that immolated Lamb “slain from the foundation of the world” (Rev 13:8) was being discussed with Moses and Elijah, that the Uncreated Light of the Transfiguration manifested itself to the three chosen apostles. The liturgical texts for the Transfiguration insist moreover that this event, simultaneous with the discussion of His Passion, was to serve as a sort of consoling promise, affording the three apostles a luminous foretaste of the mystical joy of Pascha. For on experiencing the Holy Light of the Resurrection they would recall that they had already experienced it on Mount Tabor, and that it had been in conjunction with the discussion which had taken place between Moses, Elijah and the Divine Logos Himself. And the sublime subject of that discussion had been the mystery of God’s great dispensation, of God’s eternal divine economy, to which not only the Divine Logos bore witness, but also the Law and the Prophets.
So it is that the Uncreated Light of Mount Tabor continues to assure us that, within the divine economy, the sorrow, anguish and sufferings of us all, when touched by the emanations pouring forth from the radiance of the Lord’s risen presence, can indeed be transfigured into tears of marvelling joy through His divine energies. So it is also that I have at last come to realize the divine source of that brightness I witnessed not only on the faces of the Greeks on that first Good Friday that I found myself Orthodox, but also, a decade before, and for the very first time, on the faces of those Russians in Paris in 1957 as, with lungs strained to bursting, they half sang, half shouted with a totally unearthly joy:

Christ is risen from the dead,

having trampled Death by death,

and, upon those in the tombs,

having life bestowed!

Saint Ambrose of Optina writes,
“Look at everything simply. Living simply means not judging. Do not judge anyone. For example, here comes Elikonida. She passed by, and that is all. This is what thinking simply means. Otherwise, as seeing Elikonida passing by, you could think about her bad side: she is such and such, her character is thus and so. That is not so simple.” (Fr. Sergius Cherverikov, Elder Ambrose of Optina, p. 235)

Elder Paisios writes
 ”If one lives in the world of his pride, that is the world of his own thoughts, he is filled with illusions and he is in danger…. As long as he humbly thinks of himself, God’s grace remains within him and protects him.  When he moves away from his humble thoughts and start being preoccupied with what the patriarch or the bishop or abbot or monks do or say, then God’s grace starts retreating.  Therefore the most important thing for us to look after is to preserve the sense of humbleness in our lives, and thus allow for divine grace to permanently remain within us.“ (Elder Paisios of the Holy Mountain by Priestmonk Christodoulos, p. 40)

Agora is set in Alexandria during the fourth and fifth centuries, a time in which a power struggle was taking place among Jews, Pagans, various Christian groups and the Roman government. The story centers around the life of Hypatia, an influential woman philosopher–who is portrayed in the film as a woman with the face and body a movie star and the moral outlook of 21st century independent woman. And of course, this is why the audience sympathizes most with her. Hypatia is so wise, so tolerant and so light skinned and beautiful. Cyril the Patriarch, on the other hand, is portrayed as a bigoted fundamentalist with the appearance of a dark-skinned Arab who uses his thug-like “monks” to terrorize any who oppose him.

Knowing this much about the movie, you can already tell where it goes. According to the film, Cyril–St. Cyril to the Church–preaches fundamentalism and uses his thugs to murder or expel from the city all who oppose him, burning the books of the great library in Alexandra and eventually having the virtuous and beautiful Hypatia murdered. No wonder Christians watching such a movie are disturbed.

It seems the most urgent question that those who have seen this movie ask me is, “Is it true?” My answer now, having seen the film, is yes and no.

Yes it is true that there was a power struggle in Alexandria in the fourth and fifth centuries among the Christians, Jews, Pagans and the Roman Government. Yes, atrocities were committed by all parties. Yes, there were many riots–some led by monks. However, it is pure conjecture that St. Cyril instigated this violence.

It is somewhat like someone making a movie fifteen hundred years from now about the Stanley Cup riot in Vancouver last Spring and portraying Mike Gillis as the secret instigator of the violence. Just because he is the general manager of the Canucks, doesn’t mean that he is responsible for or even knows about everything his players or the fans do.

