The WHEEL Issue 12 by The Wheel Journal

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war and christ Virtue, Justice, and Conflict Idols of Orthodoxy Reformation

ISSUE 12 | winter 2018

WHEEL THE

ISSUE 12 | winter 2018

war and christ

“Their Hands Are Not Clean”: Basil the Great on War and the Christian State Valerie Karras

Conversion, Not Domination

Orthodoxy and Conflict

Communion with the Prince of Peace

field report

I’m Not a War Correspondent Iason Athanasiadis

WAR AND CHRIST

The Ascetics of War: The Undoing and Redoing of Virtue

Just War and Orthodoxy: A Response to the Catechism of the Russian Orthodox Church

Inga Leonova speaks with Jim Forest Alexander Patico Philip LeMasters

Aristotle Papanikolaou

Nicholas Sooy

Escaping the Conflict Spiral: A Gospel Approach Jenise Calasanti

POETRY DESK

Providing

William L. Bulson

So At Last

Vsevolod Nekrasov

STATE OF AFFAIRS

Ethnophyletism, Phyletism, and the Pan-Orthodox Council Cyril Hovorun

500 YEARS OF REFORMATION

Five Hundred Years On: What Orthodox Christians Need to Know About the Reformation David Wagschal

Is There Anything Orthodoxy Can Learn From the Reformation? Petre Maican

war and christ

ISSN 2379 - 8262 (print) ISSN 2379 - 8270 (online)

“Their Hands Are Not Clean”: Basil the Great on War and the Christian State

May be reproduced and distributed for noncommercial use.

Valerie A. Karras

Editorial Board Inga Leonova Joseph Clarke Katherine Kelaidis Gregory Tucker Managing Editor Samuel Bauer Graphic Designer Lewis Tucker Advisory Board Archpriest Robert M. Arida Sergei Chapnin Archdeacon John Chryssavgis Archimandrite Cyril Hovorun Pantelis Kalaitzidis Archpriest Andrew Louth Gayle E. Woloschak

Visit us at www.wheeljournal.com or contact us at editors@wheeljournal.com. Cover Image: The hand of God, ca. 1123. Fresco from the Church of Sant Climent de Taüll, Vall de Boí, Spain

or most Orthodox, the practices and theological views of the early Church have a normative value extending to the present day. Of course, this can cause tensions within Orthodoxy, since there was no single view on some topics of great importance, including war and military service. Nevertheless, we may discern a certain congruency of perspective—a theological, pastoral, and pragmatic approach which is distinctively Eastern Christian or Orthodox, and which may help inform contemporary discussions of the morality of war and of various military strategies pursued in armed conflict. This article focuses on the issue of war promulgated by a Christian state, specifically as viewed through the lens of the writings of the bishop, monastic founder, and theologian Basil of Caesarea (330–79). Known even in his own lifetime as Basil “the Great,” he was intelligent, devout, and pastoral, but also supremely pragmatic and politically astute. With his younger brother, Gregory of Nyssa (335–94), he lived during the post-Constantinian era of the mid-fourth century, when Christianity was not only legal but favored, enjoying the not-always-desirable patronage and attentions of the sons of Constantine, one of whom (Constans) supported Arianism.

The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

The Church did briefly lose its position of religious privilege after the death of the last of those sons, when Constantine’s nephew, Julian, ruled as emperor (361–63). Julian had been raised as a Christian and counted among his former schoolmates at the Academy in Athens the young Basil and Basil’s friend, the future fellow Cappadocian bishop and theologian Gregory of Nazianzus (329–90). Nevertheless, Julian later renounced Christianity and became a pagan, at least in part out of disgust with ecclesiastical politics. Christianity returned to favored status, however, with Valens’s accession to the imperial throne, even if his Arian leanings put him at odds with Basil.

This article was adapted from the author’s chapter in Orthodox Christian Perspectives on War, ed. Perry T. Hamalis and Valerie A. Karras (Notre Dame, IN.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2017).

In the decades following Constantine’s promulgation of the Edict of Milan, the Church’s earlier insistence on Christians’ avoidance of military service became more and more untenable, since the assumption (expressed by influential theologians such as Origen) that Christians could serve the empire by praying while pagans served it by fighting no longer worked demographically: by the late fourth century, Christians probably constituted well over half the empire’s population, so there simply weren’t enough pagans to fill the military ranks without sharply increasing the

or allegorical scriptural hermeneutics, particularly for the Old Testament. Sensitivity to these distinctions is necessary if contemporary conversations on this important topic are to avoid anachronistic projections of modern arguments and issues into the early Christian period, and, conversely, if retrieval of still-valuable patristic insights is to be done in a nuanced, contextualized, and intellectually honest manner.

Detail from an icon of Basil the Great painted by Theophan the Greek, 1405.

proportion of the pagan population in the army relative to the general populace. The issue of the “justness” of Roman military encounters was also seen as less morally problematic since Christian emperors appeared to internalize the limitation of warfare to self-defense, no longer seeking to expand the empire’s borders beyond the shape it had taken. In fact, the notion that one had to belong to the faith of the empire in order to be “patriotic” and to serve as a soldier—the very principle which had made Christians suspect for the preceding three centuries—was turned on its head only a century after Christianity’s legalization, when Theodosius II demanded in 439 that only Christians serve in the military. In such circumstances, the basic question of whether military service was moral was no longer a theoretical one, concerned with the abstract ethics of violence against others per se, and debated from the relatively safe position of a religious minority who could leave the responsibility for protecting the empire to the ma-

jority pagan population, as it had been in previous generations. Rather, the rapid change in religious demographics following Constantine’s conversion and consolidation of the imperium as sole Roman emperor introduced further moral complexity as the military became responsible for protecting what was quickly becoming a predominantly Christian empire. Moreover, in addition to noting the effect of the changed religious dynamics of the empire between the pre- and post-Constantinian periods, it is important to observe other, non-chronological distinctions. Some of these are: (1) the distinction between soldiers who became Christians and Christians who became soldiers; (2) the related distinction between the passive continuation of a soldier in a noncombat position and his active participation in battle or other acts of violence or injustice, especially the persecution and capture of Christians; (3) the military activity of a non-Christian, invasively conquering empire (or emperor) versus the military activity of a Christian, self-defensive empire; and (4) the question of literal versus metaphorical

In general terms, despite the rapidly-changing context of the post-Constantinian Christian empire, Basil and the other Cappadocians stand in continuity with the earlier Christian tradition on war. This tradition, plaited from several interwoven strands, underlies their individualized situations and temperaments as they treat questions of war and military service in a manner that balances their positions on a tripod of ethical, pastoral, and pragmatic considerations. Those complex and remarkably nuanced strands include: (1) an utter rejection of war for anything but self-defense; (2) a rejection of moral justice, much less holiness, even in wars of self-defense; (3) an allegorization of, if not outright silence regarding, divine commands to violent action in Old Testament texts; (4) an acquiescence to Christian military service for those already serving at the time of their conversion to Christianity or, later, for those serving under Christian emperors; and (5) a simultaneous recognition of the immorality of certain actions required of those in military service which, depending on the action, must either be refused or dealt with penitentially afterward. Given all the changes in circumstance from the early to the late fourth century, what is perhaps most notable about Basil and the other Cappadocians is how little any of them disThe Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

cusses the twin issues of Christians in military service and a Christian nation engaging in warfare. Claudia Rapp observes, for example, that Basil corresponded with “praetorian prefects, the masters of offices, military generals, and provincial governors” for various types of waivers and privileges.1 In none of this correspondence, however, does he either chastise or laud these officers for their choice of career, nor does he address to them disparaging remarks or moral condemnations of war and military service from his perspective as a bishop and theologian.

Claudia Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), 265.

While a Christian’s individual entry into military service in the early Church was seldom praised or condemned by fourth-century Christian writers, much more complex were the related questions of a Christian soldier and, more broadly, of a Christian state actually making war. Pre-Constantinian antimilitary arguments regarding the pagan rituals endemic in the army became moot, and the Pax Romana which Christians had formerly assessed positively—mainly for its ability to secure safe passage for missionaries and evangelists spreading throughout the empire—was now seen by some as a divine peace protecting and promoting Christianity more generally, and, as such, worthy of protection, even if the idea of protecting peace through war was admittedly oxymoronic. Only one of the three Cappadocian bishops, Basil, dealt straightforwardly with the question of the morality of war and of Christians killing in war, and even then only because of a specific question put to him by the young bishop of Iconium, Amphilochius (who happened to be Gregory of Nazianzus’s cousin). Basil was, without a doubt, the least “countercultural” of the Cappadocians. For instance, 7

Saint Basil, Letters, vol. II, trans. Sister Agnes Clare Way (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 1955), 23.

John A. McGuckin, “Non-Violence and Peace Traditions in Early and Eastern Christianity”, in “Religion, Terrorism, and Globalization: Nonviolence—A New Agenda, ed. K. K. Kuriakose (New York: Nova Science Press, 2006), 196–97; and idem, “A Conflicted Heritage: The Byzantine Religious Establishment of a War Ethic,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 65/66 (2011–12): 37–38.

Christ as a Roman army officer, Ravenna, 480–500

unlike the renowned Greek and Latin bishops and theologians of the next generation, John Chrysostom and Augustine, who forcefully argued that extramarital relations by married men should be considered adultery regardless of imperial law and social custom, Basil acceded (if somewhat reluctantly) to the legal and canonical double standard which considered a married woman to be guilty of adultery for extramarital sexual relations, but defined a married man as guilty only of fornication for his extramarital relations, explicitly citing custom. Basil was also the most politically astute, combining the genuine compassion underlying his monumental Basileias charitable complex with a savvy pragmatism. His ease at nav-

igating political waters may be why he appears to be the only one of these three Cappadocian bishops who actually desired the episcopacy. It is therefore all the more remarkable that Basil, given his political pragmatism, his voluminous correspondence with high-ranking military officers, and the sheer fact of Cappadocia’s proximity to the eastern borders of the empire, did not give soldiers a moral or ecclesiastical “pass” for their service in defense of the empire. In his letter 188 to Amphilochius, in which he responded to questions on various moral matters, Basil asserted in a section which has become known as Canon 13: “Our Fathers did not reckon killings in war as murders, but granted pardon, it seems to me, to those fighting in defense of virtue and piety. Perhaps, however, it is well to advise them that, since their hands are not clean, they should abstain from communion alone for a period of three years.”2 John McGuckin believes that the “Fathers” to whom Basil refers in his Canon 13 are simply Athanasius of Alexandria in his (in)famous Letter to Amun (McGuckin argues that Basil used the plural form to blunt any direct criticism of the Alexandrian church father).3 He may be correct, or perhaps Basil was thinking of both Athanasius and Eusebius, bishop of Caesarea, court historian to Constantine, and perhaps the only early Christian author to write in positively glowing terms about military exploits and conquests as God-ordained acts of violence. Basil frequently used the phrase “our fathers” in the context of theological polemics to refer to previous generations of theologians and church leaders, particularly bishops. In any case, laudatory rhetoric for Christians engaging in bloody battle was not widespread, at least among generations earlier than Basil’s, so it is difficult to imagine whom Basil might

have had in mind beyond Athanasius and Eusebius. There are two important words and phrases in this short “canon” that illuminate Basil’s feelings on this subject. The first is the Greek word phonos, “murder.” Contrary to most translations of Canon 13, including the one above, Basil did not use different words to distinguish between killings on the battlefield and other types of killing, although he certainly could have, given the massive number of Greek terms meaning “to kill.” Rather, he used the term phonos— murder—for both. The first sentence of the Canon should more accurately read, then: “Our Fathers did not reckon murders in war as murders, but granted pardon, it seems to me, to those fighting in defense of virtue and piety.” This usage is echoed in Canon 43 of another letter of Basil to Amphilochius, Letter 199, where he asserted that anyone who strikes his neighbor and kills him is a murderer (phoneus), “whether he gave the first blow or was retaliating.”4 Basil’s use of the word phonos for battlefield slayings, then, is enormously significant since, together with the second half of the sentence, it shows clearly that Basil did not consider violent acts in war to be qualitatively different, but, rather, that pardon or forgiveness (syngnōmēn) be extended to soldiers because they murdered “in defense of virtue and piety.” Basil’s reasoning here is consistent not only with his passing statement in a homily on theodicy that war is evil, but with what he expressed several paragraphs earlier, in his Canon 8, where he distinguished among categories of killing that we would today define as involuntary manslaughter, voluntary manslaughter, second-deThe Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

gree murder, and first-degree or premeditated murder. For Basil, all are forms of killing and require some penance, but they must be treated differently from one another because of the intent of the witting or unwitting perpetrator.5 Basil’s classification of all forms of killing as murder is the interpretive key, then, with respect to the second significant phrase, that the hands of a soldier returning from war are “not clean.” Fighting and endangering oneself to preserve the lives of others is noble, but taking one life to preserve others is still the taking of a human life; thus, the hands of a soldier returning from war are “not clean.” Nevertheless, following the philosophy of differing intent he enunciated in Canon 8, Basil’s recommendation of three years’ penance (as excommunication) treated the soldier returning from war much differently than a murderer who acted out of rage or premeditation, and who would thus normally suffer excommunication for thirty years.

Basil, Letters, 59.

Gregory of Nyssa articulated similar distinctions, offering varying lengths of penance in accordance with whether a slaying was voluntary or involuntary.

At the same time, the period of penance, in spite of its relative lightness, recognized the moral ambiguity of taking one life to save others, and— what was no doubt also in Basil’s mind—the effect that the taking of human life was bound to have on the soldier himself, no matter how “just” or “righteous” the reason for the war might be deemed. Basil’s response to Amphilochius is, in fact, despite its brevity a very thoughtful and well-considered pastoral response that recognizes not only military violence’s deviation from the absolute standard of not taking human life, but also the deep moral and spiritual conflict that warfare brings upon those in the military, 9

whom society sends out to kill for its own protection. John McGuckin is thus quite correct in his overall assessment of Basil’s advice to Amphilochius: What this Basilian canon does most effectively is to hold up a “No Entry” sign in front of any potential theory of just war within Christian theology. It should establish a decided refusal of postwar Churchsponsored self-congratulations for victory. All violence—local, individual, or nationally sanctioned—is here stated to be an expression of hubris that is inconsistent with the values of the Kingdom of God. Although in many circumstances that violence may be considered necessary or unavoidable—Basil states the only legitimate reasons as the defense of the weak and innocent—it is never justifiable. Even for the best motives in the world, the shedding of blood remains a defilement such that the true Christian afterward would wish to undergo the cathartic experience of a temporary return to the lifestyle of penance, that is, to be a penitent.

In conclusion, Basil and the other Cappadocians—despite living in a very different political and demographic context than earlier Christians, such as Origen, who had been marginalized in the pre-Constantinian empire, and thus had the “luxury” of maintaining their pacifist ideals precisely because they were a religious minority who benefited from the safety provided by the legions of pagan soldiers defending the borders of the empire—did not develop any theological refection

wholeheartedly supporting a Christian army in defense of a Christian state, nor did they extol the virtue of a Christian soldier killing presumably non-Christian enemies, even invaders, out of self-defense, to keep Church and society peaceable and free. Like the earlier generations of theologians on whose backs they stood, they allegorized those Old Testament passages which could most conveniently have provided biblical and theological support for a theory of God’s people waging war in God’s name. On the contrary, they explicitly rejected such literal interpretations, operating from an eschatological perspective and so choosing instead to interpret the violence in such passages as references to the ongoing spiritual war against evil. Every Christian is a soldier in such battles. Basil and the Cappadocians certainly evince a pragmatic acceptance of the reality, and even the necessity, of Christian soldiers serving in a Christian army in defense of a Christian state: the luxury of a pure pacifism is no longer practicable in a world where Christians dominate. Nevertheless, even within the limits of defensive action, the common thread of a moral abhorrence of war so forcefully argued by Origen and other preConstantinian Christian writers continues to underlie the more nuanced and pragmatic approach of the Cappadocians. As Basil’s Letter 188 makes abundantly clear, that pragmatism does not negate the piercing moral evil of one human being, created in the image of God, ending the life of another human being, who bears that same image.

Valerie A. Karras is a retired theology professor who has taught at Holy Cross Greek Orthodox School of Theology, Saint Louis University, and Southern Methodist University. She holds an M.Th. degree from Holy Cross, a Th.D. in Patristics from Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, and a Ph.D. in Church History from Catholic University of America.

war and christ

Conversion, Not Domination Inga Leonova interviews Jim Forest

Thank you, Jim, for speaking to The Wheel about your lifelong advocacy of peacemaking as essential to Christian witness. To begin, perhaps you could talk about the historical understanding of war in the Christian tradition, including the doctrine of Just War, which has found many adherents. The Just War theory emerged in Western Christianity and never became rooted in Eastern Christianity. Instead, in the East, there is a relatively undeveloped theology that war is sometimes forced on a nation under attack, but is only justified to the extent that the nation is defending itself from invasion. Even then, many restraints were placed on the practice of war. If you examine Byzantine history and theological writings about war, it is striking to see the extent to which war was avoided. Many emperors made compromises and paid huge amounts from the imperial treasury to prevent war. As for a theology of war in the East? There simply is no “Just War” doctrine in the Fathers. How about Orthodox hymns such as the Troparion for the Cross, which originally read, “Grant victory to the Orthodox emperor over his enemies”? And what about warrior saints? How do you reconcile this part of Orthodox tradition with the exaltation of peace in the Gospel? The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

Hymns such as the Troparion of the Cross do raise issues. But, of course, victory need not mean military defeat of the enemy. It could mean something more like their conversion to a different attitude toward us—a transformation of their behaviour. I think this is, in fact, the correct way to understand these hymns. Orthodox Christianity is essentially a religion of conversion rather than domination. As for warrior saints—their Lives are complicated, but also surprising. Take Saint George, the most famous example. On the one hand, we know very little about the historical person, George. He was a martyr, but we can’t say much more. He may not have been an actual solider, but perhaps was a soldier more in the sense that Saint Paul uses military metaphors to describe the ideal Christian life: George had courage, he was armed with truth, his feet were shod with the gospel of peace. It wasn’t until the composition of the Golden Legend in the thirteenth century that the story of battling the dragon emerged. Of course, the historical George never saw a dragon, but again, metaphorically and spiritually he certainly battled dragons: he battled fear and the command of the emperor to make pagan sacrifice. For that reason, the dragon story—though a legend—is inspired and compelling.

