McGUCKIN John - Orthodox Monasticism Past and Present (2015)

Orthodox Monasticism Past and
Present
Gorgias Eastern Christian Studies
42
Series Editors
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István Perczel
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Gorgias Eastern Christian Studies brings to the scholarly world the

underrepresented field of Christianity as it developed in the Eastern
hemisphere. This series consists of monographs, edited collections,
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well as studies of topics relevant to the world of historic
Orthodoxy and early Christianity.
Orthodox Monasticism Past and
Present
Edited by
John A. McGuckin
9
34 2015
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ISBN 978-1-4632-0530-0 ISSN 1539-1507
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

Data
Orthodox monasticism past and present / edited

by John McGuckin.
pages cm. -- (Gorgias Eastern Christian
studies, ISSN 1539-1507)
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-1-4632-0530-0
1. Orthodox Eastern monasticism and religious
orders. I. McGuckin, John Anthony, editor.
BX385.O78 2015
281’.81--dc23
2015009832
Printed in the United States of America
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Table of Contents ..................................................................................... v

Editorial Foreword .................................................................................. ix
Fr. John A. McGuckin
Part One: Ancient Christian Ascetical Theology..................... 1

Embodying Tradition, Seeking Transformation: Glimpsing
Asceticism(s) in the New Testament ............................................ 3
Karri L. Whipple
Monasticism in the Christian East: an Introduction ......................... 21
J.A. McGuckin
‘Taking Upon the Likeness of Angels’: Asceticism as the
Angelical Life in Aphrahat’s Demonstrations ............................... 35
Sujit T. Thomas
The Recitation of the Psalms among Early Christian Ascetics ....... 43
Jill Gather
The Virgins Sing Orthodoxy: Ephrem’s Choirs & the
dissemination of Nicene Thought in Syria ................................ 67
Robert Najdek
The Power to Curse and the Power to Save: The Monk, the
Prophet & the story of Elisha’s curse of the She Bears (2
Kings 2:23–24) ............................................................................... 83
Revd. Mary Julia Jett
Rhetoric and the Monastic Rule in Byzantium: From
Anchoritism to Coenobitism ....................................................... 97
Julia Khan
The Devil in the Desert .......................................................................111
Kevin McKeown
An Ancient Ascetical Drama of Woman and the Dragon:
Perpetua’s Rise into the Animus-World ..................................127
Jeff Pettis
v
vi TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Pure ‘Eye of her Soul’: The Asceticism of the Deaconess

Olympias as Reflected in the Writings of the Fathers ...........141
V. K. McCarty
Evagrius Ponticus, the Origenian Ascetic (and not the
Origenistic ‘Heretic’) ...................................................................159
Ilaria L.E. Ramelli
Asceticism Through the Lens of Anthropology: The Greek
Fathers from Justin to Gregory Nazianzen on the Soul and
the Holy Spirit ..............................................................................225
Vicki Petrakis
St. Shenoute Of Atripe And His Monastic Order ..........................241
Deacon Antonios the Shenoudian (A. Bibawy)
Hagiographic Traditions of Ethiopian Monasticism ......................261
Atsede Maryam Elegba
The Evolution of Fundamental Christological elements in the
works of St. Cyril of Alexandria ................................................291
Vasily Novikov
Humanity’s reconciliation with the divine through the mystery
of the Incarnation of the Word in the Thought of St.
Isidore of Pelusium & St. Cyril of Alexandria ........................313
Eirini Artemi
The monk as mourner: St. Isaac the Syrian & monastic identity
in the 7th C. & beyond ................................................................331
Hannah Hunt
The Dying Church: Hierarchy as Self-Sacrifice in Pseudo-
Dionysius ......................................................................................343
Kate McCray
Plotinus and the Essence – Energeia Distinction: A
Neoplatonic Influence on Dionysius Areopagita ...................357
Joshua Packwood
Maximos and Neurobiology: A Neurotheological Investigation
of Asceticism as Erosion of the Passions & the Gnomic
Will .................................................................................................369
Luis Joshua Salés
Converting the Use of Death: The Ascetic Theology of St
Maximus the Confessor in Ad Thalassium 61 ..........................379
The Monk Philosopher in Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī (d. 974) and Severus
Gregory Tucker
Ibn al-Muqaffa’ (d. c. 987) .........................................................395

Zachary Ugolnik
ORTHODOX MONASTICISM PAST AND PRESENT vii
What is the ‘Breath of God’? – Bibliographic Theology in

Armenian History from Astvacashuntch to St. Grigor
Narekatsi’s The Book of Sadness .............................................411
Anthony J. Elia
A Royal Family: The Significance of Saint Sava and his Parents
for the Establishment of Serbian Monasticism and the
Serbian Church ............................................................................423
V. Rev. Živojin Jakovljević
The 15th century Typikon of Neilos Damilas for the Convent of
the mother of god on Venetian-Crete ......................................433
Mary McCarthy
Part Two: Monastic Reflection and Modernity ................... 445

Contemporary Monasticism: Why join a monastery? .....................447
+ Metropolitan Jonah (Paffhausen)
A Triptych of Contemporary Romanian Spiritual Elders ..............455
+ His Grace The Rt. Revd. Dr. Macarie Drăgoi
The Beauty of Silence in Christian Monastic Tradition .................471
Teodor Damian
The ‘Mystical Mundane’ in Fr. Nikon of Karoulia’s Letters to
Gerald Palmer ..............................................................................485
Christopher D. L. Johnson
Purifying the Heart in Order to See: Praxis and Perception in
Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov ................................................499
Tea Jankovic
The Centrality of St. Isaac the Syrian’s Ascetical Theology in
Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov.........................................505
Rico Monge
Engaged Monasticism: Mother Maria Skobtsova and Twenty-
First Century American Orthodox Monasticism ...................513
Fr. Peter M. Preble
Psychic Crisis in Monastic Communities: The Ascetical Writings
of Evagrius of Pontus in the Light of Modern
Understandings ............................................................................523
John L. Grillo
Markets and Monasticism: A Survey & Appraisal of Eastern
Christian Monastic Enterprise ...................................................535
Dylan Pahman
Spiritual Warfare and the Struggle for Apatheia ..............................563
Theodore Grey Dedon
viii TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Concepts of Time As Applied to Monasticism &

Asceticism .....................................................................................573
Nicholas Samaras
Notes on the Contributors..................................................................583
EDITORIAL FOREWORD
This collection of scholarly papers emanates from the fifth annual

conference of the Sophia Institute (www.sophiainstitutenyc.org). It
was an especially rich and lively event that, on Friday December 6th
2013, drew Orthodox scholars to New York from all over the
world. The power and energy of the monastic life has rescued and
renewed the Orthodox Church in times innumerable over the past
two millennia. In the Western Church the experience of monastic
life has been devastated in the aftermath of the Reformation, not
least in Northern Europe and the New World that grew out of it,
because of the depredations that the monasteries suffered in the
eras of the Renaissance and Enlightenment. In the Eastern Chris-
tian world, there were equally severe depredations over past centu-
ries, but they almost always came from outside the faith; and
whenever Orthodox princes had independent power and ability to
command wealth, the foundation and endowment of monastic life
remained a priority, even into the 20th century. Monasticism was
seen not only as a stabilizing force for the Church and its long pil-
grimage through history, but also as a leavening force for the fab-
rics of society. In this present volume, the studies on Byzantine,
Serbian, Coptic, Armenian, Romanian, and Ethiopian monastic
history by Julia Khan, Mary McCarthy, Antonios the Shenoudian,
Atsede M Elegba, Bishop Macarie Dragoi, Anthony Elia, and
Archpriest Jakovljević, all demonstrate this with remarkable clarity.
Today monasticism must learn, in the main, to do without its
princely sponsors, but it already knows from its foundations that to
earn its own living is no bad thing for the discipline of the ascetic
life. Dylan Pahman’s paper in this collection shows a way forward
for a new form of ascetical life lived on more modest means. Or-
thodoxy’s rich history of ascetical theory is embedded in the an-
cient past. The world in which the New Testament was originated
already had extensive approaches to the ‘ascetical imperative’ as it
ix
x EDITORIAL FOREWORD
has been recently designated. Karri Whipple’s reflective paper be-

gins the book by looking at some of the ‘complexities’ (not simplic-
ities) that the ascetical themes of the New Testament raise for the
careful reader. Christian and pagan ascetics shared ‘something’ of a
common language, which was apocalyptical in many respects, and
which society today has largely lost. The radical ‘otherness’ of the
scriptural ascetical imperative is refashioned, refounded in a sense,
and given back to the world in the post-biblical movement we now
know as Monasticism. Orthodox Christian monasticism thus re-
mains, in a very real sense, as the heartland, an important surviving
witness (martyria) of the eschatological heritage which is at the core of
the Gospel message.
The early centuries of the Eastern church saw a remarkable
flowering of monastic forms, from Syria, through Egypt, Cappado-
cia, and the Upper Nile to Ethiopia. These in turn gave birth to the
rich Western monastic experience. When Monasticism came to Rus
towards the end of the first millennium, it was to gain a new mo-
mentum, and have an inestimable force. The monastic traditions of
Russia, Romanian, Serbia, and Ethiopia are inseparable from the
histories and cultures of their nations. These studies attempt to give
some voice to parts of that immense and rich tradition; though to
do justice to it all would require a library of work not a single vol-
ume. My own introductory article in this present collection looks
over the development of the first few hundred years of ascetical life
in the East. Jill Gather’s elegant study points out how foundational
to monastic spirituality was the Book of Psalms. Julia Khan and Kev-
in McKeown give the reader helpful overviews of Byzantine era
developments. Atsede Elegba and Fr. Antonios give us a glimpse
through the (very) neglected windows of the ancient Coptic and
Ethiopian traditions. Robert Najdek, Mary Jett, Hannah Hunt, Sujit
Thomas, Kate McCray and Zachary Ugolnik all take us into the
Syrian and Arabic Christian worlds, with their own distinctive and
powerful traditions of ascesis; worlds closed off until relatively re-
cently because of the linguistic challenges they posed to scholars.
Ilaria Ramelli offers the reader a magisterial approach to that great
Pontic theologian Evagrius, deacon of St. Gregory of Nyssa, and
fellow labourer with St. Gregory the Theologian, who ended by
making his own school in the Egyptian desert, one that would de-
velop the great Origenian theological and mystical tradition and
have an influence throughout the universal Church for many cen-
ORTHODOX MONASTICISM PAST AND PRESENT xi
turies after him. In these studies of the ancients, completed by the

patristic-era analyses of Vicki Petrakis, V.K. McCarty, Vasily
Novikov, Joshua Packwood, Luis Salés, and Gregory Tucker, we
find ourselves in the intersection of ancient Christian dogma when
there is very little distinction being made between philosophy, doc-
trine, mystical apprehension, and the path to holiness. It was an era
when ascetical thought truly laid the foundations for the great age
of the Fathers of the Church. Christopher Johnson reminds us
about the depth of the philosophical culture of many of these as-
cetical mystics. Dionysius the Areopagite was a wind of inspiration
that blew from 6th century Palestine, even as far as Eire.
In the New World, Orthodoxy has been present for several
centuries now. Monastic life has not been, so it would seem, so
easy to re-plant. Heroic efforts have been made, and the monastic
scene in the New World grows generation by generation, but there
is no doubt that a tradition of Elders cannot be grown overnight.
His Eminence + Metropolitan Jonah (Paffhausen) begins section
two of the book with deep reflections on the eternal values of the
monastic vocation. His Grace + Dr. Macarie (Dragoi) offers us the
monastic witness of Romania where the monastic life is still lived
out vigorously, in a tradition of Elders that is reminiscent of the
Golden Age of origins, and which also flows in and out of the lives
of the ordinary parishes in a rich interchange. Both hierarchs speak
from the heart, and out of longstanding and first-hand experience
of the realia of monastic life. Frs. Peter Preble and Teodor Damian
open up reflection on monastic virtues in modernity: values that
range from the meaning of silence to self-sacrificing kenosis for the
other, and for the poor.
We end the volume with literary impacts of monastic life. Tea
Jankovic and Rico Monge both look at different ways Dostoevsky
refashions and presents the virtue of asceticism in his Brothers
Karamazov. The book is beautifully ended with poet Nicholas Sama-
ras’ reflections on time and its suspensions. His remarks lead into a
gift, in the end, of a poem from his new collection: American Psalm:
World Psalm. Ending with this artistic gift of his is like coming to
the end of a monastic day with the quiet bell of vespers sounding
over the fields.
I commend all these excellent scholars, artists, poets and theo-
logians to you. Their work (a fruit of their own individual asceses
over so many decades past (since such intellectual skill does not
xii EDITORIAL FOREWORD
come cheaply) conspires to produce a profound and remarkable

study of the rich heritage of Orthodox Monasticism. On behalf of
the Sophia Institute, I am honored to present these works.
Fr. John A. McGuckin

Columbia University. New York
Sept. 14th 2014. Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross
PART ONE: ANCIENT CHRISTIAN
ASCETICAL THEOLOGY
1
EMBODYING TRADITION, SEEKING
TRANSFORMATION: GLIMPSING
ASCETICISM(S) IN THE NEW
TESTAMENT
KARRI L. WHIPPLE
Ascetic performance traverses time, grounding itself in the memory

of a particular community and tradition while simultaneously reach-
ing towards a transformative future. The ascetic embodies and per-
forms the negotiation between memory and futurity attempting to
navigate the ambiguities and transformative potential of the self. 1
The process of reaching back and looking forward found within
asceticism makes approaching the theme of asceticism in the New
Testament a daunting task. For it is difficult to resist the desire to
approach a discussion of the New Testament’s relationship to as-
ceticism without either reading for ascetic origins or allowing later
Christian asceticism to color one’s interpretation of texts. The in-
spiring and gripping accounts of St. Antony wrestling temptations
and demons in the desert or the image of St. Mary of Egypt cross-
ing the Jordan to enter into an ascetic life of true peace can create a
formidable temptation to pursue direct scriptural support for and
illumination of the forms of Christian asceticism that really only
develop in the third and fourth centuries CE and beyond. While
there is no denying that ascetic themes are present within the New
Testament, seeking a comprehensive understanding of asceticism
1 Gavin Flood. The Ascetic Self: Subjectivity, Memory and Tradition (Cam-
bridge: CUP. 2004), 2.
3
4 GLIMPSING ASCETICISM(S) IN THE NEW TESTAMENT
from the New Testament proves a challenging task, for the texts
themselves do not provide a clear evolution for, or trajectory of,
asceticism within the formative first two centuries of Christianity.
Instead, they provide glimpses of contextually situated ascetic prac-
tices along with ideologies brimming with ascetic potential that add
their voice to the broader discourse of how claiming the identity of
a Christian shapes individual and communal practices, attitudes,
and engagements with the world.
Thus, this paper does not claim or attempt to present a com-
prehensive overview of every key ascetic text within the New Tes-
tament. Nor does it seek to parse even more elementary concerns
around which New Testament texts should be deemed ‘ascetic’ and
which should not. Instead, this exploration aims to highlight
themes within the New Testament that lend themselves to major
aspirations of asceticism, whether in concept or praxis, and I do so
in accord with Wimbush’s observation that asceticism cannot be
delimited to either a particular practice or motive in isolation. 2 Ra-
ther, motive and praxis are simultaneously present informing and
reforming one another within the ascetic performance. I will en-
gage the dialogue between ascetic motivation and practice in the
first part of the paper through an exploration of the ascetic poten-
tial of three major themes found in the New Testament. In doing
so, I seek to highlight the way in which New Testament texts, read
through the lens of asceticism, can show both how a New Testa-
ment concept is able to inspire or produce an ascetic response (or
performance) and how such a response can further develop and
enrich the New Testament concept. The three themes I will give
treatment to are: the construct of ‘New Life’ provided in the life,
mission and death of Jesus, the Pauline construct of ‘living in
Christ’, and the concept of the ‘Kingdom of God’ present
throughout New Testament literature. Following this, I will explore
how the Christian asceticisms that formed within these themes re-
late to or diverge from the multiple forms of asceticism found
within Judaism and Greco-Roman culture in the first century C.E.
2 Vincent Wimbush, “Introduction” in Ascetic Behavior in Greco-Roman
Antiquity: A Sourcebook, ed. Vincent Wimbush (Minneapolis: Fortress

Press, 1990), 1.
KARRI L. WHIPPLE 5
Finally, the paper will close with questions that remain critical to
assessing New Testament asceticism and its effects on historical
and contemporary understandings of the topic.
To serve as a guiding principle, I adopt the definition of ascet-
icism offered by Richard Valantasis which views it as: ‘Performanc-
es designed to inaugurate an alternative culture, to enable different
social relations, and to create a new identity.’ 3 While this definition
has been rightly critiqued for focusing more on what asceticism does
than what it is, it is still useful for performing three important func-
tions in the exploration of NT asceticism. First, it marks an im-
portant turn in New Testament scholarship, moving away from
framing critical textual interpretation of New Testament asceticism
only in terms of negative concepts such as anachoresis, or withdrawal
from the world, and other forms of renunciation. In doing so it
provides space to view asceticism in the service of the creative and
Spirit-led power present in the New Testament communities,
which constructs a new symbolic universe rooted in embodied rela-
tionalities and empowering subjectivity. Second, this definition al-
lows for engagement with a greater range of New Testament litera-
ture on the topic of asceticism than afforded by the more narrow
and negative definitions. Third, Valantasis’ definition highlights the
integration between the individual and the collective that occurs in
asceticism, disrupting clichéd views that asceticism was, and is,
solely an individually focused endeavor. Highlighting the intercon-
nected goals of the individual and community also shifts ascetic
performances from acts of isolation to practices that intersect all
aspects of identity, subjectivity, and collective lived experience. To
explore further the potentiality of this definition with regard to
New Testament asceticism, the three key elements of Valantasis’
definition concerning the formation of new identity, diverse rela-
tionalities, and alternative culture, will be placed in conversation
with the three New Testament themes named above. The purpose
is not to draw direct correlations between the definition and the
3 Richard Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceti-
cism,” in Asceticism, eds. Vincent L. Wimbush and Richard Valantasis

(New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 548.
New Testament texts but to see how placing them in dialogue

opens space for greater engagement on the topic.
Before moving on to the analysis, one final clarification is
necessary concerning the notion of ascetic performance that will be
employed in what follows. Valantasis describes performance as the
‘systematic training and retraining’ of behavior through learned and
intentionally repeated activities. 4 This relates well with the original
uses of the verb askeo from which the term asceticism derives. On a
physical level, askeo refers to the disciplined training of the body for
athletic competition. The spiritual sense of the term that developed
within Greek thought referred to the exercising of virtue used in
the taming of passions or controlling thoughts and impulses. Thus,
activities such as fasting, silence, prayer, and manual labor repeat-
edly become familiar actions found within asceticism. But the per-
formance of these actions alone does not fully constitute asceti-
cism. Instead, they function as signifiers for larger ideological
frameworks and their potential for creating alternative cultures and
new subjectivities. Thus, for the purposes of this exploration, ascet-
ic performance identified within the New Testament must con-
stantly dialogue with the larger framework or alternative symbolic
universe that such a performance aims to construct as well as the
text’s historical context.
DISCOVERING NEW LIFE THROUGH JESUS’ MISSION

Engagement with the life, ministry, and death of Jesus affords be-
lievers throughout the New Testament opportunities to experience
new life. Encounters with Jesus depicted throughout the gospels
carry a transformative effect that reorients the life of all who are
willing to accept it. In the case of the disciples, following Jesus re-
quires radical re-envisioning of their own identities, because the
following of Jesus disrupts traditional identities markers such as
occupation, familial relations, and wealth. For example, within Mat-
thew, the disciples’ identities undergo ruptures and transformations
throughout the gospel. Simon Peter and Andrew instantly trans-
form occupations from local fishers to fishers of people (Mt. 4:18–
4 Ibid.
KARRI L. WHIPPLE 7
20). Jesus publicly names the disciples as members of his family,

disrupting traditional Greco-Roman family structures (Mt. 12:46–
50). Conversely, there are those who cannot embody such radical
changes to one’s social position or economic security such as the
potential disciple who wishes to bury his father before following
Jesus (Mt. 8:21–22) or the young rich man who leaves grieving after
Jesus instructs him to sell all of his possessions and give to the
poor so as to be able to follow him (Mt. 19:16–22). Belief in Jesus
produces new lives and new ways of engaging the world that ulti-
mately introduce new identities for those who can accept the rigors
of discipleship. The actions undertaken by the disciples displayed
their belief in and embodied commitment to the new way of engag-
ing the world inaugurated by Jesus.
Anthony Saldarini sees a particularly ‘harsh integrity’ and
commitment within the gospel of Matthew for creating such new
life. 5 By engendering a new set of attitudes and commitments the
gospel encourages a way of life that both disrupts and conforms to
traditional customs and practices. 6 Thus, many teachings within
Matthew seek to establish norms rooted in the commandments and
the Law alongside a disciplined pursuit of virtue. 7 While Jesus’
teachings do not offer a cohesive disciplinary or ascetic program in
themselves, the call there for continued commitment, practice, and
performance of such teachings coupled with ongoing education in
the service of living more fully into one’s new identity, certainly
resonates with asceticism. And thus, as Saldarini suggests, these
aspects, while not a systematic ascetic program, nevertheless have
served as points of reflection for developing asceticism within later
Christianity. 8
5 Anthony J. Saldarini. “Asceticism and the Gospel of Matthew,” in
Asceticism and the New Testament, eds. Leif E. Vaage and Vincent L. Wim-
bush (New York: Routledge, 1999), 19.
6 Saldarini provides the example that while Jesus’ disrupts traditional
family structures (Matt 12:46–50), conventions such as marriage remain

unchallenged (5:31–32, 19:1–9) (21–22).
7 Ibid., 18.
8 Ibid., 24–25.
At this point it is important to reflect on Valantasis’ view of

asceticism as the process of formation that initiates an individual or
group of individuals into a new cultural system that requires the
development of a new understanding of one’s subjectivity and
identity. 9 Asceticism becomes the deliberate and intentional per-
formances that aid the individual in living into this new subjectivity
by providing language and an embodied knowledge that equips and
empowers the individual for productive living within the new cul-
ture. What we see in the Gospel accounts is an educational aspect
of asceticism in which Jesus is depicted as instructing the disciples
concerning the new culture that his mission brings to life. Such
sustained instruction coupled with embodied practice helps to ori-
ent the disciples and aid them in working to realize their new sub-
jectivity within this alternative culture.
Looking beyond the Gospels, the Pauline corpus also contains
the concept of new life through Jesus. This new life creates a lived
response of continual refinement of one’s faith and discipleship in
the service of living into one’s new identity in Christ. Here in place
of Jesus coming up to one’s fishing boat to propose discipleship,
there is a commitment to the process of realizing one’s new subjec-
tivity in relation to Jesus manifested through the initiatory act of
baptism. One only has to listen to Paul’s language around baptism
in Romans 6 to hear how baptism orients an individual towards a
disciplined life intimately connected to Christ’s. Paul explains that
through the ritual of baptism the old self dies in service of the
forming a new identity in Christ. Linking the experience of baptism
with Christ’s death and resurrection, the old self is crucified with
Christ releasing it from slavery to sin. In doing so, the individual
gains new life, a new self identified in Christ. Walking in this new-
ness of life includes a reorientation of one’s self to the world. Thus,
Paul exhorts the Romans saying:
Therefore, do not let sin exercise dominion in your mortal
bodies, to make you obey their passions. No longer present
your member to sin as instruments of wickedness, but present
yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death
9 Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceticism,” 547.

