It is our
intention, in the following essay, to study certain aspects of eastern
spirituality in relation to the fundamental themes of the Orthodox dogmatic
tradition. In the present work, therefore, the term 'mystical theology' denotes
no more than a spirituality which expresses a doctrinal attitude.
In a
certain sense all theology is mystical, inasmuch as it shows forth the divine
mystery: the data of revelation. On the other hand, mysticism is frequently
opposed to theology as a realm inaccessible to understanding, as an unutterable
mystery, a hidden depth, to be lived rather than known; yielding itself to a
specific experience which surpasses our faculties of understanding rather than
to any perception of sense or of intelligence. If we adopted this latter
conception unreservedly, resolutely opposing mysticism to theology, we should
be led in the last resort to the thesis of Bergson who distinguishes, in his
Deux Sources, the 'static religion' of the Churches from the 'dynamic religion'
of the mystics; the former social and conservative in character, the latter
personal and creative.
To what
extent was Bergson justified in stating this opposition? This is a difficult
question, all the more so since the two terms which Bergson opposes on the
religious plane are rooted in the two poles of his philosophical vision of the
universe—nature and the elan vital. Quite apart from this attitude of Bergson,
however, one frequently hears expressed the view which would see in mysticism a
realm reserved for the few, an exception to the common rule, a privilege
vouchsafed to a few souls who enjoy direct experience of the truth, others,
meanwhile, having to rest content with a more or less blind submission to
dogmas imposed from without, as to a coercive authority. This opposition is
sometimes carried to great lengths, especially if the historical reality be
forced into a preconceived pattern. Thus the mystics are set up against the
theologians, the contemplatives against the prelates, the saints against the
Church. It will suffice to recall many a passage of Harnack, Paul Sabatier's
Life of St. Francis, and other works, most frequently by protestant historians.
The
eastern tradition has never made a sharp distinction between mysticism and
theology; between personal experience of the divine mysteries and the dogma
affirmed by the Church. The following words spoken a century ago by a great
Orthodox theologian, the Metropolitan Philaret of Moscow, express this attitude
perfectly: 'none of the mysteries of the most secret wisdom of God ought to
appear alien or altogether transcendent to us, but in all humility we must
apply our spirit to the contemplation of divine things'. To put it in another
way, we must live the dogma expressing a revealed truth, which appears to us as
an unfathomable mystery, in such a fashion that instead of assimilating the
mystery to our mode of understanding, we should, on the contrary, look for a
profound change, an inner transformation of spirit, enabling us to experience
it mystically. Far from being mutually opposed, theology and mysticism support
and complete each other. One is impossible without the other. If the mystical
experience is a personal working out of the content of the common faith,
theology is an expression, for the profit of all, of that which can be
experienced by everyone. Outside the truth kept by the whole Church personal
experience would be deprived of all certainty, of all objectivity. It would be
a mingling of truth and of falsehood, of reality and of illusion: 'mysticism'
in the bad sense of the word. On the other hand, the teaching of the Church
would have no hold on souls if it did not in some degree express an inner
experience of truth, granted in different measure to each one of the faithful.
There is, therefore, no Christian mysticism without theology; but, above all,
there is no theology without mysticism. It is not by chance that the tradition
of the Eastern Church has reserved the name of 'theologian' peculiarly for
three sacred writers of whom the first is St. John, most 'mystical' of the four
Evangelists; the second St. Gregory Nazianzen, writer of contemplative poetry;
and the third St. Symeon, called 'the New Theologian', the singer of union with
God. Mysticism is accordingly treated in the present work as the perfecting and
crown of all theology: as theology par excellence.
