Dormition is one of the Twelve Great Feasts of the Christian faith. Of course, this is a great preaching opportunity, so we here at Preachers Institute, are offering an article on Dormition and a few things which we hope you will find valuable as you prepare this festal sermon.

1. Preach the Gospel

Don’t forget to preach the Gospel – tell your listeners the Good News! The only reason we are celebrating Dormition at all is because of the incarnation, suffering, death and resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ. In fact, the feast of the Dormition is, indeed, a feast of resurrection! Be sure to make this connection to every listener with clarity. You may wish to treat this feast as a real opportunity to preach the Resurrection to those who may never get another chance to hear it!

This is a resurrectional feast!

2. About the Feast Itself

The word ‘Dormition’ simply means ‘falling asleep’ – the biblical idiom for a believer’s death.

The Dormition (Falling Asleep) of the Theotokos is one of the Great Feasts of the Orthodox Church, celebrated on August 15. This feast is called the Assumption in the western churches, and commemorates the death, resurrection and glorification of the Virgin Mary, Christ’s mother. It proclaims that Mary has been “assumed” by God into the heavenly kingdom of Christ in the fullness of her spiritual and bodily existence.

The Tradition of the Church is that Mary died as all people die, not “voluntarily” as her Son, but by the necessity of her mortal human nature which is indivisibly bound up with the corruption of this world.

The Orthodox Church teaches that Mary is without personal sins. In the Gospel of the feast, however, in the liturgical services and in the Dormition icon, the Church proclaims as well that Mary truly needed to be saved by Christ as all human persons are saved from the trials, sufferings and death of this world; and that having truly died, she was raised up by her Son as the Mother of Life and participates already in the eternal life of paradise which is prepared and promised to all who

“hear the word of God and keep it.” (Luke 11:27-28)

The services of the feast repeat the main theme, that the Mother of Life has

“passed over into the heavenly joy, into the divine gladness and unending delight” of the Kingdom of her Son. (Vesper verse)

The Old Testament readings, as well as the gospel readings for the Vigil and the Divine Liturgy, are exactly the same as those for the feast of the Virgin’s nativity and her entrance into the Temple. Thus, at the Vigil we again hear Mary say:

“My soul magnifies the Lord and my Spirit rejoices in God my Saviour.” (Luke 1:47)

At the Divine Liturgy we hear the letter to the Philippians where St. Paul speaks of the self-emptying of Christ who condescends to human servitude and ignoble death in order to be

“highly exalted” by God his Father. (Philippians 2:5-11)

And once again we hear in the Gospel that Mary’s blessedness belongs to all who

“hear the word of God and keep it.” (Luke 11:27-28)

Thus, the feast of the Dormition of the Theotokos is the celebration of the fact that all men are “highly exalted” in the blessedness of the victorious Christ, and that this high exaltation has already been accomplished in Mary the Theotokos. The feast of the Dormition is the sign, the guarantee, and the celebration that Mary’s fate is, the destiny of all those of “low estate” whose souls magnify the Lord, whose spirits rejoice in God the Saviour, whose lives are totally dedicated to hearing and keeping the Word of God which is given to men in Mary’s child, the Saviour and Redeemer of the world.

Finally it must be stressed that, in all of the feasts of the Virgin Mother of God in the Church, the Orthodox Christians celebrate facts of their own lives in Christ and the Holy Spirit.

What happens to Mary happens to all who imitate her holy life of humility, obedience, and love.

With her all people will be “blessed” to be “more honorable than the cherubim and beyond compare more glorious than the seraphim” if they follow her example. All will have Christ born in them by the Holy Spirit. All will become temples of the living God. All will share in the eternal life of His Kingdom who live the life that Mary lived.

In this sense everything that is praised and glorified in Mary is a sign of what is offered to all persons in the life of the Church. It is for this reason that Mary, with the divine child Jesus within her, is call in the Orthodox Tradition the Image of the Church. For the assembly of the saved is those in whom Christ dwells.

3. About The Dormition Fast

For the first fourteen days of August during each year, the Holy Orthodox Church enters into a strict fast period in honor of the Mother of God, the Virgin Mary.

Every Orthodox Christian is aware and generally knows the reason behind the fasts for Pascha and Christmas. But while they may know of the Dormition Fast, few follow it, and more than a few question why it is there, neither knowing its purpose.

First, given the pervasive misunderstanding of the purpose of fasting itself, a refresher on its purpose is always a good idea. There is a perception that we should fast when we want something, as though the act of fasting somehow appeases God, and seeing us “suffer” gets Him to grant our request. Nothing can be further from the truth. It is not our fasting that pleases God, it is the fruits of our fast (provided we fast in the proper mind set, and do not merely diet) that please Him.

We fast, not to get what we want, but to prepare ourselves to receive what God wants to give us. The purpose of fasting is to bring us more in line with another Mary, the sister of Lazarus, and away from their sister Martha, who in the famous passage was

“anxious and troubled about many things.”

Fasting is intended to bring us to the realization of

“the one thing needful.”

It is to help us put God first and our own desires second, if not last. As such it serves to prepare us to be instruments of God’s will, as with Moses in his flight from Egypt and on Mt. Sinai, as well as our Lord’s fast in the wilderness. Fasting turns us away from ourselves and toward God. In essence it helps us become like the Theotokos, an obedient servant of God, who heard His word and kept it better than anyone else has or could.

So why do we fast before Dormition?

In a close-knit family, word that its matriarch is on her deathbed brings normal life to a halt. Otherwise important things (parties, TV, luxuries, personal desires) become unimportant; life comes to revolve around the dying matriarch. It is the same with the Orthodox family; word that our matriarch is on her deathbed, could not (or at least should not) have any different effect than the one just mentioned.

The Church, through the Paraklesis Service, gives us the opportunity to come to that deathbed and eulogize and entreat the woman who bore God, the vessel of our salvation and our chief advocate at His divine throne. And as, in the earthly family, daily routines and the indulgence in personal wants should come to a halt. Fasting, in its full sense (abstaining from food and desires) accomplishes this. Less time in leisure or other pursuits leaves more time for prayer and reflection on she who gave us Christ, and became the first and greatest Christian.

In reflecting on her and her incomparable life, we see a model Christian life, embodying Christ’s retort to the woman who stated that Mary was blessed because she bore Him: blessed rather are those who hear His word and keep it. Mary did this better than anyone. She heard the word of God and kept it so well, that she of all women in history was chosen not only to hear His Word but give birth to it (Him). So while we fast in contemplation of her life, we are simultaneously preparing ourselves to live a life in imitation of her.

That is the purpose of the Dormition Fast. (source)

4. Why Is Dormition So Important?

The eminent Orthodox theologian, Fr. Sergei Bulgakov, beautifully expresses the high regard which the Orthodox Christians have for the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Mother of God, for her special role in the salvation of mankind, when he affirms,

“The warm veneration of the Theotokos is the soul of Orthodox Piety.”

St. John of Damascus, one of the great Orthodox fathers, pointed out that when the Blessed Virgin Mary became the Mother of God and gave birth to Christ, the Redeemer of Mankind, she became the mother of mankind. We call the Virgin Mary “Theotokos”, from the Greek, which means “The Birth-Giver or the Bearer of God.”

Why not refer to her simply as the Blessed Virgin Mary? Because, there are many holy Marys who were virgins, but there is only one Theotokos.

This is the highest title that can be bestowed upon any member of the human race.

The Theotokos, the Virgin Mary, was

“blessed amongst women,”

and she was chosen

“to bear the Savior of our souls.”

We, therefore, as Orthodox Christians, consider her to be the Queen of all the saints and the angels.

Knowing that she holds such a high place in the Kingdom of Heaven and that she is eternally present at the throne of God interceding for mankind, we, as good Orthodox Christians, must pray for her love, guidance, and protection. We must never forget to ask for her intercessions in times of sickness and danger, and we must constantly thank her for her care and her prayers in our behalf.

The word “paraclesis” has two different meanings: the first is “consolation,” from which the Holy Spirit is called the “Paraclete,” or “Consoler”; the second is “supplication” or “petition”. The Service of the Paraclesis to the Theotokos consists of hymns of supplication to obtain consolation and courage. It should be recited in times of temptation, discouragement or sickness. It is used more particularly during the two weeks before the Dormition, or Assumption, of the Theotokos, from August 1 to August 14.