A lot was going on in Alexandria. The Christian movement was largely a movement among the slaves, and in a culture that was about 90% slave, there were a lot of angry new Christians with grudges and scores to settle against the wealthy, ruling, Pagan elite. And to the credit of the movie, Agora does somewhat portray this friction between the classes. If this same story were being retold by a Soviet film maker in the 1950s, much more would be made of this class warfare. However, the film was made by people with 21st century sensibilities; consequently, the tension is created by the conflict between a scowling fundamentalist (and Arab looking) male, religious leader and an urbane, tolerant, gorgeous, white, well-educated woman.

David Bentley Hart, in his book Atheist Delusions, does the world a great service by unpacking some of the currently popular Christian bashing based on contemporary interpretations of history. I strongly recommend this book to anyone who has been disturbed by watching Agora. If you don’t do well reading, you can get a summary of some of his ideas on youtube.

Let me end by saying that I do not suppose that Christians have not (and are not) responsible for atrocities throughout history. Christians seldom live up to the moral teachings of their faith because human beings seldom live up to what they believe. However, it is very important to distinguish what terrible things some Christians have done and why they have done them, from the broader faith they hold. We cannot blame atheism generally for Stalin’s reign of terror, nor Socialism for the actions of the National Socialists (Nazis), nor republican democracy for the aggression of the United States around the world for the past seventy years. There are lots of reasons why people do things; and more often than not, the ugly things that they do have very little to do with the noble ideals or religious teachings they espouse. People often use ideals and religion to justify their atrocities; however, you generally do not have to look too deeply to see that these ideals or religious teachings are not the cause of the atrocities. Pride, greed, revenge, anger, envy and fear, lots of fear – these are the causes.

This article first appeared at http://holynativity.blogspot.com/ on March 7, 2012, and is posted here with permission.

Politics and Other Illusions

When Luke tells us the story of Jesus’ presentation in the temple, he has the prophet Simeon say to Mary, “Behold, this child is appointed for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign that is spoken against (and a sword will pierce your own soul also), so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed” (Luke 2:34–35).

That Jesus is someone whose presence means “that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed” is at the core of the New Testament. Peter’s impetuousness, his avowal of faith and then his denial and repentance; Judas’s discipleship and betrayal; Paul’s persecution and conversion—all of these can be seen in the light of Simeon’s prophecy. So can Herod’s wickedness.

Told that the messiah has been born, Herod can think only of the threat this presents to his own continued control, and so the messiah must be killed. Matthew’s Gospel speaks of Jesus’ escape into Egypt and, in keeping with the theme of Jesus as the new Moses, has him come back out of Egypt, as Abraham and Moses did. But Matthew does not point out that, in some sense, Herod finally won. Jesus lived into adulthood, but then other people had him killed, essentially for the same reason.

In this world, on our side of death, Herod still wins. Every time someone dies because of a suicide bomber, a missile strike, or one of our drones, something of Herod’s spirit lives on. Everyone who kills in the name of some good cause has killed someone made in God’s image—someone for whom Christ died—for reasons that are apparently more important than venerating that fact. I am not saying that there is never a circumstance in which violence is the least evil option; I am saying that even when this is the case, we are implicated in evil, and this shows us how dark our situation is.

History makes it clear that there is something inevitable about the presence of evil, and no one who seeks power can remain wholly unimplicated. This is why it is a mistake to assume that one form of politics or another can be blessed, or presented as something Christians can endorse without serious qualification. There is a belief among many conservative Christians that the Right is somehow more Christian than the Left; and there is the reverse assumption by many on the Christian Left. For many people (nonreligious as well as religious), having the right sort of politics is seen as morally important, and sometimes even serves as a substitute for morality.

This is not to deny that politics has a morally important dimension, but to place too much faith in politics is a mistake and leads inevitably to disappointment. “Put not your trust in princes, in sons of men” (Psalm 146) is not just a pious thought. The fact that all politics, right and left, democratic and fascistic, eventually involves us in coercion and death is tragic, and we have forgotten this in our time. St. Vladimir (d. 1015) wondered whether he should be baptized while serving as a monarch, since in that role he would be involved in wars and executions. In the early church someone who killed, even in self-defense, was expected to refrain from receiving the Eucharist for a period of time during which penance was called for.