In fact, I would say that the life of Saint George is entirely a metaphor of conversion: the saint arrives on a white horse, symbolizing courage; his shield bears the sign of the Cross, showing that he is a soldier of Christ, not of the world; in many icons, he is shown wielding a lance thinner than a pencil—hardly a mighty weapon of war; and he has a dispassionate expression, not a warmongering look. Also, we should remember that he does not kill the dragon but only wounds it, and in many icons the rescued pagan princess is shown putting her girdle around the dragon’s neck and leading it away. Perhaps we might also think of Saint Alexander Nevsky. Why was he canonized? Because he was victorious in battle? Or because he became a repentant monk and peacemaker who, in a somewhat scandalous way, made compromises with the Golden Horde, which led to a period of peace? It is striking that it was not until the reign of Peter the Great that he was depicted as a military saint. The icons before that time did not show him in this way, but rather as a monk. So it seems that the exaltation of military might is a matter of subsequent interpretation, necessitated by political circumstances? Absolutely. It’s a matter of post-mortem militarization—often a very long time after the saint died, as in the case of Saint George and Saint Alexander. We must remember that, in the nineteenth century, the West (including Russia) was swept by a wave of nationalism, and many of these saints were recruited as military heroes for the nationalist cause. I am certain that if we study the lives of the saints and learn to read their hagiography correctly, we will not find a single one 12

who was canonized because of military achievements. This leads us back to the issue of domination and onward to our contemporary situation. In the last twenty or thirty years, the world has experienced wars waged by and between Orthodox nations. The aggressions of Russia in Georgia and Ukraine, for example, have been shrouded in the pseudo-religious rhetoric of Russkiy Mir (“the Russian World”), which asserts the religious primacy of the Russian church and state over all the Orthodox of Slavic Tradition. What do you think about the relationship between Christianity and nationalism? The first thing that springs to mind is Saint Paul’s comment that there is “neither Jew nor Greek” (Gal. 3:28). It is so obvious from the New Testament that Christianity is not a national religion. There is no such thing as Russian Orthodoxy, there is only Orthodoxy in the Russian tradition, in the Greek tradition, in the Antiochian tradition, and so forth. To the extent that religion becomes confused with national identity, it is no longer a form of Christianity. One of the items discussed at the 1917 Moscow Council was whether the Church should be called “The Orthodox Church in Russia” or “The Russian Orthodox Church.” The council fathers chose the latter, which I think is unfortunate, because it gives the impression that Russian identity has primacy over the identity conveyed by the words that follow. “The Orthodox Church in Russia” strikes quite a different tone. Perhaps the fathers of the Orthodox Church in America had a better ear for language and therefore chose a better name? The OCA was in some ways

Ai Weiwei, Soleil Levant, 2017. Installation of migrants’ life jackets at Kunsthal Charlottenborg, Copenhagen, Denmark. Photo: TeaMeister, flic.kr/p/YjLvkF.

intended to overcome the diasporic national divisions of the Orthodox in America—but, of course, it hasn’t been entirely successful in that regard. And, of course, those responsible for securing the OCA’s autocephaly weren’t caught up in national struggles in the same way as the fathers of the Moscow Council. The OCA was named at a time when national identity for Orthodox Christians in America was not a consideration in the same way as for Russians in 1917. Let’s talk a bit about your own work as a peacemaker. In your seminal essay, “Salt of the Earth,” you lay out a number of aspects of witnessing to Christ’s peace, especially in times of war.1 For those who are unfamiliar with your work, perhaps you could explain them to us? The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

Yes. I think there are at least seven aspects of Christian peacemaking. The first is loving our enemies. Here we have to repair a damaged word, because love has been sentimentalized, and the biblical meaning of the word is quite different. Christ calls his followers to love their enemies. If we understand love as a euphoric feeling or pleasurable sentiment, then fulfilling this commandment is impossible. But if we understand love as doing what we can to protect the life and seek the salvation of a person or group whom we fear or hate, then it is very different. An essential aspect of response to that commandment is to pray for our enemies—a thread of daily connection through prayer.

Jim Forest, “Salt of the Earth: An Orthodox Christian Approach to Peacemaking,” In Communion 54 (Fall 2009), incommunion. org/2010/01/10/ salt-of-the-earth-3.

The second aspect is related: doing good to enemies. Jesus teaches his followers, “Do good to those who hate 13

you, bless those who curse you” (Luke 6:27–28). This teaching is often viewed as unrealistic—but, in fact, it is a teaching full of common sense. Unless we want to pave the way to a tragic future, we must search for opportunities to demonstrate to an opponent our longing for an entirely different kind of relationship. An adversary’s time of need or crisis can provide that opening. The third aspect is turning the other cheek. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says, “If someone strikes you on the cheek, offer him the other also” (Matt. 5:39). Contrast this with the advice provided in the average film or novel, where the message is often: “If you are hit, hit back. Let your blow be harder than the one you received.” In fact, as we saw in the U.S. attack on Iraq in 2003, you needn’t be hit at all in order to justify striking others. Provocation, irritation, and the fear of attack are warrant enough. Turning the other cheek is often seen as an especially suspect Christian teaching. For a great many people, it seems contrary to natural justice or, at the very least, it isn’t “manly.” Only cowards turn the other cheek, they say. But what cowards actually do is run and hide. Standing in front of a violent person, refusing to get out of the way, takes enormous courage. It’s a way of giving witness to confidence in the reality and power of the resurrection. The fourth aspect of peacemaking is forgiveness. Nothing is more fundamental to Jesus’ teaching than his call to forgiveness: giving up debts, letting go of grievances, pardoning those who have harmed us, not despairing of the other. Every time we say the Lord’s Prayer, we ask God to forgive us only insofar as we ourselves have extended forgiveness to others. Which of us doesn’t know how much easier 14

it is to ask God to forgive us rather than to extend forgiveness to others? We are wounded and the wounds often last a lifetime. Sins—often quite serious sins—have been committed against us. Others we love have suffered or may even have died through the evil done to them. But we are not only victims. In various ways, we are linked to injuries others have suffered and are suffering. Yet, we are moved to condemn the evils we see in others and to excuse—even justify—the evils we practice ourselves. In fact, we all both need and must offer forgiveness. The fifth aspect is breaking down the dividing wall of enmity. We live in a world of walls: competition, contempt, repression, racism, nationalism (as we discussed above), violence, domination—all of these are seen as normal. Enmity is ordinary. The self and self-interest form the center point in so many lives. We tend to be feardriven. Love and the refusal to center one’s life in enmity are dismissed as naive, idealistic, even unpatriotic, especially if one reaches out constructively to hated minorities or national enemies. But we must break down these walls if we want peace. The sixth aspect is nonviolent resistance to evil. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus teaches, “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, do not resist the one who is evil” (Matt. 5:38–39). When Peter used violence to defend Jesus, he was instantly admonished: “Put your sword back into its place, for all who take the sword will perish by the sword” (Matt. 26:52). For several hundred years following the resurrection, the followers of Jesus were renowned for their refusal to perform military service. But since the state became a patron of Christianity, Christians have been as likely as any

other people to take up the sword, and often use it in appalling ways. Refusal to kill others can be a powerful witness, yet Christian life is far more than the avoidance of evil situations. Christians cannot be passive about those events and structures that cause innocent suffering and death. More recently, nonviolent struggle has become a recognized alternative to passivity on the one hand, and to violence on the other. The last element of peacemaking is aspiring to a life of recognizing Jesus. In his teaching about the Last Judgment, Christ tells us, “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me” (Matt. 25:40). It is a scene represented in icons and relief carvings in many ancient churches. Looking at such images, occasionally the question is raised: “Why are we judged collectively?” Perhaps it is because each person’s life is far from over when he or she dies. Our acts of love and failures to love continue to have consequences until the end of history. What Adam and Eve did, what Moses did, what Herod did, what Mary the mother of Jesus did, what Pilate did, what the Apostles did . . . what Caesar did, what Hitler did, what Martin Luther King Jr. did, what Dorothy Day and Mother Maria Skobtsova did . . . what you and I have done and are doing—all these lives, with their life-giving or death-dealing content, continue to have consequences every single day for the rest of history. What you and I do, and what we fail to do, will have consequences until the end of time. If I cannot see the face of Jesus in the face of those who are my enemies, if I cannot see him in the unbeautiful, if I cannot see him in those who have the wrong ideas, if I cannot see him in the poor and the defeated, how will I The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

see him in bread and wine, or in life after death? If I do not reach out in this world to those with whom he has identified himself, why do I imagine that I will want to be with him, and them, in heaven? Why would I want to be for all eternity in the company of those whom I hated and avoided every day of my life? Christ’s kingdom would be hell for those who avoided peace and devoted their lives to division. But heaven is right in front of us. At the heart of what Jesus says in every act and parable is this: Now, this minute, we can enter the kingdom of God. That’s a very powerful mandate. Of your seven aspects of peacemaking, which would you say is the hardest to carry out? They’re all hard! In the Beatitudes, the first—poverty of spirit—is the most difficult. But without poverty of spirit, the rest do not follow. Without poverty of spirit, you will never have purity of heart, for example. Without poverty of spirit, you will never embrace the Cross. I think it’s the same with my seven aspects of peacemaking: the first, love of enemies, is the hardest. Yet it is foundational to Christianity. And I’m not saying that as someone who finds it easy to love his enemies! I can easily be aroused to the point of wishing that my enemy would suffer and die. It is easy to manipulate my emotional response to enmity. I’m just like anyone else. But I cannot understand the gospel apart from the commandment to love one’s enemies. It seems to me that love of enemies is a lesson which the Christian Church has struggled to learn and practice throughout history. In each generation, some succeed more than others, some fail more than others. Even to want to love an enemy is extremely 15

See Jean-Claude Larchet, “St. Silouan: On the Love of Enemies,” In Communion 68 (2014), incommunion. org/2014/06/03/stsilouan-on-the-loveof-enemies.

Mural of Mother Maria Skobtsova and Dorothy Day, Church of the Holy Wisdom, New Skete Monastery, New York.

challenging. But here, the idea that I mentioned above, about de-sentimentalizing the word “love,” is key to beginning to practice this commandment. It has to be understood in the context of a life of conversion: seeking our own conversion, seeking the conversion of others. Our conversions are interconnected. In this way we can begin to grasp its meaning, and have some hope of moving in that direction. Prayer is essential here, too. Prayer is the beginning of love. To the extent that I can sincerely pray for my enemy and for his or her welfare, enlightenment, peace, health, salvation, I participate in God’s own connection with that person and discover that they are connected with God’s life, just as I am—perhaps even more so. Jesus explicitly links love of enemies with prayer for them. Without prayer, love of enemies is impossible. Saint Silouan of the Holy Mountain put special emphasis on this. He became a monk after nearly killing another

young man in his village—in fact, for some minutes he thought he had become a murderer. Not long afterward, he went to Mount Athos. Much of his teaching later in life centered on love of enemies. He insisted that he who does not love his enemies does not have God’s grace.2 Right, because when you pray for a person, he or she really becomes a person—and ceases to be an abstract idea or an obstacle to my goals. Prayer contributes to a process of personalization. Speaking of prayer and love in action, you’ve written extensively about Saint Maria Skobtsova of Paris, who was a great light during the Second World War. What about her life captured your imagination? I was brought to the writings of Mother Maria by one of Metropolitan Kallistos Ware’s books, and it seemed to me then that her writings were almost identical with those of Dorothy Day, who played a major role in my own life as my first spiritual mother. She was the founder of the Catholic Worker movement and, although she was a very devout Roman Catholic, she was the first person to bring me into an Orthodox Church. There are actually tremendous similarities between the lives of Dorothy Day and Mother Maria. In the same year, 1933, they both founded houses of hospitality in major cities: Day in New York and Mother Maria in Paris. Both were committed to what I would call radical hospitality toward those in danger, whether of dying on the streets or being taken away by the police. In Mother Maria’s case, this cost her her own life, because she took in Jews and did everything possible to save them from the Nazis. Both women were also involved in ecu-

menical dialogue, especially between Orthodox and Catholics. In terms of their writings, you could almost take a paragraph from each, scramble the sentences, and play a game to figure out which sentence was written by which woman. It would be impossible to decide unless you already knew the quotations. I was captivated by the sentiment I found in both women, that God is present in every person and must be venerated in each person. Each person is an icon of God. Dorothy Day prepared me to encounter this in Mother Maria. When one looks at the life of Mother Maria, one sees not only that she was a great theologian—and one must not forget that she was and remains a great theological voice, one of the most important theologians of recent Orthodox history—but also that she had the opportunity to live out her theology. She saw in each person another face of Christ. For these reasons, I have been fascinated by her and her writings, and I am glad to have been able to arrange for the publication of some of her work in English.3 Finally, sometimes people say that religion leads to war. This seems to be true of the current “culture wars,” for example. How would you respond to this charge, especially with respect to the militant stance that religious groups often assume in culture wars? I have tremendous respect for some of the so-called “culture warriors.” David Bentley Hart, for example, is someone whose writings I admire.

But the main task for Christians is to bear witness to Christ, who does not kill. The fact that Jesus killed nobody has implications for us. When we see Christianity being leveraged to promote conflict, which can easily lead to war, then we have to say that it is no longer Christianity but an ideology. Unfortunately, Christianity—like all religions—can easily be transformed into an ideology and then become quite deadly.

Maria Skobtsova, Mother Maria Skobtsova: Essential Writings (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2003).

We Orthodox are too comfortable with what is a quite remarkable phrase, which we use without any resistance: “the precious and life-giving Cross.” When we actually contemplate what that means, it is very difficult to revere the Cross, to want to be on the Cross, to see anything good about the Cross. If we reimagine the Cross as a modern instrument of murder or execution, like a guillotine or an electric chair, then we become more aware of how shocking it is to speak about “the precious and life-giving Cross.” One of the earliest depictions of the Cross on a Christian building is found on the huge doors of the Church of Santa Sabina in Rome, which date from the fifth century. It is interesting to me that it is not terribly prominent. Christians in Rome at that time clearly weren’t yet ready to embrace “the precious and life-giving Cross”—perhaps because Rome was a place where people had been crucified. It was still shocking. We need to recover that. We need to grasp what it means to worship a God who practiced peace and did not fuel the cycle of war and violence.

Jim Forest is the international secretary of the Orthodox Peace Fellowship and the author of numerous books, including Loving Our Enemies: Reflections on the Hardest Commandment, Ladder of the Beatitudes, Praying With Icons, Confession: Doorway to Forgiveness, The Road to Emmaus: Pilgrimage as a Way of Life, and The Root of War is Fear: Thomas Merton’s Advice to Peacemakers.

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Orthodoxy and Conflict Alexander Patico

David Brooks, The Road to Character (New York: Random House, 2015).

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned. —William Butler Yeats, “The Second Coming” Is it just me, or has 2017 been a year with an appalling amount of conflict? Polarized politics, rampant urban violence, pitiless terrorism, horribly destructive civil wars: while it is true that crime statistics and historical analyses show that our times are really no more conflictual than previous eras, life certainly feels tense, tenuous, and tendentious. The Peace of Christ can seem like a distant dream. If, as Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn once wrote, the line between good and evil “runs straight through every human heart,” then our very nature manifests conflict. David Brooks has reflected on the subject of character in a similar vein: Deep inside we are dual in our nature. We are fallen, but also splendidly endowed. We have a side to our nature that is sinful—selfish, deceiving, and self-deceiving—but we have another side to our nature that is in God’s image, that seeks transcendence and virtue.1

Our task is somehow to repent and transform—to become perfect as God 18

is perfect. How can our faith guide us through this “valley of the shadow of death” and enable theosis? Conflict has many faces, but its ultimate resolution has only one. In order to find it, believers must distinguish between ideology and theology. The former involves subscribing to a Weltanschauung or worldview, the acceptance of certain principles and priorities: hence libertarianism emphasizes individual human freedom, socialism focuses on collectivities, conservatism values tradition, and progressivism embraces change. Theology, by contrast, is chiefly concerned with the nature of God. How can that singular concept guide a person through a “Slough of Despond” such as the one in which we find ourselves today?

The World and the Kingdom In Edible Forest Gardens, a guide to the ancient practice of forest-based agriculture, David Jacke and Eric Toensmeier write the following: The history of Western civilization is the story of our increasing knowledge, and our application of that knowledge to meet the needs originally met with ease in the Garden of Eden. Meanwhile the natural world became “other,” objectified, simply a means to an end, a tool or resource for us to meet our goals, an object with no intrinsic value of its own. We now find our knowledge

Christian soldiers, Ravenna, 480–500

leading us back to an understanding of unity, and of sacredness.2

Likewise, Masanobu Fukuoka, another writer on natural farming, notes humans’ impulse to “control nature using human will.” “Nature,” he writes, “is seen as the ‘outside world’ in opposition to humanity.” Fukuoka laments, “if someone does not know his mother, he is a child who does not know whose child he is.”3 While we should not advocate an anti-scientific approach, a core tenet of Orthodoxy is that God is “everywhere and fills all things.” The world as apprehended by human wonder and understood by science has its ground of being in the Almighty, who exists before time, during the tenure of this universe, and “unto ages of ages.” Therefore, we may speak of the “in-breaking” of the eschaton on our visible, tangible world, but this metaphor ought not to connote an actual ontological separation of this earthly existence from God’s kingdom, except in an epistemological sense: we are not always aware of the Eternal, the Divine. As Elder Joseph the Hesychast writes in his seventy-eighth Letter: God is everywhere. There is no place God is not. . . . You cry out to him, “Where are you, my God?” And he anThe Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

swers, “I am present, my child! I am always beside you.” Both inside and outside, above and below, wherever you turn, everything shouts, “God!” In him we live and move. We breathe God, we eat God, we clothe ourselves with God.

The Nation and Hē Koinonia As much as the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke and wrote about the “promissory note” issued by America to humanity and the shortfall in its realization, his vision of the United States of America was not synonymous with the “Beloved Community” to whose realization he devoted so much thought and effort. It is important to distinguish between a political community and a Christian communion. When we speak of koinonia, we do not mean any particular nation-state or ethnic tribe. In Christ, there is “neither Jew nor Greek.” Rather, community, sharing, and peace are what characterize the life of his vision, as anticipated in Micah 4:4: “They shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid.” The members of such a community are mutually accountable: “Those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one said that any of the things that belonged to him was his own, but they had everything in com-

Dave Jacke and Eric Toensmeier, Edible Forest Gardens, vol. 1: Ecological Vision and Theory for Temperate Climate Permaculture (White River Junction, Vt.: Chelsea Green, 2005), 52.