The theme of these Paraclesis Services centers around the petition…

“Most Holy Theotokos, save us.”

Since these Paraclesis Services to the Theotokos are primarily petition for the welfare of the living, let the whole Church pray for you during the first fifteen days of August and especially on the Great Feast of the Dormition of the Theotokos on August 15th.

5. Special Blessings on Dormition

It is the custom in some churches to bless flowers and herbs on the feast of the Dormition.

It is the final Great Feast on the Christian Calendar. Thus, as a symbol of all believers, the liturgical year begins with the Nativity (birth) of the Theotokos, and ends with her Dormition (falling asleep).

© 2011, Fr. John A. Peck. All rights reserved.

A question is just as likely to convey truth as to seek it. If asking questions is a good way of learning, it is an even better way of teaching, Good teachers ask questions. Consequently, Jesus chiefly employs the interrogatory form as a mode of teaching. Jesus asks questions, moreover, just about as much as he tells parables. For this reason, we need to consider Jesus more closely as the Teacher, the Rabbi.

The Semitic expression “Rabbi” appears to have been a title most readily applied to Jesus during his public ministry. This usage is best preserved in John’s Gospel, where “Rabbi” (or “Rabbouni,” my Rabbi) is a standard way for people to address Jesus (John 1:49; 3:26; 4:31; 6:25; 9:2; 20:16). The word essentially means “Teacher.”

The first time John wrote “Rabbi,” however, he made a point of translating it into Greek—Didaskalos—perhaps because not all his readers were familiar with the Semitic term. This was the early occasion when “two disciples heard [John the Baptist] speak, and they followed Jesus. Then Jesus turned, and seeing them following, said to them, ‘What do you seek?’ They said to Him,

“Rabbi” (which is to say, when translated, Teacher), ‘where are You staying?’” (1:37-38).

The equivalence of Rabbi and Didaskalos was also indicated in the first words Nicodemus spoke to Jesus: “Rabbi, we know that you are a Didaskalos come from God” (John 3:2). John also provides the Greek translation of “Teacher,” when Mary Magdalene calls Jesus “Rabbouni” (John 20:16). Often enough, as well, John simply sticks with the Greek Didaskalos, instead of the Semitic word (8:4; 11:28; 13:13-14).

Mark, who goes the furthest in maintaining original Semitic expressions in his story of Jesus, also preserves “Rabbi” or “Rabbouni” as a title by which the disciples addressed Jesus (cf. 9:5; 10:51; 11:21; and, alas, 14:45). More often, however, Mark simply provides the Greek word (5:35; 14:14), especially in the case of direct address (4:38; 9:17, 38; 10:17, 20. 35; 12:14, 19, 32; 13:1).

Luke, who apparently had Gentile Christians in mind, avoids the Semitic “Rabbi,” as a reference to Jesus. He always uses the Greek Didaskalos (7:40; 8:49; 9:38; 10:25; 11:45; 12:13; 18:18; 19:39; 20:21, 28, 39; 21:7; 22:11).

More curious—and provocative of comment—is Matthew’s selective avoidance of “Rabbi” in reference to Jesus, probably because of a reluctance to place Jesus within the same category as those Jewish leaders who opposed the Gospel (cf. Matthew 23:7). In Matthew’s version of the Gospel, Jesus is called “Rabbi” only twice—both times by Judas Iscariot! (26:25, 49)

Indeed, it appears that for Matthew the title “Rabbi” was to be eschewed altogether (cf. 23:8). Hence, when he calls Jesus “Teacher,” he generally sticks to the Greek Didaskalos (8:19; 9:11; 12:38; 17:24; 19:16; 22:16, 24, 36; 26:18).

(With respect to the title “Rabbi,” it is worth remarking that not all Christians have emulated Matthew’s avoidance of the expression. In spite of the injunction to “call no man Rabbi,” Christians in the Middle East, as late as the eighth century, felt no scruple in addressing their priest as “Rabbi” [cf. John of Damascus, Letter on Confession 9].)

Thus, in one form or another—and constantly by implication—the first disciples thought of Jesus chiefly as “Teacher.” And, as Teacher, Questioner, because controlled and directed questioning is an effective form of pedagogy. Questions actively engage the students’ mental processes. When lectured to, the person takes in what the teacher says, but when questioned, the same person is invited to formulate a thought, to engage the lesson in the active processes of his own mind.

On occasion Jesus’ questions served the purpose of engaging the disciples in either a discussion or an activity, making them participants in an event. One recalls how he engaged Philip at the time of the multiplication of the loaves:

“Jesus lifted up His eyes, and seeing a great multitude coming toward Him, He said to Philip, ‘Where shall we buy bread, that these may eat?’ But this He said to test him, for He Himself knew what He would do” (John 6:5-6).

What, then, was accomplished by this question to Philip, since Jesus already “knew what He would do”? His question here served the purpose of evoking the assistance of the apostles in what was about to take place.

Jesus did not ask that question for Philip’s sake, I believe, but for Andrew’s. They were a pair. He knew that wherever you saw Philip, Andrew must be nearby (cf. Mark 3:18; John 12:22). The question was apparently meant to be overheard by Andrew, who promptly replied,

“There is a lad here who has five barley buns and a couple of dried fish” (6:9).

Now, they could get started!

Thus, by putting to Philip a question to which he already knew the answer, Jesus transformed these apostles from mere spectators to active participants in the experience of the multiplication of the loaves. It is they who will seat the people for the meal (6:10). It is they who will distribute the bread and fish (6:11). In this scene, then, Jesus’ question both commences the event and provides for its participatory structure.

Something similar was at play, it seems, when Jesus asked the blind man at Jericho,

“What do you want Me to do for you?”

Jesus knew the man was blind, so why did he ask the question? Well, it served as an invitation for the blind man (Bartimaeus, Mark tells us) to ask—to engage Jesus in a give-and-take. It elevated the blind man to something more than the recipient of a blessing. It engaged him as a person. The question was a summons, a bidding, an invitation to express and take possession of his faith in Jesus. And, in fact, this is exactly what happened:

“He said, ‘Lord, that I may receive my sight.’ Then Jesus said to him, ‘Receive your sight; your faith has made you well’” (Luke 18:41-42)

It is no wonder that Mark finishes this story by remaking of the blind man,

“And immediately he received his sight and followed Jesus on the road” (Mark 10:52).

© 2011, admin. All rights reserved.

by Fr. Patrick Henry Reardon

In Jewish worship, it was customary to address God as “Father.”

Abinu, Malkinu—”Our Father, our King” has always been a standard praise formula in the synagogue. It is not surprising, therefore, that we find this form of address in the teaching of Jesus, even as we find it in His own prayer (Matthew 11:25-26; 26:39, 42; Mark 14:36; Luke 22:42; 23:34, 46; John 11:41; 17:1, 5, 11, 21, 24, 25).

When, in His sermons to the people, Jesus had spoken of God as their Father, the ascription contained nothing to which His adversaries could object. No Pharisee would complain at being told,

“Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them” (Matthew 6:26).

Nor would the declaration,

“your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things” (6:32),

give offense to the high priest. The Jewish leadership recognized these convictions as compatible with the teaching of the Torah and the Prophets.

It was quite another matter, however, to hear a Galilean carpenter say, “I am one who bears witness of Myself, and the Father who sent Me bears witness of Me” (John 8:18). How could they endure to hear,

“I do nothing of Myself; but as My Father taught Me, I speak these things”? (8:28).

In those instances in which Jesus speaks to God as Father, the prayer reveals an intimacy with God for which Judaism provides no real parallel. The term expresses the uniqueness of His relationship with the Father. For example,

“I thank You, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that You have hidden these things from the wise and prudent and revealed them to babes. Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in Your sight. All things have been delivered to Me by My Father, and no one knows who the Son is except the Father, and who the Father is except the Son, and the one to whom the Son wills to reveal Him” (Luke 10:21-22).

All along, Jesus’ enemies had complained of what they saw as His casual attitude toward the Law—especially the Sabbath—but this talk of God as His Father went much further:

“Therefore the Jews sought all the more to kill Him, because He not only broke the Sabbath, but also said that God was His Father, making Himself equal with God” (5:18).