We have lost this tragic sense. We think somehow that through power—through law or the right kind of politics—we can make the world into a good place. The world can be brought into a marginally better condition through political means, but there will always be a Herodian edge to our use of politics and force. Perhaps the early Christians retained this sense because they still expected the coming of God’s kingdom, as we should but generally do not. Metropolitan John Zizioulas has pointed out that the good news comes to us from a future that has not yet been realized. The Resurrection is not something that happened once and made our world a better place. It is a sign of the kingdom yet to come. In the meantime, Herod is in charge, to one degree or another.

This doesn’t mean that we are without hope until the second coming. The New York Times recently (December 31, 2009) told the story of two children being treated for serious injuries in Israel, one a brain-damaged Israeli boy, the other a paralyzed Palestinian girl. They were both hurt in the war that continues to consume a land we persist in calling holy. They have become close friends, as have their families. There is the hope of resurrection in the love that can come to exist even in the face of continuing evil. Their love is a sign of the kingdom to come, even as their suffering is a sign of the evil that will have power until that kingdom does come—a coming we must continue to hope for.

This article was first published by Commonweal, on January 29, 2010 and is posted here with permission.

Fr. John Garvey is a priest of the Orthodox Church in America. For many years he has written a column for Commonweal, a review of politics, culture, and religion. His most recent book is Seeds of the Word (St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press), a study of Orthodox attitudes toward the world’s other religious traditions. He is also the author of Orthodoxy for the Non-Orthodox (Templegate Publishers).

The Western-style icon presents a scene that no-one ever saw. The moment of the Resurrection is a concealed secret. The Orthodox approach is entirely different. It depicts the results of the event of the Resurrection for people and for the world.

Christ, in the centre, is wearing shining white garments and is within a mandorla. He is holding the hands of Adam and Eve and raising them from death,  into which they were brought by their erroneous choice in Paradise. With this action, which is dynamic (we might almost say explosive) our attention immediately focuses on the central meaning of the scene: “and raising Adam up with Himself”, the Salvation of humankind. It is significant that both are emerging from tombs.

Christ is standing firmly on two pieces of wood lying in such a way as to form a cross. These are the gates of Hell, which Christ demolished through the grace of His cross. With death, they closed, but were not powerful enough to hold Him in thrall. All around, there are broken and now useless bits of locks and chains which, until then had sealed off any escape route from Hell. Below all this there this the blackness of Hell, which, until the Resurrection was the end of the road for humankind.

To the left and right of Christ stand people who had lived on earth before Him. All turn to Him in expectation of their salvation. Among them there is, first, Saint John the Baptist, and also the prophets and the righteous of the Old Testament, such as the Prophet King David.

At the rear of the composition there are hills, which, in some depictions feature representations of prophets (e.g. David and Jonas), who had foretold the mighty event of the Resurrection. They are holding scrolls with their prophecies written upon them.

In conclusion, we would mention the white raiment worn by Christ, which symbolizes the joy of the Resurrection and prefigures our own Resurrection, which will follow.

]]> http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/a-brief-comment-on-the-icon-of-the-resurrection/feed/ 126 http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/the-date-for-the-celebration-of-easter/ http://www.pemptousia.com/2013/05/the-date-for-the-celebration-of-easter/#comments Mon, 06 May 2013 04:42:40 +0000 petrospan http://www.pemptousia.com/?p=25113 Continue reading →]]> Despite the fact that calendars and the measurement of time are purely conventional in the Christian conscience, temporal definition has sometimes affected Christian society on important theological issues, such as the celebration of Easter. Christian Easter, typologically linked to the Jewish Pesakh (Passover) (Paschal lamb- “slaughtered lamb/Christ”; cf. Rev. 5, 12) was established by the Apostles as a “remembrance” of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross.

