Florovsky’s “The Challenge of Our Time”

The Challenge of Our Time


The great Russian bishop of the last century, Theophanes “The Recluse” (d. 1894), in one of his pastoral letters makes a startling statement. What the Russian Church most needed, he said, was “a band of firebrands,” which would set the world on fire. The incendiaries must be themselves burning and go around to inflame human minds and hearts. Theophanes did not trust a “residual Christianity.” Customs could be perpetuated by inertia, he said, but convictions and beliefs could be kept only by spiritual vigilance and continuous effort by the spirit. Theophanes felt that there was too much routine and convention in the life of Russian Christians. He anticipated a crisis and even a collapse. He resigned his diocese and retired to a monastery, because he felt that he could do much more service to the Church by writing books than by administering a bishopric.

Theophanes was a man of wide learning and experience. For some time he was Rector of the Theological Academy (in St. Petersburg). He traveled extensively in the Christian East and was intimately linked with Mount Athos. He was a good Greek scholar, and he used this knowledge for translations. He always insisted that he retired not for an advanced spiritual life (which is possible, and should be practiced for the ordinary life) but to have time and leisure for literary and scholarly work. He took to his monastic cell all his books, a selected library from which were not excluded books by Western scholars and secular literature. He wanted to know the world to which he had to bring the message of salvation. He did not dispute the labors and achievements of those who did not belong to the Orthodox communion of faith.

The retired bishop spent his time in writing: He translated “Philokalia,” [see Book Reviews ]; the works of St. Simeon the New Theologian; the ancient Monastic Rules (Eastern and Western); he published several volumes of his commentary on the Epistles of St. Paul, intended not so much for scholars, but to help all believers understand this inspired teaching; he wrote several books on Christian Ethics and Spirituality. Theophanes began every day with the Divine Liturgy, which he celebrated alone in his tiny domestic chapel, and he would use the inspiration of the daily communion for his scholarly and pastoral work.

The impact of Theophanes’ writings on the life of the Russian Church was enormous. In his retirement, as a “recluse,” he was more influential than he could ever have been as administrator of a worldly diocese. He made Christian doctrine available for average Christians, for all Christians. He wanted to equip them with spiritual weapons for their Christian struggle. He required from all Christians — from clergy first of all — a thorough knowledge and understanding of our Holy Faith, which alone could save our life from unhealthy sentimentalism and imagination. He insisted on the study of the Scriptures and of the Holy Fathers.

Now, many years have passed since Theophanes’ time. His worst anticipations were justified. The whole Orthodox Church — not only in Russia — is involved in a desperate struggle with the raging assault of godlessness and unbelief. Human souls are undergoing an incredible trial. But the protecting veil of Divine Mercy is spread over the suffering Church and the possessed world, and men are called to be Christ’s witnesses: His Messengers and Apostles. The Church is essentially a missionary institution. One has to thank God for that army of new martyrs and confessors who have revealed or manifested the strength and the beauty of Christian Faith. And yet one should not be too easily satisfied with what has been done by others. So much has been left not done by us.

Let us confine our attention this time to one aspect of our Christian duty. Everyone knows that we are desperately short of books. Behind the “iron curtain” an impressive literature of atheism has been created and widely spread. Special colleges have been established to train people “for a godless ministry.” Textbooks on anti-religious propaganda, and on the methodology of godless preaching have been prepared for classrooms.

What is our response to this challenge? In the Ancient Church, the Holy Fathers met the challenge of the pagan world by an outpouring of Christian writings, attacking point by point the arguments of the opponents. What have we done in our own situation? Can we really meet the enemy on the field and save the victims of this unparalleled spiritual persecution?

The rusty weapons will not do. I am not speaking of the Holy Tradition, of the writings of the Holy Fathers, but of the inadequate books of the last century, which were so often ephemeral and rarely presented a sufficient interpretation of the Holy Tradition. Our theological production stopped years ago, and that stoppage testifies to our neglect of the teaching mission of the Church. Ignorance is growing in the Church and we are not alarmed!

Are there any books in which our Holy Orthodox Faith can be convincingly preached and commended to our own generation?

We in America, where the majority of Orthodox Christians are English-speaking, are in an especially difficult situation. There is no Orthodox literature in English. There are occasional books, often of modest quality, and rarely on the most urgent or basic subjects. The real problem, however, is not that of books, but of study. Each generation, especially in a new country, has to assess the Christian truth afresh, in continuous contact with the past, as well as in close contact with the changing present. It is not enough to learn by rote some ready answers. They may be perfectly right and correct. But we have to solve the questions by thinking through the answers and not by merely reciting formulas, sacred and perfect though they are. Listen to the searching man! He knows the formula, but cannot relate it to his existential questioning. Our Creed is a most perfect formula. How often do we recite it without conviction? Are we able to relate it to our urgent spiritual needs? How many Orthodox dispense with the Creed, because it has ceased to have for them any immediate spiritual appeal? The Creed is charged with an eternal and loving Truth. It is an eternal key to human unrest, but it needs interpretation. Otherwise we would not know how to fit the key in the lock.

What our present generation wants, especially in our country, is a true theological revival — a revival of a living theology, which would unlock for us that Truth which one can find in the Scriptures, in the Tradition, and in the Liturgical life of the Church, but which is sealed away from us by our ignorance and neglect. We need today more than ever before, precisely a “band of spiritual firebrands” who can inflame minds and hearts with the fire of a loving knowledge of God and Jesus Christ, the Redeemer. God calls us, in our generation, to be His witnesses and messengers. How can men believe if they do not hear the quickening Word? Even if we are men of unclean lips, let us respond to the Divine call, and the fire of the Spirit will cleanse us, for the ministry of the Word.

V. Rev. George Florovsky, D.D.

St. Vladimir’s Seminary Quarterly , Vol. 1, No. 1, Fall 1952, pp. 3–5

The Operations of God (chapter 7 of Staniloae’s “Experience of God”)


The next few chapters of The Experience of God are Staniloae’s extended commentary and refining of the essential points made in the sixth chapter. In chapter seven Staniloae addresses the particular claims of the Orthodox tradition’s insistence upon the distinction between the essence and energies of God. Thankfully the English translator employs the word “operation” instead of “energy” (this may just be a peculiarity of Staniloae’s own Romanian?). I have found it difficult expressing the gist of this infamous doctrine when using the word “energy”. The word alone seems to imply powers residing within the infinite Godhead, or to be somewhat cartoonish, to imply that God is enveloped by some sort of “energy field”. I believe in employing the word “operation” there is an allowance for an English speaker to understand the dynamic nature of the energies of God and their specific relationship to the created world. God’s operations are God’s dynamic and unceasing work of sustaining and guiding His creation towards union with Himself. This cosmological and eschatological point of view seems to me to be the difference between Staniloae and other modern Orthodox interpreter’s of the operations of God.

Staniloae is not specifically affixed to the issues of existential knowledge vs. rationalistic knowledge being the point of the doctrine concerning operations of God – at least not in this chapter. I mention this fact because this point is what I perceive to be what many modern Orthodox thinkers argue is the crux of the doctrine and therefore a definitive difference with the Western theological tradition. Staniloae’s presentation here is a refreshing approach to understanding how God maintains God’s freedom and transcendence from the world all the while being actively sustaining and working within the world to bring it and humanity into communion with God. Typical to Staniloae’s treatment of the primary doctrines of the Orthodox Church, Staniloae has refracted this doctrine through his specific concern with the created order and its telos in God. Unlike Lossky and other modern interpreters of Palamas there is not in Staniloae a supreme focus on epistemological issues. Rather the focus of Staniloae is trained on seeing the doctrine of the essence and operations of God within the structures of “theosis” – the graced cosmos, the sacraments, and the myriad nature of human experience.

