Andrew Walker White-Performing Orthodox Ritual in Byzantium-Cambridge University Press (2018) PDF

P E R F O R M I N G O RT H O D OX R I T U A L
IN BYZANTIUM
In this groundbreaking, interdisciplinary study, Andrew Walker White explores

the origins of Byzantine ritual – the rites of the early Greek Orthodox Church –
and its unique relationship with traditional theatre. Tracing the secularization
of pagan theatre, the rise of rhetoric as an alternative to acting, as well as the
transmission of ancient methods of musical composition into the Byzantine era,
White demonstrates how Christian ritual was in effect a post-theatrical perform-
ing art, created by intellectuals who were fully aware of traditional theatre but
who endeavored to avoid it. The book explores how Orthodox rites avoid the
aesthetic appreciation associated with secular art, and conducts an in-depth study
(and reconstruction) of the late Byzantine Service of the Furnace. This is often
treated as a liturgical drama, and White translates and delineates the features of
five extant versions, to show how and why it generated widely diverse audience
reactions in both medieval times and our own.
ANDREW WALKER WHITE is an American theatre artist, cultural historian, and

theatre critic. As a performer his work embraces everything from Shakespeare and
Chekhov to dance theatre and mime; he is a former company member of Source
Theatre and Théâtre Le Neon, both in the Washington, DC area. As a historian
he has devoted himself to post-Classical Greek culture, and especially the theatre
and drama of Byzantium, and has translated key late antique and medieval Greek
texts. A veteran of the Fulbright Program, White has conducted research on-site
in Greece and Turkey, and has lectured in both the United States and Europe.
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PERFORMING
O RT H O D OX R I T U A L I N
BYZANTIUM
ANDREW WALKER WHITE
University Printing House, Cambridge cb2 8bs, United Kingdom
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© Andrew Walker White 2015
This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception
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no reproduction of any part may take place without
the written permission of Cambridge University Press.
First published 2015
Printed in the United Kingdom by Clays, St Ives plc
A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication data
White, Andrew Walker, 1958–
Performing Orthodox ritual in Byzantium / Andrew Walker White.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-107-07385-2 (hbk)
1. Orthodox Eastern Church–Liturgy–History. 2. Byzantine
Empire–Church history. 3. Liturgics–History. 4. Liturgy and
drama–History. 5. Theater–Religious aspects–Christianity–History.
6. Aesthetics, Byzantine. I. Title.
B X 350.W 45 2015
264′.019–dc23 2015022567
isbn 978-1-107-07385-2 Hardback
Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of
URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication,
and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain,
accurate or appropriate.
Contents
List of figures page vii

List of music examples viii
Acknowledgments ix
Introduction 1
P art I B y z anti ne spati a l, per f orman ce ,

a nd m u sic al practi ces 13
1 Spatial practices in Byzantium 15
2 Ritual vs. theatrical performance in Byzantium 47
3 Musical practices in Byzantium 86
P art II A st udy of the SERVICE OF THE FURNACE 121

4 Origins of the Service 123
5 The Service’s historical context 140
6 The Service of the Furnace in performance 156
Conclusion 187
Appendix 1 The Service of the Furnace, Athens 2047 190

Appendix 2 The Service of the Furnace, Athens 2406 203
Appendix 3 The Service of the Furnace, Iviron 1120 208
Appendix 4 The Service of the Furnace, Sinai 1527 212
Appendix 5 The Service of the Furnace, Lavra 165 215
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vi Contents
Appendix 6 Archbishop Symeon’s Dialogue in Christ 219
Appendix 7 The Russian Furnace Play 226
Glossary 231
Bibliography 238
Index 272
Figures
1 Early Byzantine sanctuary. Orthographic drawing

by Karen Elliott page 35
2 Names for notes/strings in the “lower” Greek tetrachord 90
3 The three scale genera, with their tonal intervals 90
4 Disjunct and conjunct tetrachords 93
5 The Greater and Lesser Perfect Systems, with nomenclature
for notes written horizontally and for the individual
tetrachords written vertically 94
6 The Greater and Lesser Perfect Systems in English 95
7 Sketch of the Three Children from the sanctuary of the
katholikon of Peribleptos monastery, Mistras. From Millet
1910: vol. ii, pl. 111 134
8 Fresco of the Three Children, as restored, Peribleptos
monastery, Mistras. Photograph by the author 135
9 South sanctuary wall of the katholikon in Peribleptos
monastery, Mistras. Photo by the author 136
10 Fresco of the Three Children, from the North Choir of
the katholikon (central church) of Vatopaidi monastery on
Mount Athos. From Papaggelos 1998: 252 137
11 Floor plan for Hagia Sophia in Thessalonica. Diagrammatic
drawing by Karen Elliott 168
12 Floor plan for Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. Diagrammatic
drawing by Karen Elliott 169
vii
Music examples
1 Excerpt from the Benedicite in the Service of the Furnace

including the chanted cue Lege, “sing” (on the fourth line).
From Lingas 2011: 219 (fig. 51b) page 173
2 Transcription of the melody for the angel’s descent from
the Service of the Furnace. From Lingas 2011: 216 (fig. 50a) 174
3 Introductory refrain from the Service of the Furnace,
by Xenos Korones. From Lingas 2011: 209 (fig. 47) 178
4 A version of the climactic stanza from the Service of the
Furnace. From Lingas 2011: 216 (fig. 50b) 179
viii
Acknowledgments
This study is the work of a bookish actor with a background in classics

who, after many years on and off the stage, was encouraged to study the
Eastern Roman Empire. Because I am among the first American thea-
tre historians to study Byzantine theatre and ritual, I have attempted
to map out some of the territory’s contours in the hope that others will
be intrigued and look into the specific areas I discuss here more deeply.
Whatever critical reception they may have, the success of these pages lies
in their being superseded – a prospect I welcome because it would mean
that better minds have joined me in the quest to understand the complex
heritage of post-Classical Hellenic culture.
This undertaking, admittedly large in its scope, would not have been
possible without the guidance and encouragement of many people: at the
University of Maryland, College Park, it was Patti P. Gillespie who first
suggested I “sail to Byzantium”; Catherine Schuler guided my first years
of research and drilled me in critical theory, chairing my committee most
of the way as well; meanwhile, John Fuegi (he of Brecht & Co. fame) pro-
vided a much-needed dose of cynicism. As co-chair, Byzantinist George
Majeska patiently guided the dissertation through its many changes with
the later assistance of my final committee co-chair, theatre historian Frank
Hildy, whose gentle but firm advice has always been much appreciated.
Thanks, too, to Elizabeth Fisher of George Washington University for her
guidance and patience through the dissertation and beyond.
The challenges were many in creating this book, not least the fact that
I had never seen the inside of a Greek Orthodox church or attended the
Divine Liturgy before Byzantium became my research project. Those who
have grown up in the tradition and devoted their lives to its study will
no doubt find many errors here, in spite of my best efforts. Rest assured
that I welcome correction, and am grateful in advance for the criticism
to come.
ix
x Acknowledgments
I am very fortunate that the Orthodox community of the Washington,
DC area has welcomed me and my small family, beginning with St. Sophia
Cathedral and Father John Tavlarides. “Papa Yanni” welcomed my interest
in the Liturgy, and introduced me to the late Mr. Alexander Alexandrou,
St. Sophia’s resident modern Greek instructor. Mr. Alexandrou helped me
with my first efforts at translating medieval Greek, and the joy he took in
explaining the language and its history has inspired me to continue my
studies, no matter how challenging.
Early in my research I had the opportunity to stage the Service of the
Furnace at the University of Maryland campus, which I created in con-
sultation with composer Michael Adamis (who kindly provided me with a
transcription and recording of his version), as well as the late musicologist
Miloš Velimirović, whose transcriptions of the Service formed the core of
our performance. I owe special thanks also to Ms. Mary Gaylord and the
choir of Sts. Constantine and Helen in Annapolis, Maryland, for their
performance on that occasion.
I had the opportunity to study in Greece and Turkey for a year through
a grant from the Fulbright Foundation; my special thanks to Artemis
Zenadou and Nicholas Tourides at the Fulbright office in Athens, as well
as Stephen Tracy and the staff at the American School for Classical Studies
for making that year so successful. The trip was made possible thanks
to a generous invitation from Dr. Iosef Vivilakes of the National and
Kapodistrian University of Athens Department of Theatre. Dr. Vivilakes
served as my hegoumeos, but he also made sure I was comfortable and had
opportunities to enjoy the performance scene while I was there. My daily
commute to the American School in Kolonaki was made the more delight-
ful by my frequent encounters with Dr. Stratos Constantinidis, of Ohio
State University’s Theatre Department. During my year abroad, I also
received permission to make photographic studies of several key sites;
I am grateful to the curator of the Hagia Sophia Museum in Istanbul, as
well as the 5th Ephorate of Byzantine Antiquities of Sparta and the 9th
Ephorate of Byzantine Antiquities in Thessalonica for their assistance.
Throughout the research and revision process I have presented papers
at conferences in the United States and Europe, engaging many schol-
ars whom I wish I could acknowledge here, although the present list of
names is by no means complete: In addition to Iosef Vivilakes and his
mentor, Walter Puchner of the University of Athens, I am grateful for the
advice and corrections of the eminent liturgist Alexander Lingas, whose
work as a cantor, musicologist, and historian of the Orthodox Liturgy is
truly monumental. I also have benefited greatly from colleagues including
Acknowledgments xi
Anthony Kaldellis of Ohio State University, Syriac specialists Cornelia
Horn and Robert Phenix, theatre historian (and theorist extraordinaire)
Michal Kobialka of the University of Minnesota, Przemysław Marciniak
of the University of Silesia, and a host of other colleagues. Portions of
this book have already appeared in several collections and journals – my
thanks to the readers who helped to clarify my thoughts and writing in
each case.
Huge gratitude is due as well to Alice-Mary Talbot, who as Director of
Byzantine Studies at the Dumbarton Oaks research library in Washington,
DC first gave me access to their invaluable research collection. Dr. Talbot,
along with Dr. Alexander Alexakis, also endured my first efforts at trans-
lation in their Byzantine Greek Summer School. And I thank especially
her successor, Margaret Mullett, whose encouragement has been as subtle
as it is effective, and whose work on Byzantine performance has been so
influential.
My chief and happiest distractions over the years have been my wife
and son, Laura and Ian, who have traveled with me and endured my odd
habits and disordered papers – strewn haphazardly from dining-room to
kitchen to bedroom to den – for so many years. I’d love to promise that
I’ll clean up the mess once this is done, but honesty prevents me from
doing so.
Introduction
Greeks have more to teach us than we may think. Although they have
accommodated our obsession with their antiquities, because of the rich-
ness and complexity of their post-Classical heritage they do so with a
growing sense of frustration. They know that the cultural and political
history of the West is founded on our notions of Classical Athens, but
they also know that we have obliterated centuries of Greek history – both
physically and academically. For generations we have strolled through the
Theatre of Dionysus, denuded of any evidence of activity since ancient
times, and because of its carefully whitewashed presentation we convince
ourselves that the site has always served the same function as it did in the
days of Sophocles. We puzzle briefly over the statuary plinths in the audi-
ence, erected to emperors who sponsored the gladiator fights there – the
munera being the theatre’s chief attraction in Roman times. We pass over
traces, clearly etched in the orchestra floor, of Christian churches erected
in these “sacred precincts.” Likewise, the fact that the Parthenon which
towers up above the theatre had, by the Middle Ages, been rededicated
to the Virgin Mary – becoming one of Christendom’s most cherished pil-
grimage sites – scarcely registers.1
Because of the West’s classical myopia, we experience a cognitive dis-
sonance when we discover that ancient Athens proved to be ephemeral,
and that the Greek form of Christianity, rooted firmly in Antiquity,
found new uses for this Classical heritage. Greek culture is quite different
from our own; it turns out that the theatres we cherish had many, many
uses down through the centuries, so that Dionysus notwithstanding, the
Orthodox have never seen the relationship between church and theatre
the same way we in the West do.
Consider what happened when Mel Gibson’s film The Passion of the
Christ was shown in Athens; as elsewhere it opened to mixed reviews,
1
See Kaldellis 2009.
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2 Performing Orthodox Ritual in Byzantium
but Greek objections to the film had less to do with violence than with
the basic premise behind the film’s production. One critic writing for the
mainstream newspaper Kathimerini characterized Gibson’s Passion as two
hours of unrelenting torture and added: “One wonders why Gibson chose
sadistic realism – bordering on the grotesque – to tell a story that is clearly
symbolic.”2 And the late Archbishop Christodoulos, spiritual leader of
the Orthodox Church in Greece, explained the ultimate problem many
Orthodox viewers had with the film:
It is not the goal of the Passion to prompt or stir the imagination and emo-
tions, so as to ignite hostility against people who took part in Jesus’ suf-
ferings. The goal of the Passion is to confront ourselves, and our sins …
I think if we limit ourselves to the emotions the film incites, we won’t get
what we’re looking for.3
The Passion, arguably the most dramatic episode of the Gospels, is a per-
ennial favorite in the West and has been enacted in various forms since the
Middle Ages. But many Greek Orthodox Christians find its appeal to the
emotions a distraction; as much as they love the theater they don’t regard
Holy Week, a season of spiritual contemplation, as a time to indulge in
crude theatrical display.
It is surprising to find objections to sacred drama among Christians,
especially at the dawn of the twenty-first century. But Kathimerini’s film
critic and Archbishop Christodoulos spoke to the endurance of a unique,
anti-theatrical ritual aesthetic that lies at the heart of Orthodoxy to this
day; an aesthetic that has yet to receive the attention it deserves, especially
among theatre historians.
The purpose of this study will be, in part, to describe the origins of the
Greek Orthodox ritual aesthetic during its early centuries, when it became
the official faith of the Eastern Roman Empire (more commonly known
as Byzantium). It will also try to explain why theatre was consciously,
pointedly ignored as a model for the Orthodox rite. In the process it
will challenge widespread assumptions in the West about the relation-
ship between ritual and theatre, since for the Orthodox they remain two
2
See Kathimerini Greek Edition, February 26, 2004, www.ekathimerini.gr/.
3
Eleftherotypia, February 26, 2004, www.enet.gr/. For a partial English translation see Orthodox
Christian News Service, February 28, 2004, www.orthodoxnews.netfirms.com/. The Orthodox
Christian News Service article characterizes Christodoulos, perhaps unfairly, as an arch-conservative
and a nationalist; but the reaction among Orthodox clergy in the United States was essentially
the same. See Greek Orthodox Diocese of America, February 27, 2004, www.goarch.org/en/news/.
Christodoulos was regarded as an innovator in other circles, and founded an annual conference
devoted to liturgical matters; see Alexopoulos 2012: 383–4.
Introduction 3
distinct institutions.4 The analysis here may also challenge assumptions we
have made about Hellenism, about Greek culture, and more broadly force
us to re-examine the nature of cultural stability and change.
Academically speaking when ritual and theatre meet it is usually on
less-than-equal terms. One tradition portrays ritual as primal and instinct-
ual, “ludic,” on the assumption that theatre is ipso facto sophisticated; this
approach positions drama as if it were the ultimate, subconscious goal
of ritual. Even when analyzed as a genre of performance, the overriding
assumption seems to be that rituals emerge spontaneously from the per-
forming body;5 the concept of ritual as an activity lacking in intellectual
rigor remains.6 Ritual has likewise been subjected to theories of “blind-
ness,” in which ritualization is a process fundamentally unaware of its
mode of operation. Even when it is not seen as primal, blind, and uncon-
scious, ritual is portrayed as deriving its power from a policy of “mystifi-
cation,”7 with practitioners suppressing the truth of a rite’s mundane – or
worse, theatrical – origins. Especially when confronted by Christian rit-
ual, academics still tend to use formulations like, “Ils font du théâtre, mais
ils ignorant qu’ils en font. Ils n’y voient que l’idée, le sentiment; le fait
matériel leur échappe.”8
Elsewhere, use of theatre as a metaphor or an analytical tool for the
study of ritual reinforces the perception that the two are equivalent –
either in terms of cultural symbiosis or narrative structure. As Catherine
Schnusenberg’s survey demonstrated, drama can be used to make
4
The foot-washing rite associated with Holy (Maundy) Thursday is in a category of its own; although
it is situated explicitly in the Gospel episode from the Last Supper, it requires the priest to wash the
feet of the entire congregation, not just a handful of celebrants representing the Apostles (as would
be expected in a theatrical version of the story). Because it is intended as an act of humility and ser-
vice, its performance strategy is best treated elsewhere.
5
This applies particularly to the process of ritualization; although Ronald L. Grimes acknowledges
that rituals demand a certain amount of conscious effort, he argues for a latent spontaneous, cre-
ative element in every performance (see Grimes 1995: 58–73). The dichotomy he finds between fixed
ritual and live performance would be familiar to any actor who has tackled a classic play – but the
fact that a rite is scripted does not negate the need for spontaneity in performance. Spontaneity
is present in all ritual to some degree, and perceptions of rigidity notwithstanding I don’t think
Grimes would maintain that traditional rituals (the Synagogue rite, the Orthodox Liturgy, Catholic
Mass, etc.) achieved their desired effects, time and again, by chance.
6
Kevin Schilbrack notes that “rituals are typically seen as mechanical or instinctual, and not as activ-
ities that involve thinking or learning” (Schilbrack 2004: 1). Through a focus on ritual action, some
of the essays collected in his volume propose “new” definitions that incorporate performance, but
which still reinforce the idea of ritual as pre-intellectual: “Ritual is less appropriately conceived as
thoughtless action than as a thinking through and with the body” (Raposa 2004: 115).
7
On blindness or “misrecognition” theory see Bell 1992: 108–10. On the invisibility of ritual origins
see Bell 1997: 224.
8
“They’re doing theatre, but they don’t know they’re doing it. They see only the idea, the feeling; the
material fact escapes them” (Cottas 1931a: 91).
otherwise ancient and alien ritual practices easier for modern readers to
respect and appreciate.9 But this approach, as fruitful as it may be for
modern readers, has its limits; for all our talk of the world – even all of
Creation10 – as a theatre, there is the danger that the analytical tool will
be confused with the phenomenon it is designed to measure. The result
is a tendency to lump together what is in reality a widely diverse group
of practices; in its article on medieval drama, Grove Music Online chooses
to define drama broadly as “any action in which the speeches, or songs,
of two or more personages (realistic or symbolic) are opposed or juxta-
posed”. This formulation comes dangerously close to rendering theatre
and ritual exactly alike.11
The early Church Fathers themselves were among the first to promote
the metaphor of kosmotheatron, the world-as-stage; but they did so with a
completely different understanding of theatre from our own. For us, thea-
tre and dramatic literature are distinguished institutions worthy of aca-
demic study; equating theatre with ritual, in our time, seems natural. But
for the Fathers theatre was a debased pagan relic to be shunned, and they
were clearly anxious about the mis-perception of their rites as entertain-
ment. Our respect for modern theatre blinds us to the fact that theatre is a
historically contingent phenomenon, whose fortunes have risen and fallen
numerous times since the first Dionysia.
The more general problem here is that our assumptions fail to account
for the ways that ritual and theatre were constructed and interpreted
within specific historical and cultural contexts.12 The earliest Christian rit-
uals were created in the context of the highly theatricalized culture of the
later Roman Empire; by that time theatre had been a cultural institution
for centuries and had long since lost its aura of sophistication; pantomime
may have appealed to the intellectual classes, but for the most part work-
ing actors (mimes especially) were indistinguishable from slaves; they even
lacked the routine legal protections that came with citizenship.13 Because
9
Schnusenberg 2010. 10 Schnusenberg 2010: 11.
11
See the Introduction, in Stevens and Rastall n.d.
12
For a critique of theories of ritual up to and including Catherine Bell see Grimes 2004. Victor
Turner’s From Ritual to Theatre: The Human Seriousness of Play (V. Turner 1982) may have been
partially responsible for this confusion, but he stressed that he used theatre and drama as analo-
gies – see V. Turner 1990. Turner’s approach still creates issues, however; as Bell points out, “The
comparison of ritual to all sorts of dramatic spectacles or structured improvisation effectively dem-
onstrates shared features and similar processes. At the same time, such comparisons often result in
simply describing one unknown in terms of another, and fail to account for the way in which most
cultures see important distinctions between ritual and other types of activities” (Bell 1997: 76).
13
On the debased legal standing of theatre performers, see CTh 15.7.1–13 (translation in Theodosius
1952: 433–4). No intellectuals chose to defend the dignity of mimes until the early sixth century
Introduction 5
Christianity’s rise occurred at a cultural moment when theatre had long
been in a state of profound decline, the stage would have served as little
more than a ritual anti-type.
The system of Christian rites that developed throughout late Antiquity
and beyond were created by some of the Roman world’s most gifted pub-
lic intellectuals, trained in the art of rhetoric – the ancient equivalent of
performance studies. The authors of the Divine Liturgy were nothing if
not self-aware, and they were fully aware of their historical and cultural
moment. Trained in a variety of modes of performance, steeped in Plato’s
ancient denunciation of the histrionic arts, and buttressed further by the
Jewish tradition’s theological rejection of theatre, these Roman intellec-
tuals were in a position to create a new mode of performance based on
post-theatrical, rhetorical models. And in spite of their elite status, they
were more than willing to explain their mode of ritual performance and
the humble origins of their practices to initiates.
Blindness does, in some ways, characterize the popular understanding
of traditional Christian rites because it is here that the lines between rit-
ual and theatre have been deliberately blurred for years. The Eucharistic
rite that commemorates the Last Supper is treated as essentially theat-
rical; what we fail to notice is that its character is non-mimetic. Even
the elevation of the Host turns out to be an accidental by-product of
a complex set of negotiations during the Middle Ages over Eucharistic
theology, architectural changes to the nave and sanctuary, and was com-
plicated further by debates over the eligibility of the laity for commu-
nion. Moreover, the sight of a priest on an open platform performing
the Eucharistic rite while facing the congregation is hardly “traditional,”
since it is the product of liturgical reforms only adopted in the mid twen-
tieth century.
Historically contingent ritual innovations, like other historically con-
tingent phenomena, can mislead us into drawing overbroad conclusions
about the nature of Christian ritual, and hence the nature of ritual itself.
Then again, this tendency to see drama in everything has its roots in a
very basic human urge: we are, as Richard Schechner once pointed out,
hard-wired to use narrative as a means of grasping the world around and
within us, it’s a dominant feature of human cognition.14 And narrative,
CE, and even Choricius of Gaza frankly describes his Defense of the Mimes as an entry in an ora-
torical contest; apparently his choice of subject matter was in part an attempt to score extra points
because of its degree of difficulty (Choricius of Gaza 1972: 345:7–10).
14
“Narrativity – the need to construct a plausible story – is not only hard-wired into the brain but
dominant” (Schechner 1993: 239).
or “plot” as Aristotle would put it, is the heart and soul of the drama.15
So the perception of Christian ritual as a narrative and hence dramatic
form – popular since the apologist Tertullian first seemed to suggest it in
the second century CE16 – can be persuasive.
What should also give us pause is the complete absence of theatrical
terminology in the Church’s service books. Even with the increasingly
elaborate, visually and aurally stimulating performances of the High
Middle Ages, the vocabulary used to describe them – whether the Latin
representatio and ordo or the Byzantine Greek akolouthia – indicates that
the celebrants had very distinct ideas about what they were doing. Michal
Kobialka has raised the question of whether familiarizing terms like “thea-
tre” or “drama” are applicable in a medieval liturgical context. His inves-
tigations of texts like Ethelwold’s Regularis Concordia and Hildegard von
Bingen’s Symphonia reveal them to be part of an ongoing negotiation over
how best to manifest piety, how best to realize the visibility of the sacred.
Implicitly, Kobialka asks us to choose: do we wish to understand these
texts on their own terms, in their own contexts? Or would we prefer to
make the material more familiar, visible, or “knowable” even if it means
that we distort their nature?
With the formation of Christian ritual in particular, we may well ask
whether drama was in some sense the more primal of the two forms, his-
torically and developmentally speaking. Any ritual can incorporate narra-
tive or theatrical mimesis as a part of its overall strategy, but if its goal is
to activate states of heightened spiritual and cognitive intensity, dramatic
impulses are only useful at a certain stage, and for a certain kind of audi-
ence. Even if we grant that Western clergy appear to enact Jesus’ role at the
Last Supper, they do so in preparation for communion; and communion
by design is a solemn act with a universe of potential meanings for each
communicant – meanings that go beyond pretending to be seated at a
dinner table in biblical Jerusalem. And if the goal of ritual lies beyond the
aesthetic or intellectual appreciation we associate with theatre, it is safe to
say the celebrants – especially at the moment of consecration – are trained
to think well beyond the theatrical implications of what they do.17
15
Aristotle uses the word mythos here, a reminder that “myth” represents a conscious attempt to
resolve an otherwise chaotic sequence of data into narrative form.
16
Tert. Spect. 29–30. That Tertullian uses the term “spectacle” here as a metaphor is easily overlooked.
17
In the traditional Christian rite bread and wine become the Eucharistic species, transformed ultim-
ately into the body and blood of Christ. And although Andrew Sofer notes the theatrical uses of
props masquerading as these species in medieval drama (see Sofer 2003: 31–60), any comparison
between the actual species and stage props would be problematical.
Introduction 7
It is this tension created by the perceived theatricality or narrativity
of Christian ritual, the conceptual gap between the celebrant’s intention
and the observer’s interpretation that lies at the core of the present study.
Here we will attempt to address the relationship between traditional the-
atre and ritual in the Greek Orthodox Church from the fourth to the
fifteenth centuries CE, Rome’s “Byzantine” period when the Empire’s cap-
ital moved to the eastern city of Constantinople (now Istanbul). If there is
any confusion about how to approach Byzantine culture and its rituals, it
is largely self-imposed; Constantinople served as the Roman imperial seat
from its official dedication in 330 ce to its final capture by the Ottoman
Sultan Mehmet II in 1453. In addition to being politically Roman, the
Empire was linguistically and culturally Greek, a fact that would have sur-
prised nobody at the time. Long before Rome became an empire its elite
had studied Classical Greek, including the great tragedies and comedies
of Antiquity. They had long been expected to speak Greek fluently, com-
posing and delivering speeches in a wide variety of creative genres (fables,
anecdotes, character monologues, etc.).18
It was in this classically steeped, creative, intellectual Greek-speaking
culture that Christianity first became a legal religion in the early fourth
century CE. Suspicious of its surroundings and hostile to popular thea-
tre, the newly empowered Church was anxious to make its mark as a dis-
tinctive spiritual and social practice. By the early fifth century this new
“cult” had pushed all others aside, becoming the sole official religion of
the Empire; in schools, meanwhile, the Septuagint (Greek) translation of
Jewish scripture became required reading alongside the great dramatists of
Antiquity.
Under Emperor Justinian I (527–65), two centuries after Christianity’s
legalization, the closure of public theatres as well as the pagan School
of Athens marked the ultimate “Christianization” of Roman society.19
But throughout those transitional years, the twin poles of Roman pol-
itics and Classical Greek culture remained intact. Perhaps because of
Constantinople’s role in preserving the dramatic literature of Antiquity,
generations of Western scholars have maintained (despite a lack of evi-
dence) that the Orthodox Church developed a taste for sacred plays.
18
The exercise books or progymnasmata from the early centuries ce emphasize creativity rooted in
classical models and classical modes of speech. For translations of several manuals see Kennedy
2003. Of special interest for this study is the work of Aphthonius, a contemporary of (St.) John
Chrysostom who studied alongside the future Church Father under the most gifted pagan orator of
the age, Libanius of Antioch.
19
Not everyone was happy with these reforms; see Procop. Arc 26.8–15 (English translation in
Procopius 2010: 114–15).
Western assumptions about the universality of our modern theatrical
impulses have led to the creation of what Walter Puchner calls a “ghost
chapter” on Byzantine sacred drama.20 Rumors of this “ghost chapter”
have persisted in spite of Orthodoxy’s consistent rejection of theatrical
realism; its visual aesthetic, as witnessed by its iconography, represents a
conscious departure from classical, realistic narrative form.
Orthodoxy’s emphasis on visual culture is evident from the moment
you step into a church: Jesus hovers over the nave, looking down from his
lofty perch in the central dome fully clothed, serene, and (by virtue of his
placement at the highest point) clearly in charge. This vision of Christ as
Pantocrator, “All-powerful,” contrasts sharply with the West’s emphasis on
the crucified “all-suffering” Christ, reinforced since the Middle Ages by
vividly realized performances of the Passion. In the Orthodox tradition
Christ’s suffering, while an important part of salvation history, is charac-
terized as voluntary and hence remains largely absent from the church’s
iconographical scheme.21 Instead of a crucifix, the sanctuary features a
serene Virgin Mary, high up in the apse, holding the baby Jesus in her lap.
This is not to be mistaken for a family portrait; the “baby” Jesus shows
clear signs of precocity, possessing as he does the head, expression, and
gesture of a mature rhetor. In this way, both traditional narratives of the
Western Church – the Crucifixion and the Nativity – are undermined,
inviting non-narrative-based responses from the congregation.
When our gaze returns to ground level, however, the Orthodox sanc-
tuary appears to tell a different and more earthly story with its templon
screen, a wall of icons set between columns and punctuated by three
sets of doors for the celebrants. The templon’s superficial resemblance to
a Hellenistic stage front (complete with inter-columnar “scenic flats” or
pinakes) has led to the over-interpretation of the sanctuary as a theatre.
In one study, Marios Ploritis juxtaposed images of a theatre and a tem-
plon screen as evidence that the latter derives its spatial practices from the
former.22
20
See Puchner 2002: 306. For an example of this “ghost chapter” see especially Berthold 1972: 210–27.
21
One exception is the epitaphion, an embroidered cloth featuring the image of the dead Christ and
placed in a symbolic tomb or sepulcher during modern Orthodox Easter-week services. Available
evidence indicates the cloth was an innovation that did not reach its fullest development until the
sixteenth century, i.e. after Byzantium’s fall. The most common theory is that the epitaphion was
of monastic origin (see Taft 1978: 216–19). The symbolic bier or sepulcher, on the other hand, is so
recent that it is not even mentioned in the Greek instructions for Easter Week; it is included only
in the English translation (see the services for Holy Friday in Papadeas 1999: 358–409).
22
See Ploritis 1999: 160–2.
Introduction 9
As we shall see the templon screen has a complex history, one that makes
Ploritis’ theory untenable; the perception of similarity between a theatre
and an Orthodox sanctuary fails to account for the unique histories of
both institutions. Accordingly, another goal of this study will be to exam-
ine points of rupture between theatrical and ritual performance practices;
past studies of theatre and drama in Byzantium have failed to account for
the ways in which Orthodox ritual established a presence distinct from
the theatrical culture in which it operated.23 For all the visual and aural
splendor of the Divine Liturgy, Orthodox ritual shows clear signs of an
anti-theatrical aesthetic; especially in the wake of Byzantium’s iconoclastic
crisis in the eighth and ninth centuries, the Church paid special atten-
tion to how it realized the visibility of the sacred and achieved a unique
aesthetic rooted as much in classical theories of optics as in traditional
Orthodox theology.
Thanks to the recent completion of a multi-volume history of the
standard Orthodox rite, the Divine Liturgy of John Chrysostom, and sem-
inal studies of late Byzantine liturgical innovations, we now have a much
clearer vision of how Orthodox ritual was constructed and how it grew
and changed down through the centuries. What may come as a surprise
is that some of Orthodoxy’s most striking liturgical reforms – the the-
ology of sacred icons, the introduction of hymnographic cycles like the
Kanons, the adoption of kalophonic or “beautified” chant – emerge from
branches of the Church that were either already under Muslim domin-
ation or soon to fall. We are talking in some sense about a ritual poetics
of captivity, which becomes more brilliant and spiritually focused as the
Empire’s fortunes decline. We are accustomed to viewing Christian ritual
as a hegemonic, top-down affair; but in this instance we must allow for a
more nuanced, dynamic process of ritualization that responds directly to
the situation “on the ground.”
As I write this, the evidence for traditional theatre in Byzantium
remains fragmented and contradictory; a proper narrative of its historical
development must await future study.24 But it is still possible to discuss
specific features associated with it, features which will help us to see how
they were altered, discarded, and/or “ritualized” in an Orthodox context.
We will begin in Chapter 1 with a comparison of spatial practices, and
the “consecration” of pagan theatrical space under Roman rule through
the pompē (processions) and the sculptural program of the scenae frons.
23
See for example La Piana 1912, for “ritual-to-theatre” theory. For continuity theory see Cottas 1931.
24
The most thorough treatment in English remains Puchner 2002.
The adoption by early Christians of the basilica or “imperial” hall – not
the theatre – as a ritual space was rich with implications; and the spatial
dynamics of both the basilica and the great cathedral church of Hagia
Sophia, which stands to this day in Constantinople, prove to be quite dis-
tinct from those of the theatre.
For Chapter 2, on Orthodox ritual performance, we begin with evi-
dence of an anti-theatrical bias in the biblical tradition going as far back as
the Septuagint. The choices made by the Orthodox authors of the Divine
Liturgy, some centuries later, become clearer once we understand the
Church’s deep-seated theological objections to Aristotelian enactment as
well as the nature of higher education in Byzantium.25 The chapter will go
on to detail strategies, rooted in the rhetorical tradition, that were taken to
avoid perceptions of theatricality as well as ritual agency – and the mixed
success these strategies enjoyed.
One area where the Orthodox rite’s practices appear to intersect with
ancient drama is in musical performance. Then as now the borders
between liturgical and secular music were porous, with composers and
performers working routinely in both milieus. Although early Christian
hymnography emerges from a culture whose musical tastes had changed
significantly since the days of the Dionysia, the principles of compos-
ition were remarkably similar. Chapter 3 will attempt to demonstrate how
Orthodoxy developed its own musical tradition in tandem (and in com-
petition) with the Roman theatre music scene. Possible links between tra-
gic odes and Byzantine chant, while tenuous in a sense, are worth further
study; Byzantine composers received training in ancient music theory,
and tragedy was taught primarily as a musical form. Although the precise
nature of ancient music’s influence on Byzantine chant is not fully under-
stood, even in Byzantium’s final years music theorists perceived a direct
link between the modal patterns of Antiquity and Orthodoxy.
The study culminates in a detailed analysis of a unique
fourteenth–fifteenth-century Orthodox rite, the Office or Service of the
Furnace, with Chapter 4 treating the Service’s literary and ritual origins
as well as its iconography, Chapter 5 its historical context and firsthand
accounts, and culminating in an analysis of its performance (and its pos-
sible modes of reception) in Chapter 6. This unique late Byzantine rite
was regarded by contemporary eyewitnesses, and is still seen by some
25
For the purposes of this study, “enactment” renders Aristotle’s term dromenon, which he uses to
distinguish acting from epic or narrative performance. Ronald Grimes uses the term in a different,
more general sense when he defines ritual (see Grimes 2012: 37).
Introduction 11
modern scholars, as an example of Orthodox sacred drama,26 but there
is evidence that the Service’s authors had constructed it as a ritual and
chafed at this interpretation. The analysis of the Service will try to account
for the variety of interpretations that have developed around it, working
from several of the extant versions currently available. Transcriptions and
translations of relevant texts for the Service are included as appendices, as
well as an account of the Service’s curious afterlife in early Imperial Russia.
26
The two most influential studies of the Service remain Velimirović 1962 and Lingas 2011, about
which much more later.
P a rt I
Byzantine spatial, performance, and

musical practices
Ch apter 1
Spatial practices in Byzantium
Readings of theatrical spaces in early Byzantium

From its earliest days, when the first actors performed under the tyrant
Peisistratus, the theatre has been circumscribed by the power relations of
its time and the agendas of its sponsors – usually the political elite. The
late Roman stage was no exception; it served as the hub of an imperial
religious, social, and political system that many found objectionable. And
because of its intimate connection to the state and its religion, for certain
Roman dissidents the theatre was complicit in everything that was wrong
with the Empire.
The people who objected most strenuously to the theatre, who decon-
structed its vast apparatus, who fought to disband it for centuries and
who suffered horrific persecution for their criticism were Romans – albeit
Christian ones.1 Theological objections to the acting profession aside –
more on this in the next chapter – the elaborate processional liturgy
(pompē) and sacrificial rites that heralded each festival, not to mention the
statuary programs in the theatre’s scenae frons, explicitly positioned theatre
as a centerpiece of pagan cult activity. Even if the entertainment itself had
been less objectionable, it was impossible for Christians to think of the
theatre without thinking of the myriad false gods who symbolically (or,
from a pagan perspective, actually) attended every show.2
The public nature of the theatre and the state-required rituals that vali-
dated it rankled especially because piety was primarily a public practice
in Roman times.3 Refusal to attend the theatre also involved a refusal to
participate in the elaborate sequence of sacred rites that accompanied
1
Michel Foucault sees power as a practice, a verb, not a noun – and believes power is often best
understood by studying those who resist it (see Foucault 1982).
2
A reminder that for early Christians, the problem was not that pagan gods did not exist; they were
understood as present, competing and distracting with the one “true” God.
3
On resistance to public shows of piety see Matt. 6:1–2 and the discussion in Chapter 2.
15
16 Byzantine spatial, performance, and musical practices
them. Ideologically speaking, the health of the state relied on full partici-
pation in these theatrical “rites”; refusing to attend could be positioned by
Roman authorities as both treasonous and impious, a sign of “atheism.”
The state derived its legitimacy from carefully choreographed civic actions
in which religion, spectacle, and politics were ideologically inseparable.4
Theatrical displays were observed at the behest of the gods; but exactly
which gods was not a major concern. One measure of the Roman elite’s
piety was its openness to the introduction of new cults into the official,
state-supported pantheon. Even Rome’s foreign subjects, cynical about
their rulers’ motives, recognized this inclusive policy’s usefulness.5 The last
pagan Emperor, Julian “The Apostate” (361–3), explained the Empire’s
embrace of all religious cults in this way:
Our theologians say that the creator of everything is the common father
and king, but the remaining functions have been distributed among
national gods and guardian deities of cities, each of whom governs their
own allotment according to their nature.6
Civic paganism, in Julian’s formulation, assumes a single origin for all
things, but also assumes that the “common father” delegates authority to
local divinities who took a personal interest in the community’s good for-
tune, and who therefore deserved regular public shows of devotion, thea-
tre performances included. This understanding of divine immanence and
divine pleasure at public display lay at the heart of the Roman imperial
system.7
Civic authorities routinely worked with priests and augurs to reform a
city’s rites and observances, to ensure a community’s compliance with the
ever-changing demands of the divine. And the theatre was the pivot upon
which many of the most important festivals turned.8 These same author-
ities, who often doubled as priests, were expected to take financial respon-
sibility for the erection and renovation of the theatres, as well as fund
4
“Visually, emotionally, and psychologically, by means of the spectacle a close synthesis could be
established between the state and public values. Thus the ordinary spectators’ perception was modu-
lated by and through the presence of a group of important mortal and divine guests as well as by the
evocative setting of the entertainments” (Beacham 1999: 27).
5
The historian Polybius (second century BCE) grudgingly admitted that Rome’s policy of welcoming
the institution of new cults – deisidaimonia – had its virtues (see Polybius History 6.56.6–9, as found
in Potter 1999: 120). Potter renders deisidaimonia negatively as “superstition,” but its more literal
meaning is “god-fearing.” See Liddell and Scott 1996 (henceforth LSJ), s.v. “δεισιδαιμονία.”
6
Jul. Gal. 115d; translation from Valantasis 2000: 148–9.
7
See Potter 1999: 125–34 for a discussion on pietas and impietas.
8
See Pickard-Cambridge 1988: 61–3 for a description of the pompē associated with the City (Great)
Dionysia, an earlier template for festivals I will discuss later.
Spatial practices in Byzantium 17
the festivals.9 Their acts of generosity, in turn, became a permanent part
of the city’s physical infrastructure through commemorative inscriptions.
With the establishment of each festival, detailed information concerning
its conduct and funding sources could be found engraved on the theatre
cavea’s retaining walls.10
A trip to the theatre in a typical Roman city usually began with elab-
orate processions that heralded the beginning of sacred festivals, and fea-
tured images of divinity reinforcing notions of the city as a site protected
by the gods. Beginning in a pre-selected temenos or sacred precinct, the
pompē wound its way through the city with carefully choreographed stops
at related sacred sites for sacrifices and prayers, ending at the theatre itself.
As the Christian apologist Tertullian (c. 160–220) went to great pains to
remind his catechumens, the theatre was defined as much by what went
on before and around it, as it was by what actually happened on stage.11
One inscription commemorating a particularly elaborate procession in
second-century Ephesus, a city famous for its role in Christianity’s early
history, gives us a glimpse of the theatre’s processional liturgy. During the
reign of Emperor Hadrian a Romanized citizen of Ephesus, Caius Vibius
Salutaris, donated a series of statuettes for the city’s theatrical pompē –
which enabled the community to perform its sacred identity in sharp
alignment with its contemporary political loyalties.12 Salutaris’ gift con-
sisted of thirty-one statues and personifications – eikones and apeikones –
of solid silver depicting the city’s divine protectress Artemis in her many
aspects; the Roman Imperial family; the city’s founding fathers; as well
as personifications of various civic organizations.13 Per the inscription
9
See Csapo and Slater 1995: 50, on priests of the imperial cult who either build or renovate theatres.
In the city of Aphrodisias a former servant of Augustus, Caius Julius Zoilos, founded a temple to
the imperial cult, became priest of the city’s protectress Aphrodite, and dedicated a stage building
for its theatre in the late first century BCE. On Zoilos’ career see Smith 1993.
10
The walls supporting the cavea of theatres like those at Delphi, Ephesus, and Aphrodisias became
public archives recording various civic foundations. See Rogers 1991: 198 for an artist’s rendering of
the Ephesus “theatre archive.”
11
Tert. Spect. 7.2–3; for an English translation see Tertullian 1959: 65.
12
A significant part of Salutaris’ donation was Hadrian’s approval of the program. Because this took
place years before Emperor Caracalla’s grant of universal Roman citizenship (c. 211 ce), there was a
distinction in Asia Minor between native-born Greeks and those who achieved Roman citizenship
through service to the Empire. It appears that Salutaris was Roman by birth, but there is room for
disagreement: for an argument in favor of Salutaris’ Roman origins see M. White 1995: 62–3. For
an argument favoring Salutaris’ Ephesian (i.e. Greek) origins see Knibbe 1995: 154. Rogers points
out that before Caracalla’s time “dual citizenship” was not out of the ordinary (Rogers 1991: 19).
13
See Rogers 1991: 84–5 for a list of statues, and 117 n. 15 for a discussion of the meaning of the term
eikon in this context. The term apeikon, rendered by Rogers as “type-statues,” appears to designate
specific aspects or poses of Artemis (Artemis as “torch-bearer,” holding bowls, etc.), which were
designated for use by specific civic organizations or tribes.
engraved in the wall that supported the theatre’s cavea, Ephesians were to
carry these images along the city’s traditional via sacra or sacred proces-
sional route beginning at the suburban temple of Artemis, then through
the city gates, down the main boulevard and into the theatre, to mark the
commencement of public meetings and performances year-round.14
Upon arrival at the theatre, the participants would spread throughout
the cavea, sit in their assigned seats and install Salutaris’ statues on stra-
tegically placed bases.15 With the scenae frons already decorated by per-
manent, marble equivalents of the portable statues now installed in the
cavea, this act of communal katheirōsis (“consecration” or “dedication”)
enabled the city to participate directly in the sanctification of a perform-
ance space already implicitly charged with divinity. There was no separ-
ation between the city’s patron goddess, deified emperors, tribes, and local
civic organizations.16 In this way the theatre was by design a multivalent
site that regularly performed the interdependence and interpenetration of
divine power, imperial force, and aesthetic display.
Salutaris provides us with a complete catalogue of processional statu-
ary, but establishing the sculptural program for the Ephesian theatre’s sce-
nae frons remains a speculative exercise. To get some idea of how these
programs operated, we can draw tentatively from a reconstruction of
Hadrian’s theatre in Corinth, renovated and stocked with new statuary
during roughly the same period.17 In one analysis, using the relative height
of extant statuary as her guide (the tallest presumably at stage level, with
shorter ones in the upper registers), Mary Sturgeon finds the first level
populated by domestic Greek gods, topped on the second register by fig-
ures of Rome’s first Imperial family, the Augusti. The third and highest
level – smaller still, but visually more prominent – featured the Emperor
Hadrian flanked by the god of theater, Dionysus and the local god/pro-
tector of Corinth, Hercules. The message was unambiguous: the Emperor
aligned himself with and derived his power from the local gods, who pre-
sumably endorsed his reign.18 Ideological schemes like this would have
14
For a brief history of Ephesus’ sacred processional route, see Knibbe 1995. Both Artemis’ temple
and the via sacra around Mount Pion existed before Ephesus was founded, and the road originally
traced out an ancient necropolis; the original function of the procession in pre-Ephesian times was
to invoke Artemis’ protection over the dead (Knibbe 1995: 142).
15
Salutaris’ inscription mentions nine inscribed bases, which marked pre-arranged seating blocks for
the participants (Rogers 1991: 162–3).
16
With thirty-one statues and only nine places to put them, it is possible that sacred and civic statues
stood on the same plinth.
17
See Sturgeon 2004.
18
Sturgeon 2004: 29–40 and plans iii and iv
been widespread: even outside the sacred precincts of the theatre, registers
of statuary like those in the scenae frons were featured in a variety of civic
contexts, from libraries to houses of the imperial cult.19
Given the diversity of elements in theatres like Corinth, however, the
question arises: just how unified were these elements in the minds of the
spectators? Although contemporary spatial theorists have stressed the
unity of the experience,20 it is more likely that Hadrian’s contemporar-
ies could easily distinguish his sculpture’s aesthetic, political, and religious
elements from each other.
Complexity of sculptural interpretation has a pedigree as ancient as the
art of sculpture itself; complex, likewise, the words used to define it. As
Gerald Else has pointed out, already by the fifth century BCE a cluster
of terms connoting representation had found an umbrella in the word
mimesis, which had come to signify a broad field of activities. The verb
mimeisthai appears to have been used initially (in places like Sicily, birth-
place of the mime-dramatist Sophron) to refer to acts of mimicry. But by
Plato’s time this verb and its related words had come to connote other
more abstract forms of imitation as well.21 For Else the chief contribu-
tion of the Republic to this already-evolving concept was to confirm the
linguistic trend of using the term mimesis to describe paintings and sculp-
ture, as well as epic and dramatic poetry – even though Plato rejected
them as illegitimate and anti-intellectual.22
Plato’s deconstruction of all mimetic crafts, especially in the Republic,
confirmed that Greeks were aware of the disproportion between art and
reality, and especially art and the sacred. But his rejection of mimesis
was in turn rejected by his pupil Aristotle, who attempted to correct the
Republic’s caricature of mimesis as a frivolous product of the fantasia or
imagination. Aristotle pointed out that in sculpture, as well as drama,
great artists do not merely copy from nature but usually present people
nobler or more debased than they would be in real life.23 Implied in
Aristotle’s account is the assumption that other, higher functions of the
brain were involved in the mimetic arts.
This reading made it possible, among other things, for Plutarch to
assume that Pheidias’ gold-and-ivory statue of Athena in the Parthenon
marked off a sacred space; but this did not prevent him from discussing
19
Sturgeon 2004: 38–40.
20
See for example Lefebvre 1991: 241.
21
See Else 1958: 79. Else finds three distinct uses of mimesthai and related terms in circulation Plato’s
time (87).
22
Else 1958: 85. 23 See for example Arist. Po. 2 (1448a.1–18).
the political nature of Pheidias’ appointment, his design of removable
gold elements for purely practical reasons (so that they could be weighed,
to prevent theft or vandalism). Plutarch also has some sharp words con-
cerning Pheidias’ choice to depict both himself and Pericles on the god-
dess Athena’s shield.24
By the early fourth century CE, the era of Constantine the Great, the
prevailing theory of pagan sacred art was a fusion of Aristotelian and
Platonic notions of mimesis known today as Neoplatonism; avoiding the
popular confusion between a divinity and its image, this theory neverthe-
less proposed a dynamic relationship between the two. The philosopher
Plotinus (205–70) was among those who posited a grand, hierarchical,
mystical chain of being that encompassed all forms seen and unseen,
aesthetic and intellectual, with a mystical unitary Being at the top.25 As
expressed by his pupil Porphyry (c. 233–305) sculpture was the means by
which an artist manifested this unity of Being by teaching viewers about
the gods. The philosopher’s job, naturally, was to teach others how to read
the spiritual message behind the artist’s work:
The thoughts of a wise theology, wherein man indicated God and God’s
powers by images akin to sense, and sketched invisible things in visible
forms, I will show to those who have learned to read from statues as from
books the things there written concerning the gods.26
Statues were equivalent to writing, and like writings required experts to
teach the young how to read them properly; Porphyry presents himself
as eminently qualified for the job of interpreter. Perhaps not surprisingly,
there were questions about the validity of such pious aesthetics even then.
But Porphyry anticipates this doubt and, in a maneuver not unfamiliar to
academics, dismisses his critics as ignoramuses.27
Elitist attitudes like Porphyry’s were met with stiff resistance from the
newly emerging Christian elite, who often studied under philosophers like
him prior to their conversion. In his Preparation for the Gospel the classic-
ally trained Eusebius of Caesaria, whose career bridges that of Porphyry
24
See Plu. Per. 31. The Parthenon’s function, like that of other temples, was even more complex
because it also served as a repository for offerings – hence its secondary function as a treasury. On
the continuity of this tradition in Roman times see Barton 1989: 68 and 79.
25
For a summary of Plotinus’ approach see for example Geffcken 1978: 49–52.
26
Porphyry Concerning Images, Orphic Fragment 6.1; as quoted in Eus. PE 3.7, translation in Eusebius
1981: 106. Eusebius, one of his chief detractors, is the only source for Porphyry’s works on statues.
The author would like to thank Dr. Jeremy Schott for this reference.
27
“Nor is it any wonder that the utterly unlearned regard the statues as wood and stone, just as also
those who do not understand the written letters look upon the monuments as mere stones, and
on the tablets as bits of wood, and on books as woven papyrus” (Porphyry Orphic Fragment 6.1, as
quoted in Eus. PE 3.7, translation in Eusebius 1981: 106).
and Constantine the Great, deconstructs the pagan intellectual tradition
that had developed around statues and their readings. Eusebius’ attack
on “normative” readings of pagan statuary was a direct response to the
mystical aesthetics of Plotinus and Porphyry. Dismissing the gods of the
pagan pantheon as false demons, he goes on to reject the very concept of
theological sculpture:
[W]hat likeness can a human body have to the mind of God? For my part
I think there is nothing in it answering to the mind of man, since the one
is incorporeal, uncompounded, and without parts, while the other, being
the work of common mechanics, is the imitation of the nature of a mortal
body, and represents a deaf and dumb image of living flesh in lifeless and
dead matter.28
The reference to the “mind of man” here reflects Eusebius’ reposition-
ing of the Roman (pagan) body to reflect the Genesis creation myth. For
Eusebius it is the mind and soul of man that were created in the image
of God, not man’s mortal flesh. And if this image of God – the mind
of man – is inexpressible, “who would be so mad,” he concludes, “as to
declare that the statue made in the likeness of [physical] man bears the
form and image of the Most High God?”29
The creation of the secular sphere

Eusebius’ critique was not directed at mimetic art as a whole, but rather
at assertions about their theological content. Like classical literature, any
ancient statue could be stripped of its pagan connotations and retain its
aesthetic or moral value. The success of Eusebius’ arguments can be found
in a series of imperial edicts issued during the fourth and fifth centuries.30
Throughout this pivotal period, as Christianity grew from an outlaw sect
to a legal religion and (finally) to the sole official religion of the Empire,
there were disagreements among succeeding emperors about how to pre-
serve the pagan artistic legacy while at the same time de-sanctifying it.
Not unrelated to this question was what to do with the theatres and their
festivals – for they remained part of the same imperial cultural system.31 In
28
Eus. PE 3.10, translation in Eusebius 1981: 115–16. Here, Eusebius is responding to Porphyry’s read-
ing of a sculpture of Zeus (109–10); Porphyry relates the statue’s physical details to the god’s essen-
tial traits.
29
Eus. PE 3.10, translation in Eusebius 1981: 116.
30
The following analysis draws primarily upon edicts from CTh 16.10, “Pagans, Sacrifices and
Temples,” dating from 341 to 435 ce (translation in Theodosius 1952: 472–5).
31
For an account of this critical period see Vasiliev 1964: 65–83.
the end, the earliest Christian emperors decided to preserve these cultural
assets even as the state officially changed its spirituality.
During this transition the theatre played such a central role that it
helped to preserve numerous temples and their sculptures: one year
after the first attempt to ban pagan sacrifices (the first of many), the
co-emperors Constantius II and Constans sought to preserve pagan tem-
ples built outside a city’s walls “since certain plays or spectacles … derive
their origin from [them].”32 This reflects the fact that even in cases where
the theatrical pompē may have ended, the temples that marked the route
were kept intact. Pagan cults still enjoyed the emperors’ financial support
during the mid fourth century when this edict was issued; here, it may
have been a case of preserving temples whose cult had been abandoned
but whose games remained a popular (now secularized) pastime.33
The accommodation of temples for the theatre’s sake did not apply to
still-active cults, as can be seen in an edict issued just a few years later
closing all pagan temples and threatening anyone who performed pagan
sacrifices with capital punishment.34 After years of controversy Gratian,
the young Augustus of the West, created a new legal standard for temples
and statuary during the 380s ce:
We decree that the temple formerly dedicated to crowded assemblies and
now open to the people, in which images have reportedly been placed
(which should be measured by the value of their art rather than by their
divinity), shall always be open … In order that it may be seen by the mul-
titudes of the city, Your Experience shall preserve every celebration of fes-
tivals and … you shall allow the temple to remain open, but in such a way
that people do not believe the observance of prohibited sacrifices is permit-
ted by this access.35
32
Theodosius 1952: 472. As Richard Lim notes, “Interestingly, the rhetorical trope originally used
to oppose the spectacles by connecting them with pagan worship was drawn upon to argue a dia-
metrically opposed practice” (Lim 1997: 161). Bryan Ward-Perkins, however, prefers to read this
edict in more general terms, as evidence of a general decline in preservation of pagan temples; see
Ward-Perkins 1984: 89.
33
On imperial funding for pagan rites throughout this period see Vasiliev 1964: 68. On Constantius’
support for pagan rites see Symmachus Rel. 3.6–8 (Seeck 1883: 281–2), translation in Symmachus
1994: 10.415.
34
Theodosius 1952: 472 (CTh 16.10.4). Issued c. 346/354/356; dating edicts can be difficult in part
because offices like Praetorian Prefect were often held in rotation (see Theodosius 1905: i.clxvii).
Another explanation for multiple dating is that pagan temples, like the theatres and hippodromes,
may have been subject to temporary closure for political reasons. For the politics of theatre closures
see Lim 1997: 163–4.
35
See Theodosius 1952: 473 (CTh 16.10.8, issued jointly by Gratian, Valentinian and Theodosius,
382 ce; translation based on Pharr but modified in light of observations in Mirow and Kelley
2000: 271).
This edict confirms the de-sanctification of key urban “cultural heritage”
sites, while saving them from pillage at the hands of Christian hooligans;
citizens could take in the sights and enjoy themselves, so long as their
visits didn’t degenerate into ritual.36 Later edicts concerning spectacles in
general37 and the Maiouma in particular38 tend to confirm the new, secular
status quo.39
By the turn of the fifth century emperors had begun to focus on specific
festivals and even specific statues, banning shows that offended Christian
morality and removing only those statues that attracted pagan worship.40
Meanwhile personifications of civic ideals, no longer treated as gods,
were now routinely appropriated for purposes of imperial propaganda. In
Ephesus, statues of Victory were apparently removed from their original
sites and regrouped along the Embolos – the main route for theatre pro-
cessions – adding luster to a newly installed statue of the Empress Aelia
Flacilla, wife of Theodosius I (379–95).41
Taken together, the edicts collected in the Theodosian Code show
how readings of temples, statuary, and the theatres were a fluid and con-
tested process. The unity of divine, political, and artistic elements in the
Roman theatre was rooted in philosophical speculations and political
programs that could be deconstructed with ease to suit the needs and
values of Roman authorities; the ability of early Byzantine emperors to
break down civic institutions into their conceptual parts was what ena-
bled the Empire to preserve the theatrical ludi, their temples, and statu-
ary long after its official conversion to Christianity and the abandonment
of pagan cult.
As T. D. Barnes has pointed out, early Christian polemicists were
so obsessed with the ideological construction of theatres as “inherently
idolatrous” that they didn’t realize how easily paganism and the theatre
could go their separate ways.42 Rome turned out to be as flexible cultur-
ally as it was spiritually; this was what enabled the emperor Constantine,
the pagan son of a Christian mother, to legalize Christianity and fund
36
The cognitive dissonance that results when a practicing pagan steps into a former temple is
assumed. Greek Orthodox visitors to the modern-day Hagia Sophia Museum in Istanbul might
have a comparable experience.
37
Theodosius 1952: 475 (CTh 16.10.7, issued 399 ce).
38
See Theodosius 1952: 433 (CTh 15.6.1–2, issued 396–9 ce), which allows water festivals to continue
so long as certain “foul and indecent” shows are banned.
39
As the Theodosian Code makes clear, the fourth and fifth centuries saw constant negotiations on
the fate of public buildings. See also Mirow and Kelley 2000: 263–6.
40
Theodosius 1952: 475 (CTh 16.10.18, issued 399 ce).
41
Roueché 2002: 527–46. 42 Barnes 1996: 173.
its priests and churches while still preserving the public games. The
theatre survived this transition, adapting to its new spiritual context,
in some cases even yielding to bans on more “mature” stage content;43
still, there is anecdotal evidence – some of it explained in the next chap-
ter – that plays on sinful themes like adultery, not to mention satires of
Christian ritual, continued to entertain Roman audiences for centuries
thereafter.44
The Christianization of the pagan city

The period between emperors Constantine I and Justinian I, the fourth
through sixth centuries, saw a series of distinct phases in the development
of a Christianized urban scene. The theatre survived as a cultural institu-
tion, even as the context and preferred readings of the spectacles changed;
meanwhile newly empowered Christians began to emerge from their pri-
vate homes and remake the Roman city in their own image. What com-
plicated this process was the lack of any program for the Christianization
of urban space; early Christians, for spiritual and political reasons, had
tended to be private in their spirituality.45
At first Christianity seemed ill-equipped to take on the public sphere;
its folk heroes since at least the second century had been the anti-urban,
anti-social desert ascetics.46 But as a newly empowered state religion, the
Church was now free to develop its rites openly; during this critical phase
the Church had the option of basing its aesthetic and spatial practices on
any number of Roman models, the theatre among them. The next sec-
tion will seek to answer the question of whether, and how, spatial prac-
tices associated with the theatre influenced the creation of Byzantine (i.e.
Orthodox) liturgical space.
43
It would appear that in spite of imperial edicts cleaning up the Maiouma’s spectacles, scantily clad
women continued to perform sexually suggestive routines. As late as the sixth century, Book 9 of
Procopius’ Secret History describes the Empress Theodora’s stage career in terms clearly designed to
shock and amuse his male audience; but he relied on knowledge of the sixth-century stage for his
story’s impact.
44
The sixth-century ce rhetor Choricius of Gaza insists that adultery plays in his city were tame
affairs, and morally instructive. See for example Chor. Apol. Mim. 29–30.
45
As Dorothea French pointed out, “The antipathy of the Church Fathers to the city, its institutions,
and cultural ideals, sprang from the fact that Christianity was first and foremost a religion, not a
cultural ideal. As such, it was primarily concerned with the relationship between God and man,
and not with managing life on this earth. Since the new faith developed on the periphery of soci-
ety, it had not worked out a Christian system of politics” (French 1985: 20).
46
See Brown 1978: 81–101.
Stational liturgies: pagan, imperial, and Christian

As the example of Ephesus and Salutaris’ donations show, Roman theatre
festivals were heralded by an elaborate stational liturgy in which images
of divinities, emperors, and personifications of civic institutions effect-
ively sacralized urban space and promoted a politico-religious system
of thought.47 These explicit links between the emperor, the community,
and their divine protectors/protectresses were performed and reinforced
throughout the year. Given the legendary Christian hostility to pompa
diaboli – denunciation of pagan processions was required of all adult con-
verts as part of the baptismal rite – it should come as no surprise that early
urban Christian worship was conducted almost exclusively indoors.
Eventually Church officials came to appreciate the value of proces-
sions for purposes of commemoration, propaganda, and sanctification, as
well as reinforcing communal bonds; but the adoption of pompa Christi
was driven primarily by local concerns, and only to some extent by trad-
itional modes of reverence. John Baldovin characterizes the development
of Christianity’s public persona as if it were a straightforward adoption
and appropriation of pagan devotional practice:
It is difficult to see how it could have been any other way. To imagine that
such a large-scale religious manifestation would not become part and par-
cel of the social order at this time, or that it would fail to remain so as long
as the imperial mythos was sustained, would be totally anachronistic. In the
transformation from being a threat to public order to being its legitimator,
Christianity was destined to perform a function similar to that of the pagan
civil religious establishment it replaced.48
As evidence Baldovin cites what was arguably the first public proces-
sion incorporating Christian imagery: the triumphal entry of Emperor
Constantine into Rome immediately after the battle of Milvian Bridge in
312, heralding Christianity’s permanent legalization. A standard with the
Greek anagram chi-rho (the first two letters in Christos) having been com-
missioned for the battle and been painted upon the Emperor’s soldiers’
shields, this symbol would have featured prominently.49 But there is a
47
Gervase Mathew characterizes the period preceding Constantine’s reign as one that saw the tri-
umph of monotheism (through the cult of Sol Invictus, the “Invincible Sun”) and the rise of a new
vision of the sacred and natural worlds as coincident. Constantine inherited a monotheistic vision
of the emperor as God’s elect, prior to his conversion to Christianity (see Mathew 1964: 12–22).
48
Baldovin 1987: 85.
49
On the anagram see Jones 1978: 84–5. Equally symbolic was Constantine’s refusal to make the trad-
itional offering at the temple of Capitoline Jupiter (see Zosimus, New History 2.29.5, translation
difference between triumphal entries and church ritual; it would be years
before individual Christian communities developed their own proces-
sional liturgies, and even then they were neither uniform nor prompted by
the same needs. Christians were keenly aware of pagan institutions – pro-
cessions and theatre included – and were not likely to adopt them uncrit-
ically. There was a legitimate concern that the rites of the newly emerging
Church might be polluted by pagan practice.
At least three distinct types of processions emerged by the close of the
fourth century – for the commemoration of Gospel events, for the promo-
tion of individual Christian sects, as well as for the importation or adven-
tus of holy relics – and in each instance, the context for their institution
varied. The earliest evidence for a Christian processional liturgy comes
from the pilgrim Egeria’s descriptions of late fourth-century Jerusalem.50
As the Holy City, Jerusalem would become one of the main influences
on liturgical practice; but as Baldovin points out, prior to Constantine’s
time the city had not been known as “Jerusalem” for nearly 200 years.
By the 130s ce, Jerusalem – a city already in ruins for decades – had been
turned into a military colony and renamed Aelia Capitolina.51 The devel-
opment of a Christian stational liturgy would not begin until the faith’s
legalization in the mid fourth century, and would have taken place in con-
junction with the systematic renaming, reconstruction, and repopulation
of a now openly Christian city – not to mention creating a network of
churches and shrines to mark the termini of various routes.52
Egeria confirms that in its earliest years the stational liturgy in
Jerusalem focused on key episodes of Jesus’ life at the sites where they
were believed to have occurred.53 Because of this historical element –
which becomes more pronounced with the passage of time54 – there is
the question of whether these processions also contained a narrative or
theatrical element, i.e. whether any episodes were enacted. The answer
in Zosimus 1982: 37 and n. 64). McCormick, preferring to cast this change in evolutionary terms,
finds the process to be one of “creeping Christianization,” beginning with the neutralization of
a celebration’s pagan aspects and ending in their being performed explicitly as Christian rites
(McCormick 1990: 101).
50
The following will rely on John Wilkinson’s translation in Egeria 1999.
51
See Wilkinson’s remarks in Egeria 1999: 8–11.
52
Baldovin 1987: 83–4. Baldovin points out that prior to Egeria there is no mention of holy sites as
places of worship, let alone processions (55).
53
For Easter Week see Itinerarium Egeriae 30.1–40.2, translation in Egeria 1999: 151–7.
54
For changes in rites and processional routes in Jerusalem between the fourth and tenth centuries
see Baldovin 1987: 94–9. With the Arab conquest and the closure of processional routes out of the
city (to related sites in Bethlehem and Bethany, for instance), attention to holy sites within the city
walls becomes even more intense (100).
is no; events were commemorated primarily through readings from
the Gospels, prayers, hymns, processions, and antiphonal chant. Jesus’
entrance into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, commemorated through a pro-
cession from the Mount of Olives into the city, was done entirely on foot
(sans donkey, sans rider)55 and Good Friday included a procession to and
from Gethsemane and then (after a break) to Golgotha, where the con-
gregation venerated a block of wood from the “True Cross” and other rel-
ics, with more readings and prayer – no complete cross, no mock-Jesus,
no fake blood.56 Beyond Egeria’s time the liturgy in Jerusalem became
even more detached from the Gospel narrative; readings give way to
hymnography and other forms of praise and prayer.57 As Baldovin points
out, historicism was not the only motive and, if anything, declined in
importance over time.58
In Jerusalem the unique sacred topography of the area inspired the
creation of a stational liturgy; in other cities where saints or sites asso-
ciated with the life of Christ were lacking processions were adopted
slowly and, it would appear, almost accidentally. In the imperial capital
of Constantinople, a conflict between Orthodox authorities and the her-
etical Arian sect prompted the introduction of liturgical processions and
counter-processions, as Socrates Scholasticus relates:
The Arians, as we have said, held their meetings without the city. As often
therefore as the festal days occurred – I mean Saturday and Lord’s day – in
each week, on which assemblies are usually held by the churches, they con-
gregated within the city gates about the public squares, and sang responsive
verses adapted to the Arian heresy. This they did during the greater part
of the night: and again in the morning, chanting the same songs … they
paraded through the midst of the city, and so passed out of the gates to go to
their places of assembly … John [Chrysostom] fearing lest any of the more
simple should be drawn away from the church by such kind of hymns,
opposed to them some of his own people, that they also employing them-
selves in chanting nocturnal hymns, might obscure the effort of the Arians,
and confirm his own party in the profession of their faith.59
55
Itinerarium Egeriae 31.1–4, translation in Egeria 1999: 151–2. But see also MacCormack 1981: 64,
where the Palm Sunday procession is explicitly linked with the imperial adventus. MacCormack is
uncertain about whether a donkey was used on Palm Sunday, but Egeria is not: “The bishop and
all the people rise from their places, and start off on foot down from the summit of the Mount of
Olives” (Egeria 1999: 152).
56
Itinerarium Egeriae 36.1–37.9, translation in Egeria 1999: 154–6.
57
Baldovin 1987: 101.
58
Baldovin 1987: 85–7. As a practical matter, Christians continued to live in Sion, the southwestern
quadrant of the old city, and commuted to the new complex of churches downtown.
59
Socrates Eccl. Hist. 6.8; translation from Socrates Scholasticus 1952: 2.144, emphasis mine.
The background for this passage is that by the late fourth century, Arian
congregations had been stripped of their churches within Constantinople;
forced to meet in the suburbs for services, they made a virtue of neces-
sity and used the inevitable walk outside of town as an occasion for pros-
elytizing. Apparently, these newfangled Arian processions were so popular
that the leading cleric, Archbishop John Chrysostom, was forced to adopt
much the same methods to prevent his flock from deserting.60
It is also worth noting that throughout his history Socrates notes the
practical, human origins of the Christian liturgical tradition, under-
mining any modern notions of Christian ritual as inherently mysteri-
ous or secret.61 The history of the early Church was that of an outlaw
faith’s gradual, awkward emergence into the public sphere, and its early
historians made a point of describing how various aspects of church rit-
ual emerged, no matter how humble or seemingly craven those origins
may be. Chrysostom’s decision to create bi-weekly counter-processionals
with impressive vestments, silver crosses, and (perhaps for the first time)
an imperial castrato leading the choir62 came at the turn of the fifth cen-
tury, decades after Jerusalem had developed its own rites. Chrysostom also
created another processional liturgy, a variation on the imperial adventus
ceremony, to herald the introduction of saints’ relics. Constantinople in
those days served primarily as an imperial administrative center, without
saints or sacred topography; the acquisition of relics was critical to the
Empire’s longer-term project of sanctifying the urban space of its new
capital.63
Given that Christian processional liturgies were driven almost exclu-
sively by local concerns, concerns as political as they were theological or
historical, it is hard to present them as evidence of “continuity” with pagan
practice. Broad-brush approaches to cultural history may have their attrac-
tions, but they oversimplify the complex Roman urban scene, and give lit-
tle credit to the ingenuity and flexibility of the Roman mind. It was this
very flexibility, after all, that ensured the preservation of the city’s most
cherished aesthetic institutions – theatres, statuary, temple architecture –
even as they were de-sanctified. Gratian’s decrees had effectively secularized
60
“Few sources indicate so clearly the propagandistic nature of ecclesiastical processions” (Baldovin
1987: 184).
61
“[R]ituals tend to present themselves as the unchanging, time-honored customs of an enduring
community … any suggestion that they may be rather recently minted can give rise to consterna-
tion and confusion” (Bell 1997: 210).
62
On the imperial eunuch Brison and his role in these processions see Moran 2002: 100–1.
63
See Janin 1936: 70. For John Chrysostom’s homily on the occasion see Migne 1979 (henceforth
PG): 43.467–8.
the Roman city; by detaching the public sphere from its pagan associ-
ations, he was simply acknowledging the ability of average Romans to view
each element of urban life critically. The presence of the “man behind the
curtain” coordinating every aspect of civic life was no longer implied; it
was now openly acknowledged.64 Because of this element of critical cul-
tural analysis, the later adoption of processions by individual Christian
communities must be understood as individual decisions prompted by
specific circumstances – not as evidence of a generic pagan or Christian
Weltanschauung. If anything, it would have been important for Christian
authorities to conceive of the pompē in purely secular terms in order for
them to adopt it.
Urban processions continued to grow in number, completing their
first stage of development by the sixth century.65 By the tenth century a
liturgical manual for the cathedral of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople,
the Typikon of the Great Church, lists sixty-eight processions for high holy
days.66 Imperial and liturgical events, of course, were not the only pre-
text for a good parade; masked processions on non-Christian holidays
remained popular. Given the increasing secularization of public institu-
tions, however, the characterization of these carnivalesque parades as
pagan (as in the case of the Council in Trullo of 690)67 should be taken
with a grain of salt. Beyond their demonstrable value as secular enter-
tainment, these “mummers’ parades” probably had political implications
as well; Richard Schechner, writing about what he terms “direct theatre,”
describes how modern-day processions and their pageantry often give
voice to political agendas that cannot find other means of expression.68
Throughout its history the Eastern Roman Empire’s politics were
complex, with “the street” playing a pivotal role in the emperor’s
fortunes – to this day, we see how public unrest under a dictator-
ship manifests itself in public assemblies, both comically subversive
and openly confrontational. Constantinople’s monumental facade
masked a highly unstable political atmosphere; even beneath the
64
Baldovin, for example, discusses the pagan origins of Christian processions (1987: 234–6), but fails
to explain the process whereby an explicitly pagan practice could have become Christian.
65
Baldovin 1987: 225–6.
66
Janin (1936: 73–87) counts sixty, but Baldovin lists sixty-eight (1987: 292–5). Baldovin argues that
there are signs in the Typikon of a decline in processions (212–13), but the copyist noted only events
on high holy days, and normal weekly processions may have been included in other service books.
67
For the canon and some relevant twelfth-century commentary see PG 137.592.
68
See Schechner 1992. See also Kazhdan and Epstein 1985: 82–3: “In contrast to the spectator sport
of the circus, the carnival, with its masquerading, carousing, and buffoonery, allowed for the full
participation of the common man.”
harmless play of carnival there always lurked a potential for revolt.
Seen in this light, a decision by Patriarch Theophylact (933–56)
to initiate masked processions in the nave of Hagia Sophia can be
understood as a shrewd attempt (not unlike Chrysostom’s) to harness
a potentially destabilizing carnivalesque force. The continued popu-
larity of Theophylact’s in-church parades through the Middle Ages,
right up to the Fourth Crusade in 1204, indicates that fun and games
aside, the authorities may have found them useful in attracting and
maintaining control over an often restive congregation.69
Church architecture in context