KARRI L. WHIPPLE 9
to life, and present your members to God as instruments of

righteousness. (Romans. 6:12–13).
Learning to live into such a new life requires a shift in conscious-
ness, learning in Paul’s words how to become ‘slaves of righteous-
ness’ instead of sin (Rom. 6:18). It also requires obedience to the
education that Paul provides through the gospel. Through obedi-
ence and discipline, the believer finds freedom and sanctification
and in doing so lives into her or his new subjectivity. An important
aspect of this subjectivity is not only that it creates a new internal
self-understanding and new life but also that the performance of
this new subjectivity often manifests through standing in tension
with other dominant performances of identity.
Saldarini points to the social tensions and inhospitable condi-
tions surrounding the Matthaean community as important for con-
structing the gospel’s intensity around and commitment to forging
new subjectivities. 10 Within the Pauline corpus, Valantasis notes
that competing subjectivities actually come to life and can be best
seen in Paul’s letter to the Galatians. Here he identifies three basic
competing subjectivities. 11 The first of which is ‘natural’ subjectivi-
ty – characterized as that of the outside world linked to individuals
who submit to beings who are not gods and who orient themselves
with regards to the elements and certain observances. The second
represents the culturally dominant form of first century C.E. Juda-
ism that observes specific cultural and religious codes. The third is
the pneumatic subjectivity that develops in that group within the
larger Jewish culture of which Paul is a part. In Galatians, Paul
quickly dismisses natural subjectivity as a form of enslavement to
‘weak and poor elements’ that are of little concern to him (Gal.
4:9). As Valantasis reads the text, Paul goes on to use the allegory
of Hagar and Sarah (Gal. 4:21–31) first of all to argue an equality
between the dominant Jewish (cultural) subjectivity and the pneu-
matic subjectivity. Yet in the end, Paul demonstrates that prefer-
Saldarini, “Asceticism and the Gospel of Matthew,”19.

Richard Valantasis, “Competing Ascetic Subjectivities in the Let-
10
ter to the Galatians” in Asceticism and the New Testament, eds. Vaage and
11
Wimbush, 214–20.
ence must be afforded the pneumatic subjectivity in order to bring

about a new creation. 12 This concept of pneumatic subjectivity
shows a departure from, and a resistance to, other subjectivities of
the world. This new subjectivity calls the Galatians to live into a
reality in which past markers of identity such as ethnicity, social
status and gender that once helped orient them within the domi-
nant culture are systematically removed. In doing so, one becomes
identified with Christ and gains freedom. But as we heard in Ro-
mans above and now in Galatians, this freedom requires voluntary
and intentional performances such as resisting vices (Gal. 5:16–21),
developing virtues (Gal. 5:22–26), and working for the good of all
in the community (Gal. 5:13, 6:1–10). 13 Through these perfor-
mances one lives into her or his new subjectivity as defined in op-
position to other dominant identity constructs. And yet, a unique
factor of this subjectivity is that it is also a corporate (ecclesial) sub-
jectivity. New life through Christ is inherently a corporate endeavor
in which one’s identity is defined within the community as a whole.
For an individual to achieve a new subjectivity one needs both God
and community. This connects into the second major theme treat-
ed by this paper, the Pauline notion of living or being in Christ.
LIVING IN CHRIST
The following discussion of what it means to live ‘in Christ’ re-
quires orientation by means of the second part of Valantasis’ defi-
nition – that of ascetic performances ‘enabling different social rela-
tions.’ 14 These different social relations seek to construct a new
relationality that furthers the new culture and symbolic universe
being created through ascetic performance. Inherent within this
discussion of redefining social relations is the question of power
within these relationships. Namely, if and where shifts and destabi-
12 It should be noted that with such interpretations, we should take
care to not presume supercessionist readings of the passage are default,

for the preference of pneumatic subjectivity is not equatable with a
wholesale rejection of cultural subjectivity nor is cultural subjectivity is
limited only to Jewish culture and not Roman empiricism as well.
13 Valantasis, “Competing Ascetic Subjectivities,” 219.
14 Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceticism,” 548.

KARRI L. WHIPPLE 11
lizations of power take place and how the established conventions

for acknowledging power also become redefined within the rela-
tionship.
Returning to Galatians, one sees that being in Christ creates
relationships that destabilize conventional ideas of power and iden-
tity politics. New subjectivity entails that one becomes clothed in
Christ so that ‘there is no longer Jew nor Greek, slave or free, male
and female, for all are one in Christ’ (Gal 3:28). Within this rela-
tionality the binaries structuring society are disrupted as Paul dis-
plays the freedom possible through identifying believers as ‘one in
Christ’ rather than by traditional identity markers. But he further
complicates this notion by claiming that this freedom is not for
one’s self indulgence but rather for the purpose of becoming slaves
to one another in love (Gal 5:13). Doing this allows one to resist
the desires of the flesh and experience the fruits of the Spirit whose
list ends with the fruit of self-control (Gal. 5:22–23). Here again we
can see the call for practices and modes of living influenced by
one’s experience of being in relation with others who are collective-
ly in Christ does not form a complete ascetic program. Instead, it
opens a space of inspiration and further discussion of what it
means to engage in ascetic performances that bring about a new
way of relating to others. It also calls forth the notion that to be ‘in
Christ’ is an embodied reality experienced through living out one’s
faith in relation to the greater body of Christ.
Within this discussion of asceticism enabling different social
relations, we must discuss the topic of sexual asceticism. 1 Corin-
thians provides an example of Paul demonstrating the radical con-
nectivity of each member’s actions to the wellbeing of the whole
community as the body of Christ. In 1 Corinthians Paul expresses a
deep concern over the defilement of the body of Christ through
porneia, the uncontrolled passion of sexual desire that leaves the
body of Christ susceptible to outside contamination by external
ways of living. The actions of one person affect the health of the
whole community. Being in the body of Christ, therefore, requires
control of passion for which Paul provides a number of options.
Imitating Paul in celibacy is preferred yet the consolation of mar-
riage is provided for those unable to control their desires, lest they
be fully consumed or enflamed by passion (1 Cor. 7). Thus, the
relationality of living in Christ requires a keen awareness and con-
trol of one’s sexual actions, lest passion allow for external forces to
defile the body. But inherent within this system of control is a hier-
archy of preferable relations that carry gendered implications. Here
is where the question of power in new relationality becomes partic-
ularly critical.
For a question that remains with regards to Paul’s treatment
of sexual asceticism is how does the new reality of living in the
corporate body of Christ challenge, re-inscribe, or reimagine exist-
ing gendered power dynamics within the community. For example,
we can consider A. C. Wire’s analysis of 1st Corinthians, which
views Paul as using his conciliatory forms of asceticism as a means
of exerting power and control over Corinthian women prophets. 15
According to Wire, the women were able to gain power and respect
in the community utilizing the ability to claim celibacy and perform
various forms of prophetic activity within the communities. Paul’s
instructions on marriage and prophetic actions especially pertaining
to women appears to suppress the new subjectivity of the women,
constrain their bodies, disrupt their communally-based relationality
and challenge the power they have been able to foster within the
Corinthian assembly. 16 Whether or not one agrees with Wire’s
analysis, what it points to is the question of how competing asceti-
cisms or alternate forms of relationality beyond the intended scope
of an author or community are addressed. For combative power
can also emerge within such new relationalities that seeks to silence
or reject perceived opponents or threats which could include other
Christian ascetics. This has been noted by MacDonald in relation
especially to Ephesians and Knust with regards to 2nd Thessaloni-
ans. 17 Exploring power dynamics both within the societally ordered
15 Antoinette Clark Wire. The Corinthian Women Prophets: A Reconstruc-
tion through Paul’s Rhetoric (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990). See especial-
ly Wire’s exposition on sexual asceticism concerning 1 Cor 5–7 (pp. 72–
97).
16 Ibid., 154–158.
17 For example, see Margaret Y. MacDonald’s “Citizens of Heaven
and Earth: Asceticism and Social Integration in Colossians and Ephe-

sians” and Jennifer Wright Knust’s “2 Thessalonians and the Discipline of
Work” for further explorations on the topic of power dynamics (Asceticism
and the New Testament, eds. Vaage and Wimbush, 255–68; 269–98).
KARRI L. WHIPPLE 13
relationships and for those living in Christ through the lens of as-
ceticism requires more scholarly attention; for it is important to
name both how asceticism inspires new constructions of power
and in what cases it serves to maintain existing power structures
under a new name.
THE KINGDOM OF GOD

The final ‘ascetical’ theme that will be considered is that of the
Kingdom of God (basileia tou theou). Valantasis suggests that ascetic
performance seeks to inaugurate an alternative culture. The con-
cept of Kingdom of God found throughout the gospels serves as
an important point of exploration for this notion. Though lacking a
clear and univocal definition in the Gospels, the concept of the
Kingdom of God helps orient believers to the new culture that
their lifestyles and performances are enacting. The ambiguity
around the precise meaning of the Kingdom also leaves space for
multiple interpretations of how this new culture becomes realized
within this world or the next. We may note, as empire-critical
scholars most recently have, that the concept of the impending
basileia tou theou or God’s Empire, allows for the inauguration of a
new culture that decenters the dominant Roman imperial culture
from the lives of believers through their own actions and behav-
iors 18. Such an inauguration takes many forms within the New Tes-
tament. One response is characterized by perhaps the New Testa-
ment’s most recognizable ascetic, John the Baptist. The Fore-
Runner’s means of preparing for the impending Kingdom is to
remove the self from the dominant culture. Thus the Baptizer lo-
cates himself in the wilderness, historically deemed a space of cha-
os that exists outside of Roman order. We are told in Mark that his
appearance also defies Roman sensibility, as he is clothed in camel’s
hair and locusts and honey to provide his sustenance (Mk. 1:6). He
gathers disciples and crowds to himself proclaiming a baptism of
repentance for the forgiveness of sins. John serves as a voice loudly
proclaiming and embodying the ‘alternative culture’, actions which
18 See, e.g., W. Carter. Matthew and Empire: Initial Explorations. Harris-
burg, PA. 2001.

are perceived as threats to the power of the dominant culture and

which will contribute to his execution.
Likewise within Matthew, the Kingdom of Heaven has partic-
ular prominence occurring thirty-seven times in total. It is inter-
preted as a response to the current oppressive conditions experi-
enced by the Matthaean community. The concept of creating an
alternative culture allows for the adoption of certain behaviors that
challenge Greco-Roman ideas of family and wealth, especially the
concept of the paterfamilias as the center of Roman order, because
the Jesus movement creates alternative familial structures that de-
center the hierarchal paterfamilias from the position of control over
the economic, reproductive, and social ordering that it traditionally
held. However, the practice of performing and living into an alter-
native culture through visions of the Kingdom of God in a manner
that was publicly disruptive and counter-cultural was not the sole
method employed within the Christian ekklesia. Some New Testa-
ment literature rather displays a developing coexistence between
the alternative and dominant cultures. Valantasis acknowledges this
phenomenon, stating that: ‘It is not necessary that the alternative
culture formed through asceticism oppose the dominant culture’ as
multiple cultures can exist simultaneously. 19 MacDonald’s analysis
of Colossians and Ephesians also identifies such a coexistence of
cultures. 20
For MacDonald, this coexistence comes out of a basic need
for survival when negotiating the tensions that arose between the
developing ekklesia and the outside world. 21 Thus, believers adopt-
ed a position of being in the world but not of it. As such their as-
cetic performances carried more hidden manifestations or what
Kaelber would call ‘inner asceticism’ in which spiritual disciplines
gained greater attention than physical and visible ascetic practices. 22
Such asceticism would not necessitate a detachment from specific
Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceticism,” 549.

See Margaret Y. MacDonald, ‘Citizens of Heaven and Earth,’
19
269–298.
20
21 MacDonald, 273.
22 Walter O. Kaelber, “Asceticism,” in The Encyclopedia of Religion, ed.
Mircea Eliade (New York: MacMillan, 1987), vol. 1, 442.

KARRI L. WHIPPLE 15
worldly structures or pleasures but would focus on internal or spir-

itual discipline. Thus, MacDonald concludes that such a stance al-
lows for an insistence that: ‘Ethical ideals in the church match
those of the world and that believers who are not “of this world”
nevertheless are firmly rooted “in this world”’. 23 This results in
ethics such as those found in the so-called ‘household codes’ that
adopt a social conservatism. Such conservatism serves a dual pur-
pose of furthering Christian ideals while also defending the com-
munity from being labeled a social irritant by broader society. 24
Thus, the household codes also seek to differentiate the Colossian
practices from those of perceived false teachings in order to pre-
serve a particular image and identity for the group. For MacDon-
ald, viewing the household codes through the lens of asceticism
allows for them to be seen less as a wholesale accommodation to
broader society by highlighting the ‘change of orientation in rela-
tion to the world’ that is still present internally even if not evident
externally. 25 Thus, the believers become an ‘invisible body’ in the
world that while not overtly challenging Roman empiricism or pa-
triarchal structures nevertheless creates an alternate culture and
reality through its internalized beliefs and practices. 26
Finally, the Pastoral Epistles adopt a position that slightly dif-
fers from that of Colossians or Ephesians but nevertheless main-
tains patriarchal structures of society within its attempt to navigate
broader Christian and Roman culture. Streete suggests that the as-
ceticism and right conduct purported in the Pastorals seeks to in-
duce but not coerce the rest of the world to adopt its way of life. 27
In doing so, maintaining order as in a great household is given ut-
most priority in creating ascetic performances that seek discipline
for the sake of one’s household and society not one’s self (2 Tim.
2:20–26). This asceticism, which Valantasis labels as ‘integrative,’
seeks a culture of peace in which everyone has a proper place with-
MacDonald, 285.
Ibid.
23
25 Ibid. 291
24
26 Ibid.
27 Gail Corrinton Streete, “Askesis in the Pastoral Letters” in Asceti-
cism and the New Testament, eds. Vaage and Wimbush, 313.
in the system in such a way that current power structures are not
radically disrupted (i.e. 2 Tim 2:3–6, Titus 2:11–12). 28
A final note on the concept of the Kingdom of God and in-
augurating a new culture concerns the ways in which such projects
are related to Christian eschatological fervor and new constructions
of time. While space prevents detailed attention to these topics, it is
important to note that a rich conversation exists concerning the
relationship of New Testament era asceticism as an appropriate
response to the impending eschaton, or (later) as a method of ‘real-
ized eschatology’ within ascetic understandings.
LOCATING NEW TESTAMENT ASCETICISM(S)

After surveying these themes of the New Testament and how they
help illuminate further discourses on Christian asceticism, I wish to
take a moment to explore how the ascetic threads found within the
New Testament present particularly unique perspectives on asceti-
cism that differ from other popular forms of asceticism in the
Greco-Roman world of the first two centuries CE. First, I would
like to look at the portrait of Jesus presented in the Gospels in
conversation with the multiple forms of Jewish asceticism present.
Dale Martin points out that Jesus does not fit into the ascetic pro-
grams of Jewish sects present at the time of the gospels’ composi-
tion. 29 He does not adhere to the strict Sabbath observance, con-
cern for purity, and fasting practiced within the Qumran communi-
ty. He does not follow the Jewish Nazirite purity practices such as
avoiding contact with the dead, abstaining from wine, and never
cutting one’s hair. Neither does he appear to have an affinity for
dressing all in white or requiring a strict physical and dietary pro-
gram as the Essenes did. The Gospel’s depiction of Jesus also
stands in stark contrast to that of Philo’s account of the Therapeutae
28 Richard Valantasis, “Constructions of Power in Asceticism,” Jour-
nal of American Academy of Religion 63.4 (1995), 803.

29 Dale Martin, Sex and the Single Savior: Gender and Sexuality in Biblical
Interpretation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2006), 94–8. Mar-

tin’s treatment of asceticism arises in the context of exploring Jesus’ sexu-
ality, namely around the question of whether he advocated celibacy for-
mally, or accidentally.
KARRI L. WHIPPLE 17
whose contemplative life focused on ideals of temperance, solitary

prayer, scriptural study, and fasting. Yet, this does not exclude ex-
plorations of how Jesus might be considered a Jewish ascetic, but it
does mean that if he is one, he does not easily fit within the con-
fines of the available Jewish asceticisms of his day. And this begs
the question of how important was it for the Gospel writers to pre-
sent Jesus as an ascetic figure in general?
The second feature I wish to highlight displays the divergenc-
es of New Testament ascetic ideals from those of the Greco-
Roman asceticisms of the time. A major place of divergence lies in
the idea of a corporate subjectivity developing within ascetic prac-
tice. Here I will limit my comments to particular Stoic perspectives,
while acknowledging that many other forms of asceticism are also
present within the Greco-Roman philosophical context. 30 For the
Stoics, the goal of ascetic practice and their specific system of ther-
apy was to control and eventually eliminate desire. An ultimate aim
of which was to achieve self-sufficiency based in ‘individual ethics
and with the individual per se.’ 31 For Paul, such an idea of asceti-
cism linked to self-sufficiency (autarkeia) is incomprehensible. In
Paul’s way of thinking, one’s ultimate aim was to have complete
dependence on God coupled with a corporate understanding of
subjectivity and cultural formation. In addition, as Martin points
out, even the idea of working towards creating a stable much less
self-sufficient image of one’s self is not possible in the posture of
mutual dependence created by participating in the body of Christ. 32
This idea of mutual dependence instead of self-sufficiency as aims
30 Due to the constraints of this paper, the rich variety found within
Greco-Roman asceticism, particularly in the philosophical schools, cannot

receive proper treatment, nor can the particular complexities and diversity
of Stoicism be fully attended to. A useful survey of primary ascetic texts
can be found in Vincent Wimbush’s Ascetic Behavior in Greco-Roman Antiqui-
31 James A. Francis, Subversive Virtue: Asceticism and Authority in the Sec-

ty: A Sourcebook.
ond Century Pagan World (University Park, Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania

State University Press, 1995), 5. It should be noted that this focus on the
individual did not release the individual from societal obligation.
32 Martin, 73–74.
of asceticism also highlights the difference in the followers that

each model attracted. The Stoics and other Greco-Roman philo-
sophical forms of asceticism generally were occupied by élite indi-
viduals who performed their asceticism from a place of power
within the midst of the polis. Asceticism for Paul, however, created
a space for élite and non-élite practitioners to participate in the
communal process of self-discipline, and in the case of the élite,
self-lowering. This communalism sought to bring about a new
symbolic universe, rather individualistic modes of self-sufficiency.
LOOKING FORWARD
After surveying the possibilities and new interventions that asceti-
cism in the New Testament allowed for creating a new reality and
way of life, several critical questions and areas of research arise that
require further attention within contemporary New Testament
scholarship that has recently been concerned with these ascetical
ideas within the literature. The first critical question requires closer
examination of the universality of Christian asceticism. By this I
mean that though asceticism takes many forms in the New Testa-
ment and in later Christianity, the diversity of situated realities of
the believers seems to disappear within both textual depictions and
later critical interpretations of such texts. Scholars such as Kallistos
Ware have claimed that Christian asceticism is: ‘not an élite enter-
prise but a vocation for all.’ 33 Thus, on some level asceticism held
an open possibility of transformation for all believers and could be
embodied by all. Pauline texts seem to strongly support such an
idea with their notion of a corporate subjectivity that took into
consideration all members of the community (e.g. 1 Cor. 12:12–
31). While these claims ring true on certain levels, further nuance is
required with regards to how social realities might affect one’s abil-
ity to participate in ascetic performances.
For example, concerning sexual asceticism, how are slaves
whose bodies were notoriously used and exploited by their masters
affected by or expected to respond to such ideas of sexual asceti-
33 Kallistos Ware, “The Way of the Ascetics: Negative or Affirma-
tive?” in Asceticism, eds. Wimbush and Valantasis, 13.

KARRI L. WHIPPLE 19
cism? Also, how do conversations concerning the élitism, privilege,

and social status present within concepts of sexual asceticism in the
New Testament get overshadowed by contemporary Christian in-
terests in ascetical circles to focus on discussions of celibacy, or
controlling passions, and sexual relationship within marital con-
texts?
Another topic which is often obscured or overlooked within
images of creating a corporate body, is how the realities of gender
dynamics affect ascetic practice. Though some fruitful work has
been done on this subject, the field still stands in need of great de-
velopment. As noted above in the treatment of 1st Corinthians by
Antoinette Wire, calls for sexual renunciation clearly had signifi-
cantly different impacts on ancient men and women. Likewise,
Paul’s conciliatory perspective on marriage in 1st Corinthians 7 had
greater effects on the freedom of women within the community
than on their male counterparts. Exploring how views of asceti-
cism, especially sexual asceticism, affect the lives of women in New
Testament texts or how such texts are applied to later iterations of
Christian asceticism would aid in opening the conversation of how
intersectionality and positionality within society are reinscribed,
erased, or disrupted by the ascetical imperative.
A second area for further exploration is that of addressing the
ascetic ‘omissions’ found within the New Testament. Many New
Testament scholars today make the claim that asceticism was an
integral part of the rapid development of the Christian tradition.
But an important question about New Testament asceticism(s)
then arises, particularly with regards to the gospels. For if asceti-
cism stood as a viable cultural option for within society that was
gaining interest within philosophical and religious circles during the
formative period of Christianity, why is asceticism frequently over-
looked or omitted from the Gospel narratives? None of the gospels
provide a programmatic treatment of asceticism. Nor do several of
the key tenets traditionally associated with Jewish or Greco-Roman
ascetic practice appear to factor greatly in Jesus’ teachings and mis-
sion. For example, Jesus is undisturbed by the critiques lodged
against his disciples for not fasting like the Pharisees or John’s dis-
ciples (Mt. 9:14–17, Mk. 2:18–22, Lk. 5:33–39). Questioning these
omissions along with placing the omissions of the topic of asceti-
cism or the display of ascetic practices found in certain texts,
alongside other texts in which ascetic themes factor heavily can
create spaces for further examining the multiple motivations, vi-

sions, and strategies for community formation and discipline within
early Christianity. 34
In conclusion, the significant variety of ascetic practices and
inspirations found within the New Testament texts helps to desta-
bilize the notion that asceticism within the formative years of
Christianity was static commodity that can easily be categorized,
defined, or used simply to validate later ascetic performances. Re-
turning to New Testament texts does not produce a purer or more
authentic form of Christian asceticism. Rather, when we closely
study the New Testament, it opens up spaces to see the many
complex, and often partial, manifestations of asceticism within the
early tradition: ranging from John the Baptist to the invisible ascet-
ic body of Colossians. In glimpsing these New Testament ascet-
icism(s), one bears witness to the inspiration and impetus for what
would come after as centuries of Christian ascetic performance.
With continual engagement of text, tradition, and culture, the dis-
cussion of ascetic performance can continue to deepen and be en-
riched, integrating the embodied wisdom of the past with the pur-
suit of the transformative potentiality of the future.
34 John Kloppenberg provides a preliminary excursion into such a
project in his “Making Sense of Difference: Asceticism, Gospel Literature,

and the Jesus Tradition” in Asceticism and the New Testament, eds. Vaage and
Wimbush, 149–158.
MONASTICISM IN THE CHRISTIAN EAST:
AN INTRODUCTION 1
J.A. MCGUCKIN
THE MONASTIC EXPERIENCE
It is surprising to consider how the religion of the Saviour (which
focused so much on preaching in village and town environments,
using the shared meal as a central symbol of communion, and pri-
oritizing the values of mutual philanthropy) could so quickly ele-
vate the ascetical ideal as one of its mainstays, and yet such was the
case from earliest times of formal Christian organization; certainly
from the second century onwards. Recent research has pointed to
the preponderance of the ascetical imperative in the Hellenistic
environment that formed the nurturing culture of the earliest
Christian communities (Wimbush, 1990; Kerschner, 1984). The
patterns of preaching and the basic structures of Christian worship
retained their presumption that the Church would be primarily an
urban, a missionary, and a socially philanthropic phenomenon, but
Monasticism sang a slightly different song, and it was one that res-
onated deeply within the Christian movement, not least in its Byz-
antine embodiments. This was certainly true in the original heart-
lands of Christian monasticism: Syria, Egypt, Palestine and Cappa-
docia. From Syria and Egypt there arose a lively and highly popular
body of literature relating tales of the early monks. These Lives and
Apophthegms of the Desert Fathers are a unique combination of
1 A version of this study first appeared in: The Oxford Handbook of
Byzantine Studies. Edited by E Jeffreys, R Cormack, & J Haldon. Oxford.