It is important to consider these high assertions of Jesus as reflective of His life of prayer. It was in prayer that Jesus most intensely experienced this intimate communion with His Father. This was the source of His assurance that

“I and the Father are one” (10:30).

Thus, when Jesus spoke of God as “My Father,” the expression was not a metaphorical reference; He was not saying, “God treats me like a father treats his son.” “My Father” was not an external ascription that could be re-phrased into some other intelligible form. The semantic force of “My Father,” from the lips of Jesus, was unique, personal, and utterly literal. “Father” was no figure of speech. The name “Father” expressed, rather, the unique relationship of Jesus to God. This man, Jesus of Nazareth, inwardly knew the Father—by being one with Him—in a way not otherwise available to human beings.

Indeed, no one could know Jesus as He was known by this Father:

“All things have been delivered to Me by My Father, and no one knows the Son except the Father” (Matthew 11:27).

The astounding gift of Jesus to His disciples was the invitation to partake of His own intimacy with the Father. When He proclaimed,

“Nor does anyone know the Father except the Son,”

He went on to add,

“and the one to whom the Son chooses to reveal Him.”

This offer to share His relationship to the Father was the immediate context for Jesus’ summons:

“Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (11:28).

Matthew’s version of the Lord’s Prayer conveys this relationship with the Father, the relationship that Jesus shares with believers. The “our” of “Our Father” forbids us to separate this prayer from Jesus’ revelation of His Father to believers. To be a “child of God” means to partake of Jesus’ relationship to the Father. Thus, the “our” includes the believer’s union with Jesus in this common prayer to the Father. This was the summons given at the glorification of Jesus, when He spoke of

“My Father and your Father, and My God and your God” (John 20:17).

Patrick Henry Reardon is pastor of All Saints Antiochian Orthodox Church in Chicago, Illinois. He is the author of Christ in the Psalms, Christ in His Saints, and The Trial of Job (all from Conciliar Press). He is a senior editor of Touchstone.

© 2011, admin. All rights reserved.

Scripture separated from its context can be confusing, misleading, and even destructive. Take the well-worn Bible college criticism of the way Orthodox and Roman Catholic faithful address their clergy, Matthew 23:9 (call no man father). The literal application of Mark 16:19 (snake-handling) is downright scary. Women’s southern summertime fashions being what they are, I’m grateful that no one is advocating an exact application of Mark 9:47 (if your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out).

The ripping and twisting of scripture is not the sole domain of the folks who think that mega-churches are “non-denominational” and that the Orthodox Church was “founded” in the 19th century with the rise of nationalism. We Orthodox also know how to play the game of “Bible pick and choose.” My favorite contemporary Orthodox exegetical distortion is Luke 15:4:

“What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness, and go after the one which is lost, until he finds it?”

America’s Orthodox Christians look at the beautiful image of the Good Shepherd returning home with the lost little lamb around his neck and say to themselves “Let’s find all of the people who have ethnically Orthodox last names and get them ‘back’ in the pews!” Behold, another Lost Sheep Committee is born.

For all of the Lost Sheep Committees that have come and gone, this is an evangelical paradigm that has yielded little or no fruit. Why? Persons with “Orthodox” last names who don’t live the life of the Church do so by choice. They are sheep who have fled the flock — if they are even sheep at all. More importantly, Lost Sheep Committees don’t work because they are based on faulty exegesis. Luke 15:4 must be placed in the broader setting of verses four through seven:

15:4 “What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness, and go after the one which is lost, until he finds it? 15:5 And when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders, rejoicing. 15:6 And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and his neighbors, saying to them, Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost.’ 15:7 Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.” (Emphasis added.)

Jesus uses the image Luke 15:4-7 to tell us that He is the good shepherd who calls each human being to repentance, and to remind us that His redemptive ministry is focused not on maintaining the status quo of the righteous but on the reclamation of the fallen. If we are to follow the words of the Lord, then we must go after the lost sheep. We just need to make sure that we know who those lost sheep are.

Who the Lost Sheep Aren’t

Igor Czht came to the United Stated from Slobovia when he was in his early twenties. After spending a couple of years working for his cousin in Chowderland, USA at the Chowderland House of Pottery (Slobovians are renowned pottery makers), Igor moved south to Countryland, USA. Twenty years after arriving in America, he operates the lucrative Countryland House of Pottery. He spends Saturday evenings consuming copious amounts of Slobovian brandy and playing cards and passes his Sundays fishing on his pontoon boat. He last sat through Liturgy two years ago, when his mother was visiting from the old country.

When Igor is asked why he doesn’t come to church, he answers with no hesitation: “They’re too judgmental.”

“But the priest, Father Boris, is energetic and hard working.”

“He’s the worst. He hates all Slobovians.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“I don’t need to. I’ve heard all about him at the Slobovian Men’s Club.”

“But Father Boris’ dad was Slobovian and he speaks the language. He even co-authored the book “Slobovian Pottery and the Major Feasts of the Church.”

“Look,” says Igor. I don’t need to go to no gee-dee church to be no gee-dee Christian.”

Igor might be described as a certain four-legged animal with three letters in its name, but he is certainly no lost sheep. He has never been part of the flock and has no recognition of his need for repentance. Yet, Orthodox churches around the country spend countless hours wringing their hands over the fact that the Igors of the world could care less about the Church.

Am I saying that Igor doesn’t deserve a phone call, card, or a visit? Of course not. But wasting too much of the parish resources on getting Igor “back” in Church is irresponsible. Worse than Igor’s not participating in the life of the community would be Igor’s hanging around the parish with the destructive attitude that he harbors. Instead of reclaiming a lost sheep for Christ, the parish would be deliberately introducing a disease into the flock.

Who the Lost Sheep Might Be

Panagiotis and Panagiota Pappas moved to Countryland three months ago. For a long time they had no idea that there was an Orthodox parish in their new city. The Slobovian parish has a one line listing in the white pages and their website has been under construction since the days of dial-up. When Panagiota finally found the number for the parish, someone answered the phone “Slobovian Church.”

Undaunted, she and Panagiotis drove to Liturgy the following Sunday. They drove past the church the first time (the sign is three feet by three feet). Then they drove around the block twice trying to find the entrance into the parking lot. After walking into the narthex, they were shown which were the “one-dollar” and which were the “five-dollar” candles. After the Liturgy, the priest made a point of welcoming “Mr. and Mrs. Panagiotis” and invited them to come next door for coffee hour-where no one spoke to them.

The Pappas’ are sheep in search of a flock. Meeting their needs requires only a little more money and a little less parochialism. Instead of placing their light under a bushel, the Slobovian parish needs to spend some money on a decent phonebook ad and Web presence. Dare I say it? Even an occasional radio spot would be nice.

Get some signage that helps people find the church. Do something about the parking lot traffic flow. At least pretend to be happy to see visitors. And please, please, please stop calling yourself the “Slobovian Church.”

Who the Lost Sheep Are

Jane and John Whitebread live in a 2800 square-foot house in a gated community. Both are educated and have good jobs. Jane was raised Baptist, but hasn’t set foot in church for years. John’s folks were never part of a faith community.

The Whitebreads work hard. Like most Americans, they enjoy creature comforts that antiquity’s royalty couldn’t even dream about. John goes through a bottle of scotch per week, and Jane is into retail therapy. Weeknights they fall asleep on the couch and love seat watching cable news. Saturday evenings are spent having gin and tonics with the neighbors.

They wake up with headaches Sunday morning. John stumbles out to the curb and retrieves the Sunday paper. A pot of coffee and a crossword puzzle later it’s time to think about mowing the lawn and getting caught up on the laundry.

Meanwhile, the Whitebread kids carry out their Sunday morning ritual. Their 13-year-old son IM’s his friends while checking out porn sites. Their nine-year-old daughter is glued to the TV. The six-year old plays video games.

Jane and John feel like something is missing in their lives. They wonder if it might be religion, but abandon the idea. They can’t relate to the fundamentalists that are always preaching to them at PTA and neighborhood association meetings. They think preachers in golf shirts and khakis look silly. Pithy church signs, services that start at 4:48 p.m., simplistic answers to complex questions, and moral stances that seem to accommodate society’s trends leave John and Jane cold.

“Isn’t there a religion that offers a set of practices and beliefs that doesn’t require you to throw out half your brain or agree that gay marriage is a necessary step in cultural evolution?” they wonder.