Masanobu Fukuoka, Sowing Seeds in the Desert: Natural Farming, Global Restoration, and Ultimate Food Security (White River Junction, VT.: Chelsea Green, 2012), 11.

John A. McGuckin, “Non-Violence and Peace Traditions in Early and Eastern Christianity,” in Religion, Terrorism and Globalization: Non-Violence—A New Agenda, ed. K. K. Kuriakose (New York: Nova Science Press, 2006), 189–202.

mon” (Acts 4:32). And not only that; it is a communion of souls that exhibits caring for each person’s spiritual journey, as Paul wrote to his flock in Colossae: “We have not ceased to pray for you, asking that you may be filled with the knowledge of his will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding” (Col. 1:9). As Orthodox Christians, we must be ever mindful of the essentially problematic nature of patriotism, because we are citizens “not of this world.” Church fathers and hierarchs have differed on the role of the Christian citizen of a secular state. No state yet has satisfied all the requirements of a heavenly kingdom, and we should not expect it to. This inevitably leads to tensions for the Christian in their role as citizen. Fr. John A. McGuckin notes how this tension is manifested in St. Basil the Great’s reflections on warfare, as Basil endeavors “to sustain an eschatological balance: that war is not part of the Kingdom of God (signified in the Eucharistic ritual as arriving in the present) but is part of the bloody and greed-driven reality of world affairs which is the ‘Kingdom-Not-Arrived.’”4

Others and Neighbors In part because the Kingdom has not yet arrived, we divide ourselves into “us” and “them” dichotomies: American versus foreigner, Christian versus Muslim, conservative versus liberal, and on and on. Such divisions seem out of step with a Christian understanding of self. For example, in the parable of the good Samaritan, Jesus emphasizes relationship over identity: My neighbor is that person who recognizes my humanity—the person in whom I can perceive the divine light shining forth. 20

When a Christian thinks of “the people,” they should not have an image of faceless numbers of human beings, but of fellow-wayfarers on a journey of reconciliation. Statistics give us impersonal analyses, whereas caring yields a series of precious individuals and deeply reciprocal relationships. Rabbi Arthur Waskow comments on Matthew 22, the passage in which Jesus was asked about the position of the emperor and called for a denarius, which bore the image of the Roman ruler. “‘Whose likeness and inscription is this?’ They said, ‘Caesar’s.’ Then he said to them, ‘Render therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.’” Waskow points out that coins—representing those things that belong to the secular authority—are stamped out so that each is absolutely identical. We humans—we who belong to God—are, on the other hand, each different. As such, if we wish to be in relationship with our fellow human beings, we must approach each as an individual.

Dichotomy and Trinity Certainly, binary thinking did not begin with Aristotle. But twenty-three centuries after him, our thinking (particularly in the West) is still often captive to his basic approach to the world. Is a statement true or is it false? Are you with us or against us? East Asian philosophy seems a bit more comfortable with the integrated complementarity of yin and yang. In an essay called “The Japanese Word, Mu” Robert Pirsig, author of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, writes: Yes and no . . . this or that . . . one or zero. In the basis of this elementary two-term discrimination, all human knowledge is built up. The demon-

stration of this is the computer memory that stores all knowledge in the form of binary information. It contains ones and zeroes, that’s all. Because we’re unaccustomed to it, we don’t usually see that there’s a third possible logical term equal to yes and no which is capable of our understanding in an unrecognized direction. We don’t even have a term for it, so I’ll have to use the Japanese mu. Mu means “no thing.” Like “quality” it points outside the process of dualistic discrimination. Mu simply says, “no class: not one, not zero, not yes, not no.” It states that the context of the question is such that a yes and a no answer is in error and should not be given. “Unask the question” is what it says. Mu becomes appropriate when the context of the question becomes too small for the truth of the answer. When the Zen monk was asked whether a dog had Buddha nature he said “Mu,” meaning that if he answered either way he was answering incorrectly. The Buddha nature cannot be captured by yes-or-no questions.5

Christ, too, stood outside the easy binaries of first-century Palestine and challenged the conventional wisdom of his time: How could a Jew not fight the Romans? How could the poor-inspirit be blessed? How could the last be first? Our Orthodox conception of the divine, an unceasing flow of love among three persons, one in essence, is profoundly opposed to the “othering” mentioned above. The Holy Trinity is—to use a very modern formulation—more about kissing than dissing. This is why we exchange a kiss of peace as part of our Divine Liturgy, and why we are warned against judging our fellows. The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

Paul the Apostle wrote, “For he is our peace, who has made us both [Jew and Gentile] one, and has broken down the dividing wall of hostility. . . He came and preached peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near” (Eph. 2:14–17). He also wrote, “Never avenge yourselves . . . If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him drink” (Rom. 12:19–20). Likewise, Mathetes wrote, in the second century, “They [the Christians] love all men, and they are persecuted by all. . . . They are put to death, and yet they are endowed with life. . . . They are in want of all things, and yet they abound in all things. They are dishonored, and yet they are glorified in their dishonor. They are evil spoken of, and yet they are vindicated. They are reviled, and they bless; they are insulted, and they respect. Doing good, they are punished as evil-doers; being punished, they rejoice, as if they were thereby quickened by life.”6

Robert Pirsig, “The Japanese Word, Mu,” Awakin.org, October 20, 2008, www. awakin.org/read/ view.php?tid=583.

Epistle to Diognetus, trans. J. R. Harmer, in J.B. Lightfoot and J. R. Harmer (eds.), The Apostolic Fathers (London: MacMillan, 1898), 506.

What does this mean, then, for Christians’ participation in war? The answer to this question, at least to some, has seemed clear. A just man should not “engage in warfare,” wrote Lactantius, who was the tutor of Crispus, the son of St. Constantine the Great: What are the interests of our country, but the inconveniences of another state or nation?—that is, to extend the boundaries which are violently taken from others, to increase the power of the state. . . . for, in the first place, the union of human society is taken away, innocence is taken away, the abstaining from the property of another is taken away; lastly, justice itself is taken away, which is unable to bear the tearing asunder of the human race, and wherever arms have glittered, must be banished and exterminated from thence. . . . How can a man be just 21

Lactantius, The Divine Institutes,(Trans. William Fletcher), in The Ante-Nicene Fathers, ed. Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson, vol. 7 (New York: Scribner, 1905), 169, 187.

Ukrainian priests between pro-government forces and protesters, Kiev, Maidan, January 2014.

Similarly, in the last century, St. Elizabeth the New Martyr said, “It is easier for a feeble straw to resist a mighty fire than for the nature of sin to resist the power of love. We must cultivate this love in our souls, that we may take our place with all the saints, for they were all-pleasing unto God through their love for their neighbor.” Could we put such radical guidance into practice? Could we choose leaders without regard to party or ideology? Could we extend a helping hand to all who are hungry, and take in all who are homeless? Could we offer to feed the members of ISIS, and wash their feet? In short, could we rely on love to solve our myriad problems? Conflict must always be viewed through the lens of self-emptying compassion, rather than self-protecting caution.

A Starting Point As noted above, the line between good and evil can be found just inches away from the fingers that type these words. I—and you, the reader—must start with introspection and the Holy Mystery of Penance, leading to metanoia. In Classical Greek, metanoia meant changing one’s mind about someone or something. When personified, Metanoia was depicted as a shadowy goddess, cloaked and sorrowful, who accompanied Kairos, the god of opportunity, sowing regret and inspiring repentance for the “missed moment.” In Christian theology, the term has taken on a somewhat different meaning. Rather than mere regret, repentance allows us to take a different path going forward, to transform ourselves by looking in a different 22

The Holy Orthodox Church ought to serve as a template of embodied grace. As determined by the Council of Constantinople in 1872, there is no place in God’s Church for ethnophyletism, which leads groups of Christians to distinguish and divorce themselves from other such groups, and leads to prejudice, enmity, and even war. How can the flock that was tended by St. Peter be excluded from the fold tended by St. Mark, or the churches established by St. Paul in the West be estranged from those founded by St. Thomas in the East? How can the Church in the Holy City, which was established by St. James, be allowed to lie in fragments?

who injures, hates, despoils and puts to death? Yet they who strive to be serviceable to their country do all these things.7

direction: toward the light which is Christ. For example, the nineteenthth-century Russian spiritual classic The Way of a Pilgrim is almost entirely concerned with consciously—using the Jesus Prayer—redirecting one’s mental and spiritual activity toward humility and holiness. As we proceed with interior “housekeeping,” we inevitably, by the grace of God, become aware of the kinship we have with all other children of God. The great Orthodox monastic tradition, which has given rise to the collected wisdom of the fathers and mothers of the Church, has this as a fundamental element: hearing the cries of all humanity, co-suffering with nameless souls, and living one’s life with the eschaton in mind. Conflict is a constant challenge, but it can be overcome when love is the rule. As a result of such individual spiritual labor, God willing, we can reinvigorate efforts to redirect the wider Body of Christ toward Christ.

There can also be no doubt about our responsibility for those who stand outside the Church, especially those who are oppressed or marginalized by society at large. Let us recall Christ’s words in Matthew 25 about “the least of these my brothers and sisters.” We have recently seen the impressive example of the residents of the Greek island of Lesbos, where the human flotsam of displaced Syrians, Iraqis, and Afghanis—as many as 30,000 per month, a number equal to the permanent population of the island’s capital—found shelter and solace. Thousands of Christians are now saying, symbolically, “We are Muslims, too!” in answer to anti-Muslim measures taken by governments in the West. International Orthodox Christian Charities directs its relief ef-

forts not based on the identities of the suffering, but on their suffering and what is needed for its alleviation. Each political narrative—Israeli security concerns or Palestinian oppression, Syrian sovereignty or human rights, capitalist markets or socialist solidarity—must be held warily, but gently, by the Orthodox Christian. All those who espouse them had their origin in the same God, who knew their names before they were born. Each is precious to someone . . . if only to our Father. The above offers no easy formula for Christian witness in a conflicted world. It merely points to some principles: God is our Lord; God is love; therefore, love is the way. Conflict will occur until our eternal life begins, but this conflict need not be seen as a permanent state or an all-powerful force. We live our faith when we deny dichotomy, reach across dividing lines, and build bridges of caring and service. We will be vindicated and rewarded when we encounter our Lord face to face at the end of days. “Lord, grant me to greet the coming day in peace. Teach me to treat all that come to me with peace of soul and with firm conviction that your will governs all. . . . Teach me to act firmly and wisely, without embittering or embarrassing others. . . . Direct my will, teach me to pray, pray yourself in me. Amen.”

Alexander Patico has spent most of his life in the Washington, DC area. A graduate of the College of William and Mary, he served in the Peace Corps in Iran, earned a master’s degree in cross-cultural training, and had a career in international education. After several years coordinating the North American activities of the Orthodox Peace Fellowship, he now volunteers with Maryland Search and Rescue.

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Communion with the Prince of Peace Philip LeMasters

morally shattered by violence may know Christ’s healing and strength.

Nevertheless, to view them as entirely separate topics is to fall well short of the fullness of an Orthodox vision of both the profundity of the Eucharist and the tragedy of war. Those who approach the chalice commune mystically with Jesus Christ in the reign of heavenly peace. Shedding the blood of those who bear his image and likeness poses grave threats to communion with the Lord. To place the spiritual gravity of warfare within the context of the Eucharist reflects the intrinsic connection between communion with God and with all human persons. The key question for Orthodoxy is thus not by what standards a war may be “just,” but how those spiritually and

Not merely an act of personal piety performed in a religious service, the celebration of the Divine Liturgy manifests the Church’s entrance into the heavenly banquet, in which Isaiah’s vision is fulfilled: “Nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more” (Isa. 2:4). To receive the body and blood of Christ is to commune with a Messiah who rejected theocratic militarism and responded with nonviolent love and forgiveness even to the soldiers who executed him. The shedding of blood has been a paradigmatic sign of the corruption of humans’ relationship with God and with one another since Cain murdered Abel. By entering into death through his self-offering on the cross, Jesus Christ took upon himself the consequences of this characteristic distortion of humanity. To receive his body and blood is to participate mystically in an eschatological reign in which the very causes of violence are healed. Celebration of the Divine Liturgy is a prophetic act that invites the world to enter into heavenly peace. The contrast between bloodshed and eucharistic celebration reveals the profound brokenness of the world of war, especially for those touched personally by deliberate, organized slaughter. As Tamara Grdzelidze notes, “Peace lies at the heart of the

asil the Great’s Canon 13 advised soldiers who had killed in war to refrain from receiving communion for three years. His linking the question of war with the Eucharist may seem surprising: after all, the Eucharist is often viewed through the lens of sacramental theology as a liturgical practice. Though obviously an act of the Church, it is often construed in individualistic spiritual terms, in which greater focus is placed on the appropriateness of a particular person’s reception of Communion than on the social implications of the liturgical celebration. By contrast, the legitimacy of Christian participation in war is normally perceived as a topic for social or political ethics.

Eucharistic bond and is intrinsic to the love that the bloodless sacrifice fulfills. . . . [W]ar and conflict are alien to the eucharistic celebration.”1 In this light, Fr. John McGuckin affirms the abiding relevance of Basil’s thirteenth Canon. Though the period of exclusion was far shorter than that required for murderers, a season of excommunication provided those traumatized by the shedding of blood an opportunity to find healing for their souls so that they would be prepared to approach the chalice with a clear conscience. The canon reflects that taking life under any circumstances falls short of the nonviolent, forgiving love of Jesus, with whom one communes in the Eucharist. It calls sol-

diers to confront the possibility that their actions have gravely wounded their relationship with Christ, putting them out of communion with him. If that broken relationship were not recognized and restored through repentance, they would risk receiving the Eucharist unworthily.2 Such repentance is not a matter of fulfilling legal obligations or satisfying a standard of justice. As with other disciplinary canons of the Church, Basil’s canon is to be applied therapeutically for the healing of particular people.3 Some who kill in war may have such spiritual clarity that they immediately embody the deep sorrow for their sins called for in the prayers said by communicants in preparation to receive

Tamara Grdzelidze, “The Orthodox Church in Situations of War and Conflict,” in Just Peace: Orthodox Perspectives, ed. Semegnish Asfaw, Alexios Chehadeh, and Marian Gh. Simion (Geneva: WCC Publications, 2012) 187–88.

See Fr. John McGuckin, “Nonviolence and Peace Traditions in Early & Eastern Christianity,” in For the Peace from Above: An Orthodox Resource Book on War, Peace and Nationalism, ed. Fr. Hildo Bos and Jim Forest (Rollinsford, NH.: Orthodox Research Institute, 2011), 434–40; Yuri Stoyanov, “Norms of War in Eastern Orthodox Christianity,” in World Religions and Norms of War, ed. Vesselin Popovski, Gregory M. Reichberg, and Nicholas Turner (New York: United Nations University Press, 2009), 169–75.

Saints Boris and Gleb. Icon, fourteenth century. State Russian Museum, St. Petersburg.

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See John H. Erickson, The Challenge of Our Past: Studies in Orthodox Canon Law and Church History (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1991), 31

See Alexander Webster, The Pacifist Option: The Moral Argument Against War in Eastern Orthodox Theology (Lanham, MD.: International Scholars Publications, 1998), 183ff.

See For the Peace from Above, 173–74; and Philip LeMasters, The Goodness of God’s Creation (Salisbury, MA: Regina Orthodox Press, 2008), 70–72.

“Called to be ‘Craftsmen of Peace and Justice,’” Inter-Orthodox Preparatory Consultation towards the International Ecumenical Peace Convocation, Leros, Greece, 2009; and Philip LeMasters, “A Dynamic Praxis of Peace: Orthodox Social Ethics and Just Peacemaking,” Revista Teoligică 4 (2010): 69–82.

the Eucharist. Others may need years of intensive struggle to regain the strength necessary to commune with spiritual integrity, due to inflamed passions, idolatrous national ideologies, or other maladies of soul. It is not uncommon, for example, to encounter veterans whose personalities remain shattered years, or even decades, after military service. On the other hand, some return to civilian life easily and become exemplars of virtues such as forgiveness and peacemaking. Some have been canonized as martyrs, passion-bearers, or governmental leaders who overcame the threats to the soul present in the military profession. The path to sacramental participation in the peaceable kingdom varies according to the challenges of each individual.4 The Divine Liturgy’s petitions for both peace and the welfare of the armed forces reflect a similarly therapeutic orientation. From the opening exclamation, the eucharistic worship of the Church is oriented toward the peace of the heavenly kingdom. Petitions follow for “the peace from above and the salvation of our souls” and “the peace of the whole world, the good estate of the churches of God, and the union of all.” Then those gathered pray for national leaders, the armed forces, and vulnerable populations such as travelers, captives, and the sick. Likewise, the anaphoras of Basil the Great and John Chrysostom include an appeal to God to “be mindful . . . of all civil authorities and our armed forces; grant them a secure and lasting peace . . . that we in their tranquility may a lead a calm and peaceful life in all reverence and godliness.”5 The Liturgy calls congregants to offer every dimension of themselves, both individually and collectively, for healing and transformation in holiness. It

presents an invitation to a eucharistic life in which nothing is held back from full communion with Christ, so that one’s existence becomes radiant with the divine energies through personal union with him. But even as the Church enters mystically into the peaceable reign of the kingdom, the human beings who vocalize these prayers remain in a world that does not yet embody the fullness of heavenly peace. While the healing of the creation is not yet consummated, the Liturgy calls communicants, both personally and collectively, to live as icons of the fulfillment of God’s gracious purposes. Though falling short of embodying straightforwardly the nonviolent, forgiving love of Jesus, governmental authorities and armed forces seem practically necessary to sustain social orders that serve God’s purposes for the collective life of humanity. In situations of chaos and anarchy, no social institution, including the Church, is able to function properly. Healthcare, education, family life, and economic structures that are necessary for human flourishing require stability and some level of social cohesion and justice. The broken and partial peace maintained by governments with military force serves God’s intentions for sustaining social orders in which people may live together with relative harmony. These orders obviously vary tremendously in how—and how well—they accomplish those purposes. As history and current events bear out, the relationship between God’s kingdom and earthly kingdoms is never unambiguous, uncomplicated, or uncompromised. Nonetheless, the well-being of human beings in the world as we know it seems dependent upon such structures. 6

In other words, nations, governments, and armies play a role in the healing of the world. The pursuit of peace is a dynamic and multifaceted process, and no part of it is irrelevant for the salvation of those who bear God’s image and likeness. The heavenly kingdom is the fulfillment of all things in peace. The Liturgy’s prayers for military forces are for God to accomplish his purposes through them for the benefit of all. There remains a critical distance between the Eucharist and warfare, as shown in the petition for God to give the military “a secure and lasting peace.” This is not a prayer for war but for its absence. That appeals for God to care for the weak and suffering follow closely is no surprise, as societies embroiled in war typically have little time or energy to care for the needy. Far from an uncritical endorsement of any war or political order, these petitions have the prophetic thrust of calling those with power to exercise it only in accord with the fulfillment of God’s intentions. By implication, they identify the use of armed force for anything other than a legitimate peace that blesses all concerned as being ungodly. Prayed during the anaphora, these petitions provide a vision of what it looks like when nations and armies are offered to God in a world that has not yet entered into the fullness of heavenly peace: they become instruments for a social harmony that enables human flourishing, blesses the weak, and facilitates the ministries of the Church. Even while recognizing the terrible evils associated with abuses of military force and the profound spiritual and moral damage that often arises from killing in war, Orthodoxy affirms that soldiers may find the healing of their souls and grow in holiness. Their shedding of blood may be an “involuntary sin” that they could The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

not avoid in doing the best they could, under inevitably less than ideal circumstances, to protect the innocent and to defend their nation against unjust attack. Even in such cases, participation in battle often presents soldiers with great challenges, to avoid being overcome by hatred, bloodlust, and dehumanization of the enemy. Rape, domestic violence, the abuse of drugs and alcohol, and suicide are all too common occurrences when human beings “cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.”7 Soldiers encounter profound temptations to compromise the health of their relationships with God and with their neighbors. Those personally involved in such broken circumstances require pastoral guidance to help them avoid and recover from grave spiritual, moral, psychological, and social trauma. The Church’s response is not juridical, in the sense of applying abstract principles to particular cases, but instead focuses on helping people grow in communion with Christ. While Orthodoxy has not officially endorsed any version of the Just War theory, various standards concerning when, how, and by whom war is legitimately waged have been employed by clergy, scholars, and governmental and military leaders throughout the history of the Church.8 Moral standards for when and how nations wage war may help political and military leaders, as well as average soldiers, do better rather than worse in regulating their use of deadly force. They may provide a common moral language for citizens to employ in naming actions and policies that fall short of a government’s professed ideals. Nevertheless, regardless of such standards, warfare remains a distortion of the peace and reconciliation that God intends for human beings and communities. Even if

See McGuckin, The Orthodox Church: An Introduction to Its History, Doctrine, and Spiritual Culture (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2008), 402.