As mentioned in the Introduction, Marios Ploritis’ juxtaposition of the
Hellenistic stage and the Orthodox templon screen reflects a popular per-
ception that the Church adapted its spatial practices from those of the
pagan theatre. One problem with such ahistorical readings is that they beg
the question of how Christians understood the difference between the two
institutions. They also ignore the historical context for the adoption of the
templon, which turns out to be a much later innovation. By considering
more deeply the context in which Orthodox spatial practices develop –
spaces which reflected clear distinctions between theatrical and ritual
practice – it may be easier to separate the sanctuary from the stage, and
finally reject the notion that the Church was bound to adopt the aesthetic
of an institution it abhorred. For the purposes of this study I will focus on
the impact and implications of the basilica, because of its prominent use
in the Empire’s major urban centers; but there is ample room for analysis
of the myriad regional variations in church architecture, even if the shape
of the Liturgy itself remained largely the same.
Although theatres had many uses, their physical structure made
them ill-suited for adaptation into churches.70 Prior to Constantine’s
time Christians usually held services in larger private homes known as
domus ecclesiae or, in Rome, tituli.71 In what amounted to a living-room
69
For an overview of Theophylact’s career see Skyl. Hist. 232–3, translation in Skylitzes 2010: 234–5.
On the enduring appeal of Theophylact’s church-carnivals through the twelfth century, see the
commentary of Theodore Balsamon on Canon 62 of the Council in Trullo, PG 137.728.
70
Even at the Theatre of Dionysus, when a church was built on the site they placed it in the eastern
parodos, converting the orchestra to an atrium with a small fountain. See Travlos 1971: 538 and 549
(fig. viii). For this church’s association with St. George of Alexandria see Mommsen 1868: 31–2. See
also Bires 1940: 45 and map following.
71
See Krautheimer 1986: 26–9. For a list of early Roman tituli used prior to the fourth century CE
see Baldovin 1987: 108.
in an upstairs apartment, by Constantine’s time the interiors of some
“church houses” had been enlarged and adapted for strictly liturgical
use.72 The newfound freedom to create buildings openly identifiable as
churches was thus layered upon the tradition of using discreet interior,
domestic spaces for Christian ritual. The question of how to manifest
the exteriority of a church, like the question of how to manifest public
displays of piety in general, was one that admitted of many answers.
The first answer came in the form of Constantine’s gift of a basil-
ica, which provided a natural model for the realization of a new, pub-
lic, sacred space.73 A number of elements argued for the basilica’s
use: designed for large assemblies,74 basilicas were relatively easy to
build75 and could accommodate any number of architectural elem-
ents to suit the demands of the community that built it. As symbolic
spaces, basilicas were multivalent as well; even when built for civic pur-
poses, the religious element was present in the form of an image of the
emperor’s patron deity, placed high in a central apse jutting out from
the nave or main hall.76 In addition, their use as synagogues and temples
for numerous pre-Christian cults attests to the flexibility with which
they could be constructed, decorated, and interpreted.77 This inherent
flexibility contributed to the vogue for church-basilicas throughout the
early Byzantine period.78
72
See L. M. White 1990 for the transitional period from the second to the early fourth centuries.
White’s narrative downplays notions of continuity and stresses the concept of local adaptation
to new political and social realities (legalization, imperial sponsorship, etc.) as elements in early
church architecture.
73
Krautheimer 1971: 117–18. White goes further, stating “Basilical form … was imposed on – rather
than evolving genetically from – patterns of church building that existed before the Constantinian
era” (L. M. White 1990: 18). The basilical form would not be the last instance of imperial impos-
ition on ecclesiastical prerogatives, as the great cathedral of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople vividly
demonstrates.
74
Krautheimer (1986: 42) points out that “basilica” refers more to the function than the form of the
actual building: “a basilica was but a large meeting hall.”
75
Krautheimer notes that timber roofs, a common element, were easier and less labor-intensive than
domes or barrel vaults (Krautheimer 1971: 129).
76
Krautheimer 1971: 123.
77
Krautheimer 1971: 123–4.
78
On the origins of the single-nave, single-apsed basilica church Krautheimer concluded, “I think no
longer in terms of one single source, whether forum basilicas or palace basilicas, for the origins of
the Christian basilica, but view it as a new creation within a genus long established and about a.d.
300 in a process of renewal” (1971: 127 n. 33). L. M. White points out however that later scholarship
has established the first basilical church, St. John Lateran in Rome, was formerly an imperial palace
and was simply adapted to a new use (1990: 18).
Christianizing civic space: the church-basilica and

the sanctuary apse
Once Christian churches acquired imperial sponsorship they were able to
deck out their new spaces lavishly – one common element being the instal-
lation of marble revetment (thin slabs which hid masses of load-bearing
brick and stonework) at ground level, mosaics and/or frescoes above, with
the roof sometimes decked out in gilded wood beams.79 A chest-high bar-
rier, the chancel screen, normally used to separate judges and officials
from the public, now marked off the sanctuary area in the apse, which was
oriented permanently toward the east to take advantage of the symbolism
of the rising sun.80
The better part of the sanctuary proper was taken up by the synthronon,
which in the larger metropolitan churches consisted of semicircular
cavea-like seating for the clergy, with a throne centered at the top row
for the presiding hierarch.81 At the imperial synthronon in Trier, either
Constantine or a high official would sit in state in the highest, central seat
surrounded by his aides; the ideological construct of political authority as
a manifestation of divinity imbued the imperial ensemble with a sacred
aura. It would appear that the symbolism of God’s elect on his throne
proved useful for ecclesiastical purposes as well.82
Richard Krautheimer, comparing Trier with Rome’s Lateran basilica
(which was also commissioned by Constantine), notes:
True, the Lateran basilica is a church and it served bishop and congregation
for regular religious services. But at the same time, it was the throne hall
both of Christ Basileus [King] and of the bishop, His representative, just as
the basilica of Trier was the seat of the Emperor’s Divine Majesty, or, in his
absence, the seat of his local representative.83
The Church’s choice to evoke an imperial court can admit of many inter-
pretations, some of them unflattering. But given the dominant world-view
79
Krautheimer (1971: 130) cautions that this does not appear to be a common form among
Constantine’s churches, but marble revetment and/or gilded ceiling timbers featured in his basilicas
in Jerusalem (129 and 133), and even the later domed church of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople
has the same pattern of marble revetment, with mosaic in the upper register.
80
In northern Greece some churches used barriers between the aisles and nave, presumably to
separate catechumens (and/or the whole congregation) from the celebrants – see Krautheimer
1986: 101–2.
81
See for example Mathews 1971: 66.
82
With time, the emperor’s status as a holy man became more explicit; by the middle Byzantine
period, coronations were staged much the same way as initiations into the priesthood, and the
emperor often performed clerical duties on high feast days at Hagia Sophia (see Majeska 1997).
83
Krautheimer 1971: 121.
of the age, in which emperors and divinity were understood to interact
and reflect upon each other, it was a sensible choice. It speaks, moreover,
to the awareness that the space itself had to communicate the need for
solemnity. In a society where piety was exclusively a public practice, and
its participants notoriously rowdy, Roman citizens needed to be accli-
mated to a very different mode of ritual receptivity.
The presence of the synthronon was to have two practical effects on the
aesthetics of Christian ritual: first, in order to ensure the visibility of the
church hierarch there were few visual barriers between the nave and the
sanctuary. As Robert Taft points out the introduction of physical barriers
like the chancel screen was most likely a response to the unruly behavior
of new converts who were apparently more accustomed to rowdy hippo-
dromes and theatres than churches, where the protocol demanded quiet
reverence.84 The earliest barriers were around a meter high85 and in some
cases supported decorative columns (or colonnettes) topped off by an
architrave.86 Unlike the theatre, where actors disappeared backstage once
their scenes were over, the clergy remained constantly in view; whether
seated together on the synthronon or busy with the work of readings or
sermonizing or during the consecration and distribution of the Eucharist,
celebrants offered a constant tableau vivant symbolic of the heavenly host.
The second effect of the synthronon was that because of its sheer mass,
the altar and its ciborium (a domed, four-columned canopy) had to be
placed a few meters in front of the apse and within the nave proper, to
accommodate the celebrants who stood and processed around them.87
As a result the sanctuary area thrust itself prominently into the nave,
with the chancel screen forming a three-sided precinct shaped like the
Greek letter pi (Π).88 The resulting thrust-barrier had three entrances: a
great central doorway opening onto the west and two smaller entrances
opening north and south. This is how sanctuaries were conceived in
Christianity’s early days, as an ensemble of open chancel screens, com-
pletely distinct from the Hellenistic stage front, let alone the monumen-
tal Roman scenae frons. The liturgy as practiced in the early Byzantine
period was marked by its transparency; relying as it did on the imagery
84
See Taft 2006: 35–40.
85
See the description of the chancel barrier for an imperial chapel by the palace’s bronze gate (the
Chalcoprateia) in Mathews 1971: 32–3 and fig. 14.
86
See Mathews 1971: 25–7 for an analysis of the barrier at the Studios Basilica in Constantinople.
87
Mathews 1971: 109.
88
For examples of this arrangement see Mathews 1971: 24, fig. 8.
of the court,89 Orthodoxy’s spatial practice was clearly imperial by
design.90
The only element from the early Liturgy that might be construed as
theatrical was the occasional presence of curtains; references indicate that
visual access to the celebrants was denied at certain times. But Taft points
out that the evidence is unclear; the curtains, when used, appear to have
been placed strategically at the “beautiful doors,” i.e. the main gate into
the sanctuary, or around the altar, and they never enclosed the sanctuary
as a whole. Even when the altar was veiled – with curtains drawn around
the ciborium – it was only at specific points during the liturgy and they
were opened at the most sensitive moment of the entire rite, i.e. the con-
secration of the Eucharistic elements.91 It would appear that even with
curtains, there was no “mystery” about this Mystery.
In line with traditional services where the presiders once spoke from an
open dais or raised platform at one end of the room, high priests now gave
sermons from their seat atop the synthronon. But with the erection of chan-
cel barriers congregants had to strain to hear the sermon, which was now
delivered at a considerable distance. And given the large scale of the basil-
ica it became impossible for many to hear even the most practiced orator.
The solution lay in an acoustical ensemble that had been erected out into
the nave: an enclosed path or solea went out from the central doors of the
sanctuary and led to a set of stairs and raised platform – the ambo – near
the center of the nave (see Figure 1). This was already used for chanting and
readings from scripture, and John Chrysostom decided to emerge from the
sanctuary and deliver his sermons from atop the ambo as well. The estab-
lishment of the ambo had already reflected the need for greater acoustical
participation by the congregation in the newer, grander services; and as
discussed in the next chapter, Chrysostom’s presence there ensured that his
sermons would soon become a highly participatory event as well.92
89
Mathews goes on to dismiss theories that chancel screens had curtains to “conceal the mysteries,”
pointing out that after the dismissal of catechumens all those present were baptized Christians and
hence were entitled to see and hear what followed (Mathews 1971: 162–71). He notes further that
“The center of attention was not a screen or a play of curtains, but was either the great bank of
steps in the apse where the bishop presided, surrounded by his priests, or the altar … the liturgy was
conceived as an open action” (Mathews 1971: 178, emphasis mine).
90
Mathews was the first to confirm a consistent pattern of centrally positioned, pi-shaped chancel
barriers fronting single apses in churches constructed prior to Justinian’s Hagia Sophia, and notes
that Justinian’s architects adopted this precedent.
91
Taft 2006: 40–9.
92
See Mathews 1971: 110 (on early ambos in Constantinople) and 143 and 148 (for their use in read-
ings, sermons and chant). Mathews did not explain the function of the ambo more fully, but it is
clear that acoustical concerns would have played a large role in their size and placement.
Figure 1 Early Byzantine sanctuary. Orthographic drawing by Karen Elliott
From transparency to templon screen

So far, the elements of liturgical architecture argue for a ritual aesthetic
that stresses openness and participation of the laity. From the very begin-
ning, Orthodox celebrants engaged in a dialogue with their newfound
sacred spaces and experimented with new configurations designed to
heighten the experience of the liturgy. Even as the building around it
assumed different shapes and configurations, the open-air sanctuary
remained common urban practice for centuries; Justinian’s great cathedral
of Hagia Sophia, first dedicated in the early sixth century, maintained the
same layout throughout its history as a Christian church.93 Provincial and
monastic practice, however, varied widely; and by the Middle Ages some
93
For a reconstruction of the sanctuary, solea and ambo in Justinian’s Hagia Sophia see Xydis 1947.
urban sanctuaries had acquired side-chambers, each with its own set of
doors; only later, with the insertion of icons between the columns on the
chancel screen, did sanctuaries finally lose their transparency. But this last
architectural intervention – the creation of a templon screen – was not
adopted everywhere and masks a complex process of change that had little
to do with theatre. In fact by the time the templon screen appeared public
theatres had long since been abandoned, destroyed, or converted to other
uses and could not have served as a contemporary architectural model.94
The transition from the open, pi-shaped sanctuary to the closed templon
screen we see today involved two parallel but unrelated developments: the
establishment of two chambers, now known as prothesis (“offertory,” for
preparation of the Eucharistic elements) and diaconicon (“deacon’s room,”
for vestments and liturgical books) on either side of the sanctuary; and the
installation of icons between the columns set above the chancel screen,
which eventually formed a single, flat wall in front of all three chambers.
Bearing in mind that church architecture and liturgical practice continued
to vary in accordance with local conditions, it is still possible to trace these
developments to some degree and come up with approximate dates for
their implementation.
The tripartite sanctuary

The practical need for auxiliary rooms close to the sanctuary goes back to
Christianity’s earliest years, when the laity would donate bread, wine, and
other items as they entered for services; normally a deacon would receive
the gifts, help select bread and wine for the day’s service, and take them
to the sanctuary.95 There is evidence that sanctuaries had been flanked by
auxiliary rooms in some Syrian churches since at least the fourth cen-
tury, but as Richard Krautheimer points out it is difficult to confirm these
side-rooms’ specific functions until the fifth or sixth century; even then,
their uses bear little relation to later developments. That these churches are
found in smaller provincial towns indicates, moreover, that the creation of
94
Perhaps because generations of archaeologists tended to wipe out all traces of settlement activity
after the Roman period, there is no systematic study of the post-theatrical uses of Graeco-Roman
theatres (due to the failure to properly stratify the sites’ remains). Fortunately more attention has
been paid to the Theatre of Dionysus’ later incarnations (see Travlos 1971 and Frantz 1988: 24–5).
The imperial theatre in Constantinople, near both Hagia Sophia and the Hippodrome, has never
been found.
95
See Babić 1969: 58–9. As a practical matter the diaconicon would be by the main entrance, where
the deacon stood to receive the offerings.
side-chambers next to the sanctuary – whatever their purpose – was at
least in part a matter of spatial economy.96
This provincial model was not followed in Constantinople; a few steps
outside the northeast entrance to the cathedral of Hagia Sophia stands a
skeuophylakion (lit., “equipment storehouse”) which since early days had
served the functions of both these Syrian side-rooms. The skeuophylakion
features prominently in the rubrics for the Liturgy in Hagia Sophia as the
site where the Eucharistic elements were collected and prepared for ser-
vices.97 At a certain point during the liturgy deacons would walk outside
the church to the skeuophylakion, pick up the bread and wine, and quietly
re-enter, directly depositing them in the sanctuary.
A separate skeuophylakion remained in use at Hagia Sophia, and at
other churches in the capital, for centuries. Eventually the deacon’s little
trip developed into a procession that wound its way from the northeast
entry doors by the skeuophylakion up the northern aisle, back through the
nave, and into the sanctuary, accompanied by the Cherubikon, a hymn
composed specially for the new procession that stressed the newly cho-
reographed movement’s spiritual significance.98 By the late eighth century
there is also evidence that a new preparatory ceremony, the Proskomidē,
was offered by the priest in the skeuophylakion over the Eucharistic bread
prior to services.99
The additions of the Great Entrance (about which more later) and
especially the pre-liturgical Proskomidē or “offertory” prayer provide one
explanation for the creation of a prothesis chamber inside later churches;
given the increased emphasis on pre-liturgical actions and on the sym-
bolism of the Eucharistic elements’ entry, it is possible that some clergy
found an indoor room close to the sanctuary more convenient and/or
more appropriate.
96
Krautheimer 1986: 141–3. See also Mathews 1971: 106 for an example of north Syrian
sanctuary plans.
97
For an introduction to the placement and function of the skeuophylakion in Constantinopolitan
churches see Taft 1978: 185–91. Taft also notes the precedent for a tripartite sanctuary in Syria
(182–3). For the varied placement of the skeuophylakion elsewhere see Krautheimer 1986: 94–5.
98
Taft (1978: 35–46) offers some early accounts of how the Eucharistic elements were introduced.
The evidence points to regional variations, and adoption of provincial traditions in the cap-
ital: Theodore of Mopsuestia, writing from near Antioch, describes a grand procession with the
Eucharistic elements and analyzes its symbolism, while Chrysostom – who served as Archbishop of
Constantinople after many years in Antioch – doesn’t mention any processions in Constantinople
at all. Patriarch Eutychius presiding some years later in Hagia Sophia, mentions a procession with
chant 150 years after Chrysostom. The Cherubikon, as Taft notes, was introduced by Patriarch John
III Scholasticus a few decades after Hagia Sophia’s completion (Taft 1978: 487 but see also 68–9).
99
Babić 1969: 63. On the meaning of the Proskomidē see Taft 1978: 350–64.
There is little evidence, however, that liturgical innovations prompted
the move indoors, and the more common theory is one of conveni-
ence: it was simpler to keep liturgical items and the Eucharistic elements
in rooms located indoors and near the sanctuary.100 Still, convenience
does not account for the fact that tripartite sanctuaries, already a pro-
vincial practice, would not become common in Constantinople until the
early tenth century.101 Hagia Sophia may eventually have gone through a
transitional phase, because both a prothesis chamber and skeuophylakion
are mentioned in one medieval service book.102 Rubrics for imperial cere-
mony from the mid fourteenth century even mention a “so-called pro-
thesis”; but given medieval Greek’s penchant for euphemisms, “prothesis”
here could simply mean the skeuophylakion, which remained in use at
Hagia Sophia until the fall of Constantinople in 1453 and the church’s
conversion to a mosque.103
The templon screen
During the tenth century, when the tripartite sanctuary was coming into
vogue, chancel screens became more elaborately decorated and icons even-
tually found their way between the columns that often (but not always)
sat atop the chancel screen. The reasons for this change remain a matter of
speculation, but the process (if we can call it that) appears to have taken
centuries. Because the art-historical chronology for the templon screen’s
development is usually presented on its own, possible links between
the development of the tripartite sanctuary and templon screen remain
unclear – although eventually the two did coincide.104
Past studies on the development of the templon have identified spe-
cific steps in the process,105 beginning with the appearance of small icons
installed above the chancel screen’s architrave as early as the mid seventh
100
Hence Krautheimer 1986: 298, and Taft 1978: 200. Taft notes that “Not every village church was
the size of Hagia Sophia, and served by a whole string of deacons.”
101
Mathews 1971: 107. As Babić points out, the terms skeuophylakion, prothesis, and diaconicon were
used interchangeably for some time during the Middle Ages, indicating a period of fluidity in
both terminology and placement of these rooms. By the fifteenth century, Archbishop Symeon
of Thessalonica describes the diaconicon and prothesis in the places we associate with modern
churches. See Babić 1969: 63.
102
Taft 1980: 99–101.
103
Taft 1978: 201–2. The expression “so-called prothesis” implies it is a euphemism.
104
Mathews finds that the changes discussed here demonstrate “the close relationship of church plan-
ning to the needs of the ceremonial and the continued interaction of those two important crea-
tions of Byzantium, architecture and liturgy” (Mathews 1971: 178). The process may not have been
as neat as Mathews implies, however.
105
The chief source for this section will be Chatzidakis 1976.
century.106 The material used for the chancel screen – marble, ivory, wood,
etc. – also became more elaborately carved and painted.107 What complicates
this “developmental” scenario is the Iconoclastic period (717–843), when
the right to use sacred images (icons) was attacked. Proceeding in two dis-
tinct phases, iconoclastic emperors worked to strip both lay and monastic
churches of all their sacred imagery.108 In opposition to the emperors (and
their hand-picked patriarchs) the monastic community organized an intense
popular resistance; they also formulated a precise, Neoplatonic defense of
sacred images. Their eventual success heralded a long period during which
liturgical innovations, both architecturally and musically (see Chapter 3),
were driven by monastic precedent.
One irony of the Iconoclastic struggle is that the most forceful advocate
for sacred images was no longer a Roman: John of Damascus (Damascene),
whose treatises on sacred images proved vital to their restoration, lived under
the Muslim Caliphate at the monastery of St. Sabas in Jerusalem. Prior to his
monastic career, John had served as an official in the Caliph’s court – as had
his father and grandfather before him. It was John’s status as a citizen of the
Caliphate that gave him the freedom to write without fear of retribution –
Muslim authorities tolerated monotheistic sects, Orthodox Christians included,
even if the authorities in Constantinople regarded them as heretics. So it was
that the Holy City of Jerusalem, not the imperial city of Constantinople, proved
to be a more powerful source of innovation, in spite (or perhaps because of) its
status as a city in captivity.
Even the restoration of icons, the “Triumph of Orthodoxy,” did not
lead directly to the creation of the templon screen; it simply meant the
restoration of pre-existing schemes. Eleventh-century monastic litera-
ture confirms the presence of an architectural element designated as a
templon, but given medieval usage the word could just as easily refer to
the (pre-iconoclastic) row of images installed above the chancel barrier’s
columns, not between them.109 Meanwhile in lay churches, icons in the
106
See Mango 1979: 40–3. Mango’s study comes a few years after that of Chatzidakis (cited earlier),
and revises his chronology somewhat.
107
Chatzidakis 1976: 160–1.
108
The Iconoclastic period is traditionally divided into three phases: phase one, c. 717–80 ce, encom-
passes the reigns of Leo III (717–41) his son, Constantine V (741–75), and Leo IV the Khazar
(775–80), although the persecution did not begin until 726 and did not end officially until the
Seventh Ecumenical Council, which convened in 786–7 (see Vasiliev 1964: 251–64). Phase two,
c. 780–815 ce, saw the repudiation of Iconoclasm, while phase three, 815–43 ce, saw the reinstitu-
tion of Iconoclasm first under emperor Leo V (813–20) and then under Michael II (820–9) and
Theophilus (829–42). Upon Theophilos’ death his widow, the Empress Theodora, engineered the
official end of iconoclasm in 843. See also Treadgold 1997: 350–447.
109
See Chatzidakis 1976: 165–6, for interpretation of templon as intercolumnar icons; for templon as
merely a collection of images installed above the architrave, see Epstein 1981: 2–6.
chancel screen may not have become common until after the Latin occu-
pation of Constantinople (1204–61); even then, they were processional
icons designed to be removed for outdoor use and were not permanent
installations.110 There is as yet no evidence for permanent icons cutting off
the view of the sanctuary except in isolated provincial churches, even dur-
ing Byzantium’s last years. As A. Epstein puts it:
What little evidence remains seems to indicate that the Constantinopolitan
templon during the Middle Byzantine period consisted of a colonnade
closed at the bottom by ornamental parapet slabs and supporting an epi-
style decorated with a figural programme … the same programmatic and
formal arrangement also typified the sanctuary closure of the early four-
teenth century, after the termination of the Latin occupation.111
Epstein implies a practical motivation for the creation of intercolumnar
icons, reminiscent of what may have led to the tripartite sanctuary: spa-
tial economy. Both monastic and lay churches traditionally featured
proskynētaria, icons used for personal devotions, positioned on either side
of the sanctuary.112 As in the Western tradition, the placement of sacred
images in close proximity to the sanctuary allowed laypersons to partici-
pate more actively in the liturgy. It appears that in certain isolated cases,
smaller provincial churches decided to incorporate the proskynētaria into
the chancel screen, cutting off visual access to the sanctuary but providing
opportunities for personal devotion as close to the sanctuary as possible.113
Barring the emergence of new evidence, it would appear that erecting the
templon, like instituting the processional liturgy, was a localized practice
driven (perhaps) by the need for more efficient use of available space and
the desire for greater, not less lay participation.114
As experienced by Orthodox worshippers today, the templon screen has
the aura of longstanding tradition (and for critics like Ploritis the scent of
theatrical influence). Upon closer inspection, however, it is clear that nei-
ther the screen nor its rooms were considered essential before the Middle
110
The installation of processional icons in the templon, i.e. the space between the columns, was so
common that later when these gaps were filled with plaster, images were painted on both sides of
the new wall as if it were still occupied by a processional icon. See Chatzidakis 1976: 166–9.
111
Epstein 1981: 10.
112
On the proskynētaria, see Epstein 1981: 12–24.
113
“Only within the peculiar circumstances of unpretentious, non-metropolitan buildings were
permanent visual barriers introduced … [But] they were local adaptations of common liturgical
arrangements to the restricted space of provincial buildings” (Epstein 1981: 27).
114
For example, Taft notes that templon screens tend to be found in smaller churches, and the scale
may have enhanced the intimacy of the liturgical experience, when compared with the grand
cathedrals which did not adopt the iconostasis (Taft 2006: 50).
Ages, if then. With the eventual development of the tripartite sanctuary,
it would still be centuries before the two side-chambers acquired specific
uses; even then, these uses were not consistent. And however long it took
for these rooms to become defined as prothesis and diaconicon it would be
a few more centuries still before icons were installed in lay churches to
“hide” these rooms from the congregation.
The chief purpose of the above analysis has been to demonstrate how an
internal ecclesiastical process, driven by any number of practical concerns
and influences, could eventually produce a sanctuary complex easily mis-
taken for a theatre. Far from demonstrating a conscious or sub-conscious
“evolutionary” process, let alone nostalgia for some idyllic pagan past, the
accidental resemblance between templon and theatre demonstrates the
inherent unpredictability of cultural processes. There is no evidence that
the Church borrowed the spatial and visual practices of a public building
it had shunned, and which as a practical matter had long since gone out
of use.115
Iconography, optics, and subjectivity

The use of religious images in Orthodox churches – processions, tem-
plon screens, etc. – is often portrayed as an example of pagan traditions
adapted for Christian use; but as discussed earlier, the Christian trad-
ition develops in an atmosphere that is selective, self-aware, and above all
responsive to local concerns. The ideological composition of Orthodox
iconography, when contrasted with the scenae frons, demonstrates this;
and the differences become more pronounced in later years, especially
after the Iconoclastic period. There is, to begin with, the lowly status
of the emperor: where the scenae frons elevated him to the most visually
dominant position in the top tier, greater than many gods and equal to
a few, early Christian churches relegated him to the lowest rank, if he
featured at all. The early sixth-century Church of San Vitale in Ravenna
is the exception that proves the rule: Justinian I and Empress Theodora
face each other on the lowest register in the sanctuary apse, bearing the
paten and chalice for the Eucharistic service.116 The halo around Justinian’s
115
The end of state-funded theatre is traditionally dated to the reign of emperor Justinian I (527–65);
see for example Procop. Arc 26.8–10.
116
For these images and commentary see Volbach 1962: 164–7 and 342–4. In the wake of the
Iconoclastic period, emperors were relegated to side-galleries and entrances (see Mainstone
1988: 29, 31, 59, and 116). In Justinian’s time a set iconographic program for the sanctuary had
not yet developed; by the Middle Ages the lowest rank would be occupied by the Church Fathers
depicted as co-celebrants, depicted reading prayers along with the living clergy (see Gerstel 1999).
head renders him saint-like, and can be interpreted as an attempt to align
his presence indexially as the earthly manifestation of the Almighty. But
this “sainted” emperor was mainly visible to celebrants in the sanctuary –
his image is perpendicular to the congregation’s field of vision – and his
presence as a co-celebrant, offering the bread to his contemporary Bishop
Maximianus standing at his side, argues for a humbler interpretation.
The upper registers are traditionally reserved for saints, archangels, and
seraphim; and since the mid ninth century, with the restoration of sacred
images, only the Virgin and Child have resided high above the sanctu-
ary apse. In churches with central domes, Christ, depicted in an attitude
of blessing, came to occupy the highest part of the visual field.117 Hagia
Sophia eventually featured mosaic portraits of numerous emperors, but
their discreet placement in the narthex and galleries – one in particular of
the short-lived Alexander (912–13) is easily missed – stands in stark con-
trast to pagan Roman practice.
The “imperialization” of Christ and Mary aside, what distin-
guishes pagan statuary from Orthodox icons is the latter’s emphasis on
two-dimensionality and formalism. These sacred images rely on a reper-
toire of visual commonplaces – silhouette, dress, hairstyle, gesture, etc. –
to communicate identity. And their flat, hieratic appearance was designed
to invite a specific response from the viewer. Realistic art, like theatrical
shows, remained common in the Empire’s secular sphere; icons by con-
trast were composed with an eye to their spiritual function.
The debate that arose in the eighth and ninth centuries over whether
and how to use sacred images recalls the earlier debate over pagan statues
between Eusebius and Porphyry. Eusebius’ position was firm and his def-
inition of idolatry – any depiction of divinity in any medium – came back
to haunt Orthodoxy, at a time when iconoclast emperors blamed icons
for their loss of territory to the Muslim Caliphate. Because Iconoclasm
was an internal struggle among Orthodox Christians (the West would
not address this question for another 800 years), when the eighth-century
apologist St. John Damascene set out to defend the use of sacred images
he was well aware of Muslim objections but designed his response primar-
ily for his co-religionists.
Damascene’s first line of defense involved the fundamental precept of
the Christian faith, the incarnation of Christ:
117
See Mainstone 1988: 281 (fig. a12) for the distribution of figural mosaics in the upper register.
As Mainstone also points out (116 and n. 30), the extant mosaics are only a fraction of what was
once there.
It is clear that when you see the bodiless become human for your sake,
then you may accomplish the figure of a human form; when the invisible
becomes visible in the flesh, then you may depict the likeness of something
seen.118
Having used the incarnation as his chief rationale, Damascene further
argues that written words and images are equivalent – an attitude rooted
in the semantics of the Greek language. The verb graphein, often trans-
lated simply as “to write,” encompasses a variety of practices and can also
mean “to draw” or “to paint.”119 Hence Damascene’s belief that there are
two kinds of icons: the written word, and the material image:
I say that everywhere we use our senses to produce an image of the
Incarnate God himself, and we sanctify the first of the senses (sight being
the first of the senses), just as by words hearing is sanctified. For the image
is a memorial [anamnesis]. What the book does for those who understand
letters, the image does for the illiterate; the word appeals to hearing, the
image appeals to sight; it conveys understanding.120
Damascene makes a point of reminding the reader that the faculty of sight
takes precedence over hearing – a Classical concept that is also informed
by the ancient science of optics (which we shall explore below).
Damascene further specifies how the image is to be treated by
the faithful, again invoking the incarnation of Christ as the chief
rationale. Aware that popular piety often imbued icons with magical
properties,121 he makes a distinction between Creator and created,
and between veneration – which is due to the former – and honor.
Although matter is privileged and worthy of honor, it is not venerated
or worshipped: “I do not venerate matter, I venerate the fashioner
of matter, who became matter for my sake.”122 Damascene further
specifies that the image is designed to activate a private, subjective
response, one in which the eye stimulates the mind and directs it to
the realm beyond: “Through the senses a certain imaginative image
is constituted in the front part of the brain and thus conveyed to the
faculty of discernment, and stored in the memory.”123
118
John of Damascus Apol. 1.8, translation in John of Damascus 2003: 24 (Treatise 1.8).
119
See LSJ, s.v. “γράφω.”
120
John of Damascus Apol. 1.17, translation in John of Damascus 2003: 31. Damascene wrote at a
time when books were a rare commodity; throughout the pre-Gutenberg era manuscripts were
written to be read aloud.
121
See Martin 1978: 29–30.
122
John of Damascus Apol. 1.16, translation in John of Damascus 2003: 29.
123
John of Damascus Apol. 1.11, translation in John of Damascus 2003: 26.
Damascene’s debt to the Neoplatonic school here is evident, but it
also suggests the chief design concept behind the icon: rather than cre-
ate a work that attracts attention to itself for its artistry (and hence its
materiality) an icon succeeds to the degree that it deflects this kind of
secular, aesthetic appreciation, and instead facilitates contemplation of
a spiritual presence. This presence, in turn, is realized within the mind
of the observer – not the image.124 Any enlightenment or healing that
results from this act of perception is not the result of the image’s mater-
ial properties – the icon remains wood and pigment, the mosaic mere
chips of glass with color laid beneath them – but occurs by virtue of
the spiritual communication activated by an observer’s contempla-
tion of the image. Plato rejected material images as cheap imitations,
Eusebius rejected images as blasphemy; Damascene, while granting the
icon’s gross materiality, sees the potential for a dynamic relationship in
which material – articulated as praise – facilitates direct communication
between mankind and the spiritual realm.
Fundamental to an understanding of Damascene’s account is the
Classical theory of optics, which remained dominant in both the Western
and Eastern churches throughout this period. We tend to construct the eye
as a passive receiver of light rays bouncing off of objects around us. The
Orthodox world reversed this transaction and constructed the eye as an
active seeker of wisdom, activating the intellect through its restless hunt
for phenomena. To Damascene and his contemporaries, it was the eye that
emanated rays onto a field, not vice versa.125 And as Gervase Mathew points
out, this Classical concept of vision-as-perception was combined with the
biblical narrative of man created in God’s image, confirming the human
being’s unique status as a bridge between the spiritual and natural realms:
In man alone Mind and Matter, the worlds of noetos and aisthetos, inter-
mingle and interpenetrate; through man alone the material becomes articu-
late in the praise of God.126
Mankind’s mediating role repositioned the five senses as agents whose
task was to seize upon, interpret, and articulate material forms for sacred
purposes. The ability to articulate matter in praise of the divine and the
ability to perceive and grasp matter-as-praise were assumed on the part of
those who painted and “read” sacred images.
124
“[John of Damascus] held that no veneration or honor should be paid to the image as an object, as
an object it is simply a piece of matter; the honour is paid to the prototype it represents and even
that honour must not be more than simply proskynesis, the same honor that is paid to relics, to
consecrated things and to men worthy of respect” (Mathew 1964: 104).
125
Mathew 1964: 30. 126 Mathew 1964: 23.
With the understanding of eye-as-agent comes a different understand-
ing of depth and spatial relations. Depth is usually understood in terms
of the space around or “beyond” an image, especially the areas depicted
“behind” figures in a landscape painting or portrait. The Orthodox con-
cern themselves with the space between viewer and viewed, which is acti-
vated by the eye’s rays seeking out the image.127 This helps to account for
the icon’s unique ambiance of presence – especially the predominance of
gold leaf surrounding the figure, which reflects light back on the viewer
and fills the space between them.128
Damascene’s description of perception and contemplation, rooted in
Classical concepts of optics and depth, also reinforces the subjectivity
inherent in the experience of a sacred image. The eye is the agent that cre-
ates the relationship between viewer and viewed, so it is only in the view-
er’s mind that a spiritual event can take place.129 The icon does not exist as
an objective reality; it exists to be perceived and, once perceived, to aid in
activating an internal, spiritual reality in the observer.
As explored in the next chapter, this theology of the icon has its coun-
terpart in the performance aesthetic of the Divine Liturgy and helps to
explain why Western innovations in performance of the Mass and the
development in Italy of the sacra rappresentazione (“sacred representation,”
a.k.a. “drama”) were generally rejected by Orthodox authorities.130 And
this rejection would be firmly rooted in the theology of the icon.131
Summary
This first chapter has attempted to lay a more practical foundation for
future studies of theatre and ritual in the Orthodox world by focusing
on early adaptations of traditional Roman architecture and urban space.
127
Mathew 1964: 31.
128
As Mathew points out, gold was likely chosen because of its quality of light and not because it
allegedly evoked “infinite space” behind the image (Mathew 1964: 31). Gold’s unique reflective
properties succeed in capturing and directing the ambient light, filling the space between the
image and the viewer, so that gold aids in the articulation of the image-as-praise in addition to
aiding the eye. One additional consideration is the presence of candles and lamps, whose flicker-
ing light was exploited by the gold leaf, heightening the viewer’s experience of the image.
129
This theory precedes Damascene by at least two centuries: the poet Agathias, a contemporary of
Emperor Justinian, once wrote of an icon of the Archangel Michael, “The man looking at the ikon
directs his mind to a higher contemplation … Imprinting the ikon within himself he fears Him
as if He were present. Eyes stir up the depth of the spirit. Art conveys through colors the soul’s
prayers” (as quoted in Mathew 1964: 78).
130
Walter Puchner points out that the Church’s objections to acting were not simply moral, but also
theological (Puchner 2002: 307).
131
See also Vivilakes 2003: 111–12, for a brief analysis of a polemic on this subject.
The theatre, ideologically constructed as a sacred, political, and aesthetic
space, survived the Empire’s conversion to Christianity primarily by virtue
of a decision to delineate a new, secular sphere.132 De-sanctifying temples
and their statuary ensured a smoother transition to a new state religion;
but in secularizing and preserving public institutions, the emperors were
simply acknowledging a process of internal, intellectual secularization that
had always been present in the Roman mind. As early as Tertullian’s time,
Christians had no problem going to ostensibly pagan festivals: the gods
on display in the theatre no longer had any significance for them. Even
in Antiquity it had been possible to distinguish the political, sacred, and
aesthetic aspects of any work of art; the rise of Christianity merely created
one more compelling rationale for doing so.
In spite of their superficial resemblance, historical analysis reveals that
numerous Christian traditions – processions, icons, the tripartite sanctu-
ary, and templon screen – had little to do with paganism, let alone the
theatre. The templon and sanctuary complex each developed along their
own separate timelines, and by the time these elements had fused together
public theatres had long since disappeared.
132
The term’s modern connotation is quite distinct from its original Latin usage. “Saeculum” meant
century, and “secular games” were sacred, all the more so since they were only held once every
hundred years.
Ch apter 2
Ritual vs. theatrical performance in Byzantium
Introduction: Jesus as performance theorist

Given how prominent theatrical culture was and how central its role in
Roman civic piety it is significant that no accounts of Jesus’ life, canonical
or apocryphal, contain any direct references to the stage. There had been
theatres and actors in the Holy Land since at least Hellenistic times, and
Herod the Great had built theatres in Jerusalem and other major cities
in Palestine that would have been frequented in Jesus’ day;1 their absence
from the Gospel narrative would have signaled that Jesus and his followers
were observant Jews who avoided pagan spectacles.
Christianity’s origins in the conservative Jewish tradition largely defined
the new religion’s response to theatre as it grew in power and influence.
Theatrical terminology had long since been incorporated into Jewish
thought, however: the Greek, Septuagint translation of Hebrew scripture,
produced in the second century BCE, had already used the craft of act-
ing as a metaphor for feigned piety.2 When Elihu admonishes Job, he uses
the word for actor, hypocritēs, to designate men who only pretend to be
1
Pickard-Cambridge cites the first extant reference to Technitai Dionysiou in Egypt during the reign
of Ptolemy Philadelphus (282–246 bce) (see Pickard-Cambridge 1988: 287). For evidence of at
least two permanent theatres built during the Hellenistic period in Egypt, one century before the
Septuagint was produced, see Rossetto and Sartorio 1996: 1.311–25. Closer to the Common Era,
Flavius Josephus portrays Herod’s theatre as the first of its kind in Jerusalem, and records fierce
protests against its construction culminating in an assassination plot (see J. AJ 15.9, translation in
Josephus 1957: 463–5). Numerous theatres in both Israel and Syria can be dated from the period of
Herod the Great and his immediate successors (Rossetto and Sartorio 1996: 2.336–57 and 3.195–219).
The site of Herod’s theatre in Jerusalem has yet to be found, however (2.344–5). Recent excava-
tions in Jerusalem have uncovered blocks possibly used for theatre seating, but it is more likely that
Herod’s theatre was a wooden structure; see Reich and Billig: 2000 but also Patrich 2002. See also
Roller 1998: 93–4, on Herod’s introduction of “Italian” theatres; 146 (map 2) for the full extent of
Herod’s construction projects; 155 (map 11) for a partial map of Herod’s projects in Jerusalem; and
174–82, for a summary of Herod’s public works. For a map of Roman theatres in the Holy Land
identified through excavation see Weiss 1999: 24.
2
See Pickard-Cambridge 1988: 126–32, for the term ὑποκρῐτής and its associations with both leading
and supporting actors during the Classical and Hellenistic periods.
47
righteous: “Those who are actors at heart prefer anger; they will not be
helped when they need it. Let their souls die, then, in their arrogance.”3
When speaking in Greek, Elihu associates religious pretense with
stage acting;4 this choice is even more striking when we consider that
the Septuagint was created at a time when actors enjoyed a higher level
of social standing; although dismissed by intellectuals as mere banou-
soi, craftsmen or “mechanicals,” throughout the Hellenistic era actors
belonged to sacred guilds and their careers sometimes included govern-
ment service.5 The negative use of theatrical vocabulary here is rooted in
an indigenous cultural and theological reaction against the alien art form.6
The use of theatrical terminology two centuries later in the Gospels,
then, reflects a longstanding attitude among observant Jews toward pagan
actors and the theatre.7 The Book of Matthew, written specifically for a
Jewish audience, features Jesus’ condemnations of public prayer as a
recurring theme:
Beware of practicing your piety before men in order to be seen by them;
for then you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven.
3
Job 36:13–14 (LXX), italics mine. The Revised Standard Version of the passage renders the Hebrew
word as “godless.”
4
Ceslas Spicq points out that in the Septuagint “hypokrinomai (Hebrew ānâh) becomes a sin” (Spicq
1994: 3.408). See also Spicq’s account of hypokrinomai’s changes in meaning (Spicq 1994: 3.406–13).
Passages in the Septuagint using theatrical language include: Job 15:34 and 34:30, and from the apocryphal
works 2 Macc. 6:21, 24, and 25, and Sir. (Ecclesiasticus, or “Wisdom of the Son of Sirach”) 35:15; 36:2. The
passages in Job and Sir. are in the same spirit as the quote above, while 2 Maccabees tells of the martyrdom
of an elder, Eleazar, who refuses to dissemble (hypokrithēnai) by pretending to eat unclean meat.
5
For the political careers of distinguished actors before Roman times see Bieber 1961: 83 and n. 24.
Paulette Ghiron-Bistagne dates the idea of forming the first professional guilds to 320 bce, when
actors in Alexander the Great’s entourage in Asia Minor suddenly found themselves without his
protection upon his untimely death (Ghiron-Bistagne 1976: 67–8 and 163–4). E. J. Jory notes there
were associations of scribae and histriones in Rome perhaps as early as the third century BCE, whose
members enjoyed privileges much like those of their Hellenistic counterparts, exemption from mili-
tary service included (Jory 1970), while Charles Garton points out that not all Roman actors were
from the slave class, citing extant references to citizen actors, including those of equestrian rank,
into the early Common Era (Garton 1972: 267–83). Pickard-Cambridge, however, points out that
wealthy patrons often bought positions with the technitae to avoid their civic obligations, triggering
additional imperial legislation to prevent this abuse (Pickard-Cambridge 1988: 301–2 and app. 17).
6
Shimon Levy distinguishes between performances that describe (or indicate), and performances that
seek to create – the former being sanctioned by tradition but the latter, being a Greek invention,
condemned as impious (Levy 2000: 3).
7
For a collection of direct quotes from the Greek New Testament, see Bachmann and Slaby
1987: s.vv. “ὑποκρίνομαι,” “ὑπόκρῐσις,” “ὑποκρῐτής.” Beyond a few scattered remarks in the
Talmud, Jewish leaders felt little need to weigh in against the theatre; as Saul Lieberman points
out, “Unlike the earlier Hellenistic Jews the Rabbis were no longer struggling with gentile pagan-
ism. They mostly preached to Jews … In the first centuries C.E. the Jews were so far removed
from clear-cut idolatry that there was not the slightest need to argue and to preach against it”
(Lieberman 1950: 120–1).
Ritual vs. theatrical performance in Byzantium 49
Thus, when you give alms, sound no trumpet before you, as the actors
[hypokritai] do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may be
praised by men.8
Jesus does not openly attack Roman paganism but given the Empire’s
emphasis on theatrical, processional liturgies as a sign of piety there is lit-
tle doubt that the theatre is a principal target. Because he speaks from an
awareness that Roman piety consisted primarily in public display, Jesus’
advocacy of prayer as a non- or anti-social act leads to a confrontation
among the Apostles. The letters of Paul and James reflect a serious debate
over the value of inner spirituality vs. its outward signs.9 From the very
beginning issues of performance, and the perception of performance,
dominate the new religion’s attempts at self-definition.
The use of the theatre artist as a metaphor for sin would have drawn
some of its moral force from the Gospel audience’s acquaintance with
actors, especially mimes – who worked without masks and used their own
facial expressions, vocal inflections, and gestures to appear to be people
they were not.10 Both the Septuagint and the Gospels provide the foun-
dation for the Church Fathers’ condemnation of hypocrisy at the social,
religious, and theatrical levels. Iosef Vivilakes, in his study of the uses of
theatrical language by the Church Fathers, describes how literal and meta-
phorical uses of theatrical language existed side by side, but to a common
purpose.11
Questions of immorality and idolatry aside, the early Church’s objec-
tions to the actor’s profession were also rooted in an understanding of
biblical narrative; Archbishop Severus of Antioch in the sixth century
8
Matt. 6:1–2, adapted from the RSV, italics mine.
9
For a discussion of this debate in the context of Jewish ritual see Gruenwald 2003: 231–66.
Gruenwald depicts Paul as writing from the perspective of a Jew who, living in the Hellenistic
Diaspora, no longer regarded the Temple in Jerusalem as the focus of his religious life, but who
sought nevertheless to create rituals for his new religious community.
10
The early Church, of course, is one of our best sources for Roman theatre, and St. John Chrysostom
in particular paints a vivid picture of those times. See for example Theocaridis 1940; an English
summary of Theocharidis’ findings can be found in Barnes 1993: 168–9. Barnes argues that the arts
of the pantomimos, tragoidos, and komoidos were limited by early Byzantine times to performing
excerpts from mythology, tragedy, and comedy respectively, full-length dramas having died out c.
230 ce (171). Among Byzantines the pantomime and mime were the most popular traditional thea-
tre entertainers. Although the term “mime” came to encompass various genres – acrobats, musi-
cians, etc. – this section will focus on those who were actors.
11
As Vivilakes concludes, “Although the term hypokrinomai is definitely charged with moral content,
the old meaning is preserved of performing on the theatrical stage; and indeed this meaning is also
used within the context of the ‘world-stage.’ The word hypokrisis, on the other hand, principally
means feigned behavior, which is associated directly with faith in God; nevertheless, it also signifies
imitation and an actor’s playing” (Vivilakes 1996: 307).
appeals to both the Genesis myth and the Gospels in his critique of popu-
lar slapstick farce:
Do we not invite the wrath and anger of God when we laugh upon see-
ing a man assaulted – God’s creation, into whose face God breathed the
breath of life so that he might be respected even by the angels, and who
was also honored by the Word of God, which became man for our sake …
a countenance honored to such high degree, nay even one who has been
doubly celebrated, don’t you think it strikes terror and fright into the very
Heavenly Host itself he is outrageously assaulted and put to ridicule?12
Because the Roman body now personified the biblical narrative of man’s
creation in God’s image, as well as the incarnation, crucifixion, and resur-
rection of Christ, Severus positioned both acting and theatre-going alike
as a violation of God’s gifts.
As the Divine Liturgy took shape during the fourth century, the con-
cept of mimes and pantomimes as enactors – i.e. agents – of falsehood
would figure prominently in the development of the Orthodox ritual
aesthetic. Theological values aside, the spatial and power relationships
established by the basilica would position the priest as a mere advocate,
devoid of personal agency and completely reliant on the power of the
Almighty, whose presence was symbolized by the high priest seated in
the synthronon. The new, imperial context for the Liturgy made explicit
the implied aura of God’s power and majesty, and stressed the clergy’s
powerlessness.13
This chapter will begin by exploring the performance practices of
the Orthodox Liturgy, focusing on the aesthetics of the Divine Liturgy
attributed to St. John Chrysostom (347–407 ce), the standard ser-
vice since the middle Byzantine period. Having delineated the clergy’s
mode of performance, an addendum to this chapter will then exam-
ine the odd tradition of mime-martyrologies, which was rooted in the
Orthodox theology of ritual performance, the Church’s attitude toward
mimes, as well as its attitude toward mimes who mocked Orthodox rit-
ual on stage.
12
Severus of Antioch, “Homily 54,” after Rubens Duval’s French translation in Severus, Bishop of
Antioch 1908: 55. Severus’ homily, from the sixth century, demonstrates that clergy had to contend
with actors and their fans sitting side by side in the pews.
13
This isn’t to say that Christianity shunned the limelight: with the legalization of Christianity, piety
manifested itself in increasingly eccentric (and literally theatrical) acts. But these public displays
met with mixed reviews; see for example Leyerle 2001 concerning urban, co-ed ascetic households.
The careers of “Holy Fools” like Symeon attest to the power of performing one’s contempt for soci-
ety on the streets (see Krueger 1988). By the seventh century ascetics even pretended to be mimes as
a sign of humility; on the urban saints Theophilus and Maria see John of Ephesus 1926: 166–77.
Is the Divine Liturgy a ritual or a drama?

The first question for this chapter has been colored for years by Western
assumptions about the essentially dramatic nature of Christian ritual.
Since at least the time of E. Du Méril’s study on the origins of modern
theatre in medieval sacred drama,14 there has been an enduring conceptual
link between ritual and theatre, at first in terms of cause and effect, and
later – as with the theories of Schechner and Turner – in terms of symbi-
osis.15 Orthodox ritual fails to comply with either of these appropriative
schemes.
Michal Kobialka’s critique of the historian’s project in This is My Body,
although focused on the medieval West, goes some way toward explain-
ing why past studies asserting Orthodox ritual’s “dramatic” nature have
fallen short. For Kobialka the failure lies in strategies historians routinely
employ, which isolate the object of study from its larger context. Imposing
a narrative and/or “scientific” scheme onto complex cultural phenomena
involves the silencing of voices that might undermine the writer’s conceit.
Kobialka admits, however, that thorough, contextual analysis is easier said
than done:
If history, and to be more precise the writing of history, is a narrative that
recounts and interprets events, the historian is challenged not to fall prey
to countless practices of rearranging an aspect of a past reality –or should
I say, its appearance – to give it an autonomy and independence that it
never had.16
It is a given that our primary sources, when they attempt to impose
their own narrative conceits on events, are to be taken with a grain of
salt; Kobialka asks that we apply the same critical approach to our own
efforts. The present section, then, will critique modern notions about the
Orthodox rite’s “theatricality” and “dramaticity” through a close reading
of the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, and a delineation of its
consciously anti-theatrical mode of performance.
Portraying the Divine Liturgy as a historical drama has its benefits;
for example, it gives modern congregations an easy way to appreciate the
service. The chief drawback comes when this narrative conceit is con-
fused with the rite’s essence. And it doesn’t help when liturgical exegeses,
14
See Sticca 1974: 14–15, on Du Méril’s contribution to medieval scholarship. As Sticca notes, Du
Méril’s theories were to have a profound impact on the study of Byzantine dramatic literature (see
also Sticca 1974: 21–3 on the work of George La Piana).
15
See Kobialka 1999a: 1–18 for a summary of contemporary approaches to medieval drama.
16
Kobialka 1999a: 27–8.
explanations of the Liturgy by the early Church Fathers, are read select-
ively to foreground historical or “dramatic” readings. These “helpful”
readings erase evidence of more abstract, spiritual interpretations rooted
in the Liturgy’s higher purpose, interpretations which are embedded in
the exegeses as well.
Why not read the Divine Liturgy as a drama, when the Church Fathers
seem to invite us to do just that? The answer, in a nutshell, is: because the
Liturgy was not conceived as a drama, it was not performed as one, and
the record shows clearly that the Fathers and their successors intended the
laity to have a primarily spiritual experience through their work, not an
aesthetic one. This goal was extremely difficult to achieve, however; with
the adoption of Christianity as the Empire’s exclusive faith the flood of
converts with no background in the Jewish faith, and even less personal
spirituality, made it necessary to spend much more time on the basics
of biblical teaching as well as Church doctrine.17 Drama remains an emi-
nently useful literary genre for purposes of proselytization and indoctrin-
ation, which makes its relative absence here all the more telling.
Early liturgical commentators do, as a matter of course, evoke the nar-
rative of Christ’s ministry in their descriptions of the Liturgy; but there
is a difference between a brief appeal to a familiar motif, done to engage
novices, and a thorough delineation of the rite’s ultimate meaning. Even
those who cite the Gospel narrative encourage their audiences to use other
interpretive strategies at the same time. History, to be sure, lay at the
foundation of Christian dogma; but the Liturgy was not designed to enact
that history so much as cite or indicate it, incorporating the narrative into
a performance whose ultimate goal was purely spiritual.18
The Liturgy as rhetorical performance

If Christianity had emerged as a purely Hellenistic cult in the late fifth
or early fourth century BCE when the Dionysia was in its heyday, it is
likely that drama would have become a part of its rites. Instead the new
faith emerged from the anti-Hellenistic, anti-theatrical milieu of the Holy
Land; moreover it was established in a society where actors were little
more than slaves, where contemporary plays were non- or anti-literate,
17
See for example Bradshaw 2004: 211–30. Bradshaw discusses the various threads and traditions that
culminated in standardization of the Liturgy, the sudden influx of pagan converts – whose sincerity
was questionable to say the least – being one of the most disruptive elements.
18
On the origins of the so-called “historic” mystagogy associated with Syrian commentators like
Bishop Theodore of Mopsuestia, see Bornert 1966: 72–82.
and dramatic poetry was an obsolete literary genre relegated to study in
the Empire’s primary schools.
By far the most dominant cultural force of the early Christian period –
dominant, that is, among the educated classes – was rhetoric, a rigorous
program of training in composition and delivery of diverse modes of
speech that constituted, to use a modern analogy, the first degree program
in performance studies. The goal of rhetoric was to prepare students for
careers as public intellectuals capable of composing and performing a wide
variety of discursive genres, often extempore. Already well established by
the fourth century BCE, rhetoric continued to dominate higher educa-
tion long after the stage had yielded to mime, circus acts, and pop spec-
tacle at the expense of sophisticated dialogue. The intellectual descendants
of Sophocles and Euripides had long been banned from the stage in favor
of a professional actors’ union, the Artists of Dionysus; not to be discour-
aged, they had devoted themselves ever since to an in-depth study of a
wide range of distinct genres of speech-acts.
The Church Fathers responsible for creating the Divine Liturgy dur-
ing the early Byzantine period were all trained as rhetors under the most
distinguished pagan orators of their day. And because the overwhelming
majority of Christians waited until adulthood to convert (infant bap-
tism would not become common practice until the fifth or sixth century)
nearly all Orthodox clergy came to the Church and their ministry after
years enjoying the delights of Roman urban life.19 The clergy would have
read the great tragedies and comedies as schoolboys; and as students of
rhetoric they would have attended theatre shows on a regular basis. Given
their lifelong exposure to both literary and popular theater, the Fathers
could easily have chosen to adopt a dramatic mode of performance dur-
ing the Liturgy – particularly for the Eucharistic rite, given its focus on
the Last Supper. But their training in rhetoric gave them access to a more
sophisticated set of performance tools; so we must turn to the rhetorical
exercise books, the progymnasmata, in order to understand how the rites
of the Church were constructed.
The language of the Divine Liturgy of the Greek Orthodox Church is
traditionally attributed to St. John Chrysostom, Bishop of Antioch and
later Archbishop of Constantinople in the late fourth and early fifth cen-
turies CE. A student of the pagan orator Libanius before his conversion,
19
On the tradition of adult baptisms during this period see for example Kazhdan 1991 (henceforth
ODB) 1.251, s.v. “Baptism.” Early “Christian” emperors like Constantine actually waited until they
were on their death-beds for baptism. Even Theodosius the Great, the first to rule as a baptized
Christian, was baptized accidentally; see King 1961: 30.
Chrysostom was one of the most brilliant public intellectuals of his
time – hence the epithet Chrysostomos, “Golden Mouth.” Antioch, the city
where he lived and studied, and where he first came to prominence in the
Church, was a provincial capital famous for being one of Christianity’s
great spiritual centers – but it also boasted one of the Empire’s liveliest,
most notorious theatre scenes.20
Chrysostom’s denunciations of the theatre, as detailed as they were fre-
quent, were rooted in his firsthand knowledge of the stage. But his hostil-
ity to popular theatre was also informed by his training in the rhetorical
art, which had as its goal the creation of more refined modes of public
performance. Given the contrast between the two institutions of rhetoric
and theatre, it is clear that rhetoric would have influenced Chrysostom’s
liturgical compositions to a greater degree. And although the school cur-
riculum allowed for a certain elite form of enactment through exercises
like ēthopoieia, as non-actors rhetoricians had developed a code of per-
formance that rendered their form of enactment merely one of many dis-
tinct genres, all designed to be used together by turns, and all of them
designed to avoid perceptions of crude theatricality.21
Chrysostom also worked in the context of a faith that was still negoti-
ating its social and political position; although legal, the Church still had
to compete for attention with the theatre – like the Church, an imperially
funded enterprise – and for years the spectacles were held on Sundays and
high holy days, including Easter Week.22 Thanks to imperial sponsorship
the Church had access to richly appointed, increasingly massive public
buildings designed to attract larger audiences; to fill these grand new ven-
ues, however, the clergy were forced adapt and expand their performances.
Early rites: suppers, readings, and enactments

In his study of early church architecture L. Michael White has traced the
origins and features of Christian houses of worship; his work complements
20
Antioch hosted one of the Church’s original patriarchates, but its Christians were notoriously
rowdy theatre fans (as noted by the last pagan emperor Julian the Apostate in his brilliant polemic,
Misopogon).
21
This genre of speech-act did have its entertainment value, however; rhetors would often regale each
other with declamations, character sketches that were designed for private performances for their
peers. See for example Libanius 1996. Although we have little direct evidence for competitions
among rhetors in this period, it is possible to use evidence from medieval France to get a glimpse of
how lively their gatherings could be; see for example Enders 1992.
22
See CTh 2.8.20 (392 ce), 2.8.23 (399 ce). It is only with CTh 2.8.24, roughly dated to 405 ce, that
spectacles during Easter Week were specifically banned (see also Theodosius 1952: 44–5).
work done by liturgical historians Juan Mateos and Robert Taft, who have
traced the origins of Orthodox ritual practice. Together, their work clari-
fies the considerable additions and changes to what began as a private,
communal meal in a congregant’s dining-room. White demonstrates
that by the second century the dining rooms which had served as “house
churches” in the early days had given way to a more formal, purpose-built
space – the domus ecclesiae, or “house of the church” – specifically for fel-
lowship and ritual performance.23 Justin Martyr, a second-century witness,
describes a typical second-century gathering as a combination of order
and informality,24 with readers given leave to read as long as seemed appro-
priate and bread, water, and wine (donated by the congregation) brought
to the presiding clergy.25 In Justin’s day there is no sense of physical separ-
ation between the priest and his fellow Christians; by the mid to late third
century we begin to see larger structures, designated as aula ecclesiae or
“hall of the church,” which consisted of a hierarchically arranged meeting
hall with a raised platform or pulpitum, reflecting a greater degree of for-
mality and stratification among the attendees.26
By the early fourth century, the legalization and imperial sponsorship of
Christianity increased the pace of formalization and ritualization, forever
altering a once-informal rite which had been focused more on fellowship
than display. Although openness remained the dominant performance
aesthetic for centuries, the adoption of the basilica with its vast, wide
open vertical and horizontal structures prompted a variety of responses
from a newly empowered clergy. It was not a matter of ritual performers
having a ready-made liturgy that filled the vast interiors of their new spir-
itual homes. Architectural form dictated function, not vice versa.
Sanctuary and synthronon, solea, and ambo27

The first wave of change involved the demarcation of a specific area for
the celebrants: with a tall, elongated nave and ample side-aisles for the
congregation, the apse – oriented eastward to take advantage of the sym-
bolism of the rising sun – became a natural locus of activity. As discussed
23
L. M. White 1990: 102–24. White further explains that in addition to growing numbers in each
congregation it was the separation of the communal dinner, the agape meal, from the Eucharistic
rite that would have driven this change (119).
24
See Justin Apol. 1.67, translation in Justin Martyr 1973: 1.186. Justin Apol. 1.65 gives a more detailed
account of the communion rite (translation in Justin Martyr 1973: 1.185).
25
See for example Taft 1978: 14.
26
On the aula ecclesiae see L. M. White 1990: 127–39.
27
See Xydis 1947. For a contemporary account see Mainstone 1988: 219–23.
above the synthronon, with its semi-circular cavea-like seating for the
emperor and his advisors, provided the hierarchs with a place to sit facing
the congregation. This imperialization of the Church hierarchy substan-
tially altered the ritual performers’ mode of self-presentation; the Church’s
system of authority, already loosely based on the Roman political model,
now took on aspects that were by turns more concrete and symbolic.
Having horizontally integrated their authority with that of the emperor,
the next step – taken at some time in the fifth or sixth century – was to
integrate the ensemble of earthly celebrants with a “heavenly hierarchy”
which, in the Neoplatonic vision of the anonymous author known as
Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, celebrated the eternal heavenly Liturgy
before the Almighty.28
The sanctuary was set apart by a low barrier, the chancel screen, where
the laity could gather to watch and listen as the celebrants went about
their business. The openness with which the early Byzantine Liturgy was
performed had its disadvantages – there are complaints about women
hanging out by the screen and distracting the priests29 – but the rite and
its performers remained visually accessible well into the Middle Ages.
This, in spite of the fact that early Byzantine congregations appear to have
learned their church etiquette in the theatre and the hippodrome; in add-
ition to crowding the sanctuary, Chrysostom claims the vastness of the
basilica provided any number of secluded places for gossip, business deals
and – if the archbishop is to be believed – assignations.30 It had become
nearly impossible to preserve traditional rites in the Church’s vast, monu-
mental new home.
The construction of an ambo or high pulpit, joined to the sanctuary
by an enclosed passageway, was one of the first responses to these spatial
issues. In the domus and aula ecclesiae, readings from the Gospels were
given from a dais in a small, low-ceilinged space; now the celebrants would
emerge from the sanctuary holding the Gospel book and proceed, due
west, into the nave along an enclosed walkway, the solea, before mounting
the stairs to the ambo. Paul the Silentiary, in his description of Justinian’s
sixth-century cathedral of Hagia Sophia, offers a vivid description of the
participatory nature of this new, short procession and its return:
Here the priest who brings the good tidings [i.e. the Gospel book] passes
along his return from the ambo, holding aloft the golden book; and while
28
See for example Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite’s “The Celestial Hierarchy,” in Dionysius
1987: 145–91.
29 30
Taft 2006: 44–5. Taft 2006: 39.
the crowd strives in honor of the immaculate God to touch the sacred book
with their lips and hands, the countless waves of the surging people break
around. Thus, like an isthmus beaten by waves on either side, does this
space stretch out, and it leads the priest who descends from the lofty crags
of this vantage point to the shrine of the holy table.31
Having walked this gauntlet, the reader would climb the steps to the
ambo.32 Most extant ambos – including one in the garden of Hagia Sophia
Museum in Istanbul – are built on a smaller scale, but Paul describes
the platform in Hagia Sophia here as being a large oval, flat on top but
curved underneath like a shield.33 An example of this kind of platform
can be found today in the museum at the Church of St. Demetrius
in Thessalonica, which features an oval platform with a flat surface on
top, while the underside is carved in a convex form, with the “Sign of
Constantine,” the chi-rho – engraved upon it. The resulting image is that
of a soldier’s shield, the kind used to elevate a new emperor when the
army proclaimed his election. The shield motif reinforces the parallelism
between secular and ecclesiastical authority and reinforces the Church’s
usage of imperial rather than theatrical models in its spatial practice.34
The public reading of scripture in itself constitutes a performance and
one of inherently “theatrical” or “dramatic” value – especially when it is
a matter of narrative passages from the Gospels. At some point, perhaps
from the beginning, these readings were adapted for musical performance
and cantillated – as witnessed by the development of a spartan, ecpho-
netic notation system by the Middle Ages. This renders the resemblance
between scripture reading and traditional drama even closer, given the
emphasis in Byzantine sources on tragedy as a musical genre (the word is,
after all, the root of the modern Greek word for song – tragoudi). But the
generally restrained nature of scriptural music, which more closely resem-
bles the recitative of Western opera, would have marked the reading as an
element apart, requiring a more solemn reception than the realistically
delivered mime dialogue or elaborately staged popular songs associated
31
Paulus Silentiarius, Descr. Ambonis 247–54, translation from Mango 1986: 95–6 (but see also Xydis
1947: 14–15). The reference to a priest can be misconstrued to mean that priests did both the read-
ing and the sermon that followed; but it is commonly accepted that the readings were delegated to
deacons and other low-ranking celebrants (see Mainstone 1988: 227).
32
Xydis 1947: 14, and Mainstone 1988: 223.
33
“What is roof for those below is a floor for those above; the latter is like a spreading plain, made
level for the feet of mortals, while the underside has been cut out and hollowed by the mason so
that it rises from the sacred capitals, curving over the artful adornment, like the bent back of the
hard-shelled tortoise or the oxhide shield which the agile warrior holds over his helmet when he
leaps in the Pyrrhic dance” (Descr. Ambonis 113–20, translation from Mango 1986: 93).
34
For the conduct of imperial coronations on the ambo see Majeska 1997: 2–4.
with the Roman stage. And even if we allow for the celebrants’ elaborately
detailed vestments, the conservative mode of self-presentation derived
from rhetoric would, again, have mitigated the kinds of enactments and
elaborate gestures more common on the stage.
The ambo also served the practical function of placing the speaker where
his voice would carry farthest through a now-vast church interior.35 Early
services had placed an emphasis on fellowship and were conducted in
small spaces; but with the adoption of large spaces like the basilica officials
realized the need to accommodate new, acoustical concerns. Even then the
ambo was designed primarily for chanters and Gospel readings; apparently
Chrysostom was among the first to give sermons there, instead of from his
seat at the top of the synthronon. In this as in other cases ritual conduct
was dictated by the practical need to adjust to vast new ritual spaces, with
symbolic interpretations of the practice developing sometime after.
The art of the homily

During the fourth through sixth centuries when conversions gener-
ally took place at adulthood, the early part of the Liturgy was open to
non-Christians, catechumens and penitents alike,36 and the reading and
sermon occurred together. In this context the readings became shorter and
more focused, and sermons – like John Chrysostom’s on the Gospels, for
example – became longer. The purposes of these sermons became more
complex because they were now designed to evangelize curious visitors
and correct the errors of wayward Christians, while teaching soon-to-
be-baptized catechumens the basic meaning of the day’s reading. Because
bibles were scarce, existing only in manuscript form and extremely expen-
sive to acquire,37 the only contact laity had with scripture was through oral
35
Mainstone (1988: 222) notes that the ambo was positioned slightly east of center in Hagia Sophia
in Constantinople. Although some smaller examples (like that in the late Byzantine church of the
Dormition of the Virgin in Kalambaka, Greece) included a small dome overhead – erected, pre-
sumably, to direct the priest’s voice downward to the congregation – Xydis’ reconstruction of the
ambo at Hagia Sophia (1947: 32 and figs. 32–3) does not include a canopy or ceiling.
36
The early Church established a series of dismissals for penitents, catechumens, and curious outsid-
ers. By the last dismissal, after the sermon, only the faithful in good standing were left to witness
the entrance of the Eucharistic elements and the Communion that followed. See ODB 1.639, s.v.
“Dismissal.” For how various classes among the congregation were defined see e.g. Canons 11–14
of the Council of Nicaea in Tanner 1990: 1.11–13 (Latin with English translation). See also Fulton
1892: 200–1 (Canon 6, Council of Ancyra, on the stages required to return to communion after
making pagan sacrifices) and especially 254–5 (Canon 19, Council of Laodicaea, on the order of
services/dismissals).
37
In an age when scripture is available so readily online as well as in print, it pays to remember
that the early Roman book, the codex, consisted of carefully prepared animal skins that were
transmission; and with the decision to read shorter excerpts, somewhat
out of context, the clergy used sermons to elaborate on the themes and
potential meanings of the text.
Known as homilia, “conversation” (a reflection of its less formal roots),
the sermon was delivered by a priest or higher Church authority. With
the new, monumental space and the priest’s new vertical alignment – now
standing physically above the laity, and (by virtue of his training) ideo-
logically above scripture38 – this “conversation” quickly acquired a more
stylized mode of self-presentation; and so was born one of the Eastern
Empire’s most sophisticated performing arts. This isn’t to say that it was a
purely intellectual display – some of the earliest homilists openly modeled
themselves on the simple language of the Apostles, who wrote in the koinē
or “common” Greek of the day. But even in that simplicity there was a
need for careful preparation, and it is easy to take even the simplest early
Christian sermon and see its debt to rhetoric.39
As a solo performer confronted with a virtual sea of hundreds if not
thousands of people, some of them easily distracted, the priest relied on
the principles of classical rhetoric to keep the laity both engaged and
informed. Extant progymnasmata from this period indicate that a trained
rhetor’s arsenal included a wide variety of creative techniques.40
Of particular interest for theatre scholars is the use of ēthopoieia, “charac-
terization,” by the clergy. In the context of an exegetical homily, ēthopoieia
often took the form of a fictional dialogue involving two or more bib-
lical characters. In the past, homilies with dialogue have been ideologic-
ally positioned as proto-dramatic on the naïve assumption that all ritual,
being primitive, represented a lower order of cultural development.41 But
the clergy’s long acquaintance with theatre, their theological objections
to play-acting; and above all the conservative mode of self-presentation
assumed in classical rhetoric argue heavily against this theory.42 Even when
hand-written and illustrated under the guidance of experienced scribes. Taking together the costs
for shepherds, flocks of sheep, the butchers, tanners, copyists, editors, etc., the price of a copy of
the New Testament alone would have easily approached a half-year’s wages; see ODB 1.305, s.v.
“Book.”
38
As discussed in Cunningham 2003: 104.
39
See for example Castagno 1998: 68–70.
40
The most influential exercise book is attributed to Hermogenes, who like Chrysostom also stud-
ied under Libanius. Hermogenes’ progymnasmata give direct evidence of the quality of training
received by one of the most influential of the early Church Fathers.
41
La Piana 1912: 37–41. La Piana popularized the term “dramatic homily” to describe these sermons
but as Mary Cunningham has pointed out, La Piana claimed that these dialogues were performed
theatrically in the church – in spite of a complete lack of evidence (Cunningham 2003: 102
and n. 6).
42
On the gender values inherent in classical rhetoric see especially Gleason 1995 and Gunderson 2000.
reciting dialogue “in character” as it were, the clergy worked within a care-
fully constructed regime of diction and gesture, transmitted orally and
visually for centuries, which they regarded as distinct from theatre.
The art of ēthopoieia appears to have provided citizens (i.e. non-actors)
with a socially acceptable way to practice their mimetic skills, but as
taught in the rhetoric schools it was only one strategy among many used
in the course of a single speech. As Aristotle would remind us, a truly
“dramatic” use of this genre would have required the exclusive use of
ēthopoieia throughout the sermon; as both a Christian and a trained rhet-
orician, however, Chrysostom would have known better than to indulge
in cheap histrionics, let alone of the non-stop variety.43 Mary Cunningham
has pointed out that ēthopoieia in homilies was merely a means to an end,
and had the additional benefit of demonstrating the clergy’s authority
over sacred text:
The use of dialogue enhances the authority of the preacher as he reveals
his ability to interpret and even paraphrase biblical readings. Furthermore,
dialogue may function as a method for conveying doctrinal teaching to the
congregation in a way that, like artistic depictions of festal scenes, is vivid
and easy to understand.44
Given these concerns, an overemphasis on dramatic display would have
undermined the priest’s spiritual authority, and would have distracted the
congregation from the day’s spiritual lesson.
No matter how much care was taken, however, to achieve rhetorical
perfection, Orthodox clergy were still anxious about being misperceived
as entertainers; evidence of this anxiety comes from the mouth of none
other than John Chrysostom himself. Digressing from a homily on Acts,
he chastises the congregation for applauding his commentary, and chas-
tises himself for seeking their approval:
Instead of looking for a speech in a spirit of repentance and piety, you only
chase after words that flatter the ear, as if you’d come to hear a singer or
kitharist … and we are such appalling cowards that we encourage this kind
of selfishness when we ought to exterminate it.45
Ashamed of being so entertaining, Chrysostom compares his speech to
theatrical pop music, and asks that his flock remain silent while he speaks.
43
See Kennedy 2003: 115–17 for an account of ēthopoieia by another contemporary and classmate of
John Chrysostom’s, Aphthonius. (Both Aphthonius and Chrysostom studied under Libanius of
Antioch in the mid to late fourth century CE.)
44
Cunningham 2003: 113.
45
John Chrysostom, Act. Apost. 30.3, PG 60.225; translation after John Chrysostom 1870: 15.146.
There is no evidence that Chrysostom or any of his successors consciously
crossed the line; but the risk of perceived theatricality was inescapable. To
make matters worse, most if not all of his congregation came to services
after years of attending theatrical shows year-round, and lacked the train-
ing or appreciation for rhetoric Chrysostom took for granted. Chrysostom
couldn’t help but notice how restless his flock was every time he stepped
up to speak, competing as he did with everything from social climbers to
the occasional pick-pocket.46 For all his eloquence and careful planning
the great Church Father had little control over his congregation’s behavior,
let alone their interpretation of his performances.
New spatial strategies: the Small and Great Entrances

