Essays on Eastern Orthodoxy
Come, and See!
An essay summarizing this collection of Orthodox essays
April 16, 2007
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(Continued from p. 1.)
And this brings me to the central point of this particular essay. I’m an observer of life. I’m also a critic (in the original sense of the word—kritikós, a person skilled in judgment; krîtés, an umpire—more akin to a theater critic than simply a person who is judgmental). Beginning with my training as a high school debater, and further developed in my studies in rhetoric and public argument, I’ve developed a quick wit and a sharp tongue. On the one hand, my ability as a critic is a gracious gift that I use in observing life; on the other, my sharp tongue is a curse when it comes to discussing the faith.
For me the greatest gift of Orthodoxy is its poetic sense. Only three people are given the honorific “Theologian” in the Orthodox Church: John (who penned the Gospel under his name), Gregory of Nazianzus, and Symeon, the abbot of St. Mamas Monastery in Constantinople at the end of the first millennium. All three were poets. The great philosopher-theologians, such as the Apostle Paul, Origen, and Augustine are greatly honored, but they are not called Theologians. A Theologian is a friend of God who is able to communicate that friendship and friendship transcends definition. Only poetry can come close in distilling the essence of such friendship.
Western theology tends toward systemization of knowledge. It understands through organization. The Eastern approach to theology is not systematic, but poetic. It’s highest expression is not in a multi-volume work of theology, but in the “five pounder,” the Liturgicon of the worship services of the Church, where the prayers and hymns that express the sublime truths of theology are found, prayed, and celebrated week in and week out in the context of worship. I could try to argue the fine points of theology expressed in these hymns and prayers but it would be a pointless exercise because worship is a holistic and poetic exercise which is less an exercise of the intellect and more an exercise of the whole person. Poetry can be appreciated, it can be scanned for deeper meaning and obscure significance, but it can’t be broken into tiny pieces and organized with a personal rhetorical flourish. In worship it is necessary that I simply be attentive in order to hear the Wisdom and be awash in its beauty.
But from a Western perspective that is so non-intellectual, and therefore, almost by definition, non-Christian, or at the very least, idolatrous. Adolph von Harnack, the brilliant 19th century church historian and author of the six volume History of Christianity (one of the most influential modern theological works that no one has heard of), said “Eastern Orthodoxy is the reduction of Christianity to pagan antiquity” (as quoted by Fr. Paul Lazor). Harnack witnessed the beauty and sheer prodigal character of Orthodox worship, with all its Oriental sensibilities, and found it wanting, and even idolatrous by Western standards.
In my heart of hearts, I would like to take Harnack on and explain, point by point, how terribly mistaken he is. But there’s no real value in that. You either get it or you don’t; you either accept it or reject it.
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| Andrew pointing the way to Christ |
That’s why these Orthodox essays have been nearly all about worship. Arguing fine points of theology only excites the passions and digs us deeper into our already well-worn trenches. Such an exercise is actually destructive to our faith. Rather than rhetoric, invitation is the means of introducing the richness of the truth of the Orthodox church. As Andrew said to other would-be disciples and Photine (the woman Jesus spoke to at Jacob’s well) said to skeptical townspeople: “Come, and see!” These essays have been a way of using my gift of criticism (in the classical sense) while trying to avoid the curse of rhetoric. They have been my way of saying, “Come, and see,” hopefully, without being too offensive about it in the process.
My thinking about this essay began, not when I was trying to explain to my Baptist relatives what Eastern Orthodoxy was, nor sitting around the dining room table with my immediate family and their spouses, but rather when we all attended a Presbyterian church together on a communion Sunday. Orthodox Christians are not supposed to share the Eucharist with those who have not accepted the fullness of the faith, and so I didn’t take communion, I simply passed the elements to the next person. In the hours before worship I wrestled with that commitment; I even felt a bit guilty about it. Such a narrow-minded approach to fellowship is impolite. It’s exclusive. I’ve even heard it called arrogant (and probably thought that myself in the past). Even though Protestants and Orthodox worship the same Lord Jesus Christ, they are worlds apart, and for better or worse, refusing to confuse theology with politeness, the Orthodox refuse to sweep any of those issues under the rug. They are baldly and rudely out there in the open: the Orthodox are not in communion with the Western Churches.
At the same time, the Orthodox certainly don’t consider Protestants non-Christians nor necessarily heretics. The problem is rather that the Protestants don’t really fit into the Orthodox view of things. They are clearly separated from the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church (as the Creed describes it) because they are separated from the fellowship-of-leadership that shepherds the historic church. Furthermore, many of the Protestant communions have little interest in being in full fellowship with the Orthodox, given all their perceived Oriental weirdness. On the other hand, we believe and do many of the same things. Since there are no clear answers, the Orthodox simply say, “I don’t know” and stop short of full communion.
But that historical “I don’t know” left me outside the fellowship of the Table at worship with my family on that Sunday morning. So it is that this whole essay revolves around the subject of worship. My worship is strange and often deeply offensive to many Protestants. Protestant worship in its fullness, in turn, is necessarily where I must draw the line in my fellowship with Protestants if I am to be faithful to my Orthodoxy. And yet, if I hope to communicate the fullness of the faith that I have sought pretty much all my adult life, I dare not use my intellectual skills nor rhetorical flourishes, for those have proven to be tools of the Enemy more than tools of the Faith. Instead, all I can do is open the doors to the narthex of the church and say, “Come, and see!”
And that’s what this collection of essays is about. It’s why I haven’t added to my Orthodox essays in a long time: I’ve said about all I have to say concerning the visible aspects of worship. I have plenty more thoughts about Orthodoxy, but in this public forum read primarily by non-Orthodox people, it seems wise to hold my tongue.
I figured this out at a pre-cognitive level a long time ago. (In other words, one of those mysterious experiences in which we know things we cannot say, as Michael Polanyi described it.) The first Orthodox Church we ever attended had an iconographer and I asked David Michael if he might paint an icon of Philip under the fig tree with Andrew saying, “Come, and see!” The icon he painted (which hangs just inside our front door) has three scenes, each scene featuring Andrew inviting others to meet Christ, first John, then Peter, and finally Philip. (The icon is further up this page.)
That’s what this collection of essays is about. I am sorely tempted to write a great theological tome, but unpublished attempts indicate that such a work would not be upbuilding. Instead, for now, I must be satisfied with simply saying “Come, and see!”
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