See Stoyanov, 166–219; and Marian Gh. Simeon, “Seven Factors of Ambivalence in Defining a Just War Theory in Eastern Christianity,” in Proceedings: The 32nd Annual Congress of the American Romanian Academy of Arts and Sciences (Montreal: Polytechnic International Press, 2008).

Maria Skobstova, Mother Maria Skobtsova: Essential Writings (Maryknoll, NY.: Orbis Books, 2003), 185.

Henry A. Buchanan, letter to the editor, Abilene Reporter-News, June 15, 2010, 5C. See LeMasters, “Orthodox Perspectives on Peace, Violence and War,” The Ecumenical Review 63.1 (March 2011): 54–61. 10

soldiers follow the relevant moral and professional codes in battle, shedding the blood of those who bear God’s image and likeness threatens the health of the soul. To receive the Eucharist is to dine at a banquet of heavenly peace; in contrast, to kill is to enact a paradigmatic sign of humanity’s estrangement from paradise. In the petitions before the Lord’s Prayer in the Divine Liturgy, the Church prays that “the whole day may be perfect, holy, peaceful, and sinless” and “that we may complete the remaining time of our life in peace and repentance.” These prayers, said in preparation for sacramental communion with the Prince of Peace, indicate that such a life is most fitting for those who enter mystically into the heavenly banquet. These blessings reflect God’s purposes for human beings in this world. They describe the communicants’ vocation to become living icons of heavenly peace. As Mother Maria Skobtsova wrote, the Eucharist entails a “universal liturgy [in which] we must offer our hearts, like bread and wine, in order that they may be transformed into Christ’s love.”9 In contrast, anyone who thinks that a day of bloodshed and terror is “perfect, holy, peaceful, and sinless” is spiritually and morally blind. The horrors of war contradict the calling to blessedness, for they manifest the brokenness of human souls and relationships; indeed, they threaten to make such brokenness worse. They point humanity on a trajectory away from the nourishment provided for holiness that is the Eucharist. This threat may well be present even when waging war to protect the innocent or defend one’s homeland from unjust invasion becomes tragically necessary as the best that one can do

under the circumstances. Those who follow strictly the standards of Just War theory, both for going to war and for conducting it, may still bear the debilitating spiritual, moral, and psychological wounds that so often occur when people organize themselves to kill one another in a systematic way. And even what are thought of as the most just wars inevitably fall short of their espoused moral virtues in ways that often trouble the consciences of those involved for the rest of their lives. As an aging munitions worker from World War II wrote a few years ago, “I kept remembering the 300,000 old men and women and young pregnant mothers and children wild-eyed with fear who were killed when we firebombed Tokyo, and then there was what we did at Nagasaki and Hiroshima. And I loaded the fuses for those bombs and have lain awake at night wondering if there is forgiveness.”10 To be sure, the intentional bombing of civilian population centers falls well short of the kind of ethical discrimination associated with Just War theory. Nonetheless, even the most scrupulous adherence to such standards fails to remove the grave threat of harm to the soul invited by killing human beings. The Eucharist nourishes communicants for personal participation in the life of God by grace; it calls them to “lay aside all earthly cares” that impede mystical entrance into the banquet of heavenly peace. Moral and legal codes, in contrast, seek to direct and limit the forces of death in ways that serve the imperfect justice that is possible in a world of corruption. War, when viewed in the context of the Eucharist, manifests how humanity has not yet embraced the fullness of its healing. The spiritual dangers of warfare are not resolved by attempts to provide theoretical justification for

the morality of war. No matter how just or moral the shedding of blood may be according to philosophical or legal formulations, it risks a deep break in communion with the Lord and one’s neighbors. Nonetheless, those with blood on their hands may still finding healing for their souls. That the Orthodox Church has canonized many former soldiers as exemplars of holiness is a sign of hope that those traumatized by the ravages of war may find healing from all the corrupting influences of participation in military campaigns. For example, the great martyrs George and Theodore the Recruit were highly successful military commanders who bravely refused to obey commands to worship the pagan gods of Rome. They endured torture and death in making the ultimate witness for the heavenly peace of God’s kingdom. They are not recognized as saints because of their military service, but because their faithfulness to Christ was displayed by following his example in doing the opposite of what military virtue normally demanded. They disobeyed the orders of their earthly superiors and refused to defend themselves. Instead of shedding the blood of others, they offered their own blood to be shed. The same is true of the English King Edmund, the Serbian John Vladimir, and the passionbearers Boris and Gleb of Kiev, all of whom accepted death in a Christ-like fashion out of love.11 Their example demonstrates that those who have shed blood in war, even those who have had successful careers as military commanders, may still shine radiantly with holiness through personal union with Christ. His great self-offering is made present sacramentally in the celebration of the Eucharist: “Your own of your own, we offer unto you on behalf of all and The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

for all.” Certainly, physical martyrdom is not required for all warriors to grow in holiness. There are many other paths by which people may offer themselves to God and find healing of the corruptions that beset their souls. As Paul taught, “Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires” (Gal. 5:24). To kill the corruption of one’s soul requires personal union with Christ in his self-offering, for it is through him that human beings find the fulfillment of our ancient vocation to become like God in holiness. The victory of the God-Man over death enables human beings to become participants by grace in the eternal life of the Holy Trinity. Crucifying one’s passions is an extension of baptism into the death of Christ, into his healing of the corruption of the human person caused by sin. Such an ongoing death to the deleterious effects of sin is necessary in order to share in the healing and fulfillment of humanity brought by Christ’s resurrection. “We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life” (Rom. 6:4).

See Webster, The Pacifist Option, 184195; Bos and Forest, eds., For the Peace from Above, 143–149, 175-191.

As should all other Orthodox Christians, those who have shed blood must find healing for the disordered and misdirected desires that are the passions. Even as exposing one’s illness to a physician requires a kind of self-discipline, soldiers will pursue an ascetical struggle to accept therapy that restores them to spiritual health. Even as physicians prescribe different treatments for particular patients, spiritual fathers and mothers will guide them to greater strength by employing familiar therapies such as confession, prayer, fasting, almsgiving, and spiritual reading. Especially when the soldier’s brokenness has 29

Jean-Claude Larchet, Mental Disorders and Spiritual Healing: Teachings from the Early Christian East (Hillsdale, N.Y.: Sophia Perennis, 2005), 8. 12

Opposite Page: The Apostles receiving the Eucharist. Fresco at Church of Saint Nicholas Orphanos, Thessaloniki, fourteenth century.

contributed to strained family and other relationships, they may suggest appropriate efforts to heal those dynamics. Furthermore, they may refer those suffering from psychological disorders, such as PTSD or drug addiction, to clinicians who are professionally competent to address such issues. Jean-Claude Larchet recognizes that recourse to such therapists is nothing new, as “the Fathers were quick to recognize that some forms of mental illness had organic causes. For these they recommended such appropriate medical therapy as was available in their days.”12 Contrary to popular misconceptions, the journey of repentance is a positive process of offering oneself to God for fulfillment in the divine likeness. By embracing such therapies for their healing, those traumatized by the shedding of blood die to the corrupting effects of sin and enter more fully into the peaceable reign made present sacramentally in the Divine Liturgy. The Church’s pastoral care for sol-

diers should focus on how to bring those shattered by participation in the paradigmatic sign of human corruption into intimate personal union with the Prince of Peace. Its therapies should help them gain the spiritual clarity to see the severe tension between warfare and the irenic blessedness to which they are called. Their reception of communion will manifest that they have found the healing necessary to join in the heavenly banquet of the Messiah who rejected militarism to the point of accepting death at the hands of Roman soldiers. That soldiers may enter into the peaceable reign, and even become canonized as saints, demonstrates that Christ’s merciful healing extends to all with the spiritual clarity to approach him “with the fear of God and faith and love.” The Church’s response to those wounded by the ravages of war displays the integration of the liturgical and the therapeutic in the healing of souls and the salvation of the world.

The V. Rev. Philip LeMasters, Ph.D., is the pastor of St. Luke Orthodox Church and professor of religion and director of the honors program at McMurry University in Abilene, Texas. He is a member of the Board of Trustees of St. Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary. Fr. Philip is the author of Toward a Eucharistic Vision of Church, Family, Marriage, and Sex (Light & Life Publishing Company, 2004), The Goodness of God’s Creation (Regina Orthodox Press, 2008), and The Forgotten Faith: Ancient Insights From Eastern Christianity for Contemporary Believers (Cascade Books, 2014), as well as other books, articles, and reviews on Christian theology and ethics.

The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

field report

I’m Not a War Correspondent Iason Athanasiadis

ften while being introduced I have to explain that I’m not what I’ve just been presented as: a war correspondent. There’s a fundamental difference between those of us who cover a country or region because we want to explain it (in good times and bad), and that tribe migrating from conflict to conflict because of the thrill the process provides. Today it’s Grozny, tomorrow Sierra Leone, later on it’ll be Aleppo and Ukraine. It doesn’t much matter that they don’t speak any of the languages or know much of the history: war and humanity’s reactions when caught up in extreme situations speak their own dialect. My definition of war is that it’s what happens in any given society when amnesia afflicts critical demographics and they forget the consequences that egoistic and selfish behaviors usually have. When these groupings overstretch in their greed, a sensitive balance is lost. Destabilization usually follows.

This is a series of images I took in a region that I’ve dedicated my life to covering: the landmass stretching from Morocco to Afghanistan where

Arabic, Persian, and Turkish are spoken. It is a region where conflict isn’t rare but that doesn’t mean that its societies are afflicted by atavistic and unexplainable struggles, their roots lost in the mists of time; the presence of conflict doesn’t become an excuse to stop seeking the reasons for why things are as they are, a search that often unearths some personal culpability. I never once set out to cover a war, and plans to attend a few were overwhelmed by a sense that my presence could offer little of value in a space of heightened emotions and overburdened resources. Sometimes though, the curve of history or the economics of my profession dispatch me in the direction of a conflict happening in my region, at which point I engage in the kind of photography that often misses the conventional main story in favor of small but insightful details.

Libyans headed to the battlefield (Libya, 2011) At a graduation ceremony for army officers in Kabul, American trainers positioned the few female officers in the first row to give the impression that gender quotas were being filled (Afghanistan, 2010)

I end this series with an image of a Tunisian child running through the Roman-era city of Dugga. I like it because it portrays a state of innocence in an ideal world stripped of conflict and its attendant dislocating effects on humanity, cities, landscapes, and psyches.

Iason Athanasiadis covers the eastern Mediterranean, the Middle East, North Africa, and parts of central Asia. He studied Arabic at Oxford and Persian and Contemporary Iranian Studies in Tehran, and was a 2007 Nieman Fellow at Harvard. In December 2017, his work on formerly cosmopolitan ports was awarded the Anna Lindh Foundation Mediterranean Journalist Special Alumni Award. He lives between Athens, Istanbul, and Tunis.

The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

Young Libyan men walk through the derelict Courthouse Square in Benghazi, a few years after it was the focus of the Libyan Revolution (Libya, 2013) An American soldier sporting night vision goggles cuts an isolated figure in the middle of a floodlit market in an Afghan village close to Kandahar (Afghanistan, 2010)

Previous Page: A supporter of the Lebanese militant group Hizbullah sits atop a mound of rubble in a bombed-out district of Beirut that was believed to host many of the organizationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s command centers (Lebanon-Israel War, 2006)

A Syrian relative cries over her injured child in a refugee camp in Jordan (Jordan, 2014)

A celebrating Libyan stands on a burning tank on the day when NATO-backed Libyan rebels took over the Eastern Libyan town of Ajdabiya (Libya, 2011)

The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

A Lebanese man stands on the staircase of his once-lavish home in South Lebanon, a few days following the ceasefire between Israel and Lebanon in the 2006 war (Lebanon, 2011)

Libyan rebels in the Eastern Front retreat in the face of shelling by the government side (Libya 2011)

An American soldier aims his rifle during an operation in South Afghanistan (Afghanistan, 2010)

An internally displaced Iraqi boy waits for handouts at a United Nations-administered camp in East Iraq (Iraq, 2014)

The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

Next page: A Tunisian boy runs through the remains of the Roman city of Dugga (Tunisia, 2016)

A one-legged Syrian boy does his homework at a school set up in a refugee camp in Jordan (Jordan 2014)

A young Syrian refugee boy pauses while playing to shed a tear (Northern Iraq, 2014)

African migrants bed down in a model detention center in the Libyan capital of Tripoli (Libya, 2017)

Disabled Iranian veterans of the IranIraq War are paraded through the streets of Shiraz during a religious festival (Iran, 2005)

The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

war and christ

The Ascetics of War: The Undoing and Redoing of Virtue Aristotle Papanikolaou This article was adapted from the author’s chapter in Orthodox Christian Perspectives on War, ed. Perry T. Hamalis and Valerie A. Karras (Notre Dame, IN.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2017) Stanley S. Harakas, “The Teaching on Peace in the Fathers,” in Wholeness of Faith and Life: Orthodox Christian Ethics, part 1, Patristic Ethics, ed. Stanley S. Harakas (Brookline, MA: Holy Cross Orthodox Press, 1999), 154; Alexander Webster and Darrell Cole, The Virtue of War: Reclaiming the Classic Christian Tradition: East and West (Salisbury, MA: Regina Orthodox Press, 2004).

Forgetting Virtue

here is no “Just War” theory in the Orthodox tradition: on this much, there is widespread agreement. To be more precise, Orthodox thinkers agree that there is no Just War theory in the Orthodox tradition, in the form of distinctions between the criteria for jus in bello, or right conduct in war, and jus ad bellum, the right to go to war. There is also consensus that within the tradition there is discussion about the need to go to war. There is debate, however, about how going to war is characterized. For Fr. Stanley Harakas, one of the leading Orthodox ethicists, it is always a necessary evil. For Fr. Alexander Webster, under certain conditions, it is justifiable—which he distinguishes from “just”—and when it is justifiable, it is virtuous and of moral value. This difference, however, reveals a more implicit agreement between Harakas and Webster: although both agree that there is no Just War theory within the Orthodox tradition, both seem to operate within the moral categories and framework of the Just War tradition.1 What is remarkable about the entire debate is that there is little attention to what is arguably the core and central axiom of the Orthodox tradition—the principle of divine-human communion. Webster speaks of war as “virtuous,” and yet pays absolutely no at-

tention to the tradition of thinking on virtue in either the ascetical writings or in such thinkers as Maximos the Confessor; in both cases, the understanding of virtue is inherently linked to one’s struggle toward communion with God, or theosis. How exactly is claiming to have fought in a virtuous war, or to have killed virtuously, consistent with an understanding of virtue in light of the principle of divine-human communion? Is it really the case that being virtuous in war means moving toward a deeper communion with God? Webster does not give an answer to these questions.