In another source Staniloae insists “Christianity must emphasize today the value and the mystery of man and the world in a special way, in order to save man from a grave moral decadence and a remarkable egoism in interhuman relations; and to save the world from total catastrophe”.[1] In discussing this chapter I want to point to two interrelated points brought out within this specific chapter and how the doctrine of the essence and energies/operations of God figures into Staniloae’s theological vision. Those two points are God’s meaningful and rationally structured creation and humanity’s place within it and the importance of Divine and human personhood and freedom. These two points reiterate Staniloae’s insistence upon what Christians must emphasize in our modern context. Let us first turn to the mystery of man and the world.

God’s attributes can be categorized in various ways. God is “good”, “just”, or “merciful”. We do not experience these attributes as abstract ideas. Rather, we experience these attributes in a myriad of ways throughout our life. We experience the “pressure” of God through various occurrences and people who are providential supplied to us. In other words, we experience God’s operations within the world as a continuous symphony – not in a single ravishing transcendent experience. Staniloae states: “Through his attributes God makes something of his being evident to us, but this something is made specific within one vast and uninterrupted symphony of continually new acts that guide creation and each element of it separately towards the final goal of full union with him” (128). The operations of God we experience are fully God, yet God is infinitely beyond our experience. I say “beyond” because we do experience God through his operations in the world, however words fail in “capturing” God. “[T]he mystery of the personal reality of God is experience, properly speaking, through the renunciation of all the words that point to the attributes and operations of God directed toward us” (129).

God stands above creation. The triune God is super-essential – existing in a superior mode to creation. God does not rely on anything, is not encompassed by a system of references, or need to participate in anything in order to exist. God’s triune life is “act or power” and he possesses all of his own attributes unaided by created reality. It may be helpful to consider this through an analogy. The operations of God in the world are like a ladder. We experience God’s goodness in varied degrees throughout our life and it is through these experiences that we taste God’s goodness. We have not “grasped” God within our own machinations or experiences. Rather our experiences have provided us with a sign that points us towards the person of God. What Staniloae has done to help me understand this doctrine is to put God’s governance into the framework of the operations of God. It is not an abstract discussion of God’s specific names or attributes that we may meditate on and by grace or will sling ourselves up towards the transcendent. It is out of the over-abundant love of God that He governs and leads our lives through various levels of communication with us. He operates or communicates to us through the encouragement of others, through the testament of Scripture, through the lives of the Saints, or as in the case of St. Poryphorios, even in the song of a nightingale. This is so because God has in creating us not abandoned us, but continues to sustain, guide, and communicate to us through the created symbolic order that is the cosmos in which we live, move, and have our very being.

The transcendence of God is key for Staniloae for two reasons. The first reason is the reality of monotheism, God is beyond the created order and this is a good for creation. All of reality flows from the will of the Triune God, not out of necessity but out of God’s freely chosen act of creating, sustaining, and ultimately redeeming reality. This grounds Staniloae’s “apophatic personhood”. What grounds reality is the fact of the divine persons of the Godhead have created not out of necessity but out of love. If it were otherwise meaning and difference would collapse. Divine super-essential persons sustain reality. Second, this transcendence is actually extremely important for humanity. Being made in the image of God we participate in the mystery of personhood, specifically the gift of freedom. In fact, for Staniloae it is the reality of the transcendence of the divine Personal reality that “assures the existence of human persons who are not totally enclosed within nature’s system of references (once God secures for them this liberty). Otherwise everything would fall under the rule of the meaningless laws of nature and death” (138). The transcendent reality of the essence of God has become for Staniloae the lynchpin in securing human freedom and therefore morality. The world is meaningful because it flows out of the Divine community of love. The world is going somewhere and for a real purpose, namely, personal communion with God.

Staniloae’s weaving of the doctrine about the operations and essence of God has been tuned to the contemporary issues of scientism, nihilism, and utilitarianism. We must affirm the transcendence of the Creator in order to secure the freedom of the human being. This affirmation is an affirmation of moral and cosmic significance. In fact, to separate the cosmic from the moral is to make a serious error. We experience God through the “pressure” of every day existence. It is in and through our varied experiences we are able to experience God’s guidance of the cosmos into communion with Himself.

[1] Charles Miller, Gift of the World: An Introduction to the Theology of Dumitru Staniloae, 55.

The Body of the Living Christ: Ecclesiology in the Thought of Father Georges Florovsky

g_florovskyAn excellent essay by Father Matthew Baker, presented at Princeton Theological Seminary in February, 2012:

The Body of the Living Christ: Ecclesiology in the Thought of Father Georges Florovsky


As one recent commentator has remarked, “attempting to remain firmly within the Orthodox tradition, Florovsky, in facing new situations of the early twentieth century, came to a novel and creative formulation of the Church.” And yet, “understanding Florovsky’s ecclesiology is not easy.” This is so, not only because his exposition was so sketch-like and occasional, but also, I might add, for Orthodox, because so many of his creative formulations have now become – albeit sometimes in vulgarized form – standard expressions.

My aim here, therefore, is to draw out some of the unique context and accents of Florovsky’s creative formulation of the doctrine of the Church, in hope of encouraging your own fresh reading. First, some little-known background in Russian cultural debates of the early 1920’s. Second, some key ecclesiological themes as they are developed in Florovsky’s essays from the late 20’s through the 1960’s. Finally, in closing, I comment briefly on Florovsky’s contribution to Orthodox and ecumenical ecclesiology today.

Ecclesiology Emerging: Church, Politics and Culture in the Eurasian Controversy

The more I study Florovsky, the more I am convinced of the importance of his early involvement with a movement which most theological treatments of his thought ignore. I refer here to Eurasianism. Though Florovsky’s Eurasian involvement was brief (only three years), some of his earliest articles were published in Eurasian anthologies between 1921 and 1923. Pre-dating his turn to patristics, Florovsky’s Eurasian engagement contains a key background to his later ecclesiology.

The Eurasians were a group of the Russian emigre intellectuals formed in the early ’20’s in Sofia under the leadership of Prince Nikolai Trubetskoi, Peter Suvchinskiy, and Florovsky’s brother-in-law, Peter Savitsky. Drawing from the Slavophiles, the Eurasians held that Russia represented a unique cultural type, standing between the two civilizations of Germano-Latin West and Far East. They queried the deep cultural sources of the Bolshevik Revolution within the broader schemes of historical development in both Russia and the West.

Eurasianism was a theory of cultural autonomy and anti-Europeanization. Borrowing a scheme from Nikolai Danilevsky’s 1869 work, Rossiya i Evropa, Trubetskoi (in his book Evropa i Chelovnost) expressed a theory of cultural morphology according to which the multi-ethnic civilizations of Russian Eurasia and Western Europe were radically incommensurable. Under the impact of Oswald Spengler’s influential book, Der Untergang der Abendlandes, some Eurasians, most notably Lev Karsavin, developed the idea that each cultural type possesses the closed unity of a distinct organism, unfolding in history according to its own immanent, pre-formed developmental laws. Any cross-civilizational hybridization here could only be an organic aberration, a freak of nature – in Spenglerian terms, a ”pseudomorphosis.” For the Eurasians, it was precisely such pseudomorphosis of Russian culture under the impact of Western rationalism that had brought about the Revolution.