Unlike
gnosticism, in which knowledge for its own sake constitutes the aim of the
gnostic, Christian theology is always in the last resort a means: a unity of
knowledge subserving an end which transcends all knowledge. This ultimate end
is union with God or deification, the theosis of the Greek Fathers. Thus, we
are finally led to a conclusion which may seem paradoxical enough: that
Christian theory should have an eminently practical significance; and that the
more mystical it is, the more directly it aspires to the supreme end of union
with God. All the development of the dogmatic battles which the Church has
waged down the centuries appears to us, if we regard it from the purely
spiritual standpoint, as dominated by the constant preoccupation which the
Church has had to safeguard, at each moment of her history, for all Christians,
the possibility of attaining to the fullness of the mystical union. So the
Church struggled against the gnostics in defence of this same idea of
deification as the universal end: 'God became man that men might become gods'.
She affirmed, against the Arians, the dogma of the consubstantial Trinity; for
it is the Word, the Logos, who opens to us the way to union with the Godhead;
and if the incarnate Word has not the same substance with the Father, if He be
not truly God, our deification is impossible. The Church condemned the
Nestorians that she might overthrow the middle wall of partition, whereby, in
the person of the Christ himself, they would have separated God from man. She
rose up against the Apollinarians and Monophysites to show that, since the
fullness of true human nature has been assumed by the Word, it is our whole
humanity that must enter into union with God. She warred with the Monothelites
because, apart from the union of the two wills, divine and human, there could
be no attaining to deification—'God created man by his will alone, but He
cannot save him without the co-operation of the human will.' The Church emerged
triumphant from the iconoclastic controversy, affirming the possibility of the
expression through a material medium of the divine realities—symbol and pledge
of our sanctification. The main preoccupation, the issue at stake, in the
questions which successively arise respecting the Holy Spirit, grace and the
Church herself this last the dogmatic question of our own time—is always the
possibility the manner or the means of our union with God,, All the history of
Christian dogma unfolds itself about this mystical centre, guarded by different
weapons against its many and diverse assailants in the course of successive
ages.
The
theological doctrines which have been elaborated in the course of these
struggles can be treated in the most direct relation to the vital end—that of
union with God to the attainment of which they are subservient. Thus they
appear as the foundations of Christian spirituality. It is this that we shall
understand in speaking of 'mystical theology'; not mysticism properly
so-called, the personal experiences of different masters of the spiritual life.
Such experiences, for that matter, more often than not remain inaccessible to
us: even though they may find verbal expression. What, in reality, can one say
of the mystical experience of St. Paul: 'I knew a man in Christ above fourteen
years ago (whether in the body, I cannot tell; or whether out of the body, I
cannot tell: God knoweth); such an one caught up to the third heaven. And I
knew such a man (whether in the body, or out of the body, I cannot tell: God
knoweth); how that he was caught up into paradise, and heard unspeakable words,
which it is not lawful for a man to utter'. To venture to pass any judgement
upon the nature of this experience it would be necessary to understand it more
fully than did St. Paul, who avows his ignorance: 'I cannot tell: God knoweth.'
We deliberately leave on one side all question of mystical psychology. Nor is
it theological doctrines as such that we propose to set forth in the present
work, but only such elements of theology as are indispensable for the
understanding of a spirituality: the dogmas which constitute the foundation of
mysticism. Here, then, is the first definition and limitation of subject, which
is the mystical theology of the Eastern Church.
The
second limitation circumscribes our subject, so to say, in space. It is the
Christian East, or, more precisely, the Eastern Orthodox Church, which will
form the field of our studies in mystical theology. We must recognize that this
limitation is somewhat artificial. In reality, since the cleavage between East
and West only dates from the middle of the eleventh century, all that is prior
to this date constitutes a common and indivisible treasure for both parts of a
divided Christendom. The Orthodox Church would not be what it is if it had not
had St. Cyprian, St. Augustine and St. Gregory the Great. No more could the
Roman Catholic Church do without St. Athanasius, St. Basil or St. Cyril of
Alexandria. Thus, when one would speak of the mystical theology of the East or
of the West, one takes one's stand within one of the two traditions which
remained, down to a certain moment, two local traditions within the one Church,
witnessing to a single Christian truth; but which subsequently part, the one
from the other, and give rise to two different dogmatic attitudes,
irreconcilable on several points. Can we judge the two traditions by taking our
stand on neutral ground equally foreign to the one as to the other? That would
be to judge Christianity from a non-Christian standpoint: in other words, to
refuse in advance to understand anything whatever about the object of study.