Two of the most familiar motifs in the Divine Liturgy as it is practiced
today are its indoor processions: one introducing readings from scripture,
the “Small Entrance,” and one introducing the Eucharistic elements into
the sanctuary, “the Great Entrance.” In most cases the celebrants emerge
from a chamber on the north side of the sanctuary, the prothesis, walk
down the north aisle of the nave, and then return down the center of the
nave toward the sanctuary.47
Because the Small Entrance might bring to mind the procession of the
Torah in the synagogue rite, it can create the impression that the Liturgy
borrowed from Jewish precedent. But there are serious questions about
when the synagogue tradition was formalized or, given that Judaism and
Christianity had parted ways some centuries before, whether it could
have had any influence on the composition of the Divine Liturgy in the
fourth century.48 Moreover, as discussed earlier, the original itinerary for
the reader was much simpler; the New Testament was kept in the sanctu-
ary on the altar,49 and was taken up the solea to the ambo and back. Even
in the mid sixth century (per Paul the Silentiary’s description, earlier) the
solea provided the laity with ample opportunity to interact with the book.
46
See for example Mayer 1998: 132–3. As Mayer notes, a careful investigation of Chrysostom’s own
accounts of his congregation would contribute immeasurably to understanding his methods of
delivery.
47
The term “Little Entrance” is also used to describe the initial entry into the nave for services, when
a hierarch (a Bishop or Patriarch) is present. See ODB 2.1238–9, s.v. “Little Entrance.”
48
See Bradshaw, 1993: 23–46. Bradshaw stresses evidence for a wide variety of practices during the
first century CE, when influence on Christian observances would have been at their height; evi-
dence for standardization in the Synagogue rite does not appear until the third century CE, by
which time it is hard to identify direct influence.
49
Mainstone 1988: 227.
It would only be in the generations after Paul the Silentiary, during the
late sixth century – and well beyond the time when the synagogue rite
would have had any influence50 – that the reader would have abandoned
the solea, proceeding instead down the north aisle, and returning via the
west end of the nave to the ambo.
Juan Mateos points out that although both the New Testament and the
Eucharist had their own processions, the specific terms Small and Great
Entrance are not actually attested until the late Byzantine period,51 and the
exact itinerary of the Small Entrance is not specified.52 Whatever the route
and however one chooses to chart its changes, readings from scripture
came to be a much more formal, spectacular affair over time. Likewise the
history of the Great Entrance reflects a decision to ritualize what for cen-
turies had been a perfunctory act; in the early Church the deacons, having
selected bread and wine donated by the laity, would quietly transfer the
gifts to the sanctuary without any fanfare. The exact route, moreover, was
dictated by local custom and varied directly with the architectural fea-
tures of each individual church. At Hagia Sophia in Constantinople, for
example, the gifts were kept outside in the skeuophylakion; so for years the
deacons exited the church through a door in the northeast corner, fetched
the bread and wine, and returned. Only after Justinian’s Hagia Sophia had
been complete for generations did the celebrants begin to exploit the sym-
bolic possibilities of their re-entry. The Eucharist then became the focus
of an elaborate procession winding through the nave of the church while
a newly composed hymn, the Cherubikon, repositioned the simple act of
fetching bread and wine as a spiritual event:
We who mystically represent the cherubim and sing the thrice-holy hymn
to the life-giving Trinity, let us now lay aside all worldly care to receive the
King of all escorted unseen by the angelic corps. Alleluia!53
The Great Entrance quickly came to symbolize the Liturgy itself;54 but
the timing of this procession’s creation indicates that it was the result of
ongoing negotiations between ritual performers and their massive per-
formance space – Justinian’s Hagia Sophia, with an interior the size of
three football pitches, was for centuries the largest interior space in the
world. As Rowland Mainstone observes, the massive scale of the nave had
rendered necessary “a greater emphasis on actions in the centre of the nave
than on those in the sanctuary – not because these latter actions were
50
On more generally acknowledged borrowings from the synagogue rite see Baumstark 1958: 43–51.
51 52
Mateos 1971: 72. Mateos 1971: 73–9.
53
Chrysostom 1985: 12–13. 54 As noted by Taft 1980–1: 53 and n. 55.
hidden by screens or veiled by curtains but just because they were more
remote.”55 Both these entrances developed out of a need to interact with
the congregation; and with time, the clergy found ways to interpret these
processions theologically, integrating them into the spiritual focus of the
Liturgy.
The Mystical Supper: commemoration vs. representation

As in the Western Mass, the moment during the Liturgy that could be con-
strued as especially dramatic is the citation of the “institution narrative,”
the Gospel account of the Last Supper. Given our interest in evidence for
narrative realism, it is significant that in the Orthodox tradition this is
known as Mystikos Deipnos, the “Mystical Supper,” a term that deflects us
away from a literal interpretation. By itself, the episode seems to have had
a more instructional or cathetical function in the early Christian rite, and
only became formalized as a part of the Eucharistic prayers in the fourth
century.56
Approaches to this Gospel episode have differed; in an earlier version of
the Liturgy attributed to St. James and associated with the Church of the
Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, there may have been an element of mimesis
with the priest elevating the elements while telling the story and then put-
ting them down when he recited the Verba Domini (i.e. the words attrib-
uted to Jesus). Although still celebrated in certain parts of the Orthodox
world, it is significant that this approach did not find wide acceptance, in
spite of its association with the Holy City.57
In both Catholic and Orthodox traditions the priest reads the brief pas-
sage as part of a longer sequence of prayers which, taken in toto, invite the
Holy Spirit to transform the gifts into the body and blood of Christ. The
key difference, the origins of which will be detailed later, is that in the
medieval (and modern) Catholic rite the priest elevates the Eucharistic
elements immediately after his recitation of the Verba Domini, and in so
doing gives the appearance of enacting Jesus at the Supper. The sequence
in the Eastern tradition, however, is more nuanced; here is how the narra-
tive is introduced in the Orthodox rite:
55
Mainstone 1988: 231.
56
See Bradshaw 2004: 1–23. Bradshaw goes so far as to question whether the Gospel passages consti-
tute a narrative at all: “It is the material containing the interpretative sayings to which the name
‘institution narrative’ has been given by scholars, but in truth they contain very little narrative as
such” (7).
57
See for example Archimandrite Ephrem Lash’s translation and introduction to the Liturgy of St
James at: www.anastasis.org.uk/lit-james.htm.
You are holy and most holy, and sublime is Your glory. You so loved Your
world that You gave Your only begotten Son so that whoever believes in
Him should not perish, but have eternal life. He came and fulfilled the
divine plan for us. On the night when He was betrayed, or rather when He
gave Himself up for the life of the world, He took bread in His holy, pure,
and blameless hands, gave thanks, blessed, sanctified, broke, and gave it to
His holy disciples and apostles, saying …58
Throughout the early Byzantine period this prayer was spoken out loud,
so that the congregation crowding around the sanctuary barrier could fol-
low it (and, having learned it by heart, possibly accompany the priest).59
Today this paraphrase of the Gospel narrative is uttered privately, with the
priest only raising his voice for Jesus’ words; the reasons for this change
remain unclear, but the theory that clergy prefer to keep the Eucharistic
service a secret from the congregation is undermined by both the catheti-
cal homilies from the period (see below) and in the present day by the
presence in every pew of the complete text.60
Instead of elevating the elements after the priest quotes Jesus (“Take
this and eat …”; “Take this and drink …”), a deacon standing nearby
gestures first to the paten with the Eucharistic bread, and then to the chal-
ice with the wine. In the context of an open-air sanctuary only partially
obscured by curtains, it is possible that the deacon’s gestures might remind
the congregation of the institutional narrative; the gestures could also be
interpreted as designating the bread and wine on the altar for the Holy
Spirit’s benefit.61 Whatever the intent, didactic or spiritual, the tableau is
a static one and the lack of mimetic gesture confirms that the recitation is
not theatrical in its intent.
It is only after this citation of the Mystical Supper that the deacon (not
the priest) raises the paten and chalice, making the sign of the cross with
each of them, while the priest recites the dedication “We offer to you these
gifts from your own gifts in all, and for all,”62 a signal to the Holy Spirit
that these are the gifts for blessing. After the congregation offers a brief
response, the priest then recites the Epiclesis (“invocation”), a prayer spe-
cifically asking the Holy Spirit to transform the bread and wine. Note that
58
From “The Holy Anaphora” in Chrysostom 1985: 21. In the Orthodox tradition the original
“Mystical Supper” took place before Passover and used leavened bread; see Smith 1978: 30–2.
59
See Taft 2006: 27–35.
60
The advent of audio technology has created another innovation: today you are just as likely to
see celebrants wear wireless microphones that enable them to “broadcast” the cycle of Eucharistic
prayers to the congregation. In so doing they have managed to restore the ancient tradition of pray-
ing aloud while still allowing for a degree of privacy.
61
Chrysostom 1985: 21. 62 Chrysostom 1985: 22.
the Epiclesis occurs after the narrative has been read; and it is only after the
Epiclesis, after a lengthy sequence of additional prayers (including the reci-
tation of the Lord’s Prayer by the congregation) that the priest elevates the
Eucharistic species himself. He usually raises them chest-high and for the
benefit of the Holy Spirit, not the congregation, with the simple dedica-
tion, “Holy things for the Holy.”63 And it is only after this dedication that
the priest begins the final preparations for communion.
There is yet another key difference between the Catholic and Orthodox
traditions, which comes with the priest’s fraction or breaking of the
Eucharistic bread – again, an act which comes long after the narrative’s
recitation. Instead of accompanying the action with Jesus’ words the priest
offers a commentary on the mystical significance of his action:
The Lamb of God is broken and distributed; broken but not divided. He
is forever eaten yet is never consumed, but He sanctifies those who partake
of Him.64
In a gesture that can be seen as emblematic of Orthodox spirituality the
priest narrates his actions, so that breaking off a piece of bread becomes
both an act of sacrificial dismemberment and a symbol of Christ’s mys-
tical union with the faithful – “broken but not divided.” Even the act of
consuming the Eucharistic bread and wine is positioned as symbolic with
the mundane, physical aspects of communion – eating and drinking –
aligned with an eternal spiritual union of which the Eucharist is a sign.
In spite of the fact that early congregations could see and hear most
(if not all) of what was being done here, we still have the question of
interpretation: what were the faithful supposed to make of all this? In his
survey of Byzantine commentaries on the Liturgy, René Bornert identi-
fies three distinct schools of symbolic interpretation, two of which – the
Alexandrian and the Antiochian – responded directly to the Liturgy in its
early form.65 The Alexandrian school, represented by the commentaries of
Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite (c. late fifth–early sixth century), saw
the earthly Liturgy as a symbolic manifestation of the ongoing, eternal
heavenly Liturgy. The Antiochians, Theodore of Mopsuestia prominent
63
For the history and various formulas associated with the elevation of the Eucharist in the Orthodox
tradition see Taft 2000: 209–60. Among other things there appears to be some disagreement in the
sources about exactly how high the elements are raised.
64
Chrysostom 1985: 29.
65
Bornert (1966: 47–52) describes a third, earlier school of interpretation – Gnostic – that developed
around a Eucharistic prayer much closer in spirit to the Jewish barakah (i.e. the traditional bless-
ing of bread and wine on the Sabbath); because this older formula had been discarded by the early
Byzantine period, it will not be addressed here.
among them, are usually portrayed as emphasizing a lower order of sym-
bolic discourse, explaining the visual aspects of the Liturgy in purely his-
torical terms. In this scenario, for example, the entrance of the Eucharistic
elements is read as Jesus’ procession to Golgotha, and the accompanying
deacons as archangels who aided Jesus and witnessed the Crucifixion.66
The catechetical homilies of Bishop Theodore of Mopsuestia (c. 392–428)
are usually cited as an example of the so-called Antiochian school.67 And
if Theodore’s sermons had referred exclusively to historical narrative, and
if narrative had been perceived as dramatic or proto-dramatic, it could
possibly be argued that he saw the Eucharistic service as a drama. But
Theodore’s commentaries, when read in their entirety, stress both the his-
torical and the spiritual significance of the Liturgy.68 Theodore wants his
congregation to see the service in both “Alexandrian” and “Antiochian”
terms; and given that he uses no theatrical terminology whatsoever, there
is no evidence that he appealed to his audience’s theatrical imagination.
Even Bornert, having described the reputed differences between these
two schools, concludes that there is little difference between Theodore’s
approach and that of his Egyptian colleagues.69
One reason for past confusion about these “schools” may be the diver-
sity of understanding that any congregation, past or present, brings to
services. As a practical matter, liturgical exegesis needs to address the spir-
itual needs of clergy and laity alike, and it succeeds when it acknowledges
the various levels of understanding or receptivity that people bring to the
rite. Theodore had to find a way to keep the better part of his flock fully
engaged during a part of the Liturgy when their role was a passive one;
speaking as he does to catechumens who have never seen the Eucharistic
service before, it is no surprise that Theodore begins by appealing first to
the Gospel narrative and hence to their historical imagination, as he intro-
duces the basic concepts behind the service.70 But Theodore’s appeal soon
66
See Bornert 1966: 72–82. 67 See Taft 1980–1: 62–5.
68
The citation of historical events in a ritual context is no proof that the rite is a dramatization; it
just as often serves a higher purpose. Bornert cites Diodorus of Tarsus’ remark in his Commentary
on the Psalms, that “History is not in opposition to a higher contemplation; on the contrary, it is
the foundation and the basis of higher considerations” (Bornert 1966: 72). Theodore’s homilies –
delivered one century before Pseudo-Dionysius’ spiritual exegesis of the Liturgy – can even be seen
as prefiguring more abstract liturgical exegeses to come; see also Taft 1980–1: 63, where Taft quotes
Theodore Hom. 16.15, 18, and 19.
69
Referring to Origen, one of the first to offer an allegorical interpretation, Bornert concludes “La
notion de mystère, même si elle est saisie avec beaucoup plus de réalisme par les antiochiens, reste
telle qu’Origène l’avait définie” (The notion of mystery, even though it is handled with much more
realism by the Antiochians, remains just as Origen defined it) (Bornert 1966: 82).
70
Bornert reminds us that catechetical homilies on the Liturgy were addressed to the newly baptized,
and hence served as a means of explaining parts of the Liturgy they had not been allowed to wit-
ness prior to baptism (Bornert 1966: 70).
becomes multi-layered, and in addition to historical and spiritual readings
of the Liturgy, he also offers a practical, detailed account of what hap-
pens in the sanctuary. Theodore summarizes the contents of his prayers
and actions, and encourages the congregation to think beyond the vis-
ual, material aspects of the Liturgy he performs. The so-called “historical
school” that he allegedly represents actually encouraged the faithful to see
the rite as activating responses at multiple levels simultaneously.
As Bornert also notes, there is strong evidence of continuity in litur-
gical commentaries throughout the Eastern Empire’s history; the exeget-
ical works of the Alexandrians and Antiochians, more complementary
than in conflict, laid the foundation for much that was to follow.71 As
evidence of continuity well beyond the patristic period we can look to
Nicholas Cabasilas’ fourteenth-century Commentary on the Divine
Liturgy: following Theodore of Mopsuestia’s example, Cabasilas offers a
historical interpretation of the visual elements in the service while at the
same time honoring the more mystical aspects of communion, in addition
to describing and explaining the conduct of the service itself.72 And as
we shall see, in his debates with Catholic theologians Cabasilas will fur-
ther undermine the perception of agency (let alone theatricality) among
Orthodox clergy.
By the early fifteenth century we find Archbishop Symeon of
Thessalonica favoring the “Alexandrian” school, stressing the Liturgy and
its components as models or typoi of a deeper, spiritual reality.73 In har-
mony with his explanation of the Eucharistic rite his Treatise on Prayer
offers spiritual readings of everything from liturgical actions and parts of
the physical church to the number of hymns sung.74 And as we shall see
in the next chapter, with the rise of the Hesychast movement and the
development of kalophonic chant, the ambiance and interpretation of the
liturgy often ascends to an even more abstract level.
The history of the Orthodox liturgy is marked by relative consistency
in its practice, as well as an emphasis on multiple levels of interpretation.
By contrast the West has seen several periods of intense theological specu-
lation, open rebellions, and liturgical innovations, with perhaps the most
71
Bornert 1966: 267–70.
72
See especially Cabasilas, Commentary on the Divine Liturgy 2.12–16, translation in Cabasilas
1960: 43–54. For a commentary on Cabasilas see Bornert 1966: 215–44.
73
Bornert 1966: 245–62.
74
See Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica 1984: 26–32; entrances into the nave during Orthros
(Matins) become symbolic of the soul’s ascent to heaven, the central gate into the sanctuary sym-
bolizes the Virgin Mary, and the nine odes of the canon (based on the nine canticles from the
Septuagint) exemplify, in triplicate, the Trinity.
significant changes (for the purposes of this study) occurring during the
eleventh through thirteenth centuries. Gary Macy, in his survey of the
Western medieval scholastic debate about the Eucharist, cites a number
of contributing factors,75 including the rediscovery and reinterpretation
of writings by the early Church Fathers. Rather than impose a simple nar-
rative of growing consensus, Macy stresses the variety of conclusions that
existed simultaneously, and the varieties of ritual practices during the years
leading up to the foundation of the feast of Corpus Christi; dedicated to
the Eucharistic bread, the festivals that Corpus Christi are associated with
mark the revival of traditional theatre in the West.76
Attitudes toward the Eucharist in monastic circles varied from the lit-
eral (that it was the body and blood of Christ, to be “broken in the hands
of the priest and crushed by the teeth of the faithful”)77 to the symbolic
(that the Eucharist was a sign, and that consuming the bread and wine
should inspire the mind to feed invisibly on the Word of God).78 Although
the Orthodox Church had held that the Eucharist was the true body and
blood of Christ, the use of leavened bread was also regarded as symbolic of
the Trinity and the life-giving force of the Holy Spirit.79
The twelfth century witnessed an increased popular devotion to the
Eucharist in the West, and an increased desire to see and honor the
Eucharist like a saint’s relic. Pieces of the Eucharistic bread were kept on
the altar between services, and miraculous Hosts (which had been trans-
formed into what looked like actual body parts) were honored with glass
display cases and lit tapers.80 Meanwhile in the Cistercian monasteries,
priests began raising the Eucharistic species above their heads immedi-
ately after their recitation of the Verba Domini. The question of exactly
when, and how, the congregation should honor or revere the bread and
wine became fixed, and additional features added to ensure the laity knew
when to acknowledge the consecration of the elements.81 By the turn of
the thirteenth century it was common to have chimes (or even church
bells) ring on cue during the elevation.82
75
Macy 1984: 24–7.
76
Macy 1984: 89. On the significance of Corpus Christi in the history of Western medieval theatre
see Brockett and Hildy 2003: 82–3.
77
From the heretic Berengar of Tours’ first forced confession, as cited in Macy 1984: 36.
78
For a summary of Ratramnus’ theology see Macy 1984: 28–9.
79
See Taft 1980–1: 72, and Macy 1984: 38. The great schism between the churches in 1054 had been
building for centuries but in the end was triggered by a dispute over the use of leavened vs. unleav-
ened bread for the Eucharist.
80
On the emergence of this cult see Macy 1984: 86–8.
81
See for example Cabié 1992: 76–7, and Grant 1940.
82
Macy 1984: 88–9.
These changes occurred at a time when the laity’s access to communion,
visually and physically, was being steadily reduced: celebrants had turned
their backs to the congregation for centuries but now a wall, the rood
screen, blocked visual access to both the sanctuary and the Eucharistic
rite. Celebrants kept the consecrated wine at the altar for themselves and
in many cases the sacramental bread was consumed by the priest alone
on behalf of the congregation.83 The spiritual fitness of the laity to receive
the Host was also a major concern, thanks to the rigorous application of
canon law.84 As Macy puts it, “The question of worthy reception tended to
become a question of juridical standing rather than a question of spiritual
intent.”85
These contradictory tendencies, whether born out of the clergy’s desire
for privacy, a more literal understanding of the Eucharist, popular cult
practice, or a strictly observed canon legal system, resulted in a theology
that returned to the symbolic function of the sacraments (sacramen-
tum = “sign”). Catholic theologians now made a distinction between phys-
ical and spiritual communion, and – perhaps in part because the prospects
for physical communion had become so remote – privileged the spiritual.
If the Eucharist could be seen once again as a sign, then physical partici-
pation in communion was not as important for salvation as ocular partici-
pation and contemplation of the Eucharist during and after Mass.86
With the alignment of the elevation with the recitation of the Verba
Domini and this elevation’s new status as a moment of ocular, spiritual
communion came one more twist to the story. In attempting to fix the
precise moment at which the bread and wine were transformed into the
body and blood of Christ, Catholic theologians concluded that it hap-
pened when the priest recited the Verba Domini.87 Taken together with
83
See Cabié 1992: 75–6. The great liturgist Dom Gregory Dix addresses a variety of issues in The
Shape of the Liturgy (Dix 2005: 589–605), arguing that the liturgical reformers were both products
and victims of the deformations they opposed. For a discussion from a theatre perspective see Sofer
2003: 33–9.
84
Macy 1984: 106–32. 85 Macy 1984: 130.
86
As expressed by the schools of Laon and St. Vincent – see Macy 1984: 78–86.
87
As Adrian Fortescue once put it, “bishops began to fear that the people might worship it before the
consecrating words were said; so there is a series of laws forbidding priests to lift it to their sight
too soon. The practice of elevating the Blessed Sacrament immediately the words ‘hoc est enim
corpus meum’ had been spoken, developed as a sign that the bread was consecrated then at once”
(Fortescue 1937: 339). Robert Taft cites Joseph A. Jungmann, who pointed out that until this time
neither Church had bothered to determine a precise moment of consecration; instead they both
seem to have regarded the entire sequence of prayers as effecting the consecration (Taft 1996: 213).
This reflects perhaps on the Roman concept of ritual and the related tradition of instauratio (the
requirement to perform a rite again, in its entirety, when a mistake occurs). To be effective, any
Roman rite had to be successfully performed from start to finish without error.
the elevation of the elements, this has created the unfortunate impression
that (a) Catholic priests enact the historical Jesus at the Last Supper, and
that (b) this moment of enactment is the most spiritually potent act of the
entire service.88
Representation vs. Epiclesis: the conflict over ritual aesthetics

These new developments in Catholic ritual helped to ensure that a deep
divide would develop between the two churches during the Middle Ages.
Doctrinal disputes came to a head during the late Byzantine period, when
a series of emperors (some of them converts to Catholicism) attempted
to unify the churches and gloss over serious disagreements on the aes-
thetics and theology of ritual performance. In spite of the fact that the
Catholic Mass had deviated substantially from its earlier form89 the inte-
gration of narrative, quotations of Jesus, elevation, and consecration into
a single event came to be regarded as canonical in the West. As a result the
Orthodox conduct of the Liturgy – which for all its changes had avoided
these kinds of innovations – was condemned as heretical by the West. The
Catholic Church believed that a priest speaking the words of Jesus at the
Last Supper effected the consecration (hence the elevation and veneration
of the Host), so there was no reason for Orthodox priests to go on praying
afterwards. Why did they need an Epiclesis prayer too, when it was obvi-
ous (to any Catholic) that the Holy Spirit had already done its work?90
Nicholas Cabasilas, in his Commentary on the Divine Liturgy, had the
difficult task of teaching Catholics a little about their own history, as
well as condemning the “innovations” of certain polemicists.91 Cabasilas
writes as a scholar of ritual to other scholars, responding to the charge that
Orthodox priests showed little faith in the Verba Domini if they continued
to use the Epiclesis prayer:
88
That medieval Catholic clergy were not taught to enact anything can be seen in the precise instruc-
tions given on how and when to elevate the Eucharistic elements. The Synodal Statues of Paris,
codified in the early thirteenth century, specifically call for the elements to be held only chest-high
until after Verba Domini are spoken; then, and only then, does the celebrant raise them over-
head, so the congregation behind him can see them and show the reverence appropriate for the
now-consecrated Host (Cabié 1992: 77).
89
As made clear by Taft 1996: 214.
90
The Epiclesis prayer became a major bone of contention during the Council of Union in Ferrara
and Florence, 1438–9, with the Pope’s delegates demanding that the prayer be erased from the
Liturgy. See Gill 1959: 277.
91
See Taft 1996: 214, on pronouncements made by the Catholic Church after the Council of Union,
and the Orthodox Church’s (understandable) refusal to accept them.
In throwing himself upon God, the man who prays admits that he rec-
ognizes his own helplessness and that he is dependent on God for every-
thing. This is not my affair, he says, nor within my powers, but it has
need of you, Lord, and I trust it all to you … the prayer is neither uncer-
tain nor the result unsure, as the Lord of the gift has in every way made
known his desire to grant it. This is why we believe that the sanctifica-
tion of the mysteries is in the prayer of the priest, certainly not relying
on any human power, but on the power of God. We are assured of the
result, not by reason of man who prays, but by reason of God who hears;
not because man has made a supplication, but because the Truth has
promised to grant it.92
Here Cabasilas contrasts the traditional Orthodox ritual aesthetic of

non-agency with a newly formulated Catholic aesthetic which appears to
be founded in the concept of clerical agency. He accused the Catholics of
confusing the spiritual power of the words of God – which, once spoken,
were always in effect – with those spoken by a mere human being. “The
Creator’s word is not effective because it is spoken by a man … but only
because it was once spoken by the Lord.”93 Mere repetition of the words,
let alone representation, of Jesus at the Last Supper could not effect conse-
cration, since no man had the power to do so.
To this day the medieval conflict over the Epiclesis prayer remains
unresolved, in spite of ample evidence (some of it cited by Cabasilas)
that at their core, both traditions remained remarkably similar.94 Today
it seems as if the Western tradition has, with the reforms of the Second
Vatican Council, gone further in the direction of representation –
although today ironically it is the Catholics who operate in complete
transparency while the Orthodox now perform the Eucharistic rite
sotto voce, behind a solid templon screen. Catholic priests now recite
the crucial words of the Last Supper and then elevate the bread and
wine while facing the congregation, “downstage center” as it were;
meanwhile Orthodox priests maintain their privacy within the sanc-
tuary, with the consecration occurring “off-stage” behind the “pal-
ace doors” and the Eucharist re-emerging only after the prayers are
complete. In dramatic terms, the difference in aesthetics is like that
between Seneca and Euripides; in ritual terms, the difference appears
to be more significant.
92
Cabasilas Commentary 3.29, translation in Cabasilas 1960: 73–4.
93
Cabasilas Commentary 3.29, translation in Cabasilas 1960: 76.
94
See Cabasilas Commentary 3.30, translation in Cabasilas 1960: 76–9.
Summary: the Liturgy vs. the drama

Traditional scholarship on Byzantine sacred drama has tended to impose
theatrical terminology onto various genres of sacred literature, the
Divine Liturgy included. But given the continuity of classical educa-
tion in Byzantium, and the high degree of learning among Orthodoxy’s
most prominent clergy, it is unwise to classify Orthodox ritual as “dra-
matic” even if, for example, their homilies contain elements of ēthopoieia.
“Characterization” was only one of many rhetorical tools used in the
course of any sermon, and passages of dialogue must be understood in
their rhetorical, exegetical context. Moreover, priests distrusted applause
and regarded it as their duty to enlighten their congregations, not
entertain them.
The comparison of liturgical practices of East and West has a dir-
ect bearing on the issue of theatre and ritual in Byzantium, not least
because Western scholars tend to use the language of drama in describing
Christian ritual as if it were a single, uniform tradition.95 Perhaps in part
because Western typologies of ritual and drama are presented as univer-
sals, Orthodox liturgical historians have tended to follow Western prece-
dent and characterize certain branches of liturgical exegesis as “realistic” or
“dramatic,” reinforcing the illusion of equivalence.96
The Catholic reforms described here would not be characterized as
“progressive” or even “natural” from a Byzantine perspective. And they
cannot be regarded as inevitable or instinctual either; these innovations
all hinged on activities within a cultural matrix informed by theological
debate, linguistic and visual barriers to understanding the Mass, popular
modes of interaction with the Eucharist, etc. The rebirth of traditional
theatre in the medieval West, in other words, actually depended upon a
series of contingencies, a historically unique confluence of a number of
elements. It is worth considering how the absence of any one of these
elements may have tipped the balance against its revival.
95
Joseph A. Jungmann, in his magisterial account of the Roman rite, believes the priest performs
a dramatic representation of the Last Supper: “Während der Priester die Handlungen des Herrn
der Reihe nach nennt, vollzieht er sie auch selbst in dramatischer Nachbildung” (Jungmann
1948: 2.245). Jungmann’s English translator takes the sentiment of Jungmann’s original and drives
even further, including an oblique reference to Hamlet’s advice to the players: “As the priest men-
tions the Lord’s actions, one after the other, he suits his own actions to the words in dramatic fashion”
(Jungmann 1955: 2.202, italics mine). Jungmann notes that the Byzantine rite does not perform the
narrative in this way (Jungmann 1948: 2.246; Jungmann 1955: 2.203.).
96
As seen especially in Schnusenberg 2010.
These reforms occurred in the context of a scholastic renaissance when
monks rediscovered the Church’s intellectual heritage (both classical and
patristic) for what seemed like the first time since the Dark Ages.97 From
an Orthodox perspective this rediscovery created an unseemly desire to
reinvent the wheel and to reopen theological questions that had long been
settled; the field of speculation was so wide that Catholic theologians
even began to obsess about arcane topics like the post-prandial fate of
the Eucharist.98 Rediscovery, reinvention, and reform on this scale never
occurred in Byzantium for the simple reason that classical and patristic
literature was never forgotten in the first place. Modern studies of drama
and ritual in Byzantium have suffered from rote application of what turn
out to be peculiarly Western criteria.
By the late Middle Ages, the Latin West had adopted a variety of
materialist practices, beginning with the elevation of the Host and cul-
minating in the late medieval sacra rappresentazione and Mystery Cycles
(about which, more later). Orthodoxy’s distinctive liturgical path had
heightened tensions with Rome, but the Eastern Church still witnessed
numerous changes and additions to the “repertoire” during the same
period. Chapter 3 will explore the area that seems to have experienced the
most profound innovations: liturgical chant.
The principal reason for including a survey of Byzantine chant is its
roots in ancient music theory; tantalizingly for theatre scholars, Byzantine
composers used much the same methods as those used by composers of
ancient tragedy. Music had always been at the heart of the Eastern rite,
and as we shall see the emergence of the Hesychast spiritual movement
along with the development of elaborate kalophonic chant as well as the
kratēma – a pure musical form sung to nonsense syllables – reflected a
desire for a deeper, spiritual understanding of the ritual experience. And
the creation of the akolouthia, a new rite observed on high feast days, gave
celebrants the chance to experiment with new modes of praise and com-
memoration that in one famous case, the Service of the Furnace, bordered
dangerously on the theatrical.
97
Macy situates the debate in the rediscovery and consequent reappropriation of patristic litera-
ture, but the language on which the debate centered was rooted in Aristotelian concepts; see Macy
1984: 37 and 71.
98
For sheer weirdness, it is hard to beat the Scholastics’ obsession with the digestive tract: see Macy
1984: 31–2 (for speculations on whether the Host undergoes degradation in the stomach), 49 (for
what happens when the Host is eaten and digested by mice), and 54 (on the so-called stercorista, or
“Crappist” school of Eucharistic theology).
Addendum: sainted mimes and Orthodox theologies of acting

Having focused on the anti-theatrical philosophy of the early Church, it
is only fair that we pause briefly to consider the fate of the actors them-
selves and their role in early Church literature. They were prominent
throughout Orthodoxy’s early history as both performers and objects of
ecclesiastical invective, and the competition between clergy and mime for
audiences was clearly intense. What developed throughout late Antiquity
was the equivalent of a media war in which the ambo served as the launch-
ing pad for anti-theatrical invective while the public stage responded with
biting clerical critiques. Both venues enjoyed an avid following, and the
popularity of Christian satire was so great that as late as the sixth century
Emperor Justinian still had to remind his subjects that it was illegal to
masquerade as church folk:
Generally speaking, We forbid all members of the laity, and especially actors
and actresses, as well as prostitutes, to make use of the habit of a monk, a
nun, or an ascetic of either sex, or to imitate the costume of any such per-
sons; for those who have the audacity either to wear such garments or imi-
tate them or ridicule the practice of ecclesiastical discipline are warned that
they will be liable to corporeal punishment, as well as to be sent into exile.99
For as long as there had been Christians and Christian rites, poking fun
at them had been a favorite pastime. What complicates this traditional
“church vs. theatre” narrative is that by the sixth century Christian
satires were now performed by Christian mimes for an increasingly
Christian audience. With conversion now a prerequisite for entrance
to government-funded schools, let alone lucrative government jobs, the
numbers of Christians in theatre audiences would have been much higher
by this time.100
Justinian’s closure of the public theatres, along with the closure of the
School of Athens and the dismissal of state-funded rhetors, is usually
seen as an attempt to stamp out the remains of the pagan tradition.101
The picture was far more complicated, however: to begin with, the theatre
99
Just. Novellae 123.44, issued 546 ce; translation from Justinian 1932: 17:103. Justinian had also
preserved an edict from the Theodosian Code forbidding actresses and exotic dancers to dress as
nuns (Cod. Just. 1.4.4, translation Justinian 1932: 12:57), and prescribes corporal punishment for
violators.
100
The evidence indicates that sixth-century Byzantium was a very diverse place, with pagans con-
tinuing to serve (albeit secretly) in government; see for example Jones 2014.
101
See Browning 1971: 62–3 or Treadgold 1997: 180; a more detailed account of Justinian’s attitudes
toward paganism can be found in Evans 1996: 65–71.
had long since become a secular institution, and needed little spiritual
purgation. And although pagans may have been officially banned from
civic and academic work they continued to hold important positions in
government, and were even treated cordially by some Church officials.102
Beneath the facade of a Christian Empire was a complex society that
remained guarded about its imperially decreed spiritual revolution. This
explains why it was possible in Justinian’s time to find a public theatre
packed with Christians, watching Christian mimes dressed as clergy and
lampooning rites which, by virtue of their transparency, all the Christians
in the audience knew by heart. What had begun in pagan times as a form
of minority stereotyping had now become self-referential satire for the
majority culture.
It is in this context that a new sub-genre of hagiographic literature
begins to emerge: tales of martyred mimes who convert while performing
Christian satires. In spite of their dubious historicity, a number of past
studies have used these mime-martyrologies to reconstruct the plots of
actual mimes’ plays; more recently, they have been regarded as a means of
understanding early Byzantine cultural trends, and the Church’s attempts
to redirect them.103 Another dimension, as yet unexplored, is the evidence
these stories provide that the Orthodox ritual aesthetic discussed in this
chapter was so widely known that it was taken for granted among the laity.
In most mime-martyrologies the conversions occur during mock-
baptisms; after being immersed as a part of the comic sketch the mime
emerges from the water and, once dressed in the white robes of the fresh
convert, proclaims he is now a real Christian and intends to quit the stage.
102
See Evans 1996: 69–71. For a discussion of the architects of Justinian’s great cathedral of Hagia
Sophia, Anthemius of Tralles and Isidorus of Miletus, and the possibility that they may have been
pagans see Kaldellis 2014.
103
In spite of Bertha von der Lage’s conclusion that the legend of most famous mime-martyr,
Genesius of Rome, was apocryphal (Lage 1898), Hermann Reich used the contents of apocryphal
“Christological mimes” like Genesius’ to construct the plot of an elaborate, late Antique martyr-
dom drama (Reich 1903: 80–109). A few years later, C. Van de Vorst pointed out that, among other
things, the tale of Genesius of Rome – Reich’s chief source – is not attested until the sixth century
CE, and probably relied on Eastern models (Van de Vorst 1910). Allardyce Nicoll, while dubious
of these tales’ authenticity, follows Reich in treating the material as evidence for actual perform-
ance (Nicoll 1963: 17–18 and 121–2). Werner Weissmann rejects these tales’ historicity and shows
that even the earliest confirmed source – John Malalas’ sixth-century Chronicles – draws from
little more than local folklore (Weissmann 1975). Stanley Longosz, on the other hand indulges in
reconstructing a baptism satire complete with freakish make-up and grotesque phalluses, none of
which is attested in any of the tales (Longosz 1993). Costas Panayotakis, although acknowledging
the tales’ fictional nature, uses them to create his own versions of what he regards as two distinct
Christian satires (Panayotakis 1997). Recently, Richard Lim’s emphasis – more in accord with the
present study – is on the context in which these tales were produced, and the possible goals they
were meant to achieve (Lim 2003).
At this point, the mime is either stoned to death by an irate audience or
executed by a local governor (torture and/or temptations optional). In the
lives of Porphyrius of Antioch, Porphyrius of Caesaria, and Gelasios (or
Gelasinos) of Heliopolis the baptism sketch is the only one mentioned;104
but some martyrologies describe extended comic dramas of martyrdom
and/or asceticism. Ardalion was described as having perfected the role of
comic Christian martyr; and Genesius of Rome stars in a satiric martyr-
dom play that includes baptism as its third scene.105
Because hagiographic tales tend to have a formulaic quality, some
scholars have dismissed them en masse as “insipid and pretentious.”106
A contextual analysis of the mime-martyrology, however, reveals that the
goals of the original authors may have been practical and rooted in con-
temporary reality; more importantly, they relied on common knowledge
of the most seemingly arcane aspects of Orthodox ritual.
Martyrs’ tales were written into liturgical books and read aloud on
select days during the liturgical year as a part of morning services. Their
role in the liturgy and their transmission through live readings go some
way toward explaining these texts’ simplicity and repetitiveness. To be
understood by ear, they had to be of suitable length (preferably short)
and have an easily identifiable narrative arc; to be appropriate for the lit-
urgy, they had to offer one among a limited number of models for proper
Christian behavior.
As literature, the hagiographical project of late Antiquity also heralded
the development of a distinctly Christian, urban intellectual culture. Peter
Brown, in a series of lectures on the cult of the saints, situates martyrs’
tales in a milieu where Christianity was learning to speak with its own
voice and where it reframed Roman society in biblical terms. The standard
104
The martyrdom of Porphyrius of Antioch, set in the court of the pagan Byzantine emperor Julian
I and observed on September 15, can be found (in Latin) in AASS September 5.37. The editor
notes an alternative to the baptism scenario, in which Porphyrius is a court mime who chastises
the pagan emperor Julian for his ingratitude to the Christian God. Several versions of Porphyrius
of Caesarea’s martyrdom are collected in AASS November 2.1.227–32 (November 4). St. Gelasios/
Gelasinus’ martyrdom is found in AASS February 5.680 (February 27), but is also mentioned
briefly in Malalas Chron. (translation in Malalas 1986: 171). Greek stage-names were common, and
often revolved around simple puns: Porphyrius derives from (imperial) purple, and Gelasios from
the word for laughter.
105
Versions of Ardalion’s martyrdom can be found in AASS April 5.213 (April 14); Genesius’ mar-
tyrdom, with detailed commentary/critique, can be found in AASS August 5.119–23 (August 25),
where the editor discusses evidence for a church dedicated to his memory and festivals still cel-
ebrated in the modern era.
106
Hippolyte Delahaye, as quoted in Brown 1981: 80–1.
plots reflected the need for an emerging Church to create a new way of
reading and influencing contemporary events:
Christian writers did not mindlessly create a mirror in Heaven … The role
of replication in late antiquity was subtly different: it enabled the Christian
communities, by projecting a structure of clearly defined relationships onto
the unseen world, to ask questions about the quality of relationships in
their own society … It was a form of piety exquisitely adapted to enable
late-antique men to articulate and render manageable urgent, muffled
debates on the nature of power in their own world, and to examine in the
searching light of ideal relationships with ideal figures, the relation between
power, mercy, and justice as practiced around them.107
When understood in Brown’s terms, mime-martyrologies can be seen as
part of the Church’s effort to change Christian behavior at a time when
the theatre remained a dominant cultural institution.
Although usually set in the bygone days of pagan persecution, hagio-
graphic tales tended to reveal more about the contemporary milieu for
which they were written.108 The chief focus in mime-martyrs’ tales being
the sincere (if accidental) mime-convert who immediately leaves the stage,
it is easy to see these stories functioning as an unsubtle hint that Christian
mimes (and their Christian audiences) needed to spend more time at ser-
vices and less around the stage.
On baptism
If these tales are any evidence, baptism satires appealed to audiences as
a comic routine (and later as a narrative device) because for years they
had been performed almost exclusively on adults. The conduct of the rite
would have appealed readily to a theatregoer’s bawdy sense of humor,
because the initiate would have to disrobe (with all the awkwardness that
goes with such a spectacle) and then get oiled down from head to foot
before being dunked in a vat of water (the Greek verb baptizein means
literally “to immerse”).
The potential for titillation at the prospect of baptism is acknowledged
by the Church Fathers: in a sermon designed to prepare his catechumens
107
Brown 1981: 63.
108
Acknowledging these tales’ dubious reliability “does not detract from the worth of these texts as
social documents for their period of composition” (Brock and Harvey 1987: 3). Derek Krueger
also points out that “when such works are considered as the literary output of given individuals,
produced in a specific time and place, they reveal something of their authors’ hopes and concerns”
(Krueger 1988: 7).
for the ceremony ahead, John Chrysostom conjures up an image that is
surprising and – given the Church’s usual reticence on the subject of the
human body – potentially scandalous:
Let me talk to you as I would to a bride about to be led into the holy nup-
tial chamber … And if you wish, let us first strip from her her garb and
see the condition in which she is. Despite her plight, the Bridegroom still
allows her to come in. This clearly shows us the boundless kindness of our
common Master.109
The bride/initiate’s awkward nakedness – note that her ugliness is
assumed – is contrasted with the bridegroom/Christ’s infinite love and
forgiveness. Revealing one’s body, even in the relative privacy of an indoor
baptistery surrounded by celebrants of the same sex, was still potentially
humiliating. And instead of easing his catechumens’ concerns Chrysostom
only heightens them. Perhaps because the image is so earthy, Chrysostom
feels obliged to explain that this “bride stripped bare” motif should be
taken as a metaphor, just a metaphor: “Let no one who hears these words
of mine fall into crass and carnal interpretation of them. I am talking of
the soul and its salvation.”110
Chrysostom regards disrobing as essential to a person’s spiritual purifi-
cation, his risqué taste in imagery notwithstanding. In his next prepara-
tory sermon he goes on to describe the anointing with oil, in somewhat
more tasteful terms:
Next, [the priest] causes your whole body to be anointed with that olive oil
of the spirit, so that all your limbs may be fortified and unconquered by the
darts which the adversary aims at you.111
From the bedroom, Chrysostom has shifted to the field of battle; it was
a commonplace to describe the Christian lifestyle in masculinist terms.
Christian apologists made a point of defending their pacifist lifestyle
through sporting metaphors, as if to pre-empt perceptions of effeminacy.
Having evoked the bedroom and the battlefield, the catechumen’s
imagination is then drawn to the graveyard. Conducted as it was imme-
diately prior to Easter Sunday services, Chrysostom compares the climax
of the baptismal rite – the immersion in and exit from the water – to a
cycle of death, burial, and Resurrection.112 Officially the rite is structured
109
Chrysostom Baptismal Instructions 1.3, translation in Chrysostom 1963: 23–4.
110
Chrysostom Baptismal Instructions 1.4, translation in Chrysostom 1963: 24.
111
Chrysostom Baptismal Instructions 2.24, translation in Chrysostom 1962: 52.
112
Chrysostom Baptismal Instructions 2.25. In Jerusalem during those times, the three-part immer-
sion of the initiate was symbolic of Jesus’ three days in the tomb. See Day 1999: 14.
so that the Holy Spirit descends upon the catechumens during immer-
sion, cleansing them of sin. At this crucial moment, however, Orthodox
ritual prescribes a precise grammatical turn: unlike in the West, the clergy
express the ritual action in the middle-passive voice. As Chrysostom
explains:
[I]t is not only the priest who touches the head, but also the right hand of
Christ, and this is shown by the very words of the one baptizing. He does
not say: “I baptize so-and-so,” but: “So-and-so is baptized [baptizetai],”
showing that he is only the minister of grace and merely offers his hand
because he has been ordained to this end by the Spirit.113
As in the Divine Liturgy, the most spiritually potent moment of the bap-
tismal rite is composed in such a way as to emphasize the non-agency of
the celebrant. The presence of a priest is essential, but not in the way we
might expect; although he may serve as a medium or advocate, he himself
does nothing. This attitude of passivity seems to be an essential element
in creating a specific time and place where the infinite can manifest itself.
Judging from the hagiographical record, baptism satires were a popular
motif in early Christian literature; but their popularity and their success-
ful operation on the minds of the congregation would have assumed that
the Orthodox concept of clerical non-agency was common knowledge.
Chrysostom may have stressed the need for ordained clergy to conduct
baptisms, but the language he uses – and his explanation of the language –
create a sort of conceptual gap between celebrant and recipient that could
be exploited very easily. However theologically dubious our hagiographer’s
conceit may be, the fact remains that a baptism’s effectiveness depends
entirely upon the state of the initiate’s soul: if pure and of good intent, the
spirit is cleansed; if impure and of mixed motives, no priestly intervention
can have any effect.
For purposes of popular piety, the mime-martyrologies’ motif of
mock-clergy-as-real-clergy had just the sort of absurd, miraculous inver-
sion that was hagiography’s stock in trade, and it was likely a key element
in their popularity. It is possible to see in these texts an early iteration of
Bakhtin’s carnivalesque, which – along with Patriarch Theophilos’ masked
processions later on, in medieval Hagia Sophia – served to reinforce the
established Church hierarchy, even as it pretended to undermine it.
This mock-baptism narrative motif was not confined to the stage; it
also figured prominently in the biographies of prominent members of
the clergy. Three early historians of the Church, Rufinus of Aquilaeia,
113
Chrysostom, Baptismal Instructions 2.26, translation in Chrysostom 1963: 53.
Sozomen, and Socrates Scholasticus, recount how Athanasius, Patriarch of
Alexandria (c. 300–73) was first recruited in the manner of a future sports
star by a team manager in the Premiere League:
Once when Bishop Alexander was celebrating the day of Peter Martyr in
Alexandria, he was waiting in a place near the sea after the ceremonies
were over for his clergy to gather for a banquet. There he saw from a dis-
tance some boys on the seashore playing a game in which, as they often do,
they were mimicking a bishop and the things customarily done in church.
Now when he had gazed intently for a while at the boys, he saw that they
were also performing some of the more secret and sacramental things. He
was disturbed and immediately ordered the clergy to be called to him and
showed them what he was watching from a distance.114
The bishop hauls the boys before him for some hard questioning, and
upon learning that some of them – actual catechumens, Rufinus insists –
had been baptized correctly and word for word by the group’s ring-leader,
the bishop declared the baptized boys officially Christians, and enrolled
the mock-bishop Athanasius and his mock-clergy friends in a sem-
inary. Portentous child’s play had been a common literary device since
Antiquity; but here, it reflects the hagiographer’s narrative conceit that
baptism is baptism, regardless of who does it and regardless of the spirit in
which it is performed.115 Tall tales like this might have made some in the
clergy squirm, but they proved popular with lay audiences.
Behind the comic facade, however, there is also an element of historical
truth; hagiographers knew that under Roman law all actors were still clas-
sified as infamia, non-citizens with no legal standing to defend themselves
against abuse from their “fans.” Under these demeaning circumstances,
mimes had sought to leave the stage for years by any means necessary,
including – interestingly enough – conversion to Christianity. The Church
had always demanded that stage artists abandon their craft after baptism,
and were pleasantly surprised to find many of them willing to comply.
So willing, in fact, that local authorities soon demanded they be on their
death-beds before they were allowed to convert. This new stiff require-
ment for conversion, in turn, led to an even more creative response: actors
soon began to fall deathly ill in substantial numbers, calling for the local
114
Rufinus Eccl. Hist. 10.15, translation in Rufinus 1997: 26–7. According to Sozomen, Bishop
Alexander was initially amused and pleased by the sight (see Sozomen Ecc. Hist. 2.17, translation
in Sozomen 1952: 2.269).
115
Again Rufinus Eccl. Hist. 10.15 (translation Rufinus 1997: 27). See also Rufinus 1997: 50, n. 26,
for a brief list of the tale’s classical exemplars. Socrates Scholasticus gets his story directly from
Rufinus (Socrates Eccl. Hist. 1.15, translation in Socrates 1952: 2.20).
bishop to baptize them before they died. It would not be too far-fetched
to assume that these death-bed conversions were enhanced by the pres-
ence of “grieving” family and friends to heighten the drama. Naturally,
once baptized the ailing mime would rise up “miraculously” cured and –
by virtue of having been baptized – refuse to return to the stage.116
Apparently this death-bed ruse was so successful that the author-
ities appealed to the (Christian) Emperor for protection; the result was
an edict demanding that only actors who were truly at death’s door be
allowed to receive baptism.117 Although there is no direct evidence for
the mimes’ response to this new restriction, it is safe to assume that the
same actors willing to stage death-bed scenes would have found a new
loophole through which they could continue to be baptized and leave the
stage. How did they accomplish this? A sermon delivered by Bishop (St.)
Augustine of Hippo during this period offers one possible answer.
Augustine, who spent much of his life in north Africa, had lived
some years as a student in Carthage, the very city whose authorities had
demanded the new edict against fake death-bed conversions. Indeed the
year of the edict’s issue – 371 – may coincide with the year when Augustine
first matriculated to rhetoric school there. Given his passion for the thea-
tre in his pre-Christian days,118 it is entirely possible that Augustine might
have witnessed the development of a new ruse developed by local actors in
their ongoing efforts to quit the stage: the performance of mock-baptism
sketches both onstage and at street festivals.
Given that he himself was responsible for baptisms, Bishop Augustine
had every reason to denounce any burlesque of his holy ministry; instead,
he not only tolerates it but seems to endorse it. In one sermon, he won-
ders out loud whether baptisms by heretics and schismatics could be spir-
itually effective. His conclusion is rooted in the aesthetic of the rite as we
have seen described by Chrysostom, but with a new twist:
With regard to the mere sacrament itself, it makes no difference whether
someone receives the baptism of Christ where the unity of Christ is not …
God has taught us that the sign of salvation is one thing, but that salvation
116
The irony of this situation is palpable; in these early years the Church, usually portrayed as the
enemy of the theatre, was often a haven for actors and actresses wearied by generation after gener-
ation of abuse.
117
CTh 15.7.1 (Theodosius 1952: 433). Issued in 371 this edict demands that “only those persons who
are actually in extreme danger shall make the demand for the sacraments for their souls’ salvation”
(emphasis mine).
118
On Augustine’s passion for theatre see for example Augustine 1991: 35–7. For extant petitions to
release a mime-convert from his stage duties see Lepelley 1989 (Latin with French translation).
itself is another; and that the form of piety is one thing, but that the virtue
of piety is another.119
The clergy’s passive role in baptism is linked here with Jesus’ emphasis on
inner spirituality. Baptisms were one of Augustine’s most solemn obliga-
tions, but theological rigor forced him to admit that his role in cleansing a
convert’s soul was minimal.
Analyses of this sermon tend to focus on its main theme, a fac-
tional dispute between the mainstream Church and a heretical sect, the
Donatists. Augustine spoke at a time when the Donatists had required a
second baptism for Christians who wished to join their congregation – to
cleanse them of Christian “heresies.” The roots of Donatism went back
to early fourth-century disputes between Christians who had suffered
persecution and those – clergy especially – who had either run away or
compromised with pagan authorities. They rallied around the teachings
of the third-century bishop St. Cyprian of Carthage, one of Augustine’s
predecessors, who had concluded that sacraments administered by turn-
coat clergy were invalid.120 In response to the Donatists who continued to
enforce this dogma long after the days of persecution, Augustine coun-
tered that it didn’t matter who performed the rite; what mattered was the
state of the initiate’s soul.121
The Donatists’ claims were further undermined when Augustine
addressed baptism satires performed during annual street festivals.
Contrasting John the Baptist’s baptism of Jesus with the drunken skits
that were popular in his day, Augustine remarks:
[W]hosoever were baptized by a drunkard, – I speak of what happens every
year, of what happens every day; I speak of what all are called to, even in this
city, when it is said to them, let us play the part of the irrational, let us have
pleasure, and on such a day as this of the calends of January we ought not
to fast: these are the things I speak of, these trifling everyday proceedings; –
when one is baptized by a drunkard, who is better? John or the drunkard?122
119
Augustine Sermon 346.8.2 and 3, translation from Augustine 1951: 334–5.
120
See ODB 1.650, s. v. “Donatism.” An introduction to Cyprian’s arguments can be found in
Cyprian, Bishop of Carthage 1958: v–viii. Adrian Fortescue explains that the schism had its roots
in “an old error in Africa, dating from St. Cyprian, that sacraments administered by heretics are
invalid. From this is it an easy deduction to say that sacraments given by wicked people are not
valid either” (Fortescue 1917: 4–5). See also Frend 1952: 118–39, on the legacy of Cyprian’s ideas in
Augustine’s time.
121
Augustine clarifies his position: baptisms may be given by heretics or schismatics, but should
not be sought after. See Augustine On Baptism, Against the Donatists 1.1.1–1.19–29, translation in
Augustine 1994: 411–24.
122
Augustine On the Gospel of John 5.17, translation in Augustine 1995: 37–8.
Note the ubiquity of these mock-baptisms, a hint that they were very
popular – and not necessarily for their entertainment value alone. Winter
revelers in Hippo had taken to mocking Augustine’s spiritual authority
and aping his ritual repertoire, but instead of being irritated Augustine
uses this mockery to his own advantage and contrasts Donatist baptisms
with mock-baptisms, posing a series of provocative questions:
The question is also commonly raised, whether baptism is to be held valid
which is received from one who had not himself received it, if, from some
promptings of curiosity, he had chanced to learn how it ought to be con-
ferred; and whether it makes no difference in what spirit the recipient
receives it, whether in mockery or sincerity: if in mockery, whether the
difference arises when the mockery is of deceit, as in the Church, or in
what is thought to be the Church; or when it is in jest, as in a play: and
which is the more accursed … to receive it deceitfully in heresy or in good
faith in a play, if any one were to be moved by a sudden feeling of religion
in the midst of his acting.123
Augustine seems surprised that anyone could doubt the answer: a person
of heretical beliefs, baptized by a heretical bishop, might be in sore need of
repentance but a good-natured mime would be welcomed into the fold –
even if his presiding “bishop” were a just a fellow company member:
I have said before [that] I should have no hesitation in saying that all men
possess baptism who have received it in any place, from any sort of men,
provided that it were consecrated in the words of the gospel, and received
without deceit on their part with some degree of faith.124
This response goes well beyond what would have been expected from
a typical anti-Donatist, and needs to be read in the context of north
African mimes’ determination to leave the stage by any means necessary.
Moreover, given the passive role of the clergy in the baptismal rite and the
Church’s emphasis on the initiate’s spirituality, Augustine turns out to be
theologically correct: baptism satires could effect conversion if the recipi-
ent’s soul were already so inclined.
Conditions for mimes in north Africa may have been brutal, but
elsewhere they were more favorable, and mimes in many cases contin-
ued to perform long after their conversion. The Church repeatedly
123
Augustine On Baptism, Against the Donatists 7.53.101, translation in Augustine 1994: 512–13.
124
Augustine On Baptism, Against the Donatists 7.53.102, translation in Augustine 1994: 513. Modern
theologians would agree; witness Fortescue’s formulation of contemporary Catholic doctrine: “nei-
ther the faith nor the morals of the minister affect the validity of any sacrament” (Fortescue
1917: 36).
threatened mimes and their audiences with excommunication,125 but there
is no evidence that anyone ever followed through on these threats. John
Chrysostom, for all his bluster, never actually barred the door of Hagia
Sophia to his theatre-loving congregation.126 Given that such a move
would have rendered his cathedral virtually empty, it appears he preferred
to let the mimes and their fans return for services week after week, so that
he could chastise them endlessly for their sinfulness.127
There is evidence, then, of a historical reality lurking behind the story
of mock-baptism conversions; but because this may have been more of
a local phenomenon, the tales of martyred mimes, circulated through-
out the empire, would more likely have been designed to pressure
mime-converts to quit the stage. What made these stories plausible was
the congregation’s understanding of the Orthodox ritual aesthetic, which
stressed the baptized person’s spiritual state and not the authority of those
who administered the rite.
The citation of this ritual aesthetic in popular hagiography indicates
that by at least the sixth century laypersons not only knew the language
of the liturgy, but they were also well versed in its spiritual interpretation.
This also implies that there was a very clear distinction in the Orthodox
mind, clergy and laity alike, between ritual performance and agency.
What set celebrants apart from non-ritual performers like actors was that
they did not do or enact anything. If we grant with Schechner that what
sets ritual apart from theater is its efficacy, we must still acknowledge that
the Orthodox concept of ritual efficacy requires that we move beyond the
usual concepts of agent and recipient. Any spiritual effects – the chan-
ging of bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ, the cleansing
of an initiate’s soul, etc. – were the work of the Holy Spirit, which is in
some sense an eternal presence. It operated in parallel with certain vocal
and gestural cues, but responded in accord with its own internal spiritual
logic, not at the behest of a celebrant.
The de-emphasis on clerical agency, whether in the Divine Liturgy
or the baptismal rite, demonstrates yet again why the acting profession
never gained official acceptance in the Orthodox Church. Mimes, who
125
Several scholars have pointed to canons from the First and Second Councils of Arles (314 and 451
ce) as evidence that the Church was willing to sacrifice mime-converts temporarily to the stage; a
careful reading of the Latin, however, does not justify this interpretation. See for example Nicoll
1963: 140, and French 1985: 209 and n. 115 (French dates the Second Council to 422). For a more
accurate interpretation see Barnes 1993: 177.
126
There is still a tendency to over-interpret canon law as enforceable and final, instead of the boot-
less protest it actually represented: see for example Puchner 2002: 316.
127
Chrysostom was by no means alone; see for example Jacob, Bishop of Serugh 1935: 106.
had adopted hypocrisy as a profession, celebrated their own materiality on
stage and in so doing distracted themselves and their audiences from spir-
itual matters. Priests adhered strictly to their ritual aesthetic and avoided
behaviors that – to their mind – would have smacked of agency and/or
distracted the congregation from spiritual matters.
Ch apter 3
Musical practices in Byzantium
Introduction
Given the evidence for antagonism between the Orthodox Church and the
theatre, both in terms of spatial practice and performance aesthetics, it may
be surprising to find an area where the two genres appear to have found com-
mon ground: music. The Divine Liturgy is primarily chanted, and over the
centuries has benefited from the creation of a variety of new hymnographic
genres. The question of Byzantine chant’s origins in ancient Greek music
theory, and in a rich oral tradition whose roots date back to the Dionysia,
Homer, and beyond, remain a matter of controversy.1 The relationship
between ancient and Orthodox music also remains mired in centuries of mis-
perceptions, which in some sense were unavoidable; although the culture of
Classical Athens has captured the West’s imagination for centuries it is largely
an Athens of the West’s making. Greek cultural history has been subjected
to the natural distortions of time and politics, with over two millennia of
foreign occupation – first under the Macedonian dynasties, then the Roman
Empire and the Ottoman Sultanate – rendering it hard to distinguish what is
authentically “Greek” from what is the result of foreign influence.
Western assumptions about cultural primitivism have further mud-
died things; it is a commonplace to characterize the music of Antiquity as
simplistic, and for years it was common to transcribe Byzantine musical
notation in Western, diatonic terms. Assumptions about ancient music’s
simplicity, and projections of the West’s taste for simple, diatonic scales
onto the Greek-speaking East have led among other things to the attribu-
tion of chromatic and microtonal elements in Orthodox chant to foreign
(i.e. Turkish) influence.2 As the first two chapters have made clear, however,
1
The following account of ancient music will draw primarily from Mathiesen 1999; Comotti 1989;
and West 1992. Translations of primary sources come largely from Barker 1984.
2
Constantine Sathas was among the first to complain about the “orientalization” and “turkization” of
Byzantine chant (see Sathas 1994: ρμη‘–θ‘ [148–9]).
86
Musical practices in Byzantium 87
traditional Western theories of cultural development do not apply to the
Greek, Christian East. The history of music in the Greek-speaking world
is a great deal more nuanced than traditional Western models would
suggest.
It is beyond the scope of this study, and certainly beyond the cap-
acity of this author, to write a history of Greek music from Antiquity to
the Middle Ages – a history of that scope, reconciling all the extant evi-
dence, has yet to be compiled. It would be equally problematic to assert
an unwavering line of continuity in musical practice down through the
ages. And yet the Greek-speaking East has a rich oral tradition that is
handed down through the generations, and all the written information
we have about ancient music – its theory and musical notation – comes to
us through Byzantine-era manuscripts. Moreover, ancient and Orthodox
theories of composition bear a striking resemblance to each other; and
what should be especially tantalizing for theatre scholars is the perception
among medieval Byzantine theorists that their liturgical music used the
same basic melodic schemes and operated under much the same rules as
ancient tragedy.
To better understand where this perception of continuity comes from,
and to describe at least some of the ways in which the perception is both
correct and incorrect (from a modern, Western perspective), the present
chapter will survey the evidence for transmission of music practice and
theory from Antiquity through Orthodoxy’s first millennium. The goal
here is to offer theatre scholars basic information about how the music of
the Dionysia was composed and then to discuss some of the more signifi-
cant changes in musical culture that occurred in the Mediterranean world
post-Antiquity. These changes had a tremendous influence on Byzantine
chant and have shaped much of the modern debate on the nature and leg-
acy of ancient music.
Theatre as a publicly funded institution largely disappeared during the
sixth century, but the precepts behind ancient Greek music survived and
apparently laid the foundation for liturgical chant. It is safe to assume
that musically as well as textually, direct oral transmission predominated;
but we have evidence that when the oral music tradition was recorded
in the early Christian era, some hymnographers adopted ancient Greek
notation.3 As we shall see, ancient music was based on the concepts of
3
The earliest extant Christian hymn used a musical notation system developed during the
Hellenistic period and used both in schools and among professional (theatrical) musicians; see West
1992: 324–6.
tetrachord, scale genera, and the classification of modes by melodic type; in
particular the key concepts of central tone and of music’s ethical charac-
ter survived and were adapted for use in Orthodox chant. Although there
is some evidence for cultural exchange and cross-fertilization between
Orthodox and Muslim chanters during the Middle Ages, the evidence
indicates that in terms of theory and notation it was the Greeks who influ-
enced the Islamic tradition, not vice versa;4 Byzantine composers worked
from a sophisticated system rooted in ancient Greek music theory, which
the Muslim world adapted for their own use. Any evidence of theoretical
or conceptual continuity, however, should not be over-interpreted; recent
studies reveal a more complex picture in which ancient theory remained
a part of the Byzantine music scene but was used only selectively, most
likely to suit the tastes of individual composers and theorists.5
Agon and innovation

Two formative influences on the development of ancient Greek music
were the relative isolation of their communities and the institution of
the agon. Musical competitions drew artists from throughout the eastern
Mediterranean, and Greek composers (a more literal rendering of the word
poiētēs, “poet”) developed their work in a milieu where each community
boasted its own “sound.”6 Musicians vie for prizes today with instruments
built and tuned to international standards; ancient Greek musicians, on
the other hand, built and tuned their instruments in response to regional
and/or personal tastes.7 The great diversity of compositions, instruments,
and playing styles may have been one of the driving forces behind the cre-
ation of a professional class of musicians during the Hellenistic period, as
well as the adoption of a more scientific, theoretical approach to music.
4
See Troelsgård 2004. Troelsgård cites an anecdote that indicates the Greeks demonstrated their skills
by writing down and repeating Turkish melodies note for note.
5
West, in his analysis of the early Christian hymn, discounts Wellesz’s theory that its ornamental
qualities were oriental; compare West 1992: 325 with Wellesz 1998: 152–6.
6
West (1992: 19–20) finds evidence of contests as early as the eighth century BCE, and Mathiesen
(1999: 11) quotes Hesiod, the legendary contemporary of Homer, who brags of winning a competi-
tion in Chalcis during the same period.
7
See Mathiesen 1999: 183–4 for a description of Pronomos of Thebes and his aulos. The famous
“Pronomos vase” demonstrates the musician’s central role in dramatic performances; see also Wilson
2002. West and Mathiesen comment on various types of auloi and lyres developed by the Classical
period (see Mathiesen 1999: 182–97, and West 1992: 89–103). On varieties of lyres see Mathiesen
1999: 243–7, or West 1992: 62–4. Comotti on the other hand believes the dithyrambic competition
was the source for innovation (Comotti 1989: 34).
Tunings, modes, and notation

As Martin West discusses in his study Ancient Greek Music, composers
tended to follow certain common precepts. The basic building block of
any melody was the tetrachord (“four-string” or, in modern terms, the
fourth), an interval that encompassed roughly two-and-a-half tones in
modern terms.8 Musicians developed a nomenclature for the notes that
sometimes reflected their dynamic function, i.e. their position in the
course of the melody (beginning, middle, end, etc.). Sometimes, however,
the names reflected their thetic function, i.e. their physical position on a
stringed instrument. Tuning began with the mesē, or “middle” string, the
central note of any melody and, as a result, a note whose pitch remained
fixed; to create fourths above and below this “middle” string, the outside
boundaries were fixed by tuning a netē, or “bottom” string and then a
hypatē, or “topmost” string. These fixed notes created the melody’s tonal
boundaries as well as its basic grammatical structure.
From the audience’s perspective the “topmost” string was lowest in
pitch, with the “bottom” string the highest (guitars and bouzoukis work
on the same principle); strumming a four-stringed lyre from hypatē to mesē
to netē would result in a series of ascending tones. West also indicates that
melodies tended to rely on a common figure – a move to either the mesē
or the note one fourth below – to create a sense of cadence or closure.9
The tonal boundaries of the first, “top” tetrachord were the hypatē and
mesē; between these two fixed notes was placed (initially) a third, float-
ing note called lichanos, or “index finger,” its name illustrating how the
string would have been played. In later years a second floating note was
introduced, the parhypatē or “next-topmost,” so called because of its pos-
ition next to hypatē (Figure 2).10 The free-floating nature of lichanos and its
fellow-traveler parhypatē meant that instruments (and the melodies they
accompanied) could be tuned in any number of ways. Rather than sur-
vey individual compositions and give precise equivalents for each note,
ancient theorists narrowed the options to three basic scale types or gen-
era: the enharmonic (“harmonious” or “in tune”), the chromatic (“col-
ored” or “colorful”), and the diatonic (“through-toned” or “parted-tone”)
8
See West 1992: 159–64.
9
See West 1992: 192–4, for West’s discussion of ascending and descending motion in extant melodies.
10
See West 1992: 163–4 and 173, for theories on the evolution of the modes. West discusses the
practical roots of this terminology for the whole system on 218–23, and we shall return to the
terminology later.
THE TETRACHORD
Mesē
Lichanos
Parhypatē
Hypatē
Figure 2 Names for notes/strings in the “lower” Greek tetrachord
NOTE DIATONIC CHROMATIC ENHARMONIC
Mesē
(1) ( 1½ ) (2)
Lichanos
(1) (½) (¼)
Parhypatē ↑
(½) ( 1½ ) (¼)
Hypatē
Figure 3 The three scale genera, with their tonal intervals
(Figure 3).11 The position of the lichanos identified the scale genus for each
melody.
The diatonic scale proceeded by a semitone, then a whole tone, then a
whole tone; the chromatic by a semitone, a semitone, then one and a half
tones. These two scales with their larger intervals would sound familiar to
Western ears; but the enharmonic scale proceeded in microtones, i.e. two
intervals less than a half-tone (depicted in Figure 3 as quarter tones), and
then ascended by two whole tones. Because of their tonal proximity, the
cluster of three notes at the bottom of the enharmonic tetrachord were
11
See LSJ, s.vv. ἐναρμόνιος, χρωματικός, διάτονος, but also διά (section d), for its discussion of the
preposition’s uses in compound words. When applied to music, it is entirely possible that more
than one sense of these words applied.
referred to as pyknon, or “tightly packed.”12 Music theorists defined these
intervals using Pythagoras’ monochord system, which relied on math-
ematical ratios; but in practice tunings were subjective, and Pythagoras’
mathematics went only so far in accounting for scale genera and their
variations.13
These scale genera had specific associations in Classical times; as the
nomenclature indicates the “in tune” microtonal scale was preferred, with
the larger interval scales regarded as “colored,” or simple, because the last
scale the diatonic uses large, “parted” tones. The fourth-century theorist
Aristoxenus, himself a pupil of Aristotle, confirms their cultural and class
associations:
Of these [scales] the diatonic, since human nature comes upon it first, must
be reckoned the first and oldest, the chromatic second, and the enharmonic
third and most sophisticated, since perception becomes accustomed to it at
last, with difficulty, and through much hard work.14
Microtonal scales were the province of the educated elite; whether they
ever met with popular favor is another question. The popularity of “ser-
ious” music, then as now, may have been limited; and extant music –
almost all of it from the Hellenistic to Roman periods – indicates that the
“in tune” scale was more of an acquired taste. Still, Aristoxenus’ hierarchy
of simple-to-complex scale genera creates a benchmark by which to assess
later musical trends in Roman and Byzantine times.
In Antiquity the ambitus or range of a melody, like that of the aver-
age male voice, was in the neighborhood of an octave.15 But because they
started with the tetrachord as their melodic base, Greek musicians did not
necessarily tune with an octave in mind; they could create, for example,
two “conjunct” tetrachords, sharing a common mesē and with a total range
of a seventh. Creating an octave involved adding an eighth string in the
middle of the scale, the paramesē, “alongside-center,” which was set one
whole tone above the mesē; octaves, then, only occurred when composers
made a conscious decision to create two “disjunct,” separate tetrachords
(Figure 4). And the name of the eighth string, paramesē, reinforces the
12
See West 1992: 162. West also uses A. J. Ellis’ system of cents (which divides an octave into 1,200
incremental units) and compares tuning methods among ancient theorists using Pythagoras’ math-
ematical ratios (8–12 and 237–42).
13
See for example Mathiesen 1999: 468–72, for comparative tables delineating the three scale gen-
era and their variations according to various ancient theorists as found in Claudius Ptolemy’s
Harmonica (c. second century CE). For an alternative formulation see West 1992: 169–70.
14
Aristox. Harm. 19:22–9; English translation from Barker 1984: 2.139.
15
See West 1992: 274–6 for comparisons of vocal range from extant sheet music.
notion that for Greek musicians the central tone, not the octave, remained
the most important element.16
Because melody took precedence over harmony in Antiquity, musicians
did not tune to a specific “key signature” but focused instead on the spe-
cific notes the melody required. This group of notes was known as a har-
monia (“tuning”) and were to some extent standardized; some of these
harmoniai came to have specific regional associations, in part by virtue of
their tuning but chiefly because of the melodic formulae associated with
them – hence the classification of harmoniai as Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian,
etc. (These “modes” are discussed at length in Plato’s Republic; his ethical
approach to music is addressed briefly below.) Later, when music theorists
attempted to clarify the harmoniai’s interrelationships and integrate them
into a unified tuning system, they came to be known as tonoi, “sounds”
or “tones.” In practice, what distinguished harmoniai from tonoi was that
harmoniai referred to tunings for specific melodies, whereas tonoi desig-
nated the generic tuning patterns, somewhat comparable to the Western
key signature.17 The notes for the medieval hymn Dies Irae, for example,
could be said to constitute a harmonia, especially since the melody has
become such a popular and recognizable motif. But music theorists would
also point out that the tune was written in the key signature of D minor,
the melody’s equivalent tonos.
Eventually with the increasing complexity of compositions, and the
continued drive for innovation, the number of notes for the harmoniai
became so numerous and their interrelationships so complex that it
became necessary for musicians to expand on their original, two-tetrachord
nomenclature. This expansion came to be codified in two teleia systemata,
“perfect systems,” collections of notes at pre-arranged intervals.18 These
two systemata came to be known as the “Lesser Perfect System” (LPS) and
the “Greater Perfect System” (GPS), with the LPS adding one conjunct
tetrachord and the GPS adding two disjunct tetrachords above the mesē.
The names for all the new notes/strings in both the LPS and GPS
reflected the fundamental principles that (1) the tetrachord remained
16
Mathiesen 1999: 243–5, provides a tuning scenario from Nichomachus of Gerasa, who sees the
octave resulting from a transition between a heptachord (a seven-stringed lyre, spanning a seventh)
and an octochord (eight strings, spanning an octave). See also West 1992: 220 (table 8.1), for dif-
ferent ways of creating an octave. Although seven or eight strings appear to be the classical norm,
actual numbers varied widely from three to twenty or more; see Maas and Snyder 1989: 203.
17
See Barker 1984: 1.163–4 for his description of the harmoniai and Aristoxenus’ now-lost attempt to
create a system of tonoi derived from them, and 2.17–27 for a more detailed discussion.
18
The term systema can refer to “any articulated mode or mode-section,” from a third or a fourth on
upwards (West 1992: 223).
DISJUNCT (Octave) CONJUNCT (Seventh)
Netē
Paranetē Netē
Tritē Paranetē
Paramesē Tritē
Mesē Mesē
Lichanos Lichanos
Parhypatē Parhypatē
Hypatē Hypatē
Figure 4 Disjunct and conjunct tetrachords
the basic building block of a melody, and (2) scales could be constructed

using either conjunct or disjunct tetrachords. In practice a melody could
use either system, or both. Unfortunately, musicologists have the habit of
transliterating the terminology for notes in both systems (Figure 5), with
the result that they look less like tuning schemes than branch-lines on the
Athens Metro. A translation of these terms into English (Figure 6) ren-
ders them more comprehensible and establishes that these systems were
designed for use in performance. The nomenclature alternates between
describing the note’s dynamic and thetic function, its role in the mel-
ody, and its position on the instrument. It is these two, practice-geared
Perfect Systems that remained the basis for discussions of music theory
into Byzantine times.
The LPS and GPS created what Thomas Mathiesen has called a “scalar
superstructure,”19 a common terminology that enabled musicians, com-
posers, and singers to work together and understand how and where the
melody was moving. They made it easier for the musician to understand
the relationships among the various harmoniai that singers modulated
into and out of. It helped to remember, for instance, when a particu-
lar note that functioned as a mesē in one harmonia could also serve as a
19
Mathiesen 1999: 383.
GREATER (GPS)
Netē Hyperbolaion
DIEZEUGMENAI UPEBOLAIAI
Paranetē Hyperbolaion
Tritē Hyperbolaion
LESSER (LPS)
Netē Diezeugmenon
Netē Synemmenon
Paranetē Diezeugmenon
SYNEMMENAI
Paranetē Synemmenon
Tritē Diezeugmenon
Tritē Synemmenon
Paramesē
Mesē
MESAI
Lichanos Meson
Parhypatē Meson
Hypatē Meson
HYPATAI
Lichanos Hypaton
Parhypatē Hypaton
Hypatē Hypaton
Proslambanomenos
Figure 5 The Greater and Lesser Perfect Systems, with nomenclature for notes
written horizontally and for the individual tetrachords written vertically
paramesē in another. It also helped musicians to identify which notes on a

given instrument could still be played after the modulation, to either cre-
ate harmony with the new melody or accompany it note for note.20
In addition to the LPS and GPS, professional musicians created a pre-
cise system of musical notation with two sets of symbols, one for vocalists
20
The theorist Cleonides distinguishes four kinds of modulation: by mode, by system (i.e. switching
from the Lesser to the Greater Perfect System, or vice versa), by harmonia (he uses the term tonon),
and by melody (i.e. what we would call transposition, involving a change in pitch but not the
melodic line). See Koutroubas 1995: 246–50.
GREATER (GPS)
Bottom Overshot
OVERSHOT
Next-Bottom Overshot
Third Overshot
LESSER (LPS)
Bottom Disjunct
Bottom Conjunct
DISJUNCT
Next-Bottom Disjunct
Next-Bottom Conjunct
Third Disjunct
CONJUNCT
Third Conjunct
Next-Middle
Middle
Forefinger Middle
MIDDLE
Next-Topmost Middle
Topmost Middle
TOPMOST
Forefinger Topmost
Next-Topmost Topmost
Topmost Topmost
The Note We Take as Extra
Figure 6 The Greater and Lesser Perfect Systems in English
and one for instrumentalists, along with rudimentary rhythmic notation.21