But the content of the feast and the day on which it was to be celebrated caused serious problems. The Judaizing Christians, the Quartodecimans of Asia Minor, stressed the event of the Crucifixion and celebrated on the 14^th day of the month of Nisan, together with the Jews. Gentile Christians, however, stressed the Resurrection of Christ and linked it to the Sunday after 14 Nisan, so that it wouldn’t coincide with the Jewish Pesakh. In the second century, the difference became the occasion for a dispute between the Churches of Rome and Asia Minor, and both sides had their supporters. Of course, the dispute didn’t lead to open rupture, thanks to the intervention of enlightened Bishops (Anikitos of Rome, Polykarpos of Smyrna and Eirinaios of Lyons), and the solution to the problem was provided by the First Ecumenical Synod (325), which determined that Easter was to be celebrated on the first Sunday after the (first) full moon of the vernal equinox. This meant that it could never coincide with  the Jewish Pesakh since “Our Paschal lamb, Christ, has been sacrificed” (I Cor. 5, 7). The Patriarch of Alexandria (the city had a tradition in astronomy from the presence there of pagan Greek astronomers) undertook to  announce the date of Easter to the Christian world every year. The date of Easter therefore depended on the calculation of the date of the first vernal full moon. So the communion of Christians followed the scientific determination of the vernal equinox. Dionysios the Younger accepted as the first vernal full moon the one which followed March 20, so that the celebration of Easter would fall between March 22 and April 25. From the 7^th century, Easter tables were drawn up which determined the date of Easter over a number of years.

The Easter tables were drawn up on the basis of the Julian calendar, which was the one used at the First Ecumenical Synod. This calendar was wrong, however, by 0.008 days a year. In 1582, at the time of Pope Gregory XIII, the error extended to 10 days. So the vernal equinox now coincided with March 11. The Council of Trent (1545) had first pointed out this discrepancy and it was decided that the error should be corrected. The task was undertaken  in the end by Pope Gregory, with the assistance of the Jesuit astronomer, Christopher Clavius (1537-1612) and on the basis of suggestions made by Luigi Lilio († 1576). The relevant Papal bull was published in February, 1582. The vernal equinox was restored to March 21 and the length of the year was agreed to be 365.2422 days, which leads to an error of 3.12 days over the course of four hundred years which is corrected every time a century can be divided by the number 400 (thus, the last one was 2000). The Papal bull also adopted rules for the date of the celebration of Easter and made January 1 the first day of the year.

We must now turn our attention to the determination of the equinoxes, because it lies at the centre of the differences between East and West over the date of Easter. With the Julian calendar, because of the elliptical orbit of the Earth, the length of the day and night in a calendar year varies by up to six hours: when the day is nine hours long, the night is fifteen, and vice versa. But twice a year it happens that day and night both have twelve hours. This is called the equinox. With the Julian calendar, in use at the time of the First Ecumenical Synod, the equinoxes fell on March 21 and September 21, but by the year 1923, they fell on March 8 and September 8. Because the correction of the calendar had occurred at the instigation of the pope, the Orthodox Church insisted on retaining the calculation of the date of Easter as starting with March 20 by the Julian calendar. Western Christianity accepts the same day, but based on the Gregorian calendar. So when people in the West now talk about the vernal equinox, they mean a date thirteen days earlier than in the Julian calendar. If it happens that the (first) full moon after the vernal equinox is the same by both calculations, then the date of Easter is the same. But this occurs only rarely.

It ought also to be said, that the Greeks in Byzantium were the first to point out the imperfections in the Julian calendar and to suggest correcting it. In 1324, the Byzantine scholar Nikiforos Grigoras, who was interested in scientific matters, proposed the correction of the calendar, but this was not accepted “for fear of confusing the unlearned and of dividing the Church”. In 1450, the philosopher G. Plithon-Yemistos drew up a calendar of his own inspiration, which, had it been adopted, would have obviated the need for the Gregorian reform (Alexandre, Académie française).