Florovsky shared the Eurasian critique of Western rationalism as a cause of cultural crisis. Right away, however, he rejected, as a form of determinism, the idea of ”organic” cultural ”types” held by other Eurasians. In his 1921 essay on ”The Eternal and the Temporal in the Teaching of the Russian Slavophiles” [”Vechnoe i prehodyashchee v uchenni russkih slavyanofilov”], he diagnosed Danilevsky’s concept of cultural types as a reductionistic empiricism, a theory of culture based, not on the revelation of the highest spiritual values, but nationalism. Trubetskoi’s localism also he criticized for its cultural relativist tendencies. True, ”every ‘genius’ speaks the language and images of its environment and era, yet ‘something’ makes it transcend time and space in general.” That ”something” is the expression of the highest universal values. False nationalism lacks faith. One must follow the “lure” of the “tree of the cross,” taking one’s stand, not on the past of national tradition, but on the promise of Christ: “Be of good cheer, I have conquered the world.”

The Eurasianists were anti-communist. However, some – notably, Karsavin and Savitskii – came to support the Soviet state in hope that it would eventually shed its Marxist atheism, making the revolution but a necessary stage in the development of a new national Orthodox ”ideocracy.” Florovsky rejected both this political stance and the historical determinism used to justify it. Yet while admiring the heroism of the ”White” monarchists during the Civil War, he was also critical of their attempt to restore the pre-Revolutionary political arrangement. In a published 1922 letter to his friend Peter Struve, he described the essence of his position as the primacy of cultural consciousness over politics. Bolshevism is a cultural perversion, and thus can be overcome only by cultural means; a solution in terms of political ideology, right or left, would only be utopian and ”spiritual suicide.” Cultural resurrection could only come by the preaching of personal responsibility and inward spiritual rebirth.

In an article in the 1922 Eurasian volume, Na Putyakh, ”On Patriotism Righteous and Sinful” [”O patriotizme pravednom i grehovnom”], Florovsky urged his fellow emigres to accept the Revolution and the changed circumstances it brought as historical fact. Yet what was fact should not be approved as moral value. The Revolution was the ”result of spiritual perversion,” the progressive alienation of culture from the holiness of the Church, and the curtailing of Church activities by the post-Petrine state. So also, its devastation could be “conquered only by spiritual rebirth, only when the foundation for construction will be based on new principles.” These principles would have to be found in a new philosophical synthesis of Orthodox patristics and Western learning. Here in 1922, we see, in earliest form, the basic thesis of Florovsky’s 1937 masterwork, Puti Russkogo Bogosloviya and the germ of his later idea of neopatristic synthesis.       

The significance of ecclesiology in all this can begin to be seen in Florovsky’s last Eurasian publication. In ”Dva Zaveta” [”Two Covenants”], published in the 1923 volume Rossiya i Latinstvo, Florovsky departs from philosophical-cultural analysis to his first real ecclesiological meditation. Sounding a note he will repeat in nearly all his later ecclesiological essays, he stresses that neither Fathers nor Councils give us a complete definition of the Church. The experience of the Church is broader and deeper than defined doctrine. The Church is a new creation – an eschatological reality. To confess faith in the Church, then, is to confess this invisible new creation. But this invisible is not separated from the visible Church. The Church visible – including hierarchy and sacraments – is the historical revelation of the ”Church of the Living God, the Pillar and Ground of Truth.”

This revelation is characterized by unity in freedom and love. Florovsky contrasts two ideals of historical unity: one, the ”unity of the Spirit,” characterized by free, personal, heroic daring; two, the ‘attempt to create ”a magically error-free organization in external obedience to a universally valid, abstract norm.” The unity of mankind in the Church stands against all grand political schemes for human transformation, which are but a ”vain deceit after the elements of this world, and not after Christ.”

It is not hard to see in this essay a growing frustration with the increasingly political direction of Eurasianism, with its idea of cultural renewal through an authoritarian ideological state. To Florovsky, the aim of translating Christian unity into a political ”the brotherhood of peoples” and ”perpetual peace” was sheer apocalyptic fantasy, a utopianism which drowned out the hope of eternal life and exposed the essentially secular nature of the ”religious social ideal.” The Slavophile dream of a homogeneous Orthodox society; the Ultramontane statism of French theocrat Joseph de Maistre; Polish national messianism; Vladimir Soloviev’s conception of ”free theocracy”: all these were a kind of socialist chilasm, an attempt to plan the kingdom of God on earth, a temporal pre-empting of the day when God will be ”all in all.” Here eschatology is reduced to a natural stage in the evolutionary logic of history; in place of personal responsibility is ”Christian politics.” As Soloviev also finally recognized in his last work, The Tale of the Antichrist, this was “the third temptation of Devil”: the reduction of the Christian hope to the “narrow circle of the visible world – limited to ‘the expectation of a complete transformation of society’.”

In contrast, Florovsky underscores, “The Christian hope is directed entirely to the Second Coming.” The Gospel cannot be deployed in a legal code regulating an ideal society. The image of God is revealed in the individual man, not the state. Yet none of this means indifference or inactivity in the world. On the contrary, the Christian hope is expressed in the love of neighbor – not only as personal deed, but also public act. Florovsky invokes the charitable examples of Sts. Juliana Lazarevskaya and Tikhon of Zadonsk: such are the carriers of religious culture, “the only possible ‘theocracy.’” This is a normative task of personal creativity, a standard – not a “system” that has ever been realized forcibly. The apostolic Church sets an example of love for enemies, kindness – not persecution – towards the heterodox. It is this that distinguishes the genuine ecclesial spirit from all authoritarian religious-political schemes. But this love is not that of a natural organism; it is the fruit of the Spirit, giving form to a ”divine-human organism.” And it is not utopian, for with hope of the Second Coming comes also acute recognition of evil. The Church knows her children wrestle not against flesh, but principalities and powers; before the judgment, she cannot imagine that God is ”all in all.” There is a real father of lies, to be driven out finally only in the ”last days,” expelled now only “by prayer and fasting,” sacraments, selfless love for others – the unity of the sacrifice on Golgotha, the unity of the one Mediator. The visible Church, the germ of the city of God, is built up in history through sacraments. ”Not ‘Christian politics,'” Florovsky concludes, ”but the ministry of the sacraments is the way of the dispensation of the kingdom of God.”

Florovsky broke with the Eurasian group in August 1923, at a meeting in Berlin. In his own words, he was ”sickened” by their ”spirit of intolerance” and ”political intrigue.” In an article of 1928, “Evraziskii soblazn” [”The Eurasian Temptation”], he registered his final critique, focusing especially on the cultural determinism entailed in the Eurasian historical morphology. The Eurasians treat each civilization as a “cultural personality” [kulturolichnost], fixed even from eternity with particular tendencies and revealed organically in the life of a people in successive incarnations, each equally natural and necessary. For Florovsky, this was a loss of the Christian philosophy of history, for which culture should be understood as revealing a people’s free spiritual life, its structure and destiny — a “morphology” for which people are creatively responsible. A philosophy marked by genuine “Christocentricism” encourages a “sensitive responsiveness to authentic historical dynamics . . . not only the organic gyre, but also creativity and sinful decay.” Such philosophy could never say that the Christian West is alien to Orthodox Russia, even with the tragic realities of schism and heresy.