Relying at first on the alphabet, the notation expanded to include a var-
iety of other symbols; the resulting system was flexible enough to allow for
melodies using any of the three scale genera, and eventually encompassed
three octaves instead of the one and a half or two octaves of the LPS
and GPS.22 Another indicator, if any were needed, of the sophistication
21
For charts featuring this notation see Comotti 1989: 101, and West 1992: 256.
22
See West 1992: 254–73, and Comotti 1989: 99–110. West dates the development of notation any-
where between the eighth and third century BCE (1992: 259); Aristoxenus’ scornful remarks indi-
cate the system was well developed by the fourth century BCE.
of ancient Greek music is that the center of the vocal register requires
twenty-four signs – the entire Greek alphabet – to portray the traditional
male voice’s ambitus of an octave.23 When interpreting the function of
instrumental notation, it is possible to visualize the pegs on a lyre twist-
ing this way and that, or (as West suggests) to read them as directions for
fingering on a woodwind instrument like the aulos.24
Order from chaos: nomoi, mesē, modulation, and ethos

For all its creative possibilities, the chief element regulating Greek melodic
composition was that of the mesē or “center,” a note toward which the
melody would always return.25 There is evidence that departure from and
return to the mesē had a grammar-like function to the ancient Greek ear;
in the Pseudo-Aristotelian Problems, it is asserted that “all worthwhile
songs (panta ta chrēsta meli) use the mesē a lot,” explaining further that:
[J]ust as, when, with words, you can remove conjunctions like “and” and
“also” and it isn’t [proper] Greek … in the same way, for sounds, the mesē
is a conjunction – and the best kind, because it’s the sound you encounter
most often.26
This motif of perpetual return to a tonal center provides a fundamental
disciplinary element that gives shape and sense to a melody. The concept
of modulations among harmoniai, when combined with the concept of a
tonal center, confirms that ancient music relied to some extent on formu-
laic “bridges,” in which the tonal center would change, creating distinct
melodic departures from the center before the melody shifts again and
returns to the original central tone.27
Given the importance and complexity of modulation, theorists devoted
a lot of thought to how best to accomplish it. The preferred method for
modulation, according to Aristoxenus, involved locating notes held in
23
West points out that the pitch values associated with these symbols varied, depending on the scale
genus you were working with (West 1992: 256).
24
West 1992: 262.
25
But see also Comotti 1989: 90–1, who cautions against defining melodies by looking for “domin-
ant” or “sub-dominant” notes – a common Western practice.
26
Arist. Probl. 19.20, translation after Pierre Louis’ French version in Aristotle 1993: 2.104–5. On the
provenance of the Problems, Mathiesen (1999: 60) thinks Aristotle’s students assembled them after
his death; West appears to agree (1992: 250 and n. 94).
27
See West 1992: 190–4 for a survey of extant fragments with ancient notation. West finds greater var-
iety than formality in the fragments he treats, even though he allows that it may have been some-
what formulaic. Giovanni Comotti acknowledges the “dual character” of Greek music, at once
improvisatory and traditional (Comotti 1989: 8).
common between two harmoniai, or between one systema and another.28 In
this scenario, one would arrive at a note that the present harmonia shared
in common with another, and then depart from it using notes from the
other harmonia.29 In performance, modulation could have been accom-
plished in a number of ways; for example the double-reeded woodwind
instrument the aulos featured two pipes that were played simultaneously;
assuming that one pipe was dedicated to the mesē, the players would have
simply shifted a finger or two along the holes on the pipe devoted to the
mesē. Specific strings on the lyre or cithara could have been plucked to
generate a similar signal. And even if the singer were unaccompanied, the
strength of the oral tradition and the audience’s familiarity with various
harmoniai would have ensured that everyone could “hear” the change.30
Another disciplinary element was the need to work within established
melodic signatures – the harmoniai or modes being one example, but the
nomoi perhaps being better known. These “rules,” or (to borrow a phrase
from jazz music) “standards,” consisted of a melody that was mimetic and/
or narrative in design, using distinct rhythmic and tonal patterns to evoke
a specific myth. Perhaps the most famous example is the Pythian nomos, a
melody recounting the god Apollo’s victorious struggle with the Python;
competitions were held regularly among composers who wrote their own
versions of this melodic narrative and performed them near the sanctuary
at Delphi, where the mythic struggle was said to have taken place. Apollo,
in his aspect as Nomimos or “Standard-giver,” is credited with setting the
example by which all subsequent nomoi were created.31
Taking the above treatment of scale genera, harmoniai, melody,
and notation into consideration, there is a need to revise certain com-
monly held assumptions about the “simplicity” of ancient Greek music.32
Although it contained certain recognizable features and formulaic elem-
ents the evidence points toward a highly sophisticated musical culture.
The fact that it used three distinct scale genera; that composers of the
Dionysia’s heyday appear to have preferred microtones; that there was an
28
Barker 1984: 2.131. 29 For another description see Barker 1984: 2.328–9.
30
I have noted people trained in Orthodox chant, sitting in an audience, will sometimes hum the
central tones to themselves, quietly accompanying a solo performer.
31
See Mathiesen 1999: 58–66, for one treatment of the nomos. Mathiesen quotes Proclus’
Chrestomathia (61) which attributes the nomos to Apollo. For a reconstruction of the five move-
ments of the Pythian nomos see West 1992: 213.
32
I am referring to opinions such as: “Ancient tunes were repetitive and conformed to traditional
melodic patterns” (Hall 2002: 18), or “Greek music, in the days of Plato and Aristotle, was simple
and fairly narrow in its range, and elaborate refinements were frowned on” (Molloy 1996: 288).
Hall cites Comotti’s introduction, but even his conservative formulation is more nuanced.
emphasis on skillful modulation among numerous harmoniai; that the
Greeks not only developed the Lesser and Greater Perfect Systems, but
also codified a complex, pitch-specific system of notation argues against
any notion that their musical culture was “simple.”
Between Antiquity and the early Christian era

The centuries between the Dionysia’s heyday and the first extant Christian
hymn with musical notation saw substantial changes in musical tastes.
There were some elements of stability, beginning of course with the oral
tradition; it is this mode of transmission, arguably, which has guaranteed
the preservation of highly syncopated, microtonal melodies among indi-
genous Greek communities to this day. Complementing this lively oral
culture, music theorists provided a textual mode of transmission focused
on the principles of composition. Theoretical texts became an integral
part of the school curriculum and were taught (appropriately enough) as a
branch of mathematics.
In opposition to these modes of preservation stood a series of political
and commercial pressures; in the wake of Alexander the Great’s conquest
his successors oversaw construction of Greek-styled cities throughout the
known world, from north Africa to the Afghan–Tadjik border. Because
these cities featured theatres a truly international theatre scene was born,
necessitating the formation of an international guild, the Artists of
Dionysus, to provide performers. These artists in turn served as theatrical
ambassadors to the Empire’s non-Greek-speaking subjects. But any stage
performance had to appeal to wide audiences who were both hostile to
Greek occupation and who, for that matter, found Attic Greek bewilder-
ing (then, as now, a huge problem). This may be what led to a gradual
coarsening of theatrical entertainments.
Alexander’s vision of a global Hellenic culture succeeded but only in
small circles; the failure to teach Attic Greek culture and the classic tra-
gedies and comedies of the old Dionysia to the masses had the unintended
consequence of bifurcating society and art along class lines; on one side
you had a relative handful of educated subjects, fluent in the high Greek
of the ruling class, while on the other you had subjects who were less lin-
guistically adept and who insisted on using a simpler form of Greek, koinē
or “common,” in their public transactions. The elite citizen-amateurs of
Athens’ golden age no longer ruled the stage, and because their erudite
works were largely incomprehensible to the “common” crowd the stage
yielded to romantic plots rooted in urban stereotypes. By the Roman
era, literary drama virtually disappears and is replaced by mime sketches,
largely improvised, and pantomimes who danced to music on classical
themes.
Like the drama, Hellenic music experienced a prolonged period of
devolution on the public stage; the microtonal music of the Dionysia
yielded, in order to appeal to as wide an audience as possible. Already by
the 300s BCE, only a few generations after Euripides’ passing, Aristoxenus
implies that composers had begun to favor the chromatic scale genus over
the enharmonic.33 And with the rise of Rome, and its occupation of Greek
lands, the degradation of popular culture and musical composition was
complete. By the dawn of the Roman Empire the simplest, diatonic scale
genus had become the rule; the theorist Gaudentius, a contemporary of
Constantine the Great, still describes the details of the three scale genera
but confines his discussion to diatonic harmoniai because “the use of the
remaining two genera seems to have lapsed.”34
Remarks like this reflect on the changing nature of theatrical music,
and are in turn reflected in the extant musical notation from this period.
A sizeable gap in musical tastes now opened between the educated elite
and the general public, with the former trained in scale genera and har-
moniai that they knew would never find a place in popular culture, but
which nevertheless were carefully preserved.
In Gaudentius’ time, Christian composers were still trained in ancient
Greek music theory and used the original notation system. Melodies from
ancient tragedy and later pagan composers formed the core of the cur-
riculum, and were a part of the milieu in which they created their first
hymns. When he wasn’t singing pagan airs to his lyre at home, Bishop
Synesius of Cyrene composed hymns for his congregation to the accom-
paniment of a kithara.35 The acceptance of popular music by educated
Christians may have had its limits, but Greek music theory provided them
with a way to articulate the appropriate harmoniai for services. Hence
Clement of Alexandria’s rejection of melodies using the decadent chro-
matic scale genus;36 hence too the use of a diatonic, Hypolydian harmonia
for the earliest notated Christian hymn.37
33
See Barker 1984: 2.141–2. West finds that composers from this period came to prefer the chromatic
and diatonic scale genera (West 1992: 381–5).
34
Mathiesen 1999: 502. Mathiesen notes that Gaudentius addresses the chromatic genus later on.
35
Wellesz 1998: 151–2. The songs of Mesomedes, and his hymn to Nemesis in particular, were among
Synesius’ favorites (West 1992: 383–4).
36
See Wellesz 1998: 93 & n. 2.
37
Wellesz (1998: 152–6) insists it was “orientalized” (whatever that means), but in West’s analysis
(1992: 324–6) it is only slightly more elaborate than its immediate Graeco-Roman predecessors.
The preference for diatonic scales among the Church Fathers coincided
nicely with contemporary popular tastes, so their condemnations of the-
atrical music most likely involved criticism of the more complex, “effem-
inate” chromatic elements in popular song. Note the reversal: where
Antiquity once privileged microtonal melodies as sophisticated and
more manly, the new Christian measure of manliness lay in a rejection
of musical sophistication. Simplicity became a cardinal Christian virtue,
and with diatonic melodies being the simplest it is easy to see why early
Christian hymnography would have embraced the musical culture of its
time. Any changes wrought by the Church would have been in terms of
degree, not kind.
If extant manuscripts are any indication, ancient music notation fell
out of use during roughly the same period state-funded theatre festivals
were de-funded, from the fourth to the sixth century. But absence of evi-
dence should not be seen as evidence of absence; lack of new compositions
in old notation simply indicates that the theatre circuit for which it was
originally created was disappearing.38 Ancient notation had already served
the purpose of enabling early hymnographers to transmit their works
among newly emerging congregations throughout the Roman world. By
the sixth century these communities were well established and a new oral
tradition had taken root; in an age when oral transmission was still dom-
inant, and where the main venue for the old notation had closed, the old
system was no longer necessary.
Whether there exists an Ariadne’s thread which might connect ancient
to Byzantine musical notation remains an open question; one possible
answer would be to look to the system which was created to teach the
proper pronunciation of Attic Greek. Thanks to Alexander the Great’s
conquests, and his successors’ program of Hellenizing the known world,
Greek schools began to use an intricate system of diacritical marks to teach
the Empire’s subjects how to speak the language properly. The Empire’s
new cultural capital Alexandria, with its famous library, was established
early on as the center of world Hellenism and its scholars formed the
nucleus of the Greek equivalent to Cardinal Richelieu’s Academie française.
One of its first tasks was to establish the Attic Greek equivalent of
Received Pronunciation, to create standard modes of pronunciation
as well as the means to codify them. The result was a system of dia-
critical marks established in the third century BCE by Aristophanes of
Byzantium, which incorporated musical intervals and taught Greek as an
38
“Of course,” as West notes, “the Greeks never stopped singing” (West 1992: 384).
inflected language, to be “sung” as well as enunciated.39 Out of that early
system, three signs were incorporated into a musical system known today
as ecphonetic notation, which was developed by the Orthodox Church
for readings of scripture at services and codified, in its turn, during the
Middle Ages.40
Centuries prior to the codification of ecphonetic notation, however, a
system of modes was established for Orthodox services and its practice soon
spread to the West; but as its name implies – Octōēchos, “eight-sound” –
there would be a new nomenclature and a new aesthetic to go with it.41
Ancient music had allowed for anywhere up to fifteen distinct harmoniai,
but the Church settled officially on eight principal modes which were
divided into two groups: four known as authentikos (“upright” or “authen-
tic”) and four related modes designated as plagios (“sideways”).42 These new
terms – ēchos, authentikos, plagios – have a theological significance deriving
at least in part from texts now designated as Apocryphal, but which had
been in circulation for centuries by the time the Octōēchos was created.43
Perhaps the only things the Octōēchos and ancient harmoniai had in
common were that each mode had a unique melodic formula, and each
formula had specific ethical (or, in the case of the Church, spiritual) asso-
ciations. Any further resemblance between the two systems, however, is
limited by the Church’s conservative ritual aesthetic. For one thing, the
Church rejected musical instruments; for another, because of the spiritual
nature of each mode we can safely assume that the Church’s system would
39
For the standards of pronunciation for Attic Greek see DH Comp. 11 (translation in Dionysius
of Halicarnassus 1985: 77–81), which addresses its musicality, and DH Comp. 14 (translation in
Dionysius of Halicarnassus 1985: 91–105) for his notes on pronunciation.
40
See for example Floros 2005: 20–3. Byzantium at that time remained a Greek colony, and its geo-
graphical position in the middle of a vast network of Greek communities meant that this latter-day
Aristophanes was ideally placed to developed a standard dialect. That this Aristophanes developed
the diacritical system in Alexandria, not in his hometown, reflects the status of Egypt as the epicen-
ter of cultural development in his day.
41
It is extremely difficult, if not impossible, to date this development and its source precisely. For a
recent study that discusses currently available source material, and issues of attribution/authorship,
see Frøyshov 2012: 227–67.
42
It is unclear why the number eight was so important; see Jeffery 2001: 183. Naturally, composers
were not limited to the number eight, and later manuals for Byzantine chant indicate that in prac-
tice the Octōēchos encompassed as many as sixteen modes.
43
See Jeffery 2001: 155 and n. 24. Jeffery seems to refer to Acta Petri cum Simone 38, in which St.
Peter (speaking from the cross on which he was martyred) says, “you ought to come to the cross of
Christ, who is the extended Word, the one and only, concerning whom the Spirit says, ‘For what
else is Christ than the Word, the sound (ēchos) of God?” The Word is this upright (authentikos) tree
on which I am crucified; the sound (ēchos), however, is the crossbeam (plagios), namely the nature
of man” (Ehrman 2003: 153). This passage could be the source of the technical terms authentikos,
plagios, and ēchos in Byzantine chant.
have been designed to evoke an entirely different set of responses than
those of popular or dramatic music.
In terms of the written record the earliest evidence for a new standard
method of musical notation, the so-called “Byzantine” neumes, comes
from the tenth century. It is likely that the intervening years saw fruitful
explorations in chant and hymnography with only intermittent attempts
to capture the living event on parchment. Papyrus fragments from the
sixth or seventh century CE offer evidence of an experimental form of
diastematic notation in Egypt,44 but little survived from what may have
been a very fertile period. It is also unclear whether diatonic modes were
the only ones used: for example, there is evidence that as far back as the
fourth century, Chrysostom’s anti-Arian processions in Constantinople
may have featured trained castrati.45 The presence of a trained vocalist
implies that the archbishop may have sanctioned more subtle melodic
stylings – although at first these stylings, like the processions that went
with them, may have been developed more out of necessity than piety.
We do know that as the Church grew, there was also a tendency toward
standardization and this brought an end to the more free-wheeling early
days when congregants could sing their own compositions as part of
services.46
What remained constant, however, was an academic interest in
ancient Greek music and the music of the Dionysia in particular.
Photius’ ninth-century Bibliotheca, etymological dictionaries, and the
Lexicon of Suidas offer a number of musical references, tragic compos-
ers included.47 Suidas’ Lexicon combines brief biographies of compos-
ers with a detailed discussion of their music. And there is evidence
that performing ancient music remained a popular pastime well into
the Middle Ages, although not without controversy: in a broadside
written by Archbishop Arethas of Caesaria against the diplomat Leo
Choirosphactes, he sarcastically encourages Leo to make a fool of him-
self with his old music:
He’s skilled in the aulos and the cithara … so let him show off his learning
in all shamelessness at the theatre with the mimes and pantomimes, if he
44
See Papathanasiou and Boukas 2004.
45
For a history of castrati in the Orthodox tradition see Moran 2002. For some cautionary remarks
on Moran’s interpretation of the evidence see Troelsgård 2011: 345–50.
46
See for example Wellesz 1998: 147, for bans on private compositions. Chrysostom is not the only
hierarch who used music to compete for congregations – see Wellesz 1998: 149 for the competition
between Bardesanes and St. Ephrem.
47
Mathiesen (1999: 643, n. 109) openly acknowledges modern scholars’ debt to these three sources.
decides to preen himself at the Dionysia for his pagan gods. There’s noth-
ing holding him back now that he has fallen from grace.48
Being fond of the classics himself, Arethas’ criticism is not directed at
Leo’s knowledge of ancient literature but at his excessive love for pagan
Antiquity and its music.49 There was always a concern in Byzantine circles
that studies of the classics might tempt people to “go native” and embrace
the Classical tradition too wholeheartedly. Choirosphactes’ alleged experi-
ments in ancient music, however, raise an important question about this
music’s possible influence on later elite Byzantine composers.
The constant reinforcement of ancient music theory and practice in
now-Christian classrooms meant that the educated elites who became
hymnographers wrote solidly within the framework of the ancient trad-
ition. Catchy melodies accompanied by contemporary instruments may
have been anathema to Church authorities, but were much in demand at
court.50 Nor did this new music necessarily change basic ways of perform-
ing, hearing, and composing that prevailed throughout the Roman world.
If anything, the sophistication of ancient music theory made it possible
for Christian composers to choose their melodic forms with a heightened
awareness of their options, in much the same way that clergy had a variety
of speech genres to choose from when composing their homilies.
Over time the Divine Liturgy came to emphasize musical perform-
ance, including readings from scripture using ecphonetic notation.51 And
as the Liturgy continued to expand, chanters and choirs accompanied the
rite for longer periods of time with an ever-growing repertoire. In per-
formance, choirmasters led their singers through a combination of aural
cues – to establish mode and pitch – as well as a series of hand-signals to
cue the movements of the melody and/or the drone. It was this system of
48
See Arethas, Contra Leonem Choerosphactem (specifically Arethas, Archbishop of Caesaria
1968: 1.204.22–205.1). Translation with apologies to N. Wilson 1975: 15.
49
Robert Browning finds “Ce qui semble être décrit dans ce texte peu clair est une sorte de cercle,
où l’on lisait des tragédies classiques, et où peut-être on essayait d’en donner une représentation
dramatique rudimentaire” (What seems to be described in this text is a kind of circle where one
would read classic tragedies, and where one could perhaps try to give them some rudimentary dra-
matic performance) (Browning 1968: 403). But Nigel Wilson concludes that this passage is “simply
a scornful invitation to Choerosphactes to display the musical skill of which he is so proud by giv-
ing performances in a music hall” (N. Wilson 1975: 14–15).
50
See Wellesz 1998: 79–97, for condemnations of pagan music (theatre music especially) by the early
Church Fathers. As Edith Hall points out, St. Jerome’s injunction to “sing not with the voice,
but with the heart” indicates a preference that Christians “scarcely sing out loud at all” (Hall
2002: 37). For detailed descriptions of new instruments developed during Byzantine times see also
Maliaras 2007.
51
On ecphonetic notation and its roots in the cadences of Attic Greek see also Wellesz 1998: 246–60.
cheironomia (“gesture”) that became the basis for a new form of musical
notation.
New hymnographic genres emerged from various liturgical centers –
for example the kontakion emerges in the sixth century and is associated
with the urban rite in Constantinople, while the kanon, an eighth-century
genre, is associated with monasteries in the Holy Land. Although the mel-
odies for many of these hymns are relatively simple (i.e. one note per syl-
lable) their lyrical content grows more spiritual and abstract; as we shall
see, by the late Byzantine period there is a much wider variety of musical
settings, including more elaborate versions of traditional material.
Using the Octōēchos and its melodic formulae as their framework,
Byzantine hymnographers created a wide variety of melodies.52 For
Orthodox congregations, the interplay between formula and innovation
was central to the experience of the Liturgy. Egon Wellesz compares this
experience to that of a more contemporary Western audience:
The congregation … must have taken pleasure in hearing musical phrases
which were familiar but were linked together in an unexpected way, just
as a modern audience takes pleasure in the recurrence of the themes in a
movement of a symphony.53
Beyond the aesthetic pleasures that chant afforded was the spiritual state
that chant was supposed to embody, among the chanters as well as the
congregation.
Just as the celebrants’ actions were read in complex, often allegorical
ways, the music of the Liturgy served to activate a mystical, spiritual pres-
ence in the minds of the congregation. Roughly contemporary to the cre-
ation of the Octōēchos a commentator known to us as Pseudo-Dionysius
the Areopagite suggested ways of listening to and understanding the cor-
pus of Byzantine hymnography.54 Since at least Pythagoras’ time, over one
thousand years before, Greek theory had posited music as the aural mani-
festation of a spiritual and divine order; Pseudo-Dionysius, writing for
a new era and a new spirituality, positioned the Orthodox chanter and
choir as instruments of divine revelation, with a mystical power over the
souls of the congregation:
The sacred description of the divine songs, whose purpose is to praise all the
divine words and works of God and to celebrate the holy words and works
of godly men, forms a universal hymn and exposition of divine things,
52
For an analysis of the balance between formula and variety, see Raasted 1993.
53
Wellesz 1998: 361.
54
For a summary of Pseudo-Dionysius’ debt to Neoplatonism see Wellesz 1998: 55–60.
conferring on those who recite it in a divine and holy fashion a power cap-
able of receiving and distributing all the mysteries of the hierarchy.55
As we shall see, Pseudo-Dionysius’ perception of music as the primary
means of channeling and circulating the mysteries would come into
greater prominence by the fourteenth century with the emergence of the
Hesychast (“Quietude” or “Tranquility”) movement and its theories of
divine energy. But even in the early years of liturgical exegesis it appears
that the music of the Liturgy was designed to create an atmosphere of
enlightenment and spiritual harmony.
Neoplatonists saw music as the first step on the road to divine wisdom,
but Pseudo-Dionysius reconceived chant as divine revelation and the per-
former as an instrument of God’s will, rendering music an occasion for
contemplation or reverence, not an object for aesthetic appreciation. This
vision harmonizes musical practice with the performance aesthetic of the
Divine Liturgy and in particular with the theology of the sacred image;
the Octōēchos functioned in much the same way as icons, because like
icons the modes would have derived much of their power from their for-
mal qualities.56 And the proliferation of new hymnographic forms, cou-
pled with a passion for new compositions that often included the emperor
himself, is witness to a creative tradition that – if anything – would have
been encouraged by the Octōēchos.57
Psellos, Mesarites, and the Graeco-Byzantine revival

At some point, Byzantine scribes made a decision to record the music of
the Church in writing once again; and the period that witnessed the intro-
duction of new forms of musical notation coincided with what was argu-
ably the first great “information revolution” of the Middle Ages. Before
that time, manuscripts prepared for the educated elite consisted almost
exclusively of uncial text – streams of capital letters with no punctuation
or separation between words, and no indication of how to deliver them.
Because these manuscripts were designed for recitation it was simply
assumed that the reader knew how to distinguish words from each other
and deliver them accurately, based on oral tradition. By the tenth century,
however, this old form of recording technology had given way to new,
55
(Pseudo)-Dionysius the Areopagite, Divine Hierarchy 3.4, translation in Dionysius 1981: 38.
56
“Maybe a Byzantine would rather compare the formulaic character of his chant to the ways of icon
painters: songs and icons had to follow the traditional patterns, because they were realizations of
perennial models – not unlike the Platonic ideas” (Raasted 1993: 59).
57
Wellesz 1998: 171–245 discusses a variety of hymnographic genres.
fully articulated texts using lower-case letters. The results looked much
like what you see on this page: initial capital letters gave way to miniscule
lettering, with the added feature of diacritical marks, punctuation to indi-
cate aural pauses and – perhaps more importantly – spaces between the
words; the old Hellenistic system of diacritical marks, confined for centur-
ies to primary school texts, now appears on the page as a permanent guide
to every text’s live performance.58
It is in the context of a complete reconceptualization of manuscript
technology, and a thorough revision of the relationship between the writ-
ten and spoken word, that a new standard of musical notation emerges.
With the written and the sung word more fully annotated, Orthodox
service books could now prescribe the performance dynamics of a wide
variety of traditional texts – from scriptural reading to chant – with an
increasingly high degree of uniformity and accuracy.59 Hymnographers
borrowed some of the old signs from the Alexandrian system, elaborated
on them and used the resulting new sign system to preserve melodies
for both traditional and original compositions – at first using simpler
notation indicating the basic silhouette of the tune, but eventually devel-
oping a highly complex system that came remarkably close to record-
ing the original performance. Assuming that the oral tradition came first
and the recording technology afterwards, there is every reason to believe
that the notation was designed to capture in outline a highly specialized
oral tradition, a tradition that had already been stretching the boundar-
ies of liturgical performance for years.60 Moreover, given the fundamen-
tally oral nature of pre-Gutenberg culture it is perhaps not far-fetched to
see these new manuscripts as a form of embedded code, which assumes
(and requires) the presence of a “player” or a “decoder” to articulate –
not unlike the code used for transmission of electronic and ether-based
sound today.
The standardization of performance texts, and the preservation of
ever-more nuanced versions of traditional melodies, went hand in hand
with a renewed interest in ancient Greek music theory. One important
figure was the dean of an imperially founded school of philosophy (i.e.
humanities) in Constantinople, Michael Psellos (c. 1018–81), who is cred-
ited with writing a brief summary of ancient theory as part of a Synoptikon
Syntagma Philosophias or a comprehensive treatise on the four ancient
58
See A. White 2010.
59
See Wellesz 1998: 261–310, for the development of Byzantine musical notation.
60
See Levy 1976: 281–8.
sciences.61 Psellos’ synopsis indicates he had access to a wide variety of ori-
ginal sources, and made selective use of them based on his own experience
of the tradition.62
As indicated by the treatise’s opening epigram, “The Ancients say music
encompasses all things,” Psellos favored a mystical approach to music that
stretched as far back as Pythagoras and included Pseudo-Dionysius among
its Orthodox adherents.63 Traditionally music was subsumed under math-
ematics, so his summary includes an extended geometrical treatment of
musical intervals. The nomenclature Psellos adopts for his theoretical
system also reveals a preference for diatonic modes;64 when describing
the three ancient scale genera, he dismisses the enharmonic as “the most
un-singable” of them all (thus confirming, in a backhanded way, that it
was still in use among educated Byzantines). He prizes the diatonic scale
for its nobility, and makes the dubious claim that Plato accepted dia-
tonic modes.65 Whatever the accuracy or contemporary value of Psellos’
work – it has been characterized as “uneven and eclectic”66 – its popu-
larity is measured by the many extant versions of the “Compendium”
we find in manuscripts from the eleventh century onward. Psellos’ work
features prominently in medieval and Renaissance-era compilations of
ancient musical treatises produced in the West, and it heavily influenced
the revival of music scholarship in both periods.67 In Constantinople,
the authority attached to his name also ensured that Psellos’ Syntagma
remained in use in upper-level classes right up to the Latin conquest of
Constantinople.
In addition to the Syntagma, either Psellos or someone from his circle
wrote an account of Greek tragedy in the form of a letter to a student;
although brief, it confirms the Byzantine understanding of tragedy as pri-
marily a musical genre, and discusses various ancient modes as well as the
enharmonic scale genus.68 The constant use of the past tense and the lack
61
For a brief and colorful biography of Psellos, culled from Ostrogorsky’s History of the Byzantine
State, see Mathiesen 1999: 643–7. With the authorship of this treatise in doubt, it has been
published as anonymous (see Heiberg 1929). For arguments in favor of Psellos’ authorship see
Mathiesen 1999: 648–50; for arguments against, see Hannick 1978: 185–6.
62
For a list of Psellos’ sources see Mathiesen 1999: 650.
63
Synoptikon Syntagma 3.1 (Heiberg 1929: 65.9).
64
Mathiesen (1999: 650–5) concerns himself mostly with the question of Psellos’ influence. Lucas
Richter summarizes Psellos but does not address the question of the Psellos’ Syntagma (Richter
1998: 155–6).
65
See Synoptikon Syntagma 3.13 (Heiberg 1929: 72.3–6).
66
Richter 1964: 208.
67
See Mathiesen 1999: 653–4 for a reconstruction of distribution patterns for Psellos’ Syntagma in
later manuscripts.
68
For edited Greek text and commentary see Browning 1963.
of comparisons with contemporary practice confirm that the author is
writing about a dead art form; but the detailed description of tragic com-
posers’ techniques indicates that even some 1,500 years after the Dionysia’s
heyday, educated Byzantines had some knowledge of how tragic music
might have sounded; more importantly, it signals that tragic music (in
some redacted form) was transmitted aurally, and remained an important
part of elite musical training.
The central role of education in ancient Greek music can be seen in a
description by Nicholas Mesarites of higher-level classes for boys at the
Church of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople at the turn of the thirteenth
century.69 Mesarites makes no secret of his distaste for classical education
and mocks its pretensions even as he details the class’s topics for the day. In
spite of himself, Mesarites manages to give an accurate account of a typical
lesson in ancient Greek music theory on the eve of the Fourth Crusade in
1204. The Church of the Holy Apostles, by reputation equal in splendor
to Hagia Sophia and since Constantine’s time the traditional burial place
of Byzantine emperors, would have hosted one of the most distinguished
schools for the male elite in Constantinople.70 Musical training there would
have had a significant impact on the Byzantine cultural scene: some gradu-
ates would grow up to become court composers and/or hymnographers,
and their classmates would have been in a position to commission new
compositions and assume the roles of Byzantium’s arbiters of musical taste.
Late Byzantine theory and reform: Pachymeres, Bryennius,

and the Grand Reunion
With the Fourth Crusade and the Venetians’ brutal sack of Constantinople
in 1204, the Byzantine court and its schools moved across the Bosphorus
to Nicaea. Given the pace of activity after the restoration of the royal fam-
ily to Constantinople in 1261, it is clear that music scholarship remained
a high priority. The interest in ancient Greek culture now becomes so
intense that the period is often designated as the “Palaiologan renais-
sance” – although as we shall discuss later the concept of “renaissance” in
the Eastern capital is a misnomer.
69
See Wellesz 1998: 63. For a complete Greek text with English translation see Mesarites 1957: 855–918
(English translation, 861–97). In spite of its context, Wellesz uses this description to argue that
Byzantine music classes had nothing in common with those in Antiquity. Richter corrects the
record by detailing the lines and modes of transmission between Antiquity and Byzantine times,
but cites Wellesz’s remarks without correcting them (Richter 1998: 157–8).
70
For another discussion of Mesarites and the Church of the Holy Apostles see Vasiliev 1964: 555.
A series of new theoretical works culminated in efforts to fully integrate
ancient Greek music with Byzantine chant.71 There remains strong dis-
agreement about whether the Byzantines understood ancient music accur-
ately, and if so which aspects of ancient music would have survived into
the Middle Ages; but there is no question that in musical as well as literary
culture the perception was one of continuity. The Byzantine education
system ensured the preservation of Attic Greek as the preferred dialect
of the elite for two millennia, and if the spoken word had survived since
Antiquity it was only natural to assume that the sung word had survived
in some form as well.
Among the first to openly advocate musical continuity was the classi-
cist and patriarchal cleric George Pachymeres.72 Like Psellos before him,
Pachymeres composed a detailed Syntagma of the four sciences, including
an extensive treatise on music. Pachymeres also regarded music as a case
of applied mathematics, and relied heavily on the works of ancient music
theorists; after an exhaustive comparison of various ancient note-systems,
Pachymeres enumerates eight ancient modes or harmoniai – an odd choice
because his chief source, Claudius Ptolemy, names only seven. The reason
for eight, however, soon becomes clear:
The highest [and eighth] of all is called the Super-Half-Lydian, and is said
to be the First Echos by composers [melopoiōn], and the Half-Lydian the
Second, the Lydian the Third, the Phrygian the Fourth, while the Dorian
is the First Plagal, the Sub-Lydian Second Plagal, the Sub-Phrygian the
Heavy (Barys, or “Third Plagal”), and the Sub-Dorian, Fourth Plagal.73
Pachymeres is the first extant theorist to posit that the ancient Greek
harmoniai were equivalent to the Octōēchos.74 Exactly how or when this
belief in the antiquity of the Church’s modal system took hold remains
a mystery.75 A contemporary dialogue, the anonymous Eratopokriseis
71
N. Wilson (1996a: 218–25) gives a bleak picture of Greek scholarship during the Latin occupation
of Constantinople; but the scholarship that returns from exile and then emerges some thirty to
forty years later, under the Palaeologan Dynasty, demonstrates that in spite of tremendous political
losses scholarship in the traditional arts remained a prominent part of daily life.
72
The following analysis owes much to Christian Hannick’s treatment of Pachymeres; see Hannick
1978: 188–91. For background information ODB 3.1550, s.v. “Pachymeres, George.” For Pachymeres’
educational lineage, see ODB 1.49, s.v. “Akropolites, George.” See also R. P. Laurent’s Preface to
Paul Tannery’s edition of the Quadrivium (Pachymeres 1940: xxiv–xxxiii).
73
From Pachymeres Syntagma 17 (Pachymeres 1940: 146.29–32). Pachymeres reiterates this equiva-
lence of tunings at the close of his final chapter (Syntagma 51; Pachymeres 1940: 199.10–16).
74
Hannick 1978: 190.
75
As was the case with Manuel Bryennius’ treatise, which we will treat soon; see Bryennius Harmonics
3.4 (translation in Bryennius 1970: 312–21). For a brief commentary on Pachymeres’ treatment of
music see also Lampakis 2004: 229.
(“Questions and Answers”) goes even further by claiming that the ordinal
names of the ēchoi (First, Second, etc.) merely represent their bathmoi or
“intervals” in the modal system, while their real names are the ancient
ones.76 In spite of these claims, however, there were disputes over which
ancient harmoniai corresponded to which of the Byzantine ēchoi. The cor-
respondences in the Eratopokriseis differ radically from Pachymeres77 and
other theorists turned Pachymeres’ correspondence table upside-down –
as in the Hagiopolites treatise78 – or inside-out, as in the liturgical music
manual known as the Papadiki.79
There are several ways to account for the confusion in these tables: one
is to recognize that there had always been a subjective element in the
ethical theory of music – associations of certain qualities (“effemin-
ate,” “manly,” etc.) came down to personal taste as often as not. Second,
although there may have been some continuity in musical practice – as
there was in spoken Attic Greek – it likely had undergone many changes
over time. Attic Greek had undergone radical changes in pronunciation,
changes now increasingly recorded in manuscript form through new spell-
ings of familiar words. And because it was a living language, the ancient
dialects adapted to the invention of new words and new meanings of old
words. We have already noted that the popular usage of some scale genera,
and the modes based on them, had waned; this change in “musical dia-
lect” would have affected the performance of nearly every ancient mode in
Byzantine times.
Another more practical consideration is that Byzantine musical theo-
rists would have grouped the ancient modes by any number of differ-
ent standards: tonal position, ethical associations, etc. This is made plain
in the Hagiopolites, where the author explains why he does not give the
Dorian mode (Plato’s favorite) a prominent position in his tables:
We do not name the quantity of sounds, but the quality … Thus, the des-
ignations of the Echoi are not made for counting purposes but to represent
76
“These aren’t really the names of the eight echoi; for saying ‘first, second, third, and fourth’ – they’re
intervals, not names. But their names are these: The first is actually [lit., “instead”] Dorian, the
second Lydian” (from John of Damascus [pseud.] 1997: 597–600).
77
On the approximate chronology for this dialogue (the seventh of ten separate sections), see John of
Damascus (pseud.) 1997: 20–1.
78
The treatise is so named because its associations with the “Holy City” of Jerusalem. For Greek text
and English translation see Raasted 1983. See also Gastoué 1929, and Høeg 1922.
79
See Richter 1964: 195, for a comparative chart of Pachymeres’ eight ancient harmoniai, compared
with three distinct Byzantine variants on the ēchoi, as well as with the eight-tone system of Western
chant. The Papadiki is a late Byzantine manual that explains more elaborate forms of Byzantine
chant as perfected by the composer Ioannes Koukouzeles – see Wellesz 1998: 13–14.
the sound quality of the Melos [harmonia]. This is also why the Dorian
Melos did not receive the place of honour among the Echoi [i.e. the pos-
ition of First Authentic]; this place was given to the Hypodorian, because it
is better than the other Echoi.80
The author of the Hagiopolites stresses the need to classify the eight ēchoi
in accordance with their poiotita, rendered here as “quality,” which in this
context is comparable to the ancient theory of musical ēthos or charac-
ter. But even the qualitative assessment in Hagiopolites was not univer-
sally accepted, and it remains to be seen whether Pachymeres’ tables were
composed out of fealty to ancient theorists, out of his own contemporary
tastes, or whether a more nuanced understanding of the harmoniai and
ēchoi – as performed in Byzantine times – was involved.81
Pachymeres’ academic treatise was soon eclipsed by Manuel Bryennius’
Harmonics, a full-length study that also assumed links between ancient
and modern practice.82 Bryennius’ career coincides with some of the most
intense academic activity of the late Byzantine period,83 but his research
methods and his independent frame of mind distinguish him from other
scholars. As Thomas J. Mathiesen notes:
In writing his treatise, Bryennius did not copy or paraphrase a single source
… Rather, he worked through the range of material available to him; com-
pared different authors’ treatments of similar subjects; adopted now one
author’s treatment, now another’s; and attempted to enlarge and clarify
obscure passages. More than any other [author] … Bryennius functioned
in a way that anticipated modern historical and text critical methods.84
One sign of his originality comes when Bryennius, like Pachymeres, dis-
cusses the “species of melody” or tunings, treating the ancient theoretical
term tonoi and the contemporary ecclesiastical term ēchoi as synonymous.
Bryennius accepts the usage of ordinals – First Authentic, First Plagal,
etc. – as names of modes; unlike Pachymeres, he takes the time to explain
80
From Raasted 1983: 38–9. Raasted’s translation is by his own admission provisional; a fully edited,
text-critical edition of this important treatise has yet to appear, for reasons Raasted explains in his
introduction (1–8).
81
As Mathiesen puts it, “Pachymeres’ treatises emphasized the continuity of Greek culture, an
important value during the Palaeologan renaissance” (Mathiesen 1999: 657). For a standard
debunking of these correspondences see Jeffery 2014.
82
For summaries of Bryennius’ work see Hannick 1978: 192–4, and for a more detailed critique of
Bryennius’ content and methodology see Mathiesen 1999: 657–67.
83
See ODB 1.330, s.v. “Bryennius, Manuel,” and editor G. H. Jonker’s summary in Bryennius
1970: 17–20. That Pachymeres’ history of this period makes no mention of Bryennius only con-
firms the claim of Bryennius’ student, Theodore Metochites, that his teacher’s work went largely
unknown and unrecognized (Bryennius 1970: 20).
84
Mathiesen 1999: 660.
why contemporary composers use these ordinals, as well as why they make
the distinction between “authentic” and “plagal” echoi:
The explanation is that, when composers consider a series only as to its
pitch, they are wont to indicate one species as the first, the next as the
second and so on … but when they consider the notes of the tetrachordal
[scales], by means of which they can determine exactly which of the spe-
cies is placed higher and which lower than the others, then they name the
various species not in order of pitch but in order of the notes in the tetra-
chordal [scales] … [and they call a species plagal] either because its [central
tone] lies next to the [topmost tone] of the First Echos or, rather, because
from this note onwards the melody begins to deviate (plagizein) and to pass
to the lower region of the voice.85
These explanations might not satisfy modern readers, but apparently con-
tained enough information for Byzantine and medieval Western readers.
The primacy of the tetrachord (a musical given since Antiquity), the div-
ision of the ēchoi by means of two tetrachords (whether conjunct or dis-
junct), and the description of downward movement as a signature of the
plagal ēchoi – which, in many late Byzantine examples, feature a distinct
step-wise descent in their cadences – are all attested from other sources,
and would probably have been drawn in large part from contemporary
experience.86
Bryennius’ treatise is rooted in the ancient Greek tradition, and he both
assumes and demonstrates the relevance of ancient music to contempor-
ary practice. But his ultimate concern, as expressed in the last chapters
of Book 3 of the Harmonics, was the proper composition of a melody.
It is traditional among Byzantine musicologists to draw a dividing line
between “secular” works like the Harmonics and liturgical performance
manuals like the papadikē; in Byzantine eyes, however, the music of both
venues complemented and informed each other.
The patterns of scholarship traced here indicate that the study of
ancient Greek music lay at the foundation of Byzantine chant and its
modal system the Octōēchos. In the past, musicologists like Egon Wellesz
have erected barriers between ancient and Byzantine music, claiming that
they had little if anything to do with each other. It turns out that these
barriers were of our own creation: musical tastes may have changed, new
melodies and new instruments may have been created, but Antiquity
85
Quotation after Bryennius Harm. 3.4, 483.21–484.5 (Bryennius 1970: 317–19).
86
For examples of step-like, descending cadence formulas in the plagal modes, see for example
“Hymns from the Hirmologion,” in Wellesz 1998: 371–84.
never died in Byzantium. For, unlike the West, the East never experienced
a profound cultural breach with its past; as Ihor Ševčenko once explained:
Antique literary and scientific culture was endemic in Byzantium, and the
Byzantines were too familiar with it to react to antiquity as violently as
did the West, which had almost forgotten it for centuries. What we call
Byzantine renaissances are just intensifications of the elite’s contacts with
antiquity – which were never lost – rather than rediscoveries of ancient
culture.87
The Greek on every courtier’s tongue was based on that of Plato and
Aristotle, the heavenly bodies continued to revolve around the Earth
in accordance with Ptolemy’s calculations; likewise the melodies of the
Byzantine world continued to take their course in accordance with
ancient composition techniques. Through the millennia, then, no matter
how many changes the Greek music scene went through, the principles
of composition and performance remained largely the same – and where
they differed, even the differences were understood in terms of ancient
theory and practice.
Koukouzeles’ reforms and the Hesychast movement

By the late thirteenth century, when Pachymeres and Bryennius were
active, one composer is credited with inspiring Byzantine chant’s last
great aesthetic leap forward. Ioannes Papadopoulos, better known as
Koukouzeles, is credited with creating and codifying some of the most
elaborate hymns of his time.88 Although it is unlikely that he is responsible
for every innovation associated with his name, Koukouzeles’ work coin-
cides with numerous important developments. His career appears to over-
lap with the standardization of the “Great Hypostaseis,” a class of musical
signs usually written in red, which gave composers even greater control
over performances of their work.89 Along with an increase in melodic
87
Ševčenko 1975: 19.
88
See Williams and Troelsgård 2014. See also ODB 2.1155, s.v. “Koukouzeles, John”; Dimitri
Conomos, the author of this entry, also has a brief biographical reference in Conomos 1985: 79.
Although traditionally dated to the late Byzantine period, there have recently been arguments that
Koukouzeles’ career may have been some two centuries earlier: see Papathanasiou 1996: 35–41. The
nature of Koukouzeles’ reforms and the lack of evidence for his style of chant before the late four-
teenth century tend to confirm the later date.
89
Musical signs or neumes could be broken down into three categories: sōmata (“bodies”), pneu-
mata (“spirits”), and hypostaseis (“substances”); the theological significance of the first two terms
is self-evident, with the last term recalling the language of the Orthodox formula for the Trinity –
mia ousia, treis hypostaseis (“One Being, Three Substances”). Liturgical manuscripts use a com-
bination of black and red ink, with the red largely reserved for hypostaseis. Gregory Stathis notes
variety and a greater degree of accuracy came a more refined sense of tonal
centers; Dimitri Conomos finds that Koukouzeles’ new melodies became
“fully integrated into the octoechal formulas [which] gravitate inevitably
to strong tones in the modal hierarchy.”90
To ensure the proper execution of his melodies with their complex
changes, Koukouzeles is credited with creating a wheel or trochos illus-
trating various methods of transposition and modulation among the
modes.91 The most popular method of modulation before and after
Koukouzeles’ time was parallagē, “alternation,” which involved moving to
the central note in the ēchos you wished to move into. This was regarded
by Koukouzeles and his successors as crude and old-hat: their preferred
method, and one with roots dating back to Antiquity, was now referred
to as phthora or “dissolution,” and involved selecting a note other than
the center that the two ēchoi held in common as the site for modulation.92
This isn’t to suggest that Koukouzeles composed exclusively in this more
sophisticated vein; one new service book that emerges during this period, the
Akolouthia (“Service”), did not feature new kalophonic chants exclusively,
but contained hymns in a variety of traditional styles.93 Perhaps the most sig-
nificant genre associated with Koukouzeles and his school was the kratēma,
a passage of pure music sung with nonsense syllables, so called because it
“holds back” the progress of a hymn’s lyrics and melody.94 In a liturgical con-
text the kratēma derives its effect from its rejection of conventional discourse;
words having accomplished their task for the moment, the chanter moves
into a nonverbal, purely phatic realm where the congregation is invited to
abandon reason and let the music communicate on its own terms.
Songs with nonsense syllables had long been a popular secular form;
they figure prominently in the early Byzantine Gothic Dance, for example,
which was performed in court during the winter holidays,95 and it is
that Ioannes Glykys is credited with developing the method of signs later perfected by his protégé,
Koukouzeles (Stathis 1997: 203).
90
Conomos 1985: 85.
91
See Raasted 1966: 51, for a facsimile of this chart.
92
See Raasted 1966: 44–5, for an explanation of the two methods. The musical term phthora, like the
rest, has theological implications; it is the term used by Gregory Palamas (about whom see below)
to describe Adam’s “corruption” in the garden of Eden. See Meyendorff 1959: 183.
93
For a brief account of the akolouthia and its contents see Touliatos 1979: 32–4.
94
See Touliatos 1979: 33 and n. 20 for a brief description of the kratēma. Dimitri Conomos notes
that the origins of wordless chant goes back to Christianity’s earliest days (Conomos 1974: 273),
while Touliatos points out that nonsense syllables had been a staple of Greek music since Antiquity
(Touliatos 1989).
95
The Gothic Dance is recorded in the ninth-century Book of Ceremonies – see Albert and Charles
Vogt’s edition (Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus 1935: 1.182–5). On its origins in early Byzantium
see Franceschini 1995: 118–22. Franceschini argues for its origins as early as the late fourth century.
not clear when they were introduced into the Liturgy. However it came
into Church practice, the kratēma’s form suited the aesthetics of prayer
advocated by an especially influential spiritual movement from the late
Byzantine period – Hesychasm, variously translated as “Quietism” or
“Tranquility.” The term refers to a number of interrelated concepts: ori-
ginally a reference to traditional silent monastic prayer, by the fourteenth
century it had become associated with formal spiritual exercises designed
for monk-initiates. It also involved theological concepts derived from the
spiritual teachings of senior Hesychast monks.
The concept of “Tranquility” as a way of life and prayer had long been
a part of monastic life, but apparently had not been codified in the form
of Church doctrine before Gregory Palamas’ time. Palamas (c. 1296–1359),
who eventually became Archbishop of Thessalonica, based his doctrine on
the concept of the inexpressibility of God. For Palamas, who had served
as a cantor during his years among the monks of Mount Athos, divinity
cannot be fully comprehended by reason and is hence unknowable (in an
intellectual sense) and inexpressible.96 It was possible, however, to com-
mune with the Almighty without words, by virtue of the emanations of
divine energeia (“energy”) that encompassed all of creation. Although God
existed beyond all concepts of being, nature or reason, He was under-
stood to exteriorize himself through his energeia and thus participate in
the world; this participation, in turn, was manifested both in silent prayer
and chant.97
Palamas’ theology further refined the traditional analogical approach
to Byzantine ritual. Pseudo-Dionysius, in his Ecclesiastical Hierarchy, had
established a way of reading liturgy as a reflection of an eternal, heav-
enly liturgy. But whereas Hesychasm’s critics understood the analogy as
reflecting a static barrier between the divine and natural realms, Palamas
regarded Pseudo-Dionysius’ system as reflecting a dynamic connection
between them by virtue of God’s energeia. As John Meyendorff explains,
“For [Palamas], ‘understanding via analogy’ had a mystical character: for
him, analogies did not just have a symbolic value … but constituted a true
relationship with God.”98 Where Pseudo-Dionysius’ theories had revised
Neoplatonic philosophy in the light of Christian theology, Palamas’
96
A brief account of Hesychasm can be found in ODB 2.923–4, s.v. “Hesychasm.” The following ana-
lysis will also be based in part on Krivocheine 1954.
97
For a detailed account of how Hesychast pioneers like Palamas and Koukouzeles practiced their
weekly cycle of silent prayer and chant see Lingas 1996b.
98
“Pour [Palamas] la ‘connaissance par analogie’ possédait un caractère mystique: l’analogie n’avait
pas seulement pour lui une valeur de symbole, ... mais il constituait une affinité réele avec Dieu”
(Meyendorff 1957: 550).
reinterpretation takes Dionysian theology and raises it to a more mystical
level.99
Although he accepts the inferior nature of natural phenomena, Palamas
privileges the faculties of sense perception because they are unknown to
the angels, and hence markers of man’s superiority.100 Through this scen-
ario comes an understanding of how liturgical performance, and music in
particular, participates in the divine energies and thus provides both per-
former and congregant alike a unique opportunity, through self-discipline
and prayer, to participate in divine energeia.101 Pseudo-Dionysius portrays
the chanter as a performer who can attune the congregation to higher
thoughts; Palamas goes further by erasing any perceptible barriers between
God, chanter, and congregant, envisioning a unity with divinity that is
ever-present, not merely inferred or invoked through symbolic words and
actions.102
Hesychasm was easily misunderstood by outsiders; Palamas had to
defend its precepts in heated debate, and eventually triumphed.103 His
mystical theory of music, rooted in privileging sense perception, and his
theory of a universal divine presence would prevail from the mid four-
teenth century onward. It is not clear to what extent Palamas’ theology
was informed or inspired by the musical reforms of his day; but once
Hesychasm had the official endorsement of Church and state, it coincided
comfortably with ongoing reforms in liturgical chant. And in the kratēma,
whose nonsense syllables mirrored Palamas’ injunction to abandon rea-
son, Hesychasm found a means of expressing its key concepts as part
of the Liturgy. Palamas and his allies saw themselves as clarifying earlier
theories, not overturning or replacing them. Similarly, developments in
Byzantine chant can be seen as rooted in a continuity of musical thought
99
Palamas’ qualified rejection of traditional Greek philosophy is evident throughout the first Triad
of his “Defense of the Holy Hesychasts”; see for example Palamas Capita 150 1.3, translation in
Palamas 1988: 85–7.
100
“We alone of all creatures possess also a faculty of sense perception in addition to those of intellec-
tion and reason … Furthermore, God granted to men alone that not only could the invisible word
of the mind be subject to the sense of hearing when joined to the air, but also that it could be put
down in writing and seen with and through the body. Thereby God leads us to a clear faith in the
visitation and manifestation of the supreme Word through the flesh in which all angels have no
part at all” (Palamas Capita 150 63, translation in Palamas 1988: 157–9, but see also Capita 150 34–9,
116–27).
101
Alexander Lingas cites a sermon Palamas preached as Archbishop of Thessalonike, on the spiritual
benefits of listening to and taking part in psalmody (Lingas 1996b: 157).
102
As John Meyendorff explains, “Le Christ est réelement présent en eux et leur est accessible sans
intermédiaries symboliques” (Christ is truly present among them and is accessible to them with-
out symbolic intermediaries) (Meyendorff 1959: 270).
103
On the controversy see for example Vasiliev 1964: 2.665–70.
from Antiquity, based on the Church’s careful adaptation of the Octōēchos
to pre-existing theoretical and performance models.
By the late Middle Ages, however, it would have been hard to main-
tain that Byzantine chant was a purely spiritual phenomenon; as discussed
previously, ever since Antiquity it had been common to analyze works of
art by breaking them down into their aesthetic, political, and spiritual
components. A similar process would have been at work especially dur-
ing the late Byzantine period, when the same musicians performed both
in court and church, under the same imperial sponsorship. The positions
of later composer/theorists like Manuel Chrysaphes as both court com-
posers and choir directors imply some degree of interpenetration between
sacred and secular music. And as late Byzantine chanters navigated care-
fully between the sacred and secular realms, their dual identities might
have complicated their audiences’ responses. A kratēma skillfully sung in
Hagia Sophia, although designed as a vehicle for prayerful contemplation
of the divine, might also have drawn attention to itself as a professionally
produced musical composition. Then as now, music’s potential for spir-
itual communication could easily have been mistaken and the perform-
ance mis-classified as a “showpiece.” Listeners more interested in matters
like style and delivery, sitting in the Great Church, might find themselves
comparing the aesthetic qualities of a master’s work and neglect the spirit-
ual content altogether.104
The tension between spirit and spectacle during the late Byzantine
period would have been heightened during performances of arguably
the most spectacular rite of its time, the Office or Service of the Furnace.
Although constructed largely in the tradition of the “sung service,”
asmatikē akolouthia, it contained unprecedented elements that led some
observers to misinterpret it as a sacred drama. The remaining chapters
of this study will explore the roots, aesthetic values, and performance
dynamics of the Service in an attempt to understand whether, or how, the
Orthodox liturgical aesthetic could be so easily misunderstood.
Having explored the development of Orthodoxy’s ritual aesthetic
through its spatial, performance, and musical practices, the final chap-
ters of this study will attempt to draw these threads together by exploring
104
To make matters more complicated, it is entirely possible that the rites of Hagia Sophia were
no longer treated as “standard” at all; the divisions created by the Iconoclast controversy and its
aftermath, together with the influence of cathedral and monastic works from the Holy City of
Jerusalem, had resulted in such a diversity of practices that one liturgist has claimed that as early as
the eleventh century “The [rite] of Hagia Sophia was more and more the rite of that one church”
(Parenti 2011: 466).
the question of Byzantine sacred drama. This section will focus on what
is arguably the most “dramatic” of all the rites performed in the history
of the Eastern Empire: the Service of the Furnace.105 A late Byzantine rite
performed annually in mid December on the Sunday of the Holy Fathers,
the Service celebrated the miraculous rescue of the Prophet Daniel’s three
friends – Ananiah, Azariah, and Mishael – from the fiery furnace of King
Nebuchadnezzar.106 The use of three soloists designated as “children,” ref-
erences to a performance area designated as a “furnace,” as well as the
spectacle of an angel that descended toward the “furnace” have led some
to classify the Service as an example of Byzantine liturgical drama. And the
development of the Service during a period roughly contemporary with
the foundation of the Corpus Christi festivals has created the impression
that both the Eastern and Western churches underwent a similar process
of “development,” a notion largely unchallenged in spite of evidence that
the Service’s authors regarded it as a ritual and took offense at comparisons
with Latin performance practice.
The Service merits close scrutiny because of its purported resemblance
to a liturgical drama; but it bears a detailed, contextual analysis because
even in its own day the Service was subject to diverse readings. It can
105
Scholarship on the Service can be summarized briefly as follows: Constantine Sathas was the first
to mention references the Service; some years later, A. Dmitrievskiĭ (Dmitrievskiĭ 1894) addressed
the origins of a later, explicitly theatrical Russian version of the Service known as the Furnace
Play (about which, see Appendix 7) and included a transcription of one version of the Byzantine
Service. Venetia Cottas (Cottas 1931a: 98–103) offered a detailed analysis of the Byzantine por-
tion of Dmitrievskiĭ’s findings and concluded the Service was an example of a Byzantine
“mystère” (258). In a seminal article some years later, George La Piana devoted so much energy
to castigating Sathas and Cottas that he limited his remarks on the Service to a brief mention of
Sathas’ and Dmitrievskiĭ’s studies (La Piana 1936: 174). Soon after La Piana, Samuel Baud-Bovy
(Baud-Bovy 1938) found that the evidence for any Byzantine sacred drama was unconvincing. On
the other hand, Miloš Velimirović’s groundbreaking study (Velimirović 1962) was the first since
Cottas to enumerate the dramatic and theatrical elements in the Service; he concluded it was an
example of Byzantine liturgical drama. Samuel Baud-Bovy, returning to the Service in his later
years (Baud-Bovy 1975), admits the Service contains within it a “germe dramatique” but main-
tains that Orthodox clergy’s repugnance for pagan theatre prevented the development of a true
Byzantine sacred drama. A number of Western scholars have adopted Velimirović’s terminology
(see for example Taft 1980–1: 74), but Enrico Maltese used much the same evidence as Cottas
and Velimirović to deny that the Service was a drama (Maltese 1997). Meanwhile Walter Puchner
has maintained the evidence is “of doubtful value” (Puchner 2002: 321). By far the most com-
plete study to date is Lingas’ recently published “Late Byzantine Cathedral Liturgy” (Lingas 2011).
Lingas’ expertise in Orthodox liturgical history, his experience as a professional cantor, and his
close study of the late Byzantine cathedral rite as well as Archbishop Symeon’s reforms have proven
invaluable for my own work, and I remain in his debt for his many insights and corrections.
106
See Dan. 3:1–98 (LXX). This Greek translation is known as the Septuagint, after the legendary
“Seventy” who collaborated on the project, and verse numbers will be taken from the Septuagint,
for reasons explained later. The Children may perhaps be better known by their Chaldean names;
Shedrach, Midrach, and Abednego.
be read, in other words, along Kobialka’s lines – i.e. as a heterogeneous
practice emerging from the highly volatile milieu of the Eastern Roman
Empire’s last years. Even those who practiced and crafted the Service were
aware of the rite’s volatility; and although it was positioned as a traditional
akolouthia the Service of the Furnace has been routinely misinterpreted by
outsiders, then as now.
The study of the Service will begin with a brief account of its source text
as found in the Greek, Septuagint edition of the Old Testament (Dan.
3:26–90 [LXX]), including the (apocryphal) canticles attributed to the
Children. After addressing the hymnographic tradition we will then exam-
ine a selection of iconography devoted to the Three Children through the
late Byzantine period – when the Service was performed – to see how they
may have contributed to the Service’s visual construction.
To clarify the historical context for the Service, Chapter 5 will exam-
ine contemporary eyewitness accounts of its performance, both inside
and outside the Orthodox community, and explore the political and theo-
logical milieu in which these eyewitnesses operated. With the musical,
visual, and politico-theological contexts surveyed, Chapter 6 will offer a
detailed analysis of the Service in performance and discuss the diverse con-
notations of its representational practice.
P a rt I I
A study of the Service of the Furnace
Ch apter 4
Origins of the Service
Daniel and its context

The biblical verses that form the basis for the Service come from the
Septuagint version of the Book of Daniel. The bulk of the material is
regarded as either apocryphal or “deutero-canonical” in the Jewish and
Catholic traditions, but all agree on the kernel of the story: three friends
of the prophet Daniel, who like Daniel had been brought from Judah to
Babylon to become members of King Nebuchadnezzar’s court, are thrown
into a fiery furnace as punishment for refusing to worship a golden idol.
An angel of the Lord descends into the furnace, extinguishes the flames,
and Nebuchadnezzar’s soldiers soon discover Daniel’s friends walking
around inside the furnace unharmed, with a fourth figure, “the son of a
god.”1 Nebuchadnezzar orders the three out of the furnace, and issues a
decree tolerating the Jewish faith.
In addition to the canonical text, the Septuagint includes more than sixty
additional verses consisting of two hymns – designated in the Orthodox
tradition as Old Testament canticles – as well as additional narrative pas-
sages. The first hymn, “The Prayer of Azariah” (Dan. 3:24–45 [LXX]),
combines an appeal for God’s mercy with a confession of his people’s
sinfulness. The second, the “Song of the Three Children” (Dan. 3:52–90
[LXX]), occurs after the angel’s arrival; this hymn, known in the West as
the Benedicite, is an exhortation for all of creation to praise the Lord.
First collated and produced during the Hellenistic period (c. 165 bce),
the Greek version of the Book of Daniel provides the ultimate context for
the Service of the Furnace.2 The prophet’s friends are commonly known
as the Three Children, an epithet that refers to the common expression
1
Dan. 3:25 (LXX).
2
For the dating of Daniel, see Moore 1977: 29. The Septuagint edition gave way by the second cen-
tury CE to a recension commonly known as the Theodotion. See Hartman 1978: 76–83 for his dis-
cussion of the origins of this recension.
123
124 A study of the Service of the Furnace
“Children of Israel,” but which may also refer to their status, along with
Daniel, as eunuchs who as young men were very likely castrated prior to
their adoption by King Nebuchadnezzar for royal service.3 All three were
groomed to become Babylonian courtiers, and the text refers to them by
both their Hebrew and Chaldean names.4
The origins of the Book of Daniel remain a subject of debate; critics
since Antiquity have characterized it as an attempt to weave together a
series of disparate, competing narratives. As a result, although the basic
details remain intact in the Jewish and Christian traditions as Dan. 3:1–30,
the verses found in the Septuagint (Dan. 3:26–90 [LXX]) were removed
from Jewish scripture as early as the Council of Jamnia in 90 ce.5 And
despite the adoption of the Benedicite in the West, these verses were
later removed from Western editions of the Bible and offered instead as
“Apocrypha” or “Additions.”6
A prevailing theory of the Book of Daniel’s origins – and one rele-
vant to the present study – is that it was a historicist work, evoking King
Nebuchadnezzar’s reign (c. 600 bce) as a means of exploring later periods,
the reign of Hellenistic King Antiochus IV Epiphanius (175–164 bce) in
particular, which immediately preceded the book’s composition. In this
scenario, seventh-century BCE Babylon became a canvas upon which to
depict the Jews’ persecution under Antiochus.7 The kinship between cer-
tain verses and other canonical texts, as well as the antiphonal form of
the “Song of the Three Children,” has also led some to conclude that
portions may have been based on contemporary Temple or synagogue
psalmody.8
By the time of Antiochus IV, many Jews – the priestly class included –
had assimilated into Greek-speaking culture, and accommodated them-
selves to life under pagan rule.9 And up to his time, Greek authorities
3
See Witt 2002: 240–1 and n. 102. The terms used in Dan. 1.3–4 are υἱῶν and νεανίσκουϛ, “sons” and
“young men.” The status of these “Children” as adults when they suffer persecution is reflected by
the use of the words ἄνδρεϛ Ἰουδαῖοι, “Jewish men,” in Dan. 3.12.
4
See Hartman 1978: 159. 5 Moore 1977: 29.
6
“Jews ultimately chose to omit [Dan. 3:26–90 (LXX)] while the Christians tended to ignore them”
(Moore 1977: 27).
7
See Hartman 1978: 159–60. The presence of both Persian and Greek vocabulary in the canonical
narrative argues for a later date, although Hartman seems to be of the opinion that the original
story (minus its Greek additions) is probably from the era of Persian domination.
8
See Moore 1977: 26, 41, and 42–4. Because there are no extant Hebrew or Aramaic versions of Dan.
3:26–90 (LXX), Moore cites a study in which these Greek verses, both prose and metric passages,
were translated with ease into biblical Hebrew.
9
Assimilation remained a common phenomenon well into the Common Era. See Reynolds and
Tannenbaum, 1987 for evidence of a large, Greek-speaking Jewish community in late Antique
Asia Minor.
Origins of the Service 125
followed the precedent of the great Persian king Cyrus, tolerating Jewish
worship. Antiochus IV broke forcefully with this tradition, closed all
Jewish temples, converted the main Temple in Jerusalem to paganism,
and erected an idol there.10
The Three Children’s story, whatever its origins, directly addressed
the plight of Greek-speaking Jews of that time.11 This context may help
to explain an otherwise puzzling passage in Azariah’s prayer, where he
laments the sins of his people and the destruction of their temples:
You have passed just sentence in everything that you have brought upon us,
and upon Jerusalem, the holy city of our fathers;
For in true justice you have brought about all these things on account
of our sins.
For we have sinned and acted lawlessly by deserting you; we have sinned
in everything.
…
Right now we have no prince, no prophet, no leader; no burnt offering,
no sacrifice, no oblation, no incense; no place to make an offering before
you and find mercy.12
Here, Azariah assumes the burden of sins committed by his community –
which go unmentioned in Daniel proper, but which could refer to the
many Hellenistic Jews made to assimilate with pagan culture. The passage
also offers an unsubtle critique of the political alliances struck between
Jewish religious authorities and their Greek masters – alliances which
were at the heart of the Maccabee revolt. As we shall see, the Prayer of
Azariah’s response to pressures of assimilation and conversion, and to the
loss of houses of worship, would come to have a special resonance among
Greek Orthodox congregations during the late Byzantine period when the
Service of the Furnace was performed.
The Three Children in performance

One of the striking features of the Septuagint version of the Children’s
story is its explicit nature as a performance text. At the conclusion of the
10
See Moore 1977: 26–33; Hartman (1978: 43–4) discusses relevant texts from Josephus’ Antiquities as
well as I and II Macc. These hostile acts would lead to the Maccabee revolt and the foundation of
the Hashmonean Dynasty.
11
“The Book of Daniel as a whole may rightly be viewed as a pacifistic manifesto … which was
composed and widely circulated to urge and encourage the faithful Jews to remain steadfast in the
practice of the religion of their fathers” (Hartman 1978: 43).
12
Dan. 3:28–9 and 38 (LXX), as found in the Anchor Bible (Moore 1977: 54–5).
Benedicite the narrator interrupts the flow of the story to address the protago-
nists, as well as the audience:
Bless the Lord, Hananiah, Azariah, and Mishael,
sing his praise and highly exalt him forever.
For he has snatched us “from the nether world”
…
Bless the God of gods, all you who worship the Lord,
sing his praise and give thanks,
for his mercy endures for ever.13
Having shifted from the traditional storytelling mode, the reader now thrusts
the congregation – all ancient texts were intended for live performance –
into a realm where characters, reader, and audience are together in the same
room, thus creating a kind of ephemeral sacred space.
The latter-day citation of Dan. 3:88–90 (LXX) in the course of the Service
of the Furnace highlights the issue of how relationships among live perform-
ers, sacred narrative, and audience are constructed in a ritual context. And
given the performative nature of the source text, it should come as no sur-
prise that both canticles associated with the Three Children became features
of the urban Orthodox rite. The second canticle, the Benedicite, came to
occupy a prominent liturgical position as a central part of the early-morning
Orthros (Matins) and was usually chanted to mark the end of services in the
narthex and the beginning of services in the nave of the church itself.14
In keeping with the Christian tradition of appropriating Jewish nar-
rative as a prefiguration of Christ’s ministry, hymnographers celebrated
the Children’s story, adopting different levels of interpretation. By the
sixth century the composer Romanos the Melode could work from the
original biblical text as well as sermons from such early Church figures
as Hippolytus, Cyril of Alexandria, and (Pseudo-)Chrysostomos to create
an elaborate kontakion commemorating the Three Children on their feast
day, December 17.15
Originally designed as the sung equivalent of a homily, the kontakion
was a hymn of up to thirty stanzas complete with prologue, narrative,
participatory choruses, and epilogue. Because Romanos embellished his
biblical narratives with dialogue and vivid imagery, his work has been
positioned in the past as “proto-dramatic,”16 but this glosses over the
13
Dan. 3:88–90 (LXX), translation from the Anchor Bible (Moore 1977: 68–9).
14
Witt notes the central role of the Benedicite in the Western tradition (Witt 2002: 241 and n. 103).
15
See Romanos the Melode 1964–81: 1.356, and 1970–3: 2.133.
16
George La Piana tried to position the kontakion as a nascent dramatic form (see La Piana 1912: 51).
Marjorie Carpenter, La Piana’s protégée, published her translations of Romanos as full-fledged
kontakion’s complex origins in both indigenous and Hellenistic cultural
forms. Being Syrian by birth, Romanos worked within a poetic tradition
whose roots date back as far as the Sumerian Precedence Disputation or
“Dispute Poem” and which had, by early Byzantine times, given rise to
chanted homilies in Syriac like the memra and the soghitha, genres made
popular by composers like St. Ephrem.17 By Romanos’ time, the indi-
genous Syrian tradition had already been informed by Hellenistic cul-
ture for over 800 years, so his education would have included training
in Greek music theory as well as the art of rhetoric. Music theory would
have informed his method of composition, while in terms of the lyrics
Romanos’ classical education and training in rhetoric would enable him
to use ēthopoieia and its conservative mode of enactment, thus enlivening
the biblical story while avoiding crude theatrics.
Even if we grant the homily-like function of his kontakion and its need
to teach as well as comment on the spiritual significance of a biblical epi-
sode, there is no evidence that Romanos intended his works be performed
as dramas. The emphasis on interactivity and lay participation in both the
Syriac and Hellenistic traditions meant that Romanos had ample means
to use the kontakion as a way of drawing the congregation into the story,
both mentally and aurally, through simple refrains that everyone could
sing together.
In Romanos’ kontakion on the Three Children, there is additional dia-
logue created for Nebuchadnezzar, the Chaldean governors, as well as the
Children. Even the Angel, mute in the original story, exhorts the Children
upon its arrival in the furnace:
But the angel descended from Heaven to those with Azariah
And aroused them to song, saying
“Holy children, hear what I say:
I do what was ordered; you do what you were taught
While I rein in the fire, you brace up the tongue;
While I dim the blazing, you sharpen the singing.
Fear nothing, the fire won’t trouble you.18
dramas (see Carpenter 1970–3: 1.xx–xxii). Grosdidier de Matons, by contrast, characterizes it as