The Vice of War To affirm that creation was made for communion with the uncreated is to affirm that all of creation is sacramental, always already shot through with the divine presence. There can be no “space” between the created and the uncreated, as it would make no sense to spatialize God. Creation is not given the capacity to “jump over” an abyss to meet the divine presence. Its task is to relate to itself and to God so as to tap its own potential, as a created “thing,” to manifest iconically the divine presence already there. Sin is not so much a missing of the target as a blocking of the divine that is “in all things and everywhere present.” Whatever the motivation and whichever way it is directed, violence is a

form of blocking of the divine presence, both in a social sense—that is, in the space of human-to-human and human-to-nonhuman relationships—and within oneself. War is pure violence, a set of practices that are unsacramental. Created reality is used to foster division, destruction, denigration, desperation, destitution, and degeneration; put simply, the demonic. This is not to say that there are not godly moments in the midst of war—loyalty, sacrifice, even love. As a whole, however, war is the realm of the demonic. Given this understanding of divine-human communion, one thing is certain: complicity in violence of any kind is damaging to one’s struggle for communion with God. Discussions of “justifiable war” may create the impression that as long as one is on the morally justified side of war, that should be enough to mitigate the existential effects of war and violence. On the contrary, there is plenty of evidence to indicate that the “side” one is on makes absolutely no difference to the non-discriminatory effects of violence in war. The only recent war for which there is little debate about the “right” side is World War II. Yet even in this case, the traumatic effects of combat are all too real. In Our Fathers’ War, Tom Mathews narrates the effects of World War II on his own father, who, after visiting the ground in Italy where his division fought the Germans and describing his own role, eventually breaks down, saying, “‘I killed a lot of people,’ . . . in a strangled voice that turned to a sob. ‘Jesus Christ . . . I killed so many people.’” Later at a restaurant, Mathews’ father looks at him “as if he’d just come out of electroshock. ‘What happened back there?’ he said. ‘I’ve never voiced that The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

stuff. Never’ . . . ‘Not to anyone. Not to myself.’” The father continues the reflection: “I hated the Germans. I did hate them. But it doesn’t matter. You look and you see something you hate in yourself, something atavistic, something deep in the bottom of the cortex. You don’t feel right. It doesn’t make sense. You should feel victorious. You should feel triumph. You don’t. Too much has happened. All you know is that you’re a killing machine.”2 This confession of the effects of war on Tom Mathews’ father comes after a life marked by a strained relationship with his son, infidelity, and addiction. There are more stories from World War II veterans like those of Tom Mathews, like all who were under the so-called “code of silence” and who fought for the “right” side - or, as Webster would call it, the “virtuous” side - was not given the space to express the effects that war had had on him.3 There is no shortage of stories about the trauma of war from soldiers who fought in the Vietnam War, or the most recent wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. One Iraq veteran named John—after a long stretch in which he was showing progress through treatment—cut his fiancée and her mother with a knife after an argument over bus schedules. He then cut himself, telling the police as they walked in, “see, it doesn’t hurt.” John could not immediately recall the event, but had to be told what had happened. 5

Tom Mathews, Our Fathers’ War: Growing Up in the Shadow of the Greatest Generation (New York: Broadway Books, 2005), 268–69. Emphasis mine.

See Wartorn: 1861–2010, HBO Documentary (2010)

See Jonathan Shay, Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character (New York: Scribner, 1994); Odysseus in America: Combat Trauma and the Trials of Homecoming (New York: Scribner, 2002); Nancy Sherman, The Untold War: Inside the Hearts, Minds, and Souls of our Soldiers (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2010); “Life After Death,” This American Life, July 18, 2008, http://www. thisamericanlife. org/radio-archives/ episode/359/ life-after-death; Dave Grossman, On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society, rev. ed. (New York: Back Bay Books, 2009).

In August 2010 at 4:00 AM, a rock was thrown through the window of my home randomly by teenagers, as confirmed by a neighbor who heard them outside his window. A few days later, and probably unrelated, the doorbell was rung at my home at 9:00 PM, and when I opened the door, no one was 45

“Life After Death.”

Shay, Odysseus, 166.

there. A few days after experiencing these two events, I was awoken during the night by a dream in which I heard the vividly clear sound of a police radio, and another dream in which I heard the sound of a crystal clear doorbell. In addition to this, for at least a month, I was “jumpy,” I made sure that all the lights around the house were turned on in the middle of the night, and I added a timer to the light inside the house so it would turn on in the middle of the night to deter would-be rock throwers. I would close all the shades in the evening, obsessively check all the doors before going to sleep, and wake up frequently in the middle of the night to check outside the window. I am absolutely in no way comparing my experience to combat; but, if something like a rock being thrown through a window can cause one to be mildly symptomatic, I can only imagine the long-term effects of experiencing the incessant violence of guns and bombs. More than 70 percent of combat veterans from the Vietnam War have

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Photo: U.S. Air Force/Nadine Barclay.

experienced at least one of the cardinal symptoms of PTSD at some time in their lives, even if they have not received the full syndrome diagnosis.6 Those who suffer from combat trauma often experience flashbacks to traumatic events, in which the primary image governing their emotional state is one of violence and impending threat to life. One would hope that sleep would give respite to such suffering, but combat trauma often causes recurring nightmares, and the lack of deep sleep leads to other inevitable emotional disturbances such as increased irritability and a tendency to anger. Beyond the recurring nightmares, combat veterans often simply cannot sleep because they have trained themselves for the sake of survival to be hyper-alert and to react to sounds that may, in combat situations, be life-threatening. As any good ascetic would know, such training of the body is not simply undone by returning home. What is most damaging to combat veterans who suffer from symptoms of PTSD

is the destruction of their capacity to trust, which inevitably renders meaningful forms of bonding with others impossible.7 If Jesus’ greatest commandment was to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind” and to “love your neighbor as yourself” (Matt. 22:37–39), then experiencing PTSD symptoms simply makes that impossible. What is most demonic about the violence of war is its power to debilitate the capacity to love and be loved. In addition to PTSD, a new category is emerging in order to distinguish a distinct state of being effected by a combat veteran’s participation in war. “Moral injury” is distinguished from PTSD in not being induced through a fear response.8 Moral injury refers to a state of being in which the combat veteran experiences a deep sense of having violated their own core moral beliefs. It may occur as a result of killing either combatants or non-combatants, torturing prisoners, abusing dead bodies, or failing to prevent such acts; it may also ensue even if there was no way for the combat veteran to avoid doing such acts. In the experience of moral injury, combat veterans may judge themselves to be worthless, unable to live with acts they have committed. Symptoms are similar to those as PTSD: isolation, mistrust of others, depression, addiction, emotional detachment, and negative selfjudgments. I have heard countless stories of combat veterans who admit that they are afraid to speak of all that they did in combat situations, for fear that the one to whom they speak will deem them unlovable. In a recent article in The New Yorker entitled “The Return,” a veteran from the Iraq War is quoted as saying: “I don’t want to tell my wife stuff. . . . I don’t want her to know that her husband, the person The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

she married, has nightmares about killing people. It just makes me feel like a monster. . . that she’ll hate me. . . What kind of person has dreams like that?”9 In the case of moral injury, it is not self-love as much as self-loathing without any mask of pride that is the obstacle to love. These and many similar stories and statistics reveal that there is an ascetics to war: either through the training received in the military, or through the practices that one performs in war to train for survival against constant threat of violence, war is the undoing of virtue, as it negatively impacts a combat veteran’s capacity for relationship with family, friends, and strangers. As Shay argues, war does not simply cause “lifelong disabling psychiatric symptoms but can ruin good character.”10 From the perspective of the principle of divine-human communion, the ruin of good character is not limited to the soul of the combat veteran; character is a relational category and the ruin of character is simultaneously the ruin of relationships.

Shay, Odysseus, 166.

On moral injury, see Brent T. Litz et. al., “Moral Injury and Moral Repair in War Veterans: A Preliminary Model and Intervention Strategy,” Clinical Psychology Review 29 (2009): 695–706; Rita Nakashima Brock and Gabriella Lettini, Soul Repair: Recovering from Moral Injury after War (Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 2012).

David Finkel, “The Return: The Traumatized Veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan,” The New Yorker, September 9, 2013: 36.

Shay, Achilles, xiii, 28–35, 169–87.

What Does Theosis Have to Do with War? On the surface, for those who suffer from PTSD as a result of combat or other trauma, talk of theosis or divine-human communion seems like a luxury. To some extent, the Orthodox have contributed to this perception of the irrelevancy of theosis to those who are in the midst of perpetual suffering, by linking deification to the monastic in the monastery, the desert, or the forest; add to this the tendency to describe theosis in supernatural terms— for example, being surrounded by divine light, battling demons, or eating with the bears. On my reading, the only place in the Orthodox tradition 47

Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma (New York: Viking Penguin, 2014), 207.

See Aristotle Papanikolaou, “Liberating Eros: Confession and Desire,” Journal of the Society of Christian Ethics, 26:1 (2006): 115–36; and Aristotle Papanikolaou, “Honest to God: Confession and Desire,” in Thinking through Faith: New Perspectives from Orthodox Scholars, ed. Aristotle Papanikolaou and Elizabeth Prodromou (Crestwood: SVS Press, 2008): 219–46. 12

13 Shay, Odysseus, 168.

where one can find stories of mundane theosis are in the novels of Fyodor Dostoevsky, such as in the person of Sonya in Crime and Punishment, and, ironically, of Leo Tolstoy, such as in the person of Pashenka in his short story “Father Sergius.” In order to have any relevancy for the experience of trauma, theosis must be de-monasticized and made more worldly. This more mundane form of theosis is rendered possible in the Greek patristic tradition in its linking of divine-human communion with virtue. In both the ascetical writings and those of Maximos the Confessor, communion with God—an embodied presencing of the divine—is simultaneous with the acquisition of virtue. Virtue is embodied deification. In his treatises Centuries on Knowledge and Centuries on Love, Maximos describes a trajectory of the acquisition of virtues, culminating in the virtue of virtues: love. For Maximos and for Dorotheos of Gaza, the virtue of humility must first be acquired before one can hope to love God and neighbor. Theosis, then, is nothing less than the struggle to fulfill this greatest commandment. Insofar as virtue is related to love, virtues build relationships of intimacy, trust, compassion, empathy, friendship, sharing, caring, humility, and honesty. All of this is apparently threatened by the experience of PTSD. Because virtues build relationships while vices destroy them, the ascetics of theosis must be relevant to those who attempt to undo the ascetics of war. If the ascetics of war is an undoing of good character, which is the destruction of the capacity for authentic relationships, then the challenge for combat veterans is to engage in tasks that lead to the redoing of virtue, which would increase their capacity for such

relationships, and for the embodied presence of the divine. Thinking about the healing of combat trauma along the lines of practices and virtues reveals the intersection of psychological literature on trauma and the ascetical-mystical tradition on virtue. The connecting category consists of practices, since the combat veteran must engage in a new kind of ascetics in order to combat the demonic images impacting their relationships to others as well as to themselves. One such practice that has been found effective in helping trauma victims is yoga. Bessel van der Kolk has shown conclusively “that ten weeks of yoga practice markedly reduced the PTSD symptoms of patients who had failed to respond to any medication or to any other treatment.”11 To address the effects of violence on learning, the Head Start Trauma Smart program has students engage in such practices as breathing exercises to help regulate anger. It issues breathing stars as rewards, realizing that traditional disciplinary methods based on fear, such as timeouts, are ineffective. The potential of regulating our breathing for helping with anger, depression, and anxiety could perhaps give us a new perspective on the Jesus Prayer.

fers to as stage one of recovery.13 Once such an environment is established, it is absolutely essential that the victim of combat trauma speak about the truth of the trauma and reconstruct a narrative of the event itself. Even to speak the truth about the trauma of war can be interpreted as an embodiment of the virtue of humility, in the sense of making oneself vulnerable, requisite to opening the self to loving and being loved. As Shay declares, “The fact that these veterans can speak at all of their experience is a major sign of healing.”14 Reconstruction of the narrative must also take place in the context of other persons, in the form of a community. Much as in Alcoholics Anonymous, the healing power of truth-telling depends not simply on telling the truth, but on who is listening. The rebound effect of truth-telling depends on the symbolic-iconic significance of the one listening. The healing power of this communalization of trauma may not always be staged through face-to-face encounter, but can also be realized, for example, in a community email con-

versation among Vietnam veterans. In the end, the veterans heal each other.15 The affective benefits of truth-telling might also require a listener beyond a community of combat veterans. Shay’s “clinical team has encouraged many of the veterans we work with to avail themselves of the sacrament of penance. When a veteran does not already know a priest he trusts to hear his confession, we have suggested priests who understand enough about combat neither to deny that he has anything to feel guilty about or to recoil in revulsion and send him away without the sacrament.”16 What this need for a form of truth-telling beyond the community of combat veterans reveals is that the experience of forgiveness needs another kind of listener, other than the empathetic combat veteran. Although the same ascetical practice, truth-telling to a variety of listeners does different kinds of work on the landscape of one’s emotions and desire. The chances are very high that the ascetics of war will lead some to engage in practices resulting in a felt need for forgiveness. Tom

Shay, Achilles, xxii.

Shay, Odysseus, 180–81, 166–68.

Ibid., 153–54.

Lance Page/ truthout, flic. kr/p/89iUMF.

Key to any redoing of virtue in both the psychological and the ascetical-mystical literature is the practice of truth-telling or confession.12 Both Jonathan Shay and Judith Herman in their experience with trauma victims attest to the basic truth that healing cannot occur until the trauma victim can begin to speak about the traumatic events. Truth-telling in and of itself is not sufficient for healing, but it is absolutely necessary. Also, truth-telling of trauma cannot begin until a safe and secure environment is established for the trauma victim—what Herman reThe Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

“Life After Death.”

Ibid., 160.

Mathews’ father felt this need, as did John, who could barely speak about how combat in Iraq lead to killing of kids whom he realized “could be your kids.”17 On the cosmic scale, other combat veterans cannot symbolize that forgiveness, cannot be the kind of listener that enables the realization of that forgiveness as an affective event. Someone like a priest is iconically charged to perform that role. There is an even deeper theological significance to the necessity of truth-telling as part of an ascetics of virtue that undoes the ascetics of war. First, it reveals that God meets someone in the truth of their concrete, historical situation. In the case of combat trauma, it is not a matter of first undoing the effects of war and then going off to the desert to achieve theosis; undoing the effects of violence is itself the desert in which the combat veteran finds himself in his struggle to (re)experience the presence of the divine. The ascetical struggle toward divine-human communion is en-

trenched in a particular history and a particular body, which then demands the virtue of discernment on the part of the community of combat veterans, the mental professional, the priest, and even family and friends, in order to extricate the combat veteran from the grip of the demonic. As Shay argues, “Modern combat is a condition of enslavement and torture.”18 The formation of communities of virtue, which presuppose truth-telling, mitigates and breaks the cycle of violence. Furthermore, neither sin that we commit nor sin committed against us can be forgotten, repressed, or denied. It is part of the fabric of the universe that the truth must be recognized, or it will haunt us in other forms. It is only by integrating the truth of sin into our narrative that it can then be neutralized in its effect. In the end, God is the God of truth, which includes the unique and particular truths of our narratives. God is therefore to be found in the verbal recognition of the truths of our narrative, no matter how horrific those truths may be.

Aristotle Papanikolaou is a professor of theology and the Archbishop Demetrios Chair in Orthodox Theology and Culture at Fordham University. He is co-director of the Orthodox Christian Studies Center at Fordham and a senior fellow at the Emory University Center for the Study of Law and Religion. He is the author and editor of numerous books, among them Orthodox Constructions of the West, The Mystical as Political: Democracy and Non-Radical Orthodoxy, and Being with God: Trinity, Apophaticism, and Divine-Human Communion.

war and christ

Just War and Orthodoxy: A Response to the Catechism of the Russian Orthodox Church Nicholas Sooy

n the summer of 2017, the Russian Orthodox Church released a draft of the Catechism of the Russian Orthodox Church for church-wide discussion and review.2 The document is quite controversial, both because it has few predecessors—leading many to wonder whether the Church should produce official catechisms—and, in particular, because it endorses ecumenism. Unfortunately for its critics, the second half of the text, which includes the comments on ecumenism, has already been approved and will not be changed. The fixity of this part of the Catechism is also unfortunate for another reason: it includes a section on war plagued by several historical and interpretive errors. This section, which is reproduced from the 2000 document The Basis of the Social Concept of the Russian Orthodox Church, represents the most significant departure from established church teaching within the entire Catechism.2

The relevant section begins on a strong foundation, proclaiming: “War is evil. Just as the evil in man in general, war is caused by the sinful abuse of the God-given freedom. . . . Killing, without which wars cannot happen, was regarded as a grave crime before God as far back as the dawn of the holy history” (IV.VIII.1). After this, however, the document claims that, “While recognising war as evil . . . war The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

is considered to be necessary,” so long as it is for the sake of restoring justice and protecting neighbors (IV.VIII.2). This statement is problematic insofar as it claims that Christians sometimes must commit evil actions. While it is a testament to the normativity of peace in this document that engaging in warfare is considered to be evil (even when such actions are obligatory), the claim seems nonetheless to be that Christians sometimes have a moral duty to do something immoral. “Necessary evil” is a dangerous category to codify in a catechism, and a more nuanced ethical theory is required. The Catechism continues immediately: “The Holy Church has canonised many soldiers, taking into account their Christian virtues and applying to them Christ’s word: ‘Greater love hath no man but this, that a man lay down his life for his friends’” (IV. VII.2). While it is true that there are many soldier-saints, no saint has ever been canonized for military accomplishments. Unlike in pagan cultures, the Church has never considered military valor a Christian virtue. The closest the Church has come to canonizing someone for military valor was the glorification in 2001 of the Russian war hero Fyodor Ushakov, who never lost a battle. But as Archpriest Maxim Maximov, a member of the Synodal Commission on Canonization, com-

Proekt Katekhizisa Russkoi Pravoslavnoi Tserkvi (Moscow: Synodal Biblical and Theological Commission, 2017). The draft Catechism may be read in full at theolcom. ru/images/2017/ КатехизисСББК_ Проект.pdf.

The Basis of the Social Concept of the Russian Orthodox Church, Chapter VIII (Moscow: Department of External Church Relations of the Moscow Patriarchate, 2000). Available in English at mospat.ru/en/ documents/socialconcepts/viii/. Translations in this essay are taken from the official English text.