For objectivity in no wise consists in taking one's stand outside an object
but, on the contrary, in considering one's object in itself and by itself.
There are fields in which what is commonly styled 'objectivity' is only
indifference, and where indifference means incomprehension. In the present
state of dogmatic difference between East and West it is essential, if one
wishes to study the mystical theology of the Eastern Church, to choose between
two possible standpoints. Either, to place oneself on western dogmatic ground
and to examine the eastern tradition across that of the West—that is, by way of
criticism—or else to present that tradition in the light of the dogmatic
attitude of the Eastern Church. This latter course is for us the only possible
one.
It will,
perhaps, be objected that the dogmatic dissension between East and West only
arose by chance, that it has not been of decisive importance, that it was
rather a question of two different historical spheres which must sooner or
later have separated in order that each might follow its own path; and,
finally, that the dogmatic dispute was no more than a pretext for the breaking
asunder once and for all of an ecclesiastical unity which had in fact long
ceased to be a reality.
Such
assertions, which are heard very frequently in the East as in the West, are the
outcome of a purely secular mentality and of the widespread habit of treating
Church history according to methods which exclude the religious nature of the
Church. For the 'historian of the Church' the religious factor disappears and
finds itself displaced by others; such, for instance, as the play of political
or social interests, the part played by racial or cultural conditions,
considered as determining factors in the life of the Church. We think ourselves
shrewder, more up to date, in invoking these factors as the true guiding forces
of ecclesiastical history. While recognizing their importance, a Christian
historian can scarcely resign himself to regarding them otherwise than as
accidental to the essential nature of the Church. He cannot cease to see in the
Church an autonomous body, subject to a different law than that of the
determinism of this world. If we consider the dogmatic question of the
procession of the Holy Spirit, which divided East and West, we cannot treat it
as a fortuitous phenomenon in the history of the Church. From the religious
point of view it is the sole issue of importance in the chain of events which
terminated in the separation. Conditioned, as it may well have been, by various
factors, this dogmatic choice was—for the one party as for the other—a
spiritual commitment a conscious taking of sides in a matter of faith.
If we are
often led to minimize the importance of the dogmatic question which determined
all the subsequent development of the two traditions, this is by reason of a
certain insensitivity towards dogma—which is considered as something external
and abstract. It is said that it is spirituality which matters. The dogmatic
difference is of no consequence. Yet spirituality and dogma, mysticism and
theology, are inseparably linked in the life of the Church. As regards the
Eastern Church, we have already remarked that she makes no sharp distinction
between theology and mysticism, between the realm of the common faith and that
of personal experience. Thus, if we would speak of mystical theology in the
eastern tradition we cannot do otherwise than consider it within the dogmatic
setting of the Orthodox Church.
Before
coming to grips with our subject it is necessary to say a few words about the
Orthodox Church, little known down to the present day in the West. Father
Congar's book Divided Christendom, though very remark able in many respects,
remains, despite all his striving after objectivity, subject, in those pages which
he devotes to the Orthodox Church, to certain preconceived notions. 'Where the
West,' he says, 'on the basis at once developed and narrow of Augustinian
ideology, claimed for the Church independence in life and organization, and
thus laid down the lines of a very definite ecclesiology, the East settled down
in practice, and to some extent in theory, to a principle of unity which was
political, non-religious, and not truly universal. To Father Congar, as to the
majority of Catholic and Protestant writers who have expressed themselves on
this subject, Orthodoxy presents itself under the form of a federation of
national churches, having as its basis a political principle—the state-church.