In accordance with the spirit of the age and because of the danger from the Pope, the Orthodox Church, in 1583 and 1593 (a synod in the reign of Patriarch Ieremias II), rejected the Gregorian calendar (canon 8), because it set aside the decision of the First Ecumenical Synod and the Seventh Apostolic Canon, which forbids the coincidence of Jewish Pesakh and Christian Easter. In the West, the Gregorian calendar gradually became accepted. Britain adopted it in 1752, Sweden in 1753 and Germany in 1776. When the dangers of proselytism appeared to be receding, however, the Orthodox East began to consider the replacement of the Julian calendar. Thus, the Ecumenical Patriarch Anthimos VII, in 1895, expressed his “desire and wish for a unified calendar for all Christian peoples”. The great Patriarch Ioakeim III also took positive steps with his encyclical of 1902. The Church of Greece put the issue to a committee in 1919 and this decided that a change was possible “with the consent of all the autocephalous Churches”. In expectation of agreement, it was decided to remain with the Julian calendar for feasts, but that the state should proceed with the implementation of the “new” calendar, which occurred on March 1, 1923. Practical difficulties, however, led the Church of Greece to accept the new calendar for feasts as well, though this did not affect Easter. The change took place on March 10, 1924, which then became March 23. The Churches of Jerusalem, Russia, Serbia, until recently Bulgaria, and the Holy Mountain have retained the Julian calendar for feasts, but have not broken off ecclesiastical communion with those churches which have accepted the new.

The example of the old Quartodecimans was followed in 1924 by the Old Calendrists in Greece, and thus the “Old Calendrist matter” was created, which has led to a schism, an open wound in the body of the Church in Greece. The point at issue however, was not the change itself, which is demonstrably for the better, but the unifying content of the encyclical (proclamation) of the Ecumenical Patriarch in 1920, which said that it would facilitate Ecumenism “for the swifter celebration of the great Christian feasts by all the Churches”. So the issue took on a clear ecclesiastical dimension, rather than a purely scientific one. The consequences, however, transcend the bounds of this note.

The broad quest on the part of Christians, within the context of the Ecumenical dialogue, for a common celebration of Easter and therefore the adoption of a common, inter-Christian calendar, which has been under discussion in recent decades, will lead to new vicissitudes, especially if the Orthodox side accepts the proposal for a fixed date for the celebration of Easter, thus rejecting the decisions of the First Ecumenical Synod, which are not negotiable for the Orthodox Church.

Extract from the article “Χριστιανική χρονολογία” [Christian dating], in the supplement to the newspaper Eleftherotypia, 4/1/2001, pp. 38-41.

Through baptism and chrismation we have entered into a new mode of existence. It is an existence of constant becoming. The Scriptures describe this as new birth, the death of the old man, the putting off of the old nature and the putting on of the new. This newness, this radical change in the mode of existence, is not accomplished by human effort. It is a gift from God. Rooted in the age to come, this new existence is maintained and nourished by the Eucharist. At every Divine Liturgy we hear the good news of Christ and enter into the process of conversion. We are given the possibility to acquire for ourselves the eucharistic manner of existence. Little by little we become ourselves communion and love. At the Divine Liturgy the tragic elements of our fallen existence – pride, individualism, blasphemy, vanity, hypocricy, envy, anger, division, fear, despair, pain, deceit, untruth, malice, greed, vice, gluttony, passions, corruption, death – are being continuously defeated, in order to make us capable to be love, freedom and life. (From an article by  Rev. Alkiviadis Calivas on the Greek Archdiocese website).

Liturgy and the Feasts of the Church are thus not mere calendar events which mark the annual remembrance of occasions now lost within history. What we celebrate are events within the Kingdom of God –  now manifest in our midst.  The liturgy continually initiates and renews us in the life of the age of come.

The opposite  approach (one which dominates our modern world) is to see liturgical events as simply things among other things. They mark historical events, now past, and, as such, are reminders not of God’s presence, but His absence. Thus the modern Easter easily becomes a feast of the Christ that was (who can barely compete with the chocolate and bunny rabbits).