The Whitebreads are America’s lost sheep. They don’t even know it, but they’re the reason that God became man. They have a life of comfort that is anything but abundant. What will we Orthodox do to help them out of their stupor and into the light of the Kingdom? This is the defining question for American Orthodoxy.

I don’t pretend to know the answer to this question. But I do know that fulfilling the Great Commission means that we must stop squandering our time and energy on going after ornery pottery makers and start going after the real lost sheep. Along the way we might want to make ourselves more visible and accessible.

And if a visitor wants to pay one dollar for a five dollar candle, it’s cool. The church pays less than a quarter for them in the first place.

Source

© 2011, admin. All rights reserved.

Edgar Allen Poe, in his penetrating review of Bleak House, remarked that no reader can comprehend the real wealth of that work in a single reading. Numerous shades of nuance, Poe explained, and dozens of subtle connections were woven so deeply into the fabric of Bleak House that their presence was not even suspected on a first reading.

On a second reading, however, the now enlightened reader knows what to look for; he will perceive treasures that eluded his attention the first time through. Innumerable lines will shine now with a new luster. Thus, concluded Poe, fully to grasp the meaning of Bleak House for the first time, the reader is obliged to go through it a second time.

One suspects here the presence of a permanent literary principle, namely, that any story truly worth reading is worth reading two or more times. Even little children seem to know this. I have never met a child content with a single reading of a good story.

Another test case for Poe’s principle, let me suggest, is the Gospel according to St. Matthew.

I have long believed that the Missionary Mandate received by the apostles in the closing verses of that Gospel is the best key to understanding it as a whole. That is to say, after reading Matthew all the way to its memorable ending, it is most instructive to take that ending as an interpretive guide and go back through the Gospel again, considering everything else in the light of it.

An easy way to do this, I suggest, is to reflect on Matthew’s Missionary Mandate with respect to structure, theme, and imagery.

First, in regard to structure, we observe that Matthew employs a method called inclusio, by which he begins and ends his work with a common element. Thus, the Jesus who is first declared in Matthew to be

“God with us” (1:23)

declares in the Gospel’s last verse,

“Behold, I am with you always, even to the end of the world” (28:20).

Similarly, Matthew treats of baptism at both the beginning and the end of Jesus’ ministry. Following an inherited apostolic format that describes that ministry as

“beginning from the baptism of John to the day when [the Lord Jesus] was taken up from us” (Acts 1:22),

Matthew portrays the revelation of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit when Jesus is baptized by John (Matt. 3:16–17). Then, at the end of the Gospel, Jesus himself speaks of baptism

“in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit” (28:19).

Thus, the Trinitarian structure of baptism provides Matthew with the two end posts of his narrative frame.

Second, in regard to theme, Matthew finishes his work with the conversion of the world:

“Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations.”

This call to the nations (ethne) summarizes a motif found often in Matthew (cf. 12:18,21; 21:43; 24:14; 25:32). Even at Jesus’ birth, the Magi, personifying those nations, came to adore him (proskyneo—2:2,8,11). At the end, while his disciples are on the mountain adoring him (proskyneo—28:17), Jesus sends them out to make disciples of those very nations.

Third, with respect to imagery, we observe that the Missionary Mandate is given on “the mountain which Jesus had appointed for them” (28:16). In Matthew, the mountain is preeminently the place of authoritative revelation (15:29–30; 17:1–5; 24:3). Indeed, Jesus’ first major sermon in Matthew is delivered on a mountain (5:1; 8:1).

On an even earlier mountain, Jesus is portrayed as rejecting Satan’s offer to give him

“all the kingdoms of the world and their glory” (4:8).

Those same kingdoms appear at last on Matthew’s final mountain, where the Lord sends out his apostles with the mandate to

“make disciples of all the nations” (28:19).

On Matthew’s first mountain, Satan offered Jesus universal power. On his last mountain, Jesus commissions the apostles to a universal evangelism founded in his own authority as the Son of Man prophesied by Daniel:

“All authority has been given to me in heaven and on earth. Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations.”

Furthermore, this mountain, from which the nations (ethne) are to be evangelized, is found in Galilee (28:16; cf. 28:7), the very region that Matthew earlier identified as “Galilee of the nations” (ton ethnon—4:15). It was in that “Galilee of the nations” that Jesus began his own ministry (4:12), an early promise of the apostolic commission to extend discipleship to all the world.

Patrick Henry Reardon is pastor of All Saints Antiochian Orthodox Church in Chicago, Illinois. He is the author of Christ in the Psalms, Christ in His Saints, and The Trial of Job (all from Conciliar Press). He is a senior editor of Touchstone.

© 2011, admin. All rights reserved.

A lecture delivered by Fr John Behr, Dean of St Vladimir’s Theological Seminary, at the parish of St John Chrysostom Orthodox Church, House Springs, Missouri, September 29, 2007,  on the occasion of the 1600th Anniversary of St John’s repose.

In his oration of thanks to his teacher, St Gregory the Wonderworker commented:

For a mighty and energetic thing is the discourse of man, and subtle with its sophisms, and quick to find its way into the ears and mould the mind, and impress us with what it conveys; and when once it has taken possession of us, it can win us over to love it as truth; and it holds its place within us even though it be false and deceitful, overmastering us like some enchanter and retaining as its champion the very man it has persuaded (deluded).

All three—Sts Basil, Gregory and John—were highly trained rhetoricians/orators, praised even by the great pagan orators such as Libanius, and they put this talent to the service of the Christian faith. Yet among these three, it is St John who has been given the title “Chrysostom”—the golden mouthed. He is known not so much for his involvement in the dogmatic disputes of his day (though he does have important things to say), but precisely for his oratory—his preaching.

Chrysostom on Priesthood

In his work on the Priesthood, St John does occasionally speak in very high terms of the priest as the liturgical officiant, but his main concern is with the priestly ministry more generally, following the example of Christ, who came to serve rather than be served. As he puts it, while the priesthood is ranked among the heavenly ordinances, it is nevertheless is enacted on earth. And the tasks of the priest are numerous: he was the teacher and moral guide of the community; he was the liturgical leader, deciding which catechumens should be admitted to baptism, and he presided at the Eucharist; he was the spiritual guide for those who wanted to lead more ascetic lives; he received guests from other churches; he maintained an elaborate system of charity for the care of strangers, the support of widows, orphans and the poor, he cared for the women who were ranked in the order of “virgins,” ordained presbyters and deacons.

Judging from his writings, it was the concern for the widows, the virgins, and the poor which caused him the greatest anxiety: he speaks of the holiness and knowledge necessary for such work, and also the endless patience and ability to steward alms in an irreproachable manner (On the Priesthood 3.12). Elsewhere, he mentions that in Antioch there were some three thousand of widows and virgins who were looked after by the Church. One can only imagine the immense amount of work that this required!

When St John turns to speak of the tools or instruments that the priest has at his disposal, he focuses upon the priest’s words (On the Priesthood 4.2 ff). It is Christ’s own body that the priest is entrusted with, and he is responsible for training it to perfect health and incredible beauty, being vigilant to ensure that no spot or blemish mars its grace and loveliness. His whole energy must be devoted to making sure that the body is worthy of the Head to which it is subjected. But unlike a doctor who cures physical diseases and ailment by prescribing medications, rest, or surgery, the spiritual doctor only has recourse to words, to exhortations and persuasions:

In the case before us, it is impossible to use any of these things; there is but one method and way of healing appointed, after we have gone wrong, and that is the powerful application of the Word. This is the one instrument, the only diet, the finest atmosphere. This takes the place of medicine, cautery and cutting, and if it be needful to sear and amputate, this is the means which we must use, and if this is of no avail, all else is wasted; with this we both rouse the soul when it sleeps and reduce it when it is inflamed; with this we cut off excesses and fill up defects, and perform all manner of other operations which are needed for the soul’s health. (On the Priesthood 4.3)

It is only through the words that a priest uses, St John is saying, that those under his charge can be persuaded to pay attention to themselves, to orient their lives towards Christ, to willingly cooperate in the surgery being applied by the priest, for this can only be done through words and cooperation.