One can venture upon such generalizations as these only by ignoring both the
canonical groundwork and the history of the Eastern Church. The view which
would base the unity of a local church on a political, racial or cultural
principle is considered by the Orthodox Church as a heresy, specially known by
the name of philetism. It is the ecclesiastical territory, the area sanctified
by more or less ancient Christian tradition which forms the basis of a
metropolitan province, administered by an archbishop or metropolitan, with the
bishops from every diocese coming together from time to time in synod. If
metropolitan provinces are grouped together to form local churches under the
jurisdiction of a bishop who often bears the title of patriarch, it is still
the community of local tradition and of historical destiny (as well as
convenience in calling together a council from many provinces), which
determines the formation of these large circles of jurisdiction, the
territories of which do not necessarily correspond to the political boundaries
of a state. The Patriarch of Constantinople enjoys a certain primacy of honour,
arbitrating from time to time in disputes, but without exercising a
jurisdiction over the whole body of the oecumenical. Church. The local churches
of the East had more or less the same attitude towards the apostolic
patriarchate of Rome—first see of the Church before the separation, and symbol
of her unity. Orthodoxy recognizes no visible head of the Church. The unity of
the Church expresses itself through the communion of the heads of local
churches among themselves, by the agreement of all the churches in regard to a
local council—which thus acquires a universal import; finally, in exceptional
cases, it may manifest itself through a general council.
The catholicity of the
Church, far from being the privilege of any one see or specific centre, is
realized rather in the richness and multiplicity of the local traditions which
bear witness unanimously to a single Truth: to that which is preserved always,
everywhere and by all. Since the Church is catholic in all her parts, each one
of her members—not only the clergy but also each layman—is called to confess
and to defend the truth of tradition; opposing even the bishops should they
fall into heresy. A Christian who has received the gift of the Holy Spirit in
the sacrament of the Holy Chrism must have a full awareness of his faith: he is
always responsible for the Church. Hence the restless and sometimes agitated
character of the ecclesiastical life of Byzantium, of Russia and of other
countries in the Orthodox world. This, however, is the price paid for a
religious vitality, an intensity of spiritual life which penetrates the whole
mass of believers, united in the awareness that they form a single body with
the hierarchy of the Church. From this, too, comes the unconquerable energy
which enables Orthodoxy to go through all trials, all cataclysms and upheavals,
adapting itself continually to the new historical reality and showing itself
stronger than outward circumstances. The persecutions of the faithful in Russia,
the systematic fury of which has not been able to destroy the Church, are the
best witness to a power which is not of this world.
The catholicity of the
Church, far from being the privilege of any one see or specific centre, is
realized rather in the richness and multiplicity of the local traditions which
bear witness unanimously to a single Truth: to that which is preserved always,
everywhere and by all. Since the Church is catholic in all her parts, each one
of her members—not only the clergy but also each layman—is called to confess
and to defend the truth of tradition; opposing even the bishops should they
fall into heresy. A Christian who has received the gift of the Holy Spirit in
the sacrament of the Holy Chrism must have a full awareness of his faith: he is
always responsible for the Church. Hence the restless and sometimes agitated
character of the ecclesiastical life of Byzantium, of Russia and of other
countries in the Orthodox world. This, however, is the price paid for a
religious vitality, an intensity of spiritual life which penetrates the whole
mass of believers, united in the awareness that they form a single body with
the hierarchy of the Church. From this, too, comes the unconquerable energy
which enables Orthodoxy to go through all trials, all cataclysms and upheavals,
adapting itself continually to the new historical reality and showing itself
stronger than outward circumstances. The persecutions of the faithful in Russia,
the systematic fury of which has not been able to destroy the Church, are the
best witness to a power which is not of this world.
The
Orthodox Church, though commonly referred to as Eastern, considers herself none
the less the universal Church; and this is true in the sense that she is not
limited by any particular type of culture, by the legacy of any one
civilization (Hellenistic or otherwise), or by strictly eastern cultural forms.