In the modern world, Christmas and Easter are frequently secular feasts (of various commercial interests). Thus many feasts (such as Pentecost, the Ascension, the Dormition of the Mother of God, the Annunciation - to name just a few) often pass with little attention in the Church. Even in the Orthodox Church such feasts are often poorly attended. Were there no commercial accompaniment to Christmas and Easter – those, too, I suspect, would be of some note – but not much. I recall a local BaptistChurch cancelling Sunday services several years ago, because Christmas fell on Sunday that year.

I have written at length on the problems of Christianity in the secular world ( cf. “two-storey universe” and the book Everywhere Present.

This historical sense of living “in-between” adds a twist to the two-storey experience: it is rooted in our modern understanding of history and time. It is easy, almost obvious, to think of ourselves as living between major events in the Christian story. Two-thousand years have passed since the resurrection of Christ. Christians continue to wait for His second-coming. How do we not perceive ourselves as living in-between?

St. Gregory Palamas (14th Century) uses an interesting example from the Scriptures that dismantles the “in-between” model that is so common in our modern world. His example comes in a sermon on the Cross (Homily XI). He begins with the assertion that the Cross, though manifest in history at Christ’s Crucifixion, has always been God’s means of salvation – at all times and places.

His example is quite illumining:

Although the man of the sin, the son of lawlessness (cf. 2 Thess. 2:3), by which I mean the Antichrist, has not yet come, the theologian whom Christ loved says, “Even now, beloved, there is antichrist” (cf. 1 John2:18). In the same way, the Cross existed in the time of our ancestors, even before it was accomplished. The great Paul teaches us absolutely clearly that Antichrist is among us, even though he has not yet come, saying, “His mystery doth already work in you” (cf. 2 Thess. 2:7). In exactly the same way Christ’s Cross was among our forefathers before it came into being, because its mystery was working in them. (Quotation from The Homilies).

St. Gregory goes on within this homily to illustrate (generally with typological interpretation) how the Cross was present in the lives of the Patriarchs and other righteous “friends of God” within the Old Testament period.

His sense of time recognizes a reality of history, “even though he has not yet come,” but transcends that limitation in recognizing that “his mystery doth already work in you.” And of the Cross “[it] was among our forefathers before it came into being, because its mystery was working in them.” This understanding of time and history places these categories in a subsidiary position – they are not the frozen, solid stuff of an empty, empirical world. They are a place in which we live – but also a place that is permeated by things that have not even “come into existence.”

St. Gregory’s treatment of these things is rooted in the classical Orthodox understanding of the relation between earth and heaven; past, present and future; and the mystery of the Kingdom of God at work in the world. His universe is distinctly “one-storey.” This understanding also undergirds the Orthodox understanding of eschatology (the study of the “last things”). St. John Chrysostom, in his eucharistic prayer, gives thanks for the Second Coming of Christ in the past tense – not that he is saying that the Second Coming has already occurred in history – but that the Eucharistic celebration stands within the Kingdom of God, such that the Second Coming can be described in the past tense. The Eucharist is the “Marriage Feast of the Lamb,” the “Banquet at the End of the Age.”

To speak of ourselves as living “in-between” or to think of liturgy as mere remembrance, is to place history in the primary position, relegating the Kingdom of God to a lower status. It is the essence of secularism. The Kingdom of God is not denied – it is simply placed beyond our reach (as we are placed beyond its reach). The Kingdom, like God Himself, is reduced to an idea.

Living “in-between” is part of the loneliness and alienation of the modern Christian. Things are merely things, time is inexorable and impenetrable. There is an anxiety that accompanies all of this that is marked by doubt, argument and opinion. Faith is directed towards things past or things that have not yet happened.

This stands in sharp contrast to St. Paul’s statement in Hebrews: “Faith is the substance (hypostasis) of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (11:1). The relationship of faith with things “hoped for and not seen” is more than a trust that they will be, more than a longing for what is not. Faith is the very substance of such things.

In earlier postings on faith, I have noted that faith is more than an intellectual or volitional exercise. It is an actual participation (koinonia) with the object (or subject) of faith. To describe faith as the substance of things is to grant a kind of existence to them. And so in Hebrews 11, St. Paul describes the faith of our forefathers (Old Testament) and the impact that the substance of faith had in their lives and world. St. Gregory’s homily echoes this very same phenomenon (indeed he quotes extensively from this chapter in Hebrews).