St John continues by asking whether or not an exemplary life of the priest is sufficient, for this may well stimulate others to emulation. He concedes that this may well be the case for the ordering of our daily lives, but when it comes to matters of doctrine, which is not simply a matter of accepting abstract items of belief, but a matter of having the mind of Christ, so that the whole outlook of the Christian is informed and shaped by a Christian perspective, In such matters, an exemplary life is not sufficient:

“Should a conflict arise on matters of doctrine and all the combatants rely on the same scriptures, what weight will his life carry then?” (On the Priesthood, 4.9)

Even if a bishop or priest were able to perform miracles, as did the apostles, even this is not sufficient:

Even in the days of miracles the Word was by no means useless, but essentially necessary. For St. Paul made use of it himself, although he was everywhere so great an object of wonder for his miracles; and another of those who belonged to the ‘glorious company of the Apostles’ exhorts us to apply ourselves to acquiring this power, when he says:

‘Be ready always to give an answer to every man that asks of you a reason concerning the hope that is in you’ (1 Pet 3.15),

and they all, with one accord, committed the care of the poor widows to Stephen, for no other reason than that they themselves might have time

“for the ministry of the Word. (Acts 6.4; On the Priesthood 4.3)

Again using the example of the Apostle Paul, St John also answers those who would point out that the apostles —unlettered fishermen—had no knowledge of the finer points of oratory, that they did not have “the polish of Isocrates, the weight of Demosthenes, the dignity of Thucydides, and the sublimity of Plato.” But he points out that Paul makes a careful distinction, saying that

“even if I am unskilled in speaking, I am not in knowledge” (2 Cor 11.6, so likening himself to Moses).

St John then continues:

But I pass by all such matters and the elaborate ornaments of profane oratory; and I take no account of style or of delivery; even if a man’s diction be poor and his composition simple and unadorned, let him not be unskilled in the knowledge and accurate statement of doctrine; nor in order to hide his own sloth, deprive that holy apostle of the greatest of his gifts, and the sum of his praises. (On the Priesthood 4.6)

The content of Paul’s preaching may well be folly to the Greeks and a stumbling block to the Jews, and it may also be expressed in unpolished terseness, but it is nevertheless a clear, concise and profound statement of the Wisdom and Power of God. Paul’s rhetoric (for rhetoric it is) matches the content.

A similar point is made by St Gregory the Theologian, when he speaks of education, as being the supreme advantage of human beings, especially the use of words:

We must not then dishonor education, because some men are pleased to do so, but rather suppose such men to be boorish and uneducated, desiring all men to be as they themselves are, in order to hide themselves in the general, and escape the detection of their want of culture. (Oration 43.11)

St Basil also makes similar comments at the beginning of his work On the Holy Spirit, pointing out that:

Those who are idle in the pursuit of righteousness count theological terminology as secondary, together with attempts to search out the hidden meaning in this phrase or that syllable, but those conscious of the goal of our calling realize that we are to become like God as far as this is possible for human beings. But we cannot become like God unless we have knowledge of Him, and without lessons there will be no knowledge. Instruction begins with the proper use of speech, and syllabus and words are the elements of speech. (On the Holy Spirit 1.2)

Word and deed go together for St John: a priest with a gift for oratory undermines what he says if he is not himself striving to live the life that he speaks about; and likewise, an exemplary life, without a good apologia for one’s faith, can easily be misunderstood by others, and will not necessarily lead them into the life of Christ. This is the ultimate aim of their teaching: to lead disciples, both by what they do and what they say, into the way of that blessed life which Christ commanded. Example alone is not sufficient.” (On the Priesthood 4.8)

If the priest is to shepherd his people into growth in life and faith and spiritual understanding, then he must devote his energy to the development of the means by which alone he can do this:

In short, to meet all these difficulties, there is no help given but that of speech, and if any be destitute of this power, the souls of those who are put under his charge (I mean of the weaker and more meddlesome kind) are no better off than ships continually storm tossed. So that the Priest should do all that in him lies, to gain this means of strength. (On the Priesthood 4.5)

Words are important; and finding the right words is indispensable, not necessarily those of worldly rhetorical beauty, but certainly those which enable the communication of the Gospel to others, the ministry of the Word. This is, for St John, the means by which the priest carries out his ministry. When we contemplate St John as “the Golden-Mouthed,” and consider how he is celebrated alongside Sts Basil and Gregory as a Great Hierarch and Universal Teacher, we should take to heart the importance of this verbal dimension of the priestly art, the art of arts.

The Pastoral Power of Theology

This appreciation of the verbal dimension of the pastoral art, in turn, helps us to appreciate better the pastoral nature of theology itself. The discipline of theology has fragmented in various unfortunate ways. During the course of the first millennium, a student of theology was formed by the discipline of reading Scripture in the context of the tradition of the Fathers and the liturgical life of the Church. But during the course of the second millennium, this unified discipline has fallen apart, for various reasons. One key factor is the systematization of theology over many centuries into handbooks of dogmatic theology which are then drawn upon to provide the categories by which the writings of the Fathers can be categorized, so that theology itself comes to be seen as an abstract discipline, a system of dogmas.

Think of how many books on Church History or Patristics divide up the theological reflection of the early Church into various periods corresponding to modern systematic categories: the “Trinitarian” debates of the fourth century (clarifying how we speak of unity and multiplicity in God, a divine arithmetic as it were), followed by the “Christological” debates of the following centuries (explaining how one of the divine Persons became incarnate). Dogmatics or systematic theology (and consequently the reading of the Fathers) has become an abstract discourse about God, only occasionally providing a quotation from Scripture.  Scriptural study, on the other hand, tends to set out on the quest to discover “the real history” behind the text, or the history of the text, uninformed by or unengaged with the theological positions of those who had been reading the Scriptures for centuries.

Theology has become an abstract, neutral discourse about God. If one looks the word up in a dictionary, one will find that the term “theology” is comprised of theos-God and logos-word/discourse and so the definition of theology is “words about God.” It is a discipline that speaks about God, his revelation and relation to the world. Theology is therefore analogous to geology or zoology, it just happens that its subject-matter is God, rather than the earth or animals.

With theology defined in this way, it is hard to see its pastoral implications. How does one, for instance, explain the pastoral dimension of the term consubstantial when it is understood as part of the language about God. And so it is not surprising that a whole field of “pastoral theology” has opened up in the past century, as a separate discipline, more often than not drawing upon what the social sciences have to offer: how to counsel people in various situations, work with addictions, look after different groups – youth, the aged etc. I’m not suggesting that these are not necessary, but I would question whether they are in fact theology.

Even to insist that prayer is also essential for true theology, following the saying of Evagrius that

“one who prays is a theologian, and a theologian is one who prays” (On Prayer 66),

is not enough: we would be giving a prayerful aspect to our current understanding of theology, rather than asking if by the high title of “theology” (or “prayer” for that matter), the fathers understood something else.

The apophatic aspect of orthodox theology should caution us against thinking that theology can simply be words about God, as if theological statements are “informative propositions” about God “out there,” as if he were subject to our investigation and scrutiny, to be described by our objective and unengaged words about him. The Fathers knew very well that God is not “out there,” at least if we are using the word “is” in any way commensurate with how we speak about creation and ourselves. As St Gregory Palamas put it, God

“is not a being, if others are beings, and if He is a being, the others are not beings”:

as the creator of all being, God is not a part of “being,” and as such, we cannot use the word “is” with respect to God in the same manner in which we use it of ourselves and created reality, even if we do so prayerfully.

For the early Christians, theology was not a matter of speaking about God. Indeed, the presumption and arrogance of such a discourse would have been shocking to them, if even comprehensible—as if we can look upon, and thereby stand over, God to describe him and his activity in neutral, uninvolved terms.  Instead of speaking about God, theology was more specifically the affirmation of the divinity of the crucified and exalted Lord, Jesus Christ.  As an anonymous writer at the end of the second century put it, in the Scriptures and the writings of many Christians “Christ is spoken of as God” (lit. “Christ is theologized”);  likewise, he continued, “all the psalms and hymns which were written by the faithful from the beginning, hymn Christ as the Word of God, speaking of him as God” (lit. “theologizing him”).  For St Athanasius the Great, it was writers of Scripture, such as David, who are “theologians”; and the apostles, such as Paul “who speaks of the Savior himself,” are also “theologians,” especially the evangelist John, “the theologian.” They are the theologians in a unique and unrepeatable manner, for it is they who spoke and wrote about Christ; those who “theologize” Christ thereafter, do so on the basis of their account.