“une homélie métrique, de caractère souvent narratif ou dramatique” (a homily in metre, of a char-
acter that is often narrative or dramatic) (Romanos the Melode 1964–81: 1.15).
17
For a brief history of ancient dispute poems and their legacy in Syrian religious poetry see Murray
1995. Murray places the dispute poem in a broader context of competitive games and argues for a
common, multi-lingual tradition of dispute poetry; he doubts that Ephrem had a direct influence
on Romanos, stressing instead a “common tradition” (Murray 1995: 184). Compare Murray’s study
with the earlier treatment in Wellesz 1998: 183–9. See also Brock 2002.
18
Romanos Melodos Cantica 46.23, translation after Romanos the Melode 1964–81: 1.392–4.
Romanos’ Angel performs the same function as that of the narrator in
Dan. 3:88–90 (LXX), encouraging the Children and congregation to sing
the refrain with renewed fervor. He also mingles citations from the Old
Testament (tradition says he was a Jewish convert) and the Gospels at will;
he even alludes to a widely known Christological interpretation of the
story by giving the Children’s angel an appearance that alternates between
divine and human – inviting comparisons between the Angel in the fur-
nace and Jesus himself.19
The kontakion survived for centuries as a hymnographic form, and was
designed for performance in urban cathedrals at the conclusion of the
popular evening service the Pannychis. But by the ninth century, with the
conclusion of the Iconoclast controversy and the ascendance of iconodule
monasteries like St. John of Stoudios in Constantinople, the kontakion
had been absorbed into other parts of the liturgical cycle and Romanos’
original thirty stanzas reduced to two.20 By this time, composers had
turned their pens to a daily cycle of brief odes rooted in the canticles of
the Old Testament.21 Known as the kanons, their purpose was not so much
to tell a story as to reflect upon its spiritual or Christological meaning.22
They were structured to include an initial heirmos or model stanza, with
several more stanzas to follow; a convenient format, because in later years
the heirmos itself came to be used as a stand-alone piece.23
Some of the most famous hymnographers from this period were monks
who had been at the forefront of the iconoclast controversy, defending the
use of sacred images. With the restoration of the icons it is understandable
that the major urban churches, influenced by these heroic composer/theo-
logians, would have added the kanons to their repertoire at least in part in
recognition of their efforts.24
Perhaps because of their monastic origins, and perhaps because the
kanons emerged during a period when the Church was questioning its
19
Romanos Melodos Cantica 46.25, translation after Romanos the Melode 1964–81: 1.396.
20
For a brief history of the kontakion see Arranz 1988.
21
The kanons are only the best known of the genres created between the seventh and ninth centuries;
see Arranz 1982: 712.
22
See Wellesz 1998: 198–216. Wellesz finds that the somber mood of the iconoclastic period, as well
as Canon 19 of the Council “In Trullo” of 692, which reinstituted the delivery of a weekly sermon,
together spelled the end of the kontakion (1998: 204). Later scholarship has questioned Wellesz’s
scenario; Lingas (1996a: 141) points out that in later years kontakia were “paraliturgical composi-
tions” designed for insertion between the liturgical hours, whereas the kanons, characterized by a
“relatively formal linguistic idiom” (142) were actually part of the liturgical hours proper.
23
See ODB 2.908, s.v. “heirmologion,” and 2.1102, s.v. “kanon.” As we shall see, heirmoi from the
kanons featured prominently in the Service of the Furnace.
24
See also Lingas 1996a: 129–69 for a summary of monastic influence on urban rites.
ritual aesthetics – when even the use of sacred images was in doubt – these
hymns reflect a more mature theology. Melodically the two forms may
not have differed substantially, both relying as they did on simpler syl-
labic chant; but lyrically, there was a decisive aesthetic shift. Here, the
contrast between the kanon and the kontakion was significant; for where
the kontakion was primarily a didactic, narrative form the kanon served
a more spiritual or meta-narrative function. Eschewing extended story
lines, it focused instead on one point or even one idea in the narrative, so
that taken together the kanons amount to a series of footnotes or spiritual
hypertext links.
Organized around the canticles of the Old Testament, the kanons
associated with the Three Children formed the basis for the seventh and
eighth odes. Exact placement of the kanons varied; they could be sung
together or distributed among the various antiphons sung during the
Orthros, or during other rites in the liturgical program. And because the
Children’s canticles were sung daily in the monastic rites of Palestine and
Constantinople, their kanons figured prominently in those communities.25
On the eve of the Latin conquest of Constantinople in 1204, there were
cycles of kanons for most if not all of the days in the liturgical calendar;
moreover, cantors and choirs could choose from any number of cycles for
each date, since many existed for each of the eight modes (the Octōēchos)
performed each week in Orthodox services. Among the numerous kanons
based on the Children’s story, the ideas varied widely; in one case, based
on the seventh canticle, the “Prayer of Azariah,” St. Andrew of Sabas does
little more than attribute the Children’s salvation to Jesus:
The fire, Savior, did not burn or harm your Three Children, and the three
praised and cried out as with one voice, singing
“Blessed is the God of our fathers.”26
And for the corresponding eighth ode, Andrew merely cites a verse or two
from the “Song of the Three Children“:
Ye heavens of the heavens, and ye waters above the heavens,
bless, praise the Lord.27
In their simplest form, then, the odes of the kanon demanded little more
than a basic knowledge of the story. But other composers used the odes to
25
See Strunk 1955–6: 192–5. Strunk notes that Hagia Sophia made rare use of the canticles, and
accordingly had less use for the kanons that went with them.
26
Høeg 1952: 91. 27 Høeg 1952: 91.
construct elaborate metaphors, in one instance comparing the fiery fur-
nace to the womb of the Virgin Mary.28
The kanons are associated initially with the Palestinian monastic commu-
nity of St. Sabas, renowned in the eighth and ninth centuries for its defense
of sacred images. But this community had always been influenced by the
hymnography of the cathedral church of the Resurrection in Jerusalem,
whose rites they adopted when the community was first founded.29 From
Palestine the kanons were transmitted to the Constantinopolitan monas-
tery of St. John the Forerunner of Stoudios, another major center of icon
veneration.30 The monks of Stoudios, in turn, proved to be highly influ-
ential in middle Byzantine liturgical reforms in Constantinople. So given
the fluidity with which traditions appear to move from city to monas-
tery and back, it is possible to view changes in the urban Byzantine rite
as the result of an ongoing conversation among monks and urban clergy
down through the centuries. In comparing the kontakion and the kanon,
however, the chief distinction is between urban hymnography’s emphasis
on biblical narrative and monastic hymnography’s preference for spiritual
contemplation. There are clear differences between these two communi-
ties in terms of their liturgical needs, rooted in the distinct models of piety
that prevailed in the public and private spheres.31
As discussed in the previous chapter, later developments in hymnog-
raphy marked an even stronger departure from the narrative aesthetic of
the earlier kontakion. Kalophonic chant, with its sophisticated melodic
stylings, became an increasingly widespread practice – made possible in
part by the introduction of a new class of musical neumes, the hyposta-
seis, which enabled later composers like Koukouzeles and Chrysaphes to
distribute “recordings” of live performances which were produced with a
remarkable degree of fidelity. An increased emphasis on melody, together
with the introduction of the purely musical kratēma, represents a defini-
tive rejection of traditional representational practice.32 The progression, in
cultural terms, is from narrative to meta-narrative to non-verbal, purely
28
Canon 1, Ode 7, first authentic mode, as found Høeg 1952: 25–8.
29
See Frøyshov 2012: 254–9.
30
On the name and history of this monastery see ODB 3.1960–1, s.v. “Stoudios Monastery.”
31
But see also Taft 1992: 67. Taft characterizes the iconodule’s theory of images, and its influence
on the development of elaborate decorative programs in middle Byzantine churches as evidence
of “the victory of monastic popular devotion over a more spiritualist and symbolic approach to
liturgy.” The use of painted images can be seen, in one sense, as more “realistic” or “popular,” but
the degree of abstraction inherent in traditional Byzantine iconography, including the monastic
frescoes discussed in the next section of this chapter, places such images – like the kanons – outside
the province of traditional realism.
32
See ODB 3.2025–6, s.v. “Teretismata,” and Touliatos 1989: 231–43.
phatic discourse. With this emphasis on pure music as the ultimate
form of prayer we reach the pinnacle of Byzantine mysticism, with the
Hesychast movement providing the theological rationale for the practice.
As noted already, the irony of these musical reforms is that melodic
sophistication – from an outsider’s perspective – could be easily miscon-
strued as aesthetic display. Increasingly elaborate rituals, rich vestments,
grand processions throughout the nave, sermons rich in rhetorical display,
all topped off by mellifluous chant may have inspired some pilgrims to
utter that they knew not whether they were in Heaven or on Earth; but to
the uninitiated, the whole enterprise might cross the bright line between
sacred and secular performance. And if composers and chanters worked in
both court and church simultaneously it only confused matters further;
for all its beauty and spiritual potential it is possible that the kratēma in
particular, which figures prominently in some versions of the Service, may
have added to the perception that the Orthodox Church conceived of its
rites primarily as spectacle.
The Three Children: an iconographical survey

Because visual elements figure prominently in its classification as a litur-
gical drama, and because sacred images play a central role in Orthodox
church decoration, there is the question of how the iconographical trad-
ition may have influenced the Service’s composition. The following pages
will examine several images of the Three Children from the middle and
late Byzantine period to demonstrate how they would have suggested
approaches for ritual performance. Because Byzantine images have in the
past been over-interpreted as visual records of dramatic performances,33
and because there is no evidence that the Service was performed before the
late fourteenth century, the assumption here will be that the iconographic
tradition provided guidelines for conduct of the Service, not vice versa.
As with other episodes from the Old Testament, the tale of the Three
Children invited a variety of visual interpretations throughout the Eastern
Empire’s history. From its earliest depictions on sarcophagi34 to its later
realizations as frescoes during the Palaiologan era, the story of the Three
33
See for instance Brehier 1921. The only counter-example would be the traditional frescoes within
the sanctuary apse, which depict early Church Fathers as co-celebrants, scrolls in hand.
34
See for example Stommel 1954: fig. 1, where the Three Children occupy the top stratum, opposite a
depiction of Jonah and the whale. See also Schiller 1971: fig. 57, where the Children are positioned
to the left of an image of the Three Magi.
Children appeared as an episode in its own right but also, and often, as
part of a complex allegorical system of imagery.
In the post-iconoclastic period, when the Three Children became a part
of a church’s architectural rhetoric, the media of interior sacred spaces
invited several variations. A fresco from the eleventh-century Dark Church
of Cappadocia35 depicts an archangel – tradition ascribes the miracle to
the Archangel Michael – centered above the Children, arms and wings
outstretched. Hovering over their heads, the angel’s height and wingspan
suggest a parental figure who comforts and protects its charges. Although
adults in the original story, the Children are depicted here as beardless
youths, a choice with a dual significance: on one level their spiritual pur-
ity is made analogous to the innocence of young boys.36 But on a more
practical level there is evidence that after a period of skittishness during
Christianity’s early years, when the Children’s status as court eunuchs was
only hinted at, tenth- and eleventh-century writers openly discussed their
ambiguous sexual status. In an example of the circularity of social construc-
tions of gender, the revival of traditions like this enabled Byzantine authors
to cite biblical precedent when defending the widespread traffic in castrati
throughout Christendom.37 The Children’s guardian angel, the Archangel
Michael, was genderless as well and probably for similar reasons.38
Although the biblical furnace was described as an enclosed space,39
at the Dark Church the furnace’s dimensions are significantly altered; it
now appears as a square, thigh-high brick balustrade, with smoke and fire
pouring out from hearths positioned under each of the Children. Here
again, the imagery draws from contemporary practice: public executions
at the hippodrome in Constantinople used an open-air pyre to ensure a
good view of the victim’s immolation.40 The tradition of visual access to
35
See Yenipinar and Sahin 1998: 73.
36
See LSJ, s.v. “παῖς.”
37
On evolving attitudes toward eunuchs in general, and the status of Daniel and the Children in
particular, see Ringrose 2003: 87–100; on the deliberate rewriting of history to further justify the
medieval Byzantine court’s use of castrati see Ringrose 2003: 100–7.
38
Cyril Mango once observed, “Whenever angels and archangels make themselves manifest in the
Lives of saints and other edifying texts they do so in the guise of Eunuchs or imperial cubicularii”
(Mango 1984: 44 and n. 8). A fuller exposition of eunuchs among the heavenly host can be found
in Mango 1980: 151–5.
39
In an illumination of a monastic psalter (book of hymns), the Children are depicted inside a
kiln-like structure, complete with Nebuchadnezzar and guards standing by in disbelief: see Huber
1989: 172, fig. 55.
40
The entertainment value of such a spectacle is, of course, questionable. Niketas Choniates offers
an especially grisly description of a medieval execution where the victim jumped out of the flames
repeatedly before being thrown in for good (Nik. Chon. Chron. 310.61–311.89, English translation
in Choniates 1984: 172).
public executions, however gruesome, provided iconographers with a way to
provide visual access to the Children and, more importantly, the moment of
their salvation.
In spite of this echo of contemporary Byzantine practice, the treatment
and positioning of the archangel enables the observer to engage in a more
spiritual mode of contemplation. The verticality created by the angel’s
presence – hovering as he does above the Children – directs the gaze to
an image of the Resurrection above. The ensemble invites the viewer to
think about the symbolic relationship between the two biblical events,
and to understand the Children’s ordeal and triumph as a prefiguration of
Christ’s. Moreover, because the archangel and Jesus are depicted in similar
proportions it is possible to identify Jesus with the archangel, a reminder
of the hymnographic tradition and Romanos’ kontakion in particular.41
The Dark Church frescoes place the Children in a side-aisle which, apart
from its potential use as a side-chapel, is also associated with the diaconicon,
the chamber to the right of the sanctuary. But in other sites, the iconographic
schemes establish a direct relationship between the Children and the Divine
Liturgy. In Mistras, a Crusader outpost that became a provincial capital in
late Byzantine times, the Children are featured in the sanctuary of the cen-
tral church (or katholikon) for a monastery dedicated to the Virgin known
as Peribleptos (“Seen all around”). Dated approximately to the fourteenth
century (Figures 7 and 8), the Three Children are placed inside the sanctuary
and above the archway that leads from the sanctuary to the diaconicon. In
the rendering taken during his early twentieth-century survey, Gabriel Millet
found stone-cropped mountains framing the composition, with the angel
adopting much the same pose as at the Dark Church.42
The image at Peribleptos occupies the second tier in a multi-tiered
composition: bishops flank the archway at floor level, represented as
co-celebrants with scrolls opened to key passages in the Liturgy; dir-
ectly above the archway, in the second register, are the Children. The
Communion of the Apostles (the eternal, heavenly version of the
Eucharistic Rite) is depicted in the third register above the Children, with
Jesus offering wine to his disciples. In the barrel vault overhead, crowning
the lower ranks of bishops, Old Testament episodes and scenes from the
Heavenly Communion, is the Ascension of Christ (Figure 9).43 Because
41
The motif of Jesus as the Children’s savior was also popular in the West, as reflected in Jerome’s
Vulgate Bible (Réau 1979: 398).
42
See Millet 1910: vol. ii, pl. 111.
43
A detailed scheme for this part of the sanctuary is in Dufrenne 1970: pl. 29. Dufrenne dates the
church to the mid fourteenth century (13), based on its similarity to other churches built in the
Figure 7 Sketch of the Three Children from the sanctuary of the katholikon
of Peribleptos monastery, Mistras. From Millet 1910: vol. ii, pl. 111
the Communion of the Apostles represents the heavenly prototype of

the “Mystical Supper,” the Three Children are vertically aligned, in both
image and thought, with mystical events beyond human sight.44 This is in
addition to their already being associated, by virtue of their position in the
sanctuary, with the Eucharist.
same period in Mistras. Dufrenne also posits that the inclusion of Old Testament episodes is
emblematic of artists from the late Byzantine period who “returned” to early Christian sources
for their inspiration (28); but the ubiquity of the Children during various periods complicates this
theory.
44
Christopher Walter contrasts the Last Supper’s historia, its temporal, narrative connotation, with
the Communion of the Apostle’s theoria, or liturgical meaning; see Walter 1982: 185. Walter finds
that although the Last Supper may have been an iconographic subject from early times, iconog-
raphy of the Communion of the Apostles is not attested before Nicholas Mesarites’ description of
the restored church of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople, c. 1200 (186–7 and n. 110). Meanwhile
Gerstel (1999: 56–9) points out that the image of Communion represents the priests’ experience
because they receive the elements directly (i.e. without a spoon) and inside the sanctuary. The pos-
sible ideological connotations of this episode, relating to the eleventh-century “azyme” controversy,
are also worth consideration (58–9).
Figure 8 Fresco of the Three Children, as restored, Peribleptos monastery, Mistras.

Photograph by the author
One of the best-preserved Byzantine images of the episode from the early
fourteenth century is a fresco found in the katholikon of Vatopaidi monas-
tery on Mount Athos (Figure 10). Founded in the tenth century, by the late
Byzantine period Vatopaidi had acquired imperial sponsorship and – with
its ample port – served as a major spiritual retreat for the Empire’s elite.45
The icon scheme here was very likely commissioned by a member of the
Palaiologan royal family, which might explain its richness of detail. What
sets this icon apart is that it de-emphasizes the furnace and portrays the
Children as individuals, each in distinctly colored oriental costume. Their
legs, now clearly visible, are bent at the knee as if in motion and their hands
are upraised in prayer. Ananiah and Mishael, often depicted frontally, have
turned their bodies sideways, to either side of Azariah; both gaze upward to
the angel, but with their faces turned slightly toward the viewer.46
45
See Oikonomides 1998: 44–53. On the vital economic role played by the monastery during this
period see also Laiou 1999.
46
Papaggelos 1998: 1.252.
Figure 9 South sanctuary wall of the katholikon in Peribleptos monastery, Mistras.

Photo by the author
Figure 10 Fresco of the Three Children, from the North Choir of the katholikon (central
church) of Vatopaidi monastery on Mount Athos. From Papaggelos 1998: 252
Note how at Vatopaidi the wall of the furnace is barely calf-high, virtu-
ally eliminating the visual barrier between viewer and subjects, enhancing
the image’s fresh, performative aspects. The archangel’s facial expression,
like those of the children, is more detailed – making more explicit their
identification as eunuchs – and he wears a white robe with purple cloth
hung over one shoulder. Because the purple cloth blends in with the back-
ground of the fresco, and the furnace’s barrier is clearly visible behind the
children, the angel appears to hover over them without being inside the
furnace. Given the rubrics for the Service, in which an icon hovers over
the soloists, this fresco comes closest to anticipating – perhaps even pre-
scribing – how the rite should be performed.
The katholikon at Vatopaidi is dedicated to the Annunciation and hence
to the Virgin Mary; as we have seen, the Children’s furnace is sometimes
interpreted as a prefiguration of Mary’s womb, which perhaps explains
why this is the only Old Testament episode included in the church’s icon-
ography. The fresco, located in the North Choir (transept), is grouped
with images from the life of the Virgin Mary and Jesus.47 The Children
occupy the first rank of images, directly beneath the apocryphal episode
of Mary’s Blessing by the Priests.48 Directly across from the Children, in
the first rank, is a fresco of Jesus explaining the Washing of Feet, and the
second rank above Jesus depicts the Presentation of Mary at the Temple,
an episode that has long been honored by the Orthodox with its own feast
day.49 The half-dome that tops these two ranks contains an image of the
Lamentations of the Virgin, an episode that becomes increasingly import-
ant in the Orthodox world during this period.
Interpreting the Children’s role in this ensemble is, admittedly, less
straightforward than at the Dark Church of Cappadocia described earl-
ier; the context suggests that monks were invited to think beyond
47
See Papaggelos 1998: 1.236 for a picture of the North Choir with the Children in the first rank and
episodes of Mary above. In the Orthodox monastic tradition the two choirs, known as “right” and
“left,” occupy semi-circular apses opposite each other in the nave. For commentary on the signifi-
cance of the Children’s placement see Papaggelos 1998: 1.253.
48
This episode appears in chapter 6 of the (Proto-)Gospel of James, a sort of prequel to the Gospels
containing a detailed account of Mary’s life that differs in some respects from the canonical trad-
ition. Now deemed apocryphal, the Gospel of James was in wide circulation after its appearance
in the second century CE, and its episodes were incorporated into the Orthodox iconographical
tradition.
49
The episode, like that of the Blessing by the Priests, is from the Gospel of James (chapter 7). During
the Crusader period this feast attracted considerable attention from Catholic authorities, and Pope
Gregory XI is credited with its introduction into the West. In Crusader-occupied Cyprus, the
French diplomat Philippe de Mézières was so impressed by local Orthodox observances that he
wrote a representatio dramatizing the episode, and had it performed in Avignon in 1385. For a trans-
lation and description see Mézières 1971.
the normal narrative implications and prefigurations associated with
lay-church ensembles like the Dark Church. The fact that crucial episodes
from diverse times in Mary’s life are placed together – the Blessing of the
Priests occurs in her infancy, the Presentation when she is only three years
old, while the rest occur during her maturity – seems to encourage con-
templation of her life cycle as a whole, which could be a rather intense
spiritual exercise.
This survey of the iconography, admittedly limited, still suggests a range
of possible representational strategies for performances of the Service.
Because the Children’s story admitted a variety of possible interpretations,
their image seems to roam around the church interior, residing sometimes
inside the sanctuary and sometimes in the nave, aligned with episodes as
various as Jesus’ life and ministry, the earthly and heavenly liturgy, Mary’s
womb, as well as the salvation of mankind.
The tradition of interpreting the Children’s story in various ways har-
monizes with the constantly shifting interpretations of the Children’s can-
ticles – especially as found in the hymnographic genre of the kanon. These
interpretations, together with the development of more elaborate melis-
matic chants like the kratēma, make it possible to see performances of
the Service as taking place in an increasingly abstract field of musical and
visual practice, distinct from the scenic realism that had come into vogue
in the medieval West. The diversity of interpretations, likewise, reminds
us that ritual is at heart a localized practice, in which variety rather than
uniformity is the key to unlocking its potential meanings.
In a perhaps more ominous development, by late Byzantine times we
begin to see the narthex of new churches decorated with icons evoking the
Underworld and the Day of Judgment. The journey from narthex to nave
was thus more explicitly linked with the journey from Hell to Heaven,
and the image of the Three Children was now featured in the narthex,
perhaps as a promise of salvation.50
50
For example, the Three Children are included in the narthex of the late Byzantine Church of the
Dormition of the Virgin in Kalambaka, in northern Thessaly. Although not the subject of aca-
demic study (to my knowledge), it speaks to a more dire, fateful vision of the faith than before, and
for reasons that will be detailed in the next chapter.
Ch apter 5
The Service’s historical context
Eyewitness accounts
Although its exact beginnings remain unclear, eyewitness accounts con-
firm that the Service of the Furnace was performed from at least the late
fourteenth to the mid fifteenth century.1 In these accounts, interpretations
of the Service vary and seem to hinge on a number of factors – not least
among them whether the eyewitnesses were Orthodox Christians. These
varied interpretations, in turn, will set the stage for our next chapter’s
close reading of the Service’s rubrics, in order to understand how and why
these witnesses disagree.
The earliest description comes from the Russian cleric Ignatius
of Smolensk, a member of the entourage of Moscow’s Metropolitan
Pimen, who arrived in Constantinople in late June 1389 to lobby the
Patriarch. Pimen was engaged in an ongoing dispute about the legitim-
acy of his appointment as the head of the church of “Great Russia,” but
he passed away shortly before he reached Constantinople; with his case
at an end, Pimen’s rival Cyprian was (re-)installed as Metropolitan and
sent to Moscow.2 Perhaps in part because his superior’s rival was now the
Metropolitan of his church, Ignatius remained in Constantinople for
some time; among his journal entries for December 1389 he includes the
first extant reference to performances of the Service:
1
Lingas 2011 provides a detailed account of the several threads of liturgical tradition that eventually
resulted in this rite. As Lingas and I have noted, earlier scholars tried to date it to the Middle Ages
(see Velimirović 1962: 353 and n. 15, who based his assertions on Dmitrievskiĭ 1923–6: 139–40). An
eleventh-century Typikon’s reference to a ἅγιος φουρνός, or “holy oven” in the skeuophylakion of
Hagia Sophia was mistaken as a reference to the κάμινος, “kiln,” that is referred to in the Service. In
Greece to this day, the word φουρνός indicates an oven for cooking or baking; and Lingas points out
that a more common use for a church oven like this would have been to burn spoiled Eucharistic
bread, and prepare the ashes used for holy chrism (Lingas 2011: 227).
2
See Majeska 1984: 388–94.
140
The Service’s historical context 141
On the Sunday before Christmas I saw how the “Furnace of the Three
Children” is performed in St. Sophia. It was after the patriarch had rever-
ently celebrated the holy liturgy in all hierarchical dignity.3
If this translation of the passage is correct, the timing of the performance
would be unusual because all extant rubrics for the Service clearly state it
was to be performed after Orthros and before, not after, the Divine Liturgy.
Unfortunately, this is all Ignatius cares to say about the Service; by con-
trast, he gives a detailed description of the coronation of Manuel II in
February 1390, the record of which proved to be of great value for his later
Russian readers. And because he was still in Constantinople during the
spring of 1390 and witnessed the palace coup led by John VII Palaiologos,
he gives a vivid account of the violence that ensued.4
Given his keen interest in events he had not seen before, and his lack of
interest in others, it would appear that Ignatius was already familiar with
the Service – although exactly how remains a mystery. Greek service books
were routinely transmitted to Russia, and it is likely that certain portions
of the Service may have already been incorporated into services there. In
the years after the fall of Constantinople we have evidence for an elaborate,
highly theatrical variation on the Service performed in Moscow well into
the 1600s.5 But even if this rite had not yet appeared in Russia it is likely
that a description would have reached Ignatius through other pilgrims to
Constantinople. Whatever the reason may be for the brevity of Ignatius’
description, it is significant that he saw nothing remarkable in the Service’s
liturgical practice apart (possibly) from its late performance time.6
Our second eyewitness is Bertrandon de la Broquière, a courtier to
Duke Philip the Good of Burgundy, who had been sent on a spy mis-
sion to the Ottoman and Byzantine empires. Disguising himself as a
“Saracen,” he had traveled from Jerusalem throughout Asia Minor on
horseback, arriving in Constantinople in the early winter of 1432.7 Once
3
Majeska 1984: 233–4, italics mine. Because there are different approaches to translating this passage
from Old Church Slavonic, I have placed one crucial word from Majeska’s translation in italics. In
private correspondence, Dr. Lingas has pointed to a more recent Russian translation (see Prokofiev
1984: 281–2) which eliminates the italicized word altogether. The dispute seems to center on the use
of the dative case at the beginning of the second sentence; lacking a background in either of these
Slavic tongues, I gladly yield to the better judgment of those who are experts in this field.
4
See Majeska 1984: 100–13, but see also 51–2 on the importance of Ignatius’ account of Manuel II’s
coronation.
5
See Appendix 7 to this study, “The Russian Furnace Play.”
6
For later developments in the Russian incarnation of the Service, see Swoboda 2002 and Appendix 7.
7
Financial records from the Burgundian court indicate that he had been sent by Duke Phillip to spy on
the Turks and Byzantines. See La Broquière 1971: xvii. Shafer, editor of this edition of the narrative, also
gives an account of la Broquière’s career both before and after this undercover operation (xiv–xxxiii).
in Constantinople, la Broquière made a few obligatory excursions to see
the churches and holy relics of the capital and in December attended ser-
vices at Hagia Sophia:
I went one day to see the patriarch celebrate services in their manner; there
were the Emperor, his mother, his wife (who was a beautiful woman),
daughter of the Emperor of Trapezond, and his son who was despot of
Morea. I watched all day to see how they do and produce the mystery of the
three children that Nebuchadnezzar threw into the furnace.8
Although the term “mystère” has multiple meanings – it could just as easily
indicate Sunday services in general – the fact that la Broquière describes
the Service in this way implies that the performance he witnessed some
forty-odd years after the Russian traveler Ignatius may have looked like a
sacred drama. As with Ignatius, la Broquière says nothing further about
the Service; but in this case his neglect is not so much because of familiar-
ity as it is because of his writing habits. His first modern editor, Legrand
d’Aussy, complained that for all his intelligence and good judgment, the
Burgundian spy writes “avec negligence et abandon,” often forgetting his
place in the narrative.9 This is certainly the case here; no sooner does la
Broquière promise his readers a detailed description of the Service of the
Three Children, than he forgets all about it. Lest his reader get the impres-
sion that la Broquière had actually stayed in Hagia Sophia all day, he con-
fesses what really caught his eye:
I went the whole day without drinking or eating until Vespers, quite late,
to see the Empress, who was dining in a house nearby, because I thought
she looked so fine in church, to see her again and how she mounts a horse.10
It seems la Broquière did not stay out of pious devotion, but because he
had taken a fancy to the Empress; so unlike the pilgrims who stood next
8
“Je veiz un jour ledit patriarche faire le service à leur maniere auquel estoient l’Empereur, sa mere,
sa femme qui estoit une tresbelle dame, fille de l’empereur de Trapezonde, et son frere qui estoit
dispot de la Mourée. Je attendi tout le jour pour veoir leur maniere de faire, et firent un mistere de
trios enfans que Nabuchodonosor fist mettre en la fournaise” (La Broquière 1971: 154–5). His edi-
tor, C. Schefer, thinks the Service might have been brought to Constantinople by Empress Anne of
Savoy, wife of Andronicus III Palaiologos (1328–41) (see La Broquière 1971: 156, n. 1). Meanwhile
in the West, there was a monastic tableau from the seventh or eighth century in which three young
men sit silently while the Benedicite was sung (Klawitter 1991: 47–8; for the original language of the
rite see Thibaut 1929: 35). This Gallican rite, however, was later suppressed and there is nothing to
connect it with developments some five or six centuries later in Constantinople.
9
See La Broquière 1804: 467.
10
“Et fus tout le jour sans boire et sans mengier jusques au vespre, bien tard, pour veoir l’Emperix,
laquelle avoit disné en ung hostel prez de là pour ce quelle m’avoit samblé si belle à l’eglise, pour la
veoir dehors, et la maniere comment elle aloit à cheval” (La Broquière 1971: 156).
to him at services, he left Hagia Sophia and stood outside a nearby hos-
tel, enduring all manner of hardship, even starving himself, just to see
her again. In time his privations were rewarded and she re-emerged; as a
result, instead of learning how the Orthodox conduct their solemn cath-
edral rites la Broquière’s reader is treated to a detailed description of how
a Byzantine empress mounts her horse (in the man’s style, apparently) for
her ride back to the palace.11
La Broquière’s short attention span aside, he often displays the
naïveté of a tourist: he discreetly notes the presence of “three of those
men the Turks entrust with their wives,”12 i.e. eunuchs, in the Empress’s
entourage, implying the Palaiologan court had adopted Turkish cus-
tom. Eunuchs and castrati had served in royal courts as courtiers and
chanters throughout the Roman Empire’s history.13 While watching a
mock-joust at an imperial wedding feast he also notes that Byzantine
musicians use battle trumpets, nacaires, “like the Turks do,”14 again
implying that the court plays Turkish-style music; he seems unaware
that instruments like this had been around since Antiquity, and were as
common in Rome as they were in the East. He even commits the faux
pas of mistaking the mounted statue of Justinian the Great, perched
atop a column in front of Hagia Sophia, for Emperor Constantine.15
These kinds of naïve observations undermine La Broquière’s charac-
terization of the Service as a “mystery play” (if that was his meaning)
because he often didn’t understand or bother to inquire about what was
right in front of him.
La Broquière’s mission took place at a time when efforts to reunify
the Orthodox and Catholic Churches had intensified; within a few years
these efforts would culminate in the Council of Union at Florence. But
La Broquière suspected, perhaps correctly, that most Orthodox Christians
would not submit to papal authority, and that the Byzantine Emperor
sought reunification primarily for political reasons. His attitude toward
11
La Broquière gives the impression that he was close enough to catch sight of the Empress’s legs as
she mounted – at a time when a glimpse of shoes, ankles, let alone a well-hosed calf, was looked on
as scandalous.
12
“[T]rois de ces homees a qui les Turcs confient la garde de laurs femmes” (La Broquière 1971: 156).
13
For a brief historical survey of musical eunuchs see Witt 2002: 239–46.
14
“Et alors commencerent à huer et à jouer de leurs instrumens qui sont nacquaires comme ceulx des
Turcz” (La Broquière 1971: 166–7). Mock-contests like these had been part of court wedding parties
for years but la Broquière is more familiar with rougher Western tournaments.
15
La Broquière 1971: 159 and n. 1. Although la Broquière was not the only traveler to make this
mistake, Russian travelers like Ignatius had no trouble identifying the emperor; see Majeska
1984: 237–40.
the East creates the impression that if he had seen the Service as a play
his interpretation may have been influenced by his political convictions.16
Still, given his naïveté in some matters and mixed motives in others, it is
significant that la Broquière chose to include the Service in a familiar field
of Western performance practices, even as he “orientalized” others.
Because Ignatius regards the Service as a normal Orthodox rite and la
Broquière may have mistaken it for a Western-style sacred play it falls to a
third, Orthodox witness – and an author of the earliest extant version – to
explain how it was performed in more detail, and how best to interpret
its unique visual elements. Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica during
the early fifteenth century (1416/17–29), left behind instructions for the
conduct of various rites in the Thessalonian cathedral of Hagia Sophia,
including highly detailed rubrics for performance of the Service.17
The work including Symeon’s own description – the Dialogue in
Christ – includes a detailed catalog of heresies down through Christianity’s
long history, but places special emphasis on the alleged impieties of the
Latin Church.18 Chapter 23 of the Dialogue, “That it is Necessary to
Portray Divine Matters Piously and Righteously, and in Accordance with
Tradition,” devotes itself primarily to Catholic “innovation,” kainotomia,
in representational practice – it being understood that “innovation” was
thinly veiled Byzantine code for heresy.19 Innovation, in Symeon’s scen-
ario, manifests itself in permitting non-iconic representations of divinity,
especially plays; in creating and portraying the realm of Purgatory; and
in adding the word filioque to the confession of the faith (which portrays
the Holy Spirit proceeding from the Father “and the Son”). In each case
the dispute centers on how one realized divinity and, more importantly,
produced its visible aspects. In Symeon’s view it was bad enough that the
Catholics misrepresented the nature of the Trinity and the afterlife; but
they had also sanctioned popular, vernacular technologies through which
their flawed dogma was made visible to the laity.
Symeon begins this chapter with a brief reminder of what Orthodoxy
regarded as the means of realizing the visibility of the sacred, i.e. the icon.
His repeated use of the word “icon” (eikon) and its correlatives, especially
the verb for making icons, “to iconize” (eikonizein), reflects Symeon’s
16
La Broquière 1971: 140.
17
For a brief biographical sketch of Archbishop Symeon see Balfour 1983. On the date Symeon
first assumed his archiepiscopate, based on internal evidence from his own papers, see Symeon,
Archbishop of Thessalonica 1979: 131–7.
18
Also known in the West as the “Dialogue Against All Heresies”; see Archbishop Symeon of
Thessalonica, “Symeonis Dialogus contra omnes haereses,” in PG 155.33–174.
19
PG 155.112–23. A translation of the relevant passages can be found in Appendix 6.
understanding that the only non-written way to provide visual access
to divinity was through holy images whose production has been valor-
ized by tradition. In an echo of John Damascene he states that images
communicate “as if by other [kinds of ] writing” (hōs grammasin allois), a
reminder that in the Orthodox tradition the written word and the painted
figure are equivalent.20 And because both media serve to make the divine
visible, Symeon stresses the need for clergy to control their production.
The equivalence between word and image, in turn, enables Symeon to
group three seemingly unrelated topics – religious theatre, the doctrine of
Purgatory, and the confession of faith – into one chapter.
Symeon first objects to the vernacular practice, sanctioned by the Latin
Church, of embellishing icons with what he regards as spurious materials:
They often portray holy images contrary to tradition in another way;
and they dress them up with human hair and clothes, instead of using
the clothing and hairstyles in icons, they dress them up with human hair
and garments – not the image of hair and garments, but they are the hair
and garments of some person, and not the icon and model (typos) of their
prototypes.21
Symeon objects to using hair and clothing on icons in part because they
are non-traditional, but what concerns him even more is the use of a
specific person’s hair and clothing. They are things, objects from the nat-
ural world, not images. Symeon believes these objects, because of their
materiality, cannot function as proper models (typoi) of divine prototypes
and would therefore block or otherwise obscure the laity’s direct access
to divinity – an access that icons, through their careful construction, are
designed to offer.
This is what lies at the heart of Symeon’s objections to the addition
of certain visual/tactile stimuli to icons; material realism is incompatible
with iconography because it distracts the laity from proper forms of prayer
and contemplation. The unspoken message here is that by accommodat-
ing the wishes of uneducated laypersons and allowing them to decorate an
already worthy icon, the Latin clergy were guilty of encouraging idolatry,
and betrayed the very souls the practice was intended to serve.22
It is the vernacular Latin practice of embellishing icons that sets the
scene for Symeon’s description of an even more abhorrent practice:
20
PG 155.112.b.5–13. 21 PG 155.112.b.13–c.4.
22
Symeon cites the Sixth Ecumenical Council (in which the Catholic Church was a sometime par-
ticipant), and concludes that the Council never intended the laity to present divine images without
clerical guidance (PG 155.112.c.6–9).
representing biblical narratives through human beings “as if in a drama”
(hōs en dramati):
Contrary to the canons they set up men at crossroads and on platforms,
simulating [exeikonizontes] things about the Annunciation of the Virgin
and Mother of God, and the crucifixion of the Savior, etc. And a man typi-
fies [typoi] the Virgin, and they call that man Mary; another is called the
angel and another the Ancient of Days; and they put white hair on him for
a beard.23
The choice of verbs is precise, referring as they do both to the production
of icons [eikonizein] and the theological concept of the iconic “type” and
its “prototype” – which are key to understanding the relationship between
a sacred image and the figure it represents. In the context of an Orthodox
theological tract the use of this terminology is ironic, even sarcastic. It’s
bad enough that the laity distort icons with hair and clothes, but worse
when men presume to take their place.
Another problem is that men played women in the sacre rappresen-
tazioni, as Symeon would no doubt have witnessed during his years in
Constantinople and Thessalonica. This of course is easy to do, if you’re
already clean-shaven; he also observed that men playing the Almighty
needed a fake beard just to look the part. Symeon regards the Latin trad-
ition of shaving as not just effeminate, but also a violation of God’s will:
[S]ince the Latins don’t think shaving them is effeminate and a violation
of natural law they put on fake [beards], hence showing they contrive
things as they like. For if the prophets saw that God has a beard, iconically
speaking, we too have beards to honor nature and according to what God
intended.24
As John Damascene had pointed out centuries before, the Orthodox do
not depict God in their iconography, because He is regarded as beyond
the natural realm; but the male beard is regarded as a sign of having been
created in God’s image, and in the Orthodox tradition beards (especially
among clergy) are a sign of piety. Gender issues aside – the expression
“contrary to natural law” is a circumlocution for homosexuality – Symeon
points to a profound theological dispute. Catholics refused to honor
their Creator by growing beards but didn’t hesitate to glue one on, when
it suited them, to portray God on stage – a practice the Orthodox had
regarded as blasphemous since at least the time of Eusebius of Caesaria.
23
PG 155.112.c.11–d.3, emphasis mine.
24
PG 155.112.d.3–8.
One impiety was compounded by another, and Symeon regarded shav-
ing as especially perverse for Catholic clergy, because they had supposedly
renounced the care of their bodies when they became men of the cloth.25
Symeon moves on to point out the theological contradictions inherent
in this Latin representational practice. With a nod to the filioque contro-
versy, he critiques the Latins’ manner of representing the Holy Spirit in
performances of the Annunciation:
They portray the Ancient of Days holding onto a winged dove in place of
the Holy Spirit, thereby showing that they do as they see fit. For if they
believe the Spirit proceeds from the Son, why don’t they portray the Son
sitting together with the Ancient of Days, so that both dispatch the dove?26
In spite of their own creed, in which the Holy Spirit proceeds from both
the Father and the Son (filioque), they don’t include a man to play Jesus,
seated at the right hand of his Father and like his Father clutching the
same bird. From Symeon’s perspective it appears the Latins can’t even
manage to portray their own creed properly. To create a “false” creed is
one thing; to stage it as a drama another; but the failure to even represent
this fallacy properly onstage implies, to Symeon’s mind at least, a funda-
mental incoherence in Catholicism’s approach to sacred representation.
Symeon is aware of the didactic and propagandistic function of sacre rap-
presentazioni, and shows how they have already backfired on their own
practitioners.
Representing divinity through human beings on a public stage is for-
eign to Symeon’s thinking; equally foreign is the use of special effects to
heighten the realism of the action. Symeon describes how Latins use the
crude apparatus of animals’ blood in their Passion plays, to create the illu-
sion of a bleeding, crucified Christ.27 Taking Symeon at his word, this
effect consists of using one beast’s blood, pumped through another beast’s
bladder, to produce fake blood for a fake (and clean-shaven) Christ.
Symeon then compares this debased mode of representation with the
implicitly superior sacred icon:
What, then, is that man being crucified? And what is the blood? Real, or
an icon? And if it’s an icon, how on earth could it be a man and blood? For
an icon is not a man. But if they are really man and blood, then it’s not an
25
PG 155.112.d.12–14. 26 PG 155.112.d.14–113.a.5.
27
PG 155.113.a.12–14. It is unclear whether Symeon speaks as an eyewitness or through second-hand
knowledge. And there is as yet no study of daily life among the Italians of Constantinople or
Thessalonica, which might confirm whether they performed their Annunciation and Passion plays
in Byzantine-controlled territory.
icon. So then, what is that man? And what is that blood? And whose is it
supposed to be, the Savior’s, or a commoner’s? Bless me, how bizarre!28
The repetition of the term “icon” here drives home the absurdity of the
Latin enterprise; human beings smeared with animals’ blood cannot serve
as icons by virtue of their materiality. As an Italian translator points out,
dramatic representations placed such a heavy emphasis on Jesus’ human
form that they effectively wiped out the consensus, painstakingly estab-
lished through centuries of ecumenical church councils, that Jesus had a
dual nature, both human and divine.29
It is in the context of attacking Catholics for using actors and crude
special effects that Symeon discusses his conduct of the Service of the
Furnace. Apparently, it is only with the Service that the Orthodox Church
appears to be on shaky theological ground:
And if they should censure us for the furnace of the children, let them not
rejoice completely. For we do not light up a furnace, but candles for lights,
and we offer incense to God as is customary, and we portray an image of
[lit., “iconize’] an angel, we do not bring down a man. And we offer only
singing children, as pure as those Three Children, to sing the verses from
their canticle according to tradition.30
However we choose to interpret la Broquière’s account, whether or not he
saw the Service as a play, it is clear that Symeon has encountered Catholic
authorities who saw it as one. The initial focus on how a physical site
called a “furnace” is represented in the nave of an Orthodox church indi-
cates that Symeon is responding to the Western perception that he has
created a plataea, a stage, in the heart of his church. He makes a point of
listing the routine details of Orthodox ritual – the use of liturgical lamps
and the purification of the area with incense, signifying the presence of
the Holy Spirit – to emphasize its liturgical nature. Symeon seems to
argue that if the “furnace” had been a set for a play, he would have created
a realistic kiln complete with flames rising up to the skies as the biblical
story calls for.31
Symeon’s refusal to adopt Western scenic conventions extends to his
use of an icon instead of a human being to depict an angel. To his mind
28
PG 155.113.b.1–7.
29
See Pontani 1994: 792 (and 806–12 for Pontani’s Italian translation).
30
PG 155 113.d.6–13. Given the context and the detailed refutation that follows, the phrase “let them
not rejoice completely” can be read as a circumlocution for “they’ve missed the point” or “they’re
completely wrong.”
31
Ironically, within a century of Symeon’s time Russian Orthodox authorities would adopt a more
Western, explicitly realistic approach to the Service – see Appendix 7.
the presentation of the “furnace” as a sacred, liturgically constructed per-
formance area instead of a stage, the use of an icon instead of an actor,
along with the use of choirboys to sing odes from the kanons in the
usual, liturgical fashion – they do not, Symeon implies, deliver lines like
actors in a play – support his contention that the Service is a purely ritual
performance.
In accordance with the Byzantine tradition of liturgical exegesis,
Symeon goes on to describe the ways in which each class of performer in
the Service symbolizes its divine prototype:
And all these children, confirmed and holy, typify those Children. And
with all being consecrated, each one typifies his counterpart. And the first
hierarch typifies the Lord while the bishops typify the first of the apostles,
since they also possess their grace, and the priests the seventy; and the dea-
cons the Levites; and the other sub-deacons the rank of the Prophets.32
Symeon insists that the Service uses only liturgical performers who,
through their training and careful mode of self-presentation, model on
behalf of their divine prototypes who participate in the eternal heavenly
liturgy. By identifying what he regards as the iconic aspects of the Service’s
performance, and by delineating the divine figures the Service’s celebrants
typify, Symeon lays out the specific modes through which divinity is made
visible and audible to his congregation; he also makes clear how the con-
gregation is to interpret this liturgical performance.
Perhaps because he dwells on the significance or rather the significa-
tion of liturgical celebrants, Symeon ends his treatment of Latin sacred
plays by addressing the issue of clerical actors. Although the participation
of clergy as actors may have justified sacred drama in Catholic eyes, in
Symeon’s it only made things worse. Rather than quote from the many
condemnations of clerical acting from the earliest ecumenical councils
onward, Symeon simply notes that when it comes to “typifying” divinity
the clergy already know their lines, cues, and blocking:
They typify what is needed in these: in baptizing, in conducting services, in
washing each other’s feet, as well as the rest that the Savior taught us, that
is given to priests and hierarchs to do. And the singers too, and those given
the authority to read, do so in reading and singing.33
Symeon reminds Catholic celebrants they already have carefully prescribed
modes of ritual conduct that enable them to serve a function analogous
32
PG 155.113.d.14–116.a.6.
33
PG 155.116.b.14–c.5. The term translated here as “singer,” hymnodos, also means composer.
to that of the icon, modes established by Christ’s own example; theatri-
cal modes of representation have no biblical sanction whatsoever. As for
the laity, instead of performing or watching sacred plays, Symeon offers a
familiar model for proper, Christian mimesis:
Nobody is capable of playing the Virgin Mother of God whether with
respect to her chastity, or the reception of the Holy Spirit into her flesh
and the bearing of the Lord, as she alone did this, and by herself; but any-
one who imitates her example, living chastely and seeking to live chastely,
is also worthy of the reception of grace, as much as can be given. Moreover
everyone ought to desire to “play” her in these ways.34
Here, Symeon openly embraces verbs associated with imitation –
mimesthai, “to imitate,” and ekmimesthai, “to play” – but for him imitation
functions almost exclusively as a spiritual practice, i.e. a conscious pursuit
of a life of chastity and spiritual purity. Symeon agreed with his Latin
counterparts on the virtues of imitation, but only as a spiritual practice.
Summary: on braids and spirals

In Schechner’s and Turner’s famous model depicting a cyclical, mutually
reinforcing relationship between social and stage drama it is assumed that
exterior modes of behavior, spurred on by both explicit and implicit social
processes, take on an aspect of performance or theatricality.35 Turner notes
this model was constructed as an analogy through which one could struc-
ture and “read” the experiences of daily life. This analogical reading of the
model is fluid, however: the elegant figure eight, cocked to one side, was
never intended to be static or final:
The interrelation of social drama to stage drama is not in an endless, cyc-
lical, repetitive pattern; it is a spiraling one. The spiraling process is respon-
sive to inventions and the changes in the mode of production in the given
society … The cosmology has always been destabilized, and society has
always had to make efforts, through both social dramas and esthetic dra-
mas, to restabilize and actually produce cosmos.36
In the case of the Greek Orthodox world, the “invention” that initiated
the cultural spiral out of Turner’s and Schechner’s model was a religious
movement that regarded theatre as a historically contingent, debased
pagan practice – not a universal cultural institution. From Orthodoxy’s
34
PG 155.115.c.12–d.5.
35
See V. Turner 1982: 73, and Schechner 1988: 190.
36
V. Turner 1990: 17–18, emphasis in the original.
perspective it was the theatre itself that constituted the social breach, the
source of destabilization that needed to be either eliminated or reinte-
grated through the creation of a new performance aesthetic.
In one sense, Symeon would agree with Turner and Schechner: it has
always been acceptable in Orthodox discursive practice to use theatre
and drama as analogies or metaphors, and hence as a means of analys-
ing a broad range of cultural activities.37 But where Schechner and Turner
seem to posit ritual and theatre as complementary modes of performance,
Orthodox authorities reject theatre out of hand; Byzantine clergy used the
theatre’s vocabulary as a mode of invective, and objected strenuously to its
application to the Liturgy.
It is probable that the Latin sacre rappresentazioni Symeon describes
were created for didactic purposes; they were also designed to give layper-
sons a greater sense of participation in and emotional attachment to the
Gospel story.38 But if this were the case it would be even more disturb-
ing from an Orthodox perspective, because it meant that the laity now
controlled matters of dogma. The rigor with which the Divine Liturgy
was constructed and the concrete steps taken to avoid enactment stand in
stark contrast to the crude materiality of Catholic plays. Symeon finds it
hard to believe that plays would invoke the appropriate spiritual response;
unwilling to “suspend his disbelief ” he rejects what in the West is still
regarded as a natural cultural development.
For all Symeon’s claims to liturgical purity, however, the Orthodox
Church had a tradition of sacred spectacle all its own. Patriarch
Theophylact’s mummers’ parades are a case-in-point: although politics
may have played a role in their institution – he was the Emperor’s son,
after all, and could do much as he pleased in Hagia Sophia – the deci-
sion to continue the practice for two centuries after his death indicates
that Orthodox hierarchs grudgingly accepted this “innovation”; in other
words, they struggled with the same dilemmas as their Western colleagues.
Attracting the laity to services and giving them opportunities to partici-
pate were important goals; but as the spaces grew grander, the vestments
more resplendent, the processions more elaborate, and the chanting more
sublime there would have been times when the Church needed to accom-
modate popular tastes. In this sense, it is perhaps natural that from time
to time the limits of liturgical taste may have been breached – not just
in the clergy’s eyes, but also in the eyes of their guests. And behind that
37 38
V. Turner 1990: 13–15. See Davidson 1997: 436–58.
splendor, however sincerely constructed, lurked a potential appeal to the
vanity of eyes and ears that might undermine the whole ritual project.
In Western eyes, Symeon’s conduct of the Service of the Furnace under-
mined his own argument; aware that his adversaries perceived the Service
as theatrical, he contrasted Orthodox ritual practice with the crude appar-
atus of Latin plays. For the archbishop, the difference could not be more
obvious; but for the uninitiated, it was a difference more of degree than
kind. Then as now, his plea for understanding probably fell on deaf ears;
because there is a difference between stating the Service is a ritual, and try-
ing to explain why it isn’t a play.
The politico-theological context for the Service

From a Western point of view Symeon’s critique of sacred drama seems
extreme, but it is evidence of a genuine anxiety about Catholic prac-
tices, an anxiety heightened by the ever-present threat of (re-)unifica-
tion of the churches under papal authority. Almost from the moment
Byzantine emperor Michael VIII Palaiologos (1259–82) had been restored
to Constantinople in 1261, the new royal family hoped that unification
would enable them to mount an effective defense against the increasingly
powerful Ottoman Sultanate. Progress was swift: the Council of Lyons
declared a union of the churches in 1274, and by 1369 John V Palaiologos
(1341–91) became the first Byzantine emperor to convert to Catholicism.
Not only did these efforts fail, John’s actions rendered the religious sympa-
thies of every succeeding Palaiologan emperor suspect.39
As clear as the need for unification may have been to the royal family,
for the average Orthodox Christian (not to mention the clergy) the need
to resist was equally obvious: the Latins had tried and failed for years to
force unification at the edge of a sword. And what they could not achieve
by force, they now tried to accomplish through secret negotiations and
church councils attended exclusively by hand-picked elites. It was hard
to forget that wherever Latin forces had conquered Byzantine territory
during the Crusades they installed a Catholic ruling class, forced their
Orthodox subjects to convert upon pain of death and renovated (i.e. des-
ecrated) Orthodox churches to conform to the Catholic rite.40 Small won-
der that the movement to preserve Orthodoxy remained strong among
39
For a survey of events during the Empire’s declining years, see Herrin 2008: 299–309, and
Ostrogorsky 1969: 533–57.
40
“The ecclesiastical subordination of the Greeks to the Papacy was formally achieved, though not by
way of an agreed Church union … but by the compulsion of conquest” (Ostrogorsky 1969: 425).
the laity, while serious doctrinal conflicts and a significant cultural div-
ide – as evidenced by Symeon’s Dialogue in Christ – ensured that main-
stream clergy would never submit to papal authority.41
The Dialogue in Christ cannot be precisely dated; we know that Symeon
arrived in Thessalonica at some point in 1416 or 1417, when the city was
ruled by the Byzantine despot Andronikos Palaiologos (c. 1415–23). But
because the city was frequently under Ottoman siege, by 1423 the city’s
elite had forced Andronikos into exile and given the Venetians control of
the city.42 Symeon, who had been Archbishop of Thessalonica for nearly
seven years, was then forced to negotiate with the Venetians just to pre-
serve the Orthodox churches under his see.43 For the rest of his life, until
his death in September 1429, Symeon defended the rights of his flock
under increasingly authoritarian Latin rule.44
As Symeon’s extant political writings attest he also struggled against
a moneyed elite who, when they weren’t capitulating to the Venetians,
threatened to surrender to the Ottoman Sultan and convert en masse to
Islam. A number of them had, in fact, already done so during the first
Ottoman occupation of the city (1387–1403).
Conversion had its benefits at the time: it preserved the family estate,
and helped you to avoid the heavy taxes assessed on non-Muslims. But
there was another reason to convert, one that had the eerie ring of bib-
lical history and also a direct bearing on how Orthodox audiences would
have interpreted the Service of the Furnace: the Sultan’s imposition of devs-
hirme or “youth-tribute” upon the city’s Orthodox families in 1393.45 At
that time the young first-born males of Thessalonica were seized, circum-
cised, forcibly converted to Islam, and trained to serve the Sultan as part
of his famous Janissary corps. The devastation this caused cannot be over-
estimated – the Greek term for this policy, paidomazoma, evokes images
of young children wrenched from their mothers’ breasts – and a moving
sermon from then-Archbishop Isidore reflects the grief felt by his congre-
gation.46 Given the prominence of Daniel and his three friends in daily
services, and especially on the Sunday of the Holy Forefathers, it is hard
41
“While the Byzantine state was being forced to cede one position after another, the Byzantine
Church was regaining its former authority” (Ostrogorsky 1969: 536).
42
For a brief description of the political structure in late Byzantine Thessalonica and “The Twelve,” its
board of governors, see Vacalopoulos 1963: 53–5.
43
See Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica 1979: 164–8.
44
Vacalopoulos 1963: 65–70.
45
On mass conversions to Islam under fourteenth-century Turkish rule, as well as the Janissaries see
46
to imagine that a fifteenth-century congregation would hear verses from
their story without realizing that the fate of these ancient biblical figures
had now become their own. The celebration of the Sunday of the Holy
Forefathers, by this time, had a direct contemporary meaning, and would
have been observed with special fervor.
Even with the return of Thessalonica to Byzantine rule in 1403, the
Turkish threat remained constant. Symeon’s congregation had endured
persecution and radical challenges to its spiritual identity long before his
arrival, and he found many in his Church doubted the need to remain
Orthodox.47 That a pro-Turkish party, led by citizens who had already
converted to Islam, enjoyed popular support was for Symeon “some-
thing more difficult to stomach than ten thousand deaths.” Knowing that
surrender and conversion would guarantee the wealthy could keep their
estates, Symeon condemned his flock’s lack of spirituality:
Their concern was to be fed like farm animals and to lack none of those
things which fatten the flesh and make it swell up and which bring in
money and turn men into magnates, putting them in authority and pro-
viding them with a horse and a cloak … But they are not at all concerned
about their Maker, nor about God’s being confessed with sound doctrine
and praised with pure worship.48
It was hard enough to deal with Catholic overlords; but there was also
the very real prospect that churches might be converted to mosques49 and
Orthodoxy essentially wither away. Symeon was often treated with so
much hostility that he found himself quoting the Apostle Paul, “I have
almost become the scapegoat of all things,” openly admitting the desper-
ate nature of his situation.50
Meanwhile the conditions in Constantinople, which had not yet sur-
rendered but which had long been in essence a vassal Turkish state, were
largely the same. Political infighting was rife in the capital and when not
colluding with the Pope, the Palaiologan royal family was cutting deals
with (and fighting alongside) their Turkish masters.51 Because of their
longstanding hostility to Catholicism, on the question of who should
rule, those who wished to remain Orthodox openly preferred – as one
47
La Broquière mentions a Genoan noble who bragged that he had helped the Turks take
Thessalonica from the Venetians in 1430, not long after Symeon’s death. La Broquière notes that he
had since seen many people there renounce the Christian faith (La Broquière 1971: 142).
48
Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica 1979: 56 and 157 (Greek and English translation, respectively).
49
Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica 1979: 251–3.
50
1 Ep. Cor. 4:13. See Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica 1979: 55 and 156 (Greek and English).
51
Consider the career of Symeon’s contemporary, Emperor Manuel II Palaiologos – see ODB 2.1291,
s.v. “Manuel II Palaiologos.”
official put it – the Sultan’s turban to the Pope’s miter. Throughout what
remained of the Eastern Empire religious and political identities, inex-
tricably linked for over a thousand years, were now completely fluid.52
Performances of the Service of the Furnace would have taken place within
the context of an Orthodox community that had already lost a number
of its sons to the Ottoman Sultan – the new Nebuchadnezzar – and the
community would have been subject to constant pressure, from Catholics
and Muslims alike, to abandon their traditional faith.
La Broquière’s presence in Constantinople, meanwhile, reminds us
that by this time the Orthodox were not the only ones looking on; as the
Empire collapsed outsiders became a more dominant presence both inside
and outside the Church, which made the Service a truly multivalent event.
For those indifferent or hostile to Orthodoxy, watching the same rite from
an ideological distance would have made it an object of curiosity or aes-
thetic appreciation, rather than an occasion for prayer. The next and final
chapter will describe the conduct of the Service in some detail, and try to
account for the conflicting responses to its modes of sacred representa-
tion. Diverse responses to the Service were (and remain) inevitable; it is
possible that anxieties about ritual being mis-perceived as theatre may be
the key to understanding both the Western reaction to the Service, as well
as the possible disagreements about exactly when and how to perform it.
52
See Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica 1979: 271. D. Balfour, Symeon’s editor, cites sources blam-
ing the Venetians for alternately lobbying and forcing Thessalonicans to resist the Turks, and notes
that there was a similar “anti-Ottoman lobby” in Constantinople.
Ch apter 6
The Service of the Furnace in performance
Texts and textual strategies

Given the Service’s superficial resemblance to a sacred play, and the dis-
tinction drawn by Archbishop Symeon between Latin representational
practice and the Orthodox theology of the icon, the following analysis
will attempt to identify how the Service seeks to avoid the perception of
enactment, even as it cites the biblical story in an unusually vivid fashion.
Three issues complicate any study of the Service, however, chief among
them being the instability of its manuscript tradition; there appear to be
substantial disagreements among extant sources about what to perform
and even how to perform it. This is due in part to the fact that by this time
the urban Orthodox rite was a highly specialized practice with numerous
distinct categories of celebrant, each of which (deacons, readers, cantors,
choir members, etc.) had their own set of liturgical books, describing their
roles in varying degrees of detail.
Because each book assumed the presence of other celebrants, who
had their own separate instructions, there was no need for each book
to describe the rite as a whole. So although we have one fairly complete
version of the Service’s rubrics written by Archbishop Symeon, the other
manuscripts are focused almost exclusively on the work of specific cat-
egories of celebrants; it is hard to determine the full scope of the Service
in most cases. So in addition to the contradictory responses from eyewit-
nesses, we have contradictions and ellipses among the rubrics themselves.
Nevertheless when taken together, an analysis of these manuscripts may
clarify ways in which the Service differed from Western practice; it will
also try to understand why some audience members thought Orthodox
celebrants went too far in their citation of the Children’s story.
The Service of the Furnace survives in a cluster of manuscripts dating
mostly from its heyday in the early fifteenth century.1 Each one of them is
1
For a survey of available manuscripts containing the Service in whole or in part see Lingas 2011: 191
(table 1).
156
The Service of the Furnace in performance 157
addressed to a specific class of celebrant, and each also appears to represent
a distinct iteration of the rite. As a result, although there is general agree-
ment on certain basic elements there is also a remarkable freedom in the
distribution of parts, as well as in the selection of hymns and musical set-
tings for the biblical text that accompanies it. Key passages are distributed
to different performers from one version to the next, and the numerous
disagreements and omissions among these manuscripts indicate that the
Service did not achieve the final, “standard” form we traditionally associ-
ate with special feast-day celebrations of this kind.2
None of the manuscripts addressed here offers a complete text for per-
formance as such; in addition, the scribes frequently use abbreviations for
key terms (e.g. Akolouth for Akolouthia, “Service”), and give the incipit or
opening lyrics instead of complete hymns. Each version was composed
for groups of celebrants already familiar with the rite, and chanters rou-
tinely assembled the materials for each performance from their local
church’s collection of complementary liturgical books.3 (No collection of
Byzantine liturgical books, from a single church for a single period of its
history, remains intact.) For purposes of comparison we will focus here
on the most complete versions of the Service as found in the following
manuscripts:
1. Athens National Library ms 2047 (Athens 2047), dated c. 1420–29,4 is a
well-worn collection of liturgical texts attributed to Archbishop Symeon
of Thessalonica. Portions have been written in Symeon’s own hand, and
include descriptions of the archbishop’s own role in the Service. The
lack of musical notation indicates that it is intended as a reference work
for priests who presided over the Service’s performance in Thessalonica’s
Hagia Sophia cathedral. Because Symeon says this collection is designed
to correct past liturgical errors, Athens 2047 appears to serve a function
similar to that of St. Ethelwold’s Regularis concordia.5
2
Velimirović (1962: 354) preferred to stress the agreement among the versions he reviewed; this
agreement included the musical notation from two versions he was able to transcribe via facsimile,
Athens 2406 and Sinai 1527.
3
See Wellesz 1998: 129–45, for a description of sixteen different types of Byzantine liturgical books;
keep in mind, too, that Wellesz’s list was far from comprehensive.
4
The author would like to thank Dr. Alexander Lingas for sharing his transcription of Symeon’s
Service for the present study.
5
See Lingas 1996a: 217–18. Because we are accustomed to books published according to established
genres, it is helpful to keep in mind that manuscripts often functioned more like a laptop computer,
i.e. as a collection of “folders” comprising numerous texts that were bound together simply because
they were all used by the same person. For a brief description of this MS, see Symeon, Archbishop
of Thessalonica 1968: ιγ‘–ιδ‘ (13–14). See Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica 1979: 28 for editor
2. Athens National Library ms 2406 (Athens 2406), dated c. 1453, is a
collection of various genres of liturgical music, including hymns for
the performance of festal services. Books of this type were common
in the late Byzantine period; the anthology was compiled at the mon-
astery of St. John the Forerunner (i.e. the Baptist) in Serres, not far
from Thessalonica, around the time of the Fall of Constantinople, and
includes the works of anywhere from 70 to 100 composers.6 In spite of
the number of hymnographers cited elsewhere in the collection Athens
2406’s version of the Service does not include specific attributions.
This, plus the lack of indications for the choir leader’s tuning motifs
(see Iviron 1120 below), would indicate that this version may have been
designed for ensemble performers in the choir. The location and date
of Athens 2406’s composition indicate that it may represent the ver-
sion of the Service of the Furnace as it was performed in and around
Thessalonica after Archbishop Symeon’s death.
3. Iviron Monastery ms 1120 (Iviron 1120), dated 1458, is an anthology
of hymns with an instruction manual designed for choir leaders. This
version of the Service includes composers’ names as well as instructions
for the placement of tuning motifs and improvised wordless song,
echismata, to be sung by the cantors at key points during the service.
This liturgical book records the repertoire of a former choir leader in
Constantinople – court composer, music theorist, and lampadarios
(imperial “lamp-bearer” and leader of the second or left-hand choir)
Manuel Chrysaphes. Chrysaphes was in Constantinople during its last
years of Byzantine rule, and his version of the Service comes closest to
what La Broquière would have seen and heard during his visit.7
4. Mount Sinai ms 1527 (Sinai 1527), dated to the late fifteenth century,
is an Anoixantarion, a collection of abbreviated saints’ lives intended
David Balfour’s description of how another MS attributed to Symeon was probably assembled –
with a scribe doing most of the writing, and Symeon providing corrections and/or clarifications.
The present study will be based on firsthand study of Athens 2047 as well as Lingas’ unpublished
transcription. Given its significance a critically edited edition of the complete MS, together with
translation, is long overdue.
6
A transcription of the Service as found in Athens 2406 can be found in Trempelas 1949: 298–300,
but also in Velimirović 1962: 378–83. A facsimile of Athens 2046 is in the permanent collection of
the Microfilm Library at the University of Virginia. For an overview of Athens 2406’s date of com-
position and its contents see Velimirović 1966. The present study will be based on Velimirović’s and
Trempelas’ transcriptions, as well as firsthand study of the manuscript.
7
This manuscript includes, as an introduction, a treatise by Chrysaphes on hymnography which has
appeared in a critical edition with English translation (see Chrysaphes 1985). The present study uses
the transcription of the Service’s text as found in Dmitrievskiĭ 1894: 585–8.
for performance, like the akolouthia, between Orthros and the Liturgy.
Because this collection of saints’ lives includes instructions for a sung
service complete with musical notation and attributions to composers,
this multi-purpose text may have been designed for performance in
a smaller congregation where the functions of reader and cantor may
have been combined.8
5. Lavra Monastery ms Λ165 (Lavra 165) is a post-Byzantine papadikē
similar in many respects to Iviron 1120. The compiler for Lavra 165
is unknown, but because this version of the Service contains much of
the material written by Chrysaphes, it is either based directly upon
Iviron 1120, or on a similar source-text. The inclusion of the Service in
this late MS may have been the work of dutiful preservationists, but
may also indicate that the rite remained a part of the repertoire in the
monastic community long after the Fall of Constantinople.9
The format generally followed in liturgical manuscripts from this
period is to use a combination of dark (black or brown) and red ink, with
red denoting the most important and/or subtle details of performance. In
Symeon’s version, Athens 2047, dark ink is reserved for traditional litur-
gical actions like the archbishop’s pre-rite blessings and lyrics, with red ink
for initial letters of rubrics for performers before and during the Service
as well as corrections and clarifications written in the margins. Although
there is no musical notation, Symeon uses red ink to designate the modes
(ēchoi) for each hymn and the distribution of verses among choir and
soloists.10
In the other manuscript directly available for this study, Athens 2406,
the musical signs or neumes are likewise written in a combination of dark
and red ink. The simplest classes of neumes – the sōmata and pneumata –
are in dark ink, with the third and newest class of neumes the, megales
hypostaseis, usually in red ink.11
8
Velimirović (1962: 355) believes that Sinai 1527 may be either based directly on Athens 2406, or
rely on a version common to both; he further characterizes Sinai 1527 as “an attempt to reconcile
some of the differences” between Athens 2406 and Iviron 1120. The present study will be based on
Velimirović’s transcription (1962: 378–81).
9
Velimirović (1962: 354) considers the inclusion of the Service in this MS to be “an anachronism,”
which it may be; but until further studies are made of both the Lavra and Iviron MSS, this conclu-
sion may be premature. The present study is based on the transcription found in Lavriotes 1895–6.
10
Touliatos (1984: 31) notes that in versions of the great “Amōmos” Chant (Psalm 118, so called because
the Septuagint version begins with “Blessed are the blameless [amōmoi]”), capital letters for certain
verses as found in the Horologion, or liturgical book of hours, are in red rather than black ink; by
post-Byzantine times, these initial red capitals indicate the specific scheme by which the psalm had
been divided for performance.
11
See Wellesz 1998: 284–300 for a description of these classes of notation.
The relationship among these three classes of notation is comparable to
that between a silhouette and the individuating details of a portrait; the
sōmata and pneumata offer the melody’s outline, while the hypostaseis cre-
ate the melody’s unique identity.12 As discussed previously, liturgical music
was constructed as a spiritual revelation, and even the terms for musical
notation had spiritual significance. In the case of the hypostaseis, the pleth-
ora of new signs and terminology introduced during this period spawned
a musical treatise of its own, offering spiritual explanations for each sign
that, true to the art, went well beyond their musical function.13
The variety of musical settings for key passages in some of the versions
here indicates that in the great urban cathedrals the Service provided a
unique annual showcase for contemporary composers’ and chanters’ tal-
ents. The writers sometimes paused among their rubrics and lyrics to com-
ment on aesthetic matters and provide us with information about possible
motivations for some of their choices: several passages in Athens 2406, for
example, comment on the aesthetic effect of musical passages and on the
choice of singers.
Past studies of the Service have assumed the existence of an ur-text,
with the more elaborate or “complete” versions receiving the greatest
attention.14 A more plausible scenario points to the long tradition of the
Children’s canticles in both cathedral and monastic worship. Lingas, for
example, finds the seeds of the Service in the special treatment given the
Benedicite, as sung during the vigil on Holy Saturday in the years before
the Crusades and the Latin Conquest.15
Preparations and Orthros