Moreover, eastern can mean so many things: from the cultural point of view the
East is less homogeneous than the West. What have Hellenism and Russian culture
in common, notwithstanding the Byzantine origins of Christianity in Russia?
Orthodoxy has been the leaven in too many different cultures to be itself
considered a cultural form of eastern Christianity. The forms are different:
the faith is one. The Orthodox Church has never confronted national cultures
with another which could be regarded as specifically Orthodox. It is for this
reason that her missionary work has been able to expand so prodigiously:
witness the conversion of Russia to Christianity during the tenth and eleventh
centuries, and, at a later date, the preaching of the Gospel across the whole
of Asia. Towards the end of the eighteenth century Orthodox missions reached
the Aleutian Islands and Alaska, passed thence to North America, creating new
dioceses of the Russian Church beyond the confines of Russia, spreading to
China and Japan. The anthropological and cultural variations which one
encounters from Greece to the remotest parts of Asia, and from Egypt to the
Arctic, do not destroy the homogeneous character of this kinship of
spirituality, very different from that of the Christian West.
There is
a great richness of forms of the spiritual life to be found within the bounds
of Orthodoxy, but monasticism remains the most classical of all. Unlike western
monasticism, however, that of the East does not include a, multiplicity of
different orders. This fact is explained by the conception of the monastic
life, the aim of which can only be union with God in a complete renunciation of
the life of this present world. If the secular clergy (married priests and
deacons), or confraternities of laymen may occupy themselves with social work,
or devote themselves to other outward activities, it is otherwise with the
monks. The latter take the habit above all in order to apply themselves to
prayer, to the interior life, in cloister or hermitage. Between a monastery of
the common life and the solitude of an anchorite who carries on the traditions
of the Desert Fathers there are many intermediate types of monastic
institution. One could say broadly that eastern monasticism was exclusively
contemplative, if the distinction between the two ways, active and
contemplative, had in the East the same meaning as in the West. In fact, for an
eastern monk the two ways are inseparable. The one cannot be exercised without
the other, for the ascetic rule and the school of interior prayer receive the
name of spiritual activity. If the monks occupy themselves from time to time
with physical labours, it is above all with an ascetic end in view: the sooner
to overcome their rebel nature, as well as to avoid idleness, enemy of the
spiritual life. To attain to union with God, in the measure in which it is
realizable here on earth, requires continual effort, or, more precisely, an
unceasing vigil that the integrity of the inward man, 'the union of heart and
spirit' (to use an expression of Orthodox asceticism), withstand all the
assaults of the enemy: every irrational movement of our fallen nature. Human
nature must undergo a change; it must be more and more transfigured by grace in
the way of sanctification, which has a range which is not only spiritual but
also bodily—and hence cosmic. The spiritual work of a monk living in community
or a hermit withdrawn from the world retains all its worth for the entire
universe even though it remain hidden from the sight of all. This is why
monastic institutions have always enjoyed great veneration in every country of
the Orthodox world.
The part
played by the great centres of spirituality was very considerable not only in
ecclesiastical life but also in the realm of culture and politics. The
monasteries of Mount Sinai and of Studion, near Constantinople, the monastic
republic of Mount Athos, bringing together religious of all nations (there were
Latin monks there prior to the schism), other great centres beyond the bounds
of the Empire such as the monastery of Tirnovo, in Bulgaria, and the great
lavras of Russia—Petcheri at Kiev and the Holy Trinity near Moscow—have all
been strongholds of Orthodoxy, schools of the spiritual life, whose religious
and moral influence was of the first importance in the moulding of peoples newly
converted to Christianity. But if the monastic ideal had so great an influence
upon souls, it was , nevertheless, not the only type of the spiritual life
which the Church offered to the faithful. The way of union with God may be
pursued outside the cloister, amid all the circumstances of human life. The
outward forms may change, the monasteries may disappear, as in our own day they
disappeared for a time in Russia, but the spiritual life goes on with the same
intensity, finding new modes of expression.