The Eurasians did recognize “valuable aspects of Christianity” in the West. However, these were, in their view, “’alien to the Orthodox people” — relevant only to “Romano-Germanic” peoples. As Florovsky charged, the Eurasians feel no fraternal concern for the needs of western people, “no sense of religious and historical mutual responsibility,” being content rather with a “self-satisfied demand of ‘repentance.'” There is a real schism; yet, Florovsky stresses, one “must firmly remember the name of Christ connects Russia and Europe.” The Eurasians with their pan-Slavic/pan-Mongol attempt to form an political bloc with the non-Christian peoples of central Asia, forget this: “They are too fond of natural, geographical and ethnic lines.” In the final analysis, the Church for them resides in the state: “ecclesia in res publica, not res publica in ecclesia.”
In all this, we see Florovsky underscoring the distinction between Church and world, grace and nature, and the purely graced relation of persons to God. Organic ties of blood and culture must be, he says, “canceled” and “transubstantiated,” in a new adoptive birth within the Church. That flesh and blood cannot inherit eternal life concerns also culture. In the populist identification of Church with nation, in the notion of naturally evolving Christian culture, Florovsky sees Pelagian heresy. A culture may have Christian origins, yet “Christianity cannot be absorbed into the bloodstream.” The “churching” (ottserkovlenie) of culture is a command not achievable by any natural principle. And not everything in so-called Christian culture will find itself in the Kingdom: much will “get a share in ‘pitch darkness.’” Certainly, the Church is the goal of social development, but a goal “not of this world.” The distinction between Greek and Scythian has been removed — in baptism; the distinction between churched and un-churched world remains.

As Sergei Horuzhy has observed, it was precisely in rejecting the Eurasian temptation that Florovsky formulated his crucial distinction between the ”organic” and the ”historical,” later developed at length in his important 1930 article, ”Evolution und Epigenesis (Zur Problematik der Geschichte).” For Horuzhy, this represents a profound transformation of the secular theses of the Slavophiles and Eurasians towards a genuine Orthodox theology of culture. I would add also: towards an emerging ecclesiology. Already in these early essays, we find a Christocentric vision of the Church as a divine-human organism able to generate culture precisely and only as she transcends the natural realities of race and nation – through her purely graced, baptismal sacramental foundation, her universal scope, and her eschatological orientation towards the Kingdom of God. This vision upsets every scheme of determinism, encouraging a personalist historiosophy in which cultures are understood as being continually created through the free spiritual activity of human persons. Closely allied to this is an ecumenical concern for the unity of all those who confess the name of Christ.

Ecclesiology Made Articulate: Florovsky’s Essays on the Church

Florovsky’s first strictly theological article, ”Dom Otchii” [”House of the Father”], written in 1926, the year Florovsky began teaching patristics at St Serge, is essentially a re-write of his 1923 Eurasian essay, ”Dva Zaveta.” Yet the revision marks a significant turn. Where the earlier essay quotes Bulgakov, Schelling, and Scottish Enlightenment thinkers alongside Scripture, the 1926 essay replaces these with Church Fathers and liturgy, signaling a new, more ecclesiastical-historical approach.

A second change would follow quickly after. Upon arriving in Paris, Florovsky joined Berdyaev’s ecumenical colloquium. There he aired his first theological productions before leading Roman Catholic thinkers (Jacques Maritain, Etienne Gilson, Gabriel Marcel), and, briefly, Protestant theologians as well. Here forward, with few exceptions, all his essays on the Church were written for ecumenical audiences: from 1928, for the St. Alban-St Sergius Fellowship; from 1937, for Faith and Order; from 1948, for the WCC. His longest ecclesiological essay, ”Le corps du Christ vivant”, was an expansion of his paper for the 1948 Amsterdam Assembly, ”The Church: Her Nature and Task.”

These two elements – the mining of patristics (what Florovsky would call ”ecumenism in time”) and conversation with the Christian West (what he would call ”ecumenism in space”) – mark the emergent context of Florovsky’s ecclesiology. And yet, precisely in this new mode, he develops themes already apparent in his early cultural criticism.

Central here is the Christocentric approach to the problem of organic unity. In his first review after moving to Paris (April 1927, Put’), Florovsky turned to the early work of the 19th century Tübingen Roman Catholic theologian, Johann Adam Moehler (1796-1838), Die Einheit in der Kirche. Florovsky praises Moehler as rediscovering the patristic sense of catholicity, an overcoming of time in which believers of all ages become contemporaries, no longer isolated in their own period. The Church, and only the Church, is an organic whole: one great body held together by love and joined in union by the Holy Spirit. Moehler describes the unity of the Church in terms borrowed from Romanticism. Yet unity for him is no facet of “organic historicism,” but a fruit of Pentecost. It is this, says Florovsky, that separates Moehler from every sort of ”romantic ‘modernism’.”

Florovsky couples Moehler with the Slavophile thinker Alexei Khomiakov (1804-1860). Both he credits for establishing the Church as an object for modern theology, bringing to the fore her organic and conciliar nature: a dynamic understanding of Church unity for which the institutional aspect is conceived as a manifestation of the her inner being, and tradition interpreted as an expression of growth and life, making the experience of the Church a source and measure for theology.

Thus, with the help of Moehler and Khomiakov, we see Florovsky here transferring the Romantic metaphor of organic unity, which he had already criticized in the Eurasians, away from the natural realities of culture and nation to the universal Church. It is this transference that explains also his own later use of Spengler’s term “pseudomorphosis” to denote the alienation of theology under neo-scholastic influence: the organism here being not national culture, but the Church, whose dogmatic consciousness is expressed chiefly in the liturgy. The language of “organism” indicates a kind of unity that is more than merely moral, legal or volitional, but ontological. And yet this unity is the sacramental work of the Spirit: it is in the Church, and only in the Church, that the ontological unity of mankind is to be found.

To call the Church a divine-human organism underscores that her unity is more than simply that of an aggregate of individuals united by common purpose, but a divinely constituted body, with definite essential structure and shape. This was a point that Florovsky would frequently reiterate especially in his ecumenical conversations with Protestants in the WCC. On the other hand, the organic metaphor contains a certain difficulty. For if the unity of the Church is not merely moral or volitional, nevertheless it does not exclude free volition of persons. In Florovsky’s philosophy of history, however, the emergence of the person, created and revealed through free historical acts, marks a hiatus between organic “nature” and “history.” The place of the person in this organic ecclesiology is therefore an open problem.

Florovsky thus makes two fundamental corrections to Moehler and Khomiakov. First of all, the unity of the Church has its principle in a person, even the Lord Jesus Christ. “The Church, as a whole, has her personal center only in Christ, she is not an incarnation of the Holy Spirit, nor is she only a Spirit-bearing community, but precisely the Body of Christ, the Incarnate Lord.” As Florovsky quotes the Roman Catholic theologian Karl Adam: “Christ, the Lord, is the proper ‘I’ of the Church.”