2004.
21
22 MONASTICISM IN THE CHRISTIAN EAST
apocalyptic biblical wisdom literature, with Hellenistic philosophi-

cal traditions of the schoolroom Chreia, along with vivid aspects of
popular religiosity of the fourth and fifth centuries. The fertile mix
gave a powerful new impetus to Late Antique asceticism, and was
the veritable birth of Christian monasticism at the dawning of the
Byzantine era. Apologists in the late fourth century, and after,
spread the fame of the desert monks far afield, giving the move-
ment great vogue even in Byzantium. Notable examples are the Life
of Antony by Athanasius, the Lausiac History of Palladius, Cyril of
Scythopolis’ Lives of the Palestinian Monks, and the Spiritual Meadow
by John Moschos.
Monasticism was, and remains, a highly successful paradox. It
derives from the concept of living a solitary life (Monazein) seriously
concentrated on the salvation of one’s soul by the search for the
face of God (monos monōs pros Monon) as one patristic aphorism put
it; 2 but in actualité it flourished phenomenologically as chiefly as
closely-bonded societies (communities) of dedicated men and
women who were so well organized, and so focused in their inten-
tionalities, that within a few generations they radically reshaped the
international Christian agenda. Monasticism may have begun as a
movement of withdrawal among the laity, a leaving of the cities of
Late Antiquity in order to live a simplified and quiet life in the hin-
terland, but almost simultaneously many of these very solitaries
(despite all protests to the contrary) became occupiers of the high-
est positions in the church, claiming the roles of bishops and
priests which by their very nature were urban and political offices.
Within a few hundred years the lay monastic movement of with-
drawal had been so successful that it transformed the very nature
of Christian leadership into a predominantly ascetic endeavour.
The profuse rhetoric of monastic sources (the predominant litera-
ture of the Byzantine world) continually stresses its ‘role apart’, its
eremitical ‘withdrawal from the affairs of society’. This should not
blind the reader to the fundamentally important political and social
functions monasticism played out within the heart of the Byzantine
social experience, not least after the 10th century when monasteries
The single person, single-mindedly, making a way to the Single

One.
2
J.A. MCGUCKIN 23
often became significant landowners. In the Middle Byzantine era

perhaps half the literate class of the empire were monks. This liter-
ary facility accounts for the wholesale glorification of the ascetic
imperative: its more or less total subsuming of the ideals of Chris-
tian sanctity and church order within the Byzantine world. The
Byzantines (so adept in their delight in paradoxes) soon perfected
the idea of the ‘city-monk’, the cosmopolitan hermit. The image of
Emperors seeking advice on intimate matters of state policy from
the leading ascetics of the day is not merely a rhetorical trope.
EGYPTIAN & SYRIAN ASCETICISM

The monastic tradition has often been described as beginning in
Egypt in the early fourth century. Antony was accorded the sym-
bolic role of the ‘founder of monasticism’ for Athanasius’ account
of his life (the Vita Antonii) was one of the most widely read books
of the early Byzantine period. The story begins with his conversion
and withdrawal from a fairly comfortable life in Alexandria to em-
brace the rigors of seclusion in the semi-desert adjacent to the Nile.
At first he lived on the outskirts of a village, but soon Antony
sought a deeper solitude and progressively withdrew into a more
desolate wilderness. As he advanced in peace and wisdom, becom-
ing a thaumaturgal ‘friend of God’, he attracted disciples, and thus
was able to ‘grow on’ a community. The Vita, in this regard,
sketches out the parameters of what were already known to be sev-
eral different types of monastic lifestyle already in existence by the
mid fourth century. If Antony is exemplary, therefore, he is not
historically speaking an absolute ‘founder’. Solitaries existed in the
Syrian church at least a century before him, and even in Antony’s
Vita we are told that he gave his sister over to the care of female
ascetics who already, as notable groups, inhabited the Alexandrian
church.
The Syrian church at a very early period demanded of those
who went forward for baptism (a thing not usually sought in the
pre-fifth century church until one’s maturity or dotage even) a radi-
cal commitment to celibate living (Abouzayd, 1993). This meant
that in Syria, the inner circle of baptized Christians were all de facto
celibate ascetics. They were known as the Ihidaya (solitaries), or the
Ben’ay Qyama (children of the covenant). These communities of
men and women ascetics customarily lived either at home or in
groups near the church and soon came to have an important func-
tion setting the tone of the public assemblies. These ascetic com-
munities are the direct descendants of the associations of widows
and virgins mentioned in the New Testament (Voöbus, 1960). An
example of this lifestyle and how it came to serve as a powerful
inner circle of Christian government can be found in Aphrahat the
‘Persian Sage’, an early fourth century ascetic-bishop, whose Demon-
strations already show much that would later emerge as classic mo-
nastic concerns. From earliest times, therefore, the apocalyptic
(world-renouncing) aspect of the monastic lifestyle claimed to be a
direct and legitimate successor of the eschatological community of
Jesus as described in the Gospel. Typically in Syrian and early
Egyptian sources, the ascetical lifestyle was described as ‘not of this
world’, and associated with the ‘angelic life’, a modality of anticipat-
ing the age to come. The Syrian church developed its monastic his-
tory with a pattern of holy men living in retirement on the outskirts
of villages, who thus served as important mediators in many social
disputes. Theodoret’s History of the Monks of Syria gives a classic ac-
count, and introduced a style of sensational ascesis (such as pillar
habitation – stylitism) that would soon make its way to Byzantium
itself. The combination of the monastic vocation, with the office of
the ‘holy man’ as mediator, healer, and exorcist, thus became signif-
icant from an early age in Christianity (Fowden, 1982).
Nevertheless, despite Syria’s foundational importance, in
fourth century Egypt the expansion of monasticism was extraordi-
nary, and constitutive. Antony was soon outstripped by Copts such
as Pachomius (Rousseau, 1985, 1999) or Shenoudi (Timbie, 1986),
who organized societies of many thousands of Christian zealots
living the communal life in highly organized settlements along the
Nile. With Pachomius the concept was introduced of the monas-
teries as a kind of loose federation, centred around common activi-
ties of prayer and manual labour (an early concept of ‘Rule’, or Typ-
ikon as it was known in the East); with monks and nuns (always in
separated communities) sometimes living adjacently for protection.
With Shenoudi came the introduction of formal written profes-
sions of obedience, or vows, that served to keep the monastic sa-
crally engaged, committed, to the ascetic life. The arid lands adjoin-
ing the Nile, and the wilderness areas of Palestine and Syria, were
soon famed as ‘cities in the desert’, and as long as Byzantine power
held sway (and indeed after) these areas were populated with im-
portant monasteries. Only the greatest now remain: sites such as
J.A. MCGUCKIN 25
Mar Saba near Bethlehem, and St. Catherine’s at Sinai, or St.

George Choziba in the Wadi Qelt. Ruins of smaller Byzantine
monasteries still litter the landscape of Palestine. In their heyday,
before the rise of Islamic power, no fewer than 140 Byzantine
monasteries flourished within the relatively small area of Palestine
(Binns, 1994). In the Middle Byzantine period, the concept of holy
mountains (wild wooded areas) became a popular substitute for the
desert, and of the famous foundations such as Mount Latros,
Mount Olympus, or Mount Athos, the latter still stands as an ex-
ample of how a colony of hermits could be established, and flour-
ish, under imperial patronage (Morris, 1996).
STYLES OF EASTERN MONASTICISM

The idealized figure of Antony had elevated the notion of the her-
mit (the word is derived from ‘desert-dweller’) as the supreme form
of monastic life, where an individual would seek radical seclusion
to advance in prayer and asceticism. Hermits were solitaries, of
course, but even they had their disciples; and from that experience
another genre of monasticism soon rose up, namely the Lavriotic
lifestyle. The word means ‘back lane’, and connotes the way a
pathway linked the different cells of recluses and joined them all to
a common church or Katholikon. The Lavra was thus a community
of monks who were predominantly solitaries, each following their
individual spiritual path, but who assembled around a commonly
revered Elder (Abba) as a kind of extended spiritual family. The
Lavra’s brotherhood would gather on Sundays, or great feasts, to
the common church where they chanted psalms (the beginning of
the monastic practice of the Offices of prayer spread throughout
the day) and celebrated the Divine Liturgy. The Lavriotic lifestyle
was based upon a closely personal relation with a single charismatic
figure. It did not have a generic rule, nor did the monks eat or live
together, but eventually the Lavra came to be more formally com-
pacted within a walled and fortified site, with the common church
in the central square. This architecture came to be the classic form
of most subsequent Byzantine religious houses, and the term Lavra
in later eras sometimes came to mean simply ‘great monastery’.
Distinct from the hermit’s individual cell, or the Lavra of the
association of hermits, one also finds the Cenobitic form of monasti-
cism (so named from the Greek word for common life). The pat-
tern was symbolically associated with Pachomius but spread widely
after it was enthusiastically received in Cappadocia (now eastern

Turkey) by powerful ecclesiastical leaders such as Eustathius of
Sebaste, Sts. Basil of Caesarea, and Gregory of Nazianzus. Cenobit-
ic monasticism (the chief aspect of which is a common daily rule of
prayer and labour, and a common refectory) was certainly the
standard type of establishment in the Byzantine era, but movement
(of individuals, and indeed monastic houses themselves) between
all three types of monastic lifestyle was always possible, and often
unremarkable within a monk’s individual career.
Gregory Nazianzen and Basil (two of the leading Nicene Cap-
padocian fathers) being themselves powerful politicians, ascetics,
and bishops, did much to establish the idea of monasticism as
something fundamental to the structural organization of the
church; but the initial anxiety of bishops with the concept of zeal-
ous monks undermining their administration can be witnessed in
the Acts of the Council of Gangra in 340. Local communities,
however, favoured the zealous ascetics, and often eagerly elected
them as their episcopal leaders from the fifth century onwards. The
issue of authority was more or less settled (in favour of local bish-
ops) by the canons of the Council of Chalcedon in 451, where
monks were ultimately subordinated to the episcopate – a legisla-
tion that paradoxically increased monasticism’s prestige by bringing
it officially into the heart of Church structures. When increasing
numbers of bishops were themselves ascetics, it seemed only natu-
ral to employ monastic clergy for higher orders. This pattern of
using monastics to service ecclesiastical institutions, both liturgical-
ly and pastorally, became wide-spread but it would never altogether
be the standard in the Byzantine church, especially at the great cen-
ters such as Constantinople and Thessaloniki where a body of non-
monastic clergy, intellectuals, and aristocrats, robustly defended
their rights and privileges over and against the monks.
Gregory and Basil together had sketched out a form of asceti-
cal ‘rule’ and it became a foundational part of most Byzantine mo-
nastic communities seeking to regulate their daily lives. Basil put a
premium on manual labour. His ideal was for monks and nuns to
earn their own living from the work of their hands. Gregory was
more inclined to see an important role for the intellectual life. By
and large the later Byzantine monastic tradition followed both ide-
as, with some communities based around farming, while others
encouraged a more scholarly life (at least for some). Most of the
J.A. MCGUCKIN 27
libraries of monastic houses, however, were strictly dedicated to

ecclesiastical and ascetical literature. Only a few, such as that en-
dowed by the Imperial Logothete Theodore Metochites, at the Sav-
iour in Chora monastery in Constantinople, had a more widely
stocked collection, and this because it reflected his own personal
tastes as a very wealthy lay aristocrat.
The central theorists of Byzantine monasticism, such as Sts.
Basil the Great and Theodore of Stoudios (whose writings became
archetypal for later centuries), so insisted that monastics ought to
earn their own living by the labour of their hands, that most of the
ascetic communities tended to be active producers more than con-
sumers. It was an aspect of the monastic spirit that had a far greater
effect than merely channeling the energies of the individual monk,
for it also ensured that the communities themselves would general-
ly tend to fiscal stability, even expansion, within the economic mac-
ro-climate of the empire. In many periods of Byzantine history,
especially when inflation was running at crippling rates, investment
in monasteries was one of the few safe havens for aristocratic cash.
So it is we find, throughout the Byzantine ages, nobles and rich
merchants, endowing monasteries and thus assuming the role of
‘Founder’ (Ktitor), with a view to retiring into the monastic complex
(often with their families with them) in old age, or (perhaps) in
their political disgrace. Monasteries offered to the Byzantine monk,
and their lay supporters, not only an expression of the Kingdom of
God on earth, where salvation could be anticipated and atonement
of sins secured, but in addition a place of safe haven, and a society
whose discipline, peace, and convivial culture, probably excelled by
far most of what they were used to in daily life ‘in the world’
(McGuckin 2001. i).
MONASTICISM AT CONSTANTINOPLE
Monasteries made their appearance relatively early at Constantino-
ple. The first was the Cenobium of Dalmatou built by the Senator
Saturninos for the Syrian monk, St. Isaac, in 382. At first the ascetic
houses were a ring of semi-rural suburban retreats but soon they
came to be centrally embedded in almost every part of town, as the
city itself expanded; and so, almost from its inception, Constanti-
nople was a veritable city of monasteries. Several studies (Janin,
1953, 1975) (Dagron, 1974) (Charanis, 1971) (Talbot, 1987) have
noted this rapid spread of monasticism at the capital. In 430, when
Archbishop Nestorius tried to restrict the social and political in-

volvements of Constantinopolitan monks, the furore caused played
no small part in his political downfall (McGuckin, 1996. i). And by
the time of the condemnation of Eutyches in 448, the latter’s depo-
sition was signed by no fewer than 23 resident monastic Higumens
(abbots). The official notice ending the Acacian schism, listed 53
major city Higumens, and the Synod of Constantinople in 536
listed 63 superiors of local monasteries as being present. Janin
(1953) suggests that special monasteries also existed at the capital
for the different ethnic groups, especially the Syrians, Latins, and
Egyptians, each using their particular languages for services. Very
little is known about the exact number of female convents though
there were indeed several within the city. One survey of Byzantine
literary sources has noted that almost a third of all known monas-
teries existed within the walls of the Great City itself (Bryer, 1979).
With regular imperial and aristocratic endowments, monasticism
flourished throughout the lifetime of the empire. Even times of
apparent setback, such as the hostility that flared between the
monks and the Iconoclastic emperors, or the time of the decrees of
Nikephoros Phokas designed to limit the landholdings of monastic
houses, were merely temporary or reformatory measures. The Byz-
antine powers always supported (and indeed regulated) monasti-
cism. When destruction came, it was inevitably from outside, from
the hands of Latin or Islamic enemies.
The late fourth century also witnessed the first ascetical bish-
op at Constantinople, in the person of St. Gregory the Theologian
(Nazianzen) (McGuckin, 2001. ii). Through the fifth century on-
wards (with some notable exceptions) the court often looked to
monastic celebrities to fill the ranks of Archbishop and Patriarch.
From the beginning, the Archbishop had a great control over the
monasteries. It was not absolute, by any means, for each founder
could specify the degree of his house’s involvement in the affairs of
the local church, and thus sketch out the degree to which the local
bishop’s jurisdiction might be legally circumscribed. But since the
Archbishop had the last word in whether a monastery could enjoy
the services of ordained clergy, his power was considerable even
over relatively independent houses. Eventually the monastic leaders
of the great houses in the city became senior members of the
‘standing synod’ of Constantinople, and thus the bond between the
J.A. MCGUCKIN 29
ascetics and the governors of the local church was drawn even
tighter, at Constantinople and elsewhere.
By the 5th century a number of monastic houses specializing in
public welfare had been established at Constantinople (Constante-
los, 1968). The chief types were Hospitals (Nosokomeia), poor hous-
es (Ptocheia), Hostels for Strangers (Xenones) Orphanages (Or-
phanotropheia), and old age homes (Gerokomeia). Most of them were
private foundations, even if the founder was a member of the im-
perial house, and most were modest in size, often originating from
wills that dictated the transformation of the patrician founder’s villa
into the basis of the institution. The cleric who administered the
Orphanage at Constantinople was a person of some substance and
on occasion rose from that position to become Patriarch. Most
houses, whether they had a social ministry or not (and several ex-
isted primarily and simply to celebrate the divine offices and en-
courage the life of prayer among their ‘hesychasts’), 3 were usually
governed by a triumvirate of officers: the Higumen (Abbot), the
Oikonomos (Steward) and the Ekklesiarches (Sacristan). The Higumen
had the obligation of teaching and ordering the entire household,
and frequently was expected to hear the ‘confession of thoughts’ of
each monastic, though it was common for a Higumen, at least in
larger houses, to appoint a specially revered elder to be the ‘soul-
friend’ and confessor of the monks (Pneumatikos). The relation be-
tween the monk and the spiritual elder was one of dedicated disci-
pleship, and the theme of spiritual fatherhood (especially in later
Byzantine monastic writing) is a considerable one (Turner, 1990),
and very noticeable in the writings of Sts. Symeon the New Theo-
logian and Niketas Stethatos in the 11th century.
DAILY LIFE IN BYZANTINE MONASTERIES

The pattern of life in a Byzantine monastery would vary according
to the nature of the establishment. Some were enclosed, others
more open to the local environment. Some were more collegial,
3 The term means ‘seeker of quiet withdrawal.’ It was a synonym of
‘monk’ before it gained any technical association of theological school in

the later medieval ‘Hesychastic’ movement.
and others more marked by basic societal divisions of the upper

and lower classes (with choir monks distinguished from diakonetai,
who wore different clothes and followed a different diet and re-
gime in many cases, and were allotted different places in the refec-
tory and the church). It would also make a large difference if the
house was founded as a working farm, a centre of icon or manu-
script production, a large cenobitic establishment, or a smaller sub-
unit of monks (a Metochion or a Skete) dependent on a larger house
somewhere else. The latter often had no more than a handful of
monks who lived as a small family under the direction of an elder
and often led a more focused life of prayer and retirement (hesychia).
Throughout the Byzantine period one finds monks moving
between several forms of monastic lifestyle, and often in different
locations, sometimes seeking new elders from far afield. Each
house, in theory, was founded with its own Typikon. This was the
rule and charter established by the founder that determined the
pattern of daily life, and the ethos of the monastery. The different
Typika were normally based on the prescripts of the rules of St.
Basil which sum up the common pattern of eastern monastic theo-
ry. Eventually the Typikon of the Lavra of St. Sabas in Palestine,
and that of the Stoudios monastery at Constantinople became chief
prototypes on which many later Typika were modelled. The level of
freedoms allowed in Byzantine monasteries, especially to those
who were aristocratic and educated before they entered, was much
greater than that typical of the West, which came to be more and
more dominated by Benedictine ideas of common order and disci-
pline. Byzantine nobles could, and did, retain personal wealth after
monastic admission, and saw it as a (loose) extension of the goods
of the monastery. Many of the leaders of monasticism made sub-
stantial gifts to the monasteries they entered. In the late 10th centu-
ry Symeon the New Theologian, becoming abbot of his house at
St. Mamas only three years after first entering the monastic life,
basically refounded the institution and rebuilt the church with most
costly materials (McGuckin. 1996. ii).
Up to three times a week, after morning offices, the Higumen
would normally deliver practical and spiritual instructions to his
monks, and several such collections of Catecheses remain to give a
fairly clear picture of monastic ideals. Two of the most important
collections are the Catecheses of Theodore, from the Stoudios Mon-
astery in the 9th century capital, and those of Symeon the New
J.A. MCGUCKIN 31
Theologian from the late 10th, given at St. Mamas monastery by

Constantinople’s Xerokerkos gate. The writings of Theodore be-
came almost a constitutive charter for Slavic monasteries n the
dawn of the second millennium, and generally remain so today for
the Orthodox church at large. He favoured the model of the large
Cenobium (in his time the community of the Stoudios numbered
700 monks) dedicated to social welfare, active involvement in the
affairs of the church, and energetic production of manuscripts
(possibly the minuscule style of writing evolved here). Neverthe-
less, despite the standardization that occurred around Theodore,
the Byzantine monastic experience always retained a lively sense of
the importance of the Lavriotic and Eremitical styles from which it
had originally evolved. Eastern monks have always been much ‘fre-
er’ in style than those of the West.
The progressive loss of the Byzantine hinterland in the last
imperial ages proved no less disastrous for monastic life as it did
for the empire as a whole. After the Latin occupation of Constan-
tinople in the 13th century most of the monasteries were desperate-
ly impoverished; although even at the fall of the capital in 1453, no
fewer than eighteen monasteries were still actively functioning. The
distant outlying houses, such as those on Crete, Cyprus, or the
Slavic lands, clung on tenaciously through a succession of over-
lords, and their painted churches remain as eloquent testimony of
the dissemination of Byzantine culture through monastic founda-
tions. Some of the fortress monasteries, such as St. Catherine’s at
Sinai or St. Sabas’ Great Lavra in Palestine, also survived as did
(most spectacularly) the great monastic colonies on Mount Athos.
A very large amount of literary records remain but still it is
difficult to form a clearly focused picture of Byzantine monasti-
cism, partly because the paradigms of the West are still so domi-
nant in scholarly imagination, and pre 21st century literature; and
also because the ‘less official’ records of daily monastic life are not
as ample as the charter documents and the many spiritual encomia
that survive, and give us idealized rather than ‘warts and all’ ac-
counts. Such glimpses as we have into the day to day reality of Byz-
antine monarchism come largely, and tangentially, from hagi-
ographies. The overall picture is also difficult to form because (out-
side of Athos) the archeological fabric (which was always fragile
and domestic in character) has been so terribly devastated. The
living pulse of Byzantine monasticism still beats to this day on
Athos and, indeed, throughout the Eastern Christian world (Dal-

rymple, 1997), and can be readily studied in so far as the old tradi-
tions of hospitality are still honoured. The liturgical and theological
aspects can thus be relatively easily observed. It is perhaps more
difficult for the modern mind to appreciate Byzantine monasti-
cism’s ‘missing contexts’: namely how and why this way of life was
once so important societally, and so closely bonded into the politi-
cal and cultural sinews of Byzantium.
BIBLIOGRAPHIC REFERENCES
V Wimbush. (ed) Ascetic Behaviour in Greco-Roman Antiquity.
Minneapolis. 1990.
R Kirschner ‘The Vocation of Holiness in Late Antique So-
ciety.’ Vigiliae Christianae. 38. 1984. 105–124.
S Abouzayd Hidayutha: A study of the life of singleness in
the Orient from Ignatius of Antioch to Chal-
cedon 451. Oxford. 1993.
A Voöbus A History of Asceticism in the Syrian Orient.
vol. 2. Louvain. 1960.
G Fowden ‘The Pagan Holy Man in Late Antique Society.’
Journal of Hellenic Studies. 102. 1982. 35–59.
P Rousseau Pachomius: The Making of a Community in 4th
century Egypt. London. 1985, 1999.
——— Basil of Caesarea. Oxford. 1994.
J Timbie ‘The state of research on the career of
Shenoute of Atripe.’ in BA Pearson & J E
Goehring (eds), The Roots of Egyptian Chris-
tianity. Philadelphia. 1986.
J Binns Ascetics and Ambassadors of Christ : The Mo-
nasteries of Palestine. 314–361. Oxford. 1994.
R Morris ‘The Origins of Athos.’ pp.37–46.in: A Bryrer
and M. Cunningham (edd). Mount Athos &
Byzantine Monasticism. Aldershot. 1994.
JA McGuckin (i) ‘Nestorius and the Political Factions of 5th
Century Byzantium: Factors in his Downfall.’
Bulletin of the John Rylands University Li-
brary. (Special Issue), The Church of the East:
Life and Thought. J.F. Coakley & K. Parry
(edd), Bulletin of the John Rylands University,
Library 78. 3. 1996. 7–21.
J.A. MCGUCKIN 33
——— (ii) ‘St. Symeon the New Theologian and Byz-

antine Monasticism.’ pp.17–35 in : A Bryer &
M Cunningham (edd) Mount Athos and Byzan-
tine Monasticism. Aldershot. 1996.
——— (i) Standing in God’s Holy Fire. The Byzantine
Spiritual Tradition. London. 2001
——— (ii) St. Gregory of Nazianzus : An Intellectual
Biography. New York. 2001.
R Janin La Géographie ecclésiastique de l’empire by-
zantin. Pte. 1. Tom. III. (Les Églises et les mo-
nastères). Paris. 1953.
——— La Géographie ecclésiastique de l’empire by-
zantin. Pte. 1. Tom. II. (Les Églises et les mo-
nastères des grands centres byzantins). Paris.
1975.
G Dagron Naissance d’une capitale : Constantinople et ses
institutions de 330 à 451. Paris. 1974.
P Charanis ‘The Monk as an Element of Byzantine Socie-
ty.’ Dumbarton Oaks Papers.25. 1971. 61–84.
AM Talbot ‘An Introduction to Byzantine Monasticism.’
Illinois Classical Studies. 12. 1987. 229–241.
A Bryer. Studies in Church History. 19. 1979. p. 219.
D Constantelos Byzantine Philanthropy and Social Welfare.
New Brunswick. 1968.
HJM Turner Symeon the New Theologian and Spiritual
Fatherhood. Leiden. 1990.
W Dalrymple From the Holy Mountain. New York. 1997.
Further Reading
D Chitty The Desert a City: An Introduction to the
Study of Egyptian and Palestinian Monasticism
under the Christian Empire. London. 1966.
W Lowther Clark (tr) The Lausiac History of Palladius. London.
1918.
C Mango Byzantium: The Empire of New Rome. Lon-
don. 1980. pp. 105–124.
T Vivian Journeying Into God: Seven Early Monastic
Lives. Kalamazoo. 1996.
B Ward The Desert Christian: Sayings of the Desert