Performances of the Service required designating an area as a “furnace,”
hanging an icon-angel and preparing or dressing the soloists who per-
formed as the Children. The present section will attempt to reconstruct
12
Conomos notes that the hypostaseis, also referred to as “cheironomic” because of their probable
origins in hand-signals given to the choir, are usually (though not always) written in red ink below,
and sometimes above, but rarely between the black notations which denote the intervallic progres-
sion of the melody (see Conomos 1974: 326). So subjective is the usage of these neumes that their
inscription in black or red ink often seems dependent on the tastes of the composer/copyist; see
Conomos 1974: 334–67 for a detailed analysis of musical signs, including the hypostaseis and colors
of ink used inscribe them.
13
See Schartau 1998.
14
See Velimirović 1962: 355; Velimirović regarded Athens 2406 as the “possible prototype.”
15
See Lingas 2011: 194–7. Lingas notes that cathedral practice in Jerusalem called for the two monas-
tic choirs to sing antiphonally with three cantors, who stood apart in the center of the nave. The
significance of this placement and the number of soloists will become clearer later.
their placement and how they might have appeared: because these elem-
ents were regarded as traditional, or at least were not seen as “innovations”
in Symeon’s eyes, I will draw upon evidence for liturgical precedents for
each element to demonstrate why they may have appeared to be natural
developments in Orthodox ritual practice.
The furnace
Each version of the Service calls for some sort of a kaminos, or “furnace”;
this performance site is so central that the rite, in Symeon’s Athens 2047,
Sinai 1527, and Iviron 1120, is simply titled the Service of the Furnace. As
Symeon implied in his Dialogue, the furnace may have looked to outsiders
like an elevated stage. Symeon’s explanation that his “furnace” is purified
by the Holy Spirit and lit only with liturgical lamps leads us to the more
fundamental question: what is this “furnace” and how is it liturgically
constructed?
Symeon’s term for this site in Athens 2047 is typikēn kaminon, a “typic”
or “model furnace,” which means that the performance area is liturgical
in design and is conceived in a manner analogous to a sacred image.16
Any number of elements would have contributed to the construction and
interpretation of this area as a “typic furnace.” There was the iconograph-
ical tradition, for example, which depicted it as an open-air pyre; further,
in order to ensure its integration with other services the site needed to
use and/or harmonize with pre-existing structures in the nave. Last but
not least, because the Service was a musical performance the congregation
needed optimal visual and acoustic access to the choir and soloists.
These preconditions all point toward the use of the ambo as the site
of the “typic furnace.” Located as it was in the proverbial omphalos or
“navel” of the church, it was already the congregation’s central focus. Its
waist-high barrier easily suggested the iconographic pyre and its acoustical
function, enhanced by the raised platform, was understood. Traditionally
chanters performed on, under, and around the ambo during services, and
it was already the site for performances of the Children’s canticles on other
occasions, Orthros included.17 In a major urban cathedral the ambo plat-
form would have been large enough to accommodate three choirboys
and their movements; in Constantinople, Paul the Silentiary specifically
16
Athens Nat. Lib. 2047, fol. 219v. An English translation by the present author is included here as
Appendix 1.
17
Lingas 2011: 197–201.
mentions a choir of boys singing directly under the platform among its
supporting columns.18 Performing the Service would have involved placing
the choirboys on top of the ambo rather than below. And although built
on a smaller scale, the ambo in Thessalonica would still have had room
enough for the choirboys’ movements.
A late-morning or early-afternoon performance at Hagia Sophia in
Constantinople would not have required artificial lighting; but Symeon’s
Service, if performed at dawn, would have required liturgical lamps and
candles. In addition there would have been permanent light fixtures
available throughout the nave, including free-standing kandelai (soli-
tary lights) or polykandela (with multiple lights), as well as chandeliers of
various shapes and sizes suspended from the dome, the support pillars,
etc.19 These lamps and candles would have served the practical function
of illuminating the space; and the use of an ambo illuminated by trad-
itional candles and lamps would have reinforced its liturgical nature in
Orthodox eyes.
The angel
Most (but not all) versions of the Service call for an angel to be lowered
toward the furnace; in contrast with the medieval Latin tradition of using
actors, Symeon states that the angel was depicted in an icon.20 One version
of the Service, Lavra 165, specifically describes the angel as being “dressed
in white with a purple orarion,” the traditional garb of a deacon. Because
archangels are understood to be celebrants in the eternal, heavenly liturgy,
the image of angel-as-deacon can be interpreted as a visual citation of the
heavenly liturgy that occurs in parallel with the Service.21
18
“That whole fair construction of stone, whence the precepts of divinely wise books are read out, has
been artfully fixed on eight cunningly wrought columns … and underneath the stone there is, as it
were, another chamber, wherein the sacred song is raised by fair children, heralds of wisdom. What
is roof for those below is a floor for those above; the latter is like a spreading plain, made level for
the feet of mortals” (Descr. Ambonis 105, translation from Mango 1986: 92–3). In Constantinople
the ambo also served as the site for coronations, and was large enough to accommodate several
grown men, as well as a small table for vestments (see Majeska 1997: 2).
19
For a catalogue of liturgical lighting devices in use from the middle Byzantine period onward, see
Bouras 1982; see also her entry in ODB 2.1227–8, s.v. “Lighting, Ecclesiastical.”
20
In Parma, an image of the angel Gabriel was lowered as part of the reading of the Annunciation
story (see Young 1933: 2.245 and 2.479–80); but there is as yet no evidence connecting this cere-
mony with late Byzantine ritual practice.
21
The iconography of archangels is a somewhat contested subject; Cyril Mango points out that earl-
ier images in both literary and iconographical sources depict archangels in imperial dress, a ten-
dency that was denounced as pagan and only eventually gave way to the later, deacon imagery
discussed in the present study; see Mango 1984.
Although there does not appear to be any precedent for raising and lower-
ing icons during services in general, the problem of how this would be done
is easily solved. In his study of the Service Velimirović noted ironically that
lowering the angel would have required equipment of the sort “not unknown
to stagehands.”22 What he neglected to add was that the celebrants could
have hung the icon from any number of brackets, ropes, or chains already in
daily use for lighting the nave. Paul the Silentiary gives a sense of the possibil-
ities in Constantinople’s Hagia Sophia:
The deep wisdom of our Emperors has stretched from the projecting stone
cornice, on whose back is planted the foot of the temple’s lofty dome, long
twisted chains of beaten brass … from many points on a long course these
fall together to the ground, but before they reach the floor, their lofty path is
checked and they form an even choir.23
Paul describes a large network of chains holding chandeliers of various sizes,
which would have been used routinely for nearly 800 years before the time
of the Service.24 The question, then, is not how the angel could be hung but
where: and if the ambo were the site of the “furnace,” with its platform posi-
tioned (for acoustical purposes) slightly east of the nave’s center, a cable sus-
pended from the eastern end of the central dome – like those at the churches of
Hagia Sophia in both Constantinople and Thessalonica – would have placed
the angel due east of the ambo. From the perspective of the congregation
assembled in the western portion of the nave looking east toward the ambo
and sanctuary, the angel-icon would occupy a visual field where it hovered dir-
ectly above the choirboys. Allowing for differences in depth perception, it may
even appear to descend into the ambo; but however it may have looked, the
icon could have been lowered easily by members of the church’s staff.
The sight of icons in motion was not unusual, since their chief virtue was
their portability; during this period templon screens were decorated with
images which could be easily removed for processional purposes. Icons led
triumphal emperors upon their return to Constantinople, sometimes rid-
ing in their own chariots, and often led processions to church for services,
including high feast days.
During times of crisis, moreover, the movement of icons through and
around threatened communities was believed to have protective powers.25
22
Velimirović 1962: 362.
23
Paulus Silentiarius, Descr. S. Sophiae 810–18, translation from Mango 1986: 89–90.
24
A twelfth-century traveler confirms that Paul’s observation was accurate: “their number is beyond
words, neither mouth nor tongue can number them” (see Ciggaar 1973: 339).
25
For processions using icons of the Virgin Mary to ward off attacks see for example N. Ševčenko
1991: 49.
Nor was the perception of an icon’s agency or action during the Service
unprecedented; one famous icon had already performed as the protagonist
in its own paratheatrical drama of display during the middle Byzantine
period. Under the reign of the Komneni royal family, the Church of the
Virgin at Blachernae hosted a weekly “miracle” at vespers, in which an
icon of the Virgin Mary appeared to unveil itself and light up without the
aid of human hands. Because of the church’s location near the outer city
walls attendance at this iconic “miracle,” performed like clockwork for
Friday services, was a prerequisite for emperors and their troops prior to
departing on military campaigns – and was even used during its off-duty
hours to adjudicate legal disputes. An encomium delivered by courtier/
historian Michael Psellos in honor of this “miracle” extolled its virtues and
justified both its legal and ritual uses.26
Given the icon’s variety of uses and modes of presentation, the descent
of an icon-angel during services may not have seemed like much of an
innovation. Icons routinely blessed and protected the Christian commu-
nity by a variety of means, all of them involving movement, and some of
them “miraculous.” Another consideration, especially during the Service’s
heyday, was the need to protect the physical space of the church itself.
Given the rate at which Orthodox churches were being seized by both
Ottoman and Latin authorities for conversion to other rites, the descent
of an icon-angel during the Service can be read as a minor variation on the
traditional apotropaic procession.
The Children
The last elements requiring special preparation, as mentioned in most
(but not all) of the MSS, are the three “children.” The term paides (as in
“Children of Israel”) is also used in the Service to designate the featured
soloists. The Greek word paides is a neuter noun that usually signifies chil-
dren who have not yet become gendered, i.e. arrived at puberty. Symeon’s
use of “children pure as those Children” who had been “sealed” (i.e. bap-
tized) would indicate that his performers were choirboys.27
It is unclear whether the use of choirboys as soloists was unique to
the Service, but the use of singing boys with their upper register recalls
the traditional use of castrati as chanters. Castrati had performed in
26
See N. Ševčenko 1991: 51; for an edited text of the oration see Psellos 1994a: 199–229; English trans-
lation in Fisher 2014.
27
Having served as a choirboy in his youth, the author reserves judgment as to their purity.
Orthodox churches since the days of St. John Chrysostom,28 and given
the iconographical tradition depicting the Children as eunuchs, cas-
trati would have been a natural choice for soloists – if the primary con-
cern had been to represent the biblical Children accurately. But instead
of adult castrati, Symeon specifically calls for choirboys – a choice
that ensured the boys would be seen as typoi or models, not biblical
characters.
Nearly all versions of the Service refer to “preparations” for the solo-
ists representing the Children; the nature of these preparations is specified
in Lavra 165, where the soloists don white robes, and in Athens 2047,
where Symeon merely states that the boys have “changed” and enter car-
rying lamps as altar boys have done from time immemorial. Velimirović
thought that “preparations” for the children implied some kind of cos-
tume,29 but neither Athens 2047 nor Lavra 165 indicates anything beyond
traditional liturgical robes. And unlike later, Russian versions of an expli-
citly theatrical Furnace Play,30 there is no evidence among lists of church
properties for the oriental costumes which would have been necessary if
the Service had depicted the Children realistically.
Orthros
The Service was performed annually on the Sunday of the Fathers, a hol-
iday commemorating the Old Testament prophets; four versions of the
Service specify that it began immediately after completion of the Orthros.
Traditionally celebrated at sunrise to take advantage of the symbolism of
the rising sun, the Orthros began with a vigil in the narthex (the church’s
entry chamber, west of the nave) followed by entry into the nave to conse-
crate the space for the Liturgy, accompanied by more chant and readings
from the ambo. During the course of this ceremony, the entire church
28
See Moran 2002. It is unlikely that castrati had altogether vanished from church choirs after 1204;
La Broquière noted eunuchs in the Palaiologan court, which implies that their musical counter-
parts would have been present as well. And a fourteenth-century fresco at the church of Markov
Monastery near Skopje (see ODB 3.1903, s.v. “Singers”) depicts a “mixed” choir with both bearded
and un-bearded male singers. The most amusing evidence for the castrati’s survival can be found in
an outrageous liturgical satire, the “Service of the Beardless Man” (Akolouthia tou Spanou), written
perhaps as a swipe at clean-shaven Catholic clergy. For a critically edited Greek text see Eideneier
1977. For its interpretation as an anti-Catholic diatribe see Zachariadou 2000.
29
30
Russian church accounts for the Furnace Play list expenses for costuming for the Chaldeans, the
Children’s keepers (Velimirović 1962: 366). But even in Russia there was apparently no special cos-
tuming required for the choirboys, a further indication that they too wore choir robes.
interior was censed, symbolizing the space’s purification by the Holy
Spirit.31
Conduct of the Orthros varied: on Saturdays, the day appointed for
songs from the canticles as opposed to the traditional Psalms, the “Prayer
of Azariah” (Dan. 3:26–44 [LXX]) accompanied the entrance into the
nave. But every Orthros featured the Benedicite, the “Song of the Three
Children” (Dan. 3:57–88 [LXX]), once the celebrants were inside the
nave, and this canticle was always chanted from the ambo.32 By the late
Byzantine period, the chanted or “asmatic” Orthros had become a heady
mixture of traditional urban and monastic psalmody, with the Children’s
canticles already playing a central role.33
In Thessalonica, on the Sunday of the Fathers, the Three Children pro-
vided the theme for the Orthros: Symeon begins with a responsory hymn
or hypacoe dedicated to the Children, and borrows from the traditional
Saturday rite by inserting antiphonal chants of the “Prayer of Azariah”
during the entrance into the nave.34 The “Song of the Three Children”
retains its usual place and is sung antiphonally from the ambo. In this
way, the canticles that form the basis of the Service of the Furnace have
already been chanted antiphonally prior to its performance. The remain-
der of the Orthros focused on other biblical psalms and canticles; because
it usually began in darkness outside the nave and ended in daylight, the
symbolic focus would normally have been on the Resurrection.35 But
Symeon remarks in his Typikon that the Orthros in Thessalonica ended
31
On the basic structure of asmatic Orthros in late Byzantine times see for example Lingas
1996a: 123–4. For a study using internal evidence to determine the time of performance see Arranz
1971. Arranz, noting the apparent interchangeability of certain prayers between Orthros and
Vespers, finds the Orthodox church agreed with the Jewish injunction to begin morning prayers
at the moment one could distinguish a white thread from a blue one – i.e. prior to sunrise: “C’est
bien le temps à cheval entre la nuit et le jour qui a été le temps de la veillée matinale” (It’s right at
the time astride night and day that was the time for the morning vigil) (Arranz 1971: 436). On the
order of censing the church’s interior in Symeon’s time see Darrouzès 1976: 60–3.
32
See Lingas 1996a: 92, and Lingas 1993: 5–6.
33
This was especially the case under Symeon’s watch; for an account of the Orthros on regular
Sundays in Thessalonica see Lingas 1996a: 219–78.
34
See Lingas 1996a: table 1 (taken from Athens 2047 214v–215v). Lingas, referring to other musical
manuscripts used in Thessalonica – Athens 2061 and 2062 – indicates that the entrance into the
nave would occur during a pause after Dan. 3:44 (LXX), and would resume again with Dan. 3:52
(LXX). In addition, Lingas notes that the musical setting is more melismatic and in the “brighter”
mode of fourth plagal (1996a: 6–7).
35
As Lingas notes, “Instead of explicitly mimetic features or a multitude of anamnetic texts, the
asmatic Service modestly possessed … an implicitly Paschal character, evoking the historical setting
of the Resurrection by means of its vigil in the narthex and subsequent triumphal entrance into the
nave” (1996a: 126).
before sunrise, which would place the beginning of his Service at a time
when the nave would have been illuminated by a reddish aurora from the
rising sun.36
To mark the transition between Orthros and the Service, Symeon
directs that once he is seated (he presided from a throne at the foot of
the southeast pillar in the nave, facing the solea and ambo), the choir-
boys are led to him by the choir leader, dressed in their robes and bear-
ing lamps, for his blessing. The choir leader removes his hat and offers
a prayer, whereupon the archbishop, by way of reply, intones the trad-
itional benediction, “Blessed be the kingdom of the Father and the Son
and the Holy Spirit.”37
The exact placement of the choir at the end of the Orthros varies
depending on local tradition. In Thessalonica, the choir would have
ranged themselves along the southern barrier of the solea facing the
archbishop (Figure 11).38 In Constantinople, on high feast days like the
Sunday of the Fathers the choir would stand around the pillars sup-
porting the ambo, at floor level (Figure 12).39 Assuming that the choir-
boys were led to the ambo by the cantors, either of these configurations
would have placed the choir at or near their positions for the Service
immediately after the archbishop’s (or, in Constantinople, patriarch’s)
blessings.
These careful preparations and pre-rite blessings would have ensured
that right up to the moment it begins, the Service would have been posi-
tioned within the parameters of traditional Orthodox ritual. With the
ambo as its focus and an icon of the Archangel Michael hanging from the
dome, the Orthros could have proceeded normally and ended, as it usually
did, with the ensemble in position at or near the “typic” furnace.
36
Athens 2047 fol. 7r, as referenced in Lingas 1996a: 269; Lingas also mentions an additional proces-
sion with an icon of the Virgin Hodegetria (“She Who Shows the Way,” depicting Mary gesturing
with her free hand toward the baby Jesus). Lingas notes that the icon was removed from its place
within the church for processional purposes on the Sunday of the Fathers (Lingas 1996a: 268–9).
37
The exact location of the Patriarch in Constantinople is not clear; during the middle Byzantine
period he presided over morning services upstairs in the southern gallery (see Teteriatnikov
2004–5: 12). But by the late Byzantine period, he may have occupied a throne in the north aisle,
near the sanctuary (see Majeska 1984: 30 and 221). The cantor and choir wore colorful, pointed hats
called skiadia (“shade-hats”) as a sign of their office (see Moran 1986: 37).
38
See Moran 1986: 26–32, for his discussion of placement of singers around the ambo. Moran favors
a scheme where the singers line the solea.
39
See Mainstone 1988: 229. Mainstone, following Paul the Silentiary’s lead, has the choir ringing the
ambo’s platform at floor level. Moran (1986: 28) cites a twelfth-century Typikon that places them
along the solea, on non-festive Sundays.
Figure 11 Floor plan for Hagia Sophia in Thessalonica. Diagrammatic

drawing by Karen Elliott
The Service in performance
Introduction: on the Service-as-drama

From the perspective of the performance texts, the Service of the Furnace
appears to proceed in a fashion readily recognizable to students of the
drama. A traditional entrance hymn provides the prologue and story
line, covering the entrance of the Children into the “furnace.” Once
the performers are in place, the ensemble sings the “Prayer of Azariah”
Figure 12 Floor plan for Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. Diagrammatic

drawing by Karen Elliott
antiphonally, followed by a narrative passage (Dan. 3:46–51 [LXX])

describing Nebuchadnezzar’s henchmen feeding the flames. Then, in most
but not all versions, a verse heralds the descent of an icon-angel toward
the “furnace,” whereupon the ensemble sings the “Song of the Three
Children” as the children “dance” around inside the furnace, their hands
and eyes upraised. A series of epilogue-like heirmoi, model stanzas drawn
from the kanons which reflect on the spiritual meaning of the episode,
bring the Service to a close.
Voices
In performance, the Service featured three groups of performers: domes-
tikoi or cantors, psaltēs or choir members, and three paides or “children,”
usually (but not always) performed by choirboys. The larger metropolitan
churches supported two choirs, and each had one cantor to lead them.
Each of these choirs, sometimes referred to as “first” and “second,” or
“right” and “left,” had their own repertoire and shared responsibilities for
an ever-increasing corpus of liturgical chant.40
The sources for many of the Service’s hymns were traditional, ranging
from the Children’s canticles to the kanons.41 In practice the number that
were actually written on the page varied widely; Velimirović notes that of
the twenty verses in the “Prayer of Azariah,” Athens 2406 mentions only
three, and Iviron 1120 and Lavra 165 include only two.42 But depending
on which group the book is written for, the verses would only be included
to indicate a change in mode or ēchos, the writer assuming that the whole
canticle would be sung. Symeon’s Service is unique for including nearly
every word chanted throughout; taking the canticles, his frequent inser-
tions of heirmoi and kratēmata altogether, the performance appears to be
three times as long as those in the other manuscripts; but this could simply
be a matter of making explicit what was assumed in other performances.
The manuscript tradition, taken as a whole, demonstrates the flexibility
inherent in the late Byzantine cathedral rite. Some MSS do not cite com-
posers, but the two versions of the Service associated with composer and
choir leader Manuel Chrysaphes – Iviron 1120 and Lavra 165 – cite names
and offer an alternative musical setting for the narrative verse that accom-
panies the descent of the angel. Sinai 1527 suggests three heirmoi from
the kanons for the end of the Service, with the instruction “and others
40
See Moran (1986: 16–20) for a brief introduction to the ranks and duties of church singers.
Originally all chanters were led by a protopsaltēs, the chief soloist and music-master, and under him
were two domestikoi, or cantors, each leading one choir. Apparently by late Byzantine times the
roles of the protopsaltēs and the domestikos of the right-hand choir became merged, and the domes-
tikos of the left-hand choir came to be known as the lampadarios, a name perhaps derived from
this cantor’s traditional task of accompanying both the Emperor and the Patriarch with a lamp
(Clugnet 1899: 117–18 and 125–26). For a comprehensive study of church services see Darrouzès
1970. See Lingas 1996a: 227–8, on Symeon’s system of alternating weeks for his choirs, and its roots
in a tenth-century Typikon attributed to Hagia Sophia in Constantinople.
41
Complete versions of several hymns referred to in the Service can be found in Høeg 1952.
42
Velimirović 1962: 358. Both Iviron 1120 and Lavra 165 include Dan. 3:47 (LXX) during this early
sequence, but it is merely a narrative passage describing the flames of the furnace, and is not
counted here. Sinai 1527 agrees with Athens 2406 in its choice of verses (three) from the prayer
proper.
like these” – indicating that the celebrants were free to choose from the
available repertoire (by this time, a quite substantial one) at will. This
reinforces an understanding of the Service as a kind of liturgical work-in-
progress that allowed ample room for local variants.
There was likewise room for variation in the distribution of verses
among the performers. In keeping with its treatment in the Orthros, the
“Prayer of Azariah” is performed antiphonally and both Symeon’s Service
and Sinai 1527 prescribe in detail the distribution of alternating verses
between choir and choirboys. But there is disagreement about exactly who
is supposed to start it: Symeon’s version and Sinai 1527 give the choir-
boys the opening verse, Iviron 1120 and Lavra 165 the cantor, while Athens
2406 gives the opening verse to the choir.
There may be legitimate, liturgical explanations for these differ-
ences. With Iviron 1120 and Lavra 165, for instance, reflecting late
Constantinopolitan practice, the cantor/composer may have been the one
who established the melody. Symeon’s choice to have choirboys begin the
canticle, however symbolic, might have created the perception that they
were protagonists and not just singers. The disagreement on beginnings,
in turn, reflects differences in the conduct of the Service as a whole; and
the distribution of verses and hymns throughout the Service, from one
performance and congregation to the next, might have affected the audi-
ence’s interpretations.
The cantors
Because much of the Liturgy is chanted, the cantor’s role is prominent;
in addition to solos, his chief task is to establish the mode and melodic
characteristics of each hymn by giving out what manuscripts variously
call ēchēmata or apēchēma, intonation formulas of varying length. They
appear to have a dual function, on the one hand giving the choir a
central note and/or cadential figure and on the other providing an add-
itional, brief solo piece. Both Iviron 1120 and Lavra 165, written by and
for cantors, call for tunings of this kind at several points during the
Service, explicitly indicating changes in mode and melody. Although
Symeon calls for tunings only once, his frequent changes in ēchos dur-
ing and after the canticles imply that his cantors were quite busy. Sinai
1527 asks for tuning only after both of the Children’s canticles, when
the cycle of heirmoi begins – which could mean that the changes and
tunings were assumed, but it could also mean that the music remained
in a single mode throughout that sequence. Athens 2406 refers to
modes and changes in melody, and implicitly assumes that the cantors
provided the tunings.
At its simplest, a tuning motif can consist of an extended monotonic
“ne” (“yea”) to establish the pitch for the ison, the central note or drone,
when the cantors prepare to sing a solo. When the choir sings the mel-
ody, and when a hymn calls for a change of mode or register midway
through it, the cantor is responsible for providing more specific melodic
information, cueing a modulation to a specific pitch or providing a model
cadence to remind the choir which mode they are now singing. In Athens
2406, Iviron 1120, and Sinai 1527, there is also a change in the “Song of the
Three Children” marked by the insertion of the word “lege,” the impera-
tive form of the verb “to speak” or (in the context of chant) “to sing” (see
Music example 1). The “lege” has musical notation, is sung, and heralds
the beginning of a new melody for the rest of the canticle in a higher
register.43 Over the course of any akolouthia it is routine to hear expli-
cit moments of musical interpellation, where cantor and choir openly
pause for tuning, or repeat a refrain; repeats are not quietly assumed as
in Western music but are explicitly marked by the word palin (“again”)
which again is sung as part of the melody.
These notated, chanted cues have the effect of foregrounding the
ensemble’s presence as ritual performers and undermining the perception
that they may be characters in a drama. Cantors when appropriate also
offer brief passages of pure music lasting from two to four minutes to
mark a transition; to distinguish them from the longer and more formal
kratēmata they are called ēchēma (plural, ēchēmata), which at first glance
look like simple tunings. The specific context – the place, time, and per-
former’s abilities – would determine whether a simple motif or a longer
musical passage was called for.44
The frequency of musical interventions by the cantor is most expli-
cit in Iviron 1120, Manuel Chrysaphes’ performance text; he not only
sings the first verse of the “Prayer of Azariah,” but he gives a special cue
for a narrative passage (Dan. 3:48 [LXX]) describing the fire of the fur-
nace. He also sings the verse heralding the descent of the angel as a solo –
a melody he composed himself (see Music example 2) and which cues
the beginning of the Benedicite. These last interventions, clustered as
43
See Velimirović 1962: 361, for his transcription of this passage. Conscious encouragement from the
celebrants in the form of sung phrases like “Wisdom!” and “Let us be attentive” are a regular fea-
ture of Orthodox services to this day.
44
Lingas 2011: 222.
Music example 1 Excerpt from the Benedicite in the Service of the Furnace including
the chanted cue Lege, “sing” (on the fourth line). From Lingas 2011:
219 (fig. 51b)
they are around the visual climax of the action, would have reinforced
Chrysaphes’ position as the master of ceremonies. He may have simply
been doing what cantors traditionally do from an Orthodox perspective,
but outsiders may have been impressed more by his virtuosity than his
piety. By contrast in Iviron’s sibling manuscript, Lavra 165, the cantor
appears to play a reduced role, providing the tunings but little else; the
hymns performed as solos by Chrysaphes are mentioned, but only in the
passive voice; they are simply “sung.”
Music example 2 Transcription of the melody for the angel’s descent from the
Service of the Furnace. From Lingas 2011: 216 (fig. 50a)
The virtuoso aesthetic implied in Iviron 1120 might help to explain

why the Constantinopolitan Service might have been read by visitors
in more secular terms; regardless of whether it was performed before
or after the Liturgy, the Service offered in the capital city provided a
showcase for the court’s finest singer/composers. And yet if audience
size had been a concern, a performance before the Liturgy – then as
now – might have found the church half-empty. A post-liturgical per-
formance of the Service would have ensured the church would be filled
with late-rising tourists and those among the faithful whose habit has
always been to arrive just in time for communion. The emperor, seated
conspicuously on a throne in the south aisle, would be in a position to
bask in the musical talents of his court with the widest possible audi-
ence in attendance. The argument against a post-liturgical performance
of the Service – apart from that fact that it would be non-canonical – is
that it would have seriously altered its reception, appearing more like an
afternoon concert or oratorio.
Although not mentioned for the first half of the Service, Athens 2406
gives its cantors a prominent role during the “Song of the Three Children”
by asking them to sing Dan. 3:88 (LXX) – “Bless the Lord, Ananiah,
Azariah, Mishael” – a line that, in performance, appears to create a dia-
logue between the Children and their narrators.45 The choirboys in Athens
2406 respond with the non-biblical “We praise, we bless, we venerate,”
which from a Western perspective would create the impression that the
performers address each other in their respective “stage” roles, not as
celebrants. The cantors echo the choirboys with their own expression of
45
As addressed below, however, the choirboys (not the cantors) are given the key narrative verses in
Athens 2406.
humility (“We submit, we bless …”), thus reinforcing the perception that
they sing as narrators. What outside observers might not realize is that the
call and response here is traditional, and in a liturgical context the use of
the first-person plural is usually understood to refer to the whole congre-
gation, not just the celebrants.
The precise role of cantors in other versions of the Service is harder to
discern: Symeon, who had two choirs at his disposal, has one cantor lead
the choirboys to his throne at the beginning of the service for his blessing,
before leading them into the “furnace.” Once the Service begins, however,
Symeon appears to give them no special role until the “Song of the Three
Children,” and although they sing two verses from this last canticle, they
do not sing the “narrator” verse, Dan. 3:88 (LXX), as in other versions.
Symeon stresses the cantors’ function as choir directors. Meanwhile, the
cantors in Sinai 1527 are given no specific verses, which may simply reflect
that their roles were assumed; but it could also imply a smaller, more per-
functory role than in Symeon’s version.
The cantor appears to assume different roles in each version of the
Service, ranging from Chrysaphes’ master of ceremonies in Iviron 1120,
to Athens 2406’s narrator, to Sinai 1527’s discreet choir director. In some
cases, the omissions are more striking than what is included; but there
is not enough information to know whether these ellipses reflect actual
practice. We don’t have the liturgical books that accompanied them, and
can only speculate on the variety of cantors’ duties not written down sim-
ply because they didn’t need to be. But there are cases where the roles
of the cantors explicitly differ, and these differences might have affected
responses to the Service. When the Service was led by a highly skilled solo-
ist, the audience might be more likely to treat it as a musical event or
concert; with the cantors explicitly taking the narrator’s part, the audience
may have experienced something close to Western representational prac-
tice. When cantors served as discreet choir directors, the resulting ambi-
ence may have been much closer to the traditional liturgy.
The choirs
All five versions of the Service call upon the choir to sing the same idi-
omelon (“original composition”) that covers the entrance of the choirboys
into the furnace; Sinai 1527 also asks the choir to escort the choirboys
while it sings. This done, the choir has the traditional liturgical role of
singing antiphonally during the “Prayer of Azariah,” usually (but not
always – see below) swapping verses and choruses with the choirboys.
The manuscripts all have the choirs stand around the “furnace” for the
performance, which we can safely assume refers to the traditional arrange-
ment of liturgical singers in and around the ambo. Given the ambo’s pos-
ition slightly east of the nave’s center, the choir and choirboys would have
faced westward toward the bulk of the congregation; the cantors, most
likely working from memory like their choirs, would also have faced west,
standing in front of the ensemble.46
The perception of these groups as celebrants or characters in a play might
have depended at least initially on who began the “Prayer of Azariah.” In
Sinai 1527 and Athens 2406, the choir sings the first verse, which becomes
a refrain throughout the first canticle; their subsequent exchange of verses
with the choirboys would create a more familiar, Orthros-like atmos-
phere.47 The author’s choir is responsible for the only kratēma specific-
ally mentioned in Athens 2406, sung during the “Prayer of Azariah”; and
later, after the cantors mark the end of the “Song of the Three Children”
by singing a heirmos, the author’s choir appears to be responsible for a
sequence of heirmoi devoted to the Three Children. Athens 2406 calls for
the choir to sing five heirmoi in four different, ascending ēchoi to close out
the Service. The distribution of hymns reflects the tradition of each choir
taking responsibility for specific parts of the liturgical repertoire.
Athens 2406 describes a close musical connection among the choirboys
and the choirs. One choir begins the “Prayer of Azariah,” establishing the
melody for the choirboys, while the author’s choir sings a kratēma in a
melody “doubling” or echoing the choirboys. Upon completion of this
kratēma all three groups sing a climactic, non-biblical verse “Blessed art
Thou Lord, save us!” in unison, which cues the angel’s descent. This kind
of cooperation can be interpreted as traditional and liturgical, but can
also be seen as dramatic in that both choirs echo and enlarge upon the
Children’s martyrdom. The deliberate insertion here of non-biblical lyr-
ics, especially given their content, also runs the risk of crossing the line
between Symeon’s ritual typology and theatrical representation.
With Symeon’s Service the role of the choir appears initially to be more
traditional, and it is clear which verses of the canticles – sung antiphonally
46
Contemporary Orthodox choirs usually stand on either side in front of the sanctuary, behind the
cantor, in a semi-circle, with the cantor working from a lectern or analogia. An arrangement like
this enables the cantor to sing solos and give audible cues with a minimum of movement. For
Byzantine images of singers in a formation analogous to the Service see Moran 1986: ill. 7; the
manuscript illumination depicts singers standing to the left of an icon of Christ Pantocrator, facing
outward toward the reader.
47
In Athens 2406 the writer refers both to cantors and a choir apparently different from his own, so it
would appear he is writing from the perspective of the second, or left-hand choir.
and in their entirety – belong to them. But Symeon routinely interrupts
the flow of the canticles with heirmoi and kratēmata, which have the effect
of providing commentary on the spiritual significance of the action. As in
Athens 2406, the choir sings one kratēma to echo the choirboys, imme-
diately followed by the non-canonical verse, “Blessed art Thou Lord,
save us,” sung by all in unison. But instead of coming at the end of the
“Prayer of Azariah,” in Symeon’s Service this verse comes in the middle of
it, dampening its potentially dramatic effect.
There are other points during Symeon’s Service when liturgical form
shifts momentarily into a more drama-like scheme. The choir sings the
verse narrating the descent of the angel, which seems to position them as
narrators. This perception is undermined, however, when the choirboys,
in true antiphonal style, immediately follow with the next narrative verses
(on this effect, see the next section). But later when the choir sings the bib-
lical narrator’s verse, “Bless the Lord, Ananiah, Azariah, Mishael” (Dan.
3:88 [LXX]), the choirboys respond with the non-biblical “We praise, we
bless, we venerate the Lord” – a traditional response, but one that seems
to confirm the narrator/protagonist relationship from a Western perspec-
tive. At several points, then, Symeon’s method of verse distribution seems
to toy with dramatic enactment and, unwittingly, undermines his litur-
gical intentions.
Not all versions of the Service share Symeon’s approach; Iviron 1120,
Lavra 165, and Sinai 1527 include the verses on the descent of the angel,
but don’t assign them (or the narrator’s address to the Children) to spe-
cific performers. And the choirboys’ non-canonical response to Dan.
3:88 (LXX), present in both Athens 2406 and Symeon’s version is not
even mentioned in these manuscripts. This lack of detail may simply
indicate that the intended users of these particular liturgical books
didn’t have a part in the exchange; but it may also reflect specific local
variants.
Positioned as they are practically side by side, the relationship between
the choirs and choirboys is one that has its own dynamic in each ver-
sion of the Service. In spite of the static image of singers all facing the
congregation, in Symeon’s version there is a potential from one moment
to the next for their relationship to shift perceptibly from ritual celebra-
tion to dramatic representation. Moreover, even though perceptions of
representation may be fleeting, a single moment can be enough to create
the impression that the Service as a whole is a liturgical drama. But not all
versions agree on the distribution of crucial, potentially “dramatic” verses;
the intent of the writers and performers, in other words, seems to change
Music example 3 Introductory refrain from the Service of the Furnace,

by Xenos Korones. From Lingas 2011: 209 (fig. 47)
from one iteration to the next and renders a firm characterization of the
event (let alone the establishment of an ur-text) nearly impossible.
The Children
Symeon states the Three Children were “modeled” in the Service by choir-
boys, a choice that can be seen as a deliberate departure from Western
practice. But musically speaking, the boys’ upper register had been dom-
inant in the Orthodox liturgy for centuries, thanks to the traditional use
of castrati; the use of choirboys here could be seen as a deliberate litur-
gical choice driven by the need, as Symeon says in his Dialogue in Christ,
to model the spiritual purity of the young adults in the original biblical
episode.
Once the choirboys have been installed in the ambo there is an intro-
ductory refrain, a setting of Dan. 3.27 (LXX) which marks the beginning
of the “Prayer of Azariah” (See Music example 3). From the beginning,
we have difficulty in determining whether the choirboys were conceived
as characters in a drama or not; four versions of the Service have either
Music example 4 A version of the climactic stanza from the Service of the Furnace.
From Lingas 2011: 216 (fig. 50b)
the cantors or the choir beginning the Children’s canticles proper, leaving
the question almost deliberately vague. The prominence of the cantors in
some versions and emphasis on antiphonal chant, with boys, choir and/
or cantors alternating verses, do not present a consistent case. Then again,
an educated Byzantine might hear traditional antiphonal chant and still
think of the equally traditional stichomythia of Greek tragedy.
Both Athens 2406 and Symeon’s Service (from the fifteenth century)
have the choir echo the choirboys’ voices, a choice rooted in musical aes-
thetics but one that can be seen as indicating the boys’ presence as biblical
characters. One melodic motif in particular (see Music example 4) – a
cadence that begins with an ascending seventh and ends with a gradually
descending sixth, for the last two words of the non-canonical “Blessed art
Thou Lord, save us” – is repeated several times in Athens 2406.48 Because
the lyrics comment on the biblical Children’s situation, the repetition
could focus attention on the soloists’ status as characters.
It is only in Symeon’s version of the Service that the choirboys sing the
introductory refrain that marks the beginning of the “Prayer of Azariah,”
a choice that might easily lead to the misperception that they are pro-
tagonists. But the large number of heirmoi, whose lyrics provide spiritual
commentary on the episode, and mystical kratēmata Symeon has inserted
among the canticles’ verses interrupt the narrative flow repeatedly, dem-
onstrating a feature of his liturgical work that is only now receiving the
attention it deserves.
48
See Velimirović 1962: 358 for a transcription of this passage.
Symeon, the seemingly dour polemicist of the Dialogue in Christ, was
in reality a man with an encyclopedic knowledge of the Orthodox trad-
ition. A native of Constantinople and a connoisseur (so to speak) of high
church ritual, he had a genius for orchestration comparable to that of a
musical director or conductor in a major symphony orchestra. Symeon’s
“programming choices” may seem eclectic to Western eyes, almost
post-modern, because he constantly de-centers the biblical narrative of the
Service and demands reflection on its multiple levels of meaning. Symeon
reveals himself to be a man of sophisticated, cosmopolitan liturgical tastes,
willing to take risks in performance in order to heighten his congregation’s
spiritual experience.49
Given the challenges Symeon faced in Thessalonica, and given the exi-
gencies of daily liturgical performance from one congregation to the next,
it is anyone’s guess whether Symeon succeeded in performing his version
in full, or if so for how many years.50 Whatever the historical fate of his
version, the radical nature of Symeon’s approach becomes evident when
compared with other versions of the Service. Athens 2406 has the choir
begin the canticles, and specifically calls upon the choirboys to sing the
narrative verse describing the descent of the angel. This moment, if per-
formed in a modern-day setting, would call to mind Bertolt Brecht’s the-
ory of Verfremdungseffekt, in which the performer adopts the position of
an observer of her/his character’s story.51
The way the choirboys present themselves, apart from their choreog-
raphy (discussed below), becomes more discreet in other versions of the
Service. Although Iviron 1120 and Sinai 1527 call upon the choirboys to
sing antiphonally with the choir during the “Prayer of Azariah,” they
do not begin the hymns, and have no special solos or climactic verses to
sing that would call special attention to them. And Lavra 165, although
describing the canticles as antiphonal, does not call upon the “Children”
to sing, giving directions to only the cantor and choir. As in other cases,
this omission may simply reflect that the intended users did not need add-
itional information. But it is possible that the absence of singing choir-
boys here was intentional – reflecting, perhaps, a monastic context where
boys or soloists designated as the “Children” would not be present.
49
Lingas (1996a: 15) notes as much, citing one of Symeon’s editors (Phountoules) who came to much
the same conclusion. Symeon’s reforms affected the entire liturgical corpus, of which the Service is
but one example.
50
In a private communication, Lingas has suggested that the Service found in Athens 4027 may be
aspirational, i.e. it may contain instructions for the rite under ideal conditions which, as we have
seen, may not have existed for very long under Symeon’s see.
51
See Brecht 1964: 91–9.
Summary
A survey of the Service’s extant versions show that instructions for each
group of singers are far from consistent; and these differences might
account for the variety of audience reactions. They can also be understood
as choices rooted in the position of the author, his own ritual aesthetic, as
well as available resources where each Service was performed.
Audience interpretations of the Service, however, might have been
influenced even more by its visual aspects; and there are even more radi-
cal differences in how authors of the Service crafted its choreography and
spectacle. Traditionally, Orthodoxy’s theology of the icon implied an
avoidance of realistic representation in favor of a more structured, typo-
logical approach to sacred imagery. Symeon’s comparison between Latin
and Byzantine practice shows that he created his Service with an aware-
ness of what constituted drama in his time; and overall his version avoids
the crude materiality he found in Catholic sacred plays. Nevertheless,
Symeon’s choices may have seemed too radical in some eyes.
Choreography, spectacle, and controversy

In one study of the Service of the Furnace, Alexander Lingas notes that
although in many respects it appears to adhere to traditional Orthodox
liturgical practice, two visual aspects might have caused problems:
A modern Greek Orthodox Christian witnessing a celebration of the
Service might be scandalized by only two of its details: the lowering of an
icon depicting an angel over the children, and their “dance” in the sym-
bolic furnace.52
Having established the latent dramatic tendencies in the Service’s music,
it remains to consider the degree to which the descent of the icon-angel
and the subsequent “dance” of the choirboys in the “furnace” would have
caused any concern. As Symeon admitted, the Service had already inspired
accusations of hypocrisy.
There appears to be general agreement on the visual elements of the
Service: in nearly every version the choirboys enter the furnace, bow three
times to the east – the traditional act of proskynēsis or “worship” – and
remain there for the rest of the performance. The descent of the angel
occurs during the singing of Dan. 3:49 (LXX); and during the “Song
52
Lingas 2011: 187.
of the Three Children” that follows, Symeon, Athens 2406, Iviron 1120,
and Lavra 165 all direct the choirboys to “dance” inside the furnace, their
hands and eyes held upward. The number of times when the choirboys are
instructed to dance and whether they are asked to dance and sing at the
same time varies; but the presence of a “flying” angel and “dancing” and
singing choirboys can be easily seen as para-liturgical, if not outright rep-
resentational and dramatic.
The angel’s descent

Although four versions of the Service call for an angel to descend into the
furnace, there are no special effects associated with it. There is no evidence
of special lighting or (as with the “Miracle” at Blachernae) any tapestry
used to hide the icon from view. This implies that the angel is constantly
visible, so that its descent (from the viewer’s perspective) involves a rela-
tively minor vertical adjustment. Being an icon the angel does not speak;
and in contrast to Romanos’ kontakion, none of the ensemble sings on its
behalf either. So as spectacular as this moment may appear, the Service’s
visual elements constitute a form of visual citation that is distinct from
the portrayals of angels in the Western tradition – as in the Annunciation
plays, where a man portrays Archangel Gabriel flying over the heads of the
audience, flapping fake wings and talking to the Virgin Mary.53
Given the Western tradition of angelic representation, the presence of
a mute, two-dimensional figure, in the midst of singing and “dancing”
three-dimensional performers, creates a sensory bifurcation that seems
deliberate. The Westerner’s expectation of a realistic angel descending into
a realistic furnace is disrupted by the explicit use of a completely different
medium.
The visual effect created by the descent of a deacon-angel into a furnace
with three choirboys is, by design, complex in its symbolism; ideally, this
field would have engaged the viewer in a mode of contemplation where
the Service brings to mind the eternal heavenly liturgy, with the perform-
ance and its prototype commingling, referring, or reflecting back upon
each other. This process of modeling through performance seems rooted
not in a desire to cite the Three Children’s story but to reposition the
episode so that it becomes “a kind of epiphany,” as one critic would have
53
This was how Gabriel is portrayed in the sacra rappresentazione of the Annunciation performed at
the Council in Florence in 1439, roughly contemporary with the Service of the Three Children. For a
complete translation and analysis see Newbigin 1996a. The author would like to thank Dr. Thomas
Pallen for providing him with this reference.
it. The goal would be to link, in the congregation’s minds, the episode’s
narrative with emanations of the divine while also honoring the physical
elements that have been articulated into a performance in honor of the
holy Children.54
In theological terms the distinction between Byzantine and Western
practice described here can be also understood as the distinction between
idol and icon, between literal and metaphorical aesthetics of perform-
ance. Jean-Luc Marion, in his treatise God and Being, defines the idol as
a mirror of man’s already narrowed vision of divinity, designed (in effect)
to make as few demands on the mind as possible. As long as the idol-
ater’s mind does not wander outside the small visual field of reality-based
art, the dominant social order remains intact. The viewer’s relationship
with an icon, however, is constructed by Marion (and the Orthodox) as
dynamic; by design the icon demands active personal engagement on the
part of the viewer, who is expected to empty her mind of thoughts about
temporal authority or art, and focus on the icon’s spiritual prototype.55
One last, practical consideration in interpreting the descent of the
angel – and the Service as a whole – is its intended audience, who were
among the most educated and powerful members of the Orthodox elite.
Robert Browning has argued that many among the Orthodox laity had
benefited from at least a primary school education, which would have
included readings from the Septuagint. This would have been in contrast
with the medieval West, where literacy rates (in Latin) were substantially
lower.56
In the West, the Catholic Church had incorporated representational
elements into regular services, and even sanctioned monks and clergy to
assume the roles of biblical characters. But as a little-cited passage from
St. Ethelwold’s Regularis concordia makes clear, the consecration of the
“tomb” on Good Friday, and the performance of the Quem quaeritis had
primarily a didactic purpose:
Now since on that day we solemnize the burial of the Body of our Saviour,
if anyone should care or think fit to follow in a becoming manner certain
religious men in a practice worthy to be imitated for the strengthening of the
faith of unlearned common persons or neophytes, [ad fidem indocti vulgi ac
54
For an account of the imaginative reinforcement of sacrality through the cult of images see Dagron
1991; for his concept of iconography-as-epiphany see Dagron 1991: 33.
55
See Marion 1991: 7–22.
56
See Browning 1978. As Browning notes, “The situation is very different from that of most western
medieval societies, where the literate formed an estate and a sociological group distinguished by
their whole pattern of life from the non-literate mass” (Browning 1978: 52).
neophytorum corroborandam], we have decreed this only: on that part of
the altar where there is space for it there shall be a representation as it were
of a sepulcher.57
Ethelwold indicates that if it weren’t for the presence of uncomprehend-
ing laity at monastic services, the Quem quaeritis would not have been
necessary. The linguistic barrier between Latin-speaking celebrants and
vernacular-speaking laity was a major factor. By contrast linguistic barriers
were nowhere near as intense in the Eastern Empire, because the language
of the Septuagint, however archaic, was a simpler dialect of koinē or “com-
mon” Greek, which laid the foundation for contemporary street-Greek in
Byzantine times. Education, moreover, was more widespread, so that the
Service’s performers benefited from a congregation with a much higher
level of literacy and familiarity with the biblical story: this freed them
from the obligation to teach the basics, and enabled them to use the rite
to facilitate contemplation of the episode’s higher, spiritual meanings.
From an Orthodox perspective, the history of Western sacred drama
is one of increasingly vulgarized ritual, with the introduction of dramatic
spectacles designed to propagandize a largely illiterate and uncompre-
hending lay audience. This aspect of Western culture baffled Orthodox
clergy, who not only taught the Bible in their own language but routinely
translated it into local vernaculars for new converts, in some cases – the
Russians most famously – providing alphabets when necessary.
When we consider the impact of the icon-angel and its descent, it helps
to remember that the Service was performed for a Byzantine lay audience
that knew the Children’s story and, in many cases, knew their canticles
by heart. Moreover, since Catholics and Orthodox had lived among each
other in Byzantium for centuries, Orthodox laity also had firsthand know-
ledge of the West’s representational practices and knew how Catholics
used men to play angels. In this context, it is unlikely that an average
Byzantine audience would have been much impressed by the paltry spec-
tacle of a flat angel dangling at the end of a rope. As discussed earlier,
given the context of Ottoman conquest and Latin imperiousness, it is
more likely that the vertical alignment of the icon was designed to invoke
57
Ethelwold 1953: 44, emphasis mine. The reference to neophytes is a reminder that Britain was
among the last European nations to convert to Christianity, with missions launched from Rome as
late as 597. Christopher P. Jones has remarked that there were places in the West where the Empire
fell before paganism did (Jones 2014: 147). Kobialka stresses internal monastic elements in the
development of the Quem quaeritis, but this passage indicates that such enactments may also have
been designed for outsiders or new arrivals at the monastery.
divine protection for the sacred space of the church itself, as well as the
faithful who gathered in it.
The “dance” of the Children

Perhaps the most problematic part of the rubrics is the call for the soloists
to dance; use of the verb choreuein (“to dance”) in ritual appears to be of
late Byzantine vintage, and there are no specific instructions on how the
dance is performed. Although the references to dance in four versions of
the Service paint a vivid picture in the Western mind, dance in the con-
text of an Orthodox service would likely have been a somber affair. The
static, orant posture called for in the Service’s “dances,” moreover, is not
conducive to elaborate choreography: the rubrics call for the choirboys to
dance with their hands and eyes raised upward. This posture, although in
harmony with the iconographic tradition, would have seriously limited
the boys’ mobility. Standing in the ambo, their hands and eyes constantly
directed upward, and (in Symeon’s case especially) expected to sing at the
same time, exactly what moves could they be expected to make?
In the biblical account of this episode, Nebuchadnezzar sees the
Children and the angel walking around inside the furnace.58 Circular
walks remain a part of the Jewish tradition to this day, and are compar-
able to the tradition of processional “dance” in the Greek Orthodox trad-
ition. The rubrics for modern Orthodox wedding ceremonies, and rites
of ordination for deacons and priests, call for three circular walks, each
with its own symbolic meaning.59 Given the Book of Daniel’s reference to
walking, the sight of such a “dance” might, to some degree, constitute an
enactment or dramatic representation of the Children. But in Orthodox
eyes its conservative movements could also be aligned with liturgical
practice.
The key element that might argue against a dramatic reading of the
choirboys’ dance is the presence of the icon. An Orthodox congregation
would have known that a realistic angel in a Western version of the story
would have sung and danced with the Children; so the icon’s mute, static
58
Dan. 3:25 (RSV).
59
Archimandrite Lash’s Anastasis (www.anastasis.org.uk) includes translations of modern rubrics
for the wedding or “Crowning” ceremony, as well as the ordinations for a Priest (Presbyter) and
Deacon. In each case the processional is accompanied by the troparion, “Isaiah’s Dance.” On dance
in the late Byzantine church see especially Theodorou 1978: 297–9. The origins of Orthodox litur-
gical dance remain obscure, and there is no evidence for it in the earliest extant rubrics for either
wedding or ordination rites. See for example Parenti 2000a or Parenti 2000b. For a translation of
the early Byzantine ordination rites see Bradshaw 1990: 133–9.
presence among singing, dancing choirboys would have invited the con-
gregation to focus more on the spiritual symbolism than the “reality”
before them.
Liturgical dances (like liturgical actions in general) are positioned as
citations of eternal, heavenly events. In describing the songs and dances
of the ordination ceremony, Symeon refers to Christian martyrs as
“co-dancers” (synchoreutes), and to Christ as the Master of Ceremonies;
the angels, too, are understood to dance with the clergy at moments like
these.60 The presence of the icon-angel amid living, moving choirboys
can be seen as one way to convey this mystical concept of eternal, uni-
versal, liturgical dance; so the Service’s mixture of canticles, heirmoi, and
kratēmata is complemented by mortals co-celebrating with the angelic
chorus.
At one point it looks as if Symeon toyed with the idea of using choir-
boys as representations of the Children during the dancing sequence; he
asks them to stretch out their hands as in prayer, turn their eyes toward
the icon, and dance the moment the angel descends. But then he also
asks them to sing the next narrative passage (Dan. 3:50 [LXX]), which in
theory would position them as celebrants, not characters. He then under-
mines the boys’ status as celebrants by telling them to sing non-canonical
verses in which they appear to present themselves as the Children – “We
bless the Father and the Son and Holy Spirit.” Symeon’s choreography
combined with his distribution of verses could be easily misinterpreted by
Western audiences, particularly those unfamiliar with the Orthodox tradi-
tions of call and response, and liturgical dance.
Because of the relatively high level of education among Byzantine
church-goers, spiritual interpretations of the Service would have been more
common among the laity than not. Hence, as already noted, the use of the
first-person plural in the choirboys’ “We praise, we bless, we bow before
the Lord” would have been understood as a traditional response that refers
to the whole congregation. But medieval Western audiences could not be
expected to grasp the Service at this level: accustomed to didactic, realistic
enactments of biblical stories, they would have been more likely to pass
over the subtleties of Orthodox liturgical practice and focus instead on
the visual elements; this would explain why some Catholics interpreted
the rite as a dramatic representation; and Symeon, unwittingly, provided
them with ample opportunity to do so.
60
Theodorou 1978: 298.
Conclusion
This study has attempted to demonstrate the unique features of the

Orthodox ritual aesthetic, detailing the evidence for its consciousness of
and antagonism toward traditional theatre. Although the popular imagin-
ation continues to see the rites of the Church as “dramatic” the evidence
presented here suggests a different understanding of the Liturgy’s origins
and function. The spatial practice of the Orthodox rite was derived from
the dynamics of the imperial basilica, not the Hellenistic stage; the tem-
plon screen, although in some sense comparable to a Hellenistic stage
front, is such a late innovation that it may not even be Byzantine in ori-
gin and at any rate does not become common until centuries after public
theatres had been closed, dismantled, and/or converted to other uses.
Given the traditional Jewish and Christian disdain for hypocrisia, it is
hardly surprising that there is little evidence to support previous argu-
ments for amateur or even proto-theatrics during the conduct of the
Liturgy. Celebrants consistently avoided the element of enactment, par-
ticularly during the Eucharistic service, where Christ’s words and actions
at the Last or Mystical Supper are commemorated. And the rules for cre-
ative rhetorical performance, established in Antiquity and taught through-
out Byzantium’s history, were quite distinct from those for traditional
actors; this is why ēthopoieia, “characterization,” was used as a standard
rhetorical device in Byzantine homilies but was positioned as a practice
distinct from acting.
The Byzantine penchant for allegorical and spiritual interpretation
of the Liturgy manifests itself especially in the Orthodox Church’s
understanding of music. Byzantium inherited a complex art form from
Antiquity and music became the dominant mode of liturgical perform-
ance and was understood – even at the level of its technical vocabulary –
as a form of prayer and spiritual communion. The late Byzantine spiritual
movement of Hesychasm, with its emphasis on the inexpressible nature
of the Almighty and on all of Creation’s participation in the circulation
187
of divine energy, provided a firmer basis for multi-layered interpretations
of Orthodox ritual. There was an increased sophistication in Orthodox
hymnography, as witnessed by the advent of the kratēma with its wordless,
pure music; but with this increased emphasis on pure melodic expression,
created by court composers who performed both inside and outside the
Church, the question arises whether chanters wrote and sang for the love
of God, to impress listeners with their skills, or both.
The consistency with which Orthodoxy avoided traditional theatre can
be contrasted with developments in the Catholic Mass during the Middle
Ages. As ocular communion was privileged and the elevation of the
Eucharistic species introduced, seemingly in sync with the Verba Domini,
Catholic priests came to rely increasingly on actions that bordered unwit-
tingly on enactment. Even if there is no direct link between this liturgical
reform and the development of sacre rappresentazioni in the West, the two
nevertheless developed together; and Orthodoxy’s reaction to both was
negative.
It is in the context of divergent ritual aesthetics, and divergent
approaches to representations of the sacred, that the debate over the late
Byzantine Service of the Furnace must be situated. To this day, the question
of the Service’s status as drama or ritual continues to generate debate, with
Western scholars favoring a dramatic reading and Greek scholars often
stressing its ritual characteristics.1 The analysis of extant versions of the
Service offered here suggests a third possible reading: that it was a locus of
intense creative activity that allowed for any number of different iterations
and interpretations.
Disagreements on significant elements of the Service, especially its dis-
tribution of verses, render the question “was it a liturgical drama?” difficult
to answer except on a case-by-case, even viewer-by-viewer basis. The vari-
ations found in the manuscript tradition of the Service, moreover, serve to
erode the myth of ritual uniformity or “tradition” in the Orthodox world.
What emerges instead is a highly creative, localized, and human element
in late Byzantine ritual, involving a variety of considerations – spiritual
aesthetics, personal taste, available talent, performance spaces and times,
not to mention the vast repertoire of hymns. These elements, in turn,
1
One anecdote will suffice here: shortly after he published his article on the Service, Miloš Velimirović
gave distinguished Greek scholar Nicolaos Tomadakis a copy. Tomadakis, glancing at its title –
“Liturgical Drama in Byzantium and Russia” – asked him what the Service was called in the manu-
scripts. Velimirović said “Akolouthia,” whereupon Tomadakis said firmly that the word akolouthia
may have many meanings, but “drama” was not one of them – for him dramas were Western, not
Byzantine. To avoid further unpleasantness, Velimirović thanked Tomadakis for his time and with-
drew (private correspondence with Miloš Velimirović, March 2005).
Conclusion 189
make it easy to understand why diametrically opposed interpretations of
the Service are possible both then and now.
Specific objections can still be raised to Velimirović’s classification of
the Service of the Furnace as a “liturgical drama”; although it does bear a
superficial resemblance to this form as understood by modern scholars, in
design and practice it has little in common with the Latin rappresentazioni
of the period. Even Archbishop Symeon’s Service at its most extravagant
is distinct from medieval Western practice and, like the Divine Liturgy,
represents a conscious effort to avoid theatricality.
A comparative reading of five versions of the Service reveals substantial
disagreement over even the most basic details of its performance, with
some retreating from the elements of spectacle and choreography that
marked Symeon’s more elaborate Service. Symeon, by his own admission,
took some risks; but these were the risks of a monk born and raised in
Constantinople, and his regular attendance at Hagia Sophia – where the
Service was an annual event from at least his childhood days – would have
informed his tastes for a more sophisticated approach to the rite.
Symeon’s liturgical experiments came at a time when Thessalonica
was in profound political, economic, and religious turmoil. He had the
unenviable task of leading a congregation torn apart by calls for capitula-
tion to the Pope or conversion to Islam. Seen as a product of its own time
Symeon’s Service was a rite devoted to an all-too-timely theme, as first
expressed by the Hellenistic Jews who wrote the original story: how to
remain true to one’s faith while under captivity. Symeon’s Service may have
been extreme in its approach to ritual, but it also reflected the extremity of
his congregation’s situation.
The Orthodox Church, for all the beauty and pageantry of the Service,
rejected traditional theatre and never sanctioned the enactment of biblical
episodes as a part of its services.2 The ritual aesthetic and the theology
of ritual performance developed in early Byzantine times, refined and
revised through the iconoclast period and in later years by the Hesychasts,
has remained the standard by which Western theatrical practices are still
judged in the Orthodox world.
2
Recent studies have confirmed that a revival in Greek dramatic literature occurs in the context of
Western influence, particularly in the post-Byzantine period; see for example Puchner 2003.
Appendi x 1
The Service of the Furnace, Athens 2047
Instructions for the Conduct of the Service of the Furnace

As found in ms 2047, National Library of Athens, c. 1416–29
[219r] ἀκολουθία τῆς καμίνου1 Service of the Furnace

[219v] μετὰ τὸ τέλος τοῦ ὄρθρου, After the end of Matins, the children
εὐτρεπισθέντων τῶν παίδων, being prepared, i.e. having changed
ἤτοι ἠλλαγμένων ὄντων καὶ and bearing lamps, the cantor
λαμπαδηφορούντων, λαμβάνων ταῦτα leading them, he brings them before
ὁ δομέστικος τῷ ἀρχιερεῖ προσάγει· the Archbishop;2 and they receive
καὶ λαμβάνουσιν εὐλογίαν· εἶτα καὶ [his] blessing; and next, bare-headed,
ἀσκεπὴς ὤν, ἐκφωνεῖ, Εὐλόγησον he intones “Blessed Lord” according
δέσποτα· μετὰ μέλους. Καὶ τοῦ to the [traditional] tune. And the
ἀρχιερέως ἐκφωνεήσαντος ἐκ τοῦ Archbishop having intoned from his
στασιδίου αὐτοῦ, τὸ Εὐλογημένη ἡ throne the “Blessed be the Kingdom,”
Βασιλεῖα, ἄρχονται οἱ ψάλται τοῦ the choir begins the present sticheron
παρόντος στιχήρου, εἰς ἦχον Β‘. in the second [authentic] mode:
Πνευματικῶς ἑμᾶς πιστοί, συνήγαγε Today, the Prophet Daniel has
σήμερον· ὁ Προφήτης Δανιήλ· καὶ gathered us faithful together
τράπεζαν προτίθεσιν ἀρετῶν δαψιλῇ· spiritually, and he has laid out a
πλουσίοις καὶ πένησι, καὶ ξένοις καὶ table with an abundance of virtues
αὐτόχθοσι· καὶ κρατῆρα νοητόν, for wealthy and poor, for foreigners
προχέοντα νᾶμα εὐσεβείας· καὶ and natives; and a vessel of the spirit,
εὐφραίνοντα καρδίας πιστῶν· καὶ pouring forth a stream of reverence,
Πνεύματος Ἁγίου χάριν παρέχοντα· gladdening the hearts of the faithful,
οὗτος γὰρ ὁ προφήτης· ὁ φανότατος and offering the grace of the Holy
λύχνος· ὁ λάμψας ἐν τῷ κόσμῷ, τὰ Spirit; for he is the prophet, the
brightest lamp, who shines
1
The English text was prepared in consultation
with translations by Alexander Lingas and
Archimandrite Lash; the Greek text is tran-
2
scribed directly from Athens 2407. Lit., “high priest.”
190
The Service of the Furnace, Athens 2047 191
σεβάσματα πάντα τῶν Ἀσσυρίων upon the world; he smashed all the
καθεῖλε· καὶ θηρῶν ἀτιθάσων στόματα idols of the Assyrians; and stopped the
ἔφραξε· σὺν τοῦτο, καὶ οἱ τρεῖς παῖδες mouths of wild beasts, praise too the
εὐφημείσθωσαν· οὐ χρυσοῖ τὴν φύσιν three children with him; not being
ὄντες· καὶ χρυσίου δοκιμώτεροι gold by nature, and [yet] revealing
δεινύμενοι· οὐ γὰρ ἐχωνευσεν αὐτοὺς themselves more valuable than gold;
τὸ πῦρ τῆς καμίνους ἀλλ‘ ἐφύλαξεν for the fire of the furnace did not
ἀκεραίους· οὕς νάπθα καὶ πίσσα καἰ smelt them but kept them unharmed;
κληματίδες ἔστεψαν· ὁ δὲ ἁγαγὼν naphtha and pitch and kindling
ἡμᾶς· εἰς τὴν περίοδον τοῦ χρόνου surrounded them; may the Lord who
Κύριος, ἀξιώσαι ἡμᾶς φθάσαι· καὶ ἐπὶ has brought us [together] in this season
τὴν κυρίαν καὶ σεβασμίαν ἡμέραν τῶν find us worthy, and on the supreme
γενεθλίων Χηριστοῦ· and awesome day of Christ’s birth;
τοῦ παρέχοντος ἡμῖν· ταῖς αὐτῶν granting us, his suppliants, propitiation
ἱκεσίαις· ἱλασμὸν ἀμαρτιῶν καὶ τὸ and great mercy for [our] sins.
μέγα ἔλεος.
Τούτου δὲ ψαλλομένου, εἰσέρχονται οἱ And while singing this, the children
παῖδες εἰς τὴν τυπικὴν κάμινον· καὶ go into the typic furnace; and when
τοῦ στιχήρου τελεσθέντος, ἄρχονται the sticheron ends, the children begin
τὰ τῆς ᾠδῆς οἱ παῖδες οὕτως· the [verses] of the ode thus:
τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν· καὶ “[God] of our fathers”;3 and they add
ἐπισυνάπτουσι τὸν στίχον· the verse:
Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε ὁ Θεὸς τῶν “Blessed art thou Lord God of our
πατέρων ἡμῶν καὶ αἰνετὸν, καὶ fathers, thy glorious name be praised
δεδοξασμένον τὸ ὄνομά σου εἰς τούς forever.” And again “[God] of our
αἰῶνας· καί πάλιν Τῶν πατέρων· fathers.”
καὶ ψάλλεται ἡ ὠδὴ ὅλη ἡ ὲβδόμη And the whole seventh ode is sung
οὕτως. Τῶν ψαλτῶν λεγόντων ἔνα thus: the choir sings one verse
στίχον καὶ Τῶν πατέρων· καὶ οἱ and “[God] of our fathers”: and the
τῶν παίδων ὁμοίως ἕτερον στίχον children [sing] similarly another
καὶ Τῶν πατέρων· εἰσὶ καἲ ἄλλα δύο verse and “[God] of our fathers”: But
μικρὰ τῶν πατέρων· ἅ καὶ ψάλλον there are two little [settings for]
ἐνααλλ[αξ]τε τω καὶ τῶν … “[God] of our fathers,” which they
sing alternately and then also …4
3
An abbreviation for Dan. 3.25 (LXX).
4
Some of the text here is obscured. Symeon
refers to two different choruses, one
from Dan 3.25 (LXX) and another whose
complete lyrics are found in Athens 2406
(Appendix 2). See also Lingas 2010: 209.
192 Appendix 1
Οἱ ψάλται, Ὅτι δίκαιους εἶ ἐπὶ πᾶσιν, The choir, “How just art thou in
οῖς ἐποίησας ἡμῖν· καὶ πάντα τὰ ἔργα all things thou hast done to us, and
σου ἀληθινά, καὶ εὐθεῖαι αἱ ὁδοί σου· truthful all thy works, and righteous
Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν ὑπερύμνητε· thy ways; Praise [God] of our fathers.” 5
Οἱ παῖδες· Καὶ πᾶσαι αἱ κρίσεις The children, “And true all thy
σου ἀληθεῐς· καὶ κρίματα ἀληθείας decisions; and thou hast made thy
ἐποίησας· Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν judgments truthfully; Praise [God] of
ὑπερύμνητε· our fathers.”
Κατὰ πάντα ἅ ἐπήγαγες ἡμῖν· καὶ In all that thou hast brought upon us,
ἐπὶ τἠν πόλιν τὴν ἀγίαν τὴν τῶν and upon the holy city of our fathers,
πατέρων ἡμῶν Ἱερουσαλήμ· Τῶν Jerusalem; [God] of our fathers.
πατέρων ἡμῶν.
Ὅτι ἐν ἀληθεῖα καὶ κρίσει ὲπήγαγες Because in truth and judgment thou
ταῦτα πάντα ἐφ‘ ἡμᾶς, διὰ τὰς hast brought all these things upon us,
ἁμαρτίας ἡμῶν· Τῶν [πατέρων] due to our sins: [God of our fathers].
Ὅτι ἡμάρτομεν καὶ ἠνομήσαμεν For we have sinned and acted lawlessly
ἀποστῆναι ἀπό σου· καὶ ἐξημάρτομεν rebelling against thee; and we have
ἐν πᾶσι· καὶ τῶν ἐντολῶν σου οὐκ sinned utterly in everything, and we
ἠκούσαμεν· Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν. have not heeded thy commandments;
[God] of our fathers.
Οὐδὲ συνετηρήσαμεν· οὐδὲ ἐποιήσαμεν Nor have we kept them, nor done as thou
καθὼς ἐντείλω ἡμῖν, ἵνα εὖ ἡμῖν hast commanded us, so that all might be
γένηται· Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν. well with us; [God] of our fathers.
Καὶ πάντα ὅσα ἐποίησας ἡμῖν· καὶ And all thou hast done to us and all thou
πάντα ὅσα ἐπήγαγες ἡμῖν, ἐν ἀληθινῇ hast brought upon us, thou hast done in
κρίσει ἐποίησας· Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν. truthful judgment; [God] of our fathers.
[220r] Καὶ παρέδωκας ἡμᾶς, εἰς χεῐρας And thou hast delivered us into the
ἐχθρῶν ἀνόμων, ἐχθίστων ἀποστατῶν· hands of lawless enemies, the most
καὶ βασιλεῖ ἀδίκῳ καὶ πονηροτάτῳ hateful blasphemers, and to the most
παρὰ πᾶσαν τὴν γῆν· Τῶν πατέρων unjust and wicked king in all the
world;[God] of our fathers.
Καὶ νῦν οὐκ ἔστιν ἡμῖν ἀνοῖξαι And now we cannot open our mouths,
τὸ στόμα· αἰσχύνη καὶ ὅνειδος we have become a shame and a
ἐγενήθημεν τοῖς δούλοις σου καὶ τοῖς disgrace to thy servants and those who
σεβομένοις σε· Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν. worship thee; [God] of our fathers.
5
The alternative chorus – see Appendix 2.
Μὴ δὴ παραδῴς ἡμᾶς εἰς τέλος διὰ Yet do not betray us to death, for thy
τὸ ὄνομά σου· καὶ μὴ διασκεδάσῃς name’s sake, and do not break thy
τὴν διαθήκην σου· καὶ μὴ ἀποστήσῃς covenant; and do not take thy mercy
τὸ ἔλεός σου ἀφ‘ ἡμῶν. away from us.
Μετὰ τοῦτον τὸν στίχον, ψάλλουσι After this verse, the choir sings the
τὸ Δι‘ Ἀβραὰμ, οἱ ψάλται, εἰς ἦχον “For Abraham’s sake,” in the 2nd
πλ. Β‘ plagal mode:
Δι‘ Ἀβραὰμ τὸν ἠγαπημένον ὑπὸ For Abraham’s sake, beloved by thee,
σοῦ· καὶ Ἰσαὰκ τὸν δοῦλον σου· καὶ and thy servant Isaac, and thy holy
Ἰσραὴλ τὸν ἅγιόν σου. Israel.
Καὶ λέγουσι τὸν παρόντον εἱρμόν, And they sing this heirmos, in
μετὰ τῶν ἠχημάτων αὐτοῦ· accordance with its melody:6
Ἐν δεηρᾷ τῇ καμίνῳ, δροσίζει παῖδας In the throat of the furnace, the Restorer
ὁ κτίστης, καὶ ποιητὴς τοῦ παντὸς· and Maker of all bedews the children,
ὕμνον ἀναβοῶντας,· Θεὸς τῶν who cried out the song: Blessed art
πατέρων ἡμῶν, εὐλογητὸς εἶ. thou, God of our fathers.
Καὶ πάλιν ψάλλουσιν οἱ παῖδες εἰς And again, the children sing this in
ἦχον πλ. Δ‘ [το παρον]· the 4th plagal mode:
Οἷς ἐλάλησας πληθῦναι τὸ σπέρμα To whom thou hast said that their seed
αὐτῶν, ὡς τὰ ἄστρα τοῦ οὐρανου, would increase, as the stars in heaven,
καὶ ὡς τὴν ἄμμον τὴν παρὰ τὸ χεῖλος And as the sand by the shore of the sea;
τὴς θαλάσσης· Τῶν πατέρων. [God] of our fathers.
Ὅτι δέσποτα ἐσμικρύνθημεν παρὰ How, Master, we have become small
πάντα τὰ ἔθνη· καὶ ἐσμεν ταπεινοὶ among all nations; And we are humble
σήμερον ἐν πάσῃ τῇ γῇ διὰ τὰς today the whole world over, because of
ἁμαρτίας ἡμῶν· Τῶν πατέρων. our sins; [God] of our fathers.
Καὶ οὐκ ἔστιν ἐν τῷ καιρῷ τούτῷ, And these days, there is no leader,
ἄρχων καὶ προφήτης καὶ ἡγούμενος· prophet, and ruler; no offerings,
οὐδὲ ὁλοκαύτωσις· οὐδὲ θυσία οὐδὲ sacrifices, gifts, nor incense; no place of
προσφορά· οὐδὲ θυμίαμα οὐ τόπος offering in your presence, and no place
τοῦ καρπῶσαι ἐνώπιον σου, καὶ finds thy mercy; [God] of our fathers.
εὐρεῖν ἔλεος· Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν.
6
The heirmos is usually sung with one note
for each syllable. Symeon seems to be asking
that it be sung with its original melody, indi-
cating that there were others available.
194 Appendix 1
Ἀλλ’ ἐν ψυχῇ συντετριμμένῃ Yet, crushed in our soul and spirit from
καὶ πνεύματι ταπεινώσεως humiliation, let us be accepted.
προσδεχθείημεν.
Ἐνταύθα ψάλλ[ουσιν] οἱ ψάλται τὸ Immediately the choir sings the
ἐξομολογεῖσθε· Confess yourselves.7
Ὡς ἐν ὁλοκαυστώμασι κριῶν καὶ Let our offering today in thy sight be
ταύρων, καὶ ὡς ἐν μυριάσιν ἀρνῶν like the sacrifice of rams and bulls,
πιόνων, οὕτω γενέσθω ἡ θυσία ἡμῶν Like myriads of fat sheep, and let thy
ἐνώπιόν σου σήμερον· καὶ ἐτελείσθω will be done, that there be no shame
ὄπισθέν σου, ὅτι οὐκ ἔστιν αἰσχύνη τοῖς for those who believe in thee; [God] of
πεποιθόσιν ἐπὶ σέ· καὶ Τῶν πατέρων. our fathers.
Καὶ νῦν ἐξακολουθοῦμεν ἐν ὅλῇ And now we follow thee with our
καρδίᾳ· καὶ φοβούμεθά σε, καἰ whole heart, and we are in awe of
ζητοῦμεν τὸ πρόσωπον συ· μὴ thee, and we seek thy face; do not
καταισχύνῃς ἡμᾶς. dishonor us;
Καὶ ψάλλουσιν οἱ ψάλται τὰ ἠχήματα And the choir sings selections from
κομμάτια κρατημ[άτων] πλαγίου the kratēmata in the 4th plagal mode,
τετάρτου ἤχου
ἀνάλογα πρὸς τῶν διπλασμῶν τῆς resembling an echo of the children’s
φωνῆς τῶν παίδων· register;8
Εἰς δὲ τὸ τέλος τοῦ κρατέματος, At the end of the kratēma, after
λέγουσιν ἀπὸ χοροῦ πάντα εἰς τὴν the chorus they sing everything in
αὐτὴν φωνήν, τοῦτο· Εὐλογητὸς εἶ unison thus: “Blessed art thou Lord,
Κύριε, σῶσον ἡμᾶς. save us.”
Οἱ παῖδες· Ἀλλὰ ποίησον μεθ’ ἡμῶν The children: “But let it be done
κατὰ τὴν ἐπείκειάν σου, καἰ κατὰ τὸ unto us according to thy goodness, and
πλῆθος τοῦ ἐλέους σου ἐξελοῦ ἡμᾶς the fullness of thy mercy; deliver us
κατὰ τὰ θαυμάσιά σου· καὶ δὸς δόξαν according to thy wondrousness, and
τῷ ὀνόμάτι σου Κύριε· Τῶν πατέρων. give glory to your name, Lord; [God] of
our fathers.”
Καὶ λέγουσιν οἱ ψάλται τὸν παρόντα And the choir sings the present verse,
στίχον, εἰς ἦχον Β’. in the 2nd [authentic] mode:
7
Psalm 135. The next verse from the canticle,
presumably, is for the children.
8
As discussed in Chapter 6, the upper register
may have been handled by castrati even in
the early fifteenth century. Alternately, the
choir is being asked to transpose the chil-
dren’s melody an octave lower. See Lingas
2011: 214 and n. 79.
Καὶ ἐντραπείησαν πάντες οἱ And all who do evil to thy servants,

ἐνδεικνύμενοι τοῖς δούλοις σοῦ κακά· may they be ashamed, and may they
καὶ καταισχυνθείησαν ἀπὸ πάσης be disgraced in all power and let their
δυναστείας· Καὶ ἡ ἰσχὺς αὐτῶν strength be crushed.
συντριβείη.
Ψάλλουσι δὲ τὸν παρόντα εἱρμόν μετὰ And they sing the present heirmos
τῶν ἠχημάτων αὐτοῦ· ἦχος Β’· in accordance with its melody, 2nd
mode:
Ἐν τῇ φλογοφόρῳ καμίνῳ, ὡς ἐν In the fiery furnace, as in a
δροσοπόκῳ νεφέλη, ὐπῆχον οἱ παῖδες dew-sprinkled cloud, the children in
ἐν βαβψλῶνι· εὐλογοῦντες σὲ τὸν Babylon endured, praising thee Lord,
Κύριον, τὸν ὑπερένδοξον Θεόν, καὶ most glorious God and savior of all.
σωτῆρα πάντων.
Οἱ παῖδες πάλιν εἰς τὸν πλ. Δ’ ἦχον· The children again in the 4th plagal
καὶ γνώτωσαν ὅτι σὺ Κύριος ὁ Θεὸς mode: “And let them know that thou,
μόνος· καὶ ἔν- [220v] δοξος ἐφ’ ὅλην Lord, are God alone; and glorious the
τὴν οἰκουμένων· Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν. whole world over; [God] of our fathers.”
Καὶ οὐ διέλιπον οἱ ἐμβαλόντες αὐτους And the king’s servants, throwing them
ὑπηρέται τοῦ βασιλέως, καίοντες in, did not cease fueling the furnace
τὴν κάμινον νάφθῃ καὶ πίσσῃ καὶ with naphtha9 and pitch and oakum
στυππίῳ καὶ κληματίδι. and kindling.
Καὶ λέγουσι μετ’ αὐτοῦ τὸ Πρὸς And they sing after this the “For the
Κύριον ἐν τῷ θλιβεσθαί με· Lord [upon] my being distressed”;10
Καὶ διεχεῖτο ἡ φλὸξ ἐπαίνω τῆς And the flame above the furnace rose
καμίνου ἐπὶ πήχεις τεσσαράκοντα forth forty-nine cubits high; and it
ἐννέα· καὶ διώδευσε καὶ ἐνεπύρισεν passed through and roasted those it
οὕς εὖρε περὶ τὴν κάμινον τῶν found around the Chaldean furnace.
Χαλδαίων·
Ψαλλομένου δὲ παρὰ τῶν ψαλτῶν And while the verse, “But the angel
τοῦ στίχου, Ὁ δὲ ἄγγελος Κυρίου, of the Lord,” is sung by the choir, the
κατεχερται ὁ ἄγγελος· οἱ δὲ angel descends. And the children
παῖδες ἐκτείνουσι τὰς χεῖρας ὡς εἰς stretch out their hands like those
προσευχὴν standing in prayer,
9
Crude oil, known in Antiquity as “Medean
oil” because of its origins in the Persian
(Medean) Near East.
10
Psalm 119.
196 Appendix 1
ἱστάμενοι καὶ τὰ ὄμματα πρὸς τὸν And they turn their eyes to the angel
ἄγγελον ῥέπουσι καὶ χορεύουσι, and dance; having made two or three
γύροις δύο ἤ καὶ τρεῖς πιήσαντες, circles, until the verse and the “[God]
ἕως οὖ ὁ στίχος καὶ τὸ Τῶν πατέρων of our fathers” has been completed.
παρὰ τῶν ψαλτῶν πληρω[θέντων]·
Ὁ δὲ ἄγγελος Κυρίου συγκατέβη But just then, the angel of the Lord
ἅμα τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ἀζαρίαν εἰς τὴν came down together with them, next
κάμινον· καὶ ἐξετίναξε τὴν φλώγα τοῦ to Azariah, in the furnace; and he
πυρός ἐκ τῆς καμίνου· καὶ ἐποίησε τὸ extinguished the flame of the furnace’s
μέσον τῆς καμίνου, ὡς πνεῦμα δρόσου fire; and he made the middle of the
διασυρίζον· Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν. furnace as if a dewy wind were passing
through: [God] of our fathers.
Καὶ μετὰ τοῦτο, ψάλλουσιν οἱ παῖδες And then the children sing this,
οὕτως ἔχοντας τὰς χεῖρας ὲκτεταμένας· keeping their hands outstretched:
Καὶ οὐχ ἥψατο αὐτῶν τὸ καθόλου And the fire did not touch them at all,
τὸ πῦρ· οὐδὲ ἐλύπησεν· οὐδὲ nor did it harm them or trouble them
παρηνώχλησεν αὐτούς· Τῶν πατερων greatly: [God] of our fathers, praise.
ἡμῶν ὑπερύμνητε.
Τότε οἱ τρεῖς, ὡς ἐξ ἑνὸς στόματος Then the three, as with one mouth
ὕμνουν καὶ εὐλόγουν καὶ ἐδόξαζον sang, praised and glorified God,
τὸν Θεὸν ἐν τῇ καμίνῇ λέγοντες· Τῶν singing in the furnace: [God] of our
πατέρων ημῶν. fathers.
Εἰς δὲ τὸ Εὐλογητός εἶ Κύριε, And during the “Blessed art thou,
χορεύουσι πάλιν οἱ παῖδες ψάλλοντες Lord,” the children dance again while
αὐτό.· ἔχοντες καὶ τὰς χεῖρας singing this, and holding their hands
ὲκτεταμένας· outstretched:
Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε ὁ Θεὸς τῶν Blessed art thou, Lord, God of
πατέρῶν ἡμῶν, ὁ ὑπερύμνητος καὶ our fathers, praised and exalted
ὑπερυψούμενος εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας· Τῶν forever: [God] of our fathers. Blessed
πατέρων ἡμῶν· Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε. art thou, Lord.
Οἱ ψάλται ε[α]ὖθις, Καὶ εὐλογημένον The choir immediately, “And blessed
τὸ ὄνομα τῆς δόξης σου, το is thy glorious name, praised and
ὑπερύμνητον καὶ ὑπερυψσούμενον εἰς exalted forever: [God] of our fathers.”
τοὺς αἰῶνας· Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν.
Εὐλογημένος εἶ ἐν τῷ ναῷ τῆς Blessed art thou in the temple of
ἁγίας δόξης σου· ὁ ὑπερύμνητος καὶ thy holy glory, praised and exalted
ὑπερυψούμενος εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας· Τῶν forever: [God] of our fathers.
Εὐλογημένος εἶ ὁ βλέπων ἀβύσσους Blessed art thou who, beholding the