Ecclesiology, then, “is a chapter, and a crucial chapter, of Christology.” Florovsky asks: “Should we start just with the fact of the Church’s being a ‘Community,’ and then investigate her ‘structure’ and ‘notes’? Or should we rather start with Christ, God Incarnate, and investigate the implications of the total dogma of the Incarnation, including the glory of the Risen and Ascended Lord, who sitteth at the right hand of the Father?” Note how the ”total dogma” here includes the whole scope of Christ’s work.

Florovsky objects to the disassociation of ecclesiology from the objective work of Christ. In the tendency to begin ecclesiology with the community or with pneumatology, he says, there is a danger of collapsing into “a kind of ‘Charismatic Sociology.’”

Here his criticism is not only of Khomiakov and the early Moehler, but also of Vladimir Lossky. Reacting to the filioque, Lossky framed his ecclesiology according to a strict schematism of two economies: the work of the Son is to redeem human nature, while the Spirit sanctifies persons.

Florovsky’s objection here is that Lossky’s scheme could imply “that Christ is not dynamically present in the Church,” leading to “grave errors in the doctrine of the sacraments.” Certainly, “The Church is one in the Holy Spirit”; if her “center of unity” is Christ, “the power that effects and enacts the unity is the Spirit.” However, “the Spirit is the Spirit of the Son,” “the Spirit of Christ . . . sent by Christ from the Father,” “the Spirit of adoption” in whom “we recognize . . . that Jesus is the Lord.” It is Christ who “is continually active and acting ‘through the Spirit’ in order to recapitulate all things in himself.” “Pentecost is the mystery of the Crucified Lord.” “The work of the Spirit in believers is precisely their incorporation into Christ, their baptism into one body . . . even the body of Christ.”

Thus, Florovsky’s first correction of Romantic ecclesiology is to underscore the personal character – indeed, the corporate personality – of organic unity in the Church. Now the second correction balances this with personal diversity:

the Church is composed of human personalities, which never can be regarded merely as elements or cells of the whole, because each is in direct and immediate union with Christ and His Father – the personal is not to be sacrificed or dissolved in the corporate, Christian ‘togetherness’ must not degenerate into impersonalism. The idea of an organism must be supplemented by the idea of a symphony of personalities, in which the mystery of the Holy Trinity is reflected, and this is the core of the conception of “catholicity”.

Objectively, the Church is catholic, not quantitatively, but by nature. She is catholic because she is the Body of Christ – Christ Jesus, who is the “Last Adam,” “the measure and limit of human life,” in whom the meaning of human existence is accomplished, having “entered the pre-eternal glory . . . as Man.” Subjectively, however, catholicity remains an ascetic task, a commandment given to every Christian. “Spiritual manhood” takes the form of a “catholic transfiguration of personality,” achieved in self-renunciation, love of neighbor, and “catholic conversation with others,” in which “we enlarge our existences, we open ourselves to others, we bear them in our mind and in our heart.” Accompanying this also must be a “subjective apostolicity,” loyalty to apostolic tradition. Although Florovsky generally avoids the notion of the Church as image of the Trinity, here he suggests precisely that: in this “symphony of personalities,” in which the opposition between “I” and “not-I” is overcome, there is a created likeness of the Trinity. Those who attain to this “catholic consciousness” we call Fathers and Doctors, able to testify on behalf of all.

As we have seen, Florovsky’s ecclesiology unifies a strong affirmation of ontological unity with equal affirmation of personal diversity, freedom, and creative activity. Practically speaking, these two elements take the form of sacramental participation and ascetic struggle. In his words: “The sacraments and the ‘ordeal’ [podvig] – these are the two indissoluble and indivisible factors of the Christian life.”

Florovsky must be counted as a key figure in the modern development of eucharistic ecclesiology. As early as the late 1920’s, he maintained that “the sacraments constitute the Church.” The catholicity of each local Church is given in the Eucharist, in which the whole Church is mystically present. Ministers act “in persona Christi . . . and in and through them, the Head of the Body, is performing, continuing and accomplishing his eternal pastoral and priestly office.” It is the ascended Jesus who is the “sole priest,” “the offerer and the offered,” who, Florovsky reminds us, remains “no less man than ‘in his days with us,’ and perhaps more.” This continuing humanity of the ascended Jesus is crucial to the unity effected in the Eucharist: as Florovsky affirms, “the true communitarian spirit is possible only through mystical participation in the humanity of the incarnate Word.”

Florovsky finds a well-defined theology of history summarized in the Eucharist. As he affirms, quoting Nicholas Cabasilas, “’introduction to the mysteries is as to a kind of ‘body of history.’” This includes the “recreation” of the Church of the Old Covenant and the events of Christ’s incarnation, mystical supper, passion and death, resurrection, ascension and second coming – an anamnesis of “the entire fullness of the deeds of Divine Wisdom.” The Eucharist is the reintegration of time and, as such, an image of the last things. Florovsky speculates that the Pauline choice of the phrase soma tou Christou for the Church was suggested precisely by this Eucharistic experience. Thus constituted in the Eucharist, the Church is the continuing presence of Christ’s person, but also “a living summary” and “recapitulation of all his work.”

Florovsky’s eucharistic ecclesiology differs from that of Nicolai Afanasiev by its stress on inclusion of each local Church in the Church universal through its bishop. For Florovsky, this inclusion has an eschatological dimension. The term ekklesia applied in the Septuagint already to the twelve tribes of Israel indicates a community called out in anticipation; the reconstitution of this community around Jesus in the persons of the Twelve in Jerusalem is a sign that the days of the Messiah have arrived. Through the bishop, each local Church is joined to this eschatological community of the Twelve. It is for this reason that, although the bishop differs from his priests only by the sacramental power of ordaining, it is the bishops alone who teach decisively on behalf of the universal Church. It is because of this eschatological dimension also that Florovsky (not unlike Joseph Ratzinger) expressed some difficulty with the choice of Vatican II’s dogmatic constitution on the Church, Lumen Gentium, to focus ecclesiology on the image of “People of God.” Only “Body of Christ,” Florovsky argues, expresses properly the newness and the eschatological character of the Church as the very presence of the Messiah: a newness in which, through the Twelve, the Old Testament People of God is also now included, as in one ekklesia — so that Florovsky will echo Origen in saying that both testaments are new and fundamentally one in Christ. Though anticipated in Israel and founded in the mystery of the Nativity, it is in Pentecost that the Church is properly constituted – as the Body of Christ. Nevertheless, the image of the “People of God” does still have a place, insofar as it expresses the Church’s continued peregrination through history towards the Kingdom of God.

Florovsky points especially to the Epistles to the Hebrews and Ephesians as key touchstones for ecclesiology. He repairs continually to the Pauline corpus in speaking of the Church. Ultimately, however, it is Chrysostom and Augustine who provide the architectonic signature to Florovsky’s ecclesiology. From Chrysostom’s exegesis of Paul, Florovsky borrows the description of the Church as the very “complement” and pleroma – the fullness – of Christ himself. There is no separation between the head in heaven and the body of earth; yet there is a dynamism in which the historic growth of the body represents the very completion of Christ himself. In Chrysostom’s words, “Christ will be complete when his body is completed.” There is an equal emphasis here upon both the unity of head and body and their distinction, a duality expressing the eschatological tension of Christian existence.