Fathers. The Alphabetical Collection. New
York. 1980.
‘TAKING UPON THE LIKENESS OF
ANGELS’: ASCETICISM AS THE
ANGELICAL LIFE IN APHRAHAT’S
DEMONSTRATIONS
SUJIT T. THOMAS
Aphrahat (c.285–345), the ‘Persian Sage’, is one of the first major

Christian writers in the Syriac language. His twenty-three Demonstra-
tions are his major opus, indeed his only known work. By his time,
Syriac asceticism had developed into a phase where formal groups
were living separate from other Christians and had vowed them-
selves to a stricter discipline of life. Aphrahat’s Demonstrations offer
us valuable insights into the historical and intellectual development
of Christian asceticism. Aphrahat especially utilizes images related
to angelomorphism when discussing the ideal ascetic life. For
Aphrahat the ascetic who takes up the likeness of an angel is ‘vigi-
lant’ like one of the heavenly ‘watchers’ (who keep vigil) 1 and has
ascended into the inner sanctuary of the heavenly temple to behold
the face of God.
We know very little about the life of Aphrahat except that he
was probably born into a pagan family in the Persian Empire in the
latter half of the 3rd century. He embraced the Christian faith and
dedicated himself to a celibate life. BarHebraeus, a Syrian Ortho-
1 There is an inherent pun in juxtaposition of concepts here – for
the concept of ‘angel’ is closely linked to the idea of the heavenly ‘watch-
er’ (ire), as we shall see shortly, and hence by nature the ascetic person like
an angel is ‘vigilant.’
35
36 ASCETICISM IN APHRAHAT’S DEMONSTRATIONS
dox bishop of the 13th century dates the death of Aphrahat to 334
C.E. From the events narrated in the Demonstrations we know that
he wrote between 337 and 345. His Demonstrations (or tahwita) are
written as a reply to a group of spiritual disciples enquiring about
the life of faith. Aphrahat states that the first twenty-two were writ-
ten because there are twenty-two letters in the alphabet. The twen-
ty-third Demonstration (titled On the Grape Clusters) repeats the first
letter of the Syriac alphabet. The text is provides some of the earli-
est known Syriac and all the twenty-three Demonstrations are extant
to us in manuscripts dating, at their earliest, to the fourth and fifth
centuries. 2 In this present paper, while attempting to extract the
mystical theology behind this angelomorphic asceticism, I will fo-
cus primarily on Demonstration 6, subtitled Sons of the Covenant. Be-
fore we venture further it is important to clarify some Syriac terms
that will important for us in understanding base patterns of Syriac
asceticism.
Aphrahat employs four different terms for the ascetics in his
community: Single Ones (ihidaye), the Covenanters (bnay qyama), the
Virgins (bthule), and the Holy Ones (qaddishe). As Stephanie Skoyles-
Jarkins notes regarding these four designations: ‘The terms are flex-
ible and Aphrahat himself uses interchangeably ihidaye, qyama, qad-
dishe and bthule.’ 3 The ihidaye are the single ones who follow Christ
the archetypal single one. As Aphrahat himself states, ‘The Single
One (Ihidaya) who is from the bosom of his Father shall make all
the singles (ihidaye) glad.’ The term bnay qyama can be literally trans-
lated as ‘sons of the covenant’. Not all ihidaya were members of the
bnay qyama. The virgins (bthule) and holy ones (qaddishe) are com-
plementary terms. The former are lifelong celibates while the later
are married individuals who have dedicated themselves to celibate
life. Two other important terms for this study are ‘angels’ (malak)
2 For an index of the earliest known manuscripts, see William
Wright, Catalogue of Syriac Manuscripts in the British Museum 2 (Longmans,

1871).
3 S. Skoyles-Jarkins, Aphrahat the Persian Sage and the Temple of God: A
Study of Early Syriac Theological Anthropology. Gorgias Press. Piscataway.

2008. p. 73.
SUJIT T. THOMAS 37
and ‘watchers’ (ire). Ascetics are exhorted to be both angels and

watchers (Dem. 6.1 and Dem. 6.19).
Before we move onto the angelomorphic ascetic passages in
Aphrahat we should also clarify the term ‘angelomorphic’. Crispin
Fletcher-Louis notes in regard to this term: ‘Though it has been
used in different ways by various scholars, without clear definition,
we propose its use wherever there are signs that an individual or
community possesses specifically angelic characteristics or status,
though for whom identity cannot be reduced to that of an angel.’ 4
Aphrahat’s use of this core comparison of the ascetic life to the
angelical life fits into this definition of ‘angelomorphism’.
In Demonstration 6 there are three instances where Aphrahat
employs angelomorphic ascetic language. In the first section itself
Aphrahat states: ‘He who takes upon himself the likeness of angels
(malak) let him become a stranger to human beings’ (Dem. 6.1 –
paraphrasing Heb. 13.2.). In section 5 when enumerating the
prophets who loved holiness, with reference to Elijah, Aphrahat
states: ‘And because he had taken upon himself the likeness of the
watchers (ire) of heaven, these very watchers brought him bread
and water’ (Dem. 6.5). In the concluding portion of the Demonstra-
tion, Aphrahat states: ‘Accordingly, have a love for virginity as the
heavenly portion which involves communion with the watchers
(ire) of heaven’ (Dem. 6:19). This angelomorphic asceticism has
been read by several modern scholars as a denigration of marriage,
an advocacy of sexual renunciation, demonstrative of a contempt
for the body, and even as a patriarchal attempt to subjugate wom-
en. Often such negative assessments of this ascetic strain are more
a reflection of modern sensibilities and ideologies than the ap-
proach of the ancient writers who are being commented on.
The angelomorphic asceticism of Aphrahat is designed in his
hands as an expression of an interiorized ascent to God and the
transformation attendant on the ascended being which enables one
‘to behold the face of the Father in Heaven (Mt. 18.10)’. Perhaps
the most appropriate designnation for this view of mystical asceti-
cism is what Alexander Golitzin labels ‘interiorized apocalypticism’.
4 Fletcher-Louis, Crispin. Luke-Acts: Angels, Christology and Soteriology.
WUNT. 2.94. Mohr Siebeck Tubingen. 1997. Pp. 14–15.

Golitzin defined this term as: ‘The transposition of the cosmic set-
ting of apocalyptic literature, and in particular of the ‘out of body’
experience of heavenly ascent and transformation, to the inner the-
ater of the soul.’ 5 The source of angelomorphic language in Chris-
tian thought derives from the gospels themselves. On multiple oc-
casions Christ himself employs angelomorphic language. Matthew
22:30 says that, ‘they are like the angels,’ and Luke 20:36 uses the
phrase, ‘equal to the angels’. The third and fourth century ascetics
were simply heeding the evangelical call of their Lord to become ‘as
the angels are’ (Mt. 22.30). However, it would be careless for us to
ignore the importance of Second Temple and post Second Temple
Jewish mysticism as two factors that critically shape the angelo-
morphic asceticism of Aphrahat. As Bogdan Bucur puts it, ‘The
mystical cosmology of Second Temple apocalypticism, constituted
the general framework of early Christian discourse, ritual and ascet-
ic praxis.’ 6
Aphrahat lived in the Persian Empire and is clearly aware of
traditions of Jewish thought. 7 My thesis in this paper, echoing Go-
litzin’s conclusions, is that the angelomorphic asceticism of
Aphrahat is a particularly fine example of the interiorized ascent of
the ascetic to the presence of God, so as to behold the glory of
God. This overview derives from Jewish mystical traditions extant
in his day, yet, Aphrahat transforms the symbolic language of Sec-
ond Temple Jewish mysticism and reworks it so as to express par-
ticular themes and experiences pertinent to the Christian life. A
5 A. Golitzin. ‘Earthly Angels and Heavenly Men: The Old Testa-
ment Pseudepigrapha, Niketas Stethatos, and the Tradition of Interiorized

Apocalyptic.’ in Eastern Christian Ascetical and Mystical Literature Dumbarton
Oaks Papers Vol. 55. 2001. pp. 125–153
6 Bogdan Bucur. Angelomorphic Pneumatology: Clement of Alexandria and
Other Early Christian Witnesses. Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae. 95.

Brill. Leiden. 2009. 134
7 cf. Ilya Lizorkin. Aphrahat’s Demonstrations:a Conversation with the Jews
of Mesopotamia. CSCO. Leuven. 2012; and J. Neusner. ‘The Jewish-

Christian Argument in Fourth-Century Iran: Aphrahat on Circumcision,
Sabbath, and Dietary Laws.’ Journal of Ecumenical Studies 7. 4. 1970. pp.
282–298. Idem Aphrahat and Judaism. Florida Univ. 2000.
SUJIT T. THOMAS 39
thorough examination of Second Temple Jewish mystical traditions

is outside the scope of this present study. For our purposes here it
is enough to state that concept of ascent to the inner sanctuary,
communion with the angelic host with pure heart, and a vision of
God, are all significant and core themes of Second Temple Jewish
mysticism. An elaboration of these three themes tells the story of
how much Aphrahat appropriates these inherited ideas in a radical-
ly Christocentric way.
Both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament speak of God
as seated on the heavenly throne (Isaiah 6, Ezekiel 1, Hebrews 8:1).
This seat is a fiery throne composed of the cherubim in the inner-
most sanctum of the heavenly temple, where God is served by the
celestial powers. For Aphrahat the ascetic Christian becomes that
temple in which this ascent to angelic presence takes place. In
Demonstration 14 (On Exhortation) Aphrahat states, ‘He is the great
temple of his maker. The King of the heights enters and dwells in
him, raises his mind to the height and causes his thought to fly to
His sanctuary and shows it to be a treasury of many colors. His
mind wanders about at this sight, and his heart is captivated by all
his senses. It shows to him what he has not known. He gazes at,
and examines that place. His mind wonders at all that he sees’
(Dem. 14:35). Aphrahat also makes it clear in the same Demonstration
that it is on the ladder of Christ that one must ascend to God: ‘He
is the ladder which leads up to the height; let us toil and struggle to
ascend by it to his Father’ (Dem. 14:39). That this interior ascent of
the ascetic is an angelomorphic one is clear from the opening to
Demonstration 6. Here Aphrahat begins his argument about the Sons
of the Covenant by saying: ‘For let us be roused from our sleep at
this time and raise our hearts along with our hands to heaven to-
wards God’ (Dem. 6:1). Similarly his instructions also make the
Christological thrust of this interior ascent clear. For he goes on to
say: ‘If we hold Him in honor, we will go to Him, since He took of
what belonged to us and ascended’ (Dem. 6:10). It is, thus, the as-
cension of Christ to the right hand of God the Father that permits
the ascetic to ascend to the presence of God. The ascetic is able to
ascend to heaven fundamentally because the Spirit of Christ has
first descended on the believer. In Dem. 6.14, Aphrahat shows how
central baptism is to this process.
It was also common belief to both Jewish and Christian
thought that in the heavenly temple the angelic hosts were con-
stantly praising God. Aphrahat uses the title ‘Children of the Light’
to refer to the bnay qyama. 8 Aphrahat argues that in the spiritual
battle against Satan’s darkness, the children of light actually ‘be-
come the light’ (Dem. 6.2; citing 1 Jn. 2.8). The relationship between
angelic liturgy and asceticism is also visible in the title bnay qyama.
The Syriac term Qyama literally means ‘standing firm’ or ‘standing
up’. This liturgical connotation (standing to praise) echoes the con-
nection between qyama and temple imagery which has already been
noted. 9 In this strand of thought also we see the ancient theologi-
an’s Christocentric approach. For Aphrahat, Christ is the Watcher
who does not slumber (Dem. 6.9). A final significant point we may
note about Aphrahat’s angelomorphic asceticism is how the ascetic
who takes up the likeness of an angel becomes one who beholds
the face of God. This theme too, in Aphrahat’s hands becomes
Christocentrically charged, for he argues that the Spirit of Christ is
that which preeminently beholds the face of God (Dem. 6.15).
When ascetics become like the angels, they are enabled to gain the
vision of God where Jesus has preceded them, and given them the
promise they can follow (Mt. 5.8).
In conclusion: Aphrahat’s angelomorphic asceticism is fun-
damentally a matter of an interiorized ascent to God and a trans-
formation of that ascended being which enables a mortal to behold
the face of God, like the worshiping angels. As a representative of
Syriac Christian ascetical thought Aphrahat has much to tell us
about the wider impulses of Eastern Orthodox ascetic praxis. I feel
it best to close this paper in the same way that Aphrahat himself
concludes Demonstration 6: ‘Therefore, read, learn and be diligent in
both reading and action. Let the Law of God be your meditation
always. And when you have read this letter, my beloved, by your
life, stand in prayer and make mention of my sinful self in those
prayers.’ (Dem 6.20).
Citing Jn. 12.36 at Dem. 16.7; and 1 Jn. 2.8. at Dem. 6.2.
S. Skoyles-Jarkins, Aphrahat the Persian Sage and the Temple of God: A
8
Study of Early Syriac Theological Anthropology. Gorgias Press. Piscataway.

9
2008. p. 84
SUJIT T. THOMAS 41
BIBLIOGRAPHY
K.Valavanolickal (ed). Aphrahat: Demonstrations I. Catholic Theolog-
ical Studies of India 3. Changanassery. 1999.
——— (ed). Aphrahat: Demonstrations II. Moran Etho vol. 24.
Kottayam. 2005.
P. Brown The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sex-
ual Renunciation in Early Christianity. New
York. 1988.
B. Bucur. Angelomorphic Pneumatology: Clement of Alexandria
and Other Early Christian Witnesses. Supplements
to Vigiliae Christianae 95. Leiden. 2009.
——— ‘Early Christian Angelomorphic Pneumatology:
Aphrahat the Persian Sage.’ Hugoye: Journal of
Syriac Studies 11. 2008. pp. 161–205
C. Fletcher-Louis Luke-Acts: Angels, Christology and Soteriology.
(WUNT 2. 94). Mohr Siebeck. Tubingen. 1997.
pp. 14–15
A. Golitzin, ‘Earthly Angels and Heavenly Men’: The Old
Testament Pseudepigrapha, Niketas Stethatos,
and the Tradition of ‘Interiorized Apocalyptic’,
in Eastern Christian Ascetical and Mystical Litera-
ture. Dumbarton Oaks Papers. 55. 2001. pp.
125–153
——— ‘Recovering the ‘Glory of Adam’: Divine Light
Traditions in the Dead Sea Scrolls and the
Christian Ascetical Literature of Fourth-
Century Syro-Mesopotamia.’ in The Dead Sea
Scrolls as Background to Postbiblical Judaism and
Early Christianity: Papers from an International Con-
ference at St. Andrews, 2001, ed. James R. Davila.
Studies on the Texts of Judah 46. Brill. Leiden.
2003. pp. 275–308.
J. Neusner ‘The Jewish-Christian Argument in Fourth-
Century Iran: Aphrahat on Circumcision, Sab-
bath, and Dietary Laws.’ Journal of Ecumenical
Studies 7. (4). 1970. 282–298.
S. Skoyles-Jarkins Aphrahat the Persian Sage and the Temple of God: A
Study of Early Syriac Theological Anthropology. Gor-
gias Press. Piscataway. N.J. 2008.
THE RECITATION OF THE PSALMS AMONG
EARLY CHRISTIAN ASCETICS
JILL GATHER
This paper seeks to explore the ways in which early Christian ascet-
ics conceived of the Book of Psalms, and why they viewed its reci-
tation as an important means of spiritual growth. Taking as its
starting point the explication of the Psalter by Origen and Athana-
sius, the essay proposes that the journey into the presence of God,
while inextricably linked to the ascetic’s ability to experience purifi-
cation and maturation on a personal level, was in the last instance
undertaken in the hope of serving as an agent for God and, in this
capacity, of effecting universal healing. It is suggested here that
ascetics were guided by the Christian core values of relationality
and compassionate outreach, which they situated at the centre of
their lives and sought to implement on a daily basis. Inner purifica-
tion was but a first though essential step. The ultimate goal was to
engage in the divine task of reconciliation, a task expressed most
fully by placing spiritual growth at the service of neighbors and
aiding them in their own strivings for perfection. Psalmody, among
other spiritual practices, constituted an essential part of this pro-
cess. 1 It determined the daily rhythm of the ascetical Christian ex-
1 In the liturgical practice of early Christian ascetic communities, the
term ψαλμωδια referred to the corporate and private recitation of psalms

which was interrupted at regular intervals by prayer, either at the end of
psalms or between divisions in longer psalms. Luke Dysinger, Psalmody and
Prayer in the Writings of Evagrius Ponticus, New York; Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 2005, 48.
43
44 RECITATION OF THE PSALMS
istence and shaped an inner as well as an outer reality. It brought

seekers for truth into the direct presence of the Son of God, the
divine Physician, and allowed them to experience his life-giving
energies.
Some introductory comments on the Psalms may be helpful at
this point. The Book of Psalms enjoyed great popularity from the
inception of Christianity and is the Old Testament book most fre-
quently cited in the New Testament. 2 In the Gospels, Jesus is seen
to continue the Jewish tradition of praying the Psalms, most nota-
bly when citing Psalm 22 (Mk 15:34) at the moment of his death. 3
The ongoing appeal of the Psalter during the first centuries of the
Church’s formation can be inferred from the frequency with which
it was employed to address pressing doctrinal, apologetic and pas-
toral matters. 4 Continuing popularity is reflected also by its use in
the daily Office of Hours, the agape, at baptisms, funerals and in
private devotion. If prayed individually within the context of an
anchoritic existence, the recitation of psalms and meditation on
their meaning occupied monks for most of the day and much of
the night. If prayed in a communal setting, Psalms were recited and
interspersed with private prayer and prostrations at set hours. 5
2 Everett Ferguson (ed.), Encyclopedia of Early Christianity, London;
New York: Garland Publishing, 1997, 959–60.

3 Joseph Loessl, The Early Church: History and Memory, London; New
York: T&T Clark, 2010, 134.

4 Craig A. Blaising and Carment S. Hardin (eds), Psalms 1–50, An-
cient Christian Commentary on Scripture, Old Testament VII, Downers

Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2008, xviii.
5 The core of the 4th century Egyptian monastic office comprised
twelve psalms, private prayer, prostration and a collect after each. The
final psalm, an alleluia psalm, was followed by the doxology and two lessons
of Scripture. Monks who lived in greater seclusion and gathered for the
office less regularly strove to do at all times what other monks did during
set times, i.e. they recited and meditated on the psalms and the rest of
Scripture while engaging in manual labour, eating and even sleeping. This
being said, it is important not to distinguish too sharply between ‘private’
prayer and ‘liturgical’ prayer. For the early monks there was but one pray-
JILL GATHER 45
Theologians inevitably related key psalmic verses to Christ and

suggested either that the Son of God was directly speaking through
them or that he was the one who was being spoken about. 6
Given the popularity of the Book of Psalms, it is not surpris-
ing that it was a frequent subject for patristic exposition. The first
commentary (or series of homilies) on the psalms was written by
Hippolytus around 200 and followed by important expositions by
Origen, Eusebius of Caesarea, Athanasius, Basil of Caesarea, Greg-
ory of Nyssa, Evagrius Ponticus, John Chrysostom and Cyril of
Alexandria, to name but some of its major Greek-speaking exe-
getes. 7 For the purpose of this study, two scriptural commentators
have been singled out: Origen and Athanasius. Both theologians
produced writings that were deeply influential and shaped the as-
cetical movement in decisive ways. In the hope of reiterating key
points addressed throughout the essay, Evagrius’ teaching will also
be considered toward its end.
ORIGEN ON THE INTERPRETATION OF THE PSALMS

In considering Origen’s explication of the psalms so as to examine
more closely why and how they were seen to facilitate the Christian
ideal of compassionate outreach above and beyond personal
growth, we soon discover that Origen adopts a deeply experiential
approach to their interpretation. According to Karen Torjesen,
whose research has focused closely on Origen’s pedagogical her-
meneutics, the Alexandrian bases his teaching on the understanding
that the Psalter is instrumental to the moulding of the human soul
and that its interpretation is a prominent means of drawing Chris-
tians into the world of the Psalmist. 8 Origen’s objectives for seek-
ing to initiate such a movement are compelling. He proposes that
Scripture is divinely inspired and that the Old as well as the New
Testament are energized conduits of the Word’s life-giving teach-
er, sometimes done in common with others, sometimes alone in the secret
of the heart. See Taft (1986), 57ff.
6 Ferguson (1997), 960.
7 Blaising and Hardin (2008), xviii–xxiv.
8 See Torjesen (1985), 17–30; & eadem (1993), 944–58.

ing. 9 While the divine inspiration of Scripture may not be immedi-

ately apparent (since heavenly teachings are constantly hidden be-
neath the crude, superficial, literal, level of the text) a carefully
trained and spiritually advanced ascetic-exegete is able to detect
these Logos-teachings at a deeper level of the text. 10 By reading the
Book of Psalms Christologically (that is Logo-centrically), the exe-
gete and members of his audience are given the opportunity of
placing themselves in the immediate presence of the divine Word,
and of savoring his healing doctrines. 11 According to Origen, this
experience moves hearers from repentance to deification. It allows
them to undergo a process of purification and illumination over the
course of which they model themselves increasingly after the divine
Logos and come to display Christ-like features. 12 If the exegete
successfully brings the faithful into the Psalmist’s sphere of influ-
ence, inviting them to make the latter’s world their own, and draws
9 Origen, On First Principles 4.1.1–2, trans. G. W. Butterworth. New
York: Harper & Row, 1966, 256–9.