καθήμενος ἐπὶ χερουβίμ· ὁ abyss, are seated above the cherubim,
ὑπερύμνητος καὶ ὑπερυψσούμενος· praised and exalted: [God] of our
Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν. fathers.
Εὐλογήμενος εἶ ἐπὶ θρόνου δόξης τῆς Blessed art thou on the glorious throne
βασιλείας σου· ὁ ὑπερύμνητος καὶ of thy kingdom, praised and exalted
ὑπερυψσούμενος εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας· Τῶν forever: [God] of our fathers.
Καὶ λέγουσι τὸν στίχον τοῦτον οἱ And the cantors sing this verse, in
δομέστικοι, εἰς ἦχον Β’· the 2nd mode:
Εὐλογημνος εἶ ἐν τῷ στερεώματι Blessed art thou in the firmament

τοῦ οὐρανοῦ· ὁ ὑπερύμνητος καὶ of the heavens, praised and exalted
ὑπερυψούμενος εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας. forever.
Καὶ εὐθὺς τὸν εἱρμὸν τὰ τῶν And straightaway the heirmos with
ἠχημάτων· this melody:
Εἰκόνος χρυσῆς, ἐν πεδίῳ δεηρᾷ When the golden idol was venerated
λατρευομένης, οἱ τρεῖς σου παῖδες in the middle of the plain thy three
κατεπάτησαν τὸ ἀθεώτατον children trampled the most godless
πρόσταγμα· μέσον δὲ πυρὸς command; and thrown into the fire,
ἐμβληθέντες, δροσιζόμενοι ἔψαλλον· they sang sprinkled with dew, Blessed
εὐλογητὸς εἶ ὁ Θεὸς ὁ τῶν πατέρων art thou God of our fathers.
ἡμῶν.
Καὶ ἄρχονται οἱ παῖδες τῆς Η’ ης And the children begin the 8th ode
ῳδῆς, εἰς τὸν πλ. Δ’ ἦχον· in the 4th plagal mode:
Εὐλογεῖτε πάντα τὰ ἔργα Κυρίου τὸν Bless the Lord, all ye works of the Lord.
Κύριον· ὑμνεῖτε καὶ Praise and [exalt Him].
Καὶ οἱ ψάλται τὸ αὐτό· And the choir this:
Εὐλογεῖτε ἄγγελοι Κυρίου· οὐρανοὶ Bless the Lord, angels of the Lord,
Κυρίου τὸν Κύριον· ὑμνεῖτε καὶ the Lord’s heavens, Praise and exalt
ὐερυψούτε· [Him].
Εὐλογεῖτε ὕδατα πάντα τὰ ὑπεράνω Bless the Lord, all [ye] waters above
τῶν οὐρανῶν· πᾶσαι αἱ δυνάμεις the heavens; all [ye] powers of the
Κυρίου τὸν Κύριον· ὑμνεῖτε· Lord: Praise.
Λέγεται δὲ καὶ τὸ ἕτερον,ἠ […] ἤ καὶ And another [verse] is sung too, the
τῶν ἁγίων σ[ου]. “[Praise and exalt]” or “[More than]
your saints.”11
198 Appendix 1
[221r] καὶ ψάλλονται καὶ αὐτὰ And these are also sung antiphonally
ἐναλλὰξ παρὰ τῶν ψαλτῶν καὶ τῶν by the choir and children:
παιδῶν.
Εὐλογεῖτε ἥλιος καὶ σελήνη· ἄστρα Bless the Lord, sun and moon, stars of
τοῦ οὐρανοῦ τὸν Κύριον. heaven.
Λέγεται δὲ κράτημα εἰς ἦχον α’, καὶ And a kratēma is sung in the 1st
λέγεται ὁ εἱρμος mode, and the heirmos is sung:
Φλόγα δροσίζουσαν ὁσίους δυσσεβεῖς An angel of almighty God showed that
δὲ καταφλέγουσαν, ἄγγελος the flames sprinkled the holy ones,
Θεοῦ ὁ πανσθενὴς, ἔδειξε παισί· But burned the impious, and made the
ζωαρχικὴν δὲ πηγὴν εἰργάσατο God-bearer12 a life-giving spring,
τὴν Θεοτόκον· φθορὰν θανάτου καὶ And they praised the destroyer of death,
ζωὴν βλυστάνουσαν τοῖς μέλπουσι, who had given them life; we who have
τὸν Δημιουργὸν μόνον ὑμνοῦμεν οἱ been ransomed praise our sole Creator
λελυτρωμένοι· καὶ ὑπερυψούμεν εἰς and we exalt Him forever.
πάντας τοὺς αἰῶνας·
The children in the 4th plagal mode:
Οἱ παῖδες, εἰς ἦχον πλ. Δ’.
Εὐλογεῖτε πᾶς ὄμβρος καὶ δρόσος· Bless the Lord, all ye rain and dew, all
πάντα τὰ πνεύματα τὸν Κύριον· ye winds: Praise and exalt [Him].
ὑμνεῖτε και ὑπερυψοῦτε.
Εὐλογεῖτε πῦρ καὶ καῦμα· ψύχος Praise, the Lord, fire and burning heat,
καὶ καυσῶν τὸν Κύριον· ὑμνεῖτε καὶ cold and heat: Praise and exalt [Him].
ὑπερυψσοῦτε· Bless the Lord, dew-drops and snow,
Εὐλογεῖτε δρόσοι καὶ νιφετοί, πάγοι mountain peak and winter: [More
καὶ ψύχος τὸν Κύριον· Τῶν ἁγίων σου. than] your saints.
Εὐλογεῖτε πάχναι καὶ χιόνες· Bless the Lord, frosts and snow, clouds
ἀστραπαὶ καὶ νεφέλαι τὸν Κύριον· and lightning:
11
Symeon refers to the two different choruses
for this canticle, “Praise and exalt Him for-
ever” and “More than Your saints,” both of
which are used here.
12
The Three Children are sometimes seen
as a prefiguration, with the womb of the
Virgin Mary (i.e. Theotokos, “God-bearer” or
“Birth-giver of God”) likened to a furnace.
The contrast is between an earthly furnace
that consumes everything and the Virgin’s
“furnace” that gives life to Jesus, and by
extension mankind.
καὶ ψάλλουσι τὸ Ἐν τῷ ἐπιστρέψαι. And they sing the “When [the Lord]
turned himself”;13
Εὐλογεῖτε φῶς καὶ σκότος· νύκτες καὶ Bless the Lord, light and darkness,
ἡμέραι τὸν Κύριον· Τῶν ἀγίων σου. nights and days: [More than] your
saints;
Καὶ λέγουσιν οἱ δομέστικοι εἰς ἦχον And the cantors sing in the 2nd
β’, τὸν δὲ τὸν στίχον· mode this verse:
Εὐλογεῖτε γῆ· ὄρη καὶ βουνοὶ· πάντα Bless the Lord, ye earth, mountains,
τὰ φυόμενα ἐν αὐτοῖς, τὸν Κύριον. hills, and all that grow therein.
Καὶ κράτημα· καὶ τὸν εἱρμόν· And a kratēma and the heirmos:
Τὸν ἐν καμίνῳ τοῦ πυρός· τῶν Praise God who came down into the
Ἑβραίων τοῖς παισι συγκαταβάντα, fiery furnace for the children of the
καὶ τὴν φλόγα εἰς δρόσον Hebrews, and changed the fire to dew,
μεταβάλοντα Θεόν, ὑμνεῖτε τὰ ἔργα ye works, praise as Lord and exalt Him
ὡς Κύριον· καὶ ὑπερύψοῦτε εἰς forever.
πάντας τοὺς αἰῶνας.
Μεθ’ ὅν, ψάλλουσιν οἱ παῖδες εἰς ἦχον After this the children sing in 4th
πλ. Δ’· plagal mode:
Εὐλογεῖτε θάλασσαι καὶ ποταμοί· αἱ Bless the Lord, seas and rivers, springs,
πηγάὶ· κήτη καὶ πάντα τὰ κινούμενα sea beasts and all that move in the
ἐν τοῖς ὕδασε, τὸν Κύριον· Εὐλογητός waters: Blessed art thou Lord: [More
εἶ Κύριε, τῶν ἁγίων σου. than] thy saints.
Καὶ ε[α]ὖθις λέγουσιν οἱ ψάλται εἰς
ἦχον Γ’· And immediately the choir sings in
the 3rd mode:
Εὐλογεῖτε πάντα τὰ πετεινὰ τοῦ
οὐρανοῦ· τὰ θυρία: καὶ πάντα τὰ Bless the Lord, all you winged ones in
κτήνη τὸν Κύριον· the heavens, cattle and all wild beasts.
Καὶ ὁμοῦ εἰπόντες κράτημα, And similarly singing the kratēma,
ἐπισυνάπτουσι τὸν εἰρμόν· they begin the heirmos again:
Τὸν ἐν φλογὶ τοῖς παισὶ τῶν Praise the Lord, ye priests, He who
Ἑβραίων· συγκαταβάντα θεϊκῇ came down into the flames for the
δυναστεία· καὶ ὀφθέντα Κύριον, ιἑρεῖς children of the Hebrews establishing his
εὐλογεῖτε· καὶ ὑπερυψοῦτε εἰς πάντας sovereignty and revealing Himself, and
τοὺς αἰῶνας. exalt him forever.
13
Psalm 125.
200 Appendix 1
Οἱ παῖδες· Εὐλογεῖτε υἱοὶ τῶν The children:14 “Bless the Lord ye sons
ἀνθρώπων· εὐλογεῖτω Ἰσραὴλ τὸν of men, let Israel bless the Lord: Blessed
Κύριον· Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε τῶν ἀγίων. art thou Lord: [More than] thy saints.”
Εὐλογεῖτε ἱερεῖς Κυρίου· δοῦλοι Bless the Lord, [ye] priests of the Lord,
Κυρίου τὸν Κύριον· Εὐλογειτὸς εἶ servants of the Lord: Blessed art thou
Κύριε τῶν ἁγίων σου. Lord: [More than] thy saints;
Εἰς τοῦτον τὸν στίχον ψάλλουσιν At this verse they sing a heirmos
εἱρμὸν μετὰ κρατήματος, εἰς ἦχον πλ. with a kratēma in the 1st plagal
α’. Σοὶ τῷ παντουργῷ. mode: “For Thee the omnipotent.”
Εὐλογεῖτε πνεύματα καὶ ψυχαὶ Bless the Lord, spirits and souls of
δικαίων, ὅσιοι καὶ ταπεινοὶ τῇ καρδίᾳ the just, and the holy and humble in
τὸν Κύριον· Εὺλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε. heart: Blessed art thou Lord.
Εὐλογεῖτε Ἀνανία Ἀζαρία καὶ Μισαὴλ Bless the Lord Ananiah, Azariah and
τὸν Κύριον· Mishael.15
Καὶ λέγουσι κράτημα εἰς ἦχον Δ’· And they say/sing the kratēma in
καὶ τὸν εἱρμόν· Παῖδες εὐαγεῖς ἐν τῇ the 4th mode and the heirmos: “The
καμίνῳ· οἱ δὲ παῖδες χορεύοντες, καὶ pure children in the furnace.” And
τὰς χεῖρας ἐκτείναντ[ες], ψάλλουσιν εἰς the children dance, their hands
ἦχον πλ. Δ’, τό, extended, singing in the 4th plagal
mode, the:
Αἰνοῦμεν, εὐλογοῦμεν προσκυνοῦμεν We praise, we bless, we venerate the
τὸν Κύριον· Τὸν Κύριον ὑμνεῖτε. Lord16 Praise the Lord.
Καὶ ε[α]ὖθις οἱ ψάλται εἰς ἦχον πλ. β’· And again the choir in the 2nd
Εὐλογεῖτε Ἀπόστολοι προφῆται καὶ plagal mode: “Bless the Lord, Apostles,
μὰρτυρες Κυρίου τὸν Κύριον. Prophets and Martyrs of the Lord”;
Εἶτα κράτημα· καὶ τὸν εἱρμόν ἦχος Then a kratēma; and the heirmos, 2nd
πλ. β’· plagal mode:
14
This attribution is in red ink; Symeon keeps
careful track of the distribution of verses.
15
Following Symeon’s outline, the choir sings
this critical verse from Dan. 3:88 (LXX).
16
As discussed in Chapter 6, this verse is not
found in Daniel.
Τυράννου χρυσοχώνευτον στήλην, ὡς The children, Zion’s people, did not

ἀντίθεον ἄγαλμα, οὐ προσεκύνησαν venerate the tyrant’s gold-crafted
παῖδες οἱ Σιωνῖται· ἀλλὰ monument, the ungodly statue but,
θεοφορούμενοι, τὴν Περσικὴν πυρκαϊάν, possessed by God, they were led to the
ὥσπερ λειμῶνα ἡγοῦντο· καὶ τὴν Persian pyre as to a meadow and to the
φλόγα, ὡς ψεκάζουσαν νεφέλην· καὶ fire as to a drizzling cloud, and they
χορεύοντες ἔψαλλον, [221v] εὐλογεῖτε sang, dancing, “All of Creation, bless
τὰ ποιήματα πάντα τὸν Κύριον· the Lord’
Οἱ παῖδες τὸ Εὐλογοῦμενον Πάτερα The children [sing] the “Bless the
καὶ Ὑιόν· χορεύουσι δὲ πάλιν Father and the Son” and they dance
ὁμοί[ως]· καὶ ψάλλουσιν εἰς τὸν πλ. again as before, and they sing in the
Δ’ ἦχον· Εὐλογοῦμεν Πατέρα καὶ Υἱὸν 4th plagal mode: “We bless the Lord,
καὶ Ἅγιον Πνεῦμα, τὸν Κύριον· Τὸν Father and Son and Holy Spirit: Praise
Κύριον ὑμνεῖτε. the Lord.”
Καὶ οἱ ψάλται ὁμοί[ως], τὸ· Καὶ νῦν And the choir likewise, the: “Now
καὶ ἀεὶ καὶ εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας τῶν and forever and to the ages of ages.
αἰώνων· Ἀμήν· τὸν Κύριον ὑμνεῖτε. Amen:17 Praise the Lord.”
Οἱ παῖδες δὲ καὶ ε[α]ὖθις χορεύοντες, And the children also again, dancing
καὶ τὰς χεῖρας ὑψοῦντες, λέγουσι τό· and raising their hands, sing the: “We
Αἰνοῠμεν, εὐλογοῦμεν προσκυνοῦμεν praise, we bless, we venerate the
τὸν Κύριον· τὸν Κύριον ὑμνεῖτε. Lord: Praise the Lord.”
Οἱ μέντοι ψάλται, λέγουσι κράτημα, Whereupon the choir sings a kratēma
εἰς ἦχον πλ. Δ’. Καὶ μετὰ τοῦτο in the 4th plagal mode; and after this
ψάλλουσι γεγωνοτέρα τῇ φωνῇ, τὸ they sing in a louder voice, the: “We
Αἰνοῦμεν εὐλγοῦμεν· καὶ τὸν εἱρμόν· praise, we bless”: and the heirmos;
Εὐλογεῖτε παῖδες τῆς Τριάδος Bless, children, equal in number to
ἰσάριθμοι, δημιουργὸν Πατέρα Θεόν· the Trinity, God the Father [and]
ὑμνεῖτε τὸν συγκαταβάντα Λόγον, καὶ Creator; Praise the incarnated Word,
τὸ πῦρ εἰς δρόσον μεταποιήσαντα· καὶ and the fire transformed into dew, and
ὑπερυψσοῦτε τὸ πᾶσι ζωὴν παρέχον, exalt the one who gives life to all, the
Πνεῦμα πανάγιον εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας. all-holy Spirit, forever.
17
This formula, commonly used in the
Liturgy, provides a cue to both the singers
and congregation that the Office is nearing
its conclusion.
202 Appendix 1
Καὶ πάλιν οἱ παῖδες τὸν προειρημένον And again the children [sing] the
τροπάριον· ἤ [και …] χορεύοντες prescribed troparion or, dancing
καὶ προσκυνοῦντες καὶ τὰς χεῖρας and bowing and raising their hands,
αἴροντες, ψάλλουσι τὸ Αἰνοῦμεν they sing the “We praise, we bless,”
εὐλογοῦμεν· καὶ Τὸν Κύριον ὑμνεῖτε· and “Praise the Lord.” And after this
καὶ μετὰ τοῦτο οἱ ψάλται τὸ Ἄνωθεν the choir [sings] the: “Beyond the
οἱ προφῆται· καὶ τὸ πολψχρόνιον· καὶ Prophets” and the “Polychronion” and
τὸ Τὸν δεσπότην καὶ ἀρχιερέα ἡμῶν. the “Our ruler and archbishop.”18
Τοῦ Ἄνωθεν οἱ προφῆται ἀρχομένου When the “Beyond the Prophets”
ψάλλεσθαι, κάτεισιν ὁ ἀρχιερεῦς τοῦ starts, the Archbishop comes down
στασιδίου αὐτοῦ· καὶ ἠλλαγμένων from his throne and when the
ὄντων τῶν κληρικῶν, πρότερον clergy have changed, after taking
λαβόντων εὐλογίαν, ἀλλάσει καὶ his blessing, he changes all his
αὐτὸς πᾶσαν ἀρχιεράτικην στολὴν, archiepiscopal vestments, with
ὑπηρετούμενος παρ’ αὐτῶν, καὶ their help. And immediately upon
εὐθὺς πληρωθείσης τῆς ἀκολουθίας, completion of the Office, he goes in
κατέρχεται εἰς τὰς ὡραῖας πύλας. through the beautiful gates.19
Καὶ συναπτῶς τε λέγεται ἡ Θεῖα And next the Divine Liturgy is sung,
Λειτουργία· συλλειτουργόντων αὐτῷ the bishops conducting the service
καὶ ἐπισκοπων. with him.
18
Here, Symeon appears to offer his choirboys
an optional heirmos and the choir follows
up with a traditional hymn, “Beyond the
Prophets,” which has the function of cover-
ing the archbishop’s change of vestments for
the Liturgy. Then come the traditional accla-
mations to the Emperor, local officials, and
high clergy (beginning with the Polychronion,
wishing the Emperor “Many years”) that
mark the beginning of the Liturgy proper.
19
Because Symeon sat at the foot of the south-
east pillar in the nave during the Office, either
he changed his vestments in full view of the
congregation or retired briefly to the diaco-
nicon nearby. Once fully changed, he would
have entered the sanctuary through its central
“beautiful” gates, and (presumably) assumed
his place on the synthronon for the Liturgy.
Appendi x 2
The Service of the Furnace, Athens 2406

As found in ms 2406, National Library of Athens, c. 1453
[151r] Ακολουθεία ψαλλομένη τῇ Service sung on the Sunday of the

κυριακῇ τῶν ἀγίων προπατόρων εἰς Holy Forefathers for the Three Holy
τοὺς ἀγίους τρεῖς παῖδας τοὺς ἐν Children in the furnace.2
καμίνῳ.1
Μετὰ τὸ τέλος τοῦ ὄρθρου τῆς After the end of matins, the furnace
καμίνου εὐτρεπισθείσης καὶ τῶν made ready and the children made
παίδων εὐτρεπισθέντων. οἱ ψάλται ready. The choir around the furnace
περὶ τὴν κάμινον ἄρχονται τὸ begins the idiomelon after the
ἰδιόμελον μετὰ μέλους οὕτως ἦχος· following tune: “Today the Prophet
Πνευματικῶς ἡμᾶς, πιστοί συνήγαγε Daniel has gathered us faithful together
σήμερον ὁ προφήτης Δανιήλ. spiritually.”
Τούτου δὲ ψαλλομένου εἰσέρχονται And while singing this, the children
οἱ παῖδες ἐντός τῆς καμίνου, καὶ enter into the furnace and bow three
προσκυνοῠσι κατὰ ἀνατολὰς τρείς· times to the east; and when the
καὶ τοῦ ἰδιομέλου πληρωθέντος, idiomelon has been completed, the
ἄρχονται οἱ ψάλται Τῶν πατέρων choir begins “God of our Fathers”
ἡμῶν οὕτως· thus:
[151v] πλ. δ’. Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν 4th plagal: God of our fathers, praise
ὑπερύμνητε ὑπερένδοξε Κύριε ὁ Θεός; and exalt Thee in the highest; yea,
νὲ τῶν πατέρων καὶ ἡμῶν εὐλογετὸς blessed art Thou Lord God, Lord of our
εἶ Κύριε. fathers.
2
The Sunday of the Holy Forefathers takes
place two weeks before Christmas, the
Sunday of the Holy Fathers one week
before. The date of the Service appears to
1
hinge on how close the official saint’s day for
Transcription from Velimirović 1962: the Children, December 17, is to the date
378–81, supplemented by inspection of the for Orthodox Christmas. See Velimirović
original MS. 1962: 354.
203
204 Appendix 2
Εἶτα καὶ οἱ παῖδες τὸ αυτό: Ἔπειτα And then the children [sing] this.
ἄρχονται οἱ ψάλτοι τοὺς στίχους Thereupon the choir begins the
τῆς ζ’ ᾠδῆς μετὰ μέλους οὕτως πλ. verses of the 7th ode, after this
δ’· Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε ὁ Θεὸς τῶν melody, 4th plagal: “Blessed art Thou
πατέρων ἡμῶν καὶ αἰνετὸν, καὶ Lord God of our fathers, let Thy name
δεδοξασμένον τὸ ὄνομά σου εἰς τούς be exalted and glorified forever.”
αἰῶνας.
Πλ. δ’· Τῶν πα. Πλ. δ’· Ὅτι δίκαιους 4th plagal: “[God] of our Fa[thers].”
εἶ ἐπὶ πᾶσιν, οῖς ἐποίησας ἡμῖν. Τῶν 4th plagal: “How just Thou art in all
πα. Thou hast done to us. [God of] our
Fa[thers].”
Μὴ δὴ παραδῴσεις ἡμᾶς εἰς τέλος διὰ Do not abandon us, for the sake of Thy
τὸ ὄνομά σου· καὶ μὴ διασκεδάσῃς name; Do not cancel Thy agreement,
τὴν διαθήκην σου καὶ μὴ ἀποστήσῃς and do not withdraw Thy mercy from
τὸ ἔλεός σου ἀφ’ ἡμῶν. Τῶν πατέρων us. God of our Fathers.
ἡμῶν.
ἠχίσματα δὲ λέγομεν κρατημάτων Then we sing brief kratēmata in the
πλαγίων τετάρτων· ἀνάλογος 4th plagal resembling an echo of the
πρὸς τὸν διπλασμὸν τῆς φωνῆς children’s register.3 At the end of this,
τῶν παίδων. Εἰς δὲ τὸ τέλος τοῦ we sing the response in this tone
ἠχίσματος λέγομεν ἀπόκρισιν πάντες thus, 4th plagal:
εἰς τὴν αὐτὴν φωνὴν οὕτως πλ. δ’.
Εὐλογηητὸς εἶ Κύριε, σῶσον ἡμᾶς. Blessed art Thou Lord, save us!
[152r] Διὰ δὲ τὴν ἐναλλαγὴν τοῦ And for a change in melody, they
μέλους λέγουσι κατὰ τρεῖς και sing for three or four verses an
τέσσαρας στίχους τῶν πατέρων τὸ alternate “[Lord] of our Fathers” thus,
ἕτερον οὕτως· ἥχος πλ. δ’. 4th plagal mode:4
Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν, εὐλογητὸς εἶ Lord of our fathers, blessed art Thou,
Κύριε σῶσον ἡμᾶς. save us.
Εἰς δὲ τὸν στίχον, καταβιβάζουσιν And during this verse they lower the
τὸν ἄγγελον ἐπάνω τῶν παῖδων angel from above, while the boys
ψαλλομένων τῶν στίχων τούτων sing these verses, according to the
μετὰ μέλους ὡς ὁρᾷς καὶ Τῶν ἀγίων melody that you see, together with
σοῦ ὁμοῦ· στίχος πλ. δ’. “[More than] thy saints.” Verse, 4th
plagal:5
3
That is, an octave apart (see Appendix
1, n. 8.)
4
The rubrics here indicate that the children
and choir sing this several times before the
canticle’s conclusion.
5
The rubrics indicate the children are now
given several verses to sing in succession for
aesthetic reasons.
Ὁ δὲ ἄγγελος Κυρίου συγκατέβη ἅμα But just then, the angel of the Lord
τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ἀζαρίαν εἰς τὴν κάμινον· came down to them near Azariah in
Εὐλογητὸς εἶ, Κύριε σῶσον ἡμᾶς. Τῶν the furnace. Blessed art Thou Lord,
ἀγίων σου, ὑπερύμνητε, ὑπερένδοξε save us. [More than] Thy saints, praise
Κύριε ὁ Θεὸς τῶν πατέρων καὶ ἡμῶν, and exalt Thee in the highest Lord God
εὐλογητὸς εἶ, Κύριε, σῶσον ἡμᾶς. of our fathers, blessed art Thou Lord,
save us!
Καὶ οἱ παῖδες τὸ αὐτὸ συχνάκις διὰ And the children often [sing] this,
τὴν εὐμορφίαν ἤχισμα. ἦχ. πλ. δ’. because of [its] beautiful sound, 4th
plagal mode:
Ὁ ὑπερύμνητος καὶ ὑπερυψούμενος He is praised and exalted forever;
[152v] εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας· Εὐλογητὸς εἶ blessed art thou Lord, save us!
Κύριε σῶσον ἡμᾶς.
Καὶ οἱ παῖδες τὸ αὐτό. Τοῦτο γὰρ And the children [sing] this, for this
ἔστι κρεῖττον εἰς τοὺς παῖδας, διὰ τὴν is better with the children because of
φωνὴν αὐτῶν. their register.
Εἶτα ἄρχονται τὴν η’ ᾠδὴν οὕτως· Then they begin the 8th ode
πλ. δ’. thus: 4th plagal.
Εὐλογεῖτε πάντα τὰ ἔργα Κυρίου τὸν Praise all the works of the Lord, the
Κύριον. πλ. δ’. Τὸν Κύριον ὑμνεῖτε καὶ Lord. 4th plagal: Praise the Lord, and
ὑμνεῖτε τὀν Κύριον τὰ ἔργα, ὑμνεῖτε, praise the Lord ye works, praise, bless
εὐλογεῖτε καὶ ὑπερυψοῦτε αὐτὸν εἰς and exalt Him in the highest forever
τοὺς αἰῶνας. and ever.
Λέγε. δ’. Πάντα τὰ ἔργα, τὸν Κύριον “Sing”:6 4th [mode]. “All ye works,
τὰ ἔργα ὑμνεῖτε, εὐλογεῖτε, καὶ the Lord, ye works, praise, bless and
ὑπερυψοῦτε αὐτὸν εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας. exalt Him forever. Bless [Him].”
Εὐλογεῖτε.
Ψαλλομένου δὲ τοῦτου χορεύουσιν οἱ While singing this, the children
παῖδες ἐντὸς τῆς καμίνου, ἐκτείνουσι dance inside the furnace, extending
καὶ τὰς χεῖρας ὡς εἰς προσευχὴν their hands as if standing in prayer
ἱστάμενοι καὶ τὰ ὄμματα πρὸς τὸν and raising their eyes to Heaven.
οὐρανὸν ῥέπουσι· καὶ πάλιν ἄρχονται And again the verses [of the 8th ode]
τοὺς στίχους. Οἱ ψάλται δὲ ψάλλουσιν are begun. And the choir sings for
εἰς ἔκαστος ὅσα καὶ βούλεται. each [verse] as is their wont.7
[153r] Εὐλογεῖτε Ἀνανία Ἀζαρία καὶ “Bless the Lord, Ananiah, Azariah,
Μισαὴλ τὸν Κύριον οἱ δομέστικοι· Mishael,” the cantors, the children,
οἱ παῖδες· Ὑμνοῦμεν, εὐλογοῦμεν “We praise, we bless, we bow before the
προσκυνοῦμεν τὸν Κύριον. Lord.”
6
A cue for change in mode and register.
7
The choir may have been given leave to
interject the following verse where they
saw fit.
206 Appendix 2
Καὶ προσκυνοῦσι λέγοντες· Τῶν And they bow, singing “[More than]
ἀγίων σοῦ. Εὐλογεῖτε ἀπόστολοι, your saints. Bless the Lord Apostles,
προφῆται καὶ μάρτυρες Κυρίου τὸν Prophets and Martyrs of the Lord.”
Κὺριον.
Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε σῶσον ἡμᾶς. [The cantors] “Blessed art thou Lord,
Καὶ πάλιν οἱ παῖδες τὸ · Ὑμνοῦμεν, save us.” And again the children the
εὐλογοῦμεν, καὶ προσκυνοῦσι λέγοντες “We praise, we bless,” and bowing
καὶ Τῶν ἀγίων σοῦ. Εὐλογοῦμεν they sing again “[More than] your
Πατέρα, Υἱὸν καὶ ἅγιον Πνεῦμα τὸν saints. We Bless the Father, Son and the
Κύριον. Καὶ προσκυνοῠσι καὶ τὰς Holy Spirit, the Lord.” And they bow
χείρας ἐκτείνουσι καὶ χορεύοντες and extend their hands and, dancing,
ψάλλουσι Τὸν Κὺριον ὑμνεῖτε καὶ sing: “Praise the Lord and exalt Him.”
ὑπερυψοῦτε·
Καὶ νῦν καὶ ἀεὶ καὶ εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας The Cantors: “Now and forever and
τῶν αἰώνων, οἱ δομέστικοἰ. Ἀμήν. Τὸν to the ages of ages. Amen.8 Praise the
Κὺριον ὑμνεῖτε καὶ ὑπερυψοῦτε. Lord and Exalt Him.”
Εἶτα πάλιν οἱ δομέστικοι γεγονωτέρᾳ Then again the cantors, with louder
φωνῇ τὸ Αἰνοῦμεν, εὐλογοῦμεν voices: the “We submit, we bless and
προσκυνοῦμεν τὸν Κύριον. Σοὶ τῷ we bow before the Lord. For Thee, the
παντουργῷ ἐν τῇ καμίνῳ. Omnipotent, [those] in the furnace.”
Λέγομεν δὲ καὶ τοὺς εἱρμοὺς τούτους And we sing these heirmoi, first
ἦχ. α’. Φλόγα δροσίζουσαν ὁσίους mode:9 “An angel of almighty God
δυσσεβεῖς δὲ καταφλέγουσαν, ἄγγελος showed the children how flames
Θεοῦ ὁ πανσθενὴς, ἔδειξε παισί· refreshed the holy but consumed the
ζωαρχικὴν δὲ πηγὴν εἰργάσατο impious, and made the God-bearer10 a
τὴν Θεοτόκον· φθορὰν θανάτου καὶ life-giving spring, and they praised the
ζωὴν βλυστάνουσαν τοῖς μέλπουσι, destroyer of death, who had given them
τὸν Δημιουργὸν μόνον ὑμνοῦμεν οἱ life. We who have been ransomed praise
λελυτρωμένοι· καὶ ὑπερυψούμεν εἰς our sole Creator and we exalt Him
πάντας τοὺς αἰῶνας· forever.”
8
In Symeon’s version this liturgical formula
is saved for near the end of the Service; here
it seems to coincide with the end of the first
choir’s singing duties. After these verses the
second choir begins their heirmoi.
9
The first-person plural here confirms this
manuscript was designed for a specific choir.
10
As mentioned in Appendix 1, n. 12 (Athens
2047), this heirmos explicitly associates the
furnace with the womb of the Virgin Mary.
Ὁ αὐτὸς [ἦχος] Τὸν ἐν φλογὶ πυρός The same [mode]: “He who guarded
καιομένης καμίνου [153v] διαφυλάξαντα the Children against the heat of the
παῖδας καὶ ἐν μορφῇ ἀγγέλου flame in the fiery furnace, and in an
συγκαταβάντα τούτοις ὑμνεῖτε Κύριον angel’s form came down to them, praise
καὶ ὑπερυψοῦτε αὐτὸν εἰς τοὺς the Lord and exalt him forever.”
αἰῶνας.
Ἑτερος, ἦχ. β’. Ἰνδαλματος χρυσοῦ Another, 2nd mode: “The
καταπτύσαντες τρισόλβιοι νεανίαι thrice-blessed young men, having
τὴν ἀπαράλλακτον καὶ ζῶσαν Θεοῦ rejected the false golden idol and beheld
εἰκόνα τεθεαμένοι μέσον τῆς φλογὸς the immovable, living image of God
ἀνέμελπον· ἡ οὐσιωθεῖσα ὑμνεῖτε τὸν in the midst of the flame praised in
Κύριον πᾶσα. song: praise the Lord, all ye essential
power[s].”
ἕτερος, ἦχ. γ’. Τὸν ἐν φλογὶ τοῖς παισί Another, third mode: “Praise the
τῶν Ἑβραίων· συγκαταβάντα θεϊκῇ Lord, ye priests, He who came down
δυναστεία· καὶ ὀφθέντα Κύριον, ιἑρεῖς into the flames for the children of the
εὐλογεῖτε· καὶ ὑπερυψοῦτε εἰς πάντας Hebrews establishing his sovereignty
τοὺς αἰῶνας. and revealing Himself, and exalt him
forever.”
καὶ ἕτερος ἦχος πλ. δ’· Εὐλογεῖτε And another, 4th plagal mode: “Bless,
παῖδες τῆς τριάδος ἰσάριθνοι, children, equal in number to the Trinity,
δημιουργὸν Πατέρα Θεόν· ὑμνεῖτε The Creator, God the Father; Praise
τὸν συγκαταβάντα Λόγον, καὶ τὸ the “descended” Word,11 and the fire
πῦρ εἰς δρόσον μεταποιήσαντα· καὶ converted to dew, and exalt the one
ὑπερυψσοῦτε τὸ πᾶσι ζωὴν παρέχον, who gives life to all, the all-holy Spirit,
Πνεῦμα πανάγιον εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας. forever.”
Εἶτα ἡ θεία λειτουργία καὶ ἀπόλυσις. Then the Divine Liturgy and the
dismissal.
11
The verb “descended” refers directly to the
language of Dan. 3.25 (LXX) (which describes
the descent of the angel into the furnace) but
identifies this “descended” angel with the
“incarnated” Word, i.e. Christ.
Appendi x 3
The Service of the Furnace, Iviron 1120
Instructions for Conduct of the Service of the Furnace

Based on Iviron Monastery ms 1120, c. 1458
Ακολουθία, ψαλλομένη τῇ κυριακῇ Service sung on Sunday of the

τῶν ἀγίων πατέρων πρὸ τῆς Χριστοῦ Holy Fathers before Christmas, or,
γεννήσεως, ἤτι τῆς καμίνου διάταχις.1 procedure for the furnace.
Μετὰ τὸ τέλος τοῦ ὄρθρου τῆς καμίνου After the end of orthros, the furnace
εὐτρεπισθείσης καὶ τῶν παίδων ὁμοίως, made ready and the children likewise,
οἱ ψάλται περὶ τὴν κάμινον ψάλλουσιν the choir around the furnace sings
ἰδιόμελον τὸ Πνευματικῶς ἡμᾶς, πιστοί. the idiomelon: “Spiritually we
Τούτου δὲ ψαλλομένου, εἰσέρχονται faithful.” And while singing this, the
οἱ παῖδες ἐντός τῆς καμίνου καὶ children enter into the furnace and
προσκυνοῠσι κατὰ ἀνατολὰς τρίς· καὶ bow to the east three times. And
τοῦ ἰδιομέλου πληρωθέντος, ἄρχεται upon completion of the idiomelon the
ὁ δομέστικος ἀντίπωνον εἰς ἦχον πλ. cantor begins the antiphonal hymn
δ’. μετὰ τοῦ στίχου, τοῦ Εὐλογητὸς in the 4th plagal mode with the
εἶ, Κύριε ὁ Θεὸς τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν, verse: “Blessed art thou Lord God of
καὶ αἰνετὸν καὶ δεδοξασμένον τὸ ὄνομά our fathers, may your name be praised
Σου εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας. and glorified forever.”
Κυροῦ Ξένου τοῦ Κορώνη, πλ. δ’. From Xenes of Korones, 4th
Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν ὑπερύμνητε, plagal: “Lord of our fathers, praise
ὑπερένδοξε Κύριε, ὁ Θεός τῶν Πατέρων and exalt thee, and God of our fathers,
καὶ ἡμῶν, εὐλογητὸς εἶ, Κύριε. Καὶ οἱ blessed art thou Lord.” And the
παῖδες τὸ αυτό. Εἶτα τὸν στίχον, πλ. children [sing] this. Then the verse,
δ’. Καὶ ἐπὶ τὴν πόλιν τὴν ἀγίαν τὴν 4th plagal: “And also to the holy city of
τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν Ἱρουσαλήμ. Καὶ our fathers, Jerusalem. And the flame
διεχεῖτο ἡ φλὸξ ἐπάνω τῆς καμίνου ἐπὶ rose above the furnace, forty-nine cubits
πήχεις τεσσαράκοντα ἐννέα. Ἕτερον high.” Another old refrain:2 “Blessed
ἄλλαγμα παλαιόν· Τῶν Πατέρων ἡμῶν art thou Lord of our fathers, save us.”
εὐλογηητὸς εἶ, Κύριε, σῶσον ἡμᾶς.
2
Chrysaphes routinely offers alternative mel-
1 odies for his singers.
As found in Dmitrievskiĭ 1894: 585–8.
208
The Service of the Furnace, Iviron 1120 209
Εἶτα ἠχίζει ὁ δομέστικος ἤχημα Then the cantor sounds out a tune,
πλ. δ’. στίχος· Καὶ διώδευσε καὶ 4th plagal:3 “And it passed through
ἐνεπύρισεν, οὕς εὗρε περὶ τὴν κάμινον and burned those it found around the
τῶν Χαλδαίων. Ὁμοίως και ὁ β’. furnace of the Chaldeans.” And the
χορός. Εῖτα πάλιν τοὺς στίχους. Εἰς second choir [sings this] likewise.
δὲ τὰ τέλη τῶν ἡχημάτων ψάλλεται Then again the verses. And at the
τοῦτο ἀπὸ χορῶν πλ. δ’. Εὐλογητὸς ends of [each verse] this is sung by
εἶ, Κύριε, σῶσον ἡμᾶς. the choruses, 4th plagal: “Blessed art
Thou, Lord, save us!”
Εἶτα λέγει ᾀσματικὸν ἐκ τῶν ᾠδῶν, Then [the cantor] sings a lyric hymn
καὶ εὐθὺς πάλιν τοὺς στίχους μετὰ from the odes, and immediately again
τῶν ἀντιφώνων. Ὅτε δὲ φθάσει οὗτος the verses [are sung] antiphonally.
ὁ στίχος, καταβιβάζουσι τὸν ἄγγελον· And when this verse occurs they lower
Ὁ δὲ ἄγγελος Κυρίου συγκατέβη ἅμα the angel: “But just then, the angel of
τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ἀζαρίαν εἰς τὴν κάμινον. the Lord came down into the furnace
together with those around Azariah.”
Τοῦ Κορώνη, πλ. δ’. Σὺ Εὐλογητὸς εἶ, By Korones, 4th plagal: “Thou,
Κύριε τῶν ἀγίων σου, ὑπερύμνητε, blessed art Thou Lord of Thy saints,
ὑπερένδοξε Κύριε ὁ Θεὸς τῶν praised and glorified art Thou Lord
πατέρων ἡμῶν, εὐλογητὸς εἶ, Κύριε, God of our fathers, blessed art Thou
σῶσον ἡμᾶς. Lord, save us.”
Ἕτερος Μανουὴλ Λαμπαδαρίου τοῦ Another by Manuel Chrysaphes the
Χρυσάφη, ψαλλόμενος ἕνα παρ’ ἕνα· Lampadarios, sung as an alternative:4
Ὁ δὲ ἄγγελος Κυρίου συγκατέβη “But just then the angel of the Lord
ἅμα τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ἀζαρίαν εἰς τὴν came down into the furnace together
κάμινον. πλ. δ’. Εὐλογητὸς εἶ, ὁ Θεός, with those around Azaria.” 4th
ὁ δι’ ἀγγέλου τοὺς παῖδας ἐκ φλογὸς plagal: “Blessed art Thou God who
διασώας, καὶ τὴν βροντῶσαν κάμινον brought salvation to the children from
μεταβαλὼν εἰς δρόσον. Εὐλογητὸς εἶ the fire through an angel, and changed
Κύριε ὁ Θεὸς τῶν Πατέρων ἡμῶν. the Thunderous furnace to dew. Blessed
Στίχος, πλ. δ’. Καὶ ἐξετίναξε τὴν φλόγα art Thou Lord God of our fathers.”
τοῦ πυρὸς ἐκ τῆς καμίνου, ὡς πνεῦμα Verse, 4th plagal: “And he struck the
δρόσου διασυρίζον. Τῶν ἀγίων. flame of the fire out of the furnace, as if
Ἕτερος στίχος, πλ. δ’. Τὀτε οἱ τρεῖς, a refreshing breeze were passing through.
ὡς ἐξ ἑνὸς στόματος, ὕμνουν, ἐβόουν, [More than your] Saints.” Another
καὶ ἐδόξαζον τὸν Θεὸν ἐν τῃ καμίνῳ, verse, 4th plagal: “Then the three, as if
λέγοντες· πλ. δ’. Εὐλογητὸς εἶ, ὁ Θεὸς. with one mouth, praised, cried out and
glorified God in the furnace, saying”
(4th plagal) “Blessed art thou God.”
3
As in Lavra 165 (see Appendix 5), this indi-
cates a pause for tuning.
4
Lit. “one for one.”
210 Appendix 3
Ψάλλονται οὗν καὶ οἱ λοιποὶ στίχοι Then the remaining verses are sung
εἰς αὐτὸ τὸ μέλος, καὶ μετὰ τὸ in this melody, and after they end
τέλος αὐτῶν, εὐθὺς ἠχίζει πάλιν ὁ straightaway the cantor sounds out
δομέστικος, εἶτα λέγει ᾀσματικόν. Καὶ again, then he sings a lyric hymn.
εὐθὺς ἄρχεται ἡ η’. ὠδὴ. Στίχος, πλ. δ’. And straightaway the eighth ode is
Εὐλογεῖτε πάντα τὰ ἔργα Κυρίου τὸν begun. Verse, 4th plagal: “Bless the
Κύριον. πλ. δ’. Τὸν Κύριε ὑμνεῖτε· και Lord all ye works of the Lord.” 4th
Ὑμνεῖτε τὀν Κύριον τὰ ἔργα· ὑμνεῖτε, plagal: “Praise the Lord”: and: “Praise
εὐλογεῖτε καὶ ὑπερυψοῦτε αὐτὸν εἰς the Lord ye works, praise, bless and
τοὺς αἰῶνας. Λέγε. Πάντα τὰ ἔργα, τὸν exalt Him forever. Sing.5 All ye works,
Κύριον τὰ ἔργα ὑμνεῖτε, ἐλογεῖτε, καὶ Praise the Lord ye works, bless and
ὑπερυψοῦτε αὐτὸν εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας. exalt Him forever. Bless [Him].”
Τούτου δὲ ψαλλομένου χορεύουσιν οἱ And while this is sung the children
παῖδες ἐντὸς τῆς καμίνου, ἐκτείνουσι dance inside the furnace, holding
τὰς χεῖρας καὶ τὰ ὄμματα ἄνω. Ὅτε their hands and their eyes upward.
δὲ φθάσει τὸ μέσον τῆς ᾠδῆς, εὐθὺς And when it comes to the middle of
πάλιν ἠχίζει ὁ δομέστικος, εἴτα ὁ the ode, straightaway again the cantor
ἕτερος χορὸς ἤχημα, καὶ μετὰ ταῦτα sounds out, then the other choir [sings]
λέγει ᾀσματκόν, εἴτα ψάλλεται τὸ a tune, and after these he sings a lyric
ἐπίλοιπον τῆς ᾠδῆς· hymn, then the rest of the ode is sung.
Καὶ μετὰ τὸ τέλος τῆς ᾠδῆς, εὐθὺς, το And after the end of the ode,
Ὑμνοῦμεν, εὐλογοῦμεν, προσκυνοῦμεν straightaway, the “We praise, we bless,
… Σοὶ τῷ παντουργῷ … Φλόγα, we bow … To you the Almighty …
δροσίζουσαν ὁσίους … Εὐλογεῖτε The fire, sprinkled with dew … Praise,
παῖδες … Νικεταὶ τυράννου. Εἶτα children … The tyrant is defeated.”
ἄρχεται ἡ λειτουργία.. Then the liturgy is begun.6
Μετὰ τὸ τέλος τῆς ζ’ ὠδῆς, ψάλλεται After the end of the 7th ode, this
τοῦτο ἀντὶ ἀσματικοῦ κυρ. Μανουὴλ is sung instead of the lyric by Sir
τοῦ Γαζῆ, συνετέθη δὲ καὶ ἐγράφη Manuel of Gaza,7 assembled and
παρ’ ἐμοῦ, ὡς ὀρᾷς, ἦχος πλ. δ’. Ὁ written down by me, as you see, 4th
δὲ ἄγγελος, ὁ δὲ ἄγγελος Κυρίου, plagal mode: “But the angel, but the
ὁ δὲ ἄγγελος Κυρίου συγκατέβη angel of the Lord, but just then the
ἅμα τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ἀζαρίαν εἰς τὴν angel of the Lord came down into the
κάμινον. Πάλιν. Ὁ δὲ ἄγγελος Κυρίου, furnace together with those around
συγκατέβη ἅμα τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ἀζαρίαν Azaria. Again. But just then, the
εἰς τὴν κάμινον, καὶ ἐξετίναξε τὴν angel of the Lord came down into the
φλόγα τοῦ πυρὸς ἐκ τῆς καμίνου, furnace together with those around
Azaria, and struck the flame
5
A musical cue for a change of register.
6
This passage calls for an extended sequence
of heirmoi, with only the incipits provided.
7
The use of “Sir” is a sign of respect, not
unlike “Maestro” today.
The Service of the Furnace, Iviron 1120 211
καὶ ἐποίησε τὸ μέσον τῆς καμίνου, of the fire out of the furnace, and
ὡς πνεῦμα δρόσου διασυρίζον, καὶ made the middle of the furnace as if a
οὐχ ἥψατο αὐτῶν τὸ καθόλου τὸ refreshing breeze were passing through.
πῦρ. Πάλιν πλ. α’. Οὐδὲ ἐλύπησεν, And the fire didn’t touch them at all.”
οὐδὲ παρηνόχλησεν. Τότε οἱ τρεῖς, Again, 1st plagal: “Nor did it harm or
ὡς ἐξ ἑνὸς στόματος, ὕμνουν καὶ trouble them. Then the three, as if with
εὐλόγουν καὶ ἐδόξαζον τὸν Θεὸν ἐν one mouth, praised and blessed and
τῇ καμίνῳ λέγοντες. Ἀπὸ χορῶν, πλ. glorified God in the furnace, saying”
δ’. Εὐλογεῖτε. [Sung] by the choir, 4th plagal: “Bless
[the Lord, all ye works].”8
8
This alternate setting was included as a post-
script; see Dmitrievskiĭ 1894: 587, n. 1.
Appendi x 4
The Service of the Furnace, Sinai 1527

As found in Mt. Sinai ms 1527, c. sixteenth century
[215v] Ακολουθεία τῆς καμίνου1 Service of the Furnace

Ψάλουν οἱ ψάλται πρῶτον τὸ The choir sings the first idiomelon,
ἰδιόμελον τὸ· Προφητικῶς ἡμᾶς, the “Today, the Prophet Daniel
πιστοί, συνήγαγε σήμερον· ὁ has gathered us faithful together
Προφήτης Δανιήλ, εἰς ἦχον β’. prophetically” in the 2nd mode.2
Εἴτα εἰσφέρουσι τοὺς παῖδας Then they lead the children and
καὶ ἐμβάλουσιν εἰς τὴν κάμινον install them in the furnace while
ψαλλουμένου τοῦ ἰδιομέλου. singing the idiomelon.
Εἰσελθόντων δὲ ἄρχονται τῆς ἑβδόμης And having entered, they begin the
ᾠδῆς, εἰς ἦχον πλάγιον τὸν τέταρτον seventh ode, in the fourth plagal
τὸ· Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε ὁ Θεὸς τῶν mode, the “Blessed art thou Lord, God
πατέρων ἡμῶν. of our fathers.”3
Λέγονται δὲ ἑχῆς πάντες οἱ στίχοι And all the verses are sung in order
εἰς τὸ αὐτόμελον [216r] ἕνα στίχον οἱ to the same tune, the children one
παῖδες καὶ ἕναν οἱ ψάλτοι μετὰ τῶν verse and the choir one, according to
μελισμάτων τούτων πλ. δ’. these melodies, 4th plagal mode:
Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε ὁ Θεὸς τῶν Blessed art thou Lord God of our
πατέρων ἡμῶν καὶ αἰνετὸν, καὶ fathers, and may your name be praised
δεδοξασμένον τὸ ὄνομά σου εἰς τούς and glorified forever.
αἰῶνας.
2
“Prophetically” is sung here as an alternative
to “Spiritually.”
1 3
Transcription based on Velimirović 1962: 378–81, Velimirović (1962: 378, line 23) thinks this
and the facsimile of Sinai 1527 at the Library of ode is for the choir, but this passage seems to
Congress in Washington, DC. refer to the children.
212
The Service of the Furnace, Sinai 1527 213
πλ. δ’· Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν 4th plagal, “Praised [and] exalted art
ὑπερύμνητε ὑπερένδοξε Κύριε ὁ Θεός· thou Lord God of our fathers; yea, and
νε [216v] τῶν πατέρων καὶ ἡμῶν blessed art Thou Lord of our fathers.”
εὐλογετὸς εἶ Κύριε.
πλ. δ’: Ὅτι δίκαιους εἶ ἐπὶ πᾶσιν, οῖς 4th plagal, “How just thou art in all
ἐποίησας ἡμῖν: Τῶν πατέρων. that thou hast done to us. [God] of
[our] fathers.”
πλ. δ’· Μὴ δὴ παραδῴεις ἡμᾶς εἰς 4th plagal: “Do not withdraw your
τέλος διὰ τὸ ὄνομά σου· καὶ μὴ mercy from us in the end, through your
διασκεδάσῃς τὴν διαθήκην σου καὶ μὴ name, and do not set your mercy apart
ἀποστήσῃς τὸ ἔλεός σου ἀφ’ ἡμῶν.4 from us.”
Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν εὐλογητὸς [217r] Blessed art Thou, Lord of our
εἶ Κύριε σῶσον ἡμᾶς. fathers, save us.
τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ἀζαρίαν εἰς τὴν κάμινον. came down to them near Azariah in
the furnace.
πλ. δ’. Σὺ εὐλογητὸς εἶ, Κύριε. πλ. 4th plagal: “Blessed art Thou Lord.
δ’· Τῶν ἀγίων σου, ὑπερύμνητε 4th plagal: [more than] Thy saints,
Κύριε ὑπερένδο- [217v] ξε ὁ Θεὸς τῶν praise and exalt Thee in the highest
πατέρων καὶ ἡμῶν, εὐλογητὸς εἶ, Lord God of our fathers, blessed art
Κύριε, σῶσον ἡμᾶς. Thou Lord, save us!”
Τέλος τῆς ζ’ ᾠδῆς καὶ ἀρχή τῆς η’. End of the 7th ode and beginning of
the 8th.
Λέγουσι δὲ οἱ ψάλται διὰ μέσον And the choir sings, after the meson
καὶ ἠχίσματα εἰς ἤχον πλάγιον δ’ and ichismata, in the 4th plagal
καλοφωνικά: λέγουσι καὶ καλοφωνικὰ mode kalophonically.5 And they sing
ᾀσματικὰ ἀπὸ τὰς ᾠδᾲς πλ. δ’. kalophonic odes, 4th plagal:6
Εὐλογεῖτε πάντα τὰ ἔργα Κυρίου Bless the Lord all ye words of the Lord,
τὸν Κύριον. [218r] πλ. δ’. Τὸν Κύριον praise the Lord and Praise the Lord
ὑμνεῖτε καὶ ὑμνεῖτε τὀν Κύριον ye works, praise bless and exalt him
τὰ ἔργα, ὑμνεῖτε, εὐλογεῖτε καὶ forever.
ὑπερυψοῦτε αὐτὸν εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας.
5
A possible reference to brief kratēmata.
6
A reminder that the choir intersperses a var-
iety of heirmoi throughout the singing of the
“Song of the Three Children.” A musico-
4
The copyist overlooked this underlined portion logical note: the term used here for the
initially, but supplied it at the bottom of 216v. drone – mēsos – may be from ancient theory.
214 Appendix 4
Λέγε. Πάντα τὰ ἔργα, τὸν Κύριον Sing. All ye works, praise the Lord ye
τὰ ἔργα ὑμνεῖτε, [218v] εὐλογεῖτε, καὶ works, bless and exalt him forever. Bless
ὑπερυψοῦτε αὐτὸν εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας. [Him].
Εὐλογεῖτε.
Καὶ ψάλλεται τοῦτο εἰς ὅλην τὴν η’ And this [melody] is sung
ᾠδήν. throughout the whole 8th ode.7
Εἶτα τὸ Αινοῦμεν, εὐλογοῦμεν· τὸν Then the “We praise, we bless”; then
εἱρμόν· Φλόγα δροσίζουσαν ὁσίους … the heirmos: “The fire, sprinkled
καὶ τὸ Σοὶ τῷ παντουργῷ with dew …” and the: “For
Thee, Omnipotent One …” and
the: “Sevenfold …” and other such
[heirmoi].
Καὶ τὸ Ἑπταπλασίου … καὶ ἕτερα And straightaway the Divine Liturgy.
ὅμοια.
Καὶ εὐθὺς ἡ θεία λειτουργία.
7
That is, the “Song of the Three Children,”
which is chanted with the preceding melody
as the model.
Appendi x 5
The Service of the Furnace, Lavra 165

As found in Lavra ms 165
Διάταχις1 Procedure.
Μετὰ τὸ τέλος τοῦ ὄρθρου τῆς After the end of orthros, the furnace
Καμίνου εὐτρεπισθείσης καὶ τῶν made ready and the children likewise
παίδων ὁμοίως ἐν ἐνδύμασι λευκοῖς, in white clothes, the choir around
οἱ ψάλλοντες περὶ τὴν κάμινον the furnace sing the idiomelon, the
ψάλλουσιν ἰδιόμελον τὸ πνευματικῶς “Spiritually we faithful.”
ἡμᾶς πιστοί.
τούτου δὲ ψαλλομένου εἰσέρχονται And while singing this, the children
οἱ παῖδες ἐντὸς τῆς καμίνου, καὶ enter into the furnace and bow
προσκυνοῠσι κατὰ ἀνατολὰς τρίς· καὶ to the east three times. And upon
τοῦ ἰδιομέλου πληρωθέντος ἄρχεται ὁ completion of the idiomelon the
δομέστικος ἀντίπωνον εἰς ἦχον πλ. δ’ cantor begins the antiphonal hymn
μετὰ τοῦ στίχου· in the 4th plagal mode after the verse:
Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε ὁ Θεὸς τῶν Blessed art thou Lord God of our
πατέρων ἡμῶν, καὶ αἰνετὸν καὶ fathers, may your name be praised and
δεδοξασμένον τὸ ὄνομά Σου εἰς τοὺς glorified for ever.
αἰῶνας.
Ποίημα κυροῦ Χένη τοῦ Κορώνη· Composition by Sir Xenes of
ἦχ. Πλ. β’. Τῶν πατέρων ἡμῶν Korona, 2nd plagal mode: “Lord
ὑπερύμνητε, ὑπερένδοξε Κύριε ὁ Θεός· God of our fathers, praised, exalted art
τῶν Πατέρων καὶ ἡμῶν εὐλογητὸς εἶ thou; and blessed art Thou Lord of our
Κύριε. fathers.”2
Εἶτα τὸν στίχον. Then the verse:
2
Exactly who sings these verses is hard to
decipher; the fact that the children have no
1 verses designated for them might indicate
As found in Lavriotes 1895–6. Velimirović
includes only Lavra 165’s variants. that Lavra 165 is a distinct variation.
215
216 Appendix 5
Στίχ. Καὶ ἐπὶ τὴν πόλιν τὴν ἀγίαν Verse: “And also in the holy city of our
τὴν τῶν Πατέρων ἡμῶν Ἱρουσαλήμ. fathers, Jerusalem.”
Τῶν Πατέρων ἡμῶν. [God] of our fathers.3
Στίχ. Καὶ διεχεῖτο ἡ φλὸξ ἐπάνω τῆς Verse: “And the flame rose above the
καμίνου ἐπὶ πήχεις τεσσαράκοντα furnace, forty-nine cubits high”: [then]
ἐννέα· ἕτερον ἄλλαγμα παλαιόν. another old refrain:
Τῶν Πατέρων ἡμῶν εὐλογηητὸς εἶ Blessed art thou Lord of our fathers,
Κύριε σῶσον ἡμᾶς. save us.
Εἶτα ἠχήζει ὁ Δομέστικος ἀπήχημα Then the cantor sounds out the
πλ. β’. ὁμοίως καὶ ὁ δεύτερος χορός. tuning, 2nd plagal [mode]. And the
second choir similarly.
Εἶτα πάλιν τὸν στίχον. Καὶ διώδευσε Then again the verse: “And it passed
καὶ ἐνεπύρισεν, οὕς εὗρε περὶ τὴν through and burned those it found
κάμινον τῶν Χαλδαίων around the furnace of the Chaldean.”
Εἰς δὲ τὸ τέλος τοῦ σχήματος And at the end of the figure, this is
ψάλλεται τοῦτο ἀπὸ χοροῦ. sung by the choir: “Blessed art thou
Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε σῶσον ἡμᾶς. Lord of our fathers, save us.”
Εἶτα λέγεται ᾀσματικὸν ἐκ τῶν ὠδῶν. Then a lyric hymn from the odes is sung.
Καὶ εὐθὺς πάλιν τοὺς στίχους μετὰ And straightaway again the verses
τῶν Ἀντιφώνων· ὅταν δὲ φθάσῃ οὗτος [are sung] antiphonally, and when it
ὁ στίχος. comes to this verse:
Ὁ δὲ ἄγγελος Κυρίου συγκατέβη But just then, the angel of the Lord
ἅμα τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ἀζαρίαν εἰς τὴν came down into the furnace together
Κάμινον. with those around Azariah.
Καταβιβάζουσι τὸν ἄγγελον λευκὰ They lower the angel dressed in
ἐνδεδυμένον μετὰ ὡραρίου πορφυροῦ, white with a purple orarion, and they
καὶ ψάλλουσι. sing4
Ποίημα Κυρ. Χένη τοῦ Κορώνη πλ. β’. Composition by Sir Xenes of
Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε τῶν ἀγίων Σου, Korones, 2nd plagal [mode]: “Blessed
ὑπερύμνητε, ὑπερένδοξε Κύριε, ὁ Θεός art thou Lord of thy saints, praised,
τῶν Πατέρων ἡμῶν, εὐλογητὸς εἶ glorified art thou Lord God of our
Κύριε σῶσον ὑμᾶς. fathers, blessed art thou Lord, save us.”
Ἕτερον Κυρ. Μανουὴλ τοῦ Χρυσάφη Another sung by Manuel
ψαλλόμενον ἕν παρ’ ἕν. Chrysaphes, as an alternative:
3
As Velimirović notes (1962: 382), this is a
reminder to sing the refrain after each verse.
4
The writer refers to an icon painted in white
and purple, the traditional deacon’s garb.
The Service of the Furnace, Lavra 165 217
Εὐλογητὸς εἶ ὁ Θεὸς ὁ δι’ ἄγγελου Blessed art thou God who brought
τοὺς παῖδας ἐκ φλογὸς διασώσας, καὶ salvation to the children from the fire
τὴν βροντῶσαν κάμινον μεταβαλὼν through an angel, and changed the
εἰς δρόσον, Εὐλογητὸς εἶ Κύριε ὁ Θεὸς thunderous furnace to dew. Blessed art
τῶν Πατέρων ἡμῶν. thou God of our fathers.
Εἶτα ὁ στίχος· Καὶ ἐξετίναξε τὴν Then the verse: “And he blew out the
φλόγα τοῦ πυρός ἐκ τῆς καμίνου, flame of the fire out of the furnace … a
πνεῦμα δρόσου διασυρίζον. refreshing breeze passing through.”5
Τῶν ἀγίων Πατέρων εὐλογητὸς εἶ ὁ Blessed art thou God of our holy
Θεός. fathers.
Στίχ. Τὀτε οἱ τρεῖς ὡς ἐξ ἑνὸς στόματος Verse: “Then the three in the furnace
ὕμνουν καὶ ἐβόουν, καὶ ἐδόξαζον τὸν praised, cried out and glorified God as
Θεὸν ἐν τῃ καμίνῳ λέγοντες. if with one mouth, saying”:
Εὐλογητὸς εἶ ὁ Θεὸς. Blessed art thou God.
Ψάλλεται οὗν καὶ ἡ λοιπὴ στιχολογία Then the remaining recitation [of
εἰς αὐτὸ τὸ μέλος· καὶ μετὰ τὸ τέλος verses] is sung to this melody: and
αὐτῆς εὐθὺς ἠχήζει ὁ Δομέστικος· after the end of this, straightaway the
εἶτα λέγεται ᾀσματικὸν, καὶ ἄρχεται ἡ cantor sounds out: then a lyric is sung,
ὁγδόη ὠδὴ πλ. β’. and the 8th ode begins, 2nd plagal:
Στίχ. Εὐλογεῖτε πάντα τὰ ἔργα Verse: “Bless the Lord all ye words of
Κυρίου τὸν Κύριον. the Lord.”
Τὸν Κύριε ὑμνεῖτε τὰ ἔργα ὑμνεῖτε, Praise the Lord ye works, praise, bless
εὐλογεῖτε καὶ ὑπερυψοῦτε αὐτὸν εἰς and exalt him forever.
τοὺς αἰῶνας.
Τούτου δὲ ψαλλουμένου χορεύουσιν And while this is sung the children
οἱ παῖδες ἐντὸς τῆς καμίνου, dance inside the furnace, holding
ἐντείνουσι τὰς χεῖρας καὶ τὰ ὄμματα their hands and eyes upward. And
ἄνω. Ὅτε δὲ φθάσῃ εἰς τὸ μέσον τῆς when it comes to the middle of the
ὠδῆς, εὐθὺς ἠχήζει ὁ Δομέστικος, ode, straightaway the cantor sounds
εἴτα ὁ ἕτερος χορὸς ἤχημα· καὶ μετὰ out, then the other choir a tone,6
ταῦτα ᾀσματκὸν. Εἴτα ψάλλονται and after this a lyric hymn. Then
τὰ ἐπίλοιπα τῆς ωδῆς· καὶ εὐθὺς the rest of the ode is sung. And
“αἰνοῦμεν, εὐλογοῦμεν” Σοὶ τῷ straightaway: “We praise, we bless
παντουργῷ – Φλόγα δροσίζουσαν … To you the Almighty … The fire,
ὁσίους – Eὐλογεῖτε παῖδας – Nικεταὶ sprinkled with dew … Praise, children
τυράννου. … The tyrant is defeated …”7
5
A paraphrase of Dan. 3.49–50 (LXX).
6
A possible reference to a brief melisma. In
monasteries, the two choirs face each other
across the nave, each in their choir or transept.
7
Incipits for heirmoi and verses for the Service.
218 Appendix 5
Εἶτα ἄρχεται ἡ λειτουργία. Then the liturgy is begun.8

Μετὰ τὸ τέλος τῆς 3 ὠδῆς, ψάλλεται At the end of the 7th ode, this is
τοῦτο ἀντὶ ἀσματικοῦ Κυροῦ sung instead of the lyric hymn by
Μανουὴλ τοῦ Γαζῆ. Συνετέθη δὲ καὶ Sir Manuel of Gaza. Assembled
ἐγράφη παρὰ Μανουὴλ τοῦ Χρυσάφη. and written down by Manuel
Chrysaphes:
τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ἀζαρίαν εἰς τὴν κάμινον· came down into the furnace together
καὶ ἐξετίναξε τὴν φλόγα τοῦ πυρὸς, with those around Azariah. And
καὶ ἐποίησε τὸ μέσον τῆς καμίνου, ὡς he struck the flame of the fire out of
πνεῦμα δρόσου διασυρίζον· the furnace, a breeze of dew passing
through:
καὶ οὐχ ἥψατο αὐτῶν τὸ καθόλου And the fire didn’t touch them at all,
τὸ πῦρ; οὐδὲ ἐλύπησεν· οὐδὲ nor did it harm or trouble them. Then
παρινώχλησε· τότε οἱ τρεῖς, ὡς ἐξ the three, as with one mouth, praised
ἑνὸς στόματος, ὕμνουν καὶ ηὐλόγουν and blessed and glorified God in the
καὶ ἐδόξαζον τὸν Θεὸν ἐν τῇ καμίνῳ furnace, saying – by the chorus – Bless
λέγοντες – ἀπὸ χοροῦ – εὐλογεῖτε the Lord, all ye works (etc).9
πάντα τὰ ἔργα τὸν Κύριον κτλ.
8
This alternate setting for Dan. 3:49–51
(LXX) by Manuel Chrysaphes is included in
Lavriotis’ transcription.
9
The verse from Daniel describing the descent
is sung by a soloist, with the chorus provid-
ing the refrain. The “etc.” is a reminder that
Chrysaphes’ alternate setting is inserted just
before the “Song of the Three Children.”
Appendi x 6
Archbishop Symeon’s Dialogue in Christ
Excerpt from the Dialogue in Christ, by Archbishop Symeon of

Thessalonica
ΚΕΦΑΛ. ΚΓ’ Chapter 23

Ὅτι δεῖ ἀνιστορεῖν εὐλαβῶς τὰ θεῖα That it is necessary to portray divine
καὶ εὐσεβῶς, καὶ κατὰ τὴν δεδομένην matters piously and righteously, and in
συνήθειαν.1 accordance with tradition.
Τί δὲ καὶ ἄλλο αὐτοῐς παρὰ τὴν And how else have they innovated
ἐκκλησιαστικὴν ἐκαινοτομήθη for [the laity], contrary to Church
παράδοσιν; τῶν ἀγίων καὶ tradition? Holy and revered images
σεπτῶν [112B] εἰκόνων εὐσεβῶς have been offered piously in honor
παραδεδομένων εἰς τιμὴν τῶν θείων of divine prototypes and manifest
πρωτοτύπων, καὶ τὴν κατὰ σχέσιν iconically (through the nature of
αὐτῶν τῶν ἀγίων εἰκονισμάτων these holy images) veneration and
προσκύνησιν τοῖς πιστοῖς, καὶ τὴν truth for the faithful. For they
ἀλήθειαν ἐμφαινόντων ἐκονικῶς. represent the Word Made Flesh
Τὸν γὰρ σαρκωθέντα Λόγον δι’ for our sake, and all He has done
ἡμᾶς εἰκνοίζουσι, καὶ πάντα τὰ ὑπὲρ for our sake, and His sufferings
ἡμῶν αὐτοῦ θεῖα ἔργα καὶ πάθη and miracles and mysteries, and
καὶ θαύματα και μυστήρια, καὶ ἔτι moreover the sacrosanct image of
τὸ πανάγιον εἶδος τῆς ἀγίας αὐτοῦ His holy ever-virgin mother, and His
ἀειπαρθένου μητρὸς, καὶ τῶν ἀγίων saints, and the very things of which
αὐτοῦ, καὶ ἅπερ ἡ εὐαγγελικὴ ἱστορία the Gospel and the rest of Divine
καὶ αἱ λοιπαὶ θεῖαι Γραφαὶ Scripture speak, as if in another form
of writing; they teach iconically,
through painting and other material.2
1
Text from PG 155.112–23. Citations follow
2
Migne’s system of pagination and division for As discussed, John Damascene describes
the Greek text. The author would like to thank icons as the equivalent of writing; Symeon
Dr. Elizabeth Fisher for her assistance in prepar- notes that icons can be made from paint,
ing this translation. mosaic, and carved reliefs (not statues).
219
220 Appendix 6
λέγουσιν, ὡς γράμμασιν ἄλλοις, These men are always innovating, so

τῇ χρωματουργία καὶ λοιπῇ ὕλῃ to speak, and they often reinterpret
εἰκονικῶς ἐκδιδάσκουσιν, οῦτοι πάντα holy images contrary to tradition
καινοτομοῦντες, ὡς εἴρηται, καὶ τὰς in another way; instead of using
ἱερὰς εἰκόνας παρὰ τὸ νενομισμένον pictorial clothing and hairstyles they
ἑτέρῳ τρόπῳ πολλάκις ἀνιστοροῦσιν, embellish them with human hair and
ἀντὶ εἰκονικῶν ἐνδυμάτων τε καὶ garments – not the image of hair and
τριχῶν, ἀνθρωπείαις θριξὶ καὶ στολαῖς garments mind you, but they are the
[C] καλλωπίζοντες, ὅπερ οὐκ εἰκὼν hair and garments of some person,
τριχὸς καὶ ἐνδύματος, ἀλλ’ ἀνθρώπου and not the icon and model of their
τινός εἰσι θρὶξ καὶ ἔνδυμα, καὶ οὐχὶ prototypes.
εἰκών τε τῶν πρωτοτύπων καὶ τύπος.
Καὶ παρὰ τὸ εἰλαβὲς δὲ ἀνιστοροῦσι And they reinterpret and embellish
ταύτας καὶ καλλωπίζουσιν, ὅπερ them beyond what is pious [eulabēs],
κατὰ τῶν ἀγίων εἰκόνων ἐστὶ which is completely contrary to the
μᾶλλον, ὡς ὁ τῆς οἰκουμνεικῆς ἕκτης holy icons, as the canon from the
συνόδου κανὼν ὑποτίθησιν. Οὐδὲ sixth ecclesiastical council establishes.
γὰρ ἀνιστορεῖν φησιν αὐτὸς τὰ τοὺς Nor does it say to reinterpret things
ἀπλουστέρους μὴ ὠφελοῦντα. Καὶ τὸ that do not benefit simpler folk.
παρὰ τὴν τάξιν οὐκ εὐαγές. Καὶ οἱ And that which is contrary to canon
Πατέρες τοῦτο οὐ παραδέχονται. Ἔτι law is not holy. And the Fathers do
δὲ καὶ ὡς ἐν δράματί τινα ποιοῦσι not accept it. And what’s more, they
παρὰ τοὺς θείους θεσμούς. Οἱνεὶ γὰρ produce some things as if it were a
ἐξεικονίζοντες τὰ τοῦ εὐαγγελισμοῦ drama, contrary to holy ordinances.
τῆς Παρθένου καὶ Θεομήτορος, καὶ For as if [oionei] representing things
τὰ τῆς σταυρώσεως τοῦ Σωτῆρος from the Annunciation of the Virgin
καὶ λοιπὰ, ἐπὶ τριόδων καὶ πλατειῶν and Mother of God, and things from
ἀνθρώπους καθιστῶσι [112D] παρὰ the crucifixion of the Savior, etc.,
τὴν τάξιν. Καὶ ὁ μὲν τυποῐ τὴν they set up people at crossroads and
Παρθένον, καὶ τὸν ἄνδρα ἐκεῐνον platforms contrary to canon law.
Μαριὰμ αὐτοὶ ὀνομάζουσιν· ὁ δὲ And one man models for the Virgin,
ἄγγελος ὀνομάζετει· ὁ δὲ Παλαιὸς and they call him Mary; another is
τῶν ἡμερῶν, ᾧ καὶ περτιθέασι called the angel, and another the
τρίχας λευκὰς εἰς τὸν πώγωνα. Ἐπεὶ Ancient of Days, and they also put
γὰρ οὐκ ἔχουσι κείρουντες ταύτας white hair on him for a beard. For
θρυπτικῶς καὶ παρὰ τοὺς θεσμοὺς since the Latins don’t think shaving
τῇς φύσεως οἱ Λατῐνοι, ἀλλοτρίας them is effeminate and a violation
τιθέασιν, ἐντεῦθεν καἰ τὰ καθ’ ἐαυτῶν of natural law they put on fake ones,
ἐνεργεῖν δεικνύμενοι. Εἰ γὰρ τρίχας hence showing they contrive things
εἰκονικῶς ἔχειν εἶδον οἱ προφῆται as they like. For if the prophets saw
τὸν Θεὸν, εἰς τιμήν ἅρα τῆς φύσεως that God has a beard, symbolically,
καὶ κατὰ γνώμην Θεοῦ, ἐν ἡμῖν οἱ we too have beards to honor
τρίχες. Λοιπὸν παρὰ γνώμην Θεοῦ nature and according to what God
ποιοῦσι καὶ εἰς ἀτιμίαν τῆς φύσεως οἱ intended. So those who shave act
κείροντὲς, καὶ μάλιστα ἱερωμένοι contrary to what God intended,
Archbishop Symeon’s Dialogue in Christ 221
καὶ μοναχοὶ, οἷς καὶ ἀπηγέρευται disgracing nature, especially priests