One can perhaps be even more specific about this. From the end of the second century, the Gospel of John was widely regarded as being the most “spiritual” amongst the Gospels, and the Evangelist thereafter was known in Church tradition as “the theologian,” a title he eventually came to share with St Gregory the Theologian, and later on with St Symeon the New Theologian.  While the bestowal of this honorific upon these figures is often explained in terms of their lofty theology and their poetic and forceful writing, a more immediate and specific reason would be that they each “theologized” in a particular manner:  the Gospel of John contains the clearest affirmation that Christ is “my Lord and my God” (20.28)”; St Gregory, unlike St Basil, unabashedly affirmed that, even if the Scriptures do not speak of the Holy Spirit as “God,” nevertheless “God” the Spirit is, for that is how Scripture speaks of him, even if not using the term theos; and St Symeon reverses the biblical affirmation that

“God is light” (1 Jn 1.5)

to approach the divine Light asking

“My God, is it you?” and hearing the reply “Yes, I am God who became man for your sake and behold I have made you, as you see, and will make you into a god.”

Theology as Confession

To understand further the particular nature of theological discourse, we must look more closely at how the first “theologians” spoke about Christ.  It is a striking fact that, with one exception, the disciples are presented in the canonical Gospels as continually failing to understand who Jesus is.  The one time that Peter confesses that Jesus is

“the Christ, the Son of the Living God” (Mat 16.16)

—a confession following which Jesus begins to explain how he must go to Jerusalem to suffer, die and be raised—Peter is then called “Satan” for attempting to get between Christ and his Cross (Mat 16.23).

Whatever the disciples heard about Jesus’ birth from his mother, or about his baptism from others, whatever divine teachings they themselves heard from his lips or miracles they saw him doing with their own eyes, even transfigured on Tabor in glory—they abandoned him at the time of the Passion.  Neither did the empty tomb persuade them.  When the women arrive at the tomb early in the morning, they are perplexed, not knowing what to make of it being empty; they require an angel to explain what has happened.  The Christian faith is not based on the empty tomb, for this “bare fact” requires interpretation—was the body perhaps stolen?  The same holds true for the resurrectional appearances: when he appears, not only did they not recognize him, but they start telling him about this Jesus who was put to death, and that the tomb was found empty (Lk 24.22-4). The Christian faith is not based on the appearances of the risen Lord. It is only when the crucified and risen Christ opens the Scriptures to them to show how it was necessary for him to have gone to his Passion to enter his glory, that the disciples’ hearts began to burn, so that they were prepared to recognize him in the breaking of the bread (Lk 24.28-35).

The disciples did not come to a true knowledge of the revelation of God in Christ by hearing reports about his birth, nor by accompanying him for a period of time. This simply reflects the fact that the usual methods of human knowledge—scientific analysis, historical inquiry or philosophical reflection—are inadequate when the desired object of knowledge is God, for God is not subject to human, physical or mental, perception, but shows himself as and when he wills, just as the risen Christ comes and goes at his own pleasure, and, as we have seen, disappears from sight once he is recognized, so that he does not remain as an external object for our scrutiny (we are to become his body, his tangible and perceptible presence in this world).  Neither was it merely seeing Christ on the cross that prompted the disciples, finally, to know the Lord, nor even the report about the empty tomb or the encounter with the risen Christ: the tomb is empty, but this in itself is ambiguous, and when he appears he is not immediately recognized.

Rather, the disciples came to recognize the Lord as the one whose Passion is spoken of by the Scriptures (meaning what we call “the Old Testament”) and encountered in the breaking of the bread, at which point, consuming his offering, they become his body. These two complementary ways—the engagement with the Scriptures, understanding how Christ

“died according to the Scriptures and was raised according to the Scriptures” (1 Cor 15.3-5),

and sharing in the Lord’s meal,

“proclaiming his death until he comes” (1 Cor 11.26)

—are what Paul has received and handed down (from the Lord himself in the case of the eucharistic meal) to later generations (cf. 1 Cor 11.23, 15.3).  They are, as it were, the matrix and the sustenance of the Christian tradition, within which theology speaks.

If this is so, then Christian theology proceeds by reflecting upon the crucified and risen Christ understood through the medium of the Scriptures (the “Old Testament”) in the context of the liturgy. This one is

“the image of the invisible God,”

“in whom the fullness of divinity dwelt bodily” (Col 1.15, 2.9)

—there is no surplus of divinity, as it were, elsewhere, to be discovered by any other means. Christian theology is intrinsically confessional and scriptural, in the sense that it does not simply affirm a mere “historical” statement, for instance, that Jesus “was crucified under Pontius Pilate,” something that anyone on hand that day could have verified. Instead, theology affirms that the one who was crucified is the Son of God; this is a confession of faith, and one, moreover, that the disciples were able to make only once the risen Christ opened the Scriptures to them.

And as a confession, it also makes demands upon those who profess their belief: the affirmation that, as St Athanasius put it,

“the one who ascended the cross is the Word of God,”

is only truly demonstrated by those who “put on the faith of the cross” and, by their death in baptism and manner of living thereafter, become the body of Christ born again in the Virgin Mother, the Church.

Transformative Word

Having considered briefly how theological language developed—what is its starting point and mode of operation—we also gain an insight into how theology speaks, and what it does.

The fourth-century assertion that the Son is “consubstantial” with the Father, for instance, should not be taken as an attempt to define how two persons relate to each other “out there,” in the articulation of a “Trinitarian theology,” but as an affirmation that what we see in Christ, as proclaimed by the apostles, is what it is to be God, yet other than the one he calls Father, and that this is known only in and through the Spirit, who is therefore also what it is to be God.

Likewise, the Chalcedonian Definition is not an attempt to articulate a better metaphysics of personhood, but the affirmation that divinity and humanity are found together with the same “face,” in the same “being”: that is, that we do not have to look to this to see what it is to be God, and to that to see what it is to be human—both are revealed to us in one and the same, as the Definition puts it,

“without confusion, change, division or separation.”

And this fact—that Christ reveals to us his Father and shows us what it is to be divine, by an action, death, which is all-too-human—is what makes all theology a transformative, and truly pastoral, discourse. The one who before the Passion was known by the disciples as human, after the Passion is recognized by them (through the opening of the Scriptures) to be divine—the very same one! This means, to express it as forcefully as I can, that it is in and through the action that expresses all the weakness, impotence and futility of our created human nature—our subjection to death—in and through this, Christ shows himself to be truly divine, voluntarily taking this upon himself.

As one tries to comprehend this, one is simply lost for words.

It is perhaps not surprising that our all-too-human response to the revelation of God in the crucified and exalted Christ, understood through the Scriptures by the power of the Spirit, is to talk about something else—to make theology into an abstract discourse, or, like Peter before the Passion, to try to separate Christ from the cross. In one way or another, all the various heresies, against which the Fathers fought, attempted to dissolve the apparent paradox of Christ showing us what it is to be God through how he lived and died as human—or rather, died and lived, for it is his death which then enables the disciples to understand what he did before.

The Docetists denied that he was truly human, claiming that he only appeared to be such. Arius denied that he was truly divine, for how can one who is as divine as the Father, suffer in such a manner? Dioodore, Theodore and Nestorius, though affirming his full humanity in a manner palatable to today’s taste, do so at the expense of separating his divinity from his humanity: Christ no longer shows us what it is to be divine in the way that he is human, and so we remain, once again, separated from God.

The clear testimony of Scripture is that

“Man shall not see God and live” (Ex 33.20).

Even in the case of the Incarnate Word, Jesus Christ, our recognition of him coincides, as we saw, with his disappearance from sight. What we are left to contemplate is his activity, that which St Gregory of Nyssa describes as

“the transcendent power of divinity.”

And as God is the creator of all, this transcendent power can only be manifest in that which is other than he. In fact, St Gregory continues, this is the central mystery of the apostolic proclamation:

All who preach the Word point out the marvel of the mystery in this respect: that

‘God was manifested in the flesh’ (1 Tim 3.16),

that

‘the Word was made flesh’ (Jn 1.14),

that

‘the Light shone in the darkness’ ([Jn 1.5),

‘the Life tasted death’ (Heb 2.9),

and all such declarations which the heralds of the faith announce, whereby is increased the marvel of him who manifested the superabundance of his power by means external to his own nature.