10 Origen, On First Principles 4.1.7–4.2.3, in Butterworth (1966), 265–
75.
11 As Torjesen suggests in her (1993) examination of Origen’s inter-
pretation of Psalm 37 (38), he seeks to bring members of his audience

into the action of the psalm by means of a four-step process. In the first
step, Origen but quotes the verse. He then explores the nature and atti-
tude of the speaker so as to discern more clearly his frame of mind in the
second step. Having placed the words of the verse in the context of the
experience and self-understanding of the speaker, Origen addresses his
audience in the third step. He repeats the interpretation, but now in the
first person, thereby placing in the mouth of his hearers a self-confession
and self-disclosure. The experience of the psalmist just described has now
become the first-person experience of the hearer. In the final step, Origen
quotes the verse again, which has come to be laden with the significance
of its interpretation for members of the audience. The scriptural words
are now voiced as though spoken by them. (see Torjesen (1993), 949).
12 c.f. J.A. McGuckin. Origen’s Use of the Psalms in the Treatise On First
Principles. In: A Andreopoulos, A. Casiday and C Harrison (eds). Medita-

tions of the Heart: Essays in Honour of Andrew Louth. Brepols. (Studia Tradi-
tionis Theologiae vol. 8.) 2011. pp. 97–118.
JILL GATHER 47
out the progression from conversion to perfection, the impact ex-

erted over them can be transformative. Members of the audience
will be able to traverse the full course of the soul’s journey and
place themselves in the immediate presence of the heavenly Word.
By situating the Psalms (among other scriptural passages and pray-
ers) at the heart of their endeavor to ‘pray without ceasing’ (1
Thess. 5:16–18; Col 4:2; Eph 6:18; Luke 18:1), early Christians thus
had at their disposal a powerful means of opening themselves to
the saving energy of inspired Scripture and the Word’s redemptive
guidance. The encounter with Christ at the deepest level of the text
opened the path, Origen argued, to moral, emotional and spiritual
maturation. It promised to cleanse the divine image of the soul and
to allow for its restoration to a purity known before the Fall. In
possession of this restored inner image, ascetics were able to relate
to fellow beings with newfound compassion and integrity. They
were able to mediate between warring factions and to unite all that
had been sundered. Their divine task of reconciliation had well be-
gun.
Ascetics, then, pursued psalmody not only in the hope of re-
covering personal healing and peace but with the overarching in-
tention of facilitating interpersonal and, indeed, universal harmony.
Individual maturation was sought with a view to establishing caring
exchanges. The praying of psalms was an essential aspect of this
process and implied a communal act, even if recited in solitude. It
was a means of gathering all of creation into God’s loving pres-
ence. Origen’s explication of the Book of Psalms opened up a
pathway that enabled Christian ascetics to explore and bring to fru-
ition this process of restoration. It provided a means of reintroduc-
ing a sense of personal as well as cosmic wholeness. The inherent
connection between psalmody, outreach and universal healing is
suggested also by Athanasius’s interpretive approach to the biblical
book which will be introduced in the following section.
ST. ATHANASIUS ON THE INTERPRETATION OF THE

PSALMS
Like Origen, Athanasius held the Book of Psalms in high regard
and cherished its didactic value. In the Letter to Marcellinus on the
Interpretation of the Psalms, which is generally assumed to have been
composed between 360 and 363, 13 the Alexandrian bishop re-
sponds to Marcellinus’ wish to gain a deeper understanding of in-
dividual Psalms and offers his interpretation of the Psalter. He con-
firms Origen’s teaching on the divine inspiration of Scripture and
praises this particular book especially for being a garden that con-
tains the fruits of all the other books. 14 It ‘chants those things in
modulated voice that have been said in the other books in the form
of detailed narrative’ and captures succinctly the many teachings a
reader would otherwise have to gather painstakingly by consulting
individual books of Scripture. Each Psalm serves a purpose and
will prove beneficial in a specific context. For example, he says
Psalm 12 should be recited if believers are in danger of falling prey
to treachery, as it allows them to entreat the Lord and to find ref-
uge with him. 15 Psalm 50 offers words of confession and repent-
ance; it allows a person who has sinned to seek God’s mercy. 16 If
Psalm 38 is a means of fortifying against the foe, Psalm 64 provides
the opportunity to praise and celebrate God. 17
Again in a way that is reminiscent of Origen, Athanasius plac-
es great emphasis on the idea that the Book of Psalms is uniquely
suited to molding the soul of the believer. In other biblical books
one hears: ‘What one must do and what one must not do.’ 18 Atha-
nasius understands the psalms as allowing Christians to appropriate
the words contained in each verse as their very own: ‘The one who
hears is deeply moved, as though he himself were speaking, and is
Blaising and Hardin (2008), xx.

Athanasius, The Life of Antony and Letter to Marcellinus on the Interpre-
13
tation of the Psalms, New York: Harper Collins, 2006, 86.

14
15 Athanasius, Letter to Marcellinus, 100.

16 Ibid. 103.
17 Ibid. 105.
18 Ibid. 92.
JILL GATHER 49
affected by the words of the songs, as if they were his own song.’ 19
As anticipated by Origen, Athanasius thus embraces the Psalter for
drawing the believer into its sphere of influence. The ‘words be-
come like a mirror to the person singing them, so that he might
perceive himself and the emotions of his soul, and thus affected, he
might recite them.’ 20 Observing and reliving the Psalmist’s experi-
ences, Christians come to recognize themselves and to gain insight
into the emotional and mental patterns of their lives. Self-
awareness and self-knowledge increase. Given the wide spectrum
of subjects, moods and circumstances addressed in the scriptural
book and its ability to account for all facets of human experience,
the process of growth thus initiated is all the more effective. The
Psalms capture human existence in its entirety and are therefore
uniquely suited to transforming the soul permanently. 21
In many respects, then, Athanasius builds upon the teaching
of Origen. They both elevate the Psalms to a very special place in
the soteriological scheme, and both agree that psalmic recitation is
a spiritual practice that smoothes out much which is rough and
disorderly in the human soul, and heals what causes grief. 22 Both
agree on the theme Athanasius brings out succinctly, that the Book
of Psalms, ‘possesses somehow the perfect image for the soul’s
course of life.’ 23 Athanasius, however, places perhaps even greater
emphasis than Origen on need to embody scriptural teaching and
19 Athanasius, Letter to Marcellinus, 94. Και ο ακουων δε ως αυτος
οντων αυτου. Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Graeca, ed. J. P. Migne,

λεγων κατανυσσεται, και συνδιατιθεται τοις των ωδων ρημασιν, ως ιδιαν
(P.G.) 27.21. Paris, 1857–1866.

20 Athanasius, Letter to Marcellinus, 95. Και μοι δοκει τω ψαλλοντι
γινεσθαι τουτους ωσπερ εισπτρον, εις το κατανοειν και αυτον εν αυτοις
αυτους. PG 27.24.
και τα της εαυτου ψυχης κινηματα, και ουτως αισθομενον απαγγελλειν
21 David Brakke, Athanasius and Asceticism, Baltimore; London: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1995, 195.

23 Ibid. 111.
embrace fully a virtuous existence. 24 For him, the recitation of the

Book of Psalms is an integral part of a process that enables Chris-
tians to approximate sainthood and to become citizens of the
heavenly Kingdom. The practice ushers in a process that allows
them to re-experience ‘unanimity with those who form the heaven-
ly chorus.’ 25 Unanimity with the angelic host implies fellowship and
common life, a connection that invites further exploration of the
inherent link between psalmody and relationality. It is to this explo-
ration that we now turn our attention.
THE COMMUNAL SETTING OF EARLY CHRISTIAN

ASCETICISM
As we have noted, the teachings of Origen and Athanasius invite
an exploration of psalmody as a means of moulding not only indi-
vidual Christians but also of drawing them into a body of like-
minded fellow travelers and seekers for truth. The extent of early
Christian community formation is an important issue to consider,
for it promises to shed light on the question of how prevalent the
notions of inter-relationality and charitable outreach were in 4th
century Egypt. It is an exploration which may help to redress the
common assumption that members of the ascetical movement, by
withdrawing from the world, neglected the Christian ideal of
24 Origen as well as Athanasius followed the example of ancient phi-
losophers in suggesting that the recitation of a given text can impact a

person’s disposition and advance moral behavior. Both men further
agreed that this understanding had to be re-contextualise and placed with-
in a Christian context. Origen did so by focusing on the meditating activi-
ty of the Logos, an activity to be discerned through the close study and
contemplation of Scripture and a resultant advance in spiritual knowledge.
Athanasius emphasized to a greater degree the incarnational dimension of
the Christian tradition. For him, this implied an ethics of imitation, i.e. the
study of Scripture was meant to usher in a more virtuous existence and to
endow the believer with saint-like features. It was a means of gaining pro-
gressive control over the body and wayward passions. Brakke (1995),
194–6. This, of course, is not to suggest that Origen did not advocate the
fostering of virtue. Rather, the two theologians set different priorities.
JILL GATHER 51
neighborly love. Was it indeed the case that psalmody gradually

adopted a dominant role in early Christian asceticism because em-
phasis shifted from the celebration of the office as a corporate act
of the Church and for the benefit of all mankind to a ritual limited
to the spiritual growth of the individual? 26 Did maturation of the
lone seeker come to be valued over the welfare of the Church and
its members? Or could it be the case that personal growth was
viewed as a vital first step to the healing of all human beings, and
that it was a means to an end rather than the end itself?
Recent scholarship has addressed these questions and pro-
posed a re-evaluation of the premise that ascetical existence and
isolation are inseparably linked in Christian antiquity. Goehring, for
example, finds evidence for the ongoing existence of urban ascetics
in literary, legal as well as archaeological sources and suggests that
this evidence calls into question the prevalent view that sanctity and
physical isolation went hand in hand. This hagiographic topos, how-
ever, came to exert a pronounced influence over Egyptian ascetics
and gave rise to a certain ‘geography of isolation’ that has perhaps
regularly exaggerated the ascetics’ degree of seclusion, thus failing
to capture the complexity of early Christian ascetical praxis. 27
26 Paul Bradshaw, Daily Prayer in the Early Church: A Study of the Origin
and Early Development of the Divine Office, London: Alcuin Club/SPCK, 1981,
151.
27 James E. Goehring, Ascetics, Society, and the Desert: Studies in Early
Egyptian Monasticism, Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1999, 89.

Goehring proposes that Athanasius, as the author of The Life of Antony,
was largely responsible for the progressive exaggeration of an ascetic’s
degree of seclusion, a proposition which would seem to undermine the
argument of this paper (i.e. that Athanasius helped to shape the corporate
spirit of the Church through his interpretation of the psalter) were it not
for the fact that the situation is once again more complex than it may ini-
tially appear. While Athanasius may indeed have contributed to the crea-
tion of the above mentioned hagiographic topos, he was simultaneously
instrumental (in his own pastorate) in linking monastic communities more
closely to the urban episcopate. The bishop accomplished this process by
transforming ascetic communities into satellites of his hierarchical organi-
zation. For instance, he formed close links with Theodore, Pachomius’s
If spatial withdrawal may have been a less pronounced feature

than later sources have led us to believe, the same can be said of
the presumed neglect of interpersonal relationships. Gould, among
others, has proposed that early Christian ascetics were well aware
of the fact that any progress in the spiritual life depended on their
attitude toward the neighbor. 28 Relationships with fellow humans
and with God paralleled each other closely; love for another was
the primary means of encouraging and advancing the work of the
soul in its quest for divine closeness. 29 While destructive relation-
ships did indeed pose a hindrance to spiritual aspiration and were
to be avoided, the attempt to create a new society based on affirm-
ative, supportive exchanges was actively pursued. Nothing preclud-
ed the view that the solitude of the cell and interaction with others
could be brought into accord. Even Antony, the epitome of the
Egyptian solitary, knew a life of complex interrelatedness. 30
To the contrary, Douglas Burton-Christie has argued persua-
sively that a stringent division of solitary and communal existence
does not adequately reflect the complexity of 4th century asceticism.
He insists that a corporate, neighbor-oriented, attitude prevailed in
the desert despite scholarly assertions to the contrary. Paying close
attention to the profound impact Scripture exerted over early
Christians and their conception of communal existence, Burton-
Christie highlights the importance of the biblical commandment of
love and proposes that ascetics were deeply committed to this ten-
et, a tenet they sought to implement despite its many challenges. 31
Even the most solitary of monks were bound to human beings and
eventual successor, and established a close allegiance with Bishop Ser-

apion of Thmuis, a former leader of a monastic community. Athanasius
encouraged monastic counselors to seek out his advice, ordained monks
and elevated them to the rank of bishop. Brakke (1995), 269.
28 Graham Gould, The Desert Fathers on Monastic Community, Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1993, 93.

29 Gould (1993), 104.
30 Gould (1993), 156–7.

31 Douglas Burton-Christie, The Word in the Desert. Scripture and the
Quest for Holiness in Early Christian Monasticism, New York; Oxford, 1993,
262.
JILL GATHER 53
tested their commitment to neighborly love within the arena of

interpersonal relationships. Their desire to do so was such as to
observe closely any passions, especially anger and judgment, which
could compromise this commitment. 32 While relationships were
cultivated in different places and with varying degrees of intensity –
they could take place within the context of a cell shared by master
and disciple, weekly gatherings of monks at the synaxis, encounters
with visitors seeking guidance or during transactions on the mar-
ketplace 33 – these exchanges nevertheless formed an integral part
of a monk’s daily existence and provided a context in which to give
concrete shape to scriptural injunctions. 34
Without negating the anchoritic setting (ethos) of the ascetical
movement as a whole, these researchers thus concur that too great
an emphasis on the paradigm of the solitary hermit limits the read-
ing of early Christian asceticism and does not reflect adequately
how the outer life nurtures rather than restricts the development of
the inner life. 35 Even ascetics who occupied cells in remote, inac-
cessible areas remained members of a larger and local community,
aware that spiritual advancement could not be attained without the
support of fellow seekers. 36 They realized that salvation depended
on a community that provided the context in which to develop and
manifest the Christian ideals of obedience, patience, love and hu-
mility. Interpersonal exchanges offered support and challenge.
Without either, the soul could not prosper.
The observation that early Christian ascetics placed great im-
portance on the lived experience of scriptural teachings and that
the implementation of these teachings, especially the command-
ment of love, is closely linked to a neighbor-oriented attitude thus
helps to dispel the assumption that they pursued individual salva-
tion at the expense of universal healing. The observation also pro-
Burton-Christie (1993), 261.

Ibid. 267.
32
34 Ibid. 20.
33
35 Adam G. Cooper, The Body in St Maximus the Confessor, New York;
Oxford: Oxford, 2005, 8.

36 Elizabeth A. Clark, Reading Renunciation: Asceticism and Scripture in
Early Christianity, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999, 35.

vides an answer to the question of why the daily recitation of the

Psalter, be it in the privacy of the cell or during public gatherings,
would have been crucial to members of an ascetic community. As
suggested by the foundational writings of Origen and Athanasius,
the Book of Psalms was, for the ascetics, a means of being drawn
into the world of the inspired Psalmist and of benefiting from his
experience. By entering his world, Christians were given the oppor-
tunity to find reflected, as though in a mirror, the whole array of
their own thoughts and feelings – their hopes, fears and desires –
and to arrive at greater self-knowledge. Entering into his spiritual
persona, they could also enter into Christ, in whose voice the Psalm-
ist often spoke and whose own mystical life he often foretold.
Greater understanding of these thought patterns, emotional pro-
cesses and mystical insights, allowed ascetics praying the psalms to
experience progressive purification and illumination. It enabled
them to approximate the Christian ideals of generosity, love and
compassion and to mirror these to the world. Communal outreach
thus became a distinct possibility.
The recitation of the psalms enhanced the ascetics’ ability to
engage in charitable outreach also to the extent to which greater
understanding of their personal flaws, struggles and hopes enabled
them to recognize these in fellow beings and to aid them in their
endeavor to draw close to God. By praying the Psalter, Christian
ascetics were given the opportunity to detect human waywardness,
first in themselves and then in the neighbor. They were presented
with the possibility of delving into the depth of their being so as to
touch upon the fallenness of all human nature and, by so doing, of
holding the whole of humanity close to the healing presence of
God. 37 The recitation of the Psalms was, therefore, an ascetical
means of becoming aware of the cost of sin in themselves, and of
drawing on this awareness to connect other people to God. 38
In the hope of exploring more fully the communal spirit of 4th
century asceticism, it may be helpful now to consider a number of
37 Andrew Louth, The Wilderness of God, London: Darton Longman &
Todd, 2003, 67.

38 Rowan Williams, Silence and Honey Cakes: The Wisdom of the Desert,
Oxford: Lion, 2003, 31.

JILL GATHER 55
primary sources 39 that point to the prevalence of charity and

neighborly outreach among the early Christian ascetics.
In the Apophthegmata Patrum, for example, Antony suggests
that: ‘Our life and our death are with our neighbour. If we do good
to our neighbour, we do good to God; if we cause our neighbour
to stumble, we sin against Christ.’ 40 Abba Poemen advises to: ‘Try,
so far as you can, to wrong no man, and keep your heart pure to-
wards everyone.’ 41 Or when a brother asks a hermit: ‘Suppose there
are two monks: one stays quietly in his cell, fasting for six days at a
time, laying many hardships on himself; and the other ministers to
the sick. Which of them is more pleasing to God?’, the hermit is
recorded to reply: ‘Even if the brother who fasts six days hung
himself up by his nose, he wouldn’t be the equal of him who minis-
ters to the sick.’ 42 In this instance, the importance of communal
outreach is exemplified by the monk’s endeavor to minister to the
sick and alleviate their suffering. In the Historia Monachorum in Ae-
gypto, we hear of a like-minded ascetic, a holy man named Theon:
Who had lived as an anchorite in a small cell and had practised si-
lence for thirty years. He had performed many miracles and was
held to be clairvoyant by the people of those parts. A crowd of sick
people went out to see him every day, and laying his hand on them
through the window, he would send them away cured. One could
39 Apophthegmata patrum, Alphabetical Series in Patrologiae Cursus
Completus, Series Graeca, ed. J. P. Migne, vol. 65, 17–440, Paris, 1857–
66, trans. Benedicta Ward, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers, Kalamazoo, MI:
Cistercian Publications, 1975; Vitae Patrum, Book V in Patrologia Latina,
ed. J. P. Migne, vol. 73, 851–1024, Paris, 1860, trans. Benedicta Ward, The
Desert Fathers: Sayings of the Early Christian Monks, London: Penguin Books,
2003; Palladius: Historia Lausiaca, ed. Cuthbert Butler, 2 vols, Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1898, 1904, trans. W. K. Lowther Clarke, The
Lausiac History of Palladius, London: SPCK, 1918; Historia monachorum in
Aegypto, ed. A.-J. Festugière, Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1961,
trans. Norman Russell, The Lives of the Desert Fathers, Kalamazoo, MI: Cis-
tercian Publications, 1981.
40 On Charity 17.2, in Ward (2003), 177.
41 Ibid. 178.
42 On Charity 17.18, in Ward (2003), 181.

see him with the face of an angel giving joy to his visitors by his
gaze and abounding with much grace. 43
In Rufinus’ translation (and elaboration) of the same source,
we catch yet another glimpse of the commitment on the part of the
ascetics to charitable outreach which in this instance, takes the
form of hospitality. We are also reminded of the fact that such a
commitment is inextricably linked to the spiritual practice of
psalmody:
When they had welcomed us, first of all they led us with
psalms into the church and washed our feet and one by one
they dried them with the linen cloth wherewith they were gird-
ed, as if to wash away the fatigue of the journey, but in fact to
purge away the hardships of worldly life with this traditional
mystery. 44
In the same chapter, Rufinus indicates that charity characterizes not
only the relationship of ascetics with visitors but also, and perhaps
more importantly, with each other. The following passage high-
lights this feature. It also allows the reader to catch a glimpse of the
geographic arrangement of the Nitrian community:
The cells are divided from one another by so great a distance
that no one can see his neighbour nor can any voice he heard.
They live alone in their cells and there is a huge silence and a
great quiet there. Only on Saturday and Sunday do they meet
in church and then they see each other face to face as men re-
stored to heaven. If it happens that anyone is missing from this
gathering, they realize at once that he has been kept away by
some indisposition of the body and they all go to visit him, not
all together but at different times; each takes with him whatev-
er he has that might be useful for the sick … Many of them go
three or four miles to the church and the distance between one
cell and the next is no less, but so great is the love between
them and so strong the affection by which they are bound to
On Theon 6.1, in Russell (1981), 68.

Nitria 20.5–8, in Russell (1981), 148.
43
44
JILL GATHER 57
one another and towards all the brethren, that they are an ex-
ample and a wonder to all. 45
There are a host of other passages stressing the communal dimen-
sion of early Christian asceticism, and references to Abbas and
Ammas committed to a life of equality, fellowship and compassion
occur repeatedly. 46 Various examples are given also of solitaries
who return after many years of withdrawal, to take part again in the
common life. Abba John, for instance, is said to have begun his life
as a wandering hermit pursuing many extremes of asceticism only
to join a community later in life in order to direct other monks.
Abba Helle lived a life of extreme solitude, but he, too, returned to
live with fellow monks. Abbas Or and Apollo both began their
ascetical strivings as solitaries. Both received visions in middle age
suggesting that they should reside in a monastery in order to help
their brethren. 47 Last, but not least, it is important to bear in mind
that the ascetical life itself and its objective of drawing close to God
was rooted in the very personal relationship between Elder and
disciple, and that barring this relationship, the attempt to attain
perfection was severely impeded. If ascetics purposefully withdrew
from their brothers as, for instance, Arsenius 48 did, or if they en-
couraged solitude at the seeming expense of communion, 49 it is
Nitria 20.8, in Russell (1981), 149.

On a monk’s refusal to pass judgment on fellow brothers see, for
45
example, Moses 2, in Ward (1975), 117; Macarius 32, in Ward (1975), 113;
46
Poemen 64 & 92, in Ward (1975), 147 & 151.

47 All three examples are cited by Russell (1981), 36.
48 ‘Mark said to Arsenius, ‘Why do you go away from us?’ He re-
plied, ‘God knows I love you. But I cannot be with God and with men.
The countless hosts of angels have only a single will, while men have
many wills. So I cannot leave God, and be with men.’’ On Charity 17.5, in
Ward (1975), 177.
49 ‘‘And so you too, my children, should cultivate stillness and cease-
lessly train yourselves for contemplation, that when you pray to God you
may do so with a pure mind. For an ascetic is good if he is constantly
training himself in the world, if he shows brotherly love and practises
hospitality and charity, if he gives alms and is generous to visitors, if he
helps the sick and does not give offence to anyone. He is good, he is ex-
important to reiterate that these monks, despite appearance, had

the welfare of fellow beings at heart. As Williams notes:
The surface pattern of ‘running’ and ‘fleeing’ from human con-
tact is in fact a much more nuanced affair than it seems. What
is to be learned in the desert is clearly not some individual
technique for communing with the divine, but the business of
becoming a means of reconciliation and healing for the neigh-
bour. You ‘flee’ to the desert not to escape neighbours but to
grasp more fully what the neighbour is – the way to life for
you, to the degree that you put yourself at their disposal in
connecting them with God. 50
The wish to reconcile neighbors to one another and to God was
thus placed at the core of the ascetic endeavor. Psalmody facilitated
this endeavor by advancing growth in love and compassion. It pro-
vided a map which, if read properly, allowed the soul to overcome
internal and external brokenness. It helped to unite a multitude of
people into one Body of Christ. If ascetics appeared to be fleeing
the world, they did so in the hope of engaging in the painstaking
task of drawing all humankind into the unifying presence of God as
fully as they possibly could. 51
ceedingly good, for he is a man who puts the commandments into prac-
tice and does them. But he is occupied with earthly things. Better and
greater than he is the contemplative, who has risen from active works to
the spiritual sphere and has left it to others to be anxious about earthly
things. Since he has not only denied himself but even become forgetful of
himself, he is concerned with the things of heaven. He stands unimpeded
in the presence of God, without any anxiety holding him back. For such a
man spends his life with God; he is occupied with God, and praises him
with ceaseless hymnody.’’ On John of Lycopolis 62–63, in Russell (1981),
62.
50 Williams (2003), 38–9.
51 Ware addresses the far reaching effect ascetic of withdrawal and
silent prayer in this passage: ‘Even had He [God] never sent them back
[into the world], their flight would still have been supremely creative and
valuable to society; for nuns and monks help the world not primarily by
anything that they do and say but by what they are, by the state of unceas-
JILL GATHER 59
EVAGRIUS PONTICUS
A number of concluding passages taken from the corpus of
Evagrius, a disciple of the first generation of Egyptian desert fa-
thers and mothers and, in his own right, a commentator on the
Book of Psalms, may serve to draw out more fully the degree to
which he, like many fellow ascetics, viewed the Psalter as a means
of adhering more fully to a Christian life of virtue and relatedness.
The following text drawn from his Centuries provides a helpful
starting point to this brief discussion:
It is a great thing indeed – to pray without distraction; a greater
thing still – to sing psalms without distraction (μειζον δε το και
ψαλλειν απερισπαστως). 52
He goes on to argue that:
The songs inspired by the demons incite our desire and plunge
our soul into shameful fancies. But psalms and hymns and
spiritual canticles (οι δε ψαλμοι και υμνοι και αι πνευματικαι
ωδαι) invite the spirit to the constant memory of virtue by
cooling our boiling anger and by extinguishing our lusts. 53
Reading, vigils and prayer – these are the things that lend stability
to the wandering mind. Hunger, toil and solitude are the means of
extinguishing the flame of desire. Turbid anger is calmed by the
singing of Psalms (θυμον δε καταπαυει κυκωμενον ψαλμωδια και
μακροθυμια και ελεος), by patience and almsgiving. 54
ing prayer…’ Bishop Kallistos Ware, The Inner Kingdom, (Crestwood, NY:
St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2000), 132.
52 Evagrius, Praktikos 69, trans. John Eudes Bamberger, Kalamazoo,
MI: Cistercian Publications, 1981, 35. As Dysinger suggests, Evagrius is

not proposing that undistracted psalmody is greater than undistracted
prayer. Rather, he suggests that ‘maintaining the nous’ focus exclusively on
God is easier to do when mental images are laid aside in pure prayer than
it is when the nous is intentionally immersed in the rich barrage of images
which psalmody evokes.’ Dysinger (2005), 99.
53 Evagrius, Praktikos 71, in Bamberger (1981), 35.
54 Evagrius, Praktikos 15, in Bamberger (1981), 20.