Interview with Maxim Maximov, Voice of Russia, June 1, 2007.

mented during a radio interview with the Voice of Russia: “Admiral Ushakov was not canonized for his military heroism—this isn’t enough in itself for canonization.”3 By speaking of the canonization of soldiers immediately after implicitly endorsing the notion of “necessary evil,” the Catechism gives the impression that glorification should follow after soldiery rather than repentance. This contradicts Basil’s thirteeneth Canon, which requires returning soldiers to refrain from Communion for three years as a means of repentance. Furthermore, the Catechism’s quotation from the Gospel of John is misused as a proof-text in this context. Christ was speaking of himself when commenting on laying down one’s life. The interpretive context of this pericope has always been the crucifixion: it describes martyrdom rather than warfare. To paraphrase General Patton, in war you do not aim to lay down your life, but to make your enemy lay down his. Next, the Catechism quotes at length from the Life of St. Cyril the Philosopher: When St. Cyril Equal-to-the-Apostles was sent by the Patriarch of Constantinople to preach the gospel among the Saracens, in their capital city he had to enter into a dispute about faith with Muhammadan scholars. Among others, they asked him: “Your God is Christ. He commanded you to pray for enemies, to do good to those who hate and persecute you and to offer the other cheek to those who hit you, but what do you actually do? If anyone offends you, you sharpen your sword and go into battle and kill. Why do you not obey your Christ?” Having heard this, St. Cyril asked his fellow-polemists: “If there are two commandments writ-

ten in one law, who will be its best respecter—the one who obeys only one commandment or the one who obeys both?” When the Hagerenes said that the best respecter of law is the one who obeys both commandments, the holy preacher continued: “Christ is our God Who ordered us to pray for our offenders and to do good to them. He also said that no one of us can show greater love in life than he who gives his life for his friends (Jn. 15:3). That is why we generously endure offences caused us as private people. But in company we defend one another and give our lives in battle for our neighbours, so that you, having taken our fellows prisoners, could not imprison their souls together with their bodies by forcing them into renouncing their faith and into godless deeds. Our Christ-loving soldiers protect our Holy Church with arms in their hands. They safeguard the sovereign in whose sacred person they respect the image of the rule of the Heavenly King. They safeguard their land because with its fall the home authority will inevitably fall too and the evangelical faith will be shaken. These are precious pledges for which soldiers should fight to the last. And if they give their lives in battlefield, the Church will include them in the community of the holy martyrs and call them intercessors before God.” (IV.VII.2)

Cyril and the Abbasids] took place in the course of lengthy symposia, around a table laden with provender. . . . The Arabs cross-examined Cyril and were stunned by the extent of his knowledge. . . . The Byzantine mission’s visit ended with a guided tour of Samarra’s magnificent palaces and splendid gardens.”4 Thus, far from a combative dispute with hostile “Saracens,” Cyril’s work was as a peacemaker and diplomat among intellectuals, who were sharing in a cultural flourishing which included the translation of many works by Aristotle, Galen, Plato, and the Neoplatonists into Arabic by Christian scholars, and the work of Byzantine artists on the decoration of the new capital of Samarra. Second, the work of interpreting hagiography is complicated by the existence of multiple traditions. The ninthcentury Vita Constantini—the oldest extant life of Cyril—records a lengthy back-and-forth between Cyril and the

other scholars on a range of issues, but it does not record everything that is quoted in the Catechism. Cyril’s reply is simply, “God said: ‘Pray for them which despitefully use you.’ And He also said: ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ We do this for the sake of friends, lest their souls be captured together with their bodies.”5 Thus, the Catechism quotes from a later and evidently embellished version of Cyril’s life, one that appears to support the Catechism’s arguments, but fails to acknowledge the earlier tradition that gives an altogether different picture of the saint’s achievements.

4 Anthony-Emil Tachiaos, Cyril and Methodius of Thessalonica: The Acculturation of the Slavs (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2001), 32.

“The Life of Constantine,” trans. Marvin Kantor, in Medieval Slavic Lives of Saints and Princes (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1983), 39

In any case, the context provided by the Vita suggests that the best way to interpret Cyril’s remarks is not as an apodictic statement on the ethics of war, as it is taken in the Catechism. Rather, the Vita Constantini presents Cyril engaging in rhetorical exhibition. As any reader of Plato knows, symposia traditionally involved participants Bishop Cornelius of Volgodonsk and Salsk blesses Russian war planes (August 2015)

This appeal to the life of St. Cyril lacks nuance and is potentially misleading in a number of ways. First, we must recognize that, while this quotation claims that the saint was sent to “preach the gospel” and therefore implies that he was active as a Christian missionary without imperial concerns, other historical sources confirm that Cyril was sent on a diplomatic mission, to engage in peace negotiations on behalf of the Roman Empire with the Abbasid Caliphate. According to one scholar, “The discussions [between The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

St. Cyril, Equal-tothe-Apostles, by Mikhail Vasilyevich Nesterov (1890–94), in St. Vladimir’s Cathedral, Kiev.

at a great feast standing and giving speeches to demonstrate their rhetorical skill. Thus, when challenged with a difficult conundrum, it was expected that Cyril would reply with rhetorical elegance and answer the objection— which is precisely what he does. He begins with a rhetorical question, asking if it is better to fulfill one or two commandments. He then quotes two commandments, and claims that Christians fulfill both in warfare. The point made by the Vita is that Cyril excelled in rhetoric and dialectic. To have done anything less would have sabotaged the diplomatic negotiations and cultural exchange. Moreover, had Cyril denied Christian participation in warfare, he would have sabotaged the peace effort. It is important to acknowledge the difference which potentially exists between the rhetorical demonstration preserved in the hagiography and what might have been the considered theological statement of the historical Cyril. By failing to contextualize the words attributed to Cyril adequately, the Catechism presents a misleading picture of the Christian attitude towards warfare. The most problematic part is the saying attributed to Cyril that, “if [soldiers] give their lives in battlefield, the Church will include them in the community of the holy martyrs.” Without question, this demands further comment. Not only is this part of the speech absent in the earliest sources, but it contradicts established church teaching. In the tenth century, Emperor Nikephoros II Phokas requested that soldiers who die on the battlefield be glorified as martyrs. The Church soundly rejected this appeal, with Patriarch Polyeuktos appealing to Basil’s thirteenth Canon, which excommunicated soldiers, as demonstrating that warfare is a sin. Similarly, Canon 14 of Hippolytus states: “A Christian is not

sword, which the Lord has taken away? . . .The Lord afterward, in disarming Peter, unbelted every soldier.”6 The Catechism, in contrast with scripture and tradition, interprets this verse as justifying war—in the sense that if our enemies take up swords, they will die by our swords, since we will kill them. Following this dubious line of argument, the Catechism next introduces “Just War Theory” (JWT). The Catechism’s exposition of JWT should be commended for recognizing that it developed in the West rather than the East, in order to “curb the elements of military violence” (IV.VII.3). The theory was originally intended to promote peace, and not to justify war, which was already occurring and was viewed as a good by many in the West. War needed no justification: rather, it needed to be held accountable to justice. to become a soldier. . . . If he has shed blood, he is not to partake of the mysteries, unless he is purified by punishment, tears, and wailing.” Immediately after the section quoted above on Cyril, the Catechism continues: “‘They that take the sword shall perish with the sword.’ These words of the Saviour justify the idea of just war” (IV.VII.3). This is the most blatant misuse of scripture in the entire Catechism. The pericope quoted has never in the Orthodox tradition been understood as justifying warfare, but precisely the opposite. In context, Jesus was telling Peter to put away his sword and not to fight. Christ went on to say that if he wanted to, he could have called down an army of angels to fight, but that this was not the right way. In commenting on this passage, Tertullian writes: “How will [a Christian man] war . . . without a

Still, the Catechism would represent the first time that the Eastern Church had endorsed JWT. While certain Western authors such as Augustine did approach something like the modern idea of just war, it took several centuries before these reflections were known outside the Latin-speaking world, and even then they did not become authoritative. Stanley Harakas notes that it is not present in the Greek Fathers and that “no case can be made for the existence of an Orthodox justwar theory.”7 Or as John McGuckin states in his commentary on Basil’s Canon 13, “What this Basilian canon does most effectively is to set a No Entry sign to any potential theory of Just War within Christian theology.”8 It is both significant and dubious that the Catechism breaks with established Orthodox teaching in this way. The exposition of JWT in the Catechism is weak for a number of reasons. First, The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

the notion of Just War may be traced back to Cicero and ideas in natural law. Without explaining those origins, JWT makes little sense. One is left wondering how much of the philosophical underpinnings of natural law and Cicero are here endorsed. Secondly, the exposition follows certain elements of contemporary JWT but leaves out others. It excludes jus post bellum requirements—that is, conditions concerning the proper ending of a war—as well as a host of other obligations spelled out in the Roman Catholic catechism, including an unequivocal condemnation of nuclear weapons, a mandate to work for peace through internationalism and disarmament, a recommendation of nonviolence, and an elevation of the vocation of conscientious objection.9 By contrast, though the Russian Catechism endorses working for peace, it condemns those who practice “non -resistance to evil by force,” which would possibly include conscientious objectors, instead claiming the “Christian moral law deplores not . . . taking another’s life . . . but rather malice in the human heart” (IV.VII.4). So long as one does not hate one’s enemy, killing can be moral. Not only does this implicit condemnation of conscientious objection break with both canonical and Just War traditions, it also contradicts the earlier statements of the Catechism itself.

Tertullian, On Idolatry, in The Writings of Quintus Sept. Flor. Tertullianus, vol. 1, trans. Sydney Thelwall (Edinburgh, T. & T. Clark, 1869) 171.

Stanley Harakas, “No Just War in the Fathers,” In Communion (2003), incommunion. org/2005/08/02/ no-just-war-in-thefathers/.

John McGuckin, “A Conflicted Heritage: The Byzantine Religious Establishment of a War Ethic,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 65/66 (Washington: Dumbarton Oaks, 2012): 39.

Catechism of the Catholic Church (Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1993), §§2302–2317.

One of the ironies of the Catechism’s endorsement of JWT is that there actually is a historical relation between JWT and Orthodoxy, but not one that endorses war. The Just War tradition was influential in tenth-century France, when the pre-Schism Church held a series of “Peace Councils.” The first such council occurred in 975, when Bishop Guy of Le Puy threatened excommunication unless soldiers took an oath of peace. The ensuing Pax Dei or “Peace of God” movement can be 55

See Thomas Head and Richard Landes, eds., The Peace of God: Social Violence and Religious Response in France around the Year 1000 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992), 4. 10

George T. Dennis, Timothy S. Miller, John W. Nesbitt, eds., Peace and War in Byzantium: Essays in Honor of George T. Dennis, S.J. (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 1992), 52.

properly called the first peace movement in history, since the bishops who led it used relics and the cults of saints to draw large crowds that marched for peace. The bishops then issued several canons which anathematized those who acted unethically during war. These canons formed the basis for all subsequent “laws of war” in the West. In 994, at one of the Peace Councils, the bishops released the following statement: “Since we know that without peace no man may see God, we adjure you, in the name of the Lord, to be men of peace.”10 The Pax Dei movement eventually led to international laws outlawing warfare on certain days and restricting the weapons that could be used. The foundations of JWT thus lie in a pre-Schism Christian peace movement. The trajectory that originated with Pax Dei culminated in the Hague Conventions of 1899 and 1907, which saw the passage of the first international laws restricting war in the modern era and were the result of the strong peace movement at the time. The Hague Conventions were originally proposed and spearheaded by St. Tsar Nicholas II—the only Orthodox saint who has been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. The Orthodox Church, while never endorsing JWT, has thus influenced the development of the Just War tradition, which, throughout its history, has primarily been a peace tradition concerned with placing legal restrictions on warfare. None of this complex history is reflected in the Catechism. Furthermore, the introduction of JWT to Orthodoxy at this point in

history, when the Catholic Church has begun to say that “just wars” are now impossible due to technology, comes off as a step endorsing war rather than limit it, which has always been the point of JWT. The Catechism should either endorse all of the Just War tradition, with its emphasis on peacemaking and its privileging of conscientious objection, or it should refrain altogether from doing so. A superior position would be the traditional Byzantine attitude, which viewed war as evil, full stop, and always something of which we must repent. Consider, for example, the recorded statement of Emperor Justin II after returning victoriously from a military campaign: “Do not delight in deeds of blood, have no part in murders, do not repay evil with evil, and do not imitate me in my enmity.”11 It is striking that an emperor, at his moment of triumph, would still show repentance and chastise people not to glorify war. Even when engaging in warfare, Emperor Justin acknowledged that it was not just. In endorsing Just War theory, the new Catechism of the Russian Orthodox Church abuses scriptural, canonical, and hagiographic tradition, departing substantially from the received Orthodox view. At the very least, it would be preferable for the Catechism to get the sources right and show historical and philosophical nuance. But above all, it should be revised to proclaim Christ’s message of peace, rather than distorting his words to serve the ends of worldly power and war.

Nicholas Sooy is a doctoral student in the Philosophy Department at Fordham University. He is co-director of the Orthodox Peace Fellowship and chief editor of In Communion.

war and christ

Escaping the Conflict Spiral: A Gospel Approach Jenise V. Calasanti

eligion is often blamed for conflict, whether within a family, within a country, or between countries. Yet history and personal experience show that religious conflict is not what it seems to be. Conflict is laden with past hurts and persistent grievances. It seems at times unstoppable. This quality is a result of what is sometimes called an escalation pattern or conflict spiral, and it’s a result of two human characteristics: the need to form an identity and the capacity for memory. Escalation works by a simple and seemingly inescapable mechanism. Briefly put, once a conflict starts, instead of seeing each action that another performs in isolation, we tend to see others’ actions as part of the conflict. To use a simple example, we believe the person next to us on the bus is sniffling because he is angry that he no longer has a double seat, rather than because he has a cold. That simple situation is hugely multiplied when we have some emotional skin in the game; hence the fabled bitterness of family fights and civil wars. Conflict, once begun, tends to escalate rather than defuse. Even when it is latent, unresolved conflict is still present, and has a way of rearing its head whenever the other party does something that can be read in light of the conflict. This cycle feeds off itself; each action is seen as hostile and breeds a reaction of anger and fear. The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

As part of this escalation spiral, people start to see themselves as the just and justified parties. This is where the confusion about religion as the source of conflict comes in. In secular societies, it is hard to see religion as something intrinsic to a person’s identity, rather than something chosen, but for most committed religious people in the world, religion is something people are, rather than something they choose to be a part of. Religious differences sometimes become part of the justification process: we are just and the other group is unjust, because they have the wrong religious identity. Political, ethnic, and other social identities are also used this way: our party is the right sort of people and theirs is the wrong sort of people. The problem with this tendency to bind up conflicts with personal or group identity is that it adds a stubborn, emotional element to the conflict. Everyone needs to belong to a social group. No one likes to feel their social group is under attack. Most people will act defensively when attacked. These things are a matter of instinct. Conflict escalation is a theological problem, as all interpersonal problems ultimately are. We are always called to see Christ in others. The Gospels offer us a window into these behaviors, and a roadmap for escaping an escalating situation. For Orthodox Christians, there are two particularly 57

instructive passages. The first is the story of the Publican and the Pharisee from the Gospel of Luke. This most familiar of parables contrasts two men. One is an expert at justifying his sin by looking both to his religious identity and to the difference between himself and others. The second, whom we are meant to emulate, looks only at himself and sees where he falls short. Here, Christ is telling us that identifying with the “good people” and following the rules is not enough. Instead of looking at others and seeing their sin (a practice that makes us look better), we must look at ourselves and see our own sin (a practice that makes us look worse). This is uncomfortable and, when we feel ourselves being attacked, it runs against everything instinct tells us is right. Yet this is an essential first step to escaping a cycle of conflict. A gaze inward at our own faults, rather than outward at those of others, brings us compassion and understanding of the other and his or her actions. Forgiveness becomes possible.

The Beatitudes are also highly instructive in the context of conflict escalation. They ask us to be poor in spirit, rather than to look for ways in which we are right. They tell us that pain and mourning are part of life, and that we should in fact mourn how we fall short of who we are called to be. Mercy, meekness, a capacity to see others as God’s beautiful creations, making peace in defiance of one’s group, bearing up under persecution—these are what Christians are called to do, as we are reminded each week in the Liturgy. The Beatitudes read almost like

an instruction book on de-escalation, and they emphasize, again and again, the importance of compassion and forgiveness, even when we are persecuted, indeed especially when we are persecuted. One result of the Gospel message is the emergence, over the past few decades, of the idea of restorative justice. This is a process championed by a Christian leader, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, a driving force behind the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa. The commission later formed part of the basis for the Rwandan Gacaca courts. In both circumstances, wrongdoing was widespread and systemic, and a punitive justice approach was impractical. Both relied heavily on a process of truth-telling and forgiveness to bring communities torn apart by violence back together. Both used explicitly Christian wording: reconciliation, mercy, community. The pursuit of restorative justice is becoming more widespread, even in some American schools. It is not easy; it requires discipline and self-control. Yet its effects are stabilizing and give people a way to move into community with former enemies. Approaches like this one, based on radical forgiveness, are championed by Catholic and Anglican leaders as well as by Anabaptist “Peace Churches.” It is important for Orthodox Christians to be seen as part of this solution based on radical forgiveness, not because it raises our profile or betters our reputation but because mercy, peacemaking, and purity of heart are intrinsic to the Christian calling.

Further Reading Dean, Pruitt and Sung Hee Kim. Social Conflict: Escalation, Stalemate, and Settlement, 3rd ed. Boston: McGraw-Hill, 2004. Dina, Temple-Raston. Justice on the Grass: Three Rwandan Journalists, Their Trial for War Crimes, and a Nation’s Quest for Redemption. New York: Free Press, 2005.

Mahmood, Mamdani. When Victims Become Killers: Colonialism, Nativism, and the Genocide in Rwanda. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2001. Pumla, Gobodo-Madikizela. A Human Being Died that Night. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2003. Desmond, Tutu. No Future Without Forgiveness. New York: Doubleday, 1999.

Jenise Calasanti is a consultant, researcher, and writer with expertise in disarmament, cybersecurity, and genocide prevention and response. She has worked with the Public International Law and Policy Group, the Fund for Peace, NATO, and the Defence Academy of the UK. She is also a Returned Volunteer with the U.S. Peace Corps in Mauritania and holds an M.A. in International Peace and Conflict Resolution.

The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

poetry desk

Providing William L. Bulson

Meshuggenah. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m in the air and not even Jewish. I am just a son who runs and grabs for words at hand, and then promises at night to my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body (so far and dying), to wakefulness and stopping, to my wife and to the future of my children. My prayers compressed into work packed on a plane, into crazy sleep all bundled for the airport. When filial travel pricks my sleeping skin. I bleed into an altitude of love and contemplation starred with sacrifice. My sitting still flies back and forth again among unnumbered hopes. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be, from home, to offer binding thanks with a hurried knife.

poetry desk

So At Last Vsevolod Nekrasov Translated from the Russian by William L. Bulson

So at last without sarcasm without scent without west without the east clean northern air

William L. Bulson is an Anglican priest and poet living in Tokyo, Japan.