The
individual experiences of the greatest mystics of the Orthodox Church more
often than not remain unknown to us. Apart from a few rare exceptions the
spiritual literature of the Christian East possesses scarcely any
autobiographical account dealing with the interior life, such as those of
Angela of Foligno and Henry Suso, or the Histoire d'une ame of St. Teresa of
Lisieux. The way of mystical union is nearly always a secret between God and
the soul concerned, which is never confided to others unless, it may be, to a
confessor or to a few disciples. What is published abroad is the fruit of this
union: wisdom, understanding of the divine mysteries, expressing itself in
theological or moral teaching or in advice for the edification of one's
brethren. As to the inward and personal aspect of the mystical experience, it
remains hidden from the eyes of all. It must be recognized that it was only at
a comparatively late period, towards the thirteenth century in fact, that
mystical individualism made its appearance in western literature. St. Bernard
speaks directly of his personal experience only very seldom—on but a single
occasion in the Sermons on the Song of Songs—and then with a sort of
reluctance, after the example of St. Paul. It was necessary that a certain
cleavage should occur between personal experience and the common faith, between
the life of the individual and the life of the Church, that spirituality and
dogma, mysticism and theology, could become two distinct spheres; and that
souls unable to find adequate nourishment in the theological summae should turn
to search greedily in the accounts of individual mystical experience in order
to reinvigorate themselves in an atmosphere of spirituality. Mystical
individualism has remained alien to the spirituality of the Eastern Church.
Father
Congar is right when he says: 'We have become different men. We have the same
God but before him we are different men, unable to agree as to the nature of
our relationship with him." But in order to estimate accurately this
spiritual divergency it would be necessary to examine it in its most perfect
manifestations: in the different types of sanctity in East and West since the
schism. We should then be able to give an account of the close link which
always exists between the dogma which the Church confesses and the spiritual
fruit which it bears. For the inner experience of the Christian develops within
the circle delineated by the teaching of the Church: within the dogmatic
framework which moulds his person. If even now a political doctrine professed
by the members of a party can so fashion their mentality as to produce a type
of man distinguishable from other men by certain moral or psychical marks, a
fortiori religious dogma succeeds in transforming the very souls of those who
confess it. They are men different from other men, from those who have been
formed by another dogmatic conception. It is never possible to understand a
spirituality if one does not take into account the dogma in which it is rooted.
We must accept facts as they are, and not seek to explain the difference
between eastern and western spirituality on racial or cultural grounds when a
greater issue, a dogmatic issue, is at stake. Neither may we say that the
questions of the procession of the Holy Spirit or of the nature of grace have
no great importance in the scheme of Christian doctrine, which remains more or
less identical among Roman Catholics and among Orthodox. In dogmas so
fundamental as these it is this 'more or less' which is important, for it
imparts a different emphasis to all doctrine, presents it in another light; in
other words, gives place to another spirituality.
We do not
wish to embark on a 'comparative theology'; still less to renew confessional
disputes. We confine ourselves here to stating the fact of a dogmatic
dissimilarity between the Christian East and the Christian West, before
examining certain of the elements of the theology which forms the foundation of
eastern spirituality. It will be for the reader to judge in what measure these
theological aspects of Orthodox mysticism can be of use for the comprehension
of a spirituality which is alien to western Christianity. If while remaining
loyal to our respective dogmatic standpoints we could succeed in getting to
know each other, above all in those points in which we differ, this would
undoubtedly be a surer way towards unity than that which would leave
differences on one side. For, in the words of Karl Barth, 'the union of the
Churches is not made, but we discover it'.
An
article by
Vladimir Lossky
Source: http://orthodoxinfo.com/general/lossky_intro.aspx
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