These passages suggest that, for Evagrius, the recitation of

Psalms is a powerful tool in the attempt to calm the agitated mind
and to achieve freedom from passion, namely apatheia. Psalmody
eases emotional and physical distraction. It reorders human pas-
sions and allows the nous, that is, the intellect or rational part of the
soul, to give its undivided attention to the pursuit of virtue and,
progressively, to the undistracted contemplation of God. The close
link between the singing of psalms and growing virtue calls to mind
the teachings of Origen and Athanasius. Like them, Evagrius be-
lieves that the Book of Psalms provides a means of smoothing out
that which is rough and disorderly in human beings and of molding
the soul. It offers a tool with which to confound the demons and
neutralize their effect on the soul. If ascetics make the words they
have memorized during long hours of public and private recitation
their own, they can draw on these to appeal to God’s aid in mo-
ments of temptation and affliction. 55
But like Origen (and here more so than Athanasius), Evagrius be-
lieves that the Book of Psalms holds still greater treasure in store,
in that it lends itself to a thorough-going Christological interpreta-
tion and allows for a direct encounter with the divine Word. To
more advanced ascetics, the psalms are a valuable source of per-
ceiving the divine imprints of the Logos (the logoi), in all created
things and in events of salvation history relayed in the biblical
book. 56 The logoi reveal the person and purpose of Christ-Logos on
a deeper level of the text, beneath its superficial literality, and allow
the divine Teacher to act directly on the human soul. A Psalm
therefore provides not only a picture for ascetics to imitate but is
itself the means by which the soul it propelled toward deification
55 Dysinger points out that the memorization and recollection of
psalms is an important tool in monastic warfare against the demons, a tool

Evagrius calls αντιρρησις, i.e. ‘refutation’ or ‘contradiction,’ and which he
recommends especially in the Praktikos, Antirrhetikos and On Prayer.
Evagrius also presents antirrhetic texts in his Scholia on Psalms. Dysinger
(2005), 149.
56 Dysinger (2005), 150.
JILL GATHER 61
(theiopoiesis). 57 The word of Scripture is the word of Christ and de-

scribes the cure for sin. But since it is also the Word himself, the
Son, it is itself the cure. Drawing on Origenian teaching, Evagrius
can therefore propose that the faithful not only see themselves in
the interpretation of the psalms but are directly acted upon by the
heavenly Physician who by this means administers his life-saving
medicine. 58
Given the close association Evagrius establishes between the
Psalter and spiritual growth, the question arises if and to how great
an extent he, too, situates the progression from repentance to pure
prayer within a relational context. What impact does the singing of
psalms and inner maturation exert over ascetics’ interpersonal rela-
tionships and their readiness to engage in charitable outreach? For
Evagrius, the imitation of divine love and gentleness is a defining
feature of genuine Christian existence. Indeed, it is better to be ‘a
gentle worldly man than an irascible and wrathful monk.’ 59 Love
and gentleness mark the true disciple of Christ:
One who does not possess kindness and love towards his
brother, how could he be a member of Christ-bearing love?
When a brother visits you during your intense fast and practice
of stillness, do not accept the odiousness of thoughts that sug-
gest disturbance of your stillness and interruption of your fast
… Let us not speak of the frequent visits of the brothers as
disturbances, but rather let us trust their community as a help-
ful alliance against the phalanx of the adversary; for thus united
57 Evagrius expounds the theme of Christ as the exegetical key to the
psalter most fully in his Scholia on Psalms in which he points to the reader’s
ability to encounter Christ on a number of scriptural levels. On the level
of praktike, i.e. the active life, Christ provides a model of correct behav-
iour so as to guide the soul toward increasing virtue. On the level of
physike, which is concerned primarily with the contemplation of the natu-
ral order, Christ’s work as cosmic creator and redeemer becomes discern-
ible. At the summit of the spiritual progress (theologia), the faithful are able
to contemplate Christ directly. Dysinger (2005), 154–5.
58 Torjesen (1993), 954–5.
59 Evagrius, Ad Monachos 34, trans. Jeremy Driscoll, New York:
Newman Press, 2003, 47.

by the charm of charity, we shall expel wickedness and transfer

the world of manual labor into the treasury of hospitality. 60
According to Evagrius, compassion rather than the strict ob-
servance of ascetical practices enables humans to model themselves
after Christ and to attain knowledge of God. The gentle heart sees
God. 61 Yet like members of the first generation of desert fathers
and mothers, Evagrius is well aware that communal existence holds
numerous challenges. He knows that: ‘It is not possible to love all
the brothers equally.’ 62 Even so, he never wavers in his emphasis
on the importance of communal living. The relational context of
Christian life provides the setting in which ascetics meet the chal-
lenges of day-to-day existence. Only by facing these challenges and
by committing to a life of charity can the heart be transformed:
If your brother irritates you, lead him into your house, and do
not hesitate to go into his, but eat your morsel with him. For
doing this, you will deliver your soul and there will be no
stumbling block for you at the hour of prayer. 63
He who is merciful to the poor destroys irascibility, and he who
cares for them will be filled with good things. 64 The ascetic who
does not care for the sick, however, will not see the light. 65 For
Evagrius, spiritual progress is thus intimately linked to communal
outreach. 66 If a fellow ascetic is sad, it is important to console him,
60 Evagrius, To Eulogios 24.25, in Robert E. Sinkewicz, Evagrius of Pon-
tus: The Greek Ascetic Corpus, New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2003, 51.
61 Evagrius, Ad Monachos 99, in Driscoll (2003), 58.
62 Evagrius, Praktikos 100, in Sinkewicz (2003), 113.
66 Dysinger detect a progression from the orientation of the Antirrhe-
tikos to the antirrhetic verses in the Scholia on Psalms in that the former is
preoccupied with the ascetic’s own spiritual progress while the latter has
the progress of others at heart. This, he suggests, corresponds in some
degree to Evagrius’s model of spiritual advance in that ‘the praktikos em-
ploys the weapons of the Antirrhetikos in the battlefield of his own soul,
JILL GATHER 63
and: If he is pained, share the pain. For doing thus, you will gladden his heart,
and you will store a great treasure in heaven. 67
Evagrius notes that the singing of the psalms is an essential
component of the endeavor to extend kindness to all fellow beings,
for in the one singing psalms, irascibility is quietened (Ψαλλοντος ησυχαζει
θυμος). 68 The healing of irascibility (and of so many other instances
of human waywardness) is effected through the direct encounter
with Christ, the divine Physician, in the text of Scripture and his
ability to restore the soul to emotional balance. According to
Evagrius, this process of healing leads to nothing less than entry
into the angelic realm. 69 Like Athanasius, who suggests that priests
singing psalms summon souls into calmness and oneness of mind
with the heavenly chorists, 70 or Origen, who emphasizes the need
to share in the angelic work of mediation, Evagrius points to the
importance of joining the choir of angels: To chant psalms before the
angels, he says: Is to sing psalms without distraction (Εναντιον αγγελων
ψαλλειν εστι το απερισπαστως ψαλλειν): either our mind is imprinted
[while] the gnostikos discovers in the Scholia on Psalms healing texts which
are not only therapeutic for himself, but which may also be offered to the
diverse groups of people who seek his advice.’ Dysinger (2005), 149.
69 The importance of arriving at so elevated a state as to resemble
the angels is illustrated repeatedly in accounts of the early desert fathers

and mothers. As noted by Russell, it was not unusual for a visitor to the
Egyptian desert to encounter many virtuous fathers who seemed to ap-
proximate the angelic life; Prologue 5, in Russell (1981), 49. Abba Bes, for
example, was renowned for his meekness, and fellow brothers reported
that ‘he had never sworn an oath, had never told a lie, had never been
angry with anyone, and had never scolded anyone. For he lived a life of
the utmost stillness, and his manner was serene, since he had attained the
angelic state,’ On Abba Bes 4, in Russell (1981), 66.
70 Athanasius, Letter to Marcellinus 28. Ουτως οι ιερειςψαλλοντες, εις
χορευοντων προσεκαλουντο. PG 27.41.

αταραξιαν τας ψυχας των λαων και εις ομονοιαν αυτας των εν ουρανοις
solely by the realities symbolized by the psalm, or else it is not imprinted. 71 For
him, leading an angelic life implies perpetual praise of God which,
while on earth, is seen to be offered most effectively by the shared
life of the community of the Church, a notion that presupposes the
centrality of relationality and outreach.
Origen, Athanasius and Evagrius thus all agree that the recita-
tion of the Psalter is an integral part of this endeavor to imitate the
angelic realm. By engaging in psalmody, Christians prepare them-
selves for the heavenly task of mediation which compels them to
pray for fellow humans, to offer instruction, to guide, counsel, heal
and to intercede on their behalf. Indeed, as Evagrius proposes, it is
right for Christians not only to pray ‘for your own purification, but
also for that of all your fellow men, and so to imitate the angels.’ 72
Personal healing is seen as a prerequisite to participating in the
God-given work of reconciliation and to curing fellow seekers.
Having undergone restoration on a personal level, advanced seek-
ers: ‘help the holy angels and … return reasoning souls from vice
to virtue and from ignorance to knowledge.’ 73 Christians who are
no longer in the throes of passion, who can discern the spiritual
nature of creation and who have entered a state of pure prayer are
in a unique position to imitate Christ and to administer spiritual
medicine to all beings in need of healing.
CONCLUSION
Early Christian ascetics adhered to the belief that the angelic life
implied loving coexistence, that is, a life of communion and whole-
ness, love and friendship. They proposed that, on earth, this exist-
ence was lived out within the context of the Church which repre-
sented a Synaxis of the heavenly temple and allowed Christians to
contemplate and praise God amongst a community of equals. As
Evagrius, Scholion 1 on Psalm 137:1(3), cited in Dysinger (2005),

100–1.
71
72 Evagrius, On Prayer 40, in Philokalia 1, trans. G. E. H. Palmer, Phil-
ip Sherrard and Kallistos Ware, compiled by St. Nikodimos of the Holy

Mountain & St. Makarios of Corinth, London: Faber and Faber, 1979, 60.
73 Evagrius, Kephalaia Gnostica 6.90, cited in Dysinger (2005), p. 45.
JILL GATHER 65
suggested by theologians, such as Origen, Athanasius and Evagrius,

it was psalmody that helped to shape this community by calming
the restless soul and summoning it to the continuous memory of
virtue. The recitation of the Psalms, whether in private or public,
was seen to draw Christians into the world of the Psalmist and to
reflect back to them their own struggles and also how these might
be overcome. It was seen as a spiritual practice that promised to
bring humans face to face with the healing presence of the Son
himself and, by so doing, to reverse their internal fragmentation.
Importantly, psalmody also allowed the faithful to engage in the
divine task of neighbourly outreach and reconciliation. By ‘putting
on Christ’ (Gal. 13.27) they brought into being a new creation. This
creation rested on the Christian ideals of virtue, love and mutuality.
It called for a return to personal wholeness in the hope of opening
the door to the healing of all humanity. Only then did the quest for
perfection bear fruit and allow for the transformation of Earth into
God’s holy Kingdom.
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(1985), 17–30.
——— ‘Origen’s Interpretation of the Psalms,’ Studia
Patristica 17:2 (1993), 944–958.
R. Williams Silence and Honey Cakes: The Wisdom of the
Desert, Oxford. 2003.
B.Ward The Desert Fathers: Sayings of the Early Chris-
tian Monks. London. 2003.
——— The Sayings of the Desert Fathers, Kalamazoo,
MI. 1975.
K. Ware The Inner Kingdom. Crestwood, NY. 2000.
THE VIRGINS SING ORTHODOXY:
EPHREM’S CHOIRS & THE
DISSEMINATION OF NICENE THOUGHT
IN SYRIA
ROBERT NAJDEK
From his own time to the present day, the influence of Saint
Ephrem the Syrian in his role in propagating the faith of the Coun-
cil of Nicaea in the Syriac Church and greater Christianity has been
acknowledged. Despite this, his choirs of female virgins and their
role in spreading the faith have largely been ignored in modern
scholarship. 1 As the place of women in much of the Christian
world waned, the presence of the office of the still-mysterious
‘Daughters of the Covenant’ within the Syrian Church not only
gave women a voice, but also helped to spread ‘orthodox’ Christ-
ianity that was just rising to its majority in Syria. 2 St. Ephrem’s fa-
mous Hymns were often performed by, and written for, choirs of
female consecrated virgins. For the average Christian, these hymns
would serve as the most lasting impression of the Nicene ortho-
doxy that Ephrem had come to embrace and propagate among his
followers, while simultaneously attracting people of other Christian
sects and religions. Theological homilies and philosophical treatises
were often far outside the purview of the illiterate populace, yet
these choirs provided not just an interactive performance, but also
1 The pioneering works of Susan Ashbrook Harvey have been most

influential in changing this impression; see Harvey (2005), (2010).
2 Harvey (2010), 36.
67
68 EPHREM’S CHOIRS & NICENE THOUGHT
an indoctrination into the faith of the newly Christian Roman Em-

pire. Often, as modern and hyper-academic readers of liturgical
texts, we displace such hymns from their original contexts and thus
muffle the voices in which they were sung. In doing so, the power
of these hymns and the centrality of the liturgy are too often lost
on the modern reader.
Saint Ephrem the Syrian died in Edessa, in what is now Sanli
Urfa in Turkey, in 373 after living there for over a decade. He had
left his hometown of Nisibis with a large segment of the Christian
population of that city after its capture by the Persians in 359. 3 His
bishop in Nisibis, Jacob, had attended the Council of Nicaea. 4
There is little firm reason to believe the several legends that attest
that Ephrem, who was a deacon at the time, joined his bishop at
the Council. Despite this, these stories do reveal a truth about the
importance that the theology of Nicaea would exert on Ephrem. 5
Jacob was also the first bishop of Nisibis appointed by the Roman
hierarchs. 6 Although Edessa was firmly within the territory of the
Roman Empire, the concept of Nicene Christianity was even more
tenuous there than in the city of Nisibis. 7 Both Nisibis and Edessa
had quite large and influential Jewish populations, as well as Mani-
chaeans and various Christian groups. 8 The ecclesial pedigree of
Christianity, which Ephrem practised, was known locally as ‘Palu-
tianism’ (from its most famous bishop), distinguishing it from the
majority Christian Marcionite sect in Edessa at the time. 9 Whereas
his church seemed to have been only one of several dissident sects
of Christianity operating in the region it would, with Ephrem’s in-
fluence, grow to become the mainstream church of Syria. He, of
course, always considered it the true ‘catholic’ church, the succes-
sor of the Church of the apostles, with the other sects being here-
3 Russell (2005), 215.

4 Ibid. 221.
5 Griffith (1986), 81. Cf. McVey (1986), 27.
6 McVey (1986), 8.
7 Ibid. 27.
8 Neusner (1999), 180–1.
9 Murray (2004), 7. Cf. Drijvers (1987), 153.
ROBERT NAJDEK 69
sies. 10 Ephrem’s popularity led one leading scholar to state that

Ephrem, ‘did more than almost any other single person to bring
the Syriac-speaking churches of the fourth century to embrace Ni-
cene orthodoxy.’ 11
Early Syriac asceticism possessed a unique character, which
would only later be influenced by the more pervasive Egyptian
style of monasticism. 12 The study of early Syriac asceticism is prob-
lematic for two reasons: the dearth of early primary sources and the
prejudices imposed on it in by later church histories who tended to
read everything through an anachronistic Egypto-Byzantine lens. 13
Although there was a widespread ascetical impulse in Syria in the
earliest Christian centuries, its nature and history has often re-
mained unclear. Not only did those who would come to be known
as orthodox Christians have ascetical practices, the ascetic impulse
was also strong among many of the heretical sects, which Ephrem
would denounce in his Hymns. 14 His greatest opponents were the
Arians, who were still a prevalent force in Syria and much of the
Christian world in Ephrem’s time. More importantly, Arianism was
sometimes supported by many in the Imperially-sponsored Roman
hierarchy, a connection that Ephrem regarded as important for the
sustenance of orthodoxy in the East of the Orient province. 15
The earliest and most important source regarding Syrian ascet-
icism comes from Aphrahat the Persian in his sixth Demonstration.
Aphrahat was a slightly older contemporary of Ephrem and fo-
cused more on ascetical practices in his writings. The sixth Demon-
Griffith (1999c), 106. Cf. Griffith (1999b), 133.

Griffith (1999c), 97.
10
11
12 Brock (1983), 4. Cf. Griffith (1999a), 328; Amar (2011a).
13 Griffith (1999a) provides an excellent overview of the currently
scholarly debate regarding the nature and uniqueness of early Syrian ascet-
icism and the problems of the reliability of certain Byzantine church histo-
rians such as Theodoret, Sozomen, and Palladius on asceticism in Syriac
Christianity. On the ways in which Ephrem’s biographies would be
shaped by these same ideological changes Amar (2011b), v–xxix.
14 On asceticism in heretical sects, particularly in Marcionism see
Vööbus (1951). Cf. Hunt (2012).

15 Shepardson (2005), 112–3.
stration was written in about the year 336 and is addressed to his
‘single ones’ (îḥîdāyê), who were also called the ‘covenanters.’ This
text served as a kind of rule for such celibate singles, an association
which included both men and women. 16 The ‘covenant’ (qyāmâ),
for Aphrahat, can refer to the official ascetic class of believers or
the church as a whole. 17 The centrality of celibacy to Syriac asceti-
cism, whether or not it took place within a special institution, can-
not be understated. It seems that celibacy was a necessary prerequi-
site for baptism for quite some time in early Syrian Christianity. 18
The ‘sons and daughters of the covenant’ were mainly distin-
guished by their ‘vows of celibacy, voluntary poverty, and service to
the local priest or bishop.’ 19 Their vows helped define their life of
asceticism, but certainly did not force them into seclusion from the
general public. They were far from being anchorites. The complexi-
ty of the practices that Aphrahat describes, combined with the fact
that he is also the composer of the oldest surviving Syriac Christian
texts, exposes how little we still actually know about the origin of
these ascetic practices and institutions.
The distinct nature of Syriac asceticism, especially in the peri-
od before pervasive Egyptian and Byzantine influence, allowed
these ‘singles ones’ to choose their own living arrangements within
the local communities. 20 Syrian ascetics thus from the outset
seemed to be living amongst the general population, influencing
practice, and participating in the liturgy. 21 These consecrated Chris-
tians, especially the female virgins, seemed to have lived at first
within their family’s homes and did not find it necessary to remove
themselves from the secular world as the later ascetical system
would develop. 22 This idiosyncrasy has led some scholars to refer
16 Griffith (1993), 141, 5.

17 Griffith (1999a), 335.
18 Brock (1984), 6–7. On this issue see Murray (1974), Vööbus
(1951).
19 Harvey (2005), 126.
20 Griffith (1993), 156. On the development and changes in Syriac
asceticism see Amar (2011a).

21 Brock and Harvey (1998), 10. Brock (1992), 136.
22 Amar (2011a), 6.
ROBERT NAJDEK 71
to early Syriac asceticism as a kind of ‘proto-monasticism’ or a ‘pre-

monastic phase’. 23 The collective nature of the covenant has led
many to this position, but the urge to neatly categorize the cove-
nanters in some ways blinds us to how diverse ascetical practices
have been throughout Christian history. Some scholars have noted
the similarities between the female ‘single ones’ and the status of
virgins and widows within second-generation New Testament
texts. 24 As time went on the virgin daughters of the covenant prob-
ably moved towards a more common life, in buildings clustered
round the church, maybe adjacent to it. Then their liturgical role
developed more acutely. The daughters of the covenant’s liturgical
role thus places them in a more dominant public position than the
Virgins and Widows of the New Testament period, although the
roles of each are still more ambiguous than one would hope. The
very institution contradicted dominant stereotypes of women prev-
alent in Late Antiquity, placing them in an important ecclesiastical
role and thus above lay Christian males within the church hierar-
chy. 25 These women were not to be segregated from society at large
nor other ascetic men like other religious women from different
geographic locations and periods. 26 The question of the origin of
the role of these choirs of consecrated virgins as a liturgical pres-
ence is as interesting as it is impossible to answer definitively. Sev-
eral scholars have suggested that Ephrem specifically used women’s
choirs because different heretical sects also utilized women’s
choirs, especially the followers of Bardaisan. 27 Whether or not Bar-
daisanite choirs were significant in pre-Ephremite Syrian church
praxis, the role his choirs had in reifying certain beliefs and defining
religious boundaries is clearly important. 28 The very presence of
women’s liturgical choirs was a distinctive tradition that marked off
the Syriac language churches from their Greek and Latin counter-
23 Brock (1992), 139. Cf. den Biesen (2006), 87.

24 Griffith (1999a), 331.
25 Brock and Harvey (1998), 22.
26 Brown (2008), 332.
27 Quasten (1941), 153–4. Ephrem does allude to Bardaisan’s hymns
and choirs in his Hymns against Heresies 1; 53.

28 Harvey (2005), 135. Cf. Harvey (2010), 37.
parts. In the latter, we rarely find mention of the custom except in

a condemnatory form. 29
Today, the large majority of Ephrem’s surviving works con-
sists of his Hymns. These largely fit within three categories, the mem-
ra, madrasha, and the sogitha. 30 The memra were verse homilies and
would certainly have been chanted by the male preacher, in this
case probably Ephrem himself. The madrasha was a ‘strophic poem’
sung with the choir or audience responding with a repeated phrase.
The word madrasha is also translated as ‘teaching hymn’ or ‘doctri-
nal hymn’ and this genre was often utilized by Ephrem for his po-
lemical works. The madrasha compromises the largest number of
his extant works. 31 Although Ephrem’s madrasha seem to have been
immensely popular in his own day, and were translated into many
languages during his own life, we know relatively little about how
they were performed. The loss of knowledge regarding specific
liturgical practices in Ephrem’s times largely leaves us with just the
text of the hymn to understand how they were to effect changes in
the life and thought of the average Christian. These tunes would
serve a similar purpose to the polemical homilies of other theologi-
ans at the time. 32 The specific tunes to which these hymns were set
have for the most part been lost, although we have many of their
names, some of which seem to match non-Christian music of the
same period. 33 It appears that the stanzas would be sung by the
choirs, and the refrain would be sung by the deacon and/or the
congregation. The refrain is a concrete example of the parishioners
affirming certain theological ideas, while also allowing them to in-
teract with these choirs. The sogitha or ‘dialogue hymn’ provides an
interesting example of the way in which these chants would have
29 Harvey (2005), 141. For a detailed exploration of the role these

choirs played in both defining and disrupting the role of women in early
Syriac Christianity, see Harvey (2010).
30 Harvey (2005), 137. Cf. Brock (2005), 712.
31 Brock and Kiraz (2006), xiii. Cf. Harvey (2005), 129; Murray
(2004), 31–2.
32 Brown (2008), 329.
33 Taylor (2010), 190. Cf. Brock and Kiraz (2006), xiii–xvi. Quasten
(1983), 82.
ROBERT NAJDEK 73
been recited in the ancient churches of Syria. Although they belong

to an ancient Mesopotamian pre-Christian style, Ephrem made use
of the genre. 34 This style lent itself greatly to the technique of in-
venting (fictional but commentative) dialogues among biblical
characters, placing the choirs in the role of those characters. It ap-
pears that both male and female choirs would participate in these
dialogue hymns as they were sung antiphonally between the respec-
tive male and female characters. It is also important to mention
that choirs of consecrated virgins would also be used for the sing-
ing of the psalms during the Eucharistic liturgy, and within other
liturgical contexts, such as the Hours. 35 Although Ephrem does not
himself explicitly mention the office of the Daughters of the Cove-
nant, he does mention singing virgins. In his fourth of the Hymns on
the Nativity he states: ‘May the chant of chaste women please You,
my Lord, May the chant of the chaste women dispose You, my
Lord, To keep their bodies in chastity.’ 36
One of our few insights into the actual performance of these
hymns in Ephrem’s time is through Jacob of Serug’s Homily on Mar
Ephrem, which was composed about a century after Ephrem’s
death. 37 In regard to this paper, Jacob’s most important insight into
the life of his subject is his emphasis on Ephrem’s establishment of
women’s choirs to ‘make their chants instructive melodies (v.114)
which ‘eliminated stumbling blocks which had multiplied’ (v.154).
Here, the phrase stumbling blocks certainly refers to heretical ideas
and sects. Jacob explicitly states that Ephrem had ‘introduced these
women to doctrinal disputes’ and through them and specifically
their ‘soft tones he was victorious in battle against all heresies’
(v.152). 38 The very nature of their singing, through melodious tones
is clearly a factor in the public struggle to end heretical thought.
Jacob claimed that these choirs were founded and sanctioned by
Ephrem for the precise purpose of combating heresy. Jacob re-
34 Brock (2005), 713.