What is beheld in the revelation of God in Jesus Christ is the transcendent power of divinity manifested in that which is not divine—in flesh, in darkness and in death. Yet this manifestation is simultaneously their transformation: the darkness no longer remains dark but is illumined; Christ’s death becomes the source of life to all who take up their cross to die to the world and sin; and human flesh is now flesh of the divine Word of God, and becomes Word, for we perceive the Incarnate Word in the apostolic proclamation of the crucified and exalted Christ, while the place where the Word becomes incarnate is now those who confess him, who are his body.

This transformative power of the Word of God is at work now in the confession of Christ. When the disciples finally come to confess Christ, they must also confess their own complicity in his death. Responding to his threefold denial of Christ, Peter must affirm three times that he loves Christ. And in both events he is standing by a charcoal fire (Jn 18.18, 21.9)—an allusion to the vision of Isaiah, who, after seeing the Lord enthroned in his heavenly temple, cried out:

“Woe is me! For I am a man of unclean lips and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts,”

but then saw a seraphim place in his mouth a burning coal taken from the altar, with the words

“Behold this has touched your lips, your guilt is taken away and your sins forgiven” (Is 6.1-7).

Likewise before the persecutor Saul becomes the apostle Paul, he is confronted by the Lord asking

“Why do you persecute me?”

and is converted, recovering his sight and receiving baptism and the Holy Spirit through one of the persecuted members of the body of Christ (Acts 9.1-19). Whereas previously Paul held that while persecuting the Church he was

“blameless as to righteousness under the law” (Phil 3.6),

now persuaded that Christ is indeed the savior of all, the only conclusion he could draw was that all stood in need of salvation. Only now could he contrast Adam, through whose disobedience sin and death entered the world, with Christ, whose righteousness has become the means of life (Rom 5.12-14). The solution comes first, and then the problem is discerned.

The transforming vision that the encounter with Christ effects with respect to the comprehension of the Scriptures, brings about a similar transformation in our own lives. Before the encounter with the Christ proclaimed according to the Scriptures, we do not understand that—and how—we are sinful. We might know that we have some problems, but we usually think that we can overcome them, should we want to (through the means offered us by various therapies and counseling, should we need them). It is also clear to us that the world is beset by problems; but if we are honest, we would probably say that, if only everyone were to agree with us, most of these problems would be resolved. That we are sinful, broken and subject to death, to the very core of our being, is something that we can only begin to comprehend in the light of Christ, a light which simultaneously forgives, redeems and recreates. When we think about ourselves, we think of all the various experiences that we have had, told from the vantage point of the present, and that past acting in the present in ways of which we are largely unaware, and so to which we are subject unknowingly and involuntarily.

But the encounter with Christ provides a new, and yet eternal, vantage point from which to understand one’s own past: we are invited to see our own past retold as nothing less than our own “salvation history.” In this nothing is left aside or glossed over, as being too shameful or painful, something that we would prefer to forget, but which even as “forgotten” continues to act negatively in the present. Rather, just as it was in and through that which is all-too-human, his death, that Christ shows himself to be God, so also it is in and through our sinfulness and brokenness that we come to know the transforming and loving power of God, not that we should thereby sin some more, as Paul warns (Rom 6.1-2), but to see ever more clearly how deep our brokenness extends.

“It is,” St Isaac of Syria affirmed, “a spiritual gift of God to be able to perceive one’s own sins,”

and such a one is greater than those who see angels or raise the dead by their prayers.

To plumb the depth of our fallenness is to scale the heights of divine love. The more we are given the grace to see in this way, the more we begin to understand how everything is encompassed within the divine works of God: standing in the light of Christ, we can see him as having led us through our whole past, preparing us to encounter him. He alone knows the reason why he has led each of us on our particular path, for we walk by faith not by sight (2 Cor 5.7), but it is a faith that all things are in the hands of Christ, and that

“in everything God works for good with those who love him” (Rom 8.28).

In this way, then, such theology is not merely words about God, but a living and active word. It does not merely report what happened in the past, nor pretend to describe, objectively and in an uninvolved manner, a God who is “out there” and his dealings with creation. It is nothing less than the proclamation of the Word of God to this world, allowing it to be at work through us here and now.

Such are some of the things that are implied by St John’s attention to words as the tools of the priest, when his words convey the Word of God, such that the Word is dynamically effective even now, transforming the vision, understanding, and reality of those willing to hear.

© 2011, admin. All rights reserved.

Before he ever met the Apostle Paul, the life of young Timothy was already full of blessings. Indeed, Paul himself, among the last lines he wrote on this earth, reminded Timothy of those blessings:

“But you must continue in the things which you have learned and been assured of, knowing from whom you have learned them, and that from childhood you have known the Holy Scriptures, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith which is in Christ Jesus” (2 Tim. 3:14–15).

Both Paul and Timothy knew who were the latter’s first teachers of Holy Scripture. Paul wrote earlier in this same epistle,

“I call to remembrance the genuine faith that is in you, which dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice, and I am persuaded is in you also” (1:5).

These two women, Timothy’s mother and grandmother, had raised him, not only in the faith but also in the study of the Sacred Writings, ta hiera grammata—sacred grammar. It was this early study of Sacred Letters, carried on in the home, that grounded the soul of young Timothy and prepared him to become, in due course, an apostle of the Church and the bishop of Ephesus. The whole Church, for the past 2,000 years, owes to these two women an immense and unpayable debt of gratitude.

When, as a child, Timothy was taught the grammar of Holy Scripture, what did he learn from Lois and Eunice? Many things, to be sure, but let us consider three benefits to be ascribed to that early instruction in God’s Word.

First, Timothy learned to take possession of his heart. The rich and varied stories enabled him to make sense of his heart. Placing his young soul under the authoritative guidance of Sacred Grammar, Timothy learned who he was, his place in this world, what God expected of him, and what he could expect, both during his life and at the end of it.

The stories of the Bible, assimilated in the context of his family, gave shape to Timothy’s moral imagination, conferring on his conscience a narrative moral sense. These biblical stories gave imaginative organization to his mind. He was enabled to inform his personal life from the stories of the Bible. From these stories, learned especially in the setting of his home, Timothy was educated in the habits of the heart. He was, in the full, rich sense of that word, indoctrinated, sacred doctrine being placed in the heart and mind, giving formation to his character.

Timothy learned, from inside, the Bible’s perspective on the world. He slowly became versed in the narratives, poetry, and maxims that would enable him to organize his own heart, give structure to his soul, and imaginative, rational formation to his conscience. All of this is to say that Timothy was the blessed recipient of a biblical culture.

Second, the study of the Bible, for Timothy, was not a private thing. Thanks to the two older generations that instructed him, Timothy was enabled to read Holy Scripture through the eyes of the living Sacred Tradition, in which alone the Bible is properly understood.

After all, there is no such thing as a private culture. All culture is traditional culture. It is not a commodity that can be purchased. By definition, a culture can only be inherited. All culture is necessarily transgenerational.

This is true of biblical culture as well. It is social. Timothy’s study of Holy Scripture was a great socializing agent in the formation of his character. By it he became one with his own history, including his family’s history, where he assimilated the organizing influences of a biblical worldview.

In Timothy’s case, the transmission of this biblical culture was a difficult task. Timothy’s father was apparently not a believer (Acts 16:1), so the young man did not enjoy in his home the benefit of what the behavioral sciences today call a “male role model.” Timothy learned his faith and Sacred Grammar from the women in the household, and the experience seems not to have hurt him at all.

Third, from Eunice and Lois, Timothy learned to take his place in the continuance of biblical history. After all, the Bible not only records history, it also creates history. By this I mean that the Bible, as written down, read, and proclaimed in the ongoing community of faith, influences and directs the course of history. The Bible changes history by changing the lives of those who come under its transforming power—both Timothy and ourselves.

Thanks to two wise women, a godly mother and a devout grandmother, this was also Timothy’s history.

Patrick Henry Reardon is pastor of All Saints Antiochian Orthodox Church in Chicago, Illinois. He is the author of Christ in the Psalms, Christ in His Saints, and The Trial of Job (all from Conciliar Press). He is a senior editor of Touchstone.

© 2011, admin. All rights reserved.