The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

state of affairs

Ethnophyletism, Phyletism, and the Pan-Orthodox Council Cyril Hovorun This article is based on a presentation given at a meeting of the European Academy of Religion in Bologna, June 18–22, 2017.

he Pan-Orthodox Council held in Crete in June 2016 established its succession to the Council held in Constantinople in 1872. Both councils dealt with the topic of nationalism, which the majority of scholars agree is a modern phenomenon: nationalism, and even national identity, constitute an intrinsic feature of modernity. Yet each of the two councils addressed this phenomenon in its own way. The Council of Constantinople gathered specifically to address the issue of nationalism at the time of the Bulgarian “national awakening.” The Council of Crete, in contrast, convened without a particular issue to solve. It met for the sake of meeting, in order to demonstrate the ability of the Orthodox churches to come together. Without such a council, the idea of “conciliarity” as the core of modern Orthodox identity would not stand. Crete dealt with the issue of nationalism on the margins. Despite this difference, I would argue that Crete handled the matter of nationalism in a more comprehensive way than Constantinople. First, the two councils tackled two different kinds of nationalism. One is ethnic nationalism, and the other is imperial or civilizational nationalism. The former helps shape an “imagined community” (to use the famous phrase of Benedict Anderson), which shares the

same language, culture, and ethnic origin. The latter also shapes an imagined community, but in this case the community may include several languages and cultures, as well as people with different ethnic backgrounds. Such a group places a greater value on its belonging to a common political milieu—in other words, an empire. When there is no acknowledged empire, people instead want to think that they belong to a common “civilization.” This sense of imperial or civilizational identity may lead to imperialcivilizational nationalism—a feeling of superiority over other civilizations. Imperial-civilizational nationalism is larger and less particularistic than ethnic nationalism. Nevertheless, it is not large enough for Christianity. Neither type of nationalism is compatible with Christianity, which is opposed to the idea of superiority on the basis of any criterion—including ethnic and civilizational criteria. Furthermore, these two types of nationalism are incompatible with each other either. The bloodiest battle in human history was between extreme examples of these two nationalisms: Nazism was a monster grown from ethnic nationalism, and its rival in World War II, Soviet Communism, was another monster, but one which grew from class-based quasi-imperial nationalism. The initial friendship between Stalin and Hitler (founded on their opposition to

the free democratic world) and their subsequent, deadly clash reveal the homogeneity of the two nationalisms on the one hand and the existential incompatibility of their purposes on the other. In some cases, both sorts of nationalism can be identified within a single nation. Take the recent history of the Greek people. Since the beginning of the struggle for the independence of a Hellenic state in the early nineteenth century, proponents of Greek ethnic nationalism were confronted by advocates of Greek imperial nationalism, such as Phanariots. Later, these bearers of imperial nationalism were succeeded by adherents to the idea of “Greek civilization,” as represented by the concepts of Megali Idea and Romiosyni. The two groups still wrestle with each other in modern Greek political discourses. For instance, the famous philosopher and publicist Christos Yannaras, who leads the group of “civilizational” nationalists, tirelessly attacks what he calls the “Neo-Hellenic” or “Helladitic” myopia of the modern ethnic nationalists in Greece. We can interpret the 1872 Council as one of the battlefields between ethnic and civilizational nationalisms. Ethnic

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particularism was condemned there under the name of “ethnophyletism.” However, it appears that it was condemned from the perspective of its rival, imperial-civilizational nationalism. The latter was supported by the Ottoman government, which pursued its imperialist aims, and by the Phanariots, who also had in mind the interests of the Ottoman Empire—as far as they coincided with those of what Arnold Toynbee would later call “the civilization of Hellenism.” It is remarkable that the Council of Constantinople was not attended or endorsed by the other churches which pursued ethnic agendas or represented an alternative imperial-civilizational nationalism, such as the Russian Church, which promoted Pan-Slavism. Instead, these churches perceived the Council as an attack by the Hellenic world against Slavic ethnic particularism. The 2016 Council dealt with a different sort of nationalism and did so from a different perspective. I would argue that the Pan-Orthodox Council in Crete addressed not only ethnic, but also—and primarily—civilizational nationalism. It both reaffirmed the condemnation of ethnic nationalism, by endorsing the Council of

An early twentieth century postcard showing the Bulgarian Orthodox Church of St. Stephen in Constantinople, set up as a result of the Bulgarian national awakening.

Delegates to the 1872 Council of Constantinople.

Constantinople of 1872, and tackled a particular instance of imperial-civilizational nationalism we now know as Russkiy Mir, or the “Russian World.” Before proceeding to analyze Russkiy Mir and its implied condemnation by the Pan-Orthodox Council, I must briefly address the matter of whether the condemnation of imperial-civilizational nationalism at Crete came from its rival ethnic nationalism or from an alternative “Greek World.” I think the Council of Crete stood above all these forms of nationalism, and its condemnation of nationalism was not inspired by any other sort of nationalism, but rather by a universal vision of Christian mission in the modern world. The 2016 Council of Crete, unlike that of Constantinople in 1872, was not attended exclusively by Greek-speaking churches. Also, unlike the Council of 1872, the 2016 Pan-Orthodox Council did not pursue the political agenda of any particular state. These and other factors made the 2016 Council correspond more closely to the ideal nature and purpose of Orthodox councils than even the Council of 1872. Of course, the Council neither mentioned the concept of “the Russian World” nor condemned it explicitly. Nevertheless, it dealt with the issue of four absent churches: Antioch, Moscow, Georgia, and Bulgaria. It has be64

come more or less common wisdom that the activity of the Russian Church was behind the absence of the other three. The strategy of the Russian Church in pressing other churches not to go to Crete is similar to the hybrid war that the Russian Federation currently leads in Ukraine. The Russians pretend they are not there, even though they send money, weapons, and troops (without military insignia). Russian propaganda presents the separatist groups in eastern Ukraine as acting on their own, but there is no doubt that the separatists would not last for even a few weeks without constant backing from Russia. The same can be said concerning the churches which did not go to Crete. Moscow pretends it has nothing to do with their decision to boycott the Council, but there can be little doubt that they would have attended if they did not have competing motivations stemming from allegiance to Moscow.

less-than-canonical solution given to the issue of the Diaspora.” In this and other speeches at the Council, there was severe criticism of the motivations of those churches who did not attend. Russian imperial-civilizational “phyletism” was the main reason for the absences. This reason was kept in mind by the fathers of the Council when they urged condemnation of phyletism: Russian civilizational phyletism threatened the rationale of the council per se—to meet for the sake of meeting and to demonstrate Pan-Orthodox unity. The condemnation of nationalism at Crete in 2016 was not only broader than at Constantinople in 1872—it was also harsher. The Council of Constantinople chose rather cautious language for its official statements: it called the Bulgarian Church that had separated from the Ecumenical Patriarchate an “illegal gathering” (parasynagōgē), and condemned “national differences” (phyletikai diakriseis) and controversies on “ethnic grounds” (ethnikē eris). It was only the official periodical of the Ecumenical Patriarchate, Ekklisiastiki Alithia (Issue 52, 1908), which applied stronger language, calling nationalism a “Bulgarian heresy”

(boulgarikē kakodoxia and heterodoxia) and an “anti-Christian doctrine” (antichristianikē didaskalia). Crete, in its official documents, called phyletism “an ecclesiological heresy”—a much stronger characterization.1

Encyclical of the Holy and Great Council of the Orthodox Church (Crete, 2016), 1:3.

The words “ethnophyletism” and “phyletism” are often usually used interchangeably. However, I would distinguish between them for the sake of clarity. I would prefer to use “phyletism” to refer to the imperial-civilizational sort of nationalism and would reserve “ethnophyletism” for the ethnic kind of nationalism. In these terms, we can say that the Council of Constantinople in 1872 condemned ethnophyletism, while the Pan-Orthodox Council of Crete in 2016 condemned both ethnophyletism and phyletism. An unnamed target of the latter Council was, in my opinion, the ideology of Russkiy Mir. Just as ethnic nationalism was the main enemy of the Council of 1872, so the civilizational nationalism of the “Russian World” appears to be the main target of the 2016 Council. More than a year after the council, a feud continues between the theology of the Council and the ideology of Russkiy Archbishop Chrysostomos II of New Justiniana and All Cyprus.

With this apparently in mind, Archbishop Chrysostomos II of Cyprus stated in his opening address: “In my opinion, the inter-Orthodox rivalries on account of ethnophyletism were the first reason why the preparations for the Council took so long. Ethnophyletism is what blocked the question of autocephaly and of the diptychs from coming to the Council, and it is also the cause behind the The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

Mir. At this stage of the reception of the Pan-Orthodox Council, the Russian World continues to undermine it. Thus, a group of supporters of Russkiy Mir in Ukraine, headed by Archbishop Longin (Zhar) of Bancheny, has anathematized the Council and wants to convene an “anti-council.” They are strangely allied with a group in Greece which is also opposed to the Council. This group combines its antiCrete sentiment with ethnic nationalism, of the sort which was condemned by the Council of Constantinople in 1872. Thus, some ethnic nationalists from Greece (and other countries) have formed an unholy alliance with the civilizational nationalists from Russia (and other countries), in a joint effort to undermine—and indeed, overthrow—the 2016 Great and Holy Council of the Orthodox Church. The councils of 1872 and 2016 both took place within, and are thereby confined by, the context of modernity. Opponents of these councils often criticize them for their modernism, but these groups are even more deeply anchored in modernity than the councils they criticize. These zealots curse modernity in their rhetoric, Protesters gather at the Maidan. November 2013.

but they remain fundamentally modern, because they are motivated by the nationalistic phenomena which are characteristic of modernity. The Pan-Orthodox Council of 2016 was more successful (and more irritating for its opponents) than the Council of 1872 in dealing with issues of modernity. In condemning imperial-civilizational nationalism in addition to ethnic nationalism, Crete filled a lacuna left by Constantinople. Without taking this step, the Orthodox Church would not have been able to leave the era of modernity. Now it can, and should, go beyond it. To conclude, I would like to suggest an alternative to these two types of nationalism: the civic self-awareness of nations. This self-awareness builds not on the idea of ethnicity or civilization, but on the idea of citizenry and its virtues upheld by civic society. Justice, solidarity, and political transparency are more valuable in this sort of national self-awareness than ethnic identity or civilizational messianism. These civic values are not much appreciated in the Orthodox world, yet they are not completely absent either. I believe that the Ukrainian Revolu-

tion of Dignity (2013–14) showed that civic awareness is possible even in an Orthodox context. The majority of the protesters who came to the central square of Kyiv—the Maidan—pursued its agenda. Remarkably, most Ukrainian churches embraced this agenda as well. Only a minority of protesters came to the Maidan with slogans in support of ethnic nationalism. The Russian aggression against Ukraine, which followed the victory of the Maidan, was a reaction against the rise of civic society. Russian propaganda, however, justified the annexation of Crimea and the war in eastern Ukraine as an attempt to “protect” the Russian World from Ukrainian nationalists. If we believed this propaganda, we might assume that, in Ukraine, there is a classic clash between civilizational and ethnic nationalisms, with the forces of the “Russian World” representing civilizational nationalism and the Ukrainians being moved by ethnic nationalism. However, we should not believe the Russian propaganda, because the civilizational nationalism of the Russian World attacked not Ukrainian nationalism but Ukrainian civil society, which had begun to emerge at that time. It was not Ukrainian ethnic nationalism but rather the Ukrainian civil meritocracy of the Maidan that became an existential threat to

the Russian kleptocracy. Certainly there were nationalistic groups at the Maidan in Kyiv, but they constituted a minority. The majority of the protesters stood for the dignity of each individual and not for the interests of a particular ethnic group. It is noteworthy that the first victims of shooting at the Maidan were not Ukrainians but a Belarusian and an Armenian. The self-awareness of the majority of the protesters was civic in nature, and this awareness constitutes an alternative to both ethnic and civilizational nationalism. Imperial-civilizational nationalism is incompatible with both ethnic nationalism and civic awareness. It is still an open question for me whether civic and ethnic awareness are compatible with each other. They coexisted in the Maidan, but began to separate from each other thereafter. In the postMaidan Ukraine, there is an increasing tension between civic and ethnic self-awareness. Russian aggression enhances the latter and weakens the former. Still, in my observation, the civic self-awareness in Ukraine is stronger than nationalism, despite the war. What I am sure about is that the next Pan-Orthodox Council should add to the condemnation of the historic forms of Orthodox nationalism an endorsement of the civic awareness of Orthodox Christians.

Archimandrite Cyril Hovorun is an associate professor of theological studies at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles and acting director of the Huffington Ecumenical Institute. He was previously chairman of the Department for External Church Relations of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church and first deputy chairman of the Educational Committee of the Russian Orthodox Church. He has published several books, including Ukrainian Public Theology (2017, in Ukrainian), Scaffolds of the Church: Towards Poststructural Ecclesiology (2017) and Wonders of the Pan Orthodox Council (2016, in Russian).

500 years of reformation

Five Hundred Years On: What Orthodox Christians Need to Know about the Reformation David Wagschal

hen I was asked by the editors of The Wheel to write something about the 500th anniversary of the Lutheran Reformation, I thought to myself: “What can I write about the Lutheran Reformation that might actually be useful to an audience of well-educated, open, and intelligent Orthodox Christians living in a Western context, who are genuinely curious about culture and the world around them?” It occurred to me that my own lived experience places me in an unusually good position to answer this question. I’m something that Orthodox don’t often encounter: I’m a reverse convert. Born a Lutheran, from an old Lutheran family that counts at least four generation of Lutheran pastors, I converted to the Orthodox Church at age nineteen. I was drawn by its sense of tradition, history, and liturgical beauty. Immersed in the lively and progressive ethos of the OCA in the nineties, I was inspired to pursue a career in the Orthodox Church as both an ecumenical officer and a professor of church history and canon law. I served in the administration of the Orthodox Church in America, obtained a doctorate in the history of Eastern canon law, and briefly taught at St. Vladimir’s Seminary.

Then, in my late thirties, after something of a theological crisis, I returned to the Lutheran church. My journey into Orthodoxy had been fascinating, sometimes wonderful, sometimes painful; but I realized that it was time to return home. This journey has left me in the rare position of knowing the Orthodox church exceptionally well from “the inside”—still not very common in the Western academy—while also possessing intimate familiarity with a Protestant tradition. What insights can I offer from this vantage point? Broadly, I’ve come to realize that the Orthodox relationship with Protestantism is more complex and more intimate than most people realize. I’ll offer a few observations and a few challenges. An Unknown World My first observation, born from long experience in the Orthodox world, is a simple one: most Orthodox still don’t know much about Protestantism. The Orthodox are very accustomed to thinking of themselves as the unknown quantity, as the neglected tradition that perpetually needs to

be highlighted, distinguished, and introduced to other traditions: they are the “forgotten other.” But within Orthodox circles, I’ve been struck by the degree to which the opposite is true. While there is a certain familiarity with Roman Catholicism, Protestantism remains very poorly understood in the East. Converts aside (and sometimes even then), it’s relatively rare, for example, to find an Orthodox who’s actually read a classic of Protestant theology or literature—or who could even name one. Eastern seminaries rarely treat Protestant theology. And within Orthodox discourse stereotypes abound: Protestants are seen as biblical fundamentalists, or as wild-eyed liberals, or as having no sense of tradition, or as a bunch of rationalists, or maybe as a bunch of “emotionalists”—and they are almost always seen as wildly fissile and with little sense of Church. Especially striking is the fact that Orthodox often have little or no sense of the different types of Protestantism. Lutheranism and Methodism or Calvinism and Pentecostalism are arguably more different from each other than, say, Orthodoxy is from Roman Catholicism, or even Orthodoxy from Calvinism. Yet most Orthodox tend to think of Protestantism as a uniform phenomenon. Many Orthodox would be surprised to learn that Anglican theological methodology is closer to their own than Roman Catholic; or that Lutheran sacramental theology probably reads closer to Byzantine than medieval scholastic formulations. But these subtleties—which are not really subtleties!—usually get lost. Orthodox should do better than this. Whereas Western Christians have made considerable strides in the last fifty years or so in attempting to unThe Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

derstand and appreciate the East, the opposite movement is still mostly wanting. An attitude seems to persist in the East that either the Orthodox don’t need to know anything about Protestants, or that the little they know is all that matters (this is, incidentally, an old Byzantine viewpoint on anything non-Byzantine). Based on my own experience, this is a serious misjudgment. Until I began to engage with Protestant theology in earnest, I really didn’t realize the extent to which Protestant theologies are truly different from anything I had encountered in the Orthodox tradition. For someone used to the Fathers, or medieval theology, Luther is like a thunderbolt. Love him or hate him, Luther is something very new and “other”: he has a startlingly different take on the Gospel, the Church, the Bible. What is more, he suggests an entirely different ethos or way of doing theology. In this, Protestant theology is much more unknown in Orthodox circles than most Orthodox realize. There is a lot here they truly don’t know.

The Protestant Within My next observation stands in seeming contradiction to the first. It is that, while the Orthodox don’t consciously cultivate much interest in Protestantism, the influence of Protestantism on Orthodoxy—especially in the West— is in fact incredibly pervasive, though strangely unacknowledged. This was first driven home to me when I taught Orthodox students in seminary contexts. Listening to the seminarians’ basic instincts and desires for building a vibrant Orthodox church in the twentieth century, the church historian in me began to realize that virtually all of their ideas—truth be told—had their pedigree in the Prot69

estant Reformation: vernacular in the liturgy, biblical literacy, flattening of the hierarchy, emphasis on preaching, congregational singing, re-emphasis on the value of marriage, a strong sense of “spiritual equality” among people, more representative forms of governance, and so forth. Theirs was a virtual checklist for the Reformation! Conversely, much of what they didn’t like was often arguably more properly Orthodox: the strong ascetic/monastic tradition (and particularly the idea of any kind of spiritual “elite”), the purity tradition, the “incremental” (“ladder”) virtue tradition, the heavily stratified social and metaphysical universe, a high value on hierarchical authority, and so on. I also realized, however, that this phenomenon extended far beyond a few westernized seminarians. The more my knowledge of Protestant theology grew, the more I recognized that many modern Orthodox theologians are deeply steeped in Protestantism. Kallistos Ware is an excellent example. Once you read a little nineteenth century Anglican history, it becomes impossible to read him as anything other than a late manifestation of Anglican Pope Francis greets Archbishop Antje Jackelen, primate of the Lutheran Church of Sweden, during a 2017 celebration of the 500th anniversary of the Lutheran Reformation.

Tractarianism, a kind of Eastern Newmanism. John Zizioulas? Here the influence is more secular, but his critical milieu is nevertheless defined by early twentieth century existentialist theology, much of it Protestant. What about the Russian religious philosophers and the Slavophiles? Well: read Hegel and the Hegelians. Among the more recent theologians Protestant influence may be even greater. The theology of John Behr, for example, resonates strongly with that of Karl Barth and the Protestant post-liberals. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t make these observations to denigrate or detract from the achievements of these Orthodox theologians in any way. Quite the opposite: Orthodox theologians should be in active conversation with the broader Christian world, and they’ve clearly appropriated these Western theologies in many interesting and creative ways—and of course have something new to offer. But what is strange—and a bit troubling—is that this deep and vital internal engagement with Protestant (and Roman Catholic) theology co-exists with an almost complete external disinterest in this theology and even

disavowal of its influence. I challenge my Orthodox academic friends to self-reflect critically a little on this dynamic: why this peculiar silence? What is going on here, and what purpose does it serve?