35 Harvey (2005), 131.
36 McVey (1989), 93. (HNat. 4.62–3).
37 Amar (1995), 16. The following parenthesized verse citations are
all from this work.

38 Amar (1995), 53, 65. Cf. Harvey (2005), 141.
moves them from their putative origin in the Bardaisanite camp

and places them squarely within the orthodox arsenal, to argue that
they were one of the Nicene Church’s strongest weapons against
heresy. Through their ascetical practices these women were para-
gons of right action and through their liturgical functions they be-
came active proponents of right belief. Whereas women had previ-
ously been ‘silent from praise … this wise man decided that it was
right for them to sing praise,’ as Jacob relates about Ephrem (v.
96). 39 This silence is turned on its head as Jacob states: ‘Behold a
new sight of women uttering the proclamation; and behold, they
are called teachers among the congregations’ (v. 42). The word Ja-
cob uses for proclamation is the Syriac equivalent to the Greek
term kerygma. 40 Jacob’s Homily has helped in terms of the historical
record to solidify the connection between Ephrem and the choirs
of virgins, but it also helped to give the choirs long-term validity
within the Syriac tradition. Not only did they have hierarchical
sanction, they also were central to the conveyance of right belief
(orthodoxia) for the congregations to which they sang.
In the Syriac tradition of Ephrem’s Vita, Ephrem’s hymnody
was seen as the direct result of his interaction with the Bardai-
sanites and only began well into his later life. The author of one of
the major Vita texts calls Ephrem’s hymns an ‘antidote’ against
‘false teachings.’ His use of the Daughters of the Covenant was a
major part of this project. Ephrem ‘established instruction … and
taught them hymns as well’ so that they sang in the liturgy, at mar-
tyr feasts, and funeral processions. 41 Ephrem ‘transmitted his wis-
dom to all the learned and wise women’ and he himself would
‘stand among them.’ 42 Ephrem’s Hymns against Heresy are the clear-
est example of Ephrem’s intent to solidify Nicene Christianity in
the face of the many sects operating in his time. In these hymns
Ephrem sets down his view of the ‘true church’ and ‘true doc-
trine.’ 43 The most influential of the groups Ephrem polemicized in
39 Amar (1995), 49.

40 Ibid. 35.
41 Amar (2011b), 78.
42 Ibid. 80.
43 Griffith (1999c), 107. Cf. Griffith (1999b), 125–40.
ROBERT NAJDEK 75
this collection were the Arians, and anti-Arian propaganda takes up

the main share of the hymnal content. 44 Ephrem’s Hymns against
Julian would also help to define the church’s relationship to the
newly Christianized Roman Empire. These hymns were composed
after the corpse of the last pagan Emperor Julian was brought
through Ephrem’s hometown of Nisibis. 45 The hymns place Julian
and his death within Ephrem’s view of salvific history. Ephrem
envisaged the death of Julian as the death of paganism itself and his
defeat (and the subsequent accession of a Christian Emperor in the
person of Jovian) as the solidification of Rome as the God-blessed
Christian empire that would change history on a cosmic level. The
hymns establish the Christians of Nisibis as the only true believers
in the chaos of Roman-Persian conflict. 46 The true believers are
contrasted with Jews, Pagans, heretics, and Persians. The refrain of
the second hymn, ‘Blessed is the One Who blotted him out and has
afflicted all the sons of error!’ places all those in error in one camp,
while simultaneously making clear God stands directly within the
events of history. 47 The first of the Nisibene Hymns, written to de-
scribe the situation in Ephrem’s hometown of Nisibis before the
death of Julian, equates the true Christians of that city with the in-
habitants of Noah’s ark and characterizes Noah as a type of
Christ. 48 The Hymns against Julian also locate the emperors now
within the structure of the Church, and in doing so he relates the
church and the imperial system most intimately. When Ephrem
says ‘there was peace through the believing king,’ he is raises Jovian
triumphant over Julian, making a (theological) victory out of a
shambolic military defeat, while also marrying the ideas of future
peace and governmental stability to the cause of orthodox belief. 49
The Hymns on Unleavened Bread are within the classic traditions
of anti-Jewish polemics, extremely popular in Greek and Latin
apologetics of the time. The refrain of the 19th of these hymns is
44 Griffith (1994b), 104.

45 McVey (1989), 226.
46 McVey (1989), 249–50.
47 McVey (1989), 234.
48 Brock and Kiraz (2006), 222–3.
49 McVey (1989), 245.
‘Glory be to Christ through whose body the unleavened bread of

the People became obsolete, together with that People itself.’ 50 For
Ephrem, Jewish practice was no longer necessary and the Jewish
people themselves no longer served a purpose. He represents out
and out supersessionism. The force with which Ephrem speaks
against the Jews in these hymns probably argues that in reality and
common practice, the boundaries between Christianity and Judaism
were not as clearly defined as he might have hoped. He may have
had the same problem as John Chrysostom and Cyril of Alexan-
dria, who both found it imperative to speak out (repeatedly) against
Christians who were attending the synagogue and observing Jewish
festivals. It appears that in many of his hymns Ephrem used the
Jews even as a cipher for the Arians. 51 By connecting the Jews to
the Arians, Ephrem made the Arians a continuing existential threat
to true Christianity and located Arianism as outside the camp. Both
systems propagated radically wrong beliefs about Jesus vis à vis
God’s being and his plan for salvation.
Ephrem’s trinitarianism, in direct opposition to his Arian op-
ponents, is most clearly expressed in the 73rd of the Hymns on
Faith, where the sun, its light, and its warmth are symbols of the
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. He ends the hymn with the phrase:
‘Yet this Trinity is a single essence.’ 52 Similarly, in the 10th of the
Hymns on Faith, Ephrem states: ‘Your nature is single, but there are
many ways of explaining it.’ 53 In these hymns, trinitarian doctrine is
extensively simplified for the majority of Christians, and set to ap-
pealing music. Here, trinitarianism is not a philosophical problem
to be explained, but a fact about the nature of God sung to the
congregation by a harmonious choir of virgins. The lively per-
formative and pedagogical context of these hymns popularized
50 Shepardson (2008), 32.

51 Shepardson (2008), 196. For Ephrem both the Jews and the Ari-
ans were an existential threat to proper Christianity and both disrupted
the ‘correct’ relationship between God the Father and God the Son.
52 Brock (1984), 83–5.
53 Brock and Kiraz (2006), 203.
ROBERT NAJDEK 77
Nicene orthodoxy and made it both comprehensible and interest-

ing for a larger audience. 54
Ephrem’s influence and doctrinal ideas have long been
acknowledged by scholars, but the active presence and participa-
tion of his choirs of consecrated women virgins (one of the major
vehicles by which his ideas reached the public) and the liturgical
context of that theology have often been overlooked in the litera-
ture. The striking beauty of Ephrem’s hymns has led many to con-
sider and comment on them simply as works of literature and rhet-
oric, not as liturgical performances per se. 55 Ephrem is the first
known and surely the greatest voice in favor of Nicene orthodoxy
in the Syriac-speaking world at the time. He imagined Nicene or-
thodoxy as the rightful continuation of the teachings of the first
apostles. 56 The very orthodoxy that Ephrem was attempting to fos-
ter in northern Mesopotamia would be the same movement that
would eventually come to support a shift toward an Egyptian-style
monasticism. This new hierarchy would also introduce liturgical
changes that reacted against the presence of liturgical women’s
choirs in the center of the church. 57 Later biographies of Ephrem
half remember the importance of his choirs of virgins in speeding
on his apologetic work, but also adapt the story of the church of
his day to fit it into the later patterns that later came to supersede
what was common enough in the Syrian church of the first four
centuries. The very diversity of the Syriac religious and cultural
landscape at the time of Ephrem by no means promised the ascent
of Nicene orthodox Christianity as an inevitable historical out-
come. Ideologically, Ephrem had simultaneously to edify the ele-
ments of Nicene Christianity, tear down the religious systems of
Judaism and paganism, attack the dissident heretical movements
within Christianity, while also arguing for Rome (not Persia) as the
way forward for the spread of the Church. It is due in no small
measure to his populist use of liturgical hymnography that he was a
54 Shepardson (2008), 2.
55 den Biesen (2006), 325–7.
56 Griffith (1999b), 133.
57 Griffith (1999a), 330.
major factor in the eventual triumph of Nicene thought throughout

the Syriac-speaking churches.
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Shepardson, C. Anti-Judaism and Christian Orthodoxy:
Ephrem’s Hymns in Fourth-Century Syria.
Washington, DC: The Catholic University of
America Press, 2008.
Taylor, D. “St. Ephraim’s Influence on the Greeks.”
Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies 1.2. (2010):
pp. 185–96.
Valavavonickal, K, (trans). Aphrahat’s Demonstrations I. Pisca-
taway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2011.
Vööbus, A. Celibacy, a Requirement for Admission to Bap-
tism in the Early Syrian Church. Papers of the
ROBERT NAJDEK 81
Estonian Theological Society in Exile, no. 1.

Stockholm: Etse, 1951.
THE POWER TO CURSE AND THE POWER
TO SAVE: THE MONK, THE PROPHET &
THE STORY OF ELISHA’S CURSE OF THE
SHE BEARS (2 KINGS 2:23–24)
REVD. MARY JULIA JETT
Throughout much of Patristic writing, it is assumed that everyone

should aspire to be like the Old Testament prophet Elijah. Elijah
demonstrates the ideal abstention from worldly goods. Elijah is an
exemplar of chastity and charity. Even more impressively, Elijah
has the ability to perform miracles. He can conjure fire. Feed a
widow with meal and oil. He even raises a widow’s son from the
dead. He shows up during the great and majestic Transfiguration in
the New Testament. In fact, several New Testament scholars view
the Elijah narrative as a governing storyline behind the miracles
and ministries of John the Baptist, Jesus himself, and the mission-
ary journeys of the Book of Acts.
In later times the most fabulous of monks are declared to be
the authentic heirs of Elijah and some are given the title of ‘Second
Elijah.’ Just as Elijah handed double his spirit to his successor, Eli-
sha, so others thought to follow in his footsteps and also receive at
least double the spirit from Elijah. Every once in a while, a Chris-
tian monk will be honored with the title ‘Second Elisha,’ but for
many patristic interpreters Elisha was often referenced only be-
cause of his relationship to the greater Elijah. Elijah is the teacher,
so obviously he was greater than his student. The patristic refer-
ences often focus on this transfer of power. Across the centuries,
83
84 ELISHA’S CURSE OF THE SHE BEARS
the giving of a ‘double portion’ of Elijah’s spirit to Elisha is de-

scribed, debated and symbolized in images such as the passing of
the cloak 1 and Elisha’s washing of Elijah’s hands. 2
In this stream of interpretation, Elisha is only perceived to be
interesting in so far as he models how to inherit the great prophetic
powers of Elijah. Less considered, however, are what became of
those tremendous and strange fruits of Elijah’s double spirit-filled
prophetic powers. When made manifest in the life and ministry of
Elisha, this ‘double spirit’ blossoms in amplified and often times
exponentially stranger miraculous acts. For the Syriac Christian
commentators, it was exactly these parallels that most caught their
attention.
The superiority seemed demonstrable: Where Elijah could
part water, Elisha could part water, conjure water, purify water, and
defy all principles of water when he made an axe float for conven-
ience sake. Where Elijah could feed the poor with a little portion of
meal and oil, Elisha could transform rotten vegetables into a feast
and conjure bread to feed an army. Elisha will give water to ene-
mies and yet be credited with the destruction of more enemies than
ever Elijah would encounter. And, perhaps most strikingly, Elisha
seems to be equipped with an unfathomable and strangely exer-
cised ability to declare curses. 3
When this prophetic power of cursing was considered by as-
cetics in Late Antiquity, Elisha’s most bizarre curse of all provided
a glimpse into what it meant in Antiquity for a holy person to exer-
cise the great power that was bestowed upon them from on high.
The story of this curse begins with one notable key difference be-
tween Elijah and Elisha. Although several patristic writers will de-
scribe the wilderness wandering and very ‘hairy’ exemplars of Eli-
1 Antony’s garments are passed on to Bishops Serapion and Athana-
sius, V. Ant. 91–2; cf. 2 Kings 2.13.

2 Paphnutius writes of Abba Isaac pouring water on the hands as the
disciple of his master as “the great Elisha did for the prophet Elijah.” See
translation in Tim Vivian, Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt (Kalamazoo:
Cistercian, 1993, 26).
3 Biblical parallels are listed in both Homilies on Elisha by Jacob of
Sarug and throughout the Demonstrations of Aphrahat the Persian Sage.

MARY JULIA JETT 85
jah, Elisha, and John the Baptist, that interpretation actually ne-
glects a characteristic that can only be found in 2 Kings 2:23–24;
for Elisha, the great successor, is bald. We know this fact because
small children make fun of him for it. As the story goes in the Pe-
shitta (Syriac) text of 2 Kings 2:23–24:
As (Elisha) went up from there to Bethel, and he went up the
way. Young 4 children came out from the town and mocked
him saying, ‘Go up, baldy!’ 5 And (Elisha) turned back and
looked at them cursing them in the name of the Lord. Two
bears came out from the forest to tear apart 6 from forty two of
the young. 7
Unlike many of the miracles and curses in the life of Elisha, no
parallel can be found for this strange episode in the life of his spir-
itual father Elijah. Even more baffling to most interpreters, of any
era, Scripture provides no explanation or obvious moral lesson for
the action it recounts. The story concludes with the simple moving
on:
[He] departed from there to the mountain of Carmel, and from
there (he went) again to Samaria.
And that’s it. In some writings of Late Antiquity, all that is gleaned
from the story is the noticing of Elisha’s particular hair style (or
lack thereof). For example in A Panegyric on Macarius, Elisha is simp-
ly the ‘bald one’ with no mention of the mocking whipper-
snappers. However, in disputes like those between Marcion and
Tertullian, this seeming act of random, unexplained, biblical ultra-
4 Text notes the variant “small” [z‘wr]. This is more in line with the
MT.
5 Note that the MT and LXX repeat this line.
6 In the Peshitta text, this is the same fate of the “little ones” in Eli-
sha’s conversation with Hazael (2 Kgs 8:7), and it is what Menaham does
to the women with child (2 Kgs 15:14). Bears are said to do the same
thing when robbed of their cubs in Hos 13:8;14:1, Amo 1:13. It describes
the bursting of the wineskins in Job 32:19. In the New Testament, it is the
fate of Judas (Acts 1:18)
7 All translations are my own unless otherwise noted.
violence became a substantial proof-text for those seeking to dis-

miss the angry, judgmental, ‘Old Testament god’. Marcion in his
renunciation of this Old Testament god, declared that Christ is the
opposite and better inversion of Elisha. Where Elisha cursed chil-
dren, Christ welcomed them. When faced with that (perhaps inten-
tional) New Testament parallel, Tertullian’s best argument was, in
essence, that Marcion was simply making a thoughtless vocabulary
error. Elisha was merely cursing boys (pueri) and not infants, and
obviously, these boys (parvuli) ‘had it coming to them’ and can be
deemed worthy of judgment, condemnation, even, apparently,
mauling by bears. 8
For the most part, in Greek patristic interpretation of this epi-
sode in Late Antiquity, this idea that the naughty boys ‘had it com-
ing’ was the common answer. A person invested with the power of
God cannot possibly be wrong, so the people that mock him must
represent the exact opposite and the most intrinsic evil. In his exe-
gesis of Ezekiel’s passage about ‘ferocious beasts’ and the ‘sins of
the land,’ Origen sees the ‘boys’ as a symbolic representation of the
other scriptural maulings that ‘proceed from the indignation of
God.’ 9 As he writes in his Commentary on Ezekiel, ‘For those bears
were a symbol of other beasts that are truly ferocious, truly savage,
which are sent against this sinful earth.’ 10 John Chrysostom will
view it as a past action in a long list of punishments inflicted in the
Old Testament by Christ on those who failed to believe, 11 and Au-
gustine of Hippo would associate these scoffers directly with the
‘Jews’ who mocked Christ on the cross. 12 Unfortunately, well into
the Middle Ages, Augustine’s interpretation became the most
8 Tertullian, Adversus Marcion 2.14.

9 This discussion comes in the midst of Origen’s exegesis of Ezekiel
14.13, 15. See also 2 Kings 2 17.25, It is worth nothing that both of the
Kings stories, for Origen, come under the header of ‘even the Jews say
[this].’
10 Origen, Homilies on Ezekiel 4.7.2, as translated in Thomas Scheck,
Origen: Homilies 1–14 on Ezekiel (Newman Press, 2010).

11 Chrysostom, Homilies on the Book of Romans 25; Victorinus, Commen-
tary on the Apocolypse of John 11.5; Gregory of Nyssa, On the Baptism of Christ.
12 Augustine of Hippo, Commentary on the Psalms 47.1.
MARY JULIA JETT 87
popular. 13 All of these patristic authors, in some way, needed to

resolve the problem of what it meant for such full authority to be
placed in the hands of an individual, who at once occupied the
pinnacle of holiness and yet was capable of such a bizarre and
seemingly cruel act. Some proposed from a defensive stance, and
others from an inherited stance, but all defended Elisha was an
exemplar. He was not only powerful but was a cipher of Christ
either in his own time or in a future trajectory, or symbolic way.
In the terms of such a portrayal, possession of great power
seems to have justified the use of one’s full force in the world. No
other justification apparently was needed. Of course, this does not
sit completely well with the Greek writers themselves, nor does it
properly resolve Marcion’s original complaint. Christ welcomed the
children, and Elisha cursed them. So, if the Church was fully to
embrace both the just providence of God, and entirely accept the
authority of the Old Testament, how on earth does Elisha get away
with doing what he did? For many Greek writers, Elisha’s cruel
exercise of his prophetic superpower required an interpretative
choice between a heavily allegorical interpretation or simply pre-
tending the story is just not there by never making note of it.
For the Syriac writers, the situation is very different. Perhaps
because of their passionate love for Old Testament exemplars or
perhaps because of their exceptional hatred of Marcion, the full
cornucopia of Elisha’s might and bizarreness seems to appear with-
in the corpus of every major Syriac writer. These Semitic Christian
authors were often monastics writing for the benefit of other mo-
nastics. Therefore, all things spoke to both the truth of the scrip-
ture and in the ideal use of the gifts bestowed upon the holy ones
in an ascetic environment. How did they manage to draw a lesson
from the story of Elisha’s baldhead and the insolent children?
The earliest Syriac example is found in the Demonstrations of
Aphrahat, the fourth century Persian sage. He writes that the worst
thing that one can do is ‘divide’ and the most powerful weapon in
division, for him, is the tongue. Aphrahat fills his pages with lists of
13 Cf. Angelomus of Luxeuil, Enarrationes in libros Regum; Eucherius,

Commentary on the Book of Kings 4.16; Rabanus Maurus Magnentius, Commen-
tary on the Fourth Book of Kings 4.2.
individuals, stories of triumph, and the past, present, and future

embodiment of the fullness of God. Sometimes these figures are
put in sequence and other times in parallel. In all times, these ex-
emplars represent a progressive in-breaking of God’s word and
God’s power into the world whether or not the figures seemed
particularly successful in their own time. In the dead center of his
earliest collection of texts, Aphrahat outlines parallels of Elijah,
John the Baptist, Elisha, and Jesus, and in the center of that nexus,
he interprets the story of Elisha and the She-bears.
In his sixth ‘Demonstration,’ Aphrahat first explains that Eli-
jah is not quite as wondrous as John, but they are phenomenal in
similar ways. Then, when it comes time to hand off their spirit, the
spirit is passed on in similar ways, to Elisha and Jesus. In this chain,
Elijah is said to do great things, Elisha is said to do greater things,
but Christ is comparatively better at everything. In the parallels
drawn between Elisha and Jesus, Jesus can resurrect more people,
create food in more abundance with less, and so on. In the middle
of his list, however, Aphrahat breaks the sequence of improved
parallels and brings his reader’s attention to the sole criticism of
Elisha he wishes to register in this passage. Aphrahat writes:
Elisha cursed the young and {the young} were eaten by
wolves. 14 The savior blessed the young. Elisha was cursed by
the young. The Savior was praised by the young in ‘Hosan-
nas!’ 15
14 Aphrahat seems to use the words commonly interpreted as “bear”
verses “wolf” interchangeably. This is one example. In another section,

sheep are attacked by what would commonly be bears, and that story may
even harken back to this Elisha imagery. See Dem. 10.3.
15 See Dem. 6.13. The source text for the Demonstrations of
Aphrahat is taken from The Homilies of Aphraates the Persian Sage, edited by
William Wright (Williams and Norgate, 1869). Two English translations
are available. See Adam Lehto, The Demonstrations of Aphrahat the Persian
Sage (Gorgias, 2010) and Kuriakose Valavanolickal, Aphrahat Demonstrations
(HIRS, 1999). The citation format given is for easy reference in the Eng-
lish translations.
MARY JULIA JETT 89
Only once in all of 23 of his Demonstration texts does he denounce

heretics by name, and the first of his three arch-heretics is Mar-
cion. 16 Yet, here in this passage, he seems to uses the exact words
of criticism ascribed to Marcion centuries before, but without the
same fear or defensiveness shown in Tertullian. For Aphrahat, Eli-
sha had great power and used it for much less noble ends, and the
result was, in fact, a much less glorifying outcome. This misuse of
the immense power of the word is reflected both in Elisha’s misuse
and in the words of the young. Both had power. Both, however,
required temperance and grace in order to use them in moderation.
Writing in the fourth century, Ephrem the Syrian was another
theologian and poet who made a similar claim. In his Hymns on the
Nativity 13, Ephrem emphasized Christ’s perfect expression of hu-
manity. Christ’s love is such that if he is rebuked he is angry; when
he is terrified, he cries out; and when he is scolded, he is sad.
Ephrem then continues:
Are you (Christ) greater than the law that requires vengeance
for injury? Moses had timidity and his zeal had severity, for he
struck down and destroyed. 17 Elisha restored life to the young
one and tore children apart by bears. O Youth (Christ) – who
are you? that your love exceeds that of the prophets? 18
For Ephrem, Christ is the ideal of all those who came before and is
the full expression of all the greatness desired, but never quite
reached, by those who came before. In a sense, he says that Christ
was greater not just because of his divinity but because he was bet-
ter at being truly human. An image of goodness does not mean that
one will not get angry, cry out, or be sad; nor does it mean one will
not possess the power to destroy. Rather, it means that one shall be
so full of love that moderation is possible, rebuke of others is re-
strained, and the good life is zealously followed.
Dem. 3.9. Marcion is listed with Mani and Valentinus.

For other examples of the parallel of Moses and Elisha, see
16
17
Chrysostom, Homilies on the Statutes 8.3.

18 My translation. Note that perhaps by typographical error, the
McVey translation has “Elijah” and not “Elisha.” In all other ways, it is a
lovely translation and was used as check to my own.
This exact concept is portrayed wonderfully in Theodoret’s

Greek description of the Syrian Monk Jacob of Nisibis. In Theo-
doret’s Monks of Syria, Jacob of Nisibis comes across a group of
girls looking wantonly at a man of God, and the scandal does not
end there. These same girls failed to cover themselves, specifically
their hair, in the appropriate, modest way. In response, Jacob of
Nisibis curses them with ‘premature gray hair.’ In praising what he
sees as a logical, kindhearted and restrained rebuke, Theodoret
writes:
Such was the miracle of this new Moses, which did not result
from the blow of a rod but received its efficacy from the sign
of the cross. I myself am filled with admiration for his gentle-
ness, in addition to his working a miracle. He did not, like the
great Elisha, hand over those shameless girls to carnivorous
bears, but applying harmless correction that involved only a
slight disfigurement he gave them a lesson in both piety and
good behavior. I do not say this to accuse the prophet of
harshness (may I be spared such folly) but to show how, while
possessing the same power, [Jacob] performed what accorded
with the gentleness of Christ and the New Covenant. 19
Although all three authors above write in the Syriac Christian tradi-
tion, from completely different contexts and times, all three glean a
common set of three ideas from the Elisha curse story. First, the
prophet is given tremendous power, but the good prophet, the true
prophet, must channel it for good. Cursing is a gift and a power
that God gives, but it is neither the greatest gift nor a gift that
proves fruitful if exercised to its fullest extension, without modera-
tion. Second, words are awe-inspiringly powerful. They can conjure
fire, call down rain, and bring about curses and blessings beyond
imagination. The holy word can rain down fire, and the evil word
can bring unfathomable destruction. It can bring about greatness
and powerful change. It also has a deep and terrifying ability to
destroy. Third, this prophetic power to declare and make so is
promised through the Pentateuch, where the divine blessing and
the divine curse is repeatedly aligned with the chosen prophet or
19 A History of the Monks of Syria I.5, as translated in Price, 14.