Yet Florovsky intensifies this motif of Chrysostom with repeated reference to Augustine’s “glorious phrase”, totus Christus, caput et corpus, a formula which finally encapsulates the ultimate design of Florovsky’s ecclesiology. It seems it was the Belgian Jesuit Émile Mersch’s study Le Corps Mystique du Christ which first alerted him, in the early 1930’s, to the importance of this Augustinian concept of the “Whole Christ.” In describing the unity of the ”Whole Christ,” at once militant on earth and triumphant in heaven, Florovsky resorts to the description of the Church living in duas vitas found in Augustine’s Tractates on John, a text which he refers to as ”one of my favorite passages in the Fathers.”’ The Church is marked by a double dimensionality,” being at once in via and in statu patriae. Florovsky correlates these ”two lives” with the forma servi and forma gloriae of Christ spoken of in Philippians 2, and both pairings together with the formula of the Chalcedonian definition. As he writes: ”the ‘two lives’ are united and interrelated in the identity of subject: unconfusedly, unchangeably, indivisibly, inseparably. There is but one Church, ‘visible’ and ‘invisible’ at once, humiliated and glorious at once.’ ” Totus Christus, caput et corpus inscribes a paradox of fullness and expectation, fulfillment and historical duration.

Florovsky’s debt to Augustine does not stop there. In a 1933 article on the “Limits of the Church,” Florovsky argued that contemporary Orthodox theology must integrate Augustine’s views regarding the reception of schismatics and the presence of sacraments beyond the Church’s canonical borders. The organic nature of the Church means that her charismatic sacramental activity cannot be delimited strictly to canonical boundaries. The sacramental work of Jesus the high priest and of his Spirit continues even in some schisms. The essence of schism, according to Augustine and Florovsky, is not simply legal, but rather the dissipation of the bond of love. While some commentators have claimed that this 1933 essay was but a heuristic speculation, Florovsky reiterated this same position on sacraments in schism in other articles, reviews and in private letters from early to late career. Florovsky’s debt to Augustine is quite remarkable amongst modern Orthodox theologians. In the late 50’s, in an unpublished lecture which may now be found in the audio archives of the Harvard University Library, he cited the authority of St. Photius (no Latinizer he!) for the view that Augustine was “one of the greatest saints ever given by God to his Church.” In another unpublished lecture at Fordham University in 1967, no doubt with a bit of provocation, he refers to Augustine as “the greatest Father of the Western Church, indeed of the Church universal.”

I began this paper by showing how some of Florovsky’s key ecclesiological themes grew in the context of emigré debates about culture. I should note that this interest in the relation of the Church to culture did not abate after Florovsky turned to theology proper. The Church in history is marked by a “antinomic” orientation, both towards the empire and towards the desert, neither of which must be absolutized or viewed in isolation, but always held together with its opposite as expressing the tension of existence between the times. Florovsky, however, treats Christian existence in both spheres as an ascetic task: like Sergei Bulgakov, he employs the Slav word for ascesis, podvig, beyond the sphere personal acts of piety, to describe the creative act of building up of Christian culture. As he affirms, while not everything in so-called Christian culture will perdure into the eschaton, there are indeed fruits of human cultural creativity that will not be burned up by the testing fire.

Florovsky’s Contribution to Orthodox and Ecumenical Ecclesiology

After World War II, most of Florovsky’s essays were written for various commissions and studies groups of the WCC, in which he was a key player alongside Karl Barth. Seeing that we are at the illustrious Princeton Theological Seminary, I cannot fail to mention Florovsky’s challenge to Barth. Both theologians agreed strongly on the need for a strongly Christocentric interpretation of the Church. Yet it is likely that Florovsky’s 1948 essay “The Church: Her Nature and Task” was pitched in part in response to Barth’s increasing congregationalism. Responding to Barth’s paper at a 1947 meeting in Clarens, Switzerland, “The Church: The Living Community of the Living Lord Jesus Christ,” he remarked that

in Barth’s conception there really was no Church at all: the Church was de-substantialized, it happened from time to time, its existence was reduced to some moments of definite action. This     was completely unwarranted by Holy Scripture, because the whole New Testament speaks of the enduring unity of the Church in Christ its Head, not of a Christ who now and then sends his Spirit. Reconciliation is something ontological, man brought back into reconciled unity with God. Orthodox and Catholics believe that sacraments and order are of the ‘esse’ of the Church because they put their trust, not in a human institution, but in divinely constituted realities. The Church, as the Body of Christ, is an organism with an organic structure constituted, not by man, but by God.

Florovsky had similar remarks for Emil Brunner, whom he accused of docetic tendencies. As he put it,

Christian history is, as it were, atomized in his vision. It is just a series of existential acts, performed by men, and, strangely enough, only negative acts, the acts of rebellion and resistance, seem to be integrated and solidarized. But, in fact, ecclesia is not just an aggregate of    sporadic acts, but a ‘body,’ the body of Christ.

Here we see the key role that organism plays in Florovsky’s ecclesiology – underscoring the continuity of Church structure, not an extrinsic addition, but a dimension of the very work of Christ himself. The Church is history “solidarized” – an “organic” body utterly unique, composed of free and saving historical acts. To repeat again the phrase which Florovsky borrows from St. Nicholas Cabasilas: the Church is a “’body of history.’”

With the increasing drift of the WWC towards socio-political agendas and secular mores, the ecumenical landscape has shifted. The most viable dialogue of Orthodoxy today in the West is with the Roman Church. With regard to Rome, Florovsky tended to treat the filioque as an obstacle only for its unconciliar insertion into the Creed; he rejected the view Cappadocian and Augustinian triadologies were ultimately unreconciliable. As he is reported to have said at Amsterdam in 1948, “Between the two churches, Orthodox and Catholic, there is at bottom one question, that of the Pope.” The impression one gains from Florovsky is that the central problem the Orthodox have with Rome is a false teaching regarding the nature of Church unity – although he also suggests that this false teaching is rooted in a deeper defect in Christological vision. However, Florovsky never indicated clearly what an acceptable primacy might look like. He took a serious interest in Vatican II, and was positive about the move to integrate papal primacy into a doctrine of episcopal collegiality. Yet in his view, the real theological work had only just begun. In an essay on the eve of the Council, he remarked that dialogue with Rome would require of the Orthodox a fuller development of doctrine.

On the Orthodox side, no one has contributed more to this development since than Florovsky’s student, John Zizioulas. Following Swiss Reformed theologian Jean-Jacques von Allmen, Zizioulas notes how Luke situates Jesus’ words to Peter about strengthening the brethren precisely within the institution of the Eucharist. Primacy is set in the context of communion, within the framework of an act Jesus commands be done until he comes again. As Zizioulas stresses, conciliarity, as a structure of communion, requires effective primacy: one needs a primus to convene a council. Universal conciliarity requires universal primacy. Yet this primacy must follow the same pattern as regional primacies in Apostolic Canon 34:

The bishops of each province (ethnos) must recognize the one who is first (protos) amongst them, and consider him to be their head (kephale), and not do anything important without his consent (gnome); each bishop may only do what concerns his own diocese (paroikia) and its dependent territories. But the first (protos) cannot do anything without the consent of all. For in this way concord (homonoia) will prevail, and God will be praised through the Lord in the Holy Spirit.