This article contains excellent advice for anyone contemplating the priesthood or discerning a vocation in the Orthodox Church (or any ‘church’ for that matter). Fr. Aris nails it.

Aren’t we disgusted with the shocking number of high-profile cases of priests engaged in pedophilia, homosexual activity, and adultery? Some excuse this behavior with the platitudes “a sin is a sin” and “we are all sinners.” Uh, excuse me?

Persons who say “a sin is a sin” don’t live in the real world. My wife is more than forgiving when I snap at her for no reason. I don’t think that she would be that charitable if I were to come home smelling of another woman’s perfume.

I concede that we are all sinners, but clergy relinquish the right to even think of engaging in certain classes of sin. When a priest sins sexually he damages the Church the way that crooked judges, lawyers, and police officers damage the legal system. How can anyone not understand this?

Looking back on my seminary years, nobody ever told me that I shouldn’t put my hand on an altar boy’s private parts, leave my wife for a man, or go to bed with someone other than my wife. Come to think of it, they didn’t tell me not to eat yellow snow, either. The faculty assumed that we all knew better.

There’s a saying about the word assume. If you don’t know it, ask somebody who served in the military to explain it to you. So, rather than assume that seminarians and young clergy know right from wrong with regard to sexual matters, here are some essential rules of behavior for those preparing for and serving in the priesthood:

• If you are delaying ordination until you find Miss Right, then be willing to wait for the appropriate woman to come into your life. Rushing into marriage with the wrong person is like voluntarily infecting yourself with an incurable illness. Ask any married person — our spouse will either make us or break us. The priesthood poses enough difficulties without having the millstone of the wrong wife around your neck.
• If you have sexual fantasies about anything other than a woman, get help. If these ideas persist, choose a different career.
• If your heterosexual fantasies occupy as much of your time as they did when you were 15, see an experienced confessor. If you are married and have persistent sexual fantasies about anyone other than your wife, again, see the confessor.
• If your marriage needs fixing, then go to counseling. If counseling doesn’t work, you have three options: separation, divorce, or “gutting it out.” Finding a mistress is not an acceptable alternative.
• Appearances matter. Don’t put yourself in situations where your integrity can be challenged. Don’t stay in the same room with children when no other adults are present. Don’t go swimming with anybody other than other clergy, and certainly not with minors. Don’t meet repeatedly for one-on-one counseling sessions with the same person outside of normal office hours. Don’t meet with a long-time female friend in a hotel room when you are together at a conference. Don’t give rides to a woman or a child unless other people are in the car.
• It’s not too late until it’s too late. If you are counseling a woman and you are attracted to her, send her to another priest. If you are about to walk into the bedroom of a person who is not your wife, walk away. If you are kissing someone other than your wife — stop, and get on the phone with a priest-friend whom you can trust.

All sexual misconduct is unjustifiable. Some child abusers excuse themselves because they were victims of abuse. Yet plenty of adult survivors of molestations go on to have normal sex lives. Get help. And before you put your hand where it doesn’t belong, remember how bad it felt when it was done to you.

And all sexual misconduct deserves the maximum penalty. When persons on the bench, in the bar, or with a badge undermine the legal system they get locked up for a long time; they are held to a higher standard. Priests who are pedophiles, homosexual predators, and adulterers need to be defrocked — not only to send a message but to protect the Church and her members. Some of them need jail time too.

And why give a wolf in shepherd’s clothing a second chance to ravage the flock? Maybe an adulterous pastor who had one occasion of adultery could be given a second — and last — chance, but only after plenty of counseling and a transfer to the other side of the continent. The rest need to be removed.

The second century priest-martyr Haralambos was dragged by his beard through the streets because he refused to deny Christ. In the 21st century, clerics drag the good name of the priesthood and the Church through the tabloids and the evening news. Sexual sin among the clergy must stop.

© 2010 – 2011, admin. All rights reserved.

by Fr. John A. Peck

Well, friends, it is that time in our exercise. There’s no shame in it. Blogging has become difficult. We’re hitting ‘the wall’ in this marathon.

Runners know what ‘the wall’ is. It’s that wonderful experience you just have to push through. It’s tough. It’s all will power. Now for those of you who took up the challenge of the 30 (40) Days of Blogging, first let me congratulate you for takinng the challenge.

Second, for those blogging only the first 30 days, we are only a day away from the finish line, so blog on anything, but just blog.

For those of you going all the way to 40 Days of Blogging, it is a unique crucible, and one that has required some real effort.

I’d also like to say that it is precisely your willingness to – at this very busy season in the priesthood – put aside time for this exercise that will benefit you.

Remember, the purpose of this exercise is not simply to see “if you could do it.” Of that, I have no doubt whatsoever. The real prize to this exercise is what benefit it will provide you in your preaching.

As preachers, especially at Christmas, we have a real chance to preach the Gospel in a heightened way, using a more solemn and exalted tone or voice. This is a special event in the Church, to be sure, but it is prominent in our culture, too. People do expect something else, something different, something exalted.

This is a good expectation for us to try and meet, nay, exceed.  The prize of our hearer’s repentance, reconciliation with God and their fellows, and a return to some kind of healing normalcy; these are the dashed hopes of many of our hearers. They come expecting Sunday fare, or worse, a trip to a theological McDonalds. Give them a taste  of the Marriage Feast of the Lamb.

Slogging through these final days of blogging is a bit time consuming, but take a moment and recall why we are doing it. Look through some of the early articles on Blogging here at Preachers Institute. Reignite the purpose of blogging as a tool for better preaching.

After all, blogging is a kind of preaching, isn’t it? And the Lord Jesus Christ has called, chosen, and ordained us to preach “in season and out.”

We started strong. We can finish strong, for if no other reason than the Lord Himself is strong.

© 2010, Fr. John A. Peck. All rights reserved.

It’s really not all that challenging, but for someone who has never read the entire New Testament before, it is an excellent time for just such an exercise.

• If you begin on Nov. 15th, you will do the 40 day schedule.
• If you begin on Dec. 1, you will do the 25 day schedule.
• Both schedules complete their readings on Christmas day.

This makes the entire Nativity Fast a time of real devoted ascetic effort and spiritual growth. It is especially appropriate (in my opinion) as the term Advent, basically implies a preparation and anticipation of the Second Coming of Christ. Notice, on Christmas Day, one is finishing Revelation!

Now, you may say “Who is honestly going to read half – or the entire – book of Revelation on Christmas?” Well, that’s what the 12 Days of Christmas are for!

I recommend that all preachers and clergy offer this to your parishioners during the Nativity Fast. It is a great time to do it, and this is a wonderful thing to promote RIGHT NOW!

In any event, if you want some activity for parishioners to do together to count down the days of the Nativity Fast, some spiritual exercise for them to stay accountable to, and some endeavor for you to present alongside their efforts, the New Testament Challenge is my offering to you.

You can download the form in PDF format by clicking the image above.

The New Testament Challenge Schedule

This is a great exercise, and I find that often it gets folks who have desired for many years to read the New Testament on target to doing so for the first time. It’s a great fellowship builder also, as I try to get those who are reading together during our Fellowship Hour on Sunday, so they know they aren’t alone, and to provide a little impetus to keep on schedule.

It doesn’t matter to me if they finish – though that is the goal. The truth is, I want them to start.

You may have heard the old Irish saying,

“Well begun is half done.”

and this is no more true in blogging than it is in reading Scripture.

You can actually blog about the entire experience yourself.

You’ll get a more attentive audience, I can guarantee you, if they know you are reading along with them, noting (ahead of time, of course, so you can blog about it) impressions and spiritual dimensions of the readings they will be with you every step of the way. Beginning such an enterprise takes commitment and devotion, but if you really aren’t sure what to blog about, and you just can’t figure out what to do – the New Testament Challenge is an excellent blogging exercise for you, and your fellow NT readers.

Be sure to announce in your weekly bulletin AND from the pulpit that you will be doing this, so that your people will know what you are doing, and so they can join you on this journey. Be sure to pass out copies at Church.

And join you they will.

There is an Old Testament Challenge also, but that’s for another time, and is far more intense.

Fr. John A. Peck is the priest of the St. George Church in Prescott, AZ, and is the Director of the Preachers Institute.

© 2010, Fr. John A. Peck. All rights reserved.