τὸ θεραπεύειν τὴν σάρκα, Ἀλλὰ καὶ and monks, who also defend this
κατέχοντα ποιοῦσι περιστερὰν τὸ vanity of the body.3 Moreover, they
πτηνὸν ἀντὶ τοῦ θείου Πνεύματος τὸν portray the Ancient of Days holding
[113A] Παλαιὸν τῶν ἡμερῶν, ἐνταῦθα onto a winged dove in place of the
πάλιν καθ’ ἑαυτῶν φρονεῖν οὗτοι Holy Spirit, so showing once again
δεικνύμοι. that they think whatever they like.4
Εἰ γὰρ καὶ ἐκ τοῦ Υἱοῦ τὸ Πνεῦμα For if they think the Spirit proceeds
δοξάζουσι, πῶς οὐχι καὶ Ὑιὸν Τῷ from the Son too, why don’t they
Παλαιῷ τῶν ἡμερῶν συγκαθίζουσιν, portray the Son sitting together
ἵνα καὶ ἄμφω τὴν περιστερὰν with the Ancient of Days, so that
ἀποστέλλωσιν; Ἀλλ’ ὤφειλον παλὶν both dispatch the dove?5 Then again,
καὶ Υἱὸν ἀπστέλλειν πρὸς ὃν they should also send the Son to the
καλοῦσι Μαριάμ. Οὐ γὰρ τὸ Πνεῦμα man they call Mary. For the Spirit
σεσάρκωται, εἰ καὶ ἐπεσκίαζε τῇ was not incarnated, even though it
Παρθένῳ. Ἀλλὰ παρὰ λόγον ἅπαντα hovered over the Virgin. Yet all these
ταῦτα, καὶ τῆς ἐκκλησιαστικῆς things are beyond reason, alien to
ἀλλότρια παραδόσεως, καὶ εἰς ὕβριν the Church tradition, and rather
μὰλλον τῶν μυστηρίων, καὶ τῆς contemptuous of the mysteries and
Χριστιανικῆς εὐλαβείας. Τί δὲ τὰ παρ’ of Christian piety. And what things
αὐτοῖς τυπούμενα χάριν Χριστοῦ τῆς are modeled for the sake of Christ’s
σταυφώσεως; Αἷμα ζώων ἀλόγων ἐν crucifixion? They substitute blood
χολάσι ζώων εἰσάγοντες, ἀντὶ τοῦ from brute beasts for the Lord’s
δεσποτικοῦ ῥέειν κατασκευάζουσιν blood, putting it on a man’s hands,
αἵματος, ἀπὸ τῶν τοῦ δὴθεν feet, and chest, while he pretends
ἐσταυρωμένου ἀνθρώπου τινὸς χειρῶν to be crucified. What, then, is that
καὶ ποδῶν τε καὶ τῆς πλευρᾶς [113B]. man being crucified? And what is the
Τις ἅρα ἐκεῐνός ἐστιν ὁ σταυρούμενος; blood? Real, or an icon? And if it’s an
τί δὲ τό αἷμα; ἀλήθεια, ἤ εἰκών; Καὶ εἰ icon, how on earth could it be a man
μὲν εἰκών, πῶς ἄνθρωπος καὶ αἷμα; οὐ and blood? For an icon is not a man.
γὰρ ἡ εἰκών ἄνθρωπος. Εἰ δ’ ἀλήθειᾳ But if they are really man and blood,
ἄνθρωπος καὶ αἷμα, οὐκ ἅρα εἰκών. then it’s not an icon. So then, what
Καὶ λοιπὸν τὶς ἐκεῐνος; καὶ τί τὸ αἷμα is that man? And what is that blood?
ἐκεῐνο; καὶ τίνος ἅρα λογιστέον αὐτὸ, And whose is it supposed to be, the
τοῦ Σωτῆρος, ἢ κοινόν;
3
Lit, “by whom caring for [or flattering] the
body is defended.” See LSJ, s.v. “θεραπεύω,”
especially ii.2.
4
Doves feature prominently in some rap-
presentazioni, but are usually caged; see for
example Young 1933:, 1.489–91 and 2.243–55.
5
A reference to the addition of filioque, “and
the Son,” to the Catholic creed.
222 Appendix 6
Βαβαὶ τῆς ἀτοπίας! κατὰ τῶν ἱερῶν Savior’s, or a commoner’s? Bless

εἰκόνων ταῠτα καὶ τῶν Εὐαγγελίων me, how bizarre! These things are
εἰσὶ, καὶ τῶν φρικτῶν μᾰλλον τοῦ contrary to holy icons and the
Χριστοῦ μυστηρίων. Ἀλλὰ πόθεν Gospels and, moreover, the awesome
ταῦτα παρέλαβον; τίς τῶν ἀγίων mysteries of Christ. But why did
τοιαῠτα παρέδωκεν; Ἀληθῶς πάντα they use these things? Who among
κεκαινοτομήκασιν οὗτοι. Καὶ τοιαῠτα the saints taught these things?
ποιοῦσιν ἐπὶ τριόδων καὶ πλατειῶν, Verily, these men have innovated in
ἀνθρώπους καθιστῶντες παρὰ τὴν everything. And they do these things
τάξιν, καὶ περὶ τῶν ὑπὲρ λόγον at crossroads and on platforms,
καὶ θαυμαστῶν ἐξ ὧν μὴ θέμις, appointing people contrary to canon
δραματουργίας ἐπιδεικνύμενοι, καὶ τὴν law, and performing plays about
περιστερὰν τὸ ὄρνεον Πνεῠμα ἄγιον wonders beyond reason, which is not
ὀνομάζοντες [C]. right, and calling a dove – a bird –
the Holy Spirit.
Καὶ φθέγγονται οἱ τοιοῠτοι καὶ And such men chant and respond
ἀντιφθέγγονται τὰ περὶ τῶν things about feast days.6 And they
ἑορτῶν. Καὶ ἡ δοκοῦσα Μαριὰμ think Mary receives a stupid dove
τὴν ἄλογον περιστερὰν ἀντὶ τοῦ instead of the Spirit. And again,
Πνεύματος ὑποδέχεται. Πάλιν δὲ as we said, some man is crucified,
γε, ὡς ἔφημεν, σταυροῦνται τις, called “Christ” by these men, and
Χριστὸς παρ’ αὐτοῖς καλούμενος, the crucifixion is not real, and
καὶ ἡ σταύρωσις οὐκ ἀληθὴς, καἰ shedding blood from some animal
τὸ ῥέον αἷμα ζώου τινὸς εἰς ὕβριν is an insult to God’s own effluence.
τοῦ θεοῥῥύτου· καίτοι γε οὐχ οὕτω Furthermore, the Lord does not
τὴν ἀνάμνησιν τῶν μυστηρίων authorize us to commemorate the
ποιεῖν τοῦ Κυρίου προστάξαντος, mysteries in this way, but rather as
ἀλλ’ ὡς αὐτὸς παραδέδωκεν, ἐν οἷς He Himself taught, through which
ἐνεργεῖ πάλιν αὐτὸς, καὶ ἱερουργεῖ He operates still and ministers
ἑαυτόν· καὶ αὐτὸ ἐκείνου τὸ σῶμα Himself; and the body and blood
καὶ αἷμα τὸ ιἑρουργούμενον. Ἇρ’ being sanctified are His. So then,
οὖν οὐκ ἐπισφαλῆ τὰ παρ’ ἐκείνων aren’t things done this way perilous,
οὕτω γινόμενα, καὶ λίαν ἑπισφαλῆ; Εἰ and extremely perilous? My man,
θέλεις, ἄνθρωπε, ταῠτα παριστᾷν, καὶ if you wish to present these things
τοῖς ἀνθρώποις διδάσκειν, ἱερούργει and to teach people, minister as He
ὡς παραδέδωκε [113D], δίδασκε taught it; teach with words, write
λόγοις, γράφε συγγράμμασιν, in treatises, and make icons with
εἰκόνιζε καὶ διὰ χρωμάτων ὡς paintings, as is traditional; in this
παραδέδοται· ὅπερ καὶ ὁ ἀληθής
ἐστιν ἐξεικονισμὸς, ὡς καὶ ἡ ἐν
6
Most rappresentazioni were performed to the
accompaniment of chant.
Βίβλοις γραφὴ, καὶ χάρις ἐν αὐτοῖς too the truth is portrayed, like the
ἐστι θεία, ἐπεὶ καὶ τὰ τυπούμενα writing in a book, and divine grace
ἅγια. Ἀλλ’ οὗτοι παρατραπέντες is in them, also, since the things
ἐφάπαξ, εἰς ἅ μὴ δεῖ τρέχουσιν. Εἰ δὲ imprinted are also holy. But these
καὶ περἰ τῆς καμίνου τῶν παιδῶν men, turning away once and for all,
ἡμᾶς αἰτιάσονται, ἀλλ’ οὐ χαιρήσουσιν rush headlong to forbidden things.
ὅλως. Οὐ γὰρ ἀνάπτομεν κάμινου, And if they should censure us for
ἀλλὰ κηροὺς μετὰ φώτων, καὶ θυμίαμα the furnace of the [three] children,
Θεῷ κατὰ τὸ ἔθος προσφέρομεν, καὶ let them not rejoice completely.7
ἄγγελον εἰκονίζομεν, οὐκ ἄνθρωπον For we do not light up a furnace,
ἀποστέλλομεν. Παῖδας δὲ μόνον but candles for lights, and we offer
ὑμνοῦντας καθαροὺς ὡς ἐκείνους incense to God as is customary, and
τοὺς παῖδας τρεῖς παριστῶμεν, we portray an image of an angel, we
ᾄδειν αὐτοὺς τὴν ῷδὴν ἐκείνων ὡς do not bring down a man. And we
παραδέδοται. offer only singing children, as pure
as those Three Children, to sing the
verses from their canticle according
to tradition.
Οὕς παῖδας καὶ πάντες οἱ And all these children, confirmed
ἐσφραγισμένοι καὶ ἱεροὶ τυποῦσι and holy, typify those Children. And
παίδες. Καὶ ἱερωμένοι δὲ πάντες, with all being consecrated, each one
ἔκαστος [116Α] τὸν τῆς ἐαυτοῦ typifies his counterpart. And the
τυποῖ τάξεως· και τὸν Κύριον μὲν ὁ first hierarch typifies the Lord while
πρῶτος ἀρχιερεὺς, ἐπίσκοποι δὲ τοὺς the bishops typify the first of the
πρώτους τῶν ἀποστόλων, ἐπεὶ καὶ apostles, since they also possess their
τὴν αὐτῶν χάριν ἔχουσι· πρεσβύτεροι grace, and the priests the seventy;
δὲ γε τοὺς ἑβδομήκοντα· διάκονοι and the deacons the Levites; and
δὲ τοὺς Λευΐτας· ὑποδιάκονοι δὲ καὶ the other sub-deacons the rank of
λοιποὶ τὴν τάξιν τῶν προφητῶν. Καἰ the Prophets. And from another
καθ’ ἕτερον δὲ σκοπὸν ὁ ἀρχιερεύς perspective the ranking hierarch
τὸν ἐνανθρωπήσαντα Θεὸν Λόγον typifies the Divine Word who took
ἐκτυποῖ· πρεσβύτεροι δὲ τὰς on a human form; the priests the
ὑπερκειμένας τῶν τάξεων· διάκονοι higher-placed ranks, the deacons
δὲ τὰς ὑποδεεστέρας λειτουργικὰς the lower liturgical powers; and the
δυνάμεις· καὶ ὁ λοιπὸς δὲ κλῆρος rest of the clergy, along with the
τὰς τελευταίας τάξεις μετὰ τοῦ Orthodox laity, the lower ranks.
ὀρθοδόξουλαοῦ.
7
A discreet turn of phrase which can be
taken to mean, more bluntly, “they’re dead
wrong.” See LSJ, s.v. “χαιρῶ,” especially
section ii. The author would like to thank
Dr. Elizabeth Fisher for this citation.
224 Appendix 6
Καὶ παντες οὗτοι καὶ τάξιν ἔχουσι And all of them have rank according
κατὰ τοὺς βαθμοὺς, καὶ ἀναλογοῦσαν to their station, and a corresponding
τὴν χάριν. Διὸ καὶ οὐδὲν ἀπᾷδον τὸ grace. So it is not unfitting for the
εἰκονίζειν παΐδας τοὺς τρεῖς ἐκείνους children to portray those three
παΐδας, ὅτι καὶ δυνατὸν τὴν χάριν Children, for it is possible to possess
ἔχειν αὐτῶν. Τὸ δὲ εἰκονίζειν ἐν τῇ their grace. But to portray the Lord
σταυρώσει τὸν Κύριον [116B], καὶ in a crucifixion, and to pretend He
σφάττεσθαι δοκεῖν, καὶ αἷμα ἐκχέειν, is killed, and pours forth blood, is
οὐκ ἀληθῶς οὐδὲ κατὰ τὴν θείαν neither genuine nor according to
παράδοσιν. Καὶ τὴν Θεομήτορα δὲ divine tradition. And for the Mother
εἰκονίζεσθαι δι’ ἀνδρὸς ἢ γυναίου, καὶ of God to be portrayed through a
πτηνὸν ἀντὶ Πνεύματος δέχεσθαι, λίαν man (rather, womanish one), and to
ἄτοπον. Καὶ τὸ διὰ τριχῶν ἀλλοτρίων receive a dove instead of the Holy
καὶ ἐνδυμάτων ἐξεικονίζειν τὰ τῶν Spirit, is utterly unnatural. And to
ἁγίων μορφώματα, καἰ καλλωπίζειν decorate the saints using someone
παρὰ τὸ εὐσεβὲς, οὐκ ἐνδομένον else’s hair and garments, and dress
παρὰ τοῖς Πατράσι· καὶ ἁπλῶς τὸ them up (beyond what is pious)
ὥσπερ ἐν σκηνῇ τε καἰ δράματι τὰ is not allowed by the Fathers; and
θεῐα δεικνύναι οὐκ εὐλαβὲς, καὶ μὴ simply put, to show divine things
δεδομένον. μηδὲ Χριστιανοῖς ἄξιον. as if on stage and in a drama is not
Εἰ δ’ εἴποιεν ὡς καὶ οἱ τὰ τοιαῦτα pious, not permitted, nor worthy
διενεργοῦντες ἱερεῐς τελοῠσι καὶ κατὰ of Christians. And if they say that
τοῦτο δυνατὸν αὐτοὺς τὸν Κύριόν practicing priests perform these
τε καὶ τὴν παρθένον αὐτοῦ μητέρα things, and so it is possible for them
τυποῦν, οὐκ εὔλογον ἐν τούτοις to model the Lord and His virgin
τοῦτο ποιεῖν. mother – it makes no sense for them
to do this.
Τυπουῦσι μὲν γὰρ ἐν οἷς δέον, ἐν For they model what is needed in
τῷ βαπτίζειν, ἐν τῷ ἱερουργεῖν, ἐν these: in baptizing, in conducting
τῷ νίπτειν τοὺς [C] πόδας αλλήλων, services, in washing each other’s feet,
ὡς καὶ τοῖς λοιποῖς οἷς εἴρηκεν ὁ as well as the rest that the Savior
Σωτὴρ, οἷς ἐνεργεῖν ἱεράρχας καὶ ἱερεῖς told us, that is given to priests and
παραδέδεονται. Καὶ τοὺς ὑμνῳδοὺς hierarchs to do. And the singers too,
δὲ καὶ ἀναγινώσκειν ἐσφραγισμένους, and those given the authority to read,
ἐν τῷ ἀναγινώσκειν τε καὶ ὑμνεῖν. Οὐ do so in reading and singing. Surely
μὴν δὲ γε σταυροῦσθαι καὶ ἐκχέειν not in being crucified and shedding
αἷμα ψευδῶς, ἢ μάλλον αἷμα ζώου· εἰ blood falsely or, worse, blood from an
μὴ κατὰ τὸ μαρτύριον ἀληθῶς οἰκεϊον animal; unless indeed someone is asked
αἷμα ἐκχέειν τις αἱρεῖται, καὶ ἔτι κατὰ to shed his own blood as a martyr, so
τὸ σταυρῶσαι τὴν σάρκα σὺν τοῖς that he is afflicted in the flesh as in the
μαθήμασι καὶ ταῖς ἐπιθυμίαις (καθάπερ crucifixion with suffering and passions
Παῦλος φησιν) ἀγωνίζεται, καὶ τὸ, ὅτι (as Paul said), so that “The world is
<Ἐμοὶ ὁ κόσμος ἐσταύρωται, καγὼ crucified to me, and I to the world,”8
τῷ κόσμῷ,> καὶ πρὸς τοῦτο πάντες and everyone ought to hasten to
σπευδέτωσαν. Καὶ τὴν Παρθένον do this. And nobody is capable of
δὲ Θεοτόκον οὐδεὶς ἐκμιμεῖσθαι playing the Virgin Mother of God
δύναται ἢ κατὰ τὴν ἀγνείαν, ἢ τὸ whether with respect to her chastity,
ἐν Πνεύματι συλλαμβάνειν σακρὶ καὶ or the reception of the Holy Spirit
τίκτειν τὸν Κύριον, ὅτι μόνον τοῦτο into her flesh and the bearing of the
καὶ παρὰ μόνῃ· μιμεῖται δὲ τις αὐτὴν, Lord, as she alone did this, and by
ἀγνῶς [116D] βιῶν καὶ παρθενεύειν herself; but anyone who imitates her
αἱρούμενος, ἄξιος τε τῆς ὑποδοχῆς example, living chastely and seeking
τῆς χάριτος ὡς δυνατὸν δεδειγμένος. to live chastely, is also worthy of
Εὐκτέον τοίνυν ἐν τούτοις ὡς ἐγχωρεῖ the reception of grace, as much as
πάντας αὐτὴν ἐκμιμήσασθαι. Εἰ δὲ can be given. And we must pray it’s
καὶ ὡς τὰς γραφομένας θείας εἰκόνας possible for everyone to imitate her
ταῦτά φασιν, οὐ κατὰ λόγον ὁ λόγος, in these ways. But if they say these
ὅτι ἐν εἰκονίσμασι μὲν ἀληθῶς εἰκών, [plays] are like holy painted icons,
καὶ Χριστοῦ εἰκών γραφομένη, καὶ their reasoning is unreasonable, since
αἷμα εἰκονιζόμενον, καὶ Θεοῦ μήτηρ ἐν what is depicted in images is truly
εἰκόνι, καὶ ἄγγελος, καὶ ἀπόστολος, an icon – the painted icon of Christ,
καὶ ἱεράρχης, καὶ μάρτυς, καὶ τὸ the representation of blood, and the
Πνεῦμα ἐν εἴδει περιστερᾶς, καὶ πάντα mother of God in an icon, and an
εἰκὼν, καὶ ὡς τῶν θείων εἰκόνες τε καὶ angel, and an apostle, and a bishop,
γραφαὶ, προσκυνηταὶ καὶ σεβάσμιοι· and a martyr, and the Holy Spirit
τὸ δὲ ἀνθρώπους ταῦτα μιμεῖσθαι οὐκ in the [painted] form of a dove, and
εὐαγέ every icon, since icons and scripture
are from divinity, is honorable
and worthy of veneration: but the
imitation of these things by men is
not pious.
8
Gal. 6.14. In this letter Paul, like Symeon,
attempts to refute a powerful heresy dividing
his flock (in his case, Christian circumcision).
Appendi x 7
The Russian Furnace Play
Extant versions of the Byzantine Service of the Furnace point toward a var-
iety of approaches to the rite, from its most elaborate incarnation in early
fifteenth-century Thessalonica to the seemingly more somber, Orthros-like
rubrics of Sinai 1527. By contrast, the Russian Orthodox Church appears
to have adopted a distinctly Western representational strategy for its
own version of the Service, commonly known as the Peshchnoe diestvo,
or Furnace Play. Miloš Velimirović, in his survey of the evidence for the
Russian version, notes three key elements not included in the Byzantine
version: two “Chaldeans,” who engage in a spoken dialogue with the
choirboys; special fire effects (of the sort Symeon specifically avoided);
and loud noise instead of the narrative verse from Daniel to herald the
icon-angel’s descent.1
Expense accounts from the Church of St. Sophia in Novgorod, a nor-
thern Russian commercial center, confirm performances of the Furnace
Play (with special costumes for each character) during the early sixteenth
century.2 Instructions from another sixteenth-century manuscript from
Volokolamsk – a trading center with strong ties to Novgorod – indicate
that the play was performed as a part of the Orthros. Few verses from the
Children’s canticles are cited, but what verses are mentioned confirm that
the canticles dominated the musical portion of the performance.
What changed, substantially, was the visual and dramatic context in
which the canticles were sung: the Volokolamsk manuscript calls for two
men dressed as Chaldeans to lead the choirboys, bound, before the arch-
bishop, where the boys sing a hymn and receive candles. The Chaldeans
lead the children into the “furnace” (which may have been a distinct
set piece),3 and then “sprinkle the furnace” – i.e. create fire effects. The
1
Velimirović 1962: 365. 2 Velimirović 1962: 366.
3
See Velimirović 1962: 370, for instructions on removing the ambo (presumably wood and portable),
replacing it with a “furnace,” and testing the angel from a chain usually reserved for a chandelier.
226
The Russian Furnace Play 227
Chaldeans are instructed to perform a pantomime of submission upon
the descent of the angel,4 prostrating themselves on either side of the “fur-
nace,” and then standing with hats removed, holding palm branches and
candles. They call out the choirboys by the Children’s names, lead them
out of the “furnace” back to the archbishop, where the boys sing a trad-
itional encomion wishing the hierarch “many years” (which was still sung
in the original Greek: “Polla ta etē”).5
The music for the Furnace Play consists chiefly of the Children’s can-
ticles, with one kanon thrown in at the end. One manuscript of the play
appears to have been created along the lines of Chrysaphes’ Service, with
rubrics for a featured soloist who provides the key passages and cues the
children and choir with the melodies.6 One key departure from traditional
Byzantine chant is evidence, found by Velimirović, for the use of polyph-
ony instead of monophonic chant with drones.7
Yet another difference in the Russian version is a detailed list of expenses
related to an early seventeenth-century performance at the Church of
the Dormition of the Virgin (Uspenskiĭ Sobor), located in the Kremlin in
Moscow. The list vividly illustrates the preparations involved for the Tsar’s
church: money went to carpenters for construction of the “furnace,” for
bolts of red cloth for the Chaldean costumes, to blacksmiths for some
twenty-one hooks and no fewer than 200 candlesticks, for ermine and gild-
ing for the children’s caps, for upwards of a hundred pounds of fire-powder8
and thirteen powder horns, etc. Even the angel – an icon in the Byzantine
tradition – was apparently form-cut from parchment with arms and legs.9
Given the elaborate showmanship of the Furnace Play and its roots in
Byzantine ritual, Velimirović posits two possible origins for this theatri-
cal Russian rite: the Byzantine Service of the Furnace (transmitted perhaps
as early as the fourteenth century); and the elaborate Italian sacre rap-
presentazioni which Russians had witnessed since at least the time of the
See also Velimirović 1962: pls. 6 and 7, for an ambo/“furnace” as exhibited in the Russian Museum
in St. Petersburg.
4
Velimirović (1962: 367–8) notes that the Furnace Play is usually called “The Rite of the Lowering the
Angel,” so that even if this early version doesn’t specifically mention this action it very likely took
place and was the highlight of the play. That the angel is three-dimensional can be inferred from
rubrics for one performance that call for the choirboys to take an arm or a leg of the angel as they
dance during the “Song of the Three Children” (Velimirović 1962: 372).
5
6
See Velimirović 1962: 371, on the role of the archdeacon in one version.
7
Velimirović 1962: 373–4. Russian chant continues to distinguish itself for its polyphony.
8
Velimirović 1962: 383–5, a catalogue of expenses, lists two purchases of fire-powder, one for 63
pounds of “stag horn moss” alone.
9
Velimirović 1962: 384–5.
228 Appendix 7
Council in Florence in 1439.10 Velimirović discusses the marriage of Tsar
Ivan III to a niece of the last Byzantine emperor in the 1470s, and notes
that when the new Tsarina Zoe Palaiologina came to Russia from her exile
in Italy, she brought a number of artisans with her.11
The complication with this scenario is the lack of evidence for the
Furnace Play in Moscow prior to the late sixteenth/seventeenth cen-
tury, well over a century after Zoe’s arrival. An alternative scenario has
the Furnace Play performed in early sixteenth-century Novgorod, under
the direction of the progressive Archbishop Genadii (d. 1506). Genadii
is credited with introducing a number of new rites into the Novgorodan
calendar, and it is possible – given the historical rivalry between Moscow
and Novgorod for political and cultural dominance – that the archbishop
might have instigated some of the first changes to the Byzantine Service.12
In this scenario if Moscow did not already have its own Furnace Play it
would have been in a position to adopt the Novgorod version, perhaps as
a result of the transfer of one of Genadii’s successors, Archbishop Makarii,
to the position of Metropolitan in the capital city.13
Of special interest to theatre historians is the likelihood that the people
hired to play the roles of Chaldeans were traditional Russian folk enter-
tainers, the skomorokhi. Given that these “Chaldeans” were part of a
church performance, it is probable that these skomorokhi were Christians.
The origins and functions of the skomorokhi have been explored by the
present author, who concluded that of the many roles and guises the sko-
morokhi assumed the most remarkable one was that of the Chaldeans.
Dressed in the elaborate red costume of pagan functionaries, they had bits
of dialogue, beginning with threats against the Children:
Chaldean #1:Are you the Tsar’s [King Nebuchadnezzar’s] Children?
Chaldean #2:(Howling, wolf-like echo) – Children?
Chaldean #1:Can you see this furnace with its great fire?
Chaldean #2– And this furnace is being prepared to torture you!14
In this way the solemnity of the Russian liturgical hours was broken by
rough-and-tumble entertainers, who pretended to menace and growl their
way through the biblical story. The Chaldeans were also responsible for
feeding a charcoal brazier kept under the “furnace” with fire-powder to
10
As translated in Newbigin 1996a: 2–7. Given the fact that the Council of Florence was repudiated
by the Russian church, it is not clear whether Abraham’s enthusiasm for these shows was shared by
his superiors.
11 12
Velimirović 1962: 374. See Swoboda 2002: 227–8.
13 14
Swoboda 2002: 228–9. From Dmitrievskiĭ 1894: 559.
The Russian Furnace Play 229
create spectacular fire effects, fed with care through lead horns created for
the occasion.15
Given the brevity of the performance, and the evidence that the church
ordered an inordinate amount of fire-powder, the question arises what
these Chaldeans did with it all. Two eyewitnesses, foreign visitors to
Moscow, give us a likely answer; both Elizabethan emissary Giles Fletcher
and early seventeenth-century traveler Adam Olearius confirm that the
Chaldeans kept their costumes and were at liberty to run around town
for the twelve days before Epiphany, pulling pranks on their neighbors –
some of which involved using fire-powder to set beards on fire.16 These
pranks place the Furnace Play, officially an Orthodox ritual, in the broader
context of traditional winter festivals like the Calends (Russian: Koliada),
with their mumming and street antics. Performed as it was on the Sunday
before Christmas, the Furnace Play was designed to coincide with the
Winter Solstice, which marked the beginning of a variety of pre-Christian
celebrations. The precise timing, the casting of skomorokhi, and the street
theatrics after the play all point toward a unique accommodation and/or
appropriation of pagan festivals by the Russian Church.17
Why would the Church risk such a strong association with paganism?
Perhaps because in pre-Christian times the skomorokhi had presided over
the Koliada in much the same way the clergy now presided over high
feast days. Given the skomorokhi’s generally subversive behavior, and their
enduring popularity, it was perhaps inevitable the Church would try to
harness their anarchic performances in the service of Orthodoxy – not
unlike the appropriation of mummers’ parades by Patriarch Theophylact
for Hagia Sophia in Constantinople.18 Here too, the Russian Church used
carnivalesque foolery to promote Christian values; after all, the flames the
skomorokhi tended were ineffectual and the Chaldeans themselves were
pathetic bumblers, full of bluster but utterly incompetent.
The implied spectacle, then, was one of pagan performers presiding over
their own downfall. Olearius notes that the Chaldeans were considered
15
For a film reconstruction of this performance see Part 2 of Ivan the Terrible (Eisenstein 1944–6).
Filmed just a few years after the death of the theatre director Vsevelod Meierhold, this remark-
able sequence features actors performing many of the circus-like physical stunts – walking on the
inside of their heels, making distorted facial expressions heightened by geometrical “constructivist”
makeup, etc. – associated with Meierhold’s Biomechanics system.
16
See Fletcher 1966: 105–6, and Olearius 1967: 241–2. A favorite trick was to use leftover moss-powder
to set fire to men’s beards – dangerous, but according to Olearius great fun to watch.
17
See Karlinsky 1986: 5–6. Karlinsky claims the Church suspended its bans on the skomorokhi for the
duration of their winter festival.
18
See Chapter 1 on Patriarch Theophylact’s mummers’ parades.
230 Appendix 7
pagans for as long as they wore their costumes, and were only “cleansed”
of their sinfulness after being baptized in a nearby river at the conclu-
sion of the festival, on Epiphany. This would create an unusual spiritual
situation where the Chaldeans were played by Christian skomorokhi who,
because of their trade, were willing to commit acts of buffoonery, and
undergo a particularly frigid rebaptism every year, in the service of the
Church. The cultural theorists Yuri Lotman and Boris Uspenskii regard
phenomena like this as examples of cultural binarism, dvoevariia or
“double-faith,”19 in which the polar opposites of Christianity and pagan-
ism find a unique mode of coexistence within Russian culture. These sko-
morokhi were clearly willing to go through hell and high water for the
chance to indulge in their old antics, and urban skomorokhi had a unique
opportunity to embody and perform the contradictions of contemporary
Russian society, still clinging to its pagan roots and moving awkwardly
into the Christian era.20
In 1648 a decree by Tsar Aleksei banned all of the skomorokhi’s perfor-
mances permanently. Earlier that year, Aleksei had nearly lost his life in
a popular uprising; in the wake of the uprising, he held a special council
designed to craft new legislation to ensure the people could not rise up
again.21 Among the advice he received was a memorable petition, sent by
Gavril Malevich of Korsk, detailing the skomorokhi’s subversive, “satanic”
activity.22 Malevich’s petition created such a stir that when Tsar Aleksei
sat down to write his decree, he copied several passages word-for-word,
detailing the sins of the skomorokhi, and concluded:
In all villages of any kind, men, women, wives and children on Sundays,
on Holy days and High Saints’ holidays, will go to God’s church to sing …
and avoid disorderly drunks, especially the skomorokhi … these people shall
be punished wherever such disorder appears.23
Officially, the skomorokhi disappeared after this decree, and the Furnace
Play along with them. Within a few generations, however, the story of the
Three Children would rise again, this time realized as a Western-style stage
play. Simeon Polotskii’s piece “About the Tsar Nebuchadnezzar, About the
Golden Idol, and About the Three Boys Unburnt in the Furnace”24 would
speak to the enduring appeal of the old biblical story.
19
See Lotman and Uspenskii, 1985.
20
See Olearius 1967: 241–2; Velimirović 1962: 373; and Varneke 1951: 11–12. For an earlier account of
the Furnace Play and its aftermath, see Fletcher 1966: 105–6.
21
For a good account of this critical period in Russian history see Longworth 1984: 38–53.
22
Malevich 1975: 173–5. 23 Tsar Aleksei 1975: 175–8.
24
See Swoboda 2002: 221–2, on this later, Westernized version.
Glossary
adventus Originally, the ceremonial entrance of an

emperor into a city. In Christian times, the
ceremonial introduction of saints’ relics.
akolouthia “service.” Designates a festal rite of the Orthodox
Church. See also asmatikē akolouthia.
ambo “pulpit.” A raised platform with stairs, usually
located along the central east–west axis of
the nave. Used for readings, homilies, and
liturgical chant.
architrave A horizontal beam made of stone or wood, set
on top of columns; a common feature of chancel
screens in early churches.
asmatikē akolouthia “sung service.” Special services on high holy
days in the Orthodox tradition, usually inserted
between Orthros and the Divine Liturgy.
basilica A traditional Roman meeting hall, later adapted
for use as Christian churches.
Brumalia In Roman times, a pagan festival held during the
month leading up to the Winter Solstice. Later
conducted under (Christian) imperial auspices.
cavea The semi-circular seating area associated with
theatres but also found in civic meeting halls and
early churches (see synthronon).
chancel screen A barrier between the nave and sanctuary,
consisting of waist-high marble slabs. Often (but
not always) embellished with columns between
the slabs that supported an architrave with
iconographic program.
231
232 Glossary
cheironomia “gesture.” The system of hand gestures used
by choir leaders to indicate the direction of a
melody.
Cherubikon “cherubic.” Title of a hymn composed in the
late sixth century, to accompany the ceremonial
entrance of the Eucharistic elements (the Great
Entrance) during the Liturgy.
Dark Ages In Western historiography, the period dating
roughly from the fall of Roman “emperor”
Romulus Augustulus to Odoacer in 476 ce
and ending with the coronation of Charles
the Great (Charlemagne) in 800 ce.
diaconicon “deacon’s room.” In middle and late Byzantine
churches, the southeast chamber next to the
sanctuary; used for storage of vestments and
liturgical items. See also skeuophylakion and
prothesis.
diataxis “procedure” or “ordo.” The instructions or
rubrics for an Orthodox rite, often (but not
always) including musical notation.
Divine Liturgy The traditional communion rite of the
Orthodox Church. Since the middle
Byzantine period, the version of the Liturgy
most often used features prayer formulas
attributed to fourth-century Archbishop (St.)
John Chrysostomos.
Domus Ecclesia “house-church.” Among the earliest places of
Christian worship and fellowship, consisting
of slightly modified “living rooms” in Roman
apartment buildings.
early Byzantine period Traditionally used to designate the period
from the rededication of Byzantion as New
Rome (later Constantinople) in 330 ce, until
the reign of Heraclius (610–41 ce).
ēchos “sound” or “pitch.” In Byzantine
hymnography, used to designate the mode of
a particular melody. See also Octōēchos.
Epiclesis “invocation.” The prayer during the
Eucharistic rite inviting the Holy Spirit to
transform the bread and wine on the altar
into the body and blood of Christ.
Glossary 233
ēthopoieia “characterization.” A common rhetorical advice
in which speakers adopt the voice of someone (or
something) other than themselves.
ēthos “character.” In Aristotle’s Poetics it refers to a
quality in speeches, songs, and actions that
reveal a moral choice by a dramatic figure. In
ancient and Byzantine music, ēthos designates
the specific mood or moral sensibility evoked by
a melody.
genus “race” or “kind.” In music, a specific way of
tuning a tetrachord, the foundation of ancient
Greek composition.
hagiography “holy writing.” Any literary work on sacred
subjects, whether biblical or contemporary.
harmonia “tuning.” In ancient Greek musical practice, the
specific set of notes used for a particular melody.
Among later theorists, synonymous with tonos/
tonoi.
heirmos A fast-paced hymn, with one note per syllable,
composed on a given theme; the term is also used
to designate individual odes from the kanon.
histriones Latin term for pantomimes, who remained
popular entertainers in Constantinople well into
the middle Byzantine period.
hypocritēs “answerer” or “interpreter” (hence, “actor”).
In Antiquity a stage-actor; but in Jewish and
Christian scripture a term of invective for
feigned, public expressions of piety.
hypostaseis “substances.” The third, most subtle class of
musical notation used in Byzantine chant used
to direct the means, dynamics, and duration of
various melodic movements.
icon/eikon In Antiquity, a realistic representation of divinity
in human and/or animal form. In Orthodox
Christianity, a hieratic representation of sacred
figures in human form, from archangels and
saints to Christ.
Iconoclastic period The period between 727 and 843 ce, during
which Byzantine emperors fought unsuccessfully
to ban the production and use of sacred images
(icons).
234 Glossary
kanon “law” or “standard.” A cycle of brief hymns
inspired by the biblical canticles; in the
Orthodox tradition, each kanon has nine odes,
including the hymns associated with the Three
Children.
katholikon “general” or “common.” The central church of
a monastic community.
kontakion/a “essay.” A homily in the form of a hymn,
originally performed after readings from
scripture. Written in honor of biblical figures
and events, and usually performed on high
holy days.
kratēma/ta “hold-back” or “support.” In late Byzantine
hymnography, passages of wordless chant
consisting of nonsense syllables. Usually
inserted in the middle of an existing hymn,
but also composed as stand-alone pieces.
lampadarios “lamp-bearer.” Official title of the composer
and leader of the second, left-hand choir at
services in Hagia Sophia in Constantinople.
So called because he accompanied the
Patriarch and/or emperor with a lamp during
processions. Also served in the court for private
performances. See also protopsaltēs.
late Antiquity A period of intense social and cultural
change in the Graeco-Roman world usually
dated from the second to the early seventh
centuries CE.
late Byzantine period The period from the restoration of
the Byzantine emperor in 1261 until
Constantinople’s fall to the Ottoman Sultan,
Mehmet II, in 1453.
martyrology The category of saints’ lives devoted to
Christians who suffered torture and death for
the faith.
mesē “center” or “middle.” In ancient Greek music
the foundation of the tetrachord, and the note
used most often to signal a melodic cadence.
Glossary 235
middle Byzantine period The period from the time of Emperor
Heraclius (610–41 ce) until the fall of
Constantinople to the Venetians during the
Fourth Crusade (1204 ce).
nomos/oi “law,” “rule,” or “standard.” In ancient
Greek music a specific type of melody,
often with narrative connotations.
Octōēchos “eight-mode.” The system of eight species
of melody used in traditional Orthodox
chant, formulated (by some accounts) in
the early Byzantine period.
omphalos “navel.” Since Antiquity, used to designate
the mystical, vital center of a building or
geographic region.
paidomazoma “child tribute.” The forced recruitment
of non-Muslim boys for service to the
Ottoman Sultan; the boys were raised
as Muslims and trained for the elite
Janissary corps.
pneumata “spirits.” Byzantine musical notation
for melodic movements of two tones
(approximately a third) or more.
pompa/pompē “procession.” In Antiquity, a processional
liturgy associated with festivals held
in honor of both pagan gods and civic
officials, often with the theatre as its
terminus. In Christian parlance, all
civic functions devoted to pagan deities
including theatrical performances.
proskynētaria “place for adoration.” Sacred images,
erected on either side of the chancel screen
for acts of personal devotion (proskynēsis).
prothesis “offertory.” In middle and late Byzantine
churches, the room in the northeast corner
next to the sanctuary, where the Eucharistic
bread and wine were assembled and
prepared for the Liturgy. Also a euphemism
for the separate skeuophylakion building.
236 Glossary
protopsaltēs “first singer.” The composer and leader of the first
or right-hand choir for services in Hagia Sophia in
Constantinople. Also served in the court for private
performances. See also lampadarios.
representatio “representation” (Italian: rappresentazione). In the
medieval West, the term used to describe enactments
of biblical episodes by lay and clerical performers.
scenae frons “stage front.” A multi-tiered decorative wall depicting
sculpted and/or painted images of pagan deities as
well as imperial and local officials. Long associated
with the theatre, but also used in other civic buildings
(libraries, etc.).
secular In pagan Rome, a term designating sacred games
celebrated roughly once every hundred years
(saeculum = “century”). In modern times, used to
designate civic matters largely devoid of religious
connotations.
skeuophylakion “storage place.” An exterior building near the
northeast corner of early churches (e.g. Hagia Sophia
in Constantinople) used for storage of liturgical
vestments and other items (see also diakonikon).
solea A raised walkway in the nave, along the church’s
east–west axis, bounded by waist-high marble slabs or
banister railings and connecting the sanctuary’s main
entrance with the ambo.
sōmata “bodies.” Byzantine musical notation for melodic
movements of one tone (equivalent to a second).
sticheron “versicle.” A genre of brief hymns, consisting of
metered verse.
Syntagma “compendium.” In middle Byzantine literature, a sort
of mini-encyclopedia summarizing the key elements
of the four sciences that formed the core school
curriculum.
synthronon “communal throne.” In early civic or imperial
basilicas the semi-circular, cavea-like seating area
for high officials. In Byzantine churches, the seating
area inside the sanctuary reserved for the clergy and
hierarchs.
temenos “precinct.” Used to designate the land surrounding
a pagan temple, the dimensions of which varied in
accordance with imperial edicts.
Glossary 237
templon In middle Byzantine usage, a sanctuary barrier that
included an architrave decorated with sacred images.
In later usage a sanctuary barrier with intercolumnar
icons – hence “templon screen.”
tetrachord “four-string.” The basic building block of ancient
Greek music, consisting of four notes spanning an
interval of approximately two and a half tones.
theatron “seeing place.” In Antiquity, the seating area in a
public performance space. In Byzantine parlance,
gathering for small-scale performances of set
and improvised speeches by the academic and
political elite.
tonos/tonoi Generic tuning patterns in Ancient Greek music,
a refinement of the system of traditional harmonia
which were associated with specific melodic patterns.
Typikon “exemplar.” A liturgical sourcebook with instructions
for the conduct of various Orthodox services. Used
in concert with numerous other service books which
contained the complete formulas, lyrics and musical
notation for each rite.
typos “type” or “model.” A term used to emphasize the
symbolic function of an image, person, vestment, or
item used in traditional Orthodox services; a sacred
image was honored as a “type” or “model” of its divine
“prototype.”
venationes “hunting.” In Roman times, spectacles in which
animals and/or humans hunted each other to the
death. By the middle Byzantine period replaced by
lagokynegia, small-game events (lagos = “rabbit”) that
may have featured hunting dogs.
Verba Domini “Words of the Lord.” The words spoken by Jesus at the
Last or Mystical Supper, recited as part of Eucharistic
prayers in both the Eastern and Western tradition.
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Index
Acta Petri (apocryphal), 101 Athena, 19

actors, 4, 15, 33, 47, 48, 49, 50, 52, 53, 54, 60, 74, Athens, v, x, 1, 7, 86, 93, 98, 157, 158, 159, 165,
80, 81, 84, 148, 149, 162, 187, 229 167, 170, 171, 174, 176, 179, 180, 190, 191,
adventus (procession), see processional liturgy 203, 206, 238, 247, 249, 255, 256, 257, 259,
Aelia Capitolina, see Jerusalem 260, 262, 263, 264, 265, 267, 268, 269, 270
Aelia Flacilla, Empress, see Theodosius Athos, Mount, 115, 135, 254, 258, 261, 262, 268
Agathias, 45 Attic Greek, 98, 100, 101, 103, 109, 110
agon (competition), 88 Augustine, St., Bishop of Hippo, 81, 82, 83,
akolouthia, 6, 73, 114, 117, 119, 159, 172, 238, 239
188, 231 aula ecclesiae, 55
Aleksei, Tsar, 230 Azariah, 118, 125, 126, 127, 129, 135, 168, 170, 171,
Alexander the Great, 48, 98, 100 172, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 196,
Alexander, Emperor, 42 200, 205, 209, 213, 216, 218
ambo (pulpit), 34, 35, 55, 56, 57, 58, 61, 62, 74,
161, 162, 163, 165, 166, 167, 176, 178, 185, Baldovin, John, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 246
226, 227, 231, 236 Balsamon, Theodore, 30
Ananiah, 118, 135, 174, 177, 200, 205 baptism, 53, 66, 75, 76, 77, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83,
ancient music, Greek, see music, ancient Greek 84, 230
Ancyra, Council of, 58 barakah (Jewish blessings), 65
Andrew of Sabas, St., 129 Barnes, T, D., 23
Andronikos Palaiologos, despot of basilica (imperial hall), 10, 31, 32, 34, 50, 55, 56,
Thessalonica, 153 58, 187, 231
Anthemius of Tralles, 75 Bell, Catherine, 3, 4, 28, 246
Antioch, 7, 37, 49, 50, 53, 54, 60, 76, 243, 248, Benedicite, 123, 126, 142, 160, 166, 172, see also
250, 258 “Song of the Three Children”
Antiochus IV Epiphanius, King, 124, 125 Berengar of Tours’, 68
apeikones (personifications), 17 Blachernae, church of, 164, 182
Aphrodisias, 17, 249, 263, 264, 265 Bornert, René, 52, 65, 66, 67, 247
Aphthonius (rhetor), 7, 60 Brecht, Bertolt, 180
Archangel Michael, 45, 132, 167 Broquière, Bertrandon, 141, 142, 143, 144, 148,
Ardalion (mime), 76 154, 155, 165, 241
Arethas, Archbishop of Caesaria, 102, 103, 238 Brown, Peter, 24, 76, 254
Arians (Christian sect), 27, 28, 102 Browning, Robert, 74, 103, 107, 183, 248
Aristophanes of Byzantium, 100 Bryennius, Manuel, 109, 111, 112, 113, 239
Aristotle, 6, 10, 19, 60, 91, 96, 97, 113, 233, Byzantium, ix, 2, 8, 9, 10, 38, 40, 72, 73, 74, 101,
238, 252 108, 113, 114, 184, 187, 188, 239, 245, 247, 248,
Aristoxenus, 91, 92, 95, 96, 99, 238 249, 250, 251, 254, 255, 257, 258, 259, 260,
Arles, First and Second Councils, 84 261, 262, 264, 265, 266, 267, 268, 269, 270
Artemis, x, 17, 18, 256
Artists of Dionysus, 53 Cabasilas, Nicholas, 67, 70, 71, 239
Athanasius, Patriarch of Alexandria, 80 Caliphate, Muslim, 39, 42
272
Index 273
cantors, x, 115, 118, 129, 156, 158, 159, 160, 167, 170, Constans, Emperor, 22
171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 179, 180, 190, 197, Constantine I, Emperor (The Great), 20, 21,
199, 205, 206, 208, 209, 210, 215, 216, 217 24, 25, 99
Capitoline Jupiter, temple of, 25 Constantine V, Emperor, 39
Caracalla, Emperor, 17 Constantinople, 7, 10, 27, 28, 29, 31, 32, 33, 34,
castrati, 28, 102, 132, 143, 164, 165, 178, 194, 261 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 53, 58, 62, 102, 104, 106,
catechumens, 17, 32, 34, 58, 66, 77, 78, 79, 80 107, 108, 109, 128, 129, 130, 132, 134, 140,
Catholic rite, 63 141, 142, 146, 147, 152, 154, 155, 158, 159, 161,
cavea, 17, 18, 32, 56, 231, 236 162, 163, 166, 167, 170, 180, 189, 232, 233,
Chalcoprateia (bronze gate), 33 234, 235, 236, 240, 242, 243, 247, 249, 250,
Chaldeans, in Russian Furnace Play, 165, 209, 252, 255, 259, 260, 262, 266
216, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, see also Constantius II, Emperor, 22
skomorokhi Corinth, 18, 19, 266
chancel screen, 32, 33, 36, 38, 40, 56, 231, 235 Corpus Christi, Feast of, 68
chant, Byzantine, 10, 73, 86, 87, 101, 109, 110, Cottas, Venetia, 3, 9, 118, 249
112, 113, 116, 117, 227, 233, 268 Council in Trullo, 29
chanters, see choir Council of Union, Ferrara-Florence, 70, 143
Cherubikon (hymn), 37, 62, 232 Crusades, 152, 160
chi-rho (Christian insignia), 25, 57 Cunningham, Mary, 59, 60, 248, 249, 258, 260
choir, x, 28, 104, 117, 156, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, curtains, liturgical, 34
163, 165, 167, 170, 171, 172, 175, 176, 177, Cyprian, St., Bishop of Carthage, 82, 239
179, 180, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196,
197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, Damascene, see John of Damascus, St.
206, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 215, 216, Daniel, Prophet, 118, 123, 124, 125, 132, 153, 185,
217, 227, 232, 234, 236 190, 200, 203, 212, 218, 226, 240, 242
choirboys (in Service of the Furnace), 149, 161, Dark Church, Cappadocia, 132, 133, 138, 139, 270
162, 163, 164, 165, 167, 170, 171, 174, 175, deacon, 36, 37, 64, 156, 162, 216
176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 185, 186, Delphi, 17, 97, 267
202, 226, 227 devshirme, see paidomazoma
Choirosphactes, Leo, 102 diaconicon (deacon’s room), 36, 38, 41, 133, 202, 232
Choniates, Niketas, 132, 239 Dialogue in Christ, 144, 153, 161, 178, 180,
Choricius of Gaza, 5, 24, 239, 255, 258, 267 219, 246
Christian ritual, 3, 5, 6, 7, 9, 24, 28, 31, 33, 51, 72 diatonic, scale genre, 86, 89, 90, 91, 99, 100,
Christodoulos, 2 102, 107
chromatic, scale genre, 86, 89, 90, 91, 99, 100 Diodorus, Bishop of Tarsus, 66
Chrysaphes, Manuel, 117, 130, 158, 159, 170, 172, Dionysia, 4, 10, 16, 52, 86, 87, 97, 98, 99, 102,
173, 175, 208, 209, 216, 218, 227, 239 103, 108, 252
Chrysostom, John, St., 7, 9, 27, 28, 30, 34, 37, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 101, 240
49, 50, 51, 53, 54, 56, 58, 60, 61, 62, 64, 65, Dionysius the Areopagite (Pseudo-), 56, 65, 66,
78, 79, 81, 84, 102, 165, 239, 240, 260 104, 105, 107, 115, 116, 240
ciborium, 33 Dionysus, 1, 18, 30, 36, 53, 98, 115, 262
Cistercians (monastic order), 68 Divine Liturgy, ix, 5, 9, 10, 45, 50, 51, 52, 53, 61,
Clement of Alexandria, 99 67, 70, 72, 79, 84, 86, 103, 105, 133, 141,
Cleonides, 94 151, 189, 202, 207, 214, 231, 232, 239
clerical agency, 71, 84 domestikoi, see cantors
codex (book), 58 domus ecclesiae, 30, 55
Codex Theodosianus, edicts, 4, 21, 22, 23, 54, 81 Donatists (Christian sect) 82, 83, 239, 252
Commentary on the Divine Liturgy (Cabasilas), 70 Dormition of the Virgin, Church of the,
communion, 6, 58, 133, 134, 174, 249, 256, 266 Kalambaka 58
composers drama, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 11, 19, 51, 52, 57, 66,
Byzantine, 10, 73, 88, 103 72, 73, 75, 81, 99, 118, 146, 147, 149, 150,
Christian, 103 151, 152, 164, 168, 172, 177, 178, 181, 184,
Greek, 10, 73, 88, 89, 91, 93, 97, 99, 101, 102, 188, 189, 220, 224, 245
108, 109, 112, 113, 117, 127, 128, 129, 130, as the goal of ritual, 3
131, 158, 159, 160, 170, 174, 188 sacred, 72, 117, 142
274 Index
dromenon, 10 Greek (language)
Du Méril, Edelestand, 51 Classical, 7
koinē, 59
Eastern Empire, see Byzantium Grimes, Ronald L., 3, 4, 10, 253
echismata (chant), 158 Grove Music Online, 4
ēchoi (modes), 101, 110, 111, 112, 114, 159, 170, 171,
176, 232 Hadrian, Emperor, 17, 18, 19, 243, 246
ecphonetic notation (musical), 57, 101 Hagia Sophia, cathedral of, Constantinople, 10,
Egeria, 26, 27, 240 31, 35, 37, 42, 62, 66, 94, 117, 142, 143, 151,
eikones (statues), 17 229
Eleftherotypia (Greek journal), 2 Hagia Sophia, Thessalonica, 167
elevation of the Host, 5, 73 Hagiopolites (“Holy City” treatise), 110, 111, 252, 263
Elihu, 47 harmoniai, see modes
Else, Gerald, 19 hieirmoi (model verses) 128, 169, 170, 171, 176,
enactment, as mode of performance, 10, 54, 70, 193, 195, 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 206,
127, 151, 156, 177, 185, 187, 188, 189 214, 217, 233
enharmonic, scale genre, 89, 90, 91, 99, 107 Hercules, 18
Ephesus, 17, 18, 23, 25, 241, 264, 270 Hermogenes (rhetor), 59
Ephrem the Syrian, St., 63, 102, 127, 259 Herod I, King of Judea, 47, 262, 264
Epiclesis (invocation, liturgical), 64, 65, 70, Hesychasm, 67, 73, 105, 115, 116, 131, 187,
71, 232 258, 260
epitaphion, 8 Hildegard von Bingen, 6
Epstein, Ann, 40 hippodrome, 36, 254
Eratopokriseis (Questions and Answers), 109 Holy Apostles, Church of the,
Ethelwold, St., Bishop of Winchester, 6, 157, Constantinople 108
183, 184, 240 Holy Sepulchre, Church of the, Jerusalem, 63
ēthopoieia (characterization), 54, 59, 60, 72, homilia (homily, “conversation”), 59
127, 187 homily, see homilia
Eucharistic elements, 34, 36, 37, 38, 58, 61, 63, hymnographers, Byzantine, 104
66, 70, 232 hypostaseis (musical notation), 113, 130, 159,
Eucharistic rite, 5, 53, 55, 67, 69, 71, 232 160, 233
Eucharistic theology, 5, 73
Euripides (playwright), 53, 71 Iconoclasm, 9, 42, 117, 128, 189
Eusebius, Bishop of Caesaria, 20, 21, 42, 44, Iconoclastic struggle, the, 39, 41, 233, 260
146, 240 iconography, 8, 10, 41, 119, 130, 134, 138, 139, 145,
Eutychius, Patriarch, 37 146, 162, 183
icons, 8, 9, 36, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46,
filioque (“and the son”), 144, 147, 221 105, 128, 130, 135, 138, 139, 144, 145, 146,
Fletcher, Giles, 229, 230, 240 147, 148, 149, 150, 156, 160, 162, 163, 164,
Fourth Crusade, 30, 108, 235 167, 169, 176, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186,
fraction (liturgical), 65 216, 219, 220, 221, 222, 225, 226, 227,
Furnace Play, Russian, 226, 227 233, 237
Furnace, Service of the, see Service of the Furnace Ignatius of Smolensk, 140, 141, 240
instauratio (Roman tradition), 69
Gabriel, Archangel, 182 institution narrative, 63, 65, 66, 70
Gaudentius, 99 Isidore, Archbishop of Thessalonica, 153
Gelasios, St. (mime), 76 Isidorus of Miletus, 75
Genadii, Archbishop of Novgorod, 228 Istanbul, see Constantinople
Gethsemane, 27 Itinerarium Egeriae, see Egeria
Gibson, Mel, 1 Ivan III, Tsar, 228
Golgotha, 27 Iviron 1120, v, 158, 159, 161, 170, 171, 172, 174,
graphein (to write), 43 175, 177, 180, 182, 208
Gratian, Emperor of the West, 22, 28
Great Entrance, 37, 61, 62, 232, 266 James, Apostle, 49, 63, 138, 239
Greek culture, 1 Janissary, 153 see paidomazoma
Index 275
Jerusalem, 6, 26, 27, 28, 32, 39, 47, 49, 63, 78, Leo V, Emperor, 39
110, 117, 125, 130, 141, 160, 192, 208, 216, Libanius of Antioch( rhetor), 54, 59
249, 252, 255, 261, 262 Lingas, Alexander, x, 11, 115, 116, 118, 128, 140,
Job, 47 141, 156, 157, 158, 160, 161, 166, 167, 170,
John III Scholasticus, Patriarch, 37 172, 180, 181, 190, 191, 194, 258
John of Damascus, St., 39, 42, 43, 44, 45, 145, liturgical drama, Byzantine, 131
146, 219 Liturgy, Orthodox, x, 3, 30, 34, 37, 50, 52, 53,
John of Ephesus, 50 56, 58, 61, 62, 63, 65, 66, 67, 69, 70, 103,
John V Palaiologos, Emperor, 152 104, 105, 115, 116, 118, 133, 151, 159, 165, 171,
John VII Palaiologos, Emperor, 141 174, 187, 201, 202, 232, 235, 245, 246, 247,
Josephus, Flavius, 47, 125, 241 248, 249, 250, 251, 252, 258, 260, 265, 266,
Julian, Emperor, 16, 54, 76, 241, 247, 248, 257 269, 270
Justin Martyr, 55 Lotman, Yuri, 230
Justinian I, Emperor, 7, 34, 41, 56, 62, 74, 75,
143, 241, 248, 250, 251, 259 Maccabee revolt, 125
closure of the theatres, 74 Macy, Gary, 68, 69, 73, 255, 259, 265,
Codex Justinianus (edicts), 74 267, 270
Novellae, 74 Mainstone, Rowland, 41, 42, 55, 57, 58, 61, 62,
63, 167, 259
kainotomia (innovation), 144 Maiouma (festival), 23, 24
Kaldellis, Anthony, 1 Majeska, George, ix, 32, 57, 140, 141, 143, 162,
kalophonic, chant, 9, 67, 73, 114, 213 167, 240, 259
kanon, 104, 128, 129, 130, 139, 169, 170, 227, Malalas, John, 75, 76, 242
233, 234 Malevich, Gavril, 230
katheirōsis (consecration), 18 Manuel II Palaiologos, Emperor, 141, 154, 242
Kathimerini, 2 Marion, Jean-Luc, 183
Kennedy, George, 7, 60, 255 Mateos, Juan, 55, 62
Kobialka, Michal, xi, 6, 51, 119, 184, 256 Mathew, Gervase, 44
Koliada (Russian festival), 229 Mathiesen, Thomas, 111, 86, 88, 91, 92, 93, 96,
kontakion, 104, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 133, 97, 99, 102, 107, 238, 260
182, 234 Matthew, Gospel of, 48
kosmotheatron, 4 Maximianus, Bishop of Ravenna, 42
Koukouzeles (composer), 110, 113, 114, 115, 130, medieval drama, 4, 221, 251, 265
265, 270 Mehmet II, Sultan, 7
kratēma (chant), 73, 114 , 115, 116, 117, 130 , memra (Syrian), 127
131 , 139 , 170, 172, 176, 177, 179, 186, Mesarites, Nicholas, 108, 134, 242
188 , 194, 198 , 199, 200 , 201 , 204, 213, Metochites, Theodore, 111, 265
234 Meyendorff, John, 114, 115, 116, 242, 260
Krautheimer, Richard, 30, 31, 32, 36, 37, Michael II, Emperor, 39
38, 256 Michael VIII Palaiologos, Emperor, 152
microtones (music), 86, 91, 98, 99, 100
La Broquière, Bertrandon de 141, 142, 143, 144, Middle Ages, 254, 256, 258, 260, 261, 269, 270
148, 154, 155, 165, 241 Millet, Gabriel, 133, 260
La Piana, George, 9, 59, 118, 126, 257 Milvian Bridge, battle of (312 CE), 25
Laodicaea, Council of, 58 mimes (actors), 4, 19, 49, 50, 53, 57, 74, 75, 76,
Lash, Ephrem, Archimandrite, 63 77, 79, 80, 81, 83, 84, 99, 102, 253, 268
Last Supper, 3, 5, 6, 63, 70, 71, 72, 134, see also Christian, 74, 75
Mystical Supper mimesis, 6, 19, 20, 63, 150
late Antiquity, 5, 74, 76, 234, 245, 247, 248, 251, in Platonic theory, 19
254, 255, 258, 259, 260, 264, 268 Mishael, 118, 126, 135, 174, 177, 200, 205
Lateran basilica, 32 modes, musical, 7, 88, 89, 92, 97, 101, 102, 105,
Lavra 165, v, 159, 162, 165, 170, 171, 173, 177, 180, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 114, 129, 149,
182, 209, 215 159, 172
Leo III, Emperor, 39, 241 modulation (musical), 94, 96, 97, 98, 114, 172
Leo IV, Emperor, 39 munera, 1
276 Index
music, 10 perfect systems, greater and lesser, 92
theatre, 10 Performance Studies
music, ancient Greek 10, 86, 87, 88, 96, 97, 99, compared to rhetoric, 5
102, 103, 108, 109, 112, 234, 235, 237 rhetoric as precursor, see rhetoric
Mystery Cycles, 73 Peribleptos monastery, Mistras, 133
Mystical Supper, 63, 64, 134, 187, 237, see also Pericles, 20
Last Supper Peshchnoe diestvo, see Furnace Play, Russian
Peter, Apostle, 101
narrative, 3, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 26, 31, 44, 47, 49, 50, Pheidias (sculptor), 19, 20
51, 52, 57, 63, 64, 65, 66, 68, 72, 74, 76, 77, Photius, Patriarch, 102, 242, 243
79, 80, 97, 123, 124, 126, 127, 129, 130, 134, pinakes (stage), 8
139, 141, 142, 169, 170, 172, 174, 177, 179, pi-shaped sanctuary, 33
180, 183, 186, 226, 235 Plato, 5, 19, 44, 92, 97, 107, 110, 113, 243
Nebuchadnezzar, 118, 123, 124, 169 Ploritis, Marios, 8, 9, 30, 40
Neoplatonism, 20, 39, 44, 56, 104, 115, 248 Plotinus, 20, 21
neumes, Byzantine, 102 Plutarch, 19, 243
Nicaea, Council of, 58 pneumata (musical notation), 113, 159, 160, 235
nomos (“standard” melody), 97, 235 Polotskii, Simeon, 230
notation, musical, 87, 98, 99, 100, 102, 104, Polybius, 16
105, 106, 157, 159, 160, 172, 232, 233, 235, pompē (processions), 15, 16, 17, 22, 29, 235
236, 237 Porphyrius of Antioch (mime), 76
Byzantine, 86 Porphyrius of Caesaria (mime), 76
ecphonetic, 103 Porphyry, 20, 21, 42
Prayer of Azariah, 123, 125, 166, 176
Octōēchos (Byzantine modes), 101, 104, 105, 109, Preparation for the Gospel (Eusebius), 20, 240
112, 117, 129, 255 Problems (Pseudo-Aristotle), 96
ocular communion, 69, 188 processional liturgy, 15, 26, 28, 29, 40, 49, 235,
Olearius, Adam, 229, 230, 242 see also pompē
optics, 9 processions, see processional liturgy
Classical, 43, 45 processions, masked (popular), 29, 30
Origen, 66 Procopius, 7, 243, 248, 255
Orthodox Church, Greek, ix, 2, 7, 53, 68, 70, progymnasmata, 7, 53, 59
84, 86, 101, 131, 148, 151, 187, 189, 226, 231, Proskomidē, 37
232, 244, 254 proskynētaria, 40, 235
Orthros (Matins), 67, 126, 129, 141, 159, 161, 165, prothesis (offertory), 36, 37, 38, 41, 61, 232, 235
166, 167, 171, 176, 215, 226, 231 prototype, 44, 134, 146, 149, 160, 182, 183, 237
Ottoman Sultanate, 7, 86, 141, 152, 153, 155, 164, Psellos, Michael, 106, 107, 109, 164, 243, 251
184, 234, 235 Puchner, Walter, x, 8, 9, 45, 84, 118, 189, 263
Pythagoras, 91, 104, 107
Pachymeres, George, 109, 110, 111, 113, 242
pagan statuary, 21, 42, 46 Quem quaeritis, 183, 184
paidomazoma (Ottoman child tribute), 153
Palaiologan renaissance, 108, 252 Ratramnus, 68
Palamas, Gregory, Archbishop of Thessalonica, reader, 43, 57, 61, 105, 126, 142, 143, 159, 176
114, 115, 116, 242, 256, 260 liturgical, 156
Palestine (Roman province), 47, 129, 130, 246, recitative (opera), 57
250, 255, 258, 265, 269 Regularis concordia, 6, 157, 183
pantomime, 4, 49, 227 Republic (Plato), 19, 92, 243
papadike (liturgical manual), 110, 112 Rhetoric, 5, 53, 54, 58, 59, 60, 61, 81, 127, 132,
Papadopoulos, Ioannes, see Koukouzeles 245, 248, 250, 251, 253, 255, 256, 261, 269
Parthenon, 1, 19 rites, theatrical (Roman), 16
Passion of the Christ, The (film), 1 ritual aesthetic, 2, 35, 50, 71, 75, 84, 85, 101, 117,
Paul the Silentiary, 56, 57, 62, 161, 163 181, 187, 189
Paul, Apostle, 49, 61, 109, 154, 224, 225, 242 Romanos, the Melode, St., 126, 127, 128, 133,
Peisistratus, 15 182, 243, 245, 246, 248, 253
Index 277
rood screen, 69 “Song of the Three Children,” 123, 129, 166, 169,
Rufinus of Aquilaeia, 79, 80, 243 172, 174, 175, 176, 182, 213, 214, 218, 227
Russia, 11, 140, 141, 165, 188, 228, 242, 254, 266, Sophocles, 53
268, 269 Sophron, comic playwright, 19
Sozomen, 80, 244
sacre rappresentazioni (sacred dramas), 45, 73 146, spatial practices, 8, 9, 24, 30
147, 151, 182, 188, 189, 221, 222, 227 stage front, Hellenistic, 8
sacred drama, see drama, sacred stational liturgy, see processional liturgy
St. Demetrius, Church of, Thessalonica, 57 stercorista, 73
St. John of Stoudios, monastery, Sturgeon, Mary, 18, 19, 266
Constantinople, 128 Suidas, lexicon, 102
St. Sabas, monastery, Jerusalem, 39, 130 Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica, 38, 67,
St. Sophia, Novgorod, 226 118, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151,
Salutaris, Caius Vibius, 17, 18, 25 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 161, 162,
San Vitale Church, Ravenna, 41 164, 165, 166, 167, 170, 171, 175, 176, 177,
sanctuary, church, 5, 8, 9, 30, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 185, 186, 189, 191,
37, 38, 40, 41, 42, 46, 56, 61, 62, 64, 67, 193, 198, 200, 202, 206, 219, 225, 226, 244,
69, 71, 97, 131, 133, 134, 139, 202, 231, 232, 246, 251, 256
235, 236, 237 Symeon, the Holy Fool, 50
scale genera, see chromatic, diatonic, enharmonic Symphonia (Hildegard von Bingen) 6
scales, diatonic, 86, 100 synagogue, tradition of, 61
scales, microtonal, 91 Synesius, Bishop of Cyrene, 99
scenae frons (stage front), 9, 15, 18, 19, 33, 41, 236 synthronon, 32, 33, 34, 50, 55, 56, 58, 202, 231, 236
Schechner, Richard, 5, 29, 51, 84, 150, 151, 245,
264, 268 Taft, Robert, Archimandrite, 8, 33, 34, 37, 38, 40,
Schnusenberg, Catherine, 3, 4, 72, 265 55, 56, 62, 64, 65, 66, 68, 69, 70, 118, 130, 266
School of Athens, 74 Talmud, 48
Second Vatican Council, 71 temples, pagan, 20, 22, 23, 31, 46, 125
secularism, Roman, 21 templon screen, 8, 9, 30, 36, 38, 39, 40, 41, 46, 71,
Seneca (playwright), 71 163, 187, 237
Septuagint, 7, 10, 47, 48, 49, 67, 118, 119, 123, Tertullian, 6, 17, 46, 244
124, 125, 159, 183, 184, 261 tetrachord, musical, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 112, 233,
Service of the Furnace, x, 2, 10, 11, 73, 117, 118, 234, 237
119, 123, 125, 126, 128, 131, 138, 139, 140, 141, theatre
142, 143, 144, 148, 149, 152, 153, 155, 156, in Corinth, 18
157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, Roman, 15, 58
166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 174, 175, 176, Theatre of Dionysus, 1
177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, Theodora, Empress, see Justinian I, Emperor
186, 188, 189, 190, 203, 206, 208, 212, 215, Theodore, Bishop of Mopsuestia, 37, 52
217, 226, 227, 228, 231, 253, 258 Theodosian Code, see Codex Theodosianus
Ševčenko, Ihor, 113, 163, 164, 265, 270 Theodosius I, Emperor, 53
Severus, Archbishop of Antioch, 49 Theodosius I, the Great, 23, 244
Sinai 1527, v, 157, 158, 159, 161, 170, 171, 172, 175, Theophilos, Patriarch, 79
176, 177, 180, 212, 226 Theophilos, Emperor, 39
skeuophylakion (storage place, liturgical), 37, 38, Theophylact, Patriarch, 30, 151, 229, 244
62, 232, 235, 236 Three Children, 119, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127,
skomorokhi (Russian entertainers), 228, 129, 131, 132, 133, 134, 139, 141, 142, 148,
229, 230 166, 176, 178, 182, 198, 223, 230, 234,
Small Entrance, 61, 62 245, 258
Socrates Scholasticus (historian), 27, 28, 80, 244 tituli, 30
Sofer, Andrew, 6, 69, 265 tragedy, 10, 49, 57, 87, 99, 107, 179
soghitha (Syrian), 127 Treatise on Prayer (Archbishop Symeon of
Sol Invictus, 25 Thessalonica), 67, 244
solea (path), 34, 35, 55, 56, 61, 62, 167, 236 Trier, 32
sōmata (musical notation), 113, 159, 160, 236 Turner, Victor, 4, 51, 150, 151, 268
278 Index
Typikon (liturgical manual), 29 Virgin Mary, 1, 8, 42, 67, 130, 138, 163, 164, 182,
typoi (models), 67, 145, 146, 165, 237 198, 206, 242, 257
Uspenskiĭ Sobor, Church of, Moscow, 227 Wellesz, Egon, 88 , 99 , 102 , 103 , 104 , 105 ,
Uspenskii, Boris, 230 106 , 108 , 110 , 112 , 127 , 128 , 157 , 159 ,
268 , 269
Vatopaidi monastery, Mount Athos, 135, 138, West, Martin, 86, 87, 88, 89, 91, 92, 95, 96, 97,
261, 262, 268 99, 100, 101, 113, 249, 252, 255, 259, 262,
Velimirović, Milos, x, 11, 118, 140, 157, 158, 159, 266, 268, 269
160, 163, 165, 170, 172, 179, 188, 189, 203, White, L. Michael, 54
212, 215, 216, 226, 227, 228, 230, 250, 268
Verba Domini, 63, 68, 69, 70, 188, 237 Zoe Palaiologina Tsarina, 228
via sacra Ephesus, 18 Zoilos, Caius Julius, 17, 265
Victory (personification), 23 Zosimus, 25, 245

Andrew Walker White-Performing Orthodox Ritual in Byzantium-Cambridge University Press (2018) PDF

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Andrew Walker White-Performing Orthodox Ritual in Byzantium-Cambridge University Press (2018) PDF

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P E R F O R M I N G O RT H O D OX R I T U A L

In this groundbreaking, interdisciplinary study, Andrew Walker White explores

ANDREW WALKER WHITE is an American theatre artist, cultural historian, and

Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge.

List of figures page vii

P art I B y z anti ne spati a l, per f orman ce ,

P art II A st udy of the SERVICE OF THE FURNACE 121

Appendix 1 The Service of the Furnace, Athens 2047 190

1 Early Byzantine sanctuary. Orthographic drawing

1 Excerpt from the Benedicite in the Service of the Furnace

This study is the work of a bookish actor with a background in classics

Byzantine spatial, performance, and

Spatial practices in Byzantium

Readings of theatrical spaces in early Byzantium

The creation of the secular sphere

The Christianization of the pagan city

Stational liturgies: pagan, imperial, and Christian

Church architecture in context

Christianizing civic space: the church-basilica and

Figure 1 Early Byzantine sanctuary. Orthographic drawing by Karen Elliott

From transparency to templon screen

The tripartite sanctuary

Iconography, optics, and subjectivity

Ritual vs. theatrical performance in Byzantium

Introduction: Jesus as performance theorist

Is the Divine Liturgy a ritual or a drama?

The Liturgy as rhetorical performance

Early rites: suppers, readings, and enactments

Sanctuary and synthronon, solea, and ambo27

The art of the homily

New spatial strategies: the Small and Great Entrances

The Mystical Supper: commemoration vs. representation

Representation vs. Epiclesis: the conflict over ritual aesthetics

Here Cabasilas contrasts the traditional Orthodox ritual aesthetic of

Summary: the Liturgy vs. the drama

Addendum: sainted mimes and Orthodox theologies of acting

Musical practices in Byzantium

Agon and innovation

Tunings, modes, and notation

Figure 2 Names for notes/strings in the “lower” Greek tetrachord

NOTE DIATONIC CHROMATIC ENHARMONIC

(1) (½) (¼)

Figure 3 The three scale genera, with their tonal intervals

Figure 4 Disjunct and conjunct tetrachords

the basic building block of a melody, and (2) scales could be constructed

paramesē in another. It also helped musicians to identify which notes on a

The Note We Take as Extra

Figure 6 The Greater and Lesser Perfect Systems in English

and one for instrumentalists, along with rudimentary rhythmic notation.21

Order from chaos: nomoi, mesē, modulation, and ethos

Between Antiquity and the early Christian era

Psellos, Mesarites, and the Graeco-Byzantine revival

Late Byzantine theory and reform: Pachymeres, Bryennius,

Koukouzeles’ reforms and the Hesychast movement

A study of the Service of the Furnace

Origins of the Service

Daniel and its context

The Three Children in performance

dramas (see Carpenter 1970–3: 1.xx–xxii). Grosdidier de Matons, by contrast, characterizes it as

The Three Children: an iconographical survey

the Communion of the Apostles represents the heavenly prototype of

Figure 8 Fresco of the Three Children, as restored, Peribleptos monastery, Mistras.

Figure 9 South sanctuary wall of the katholikon in Peribleptos monastery, Mistras.