Zizioulas’ contribution has been decisive. In his attempt to ground ecclesiology in a Trinitarian “ontology of communion,” however, Zizioulas shows a tendency to neglect the category of act or agency in favor of the image of a perfect eternal, or eschatological, state of being. This may be one reason why Zizioulas, in contrast to Florovsky, has little to say about redeeming work of the Cross, and even less interest in integrating the ascetic dimension into his ecclesiology.

It is here we can take a major lesson from Florovsky, which I think ought to guide our thinking about the Church even further still today. Even now, one still hears some repeating the old Liberal trope that the categories of Chalcedon are too “static,” too “ontological,” too metaphysical or else too apophatic to communicate anything existentially significant to us about Jesus. Not unlike T.F. Torrance (with whom he corresponded at this time), Florovsky, however, suggested a thoroughly Christocentric and Chalcedonian ecclesiology in which the ontological terms of Chalcedon are interpreted in a more wide-ranging dynamic, soteriological sense. Being and act, person and work, nature and history, ontology and narrative – all these must be held together in unity. The whole Christ includes the whole work, inclusive of the Church. As Florovsky put it in 1955 – and here I also conclude:

It is precisely because Christ is God-man and, according to the formula of Chalcedon, is at once “perfect in His Godhead and in His manhood” that the Church is possible at all. And . . . Christ’s “identification” with man . . . was consummated in His death, which was itself the victory over the powers of destruction, and this death was revealed in the Glory of the Resurrection and consummated in the Heavenly Session. There is but one indivisible act of God. The Church is constituted in the sacraments, all of which imply an intimate participation in Christ’s death and resurrection and a personal “communion” with Him. The Church is the fruit of Christ’s redeeming work and, as it were, its “summary.” . . . Only in this perspective can the nature of the Church be fully and properly understood. The crucial point of interpretation is that of the character of Christ’s “human nature,” his own and yet “universal.” . . . [And yet] the concept of Incarnation, taken by itself and not expanded sufficiently to include the life and work of Christ up to their climax on the Cross and in the glory of the Resurrection, does not provide a sufficient ground or basis for Ecclesiology. Nor would it be sufficient to analyse the mystery of the Incarnation exclusively in terms of “nature.” . . . It must be stated therefore that no coherent Ecclesiology can be constructed unless the centrality of Christ, the Incarnate Lord and King of Glory, is admitted without any reservations.
In the final account, “Christology” and “Ecclesiology” will be organically correlated in the inclusive doctrine of “the Whole Christ”, – totus Christus, caput et corpus, in the glorious phrase of St. Augustine. . . The decisive argument . . . will be from the integral vision of the Person and work of Christ.

The Knowledge of God (chapter 6 of Staniloae’s “Experience of God”)

dionysios converting the pagan philosophers


“… it is not the same to say something about God as it is to gain and see God.” So St Gregory Palamas said to Barlaam (The Experience of God, p115).

Here is Fr Staniloae’s central note about the Knowledge of God — that at its highest point and most essential depth, it is beyond experience and inexpressible, that it is a “trans-apophaticism” that extends even beyond via negativa, and finally and climactically, it is the ineffable experience of God as Person (only, of course, in the extent of God’s energy, never His essence).

In the most valuable accessible survey of the patristic tradition of the Knowledge of God, Fr Staniloae moves from Gregory the Theologian to Gregory of Nyssa, Dionysios the Areopagite, Symeon the New Theologian and Gregory Palamas (referring to Maximus the Confessor along the way). His discussion of the Areopagite in particular, if for no other part of this chapter, is a most helpful corrective to the contemporary Orthodox discussion of knowledge (especially in the shadow of a “Western captivity” of Orthodox academia).

As in any other Orthodox discussion of the Knowledge of God, Fr Staniloae contrasts the two different strains of the knowledge of God: the rational or “cataphatic” knowledge on one hand, and the ineffable or “apophatic” on the other. And, along with everyone else, the author clearly states that the apophatic is superior to the rational, because it completes it.

Here, though, is where he parts company from the rest: from this point, Fr Staniloae discusses the Knowledge of God in ways that at least “sounds” different from other Orthodox presentations. In the first part of his discussion, the author focuses on the relationship between these two kinds of knowledge of God. The very fact that he makes the relationship a subject of consideration distinguishes him from the usual Orthodox treatment. Instead of positing a sharp differentiation, if not chiasmus, between “cataphaticism” and “apophaticism,” Fr Staniloae rather “nests” the former within the latter. After all, the latter is superior because of the fact that it substantiates the completion of the former. If that is true, then it makes little sense, if any, to isolate these two terms in opposition to each other.

Contrary to the common notion that cataphatic knowledge is positive and apophatic knowledge is negative, Fr Staniloae emphasizes that cataphasis as “rational knowledge” includes not only “positive” knowledge, but also “negative” knowledge. This latter is the “via negativa” of both East and West, in which long intellectual tradition there is a constant and honest dissatisfaction with any philosophical term that describes God, because there is, at the root of all knowledge, a certainty that God as Person must infinitely exceed all creaturely definition.

So the renunciation of philosophical terms (and the resulting and unending discursive dialectic) about God is actually part of the rational, cataphatic tradition of Knowledge. Here, the author contrasts the Eastern tradition from the West: this intellectual renunciation of terms — i.e., the via negativa — is not part of apophatic knowledge. The renunciative tradition is really propositional. It consists of “statements about” rather than the “ineffable experience” that exceeds any attempt to confine in cognitive expression. The apophatic experience of divinity — especially, in its most ineffable, the experience of God as Person — lies not only beyond philosophical proposition, but also beyond the possibility of internal language, or thought. That is, it is “trans-rational” — surely a better term than “irrational.”

“Rationality” is never denounced in patristic tradition. How can it be, Staniloae asks, when the Logos upon which rationality is predicated (see Justin Martyr’s revision of the Stoic doctrine of the logos spermatikos) is Christ Himself, through Whom and form Whom all things were made?

Here, Fr Staniloae emphasizes the validity and necessity of cataphatic knowledge, nesting it (or framing it) as he does within the exponentially larger apophatic experience. He quotes Dionysios at this critical passage — an “apophatic” spiritual writer who is finally and correctly identified as one who “harmonizes” the two knowledges of God:

Since it is the Cause of all beings, we should posit and ascribe to it all the affirmations we make in regard to beings, and, more appropriately, we should negate all these affirmations, since it surpasses all being. Now we should not conclude that the negations are simply the opposites of the affirmations, but rather that the cause of all is considerably prior to this, beyond privations, beyond every denial, beyond every assertion. (Mystical Theology, I.2, quoted by Staniloae, p111).

Both kinds of this knowledge of God can be known, at least partly, by any human — whether positive and negative in cataphasis, or the trans-rational ineffable experience of God as Person in apophasis. The natural revelation of God as Creator, immanent to and transcendent of His Creation as absolute, with Creation (i.e., all space-time and eternity) in utter contingency upon Him is always “shot-through” with supernatural revelation.

But this raises an ambiguity in Staniloae himself that is probably true of the general Orthodox thinking about the Knowledge of God: is the apophatic experience given only to those who “believe,” who are “Christian,” who participate in the Body of Christ in a decisive manner?

It is true that the apophatic experience grows and becomes more known (though always ineffably) as a “man progresses in the spiritual life, the intellectual knowledge about God — as creator of the world and source of its providential care — which comes to man from the world, is imbued with the direct and richer contemplation of him, that is, with apophatic knowledge” (p97).