By faith, we do not live in-between. By faith, we live in a one-storey universe in which the realities of God’s Kingdom permeate our existence. We are not alone nor need we be alienated. The anxiety that haunts our every step is produced by a false perception – a delusion.

Of course, this is an easy thing to assert, but a difficult thing to live: it is the great struggle of our times. But without this struggle, faith will remain alien to us and we will remain lost “in-between” the worlds, trapped within those things that “are passing away.” Christ has given us something greater.

St. Paul says, “But now we do not yet see all things put under him. But we see Jesus…” (Heb. 2:8-9). It is the presence of Christ in the Holy Spirit that is made manifest in our feasts – but this is the same Christ who is made manifest in our hearts and who promised to “abide with us.” We do not see Jesus “in-between” but rather as the “author and finisher of our faith” (Heb. 12:2). He is Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. Indeed, He is the Feast of feasts.

This article appeared in Glory to God for All Things on April 27, 2011 and is posted here with permission.

            b) Saint John the Evangelist, in the Gospel for the Resurrection liturgy (1, 1-7) tells us that the Word of God became a human person. He took on human flesh and dwelt among other people, in this way manifesting His divine glory. It’s the true light, which lightens every person who comes into the world. But for us to recognize the divine presence, however, we first have to have become familiar with the divine light through baptism in the name of the Triune God. So it’s entry into the body of Christ, the Church, and partaking of the holy sacraments that makes us receptors of divine enlightenment.

            c) At the same time, continuous human collaboration and effort through an ascetic struggle is required. “Let us cleanse our senses and we shall see Christ in the unapproachable light of the resurrection” writes John the Damascan in the first ode of the canon for Easter Matins. Fasting, repentance, self-control, internal affliction and the practical display of love all play their part in this. Some people see Christ only as God; others see Him only as a person. The former set Him so far above us that they can never reach him; the latter strip Him of divinity, thus depriving us all of the chance to become gods ourselves by grace and to overcome death and decay.

            d) As both God and a person, however, Christ opens the way to victory over death and becomes the “first of those born from the dead”. Any Christian can follow this path, too. We crucify our passions in order to rise again with Christ. We die through repentance and tears over a life of sin, and taste the good things of the resurrection even in this life. It’s our pride to keep the divine commandments and make our own the virtues, which liberate us from death and decay. “Death has no dominion over him” (Rom. 6, 9).

            e) The light of the resurrection is shed abundantly over all the world. But we need clear sense organs and clear eyes to recognize the energy of the light of the resurrection. Spiritual blindness often impedes this communion. But on the day of the Resurrection, Easter Sunday, everyone feels, however faintly, a ray of the divine light illumining their heart and mind. In the Eastern, Orthodox tradition, despite the alienation, some folk customs have been preserved which demonstrate that people haven’t entirely forgotten the light of their baptism. The candle, the Easter greeting, the common table, the embrace of love in Christ, and the visit to graves are some of these.

            f) The Easter candle, which, according to custom is a gift from a godparent, shines and illumines, reminding us of the Cross and Resurrection in the Christian life. Also, the greeting “Christ has risen”/“He has risen indeed”, which in some parts replaces all other greetings for forty days, is expressive of the experience of the resurrection. And also the visit to the graves of the departed on these holy days shows the faith of people that the Resurrection of Christ revivifies their souls and is a precursor of the resurrection of the whole human race.

            g) But the pinnacle of people’s efforts to become sharers in the Passion and Resurrection of the Lord is the internal need to partake of the sacrament of the Divine Eucharist. As long as this comes with a “clear conscience”, “illumined heart” and love for other people. Then, according to Saint John Chrysostom, “All partake of the cup of faith. All enjoy the riches of His goodness! Let no one grieve at his poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed. Let no one mourn that they have fallen; for forgiveness has risen from the grave. Let no one fear death, for the Death of our Saviour has set us free… Christ has risen and the angels rejoice. Christ has risen, and life is liberated”. The law is overcome and joy overwhelms our hearts.