Dismissing Protestantism One result of this strangely indirect and ambivalent relationship with Protestant theology is that the Orthodox can easily fall into the trap of dismissiveness or even contemptuousness of Protestantism and its ideas. You frequently encounter the attitude that, if Protestants simply understood even a little about Orthodoxy, they would immediately convert: that the Protestant theological objections to Orthodoxy are really without any grounds, and can be easily and swiftly dispensed with. The correctness of Orthodoxy is “obvious,” so Protestants need to be endured in their naïveté (or stubbornness) until they see the light. This attitude is perhaps born from the “perfect storm” of the Orthodox both lacking a particularly sustained or direct academic engagement with Protestant theology while at the same time being unaware of how deeply their own Orthodoxy is influenced by Protestantism. This makes it possible to criticize and dismiss straw-man expressions of Protestant theology confidently, while simultaneously assuming that other, profounder Protestant streams are Orthodox tradition. So the Orthodox might criticize the excesses of certain modern Protestant liturgical practices while every week enjoying congregational singing, the text in the vernacular, and a Bible study following the Liturgy. Or they might find fault with the worldliness of some Protestant parliamentary processes while nevertheless enjoying nuThe Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

merous protections against the abuse of hierarchical authority in their own Church—protections that have their origins in Protestant church orders and the theology of the “priesthood of all believers” (not to mention the Enlightenment). Or they might excoriate the “individualism” of the Protestant doctrinal world while still expecting to be able to ask questions of their priests, to be doctrinally educated, to receive a creative sermon each week, and to understand their own tradition fully. You can see how this situation can quickly degrade into a routine contemptuousness: in effect, you can easily decide that all the weaknesses of Protestantism are Protestantism’s “proper” characteristics, while all its strengths are your own tradition! Weirdly, this dismissiveness seems especially common among converts from Protestantism. My experience might give a clue why. I converted to Orthodoxy when I was nineteen. My knowledge of church history and doctrine was probably above average for someone of my age, but it was nevertheless that of a teenager. So while I went on to grow and develop an adult understanding of Orthodoxy, my perception of Protestantism was frozen at an earlier stage of development. Psychologically, this made it much easier for me to be dismissive towards Protestantism: I was in effect always dismissing the perceptions of Protestantism of a romantic nineteenyear-old smitten with Orthodoxy! A similar situation probably prevails when converts come from more radical fringes of Protestantism, where some of the doctrines are truly extreme (creationism, Biblical literalism, and so forth). It’s not difficult to understand why such converts adopt a 71

dismissive attitude towards their Protestant background. For them, Orthodoxy represents a very big step up in theological complexity. It’s their first real experience of an intellectually rigorous tradition.

Pushing Back Whatever their source, I think it is useful to push back against some of the most common Orthodox dismissals of Protestantism. “Beyond and Above Western Debates” The first is the idea that critiques of Protestantism simply don’t apply to Orthodoxy. This is the idea that Protestantism is so locked in a proprietary “Western” theological worldview that it can’t even comprehend the categories and methods of Eastern theology: Orthodoxy stands outside of, and Commemorative objects for the 500th anniversary of the Lutheran Reformation appeared across the world in 2017, including these nutcrackers of Pope Benedict XVI and Martin Luther.

above, the Western Reformation debates. Protestant theology therefore doesn’t even have the possibility of critically engaging Orthodoxy. On a superficial level, there is of course some truth to the idea that, until recently, Protestantism and Orthodoxy developed with little direct contact with other. Historically they come from quite different traditions, with different languages, and there have been relatively few moments of profound interchange. But on a deeper level, the notion that Protestants don’t fundamentally understand Orthodoxy is profoundly untrue. If there is one thing I’ve learned spending the last five years reading Luther, it is that Luther had his finger exactly on the pulse of Orthodoxy as surely as he did on that of Roman Catholicism. His critique cuts

to the core of both traditions, because he knows precisely what makes the old late antique “imperial” tradition tick, whether Eastern or Western. In fact, it’s astonishing, almost uncanny, to watch how deftly and systematically this obscure German monk is able to identify and critique all the central pillars of the late antique synthesis (something, ironically, that only my knowledge of Orthodox theology has allowed me to appreciate): mimesis, spiritual-ontological stratification, salvation as ascesis/virtue/growth, deification, Christianity as a practice of exegesis, faith as knowledge (rational or contemplative), and so forth. In fact, it may be that—because Luther’s critique delves so deeply, to the very roots of not only the “imperial synthesis,” but actually to the whole classical Greco-Roman tradition itself—the Orthodox can simply miss how serious and on-point a challenge Luther represents. Focused on the “upper stories” of specific atonement theories, or attitudes toward the Bible or sacramental theology, Orthodox readers fail to notice that the real critique is happening much lower down, at the very foundation of the whole edifice. So the idea that the Protestant tradition doesn’t “get” the East is quite wrong. Protestant theology gets Orthodoxy a whole lot better than the Orthodox think. The Protestants simply disagree. And the Orthodox might want to learn why. “Centuries of Tradition” One aspect of Orthodoxy that the Orthodox feel Protestants are particularly unable to appreciate is the significance of tradition. They feel Protestants are simply irrational to discount the validating power of centuries of historical continuity in form,

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practice and belief. I understand this assumption very well. I shared it. How could the Protestant narrative of church history jump so blithely from the first century to the sixteenth—almost as if the Church didn’t exist until then—and attach so little authority to the intervening centuries of liturgical, doctrinal, legal, and other development? This always seemed profoundly unwise to me. But I slowly came to understand why Luther and the other reformers could be so unconcerned about tradition. I had missed two important things. First, proponents of “tradition arguments” tend to idealize the late antique and medieval tradition as a huge, rich, variegated body of practices and beliefs that was gradually tested and refined, and ultimately shaped into a rich, time-tested consensus. But we forget that the Christianity of, say, the fourth-eleventh (and even up to the fifteenth) centuries, while diverse to a point, was in many respects a remarkably univocal and static phenomenon. At its core, it was basically the cultural Christianity of the southern Mediterranean of the late classical period (fourth through sixth centuries). Via its legal “establishment” in the empire in the fourth century, and successor polities, it maintained its integrity and stability for centuries via legal, political, and cultural enforcement—let’s not imagine free debates flourishing! Of course it developed numerous local permutations and particularities, but throughout most of this period it was remarkably impervious to real critique or change: the fundamental categories, instincts, and ontology of the late antique world remained determinative for almost all later developments, and were virtually never seriously challenged. And most of the debates 73

that did happen hardly scratched the roots of fundamental assumptions (to ask, for example, whether deification is a good idea). So for Luther to reject the authority of this tradition is not quite as unreasonable as it may first appear. He was essentially questioning one relatively narrow and local synthesis, and one that legal and political authority largely insulated from serious critique. It just happens that almost everything until the fifteenth century was dependent upon this one local synthesis.

Here I must say that the Orthodox liturgical tradition is very special: it should be regarded as a major treasure of world Christianity. The Orthodox liturgy played a significant role in my own attraction to the Orthodox Church. I loved the sacramental spirituality, the contemplativeness, the premodern “unconsciousness” of the theology, the ritual and tactile communication, and so on.

But a few reality-checks:

First, it is entirely possible to not be attracted to the Orthodox aesthetic at all. I’ve known many people who don’t like the music, the rituals, or the art. Does this aversion reflect some spiritual defectiveness on their part? I don’t think so. It’s taste. Some people like jazz; some don’t. Some like Beethoven; some don’t. Some people like

The second thing I didn’t fully appreciate were the problems inherent in doing theology as a matter of “battling traditions”—problems which become quite apparent when one surveys the history of Orthodox–Roman Catholic relations (for example, check out the azymes controversy). Luther was trying to imagine a new way of doing theology in which orthodoxy would be defined not by levels of adherence to a sprawling tradition—where everything takes on truth value—but by adherence to a simple substantive Gospel message: salvation by grace alone, through the death and resurrection of Jesus. Beyond this, everyone could maintain whatever tradition he or she chose—as long as it inculcated this Gospel. This, I think, is neither irrational nor unwise. “The (Most) Divine Liturgy” One final and more popular-level point where I think Protestantism is often simply dismissed: liturgy. The Orthodox tend to believe—as a kind of obvious point—that their liturgical and aesthetic experience is intrinsically superior to that of others and contains something which all others both lack and need. 74

“Your Luther was wrong about many questions!”

“To err is human...and what I like about your pope is his humanity.”

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Slavic/Greek/Coptic/Syriac art and music; some don’t. More importantly, even for those of us who are attracted to it, I feel obliged to say that love of the Orthodox liturgy can dim. This was certainly the case for me. Over time I became increasingly sensitive to its weaknesses. Yes, there are some theologically brilliant bits, but there are also long stretches of semantic aridity. Yes, the premodern allusiveness and associativeness of the texts is intriguing and stimulating, but this can come at the cost of coherence and intelligibility. Yes, the length and number of services can represent a refreshing discipline, but they can become genuinely wearing and draining. Yes, the cultivation of an aura of sacredness and hierarchy can be conducive to certain types of prayer, but the distance they create between clergy and laity, men and women, sacred and profane can quickly become alienating and exclusionary—and inhospitable to prayer. Yes the ritualism can be rich, a whole different “vocabulary” of worship, but it can descend into a starched and suffocating atmosphere where ritual propriety wins over kindness and respect for the worshipers. And broadly, if you aren’t part of the liturgical production—as a member of the choir or clergy, a reader, or something similar—the experience is markedly passive. I didn’t really realize how true all of this had become for me until I returned to the Protestant world. I can’t tell you how relieved I was by the simplicity and naturalness of Protestant worship. It was a breath of fresh air to see women and men serving communion, touching the altar, reading, preaching, leading the worship. There is something profoundly good about the sense of ease that permeates how 75

Protestants gather, move, and interact with each other when they come to worship God. Even the annoying “infantilism” of so much modern Protestant liturgical practice (a strange phenomenon) was oddly refreshing: I actually wept when some of the very simple songs and tunes conveyed to me something that, to be honest, I hadn’t felt in many years: an overriding message of complete acceptance and love. After twenty years years of Orthodox heaven, I was happy to return to Protestant earth. My point in all of this is not that the Orthodox liturgy is bad or the Protestant good. It’s simply that the Orthodox liturgy has its strengths and weaknesses, just as the Protestant liturgy has its strengths and weaknesses. It’s a great thing for Protestants to experience the Orthodox liturgical tradition, but the opposite is every bit as true too! Delegates of the seventeenth Plenary Session of the International Joint Commission on the Theological Dialogue between the Lutheran World Federation and the Orthodox Church, Helsinki, Finland, November 2017

Final Thought On this 500th anniversary of the Reformation, what do I want to leave The Wheel readers with? Over the past century or so the Orthodox have been engaged in a process of rediscovering and retrieving their own identity in the face of a dominant Western theological narrative. This has been a critically important process for global Christianity. One result of this process, however, has been to encourage Orthodox thought to confine itself to a discourse of perpetual introduction, self-promotion, and contradistinction. This tendency can discourage substantive engagement with other theological traditions, and can lead to stereotyping and blanket statements of rejection, while deflecting attention for important points of influence.

I hope that Orthodox discourse will enter a new, and deeper, phase of encounter with broader Christian theology. I hope that there is now a sufficient level of “safety” for the Orthodox to feel a real comfort—a sense of relaxedness—with conversation about how Orthodox theology has and should engage with broader streams of thought. Evidence of this could emerge in a few forms. I would love to see, for example, modern Orthodox theologians regularly, openly, and extensively situate their theology in its broader contexts—to enter directly the conversations in which they are, in fact, already indirectly engaged. I would love to see histories of Orthodoxy theology written which routinely explore the extensive cross-pollination of Orthodoxy with Reformation and (actually, more

importantly) Counter-Reformation thought. I would love to see Orthodox seminaries explore and appreciate their own locatedness in Western thought—and possibly hire some Protestants and Catholics to assist with this. All of this will require a renewed sense of confidence and peace of mind—a kind of theological apatheia, to put it in Eastern terms. It will require not fearing challenge and not fearing self-critique; it will require a sense of fallibility; it will require a deep sense of trust that truth is God’s, not ours. Of course nobody is particularly good at any of these things. But I think the Orthodox have a lot of resources and a lot of strength: a move in this direction is far from impossible.

David Wagschal’s academic specialty is the history of Byzantine church law with a broader emphasis on late antique and early medieval cultural history. He has worked for both the Orthodox Church in America and St. Vladimir’s Seminary, and has served in numerous ecumenical bodies. At present he works in academic administration in Toronto. His current interests include Martin Luther, political theology, and the question of church reform and revival in the post-Constantinian context. When not researching or blogging, he enjoys camping, chopping wood, and teaching adult-ed at his small Lutheran parish in metropolitan Toronto.

The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

500 years of reformation

Is There Anything Orthodoxy Can Learn From the Reformation? Petre Maican Martin Luther, “The Ninety-Five Theses” (1517), in Martin Luther’s Basic Theological Writings, ed. Timothy F. Lull and William R. Russell (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2012), 10.

God, Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, And wisdom to know the difference. —Attributed to Reinhold Niebuhr

he Reformation is often presented in Orthodox circles as a disaster from which there is not much to be learned. My intention is to offer an alternative view. Using the work of Romanian theologian Dumitru Stăniloae (1903–93), I argue that there is something the Orthodox Church should learn from the Reformation and especially from Lutheranism: namely, that faith requires personal commitment from every member of the Church, and not only from those deciding to pursue a monastic life. Before explaining why this insight is important and how it is relevant for Orthodoxy today, I must address a preliminary question: Can the Orthodox Church, as the church that possesses the fullness of truth, learn something from history? The answer is yes, so long as we continue to confess that we are the new people of God on our way to perfection. Throughout the Old Testament, we find that God communicates his will to his people through various historical events, most of them extremely tragic. As the new people of God in Christ, we should consider that God has never

ceased to speak to us. Every significant event taking place outside or inside the Church is God’s way of guiding us to the heavenly land, telling us how to improve our spiritual life. Thus, how could the Reformation, one of the most traumatic moments in the history of the Church, not have anything to teach us? But what can we learn from the Reformation? The Reformation—and I will refer here specifically to Luther— shows how important personal commitment is for faith. Luther’s revolt against the papal indulgences and his call for a return to the life of the early church springs mostly from pastoral concern. As Luther articulates in his thirty-ninth thesis: “It is very difficult, even for the most learned theologians, at one and the same time to commend to the people the bounty of indulgences and the need of true contrition.”1 Buying indulgences allowed his parishioners to feel saved without changing anything in their lives. By pointing out that works are the result of our communion with Christ, Luther wanted to cut off the danger of indulgences and to reduce the gap between personal life and declared beliefs. A true Christian, for Luther, should act only in accordance with this name, without expecting any reward.

Orthodox polemical discourse as individualism. Yet for theologians seeking to learn from history in order to help the people of God get closer to spiritual fulfilment, this purported individualism hides something more. It is actually “the sensitive expression of the personal relationship between the individual human being and his God.”2 Or to put it differently, Reformed “individualism” is born out of the human being’s desire to follow God and to fulfill God’s will conscientiously in all aspects of her existence. That this desire for individual communion with God can sometimes be exaggerated should not turn us away from the important message it contains: faith cannot be dissociated from the personal experience of God.

This emphasis on personal engagement with faith is often presented in

This re-evaluation of the Lutheran Reformation, which places it in a light

Lucas Cranach the Elder, Portrait of Martin Luther, 1532.

The Wheel 12 | Winter 2018

that would allow Orthodoxy to learn something from it, belongs to Romanian theologian Dumitru Stăniloae. Stăniloae was far from being a liberal or a relativist. Quite the opposite. For Romanians, Stăniloae is more than a theologian. He is a spiritual father. He worked unceasingly to make the treasures of Orthodox spirituality accessible and contemporary to the Romanian faithful. His two main contributions were a Romanian translation of the Philokalia and his book Orthodox Dogmatic Theology, a volume that brings together the ascetical experience of the Philokalic Fathers with the dogmas of the Orthodox Church in a way that is still relevant for contemporary readers. It is this Philokalic spirit that allows Stăniloae to see the world and its dramatic history as God’s way of guiding his people further on their path to eschatological fulfilment.

Dumitru Stăniloae, Theology and the Church, trans. Robert Barringer (Crestwood, NY: SVS Press, 1980), 184.

Dumitru Stăniloae, introduction to Filocalia, 2nd ed., vol. 1 (Sibiu: Institutul de Arte Grafice, 1947), viii.

Pew Research Center, “Religious Belief and National Belonging in Central and Eastern Europe,” May 10, 2017.

Stăniloae saw the personal commitment to God that the Reformation required from every believer as acutely important for the Orthodoxy of his day. The main reason behind his translation of the Philokalia into Romanian was his conviction that the spiritual writings of the Fathers should be incorporated into the lives of ordinary believers. In the introduction to the second edition of the first volume, Stăniloae says that the Orthodox talk very well about the dogmas of their faith and say many interesting generalities about them, but they do not know how to put these generalities into practice in their everyday lives.3 It is through the writings of the spiritual Fathers that we can learn how to live our faith and advance in communion with God. And although these writings were meant primarily for a monastic audience, Stăniloae argues that there should not be any separation be-

tween laypeople and monks. We are all called to perfect our lives in Christ and to put into practice the dogmas we profess. For those familiar with the spiritual landscape of Eastern Europe, Stăniloae’s concern with the lack of personal engagement with the Orthodox faith will ring timely. Although more people identify as Orthodox than ever before and monastic life has flourished across the region, the engagement of laypeople with their faith is very limited. A recent survey has shown that of the millions of Orthodox believers in Eastern Europe, only a minority attend the Liturgy weekly, read Scripture, or pray.4 Most Orthodox seem to believe that confessing their faith is enough for their salvation. It is in this context that we, as Orthodox, must appreciate the Reformation’s emphasis on personal commitment to faith.

Petre Maican is an Orthodox theologian who holds a Ph.D. in systematic theology from the University of Aberdeen. His research interests include ecumenical ecclesiology, modern Orthodox theology, theology of history, theology of culture, and Christian mysticism.

“That which he has not assumed he has not healed; but that which is united to his divinity is also saved. If only half Adam fell, then that which Christ assumes and saves may be half also; but if the whole of his nature fell, it must be united to the whole nature of him that was begotten, and so be saved as a whole.” – Gregory of Nazianzus

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