But is a non-baptized human being excluded from apophasis? It does not seem so in this sixth chapter of The Experience of God. That said, a non-baptized person cannot experience the continued perfecting process of apophasis. Neither, it is strongly insinuated, can an Orthodox person — even, and especially, an intellectual academic — who does not participate in purification.

Here we are drawn to one of the oddest features of Fr Staniloae’s essay on the Knowledge of God. After his distinctive comparison of cataphasis and apophasis (which is helpfully summarized on pages 116-117), and his note that the Orthodox ethos is characterized by apophasis (at this point he returns to familiar Orthodox language about apophasis), the author makes an abrupt jump into a “practical life” discussion of apophatic knowledge.

In this undeniably “existential” dimension of the subject of apophasis, Fr Staniloae returns to the powerful legacy of St Maximus the Confessor — that is, his famous insistence upon the conversion from “philautia” (i.e., “self-love”) to the essentially Christ-like love for others. It is in this practice of love that the human creature is drawn into the fundamentally Trinitarian “form” of existence — which is “goodness” itself:

In this knowledge I no longer see God only as the creator and the providential guide of all things, or as the mystery which makes himself visible to all, filling all with a joy which is to a greater or lesser extent the same in all cases; but I know him in his special care in regard to me, in his intimate relations with me, in his plan whereby, through the particular suffering, demands, and direction that he addresses to me in life, he leads me in a special way to the common goal (p118).

It is distinctive of Staniloae that he sets this existential, practical participation in love (and Trinitarian life) squarely in the province of apophasis!

And that, I would suggest, is what makes Orthodoxy truly Orthodox.

Anyways, it should be noted that all knowledge, for Staniloae (who stands squarely in the old patristic tradition), utterly relational. Every true concept is a “sentence” addressed by “Infinite Person” to man.

In summary, what does Fr Staniloae not set out to do in this chapter on Knowledge of God?

He does not dismiss intellectual knowledge in favor of apophatic knowledge, neither does he draw a rigid distinction between them.

He does not equate cataphatic knowledge with positive theology, and apophatic knowledge with irrationality. In fact, rationality embraces both positive and negative terms.

He does not conflate apophasis with “religious knowledge” or “theology.” Neither does he associate cataphasis with “natural revelation” and apophasis with “supernatural revelation.”

He does not sequester the knowledge of God away from “secular” knowledge, reason or philosophy.

He does not denounce analogy, or even analogia entis.

There are a lot of things that Fr Staniloae does not do, that a lot of other people (even Orthodox people), in fact, do.

Finally, there are many dichotomies identified in Fr Staniloae’s chapter on the Knowledge of God: immanence vs transcendence; created vs uncreated (which itself is a categorized comprising energy vs essence, person vs nature); time-space vs eternity (and above that is everlasting, or absolute/infinite).

But the very prettiest thing in this chapter is that knowledge is divine communication. In which beauty always traverses these dichotomies.

And the most beautiful expression — and form — is the Word Himself.

Chapter 5 – Theology as Ecclesial Service

Dogmas, the truths of the faith necessary for salvation (p. 59), must have their endless content continually disclosed. This process of disclosure is the task of theology (p. 79). Theological inquiry informs all aspects of church life, from preaching to pastoral care, to sanctification (ibid). It is shaped and inspired by the Holy Scriptures and the Apostolic Tradition of the Church.

Theology is tasked with the mission of taking dogmatic truths and conveying them in a way that aids the faithful in understanding the various aspects of the Christian faith. Therefore, it cannot remain stagnant or inflexible. While the dogmas themselves are true, timeless and unchanging, the theological interpretations of these truths need to be able to communicate with the time and place in which the interpretation occurs.

This is not to say that theology, thus understood, deviates from the dogmatic truths to which they point. Fr. Staniloae makes this clear in his discussion of the relationship between dogma and theologoumena. If theologoumena is to be understood as theological examinations which have not been adopted as official ecclesiastical formulations, then implied in this is an assertion that there are root-level agreements between theologoumena and the dogmas to which they refer. Otherwise, they are not even to be considered theologoumena. Moreover, they will simply become obsolete over time, because they do not reference the dogmatic truths of the Church, nor do they aid in the salvific work of the Church. Ultimately they will be abandoned (p. 83).

In the Orthodox context, “[t]heology is done in the Church through the personal thinking of her members (p. 85).” There is no separation between Church and theology as exists in the Catholic Church (ibid.). The inerrancy of the Church and its theological work is assured because the Church is guided by the Holy Spirit and because the Church preserves the dogmas it was given through experience and represented in the synods of bishops (ibid.). “All members of the Church are part of this body and all do theology to a greater or lesser extent.”

While each member of the Church can theologize, the temptation towards individualism can be circumvented in a couple of ways. The first is that the individual works to make sure that the theology that is derived is in harmony with the teaching that has been received. Also, quoting Evagrios Pontos, “If you are a theologian you will pray truly. And if you pray truly, you are a theologian (p. 86).”

Remembering that theology is the work of presenting dogmatic truths, it is important to emphasize that the theologian needs to be an active participant in the life of the Church. “The theologian will never know God [God from the experience of His saving activity among men]f he does not enter into a personal relationship with God and with the faithful through prayer (p. 87).

As time progresses, and as new problems arise, it is the task of theology to bring those issue to bear over and against the dogmatic truths of the faith. For while the truths are unchangeable, to present them in a way that is rigid and insensitive to the matters of the age would be both inadequate and damaging (p. 88). However, in bringing theology to bear on current events, three conditions should be held: 1) fidelity to the dogmas which are held and knowable through the Scriptures and the teachings of the Church; 2) responsibility to the faithful who are contemporary to the theology being done and 3) openness to the eschatological future, the future of deification, that awaits the faithful. A theology that neglects the tradition of the past is damaging, just as is a theology that fails to be relevant to the challenges of the present, just as is a theology which fails to prepare the faithful for a future that is understood to be an eternity in the presence of God, out theosis.

All of these concerns should be held in balance, should be equally considered. An overemphasis on any one or two, to the detriment of those remaining, would produce a deficient theology which at best would be innocuous or irrelevant and ultimately cast aside, and at worst it would be destructive or even corrosive to the soul.

While theology is meant to take all of these aspects into account, it must be understood that it will never explain in toto the One to whom the dogmas of the faith refer. Theology does not supplant dogma. Neither does theology exhaust all of the dogmatic truths that concern God. This is the very basis for the emphasis on apophaticism that is central to Orthodox thought. Citing Lossky, the Church is not a school of philosophy debating abstract coincepts, it is “essentially a communion with the living God (p. 92; cf. Lossky, The Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church. (London, 1957) p. 42).”

Theology thus continues to advance our understanding of God through its re-presenting of the dogmas of the faith. Remaining faithful to the teachings of the past, relevant to the concerns of the present, and humbly open to the challenges of the future, theology continues to nourish and sustain the faithful of the Church.

Staniloae concludes this chapter with yet another incisive comment from our father among the saints, Maximos: “Theology will be effective if it stands always before God and helps the faithful to do the same in their every act: to see God through the formulae of the past, to express him through the explanations of the present, to hope and to call for the advancement towards full union with him in the life to come (p. 93).

Forgive me.