MARY JULIA JETT 91
with Israel. Although Aphrahat saw Elisha’s curse as an abuse of

the divine power and Jacob of Sarug saw it as a ‘necessary’ battle.
Ephrem has the same underlying principle but reaches yet another
conclusion.
Therefore, in all of these writers, cursing is not renounced but
tempered. It serves a function. All three writers acknowledge, in
some way, the human reactions of emotion as well as the monk’s
new ‘prophetic’ call to respond to situations of wrongdoing. How-
ever, in a way that echoes the call to excel in good works, and re-
frain from engaging in disputes, of Titus 3:8, Aphrahat, Ephrem,
and even Theodoret use the Elisha curse story to emphasize the
ideal that has been missed by the prophet’s excessive response. 20 In
this larger Syriac ideology of the role of the monk as prophet, then,
the goal and the ideal, in fact, is not to go around with impassioned
condemnation at all. In a sense, the more power that one has to
curse, the less one should use it. Aphrahat most often lists proph-
ets in the realm of the persecuted who stand as models of ascetical
self-denial – and this, including Elisha. 21 They are individuals who
accept their persecution and endure while not resorting to impas-
sioned extremes. The true, holy, and indeed prophetic action,
therefore, is represented in the blessing and not in the cursing of
mockers.
One last note should be made of this story of Elisha and the
story of these exemplars. These symbols are used to define the po-
tentiality for greatness as much as humanity’s consistent tendency
to fall short. Later Syriac texts attempt to address the concerns of
the outside Greek world including how to embrace God’s will in
utter failure and a defense of the absurd action.
20 In a later Syriac text, Jacob of Edessa in his Scholia will say some-
thing quite similar to Origen. God (not Elisha) is the focal point of his
interpretation, and Jacob of Edessa’s interpretation, the children were evil
and sons of evil. God quickly heard Elisha’s declaration and smote them
in anger. See Scholium XXIV.
21 Dem 21.5 (On Persecution). See also Dem. 2.18 (Elisha as model
of forgiveness and how to treat enemies, but note the lack of mercy with
both the She Bears and Gehazi in Dem. 6.13); Dem 18.7
In the fifth-century Syriac Book of Steps, one section begins

with the story of Elisha providing water for his enemies, as in 2
Kings 6. Then, the manual points out that these enemies die any-
way. Immediately thereafter the text declares:
In another place, the master lowered (Elisha) from justice and
from love. (He) did to these children that thing which (he)
would hate for a person to do to him if (he) behaved foolishly
toward (someone) who seeks to make vengeance. (Elisha) did
good instead of evil and just as he was about to be the one
suited to seek perfection, these children laughed and said, ‘Go
up baldy!’ and (he) was made to do a thing without love and
justice. Despite the desire of Elisha to become the one who
feeds the enemy, (his) killing of the youth [lamb] was by a de-
sire of the Lord. 22
At first glance, this passage could be read as simply affirming God’s
intent to curse the children and Elisha’s will to give water to the
enemy. Yet apart from the fact that such a conclusion would in-
volve a terrifyingly inconsistent view of God, it also misses the re-
flexive trick of the Syriac language and the story. Elisha wanted to
kill the enemy and instead gave them water. But then, Elisha seems
not to have wanted simply to go along his way to perfection, and
instead was ‘made’ to do something without love and justice. Even
more, the concluding line in the Syriac version involves the transla-
tor in a complex set of possibilities, including placing the desire of
God and the desire of Elisha in a different portion. In the end, this
passage in the Book of Steps seems to declare that Elisha’s falling
short is not where the story actually ends. The chapter concludes
by saying this:
22 Kitchen’s interpretation of this text is that it states that the Lord
desired for the children to die, but that is not explicitly clear in the text.
For a discussion of his interpretation of this passage in the Book of Steps,
see Robert Kitchen, “Making the imperfect Perfect: The adaption of He-
brews 11 in the 9th memra of the Syriac Book of Steps,” The Reception and
Interpretation of the Bible in Late Antiquity (Brill, 2008), 244–245.
MARY JULIA JETT 93
Therefore, there exists a scenario in which the master lowers a

prophet from justice and from love and all those who come af-
ter strive to become Perfection. If he who is innocent in this
place and that place and transgresses from justice to without
command. The master will punish him to make it known that
he has behaved foolishly. So that their folly is washed away and
they go up to love and be proved true. 23
In the Book of Steps, bound up in the ascetical striving for ‘Perfec-
tion’ is God’s knowledge that humans will fail in the task. Bound
up in the giving of this immense gift is the intrinsic tendency of
humanity to mess things up. The consequence of the curse falls
into the messy area of where human power is limited and divine
action is sovereign. In the midst of this equation of divine will and
prophetic action, the individual saint is both historically and sym-
bolically placed in is the inescapable position of the larger scheme
of things. This leaves the ascetic to err on the side of humble cau-
tion in response to the exemplary model of the past and in what is
demonstrated of the transcendent journey to be struggled through
by all.
Also facing the tension of God’s actions and the model of a
temperate prophet, Jacob of Sarug addresses the issue in his fifth-
century metrical homilies on Elisha. In the first of the set, he dedi-
cates over 100 lines of script to the story of the boys. At first
glance, Jacob seems to paint a similar picture to the Greek writers
who talked about Elisha’s destruction of the boys. Jacob describes
the children both in the manner of Origen and the manner of
Chrysostom. The children are both those who proclaimed, ‘Crucify
him,’ and the same children are symbols of the presence of a great-
er, vaguer, and more transcendent evil: the Adversary or as it is
pronounced in Syriac, Aramaic and Hebrew: Satan. Jacob claims
that Satan ‘sang through the children,’ and Elisha, accordingly,
knew what must be done.
23 The source text for the Book of Steps (Liber Graduum) is taken
from Patrologia Syriaca 3 (Firmin-Didot, 1926). An English translation is

available. See Robert Kitchen, The Book of Steps (Cistercian, 2004).
In light of that immense threat of evil’s audible declarations,

in both the story of Christ and in the transcendent battle against
the ever-contaminating forces of evil, Jacob of Sarug presents Eli-
sha’s curse as neither an over-reaction to a personal insult, nor the
bearing down of his full force and might. Instead, this mauling was
Elisha’s level-headed decision to ‘perform a surgery that would
uproot the evil.’ It was to remove only the small portion, so as not
to corrupt the whole. Elisha’s words were powerful because they
could attack, but they were a pure action because they were done
with precision and a concern to preserve the whole. Jacob writes:
When you hear that he cursed children, you should not imag-
ine that his anger got the best of him and that he was prepared
to demand revenge for his insult. He was a completely good
tree that produced no bad fruit for all of it was splendid. A
man who possesses the power of resurrection and prophecy
does not do any bad thing out of anger as you might say. The
only reason he bothered to curse them was to gain some-
thing. 24
Jacob of Sarug says that one can see this if one looks at it with a
pure spirit. Looking at it ‘in a pure spirit’ requires, of course, giving
Elisha the benefit of the doubt that this was the least that could be
done. Early writers will laud this idea of temperance, but they tend-
ed not to view Elisha as sympathetically as Jacob. Jacob does not
defends the cursing, but not solely because Elisha is a prophet. In-
stead, he argues that whatever doubt one has from his use of
deathly cursing can be assuaged by the miracles of life-giving resur-
rection.
Accordingly, the conclusion of Elisha’s earthly ministry seems
significant. Elisha’s greatest act of resurrection comes at the end of
his mortal existence and is as strange as the miracles that once filled
it. At the end of the 2 Kings retelling, Elisha is dead and lying in an
open grave. Elisha does not ascend in a remarkable cloud-
emblazoned journey as Elijah does, and yet he accomplishes some-
24 Translation taken from Jacob of Sarug, Homilies on Elisha, translat-
ed by Stephen Kaufman (Gorgias, 2010), 45.

MARY JULIA JETT 95
thing that, for early Christian interpreters, was even more remarka-
ble. The Peshitta text reads:
When they buried the man, they saw an army of invaders and
threw the man into the grave of Elisha and went away. The
man touched the bones of Elisha and was revived and raised
up to stand on his feet. 25
This miraculous conclusion of the Elisha story is echoed through
nearly all of the Syriac Christian commentators as a final coda; a
reminder of the most mighty, powerful, skilled and devoted pos-
sessor of prophetic power. Despite Elisha’s bold declarations, his
mighty feats, and perhaps his excessively severe exercises of power,
the Syrians notice how God’s power to resurrect and bring to life,
will unfailingly spring forth by such a simple act as falling onto his
relics.
25 2 Kgs 13.20. My translation of the Peshitta text, but it has no ma-
jor variation from the LXX and MT.

RHETORIC AND THE MONASTIC RULE IN
BYZANTIUM: FROM ANCHORITISM TO
COENOBITISM
JULIA KHAN
Hellenistic learning (paideia) was an integral part of the mindset and

culture ancient world. From Alexandria to Athens and from Caesa-
rea to Rome, pupils who wished to obtain the highest levels of
learning were schooled in the art of rhetoric. Rhetoric was the lan-
guage of public discourse; it was how people discussed topics of
import, as well as how they made decisions and settled disputes. 1
Plato, Aristotle, Socrates and Cicero were among the exemplars of
the rhetorical craft studied by learned individuals in both Greek
and Latin worlds. This was equally true for ancient learned Chris-
tians as it was true for the adherents of the state religion of Rome
and the old religions’ cultic practitioners in the rising Byzantine
Empire.
An examination of the rhetorical writings of a given age illu-
minates the conflicts, controversies and significant transformations
that categorize the era due to the quintessential motive for such
rhetorical expression, namely ‘the presence of strife, enmity, and
faction.’ 2 As the ancient Roman Empire gave way to the Christian
Byzantine Empire, the collective discourse also began to shift until
it became more thoroughly Christian. With Constantine’s rise to
1 Sharon Crowley and Debra Hawhee, Ancient Rhetorics for Contempo-
rary Students (New York: Pearson Longman, 2004), 1.

2 Kenneth Burke, A Rhetoric of Motives (Berkeley: University of Cali-
fornia Press, 1969), 20.
97
98 FROM ANCHORITISM TO COENOBITISM
supreme power in 324, the new Empire occupied the void filled by
the collapsing and bitterly divided ancien regime. Constantine’s as-
sent to the practice of Christianity as a favored religion also then
marked the advent of an increasingly Christianized rhetoric into
patterns of public discourse. No longer hampered as the private
discussions or muted apologiae of a brutally repressed sect within the
old Empire, Christian discourse shifted after the 4th century to be-
come a significant aspect of public life and culture-making.
In the fourth and fifth centuries, the Christian church experi-
enced also unprecedented growth. From a sect marked by martyrs
and confessors who suffered societal rejection and regular political
persecution, the Byzantine Church became, after Theodosius, the
state religion. Converts continued to flock to it for spiritual reasons
although many surely began to flock to Christianity out of personal
ambition. Upward mobility within the empire could now be fur-
thered by belonging to the Christian Church. The impressive
growth and changing nature of the church caused its leaders to
seek to articulate with growing clarity a common orthodoxy in
terms of both moral canons and dogmatic premises and, therefore,
the rhetoric surrounding the nature of God, the nature of the
Church and what constituted faithful practice similarly increased.
These turbulent times of Church formation, are often regarded as
the Golden Age of Patristic writing. However, it was a turbulent
time when many other aspects of Christian life were being experi-
mented with; not least, a time when rhetorical investigation of mo-
nastic asceticism was in full spate. This age of a new rhetoric is
witnessed in the letters of the bishops, the archiving of the sayings
of desert sages, and the work of great founders and organizers, es-
pecially those who begin to compose monastic rules and orders:
each of which served to establish and develop Church traditions
that would endure for many generations.
This paper will focus on an exploration of the rhetoric used in
composing and recording the rules of the early Christian monastic
communities in the Byzantine Empire, in an effort to gain a better
understanding of what was the intended audience for such works:
monks or laity? desert or town dwellers? Moreover, this paper will
explore ways in which the ancient rhetoric shifted to accommodate
and entice its various audiences. The correlation between shifting
rhetoric, historical circumstances in the move from the old Roman
to the Byzantine Empire, and the dramatic shift from anchoritic (sol-
JULIA KHAN 99
itary) ascetical lifestyle and lavriotic (solitary asceticism with signifi-

cant time spent together in community) towards a more common-
alized coenobitic (communal) style, will be made clear. To this end, a
specific analysis of the Byzantine document: Pantelleria: the Typikon
of John for the monastery of Saint John the Forerunner will be made.
ANCHORITIC, LAVRIOTIC & COENOBITIC ASCETICAL

STYLES
Ascetic and monastic practices were becoming an integral part of
Christian devotion from at least the beginning of the third century
onward. The early anchorite tradition was almost entirely oral. In
the third century there were few writings emanating from the ascet-
ics themselves whose praxis had preceded their theoria. The focus
for the ascetics was communion with God, and not the prolifera-
tion of their way of life. Nevertheless, their solitary strivings in the
desert soon caused them to be seen as ‘holy’ and revered widely
among the Church members and those outside as the new era’s
epitome of Christian living. In a time of a decentralized church that
appeared not far off from the days of Jesus Christ and the overt
persecution of the faithful by emperors such as Diocletian (284–
305), asceticism was clearly a lively eschatological imperative of
common people, rooted in a highly personal love for God.
With the advent of Emperor Constantine’s conversion, and
growing structural favoritism for Christian institutions in the Byz-
antine Empire, this ascetical imperative of the new faith, along with
the religion itself, gained a level of acceptance as never before.
Christian life was no longer marked by the heroism of martyrs and
confessors. Practicing the faith was no longer a matter of life and
death. As a result, more and more people sought purification of the
soul either in the experience of the desert, or in the looking to-
wards it as a (literary or inspirational) symbol. Even radical ancho-
rites, such as Saint Antony, found themselves surrounded by spir-
itual seekers, not only those who move into nearby cells for guid-
ance, but also those who simply read of his exploits. This prolifera-
tion of monasticism in short order gave rise to lavriotic practices,
for which Byzantine Palestine was especially known: monks prac-
ticing solitary asceticism began to live in a complex federation with
other adjacent solitaries in order to support one another in worship
and daily life.
In one sense, the movement from a monastic life centered on

personal and solitary ascetic practices in deserted places, to com-
munal monasticism in rural, suburban and city locales, commences
with Pachomius, who lived from approximately 292–348. Pacho-
mius gravitated to a solitary path of spiritual refinement conducted
with deeply-based communal support. He believed, as Rousseau
put it, that: ‘Whatever personal relationship with God he might
wish to encourage was to be discovered, explored, and expressed in
a public and corporate context.’ 3 To this end, around the year 320
Pachomius founded the first concretely thought out and organized
cenobitic monastery in Christianity at Tabennisi in Upper Egypt.
Following the monastery’s founding, Pachomius is said to have
written his Precepts as the monastery’s rule. The Precepts can be con-
sidered the oldest example of a monastic typikon upon which many
of the later Byzantine typika look back and try to emulate. 4 By the
time of Pachomius’ death, there were nearly a dozen monasteries
and three nunneries established in the same manner.
The character of the Pachomian monasteries was heavily in-
fluenced by Pachomius’ prior (and bitter) experience as a drafted
conscript of the Imperial army at the close of the Civil War, 5 the
conflict between Licinius and Maximin Daia. 6 Pachomius found
Christian charity at first hand in his days of unhappiness as a young
conscript and described the Christians as treating all with love for
the sake of God alone. 7 Drawing on, one presumes, happier and
more influential experiences of his military career as an experienced
recruit, Pachomius clearly admired the strict and regimented life of
the army and reflects it in his Christian institutions. Accordingly, he
instituted a highly ordered rule at his monasteries. Growing from a
3 Philip Rousseau, Pachomius: The Making of a Community in Fourth-
Century Egypt (Berkeley: University of California, 1985), 12.

4 John Philip Thomas, et al. Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents
Vol. 1. (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collec-

tion, 1998), 33. (henceforward BMFD).
5 Cyril Mango, Byzantium: The Empire of New Rome (London: Wei-
denfeld and Nicolson Ltd, 1980), 107.

6 Rousseau, Pachomius, 58.
7 Ibid. p. 58.
JULIA KHAN 101
first foundation, these sprang up as loose federations, taking his

overall ideas to shape them, as much as any particular written code
in the early days. Pachomian houses were noted for centering their
daily life on manual labor and regimented common living. 8
At the same time that Pachomian monasteries were hierar-
chical and well-ordered, they were also categorized by a sense of
communal responsibility and servant leadership. 9 Ascetic practices
of self-denial were undertaken by choice in a manner that was
meant to be physically tolerable and non-competitive. The aim of
the Pachomian monastery was to develop purity of the heart root-
ed in growth through self-knowledge. This self-knowledge was to
be gained through vulnerability to God expressed in a loss of self-
consciousness before the divine presence, and through the personal
emulation of the Beatitudes. 10 Moreover, the monks were to re-
main watchful for any ‘unacceptable inclinations’, in either them-
selves or in others, in order to replace them gradually and inexora-
bly with ‘positive alternatives’. 11
The Pachomian tradition, of course, proved immensely attrac-
tive to St. Basil of Caesarea. Like Pachomius before him, Basil,
sought to establish a stronger sense of church hierarchy. The dy-
namic linking of the hierarchy to monastic goals and personnel
(Basil is one of the first to use monastics to staff diocesan institu-
tions, as in his renowned Basiliad leprosarium) served as a new and
powerful mode of evangelization in the Byzantine world. Following
Pachomius’ lead, Basil embarked on a journey to spread the Good
News through the increasingly widespread medium of coenobism.
Let us now turn our attention to a particular example of how this
manifested itself in the Byzantine church experience, using one
Typikon from that era as an example.
Thomas, et al. BMF. Vol. 1, 32–35.

Rousseau, Pachomius, 110–112.
8
10 Rousseau, Pachomius, 142.

9
11 Ibid. 142–144.
PANTELLERIA: THE TYPIKON OF JOHN

Byzantine early monastic typika are closely tied in with patristic and
biblical ‘authorities’. Many of these individual Byzantine typika of
the early period can be directly linked with Pachomian and Basilian
inspirations. Although there is often a continuance of the early
monastic traditions of all types and varieties, the Byzantine typika
also show a clear tendency to move decisively, in certain regards,
away from anchoritic and lavriotic practice, and towards a coeno-
bitic way of life as the default. This movement is clearly evidenced
in the eight century text, Pantelleria: the Typikon of John for the Monas-
tery of Saint John the Forerunner, which sets out the detailed régime for
its monastery lifestyle. The typikon of Pantelleria is notably Pacho-
mian in nature. 12 Rather than regulate constitutional, administrative
or financial matters, this foundational document sought to regulate
the spiritual lives of the monks as its priority. 13 It delineated how
the monks were to live a life emphasizing: ‘prayer, singing, genu-
flections, strict fasting and strenuous manual labor.’ 14 Life in St.
John’s was decidedly rigid and austere. Respect for order and the
hierarchy of the monastery were paramount as is seen in the re-
quirement that there be a superior 15 for the monastery, along with
the leadership of an overseer 16 and the elders 17 of the community.
Places in church were to be assigned according to rank: ‘Let each
one stay constantly at the place which becomes his rank and have
no permission to move from this place and stay at another one.’ 18
Proper behavior during the liturgy was mandated as a necessary:
‘observing the proper order.’ 19 Not to follow the proper order of
the liturgy or to not be following its unfolding diligently would in-
cur punishment: ‘Keep [observing] the proper order. Should any-
one dare to break the present rule, let him be liable to the punish-
Thomas, et al. BMFD. Vol. 1, 33.

Ibid. Vol. 1, 60.
12
14 Ibid, 60.
13
15 Ibid, 62, 63–64. Contained in Rule 8 and 13.
16 Ibid, 63–65. Contained in Rule 5, 13, 15, and 19.

17 Ibid, 62, 64–65. Contained in Rule 1, 9, 16, 17, and 19.
18 Ibid, 62. Contained in Rule 1.
19 Ibid, 64.
JULIA KHAN 103
ment of lying face downward.’ 20 Even the exact number of prostra-

tions (prosksyneseis) during prayer, and their form, was stipulated in
rules two and three:
Let prayers be recited as follows: after the Lord’s Prayer let
[the monks] stand a short while and then bow nine times, if
they are in good health, and each time they stand up again let
them lift their hands to God imploring his grace. {Let them
bow three times and lift their hands three times as well.} When
they have finished, let them bow three times, and then bow to
one another and take leave. 21
Rule 2 stipulates:
Let them recite their prayers three times from the first to the
third hour, three or four times from the third to the sixth, two
times from the sixth to the ninth, until vespers, and three times
during the night. 22
Fasting was an integral part of the monks’ spiritual practice. The
practice of fasting was to take place and last throughout the day (let
[the brother] fast during the day). The only exemption from fasting
came when one was ill or weak; however, even ill health did not
mean that a monk was exempt from fasting to some degree: Should
his body grow thin and look feeble, let him fast on Monday, Wednesday, and
Friday [only]). 23
Conversations between monks were to occur only in public.
Rule Five strictly forbade private visitation between monks: It is
unbecoming either to visit each other and sit on the bed, or to ask concerning
any matter. 24 Moreover, conversations between brothers were to
occur only with the full knowledge of the other brothers. Rule 5
states:
Ibid, 64. Contained in Rule 10.

20
22 Thomas, et al. BMFD.Vol. 1, 62. Contained in Rule 2.

21

Should anyone be seen drawing one of his brothers aside and

taking him to his cell to converse with him, let that one be ad-
monished [two or three times], then, if he is unwilling to
hearken, let him be stripped of his garb and banished from the
monastery. Again, should it be necessary for [one] to talk about
any matter, let him stand and talk [to the other] outside the
church before the brothers, so that no one may be misled. 25
And Rule 7:
Whoever shall frequently converse with one, but it is not clear
what the conversation is about, let him be liable to the afore-
said punishment. 26
Whispering, as a way around this was also strictly forbidden: Do not
whisper among yourselves, since whispering presupposes the sin of theft. 27 Inti-
macy, of any sort, was highly regulated, as several of the above in-
junctions suggest. While the sharing in intimate conversation was
limited, any greater physical intimacy was threatened with dismissal:
Whoever is walking with another on a road, and they are seen
holding hands or embracing or kissing, should one not hearken
to admonitions, let him be expelled from the brotherhood, so
that others may not be corrupted at the sight [of this]. 28
In this typikon, coming late to liturgical service was seen as particu-
larly reprehensible: Should anyone fail to come [in time] without any reason,
communion is not fitting for him. 29 On the contrary, the monk ought to
hasten to church: Rush zealously to the church and even more to the holy
liturgy. 30 Likewise, the monks are encouraged to rush to work as if
they were making their way to the refectory: Whenever the brethren are
called to work, let them hasten [to it] as they do to food. 31 Any transgres-

Ibid 63. Contained in Rule 7.
25

26
28 Thomas, et al. BMFD. Vol. 1, 63. Contained in Rule 6.


JULIA KHAN 105
sion in these matters was punishable by either prostration penance

(lying face down in public), being deprived of food and/or perma-
nent expulsion from the community. 32
The rule of Pantelleria was codified long after the establish-
ment of the Byzantine Empire and the advent of coenobitic mo-
nasticism. By the time of its appearance in the 8th century, many
years of formative development had already taken place in the Byz-
antine church. Orthodoxy was no longer under constant threat by
enemies, or perpetually challenged by warring theological factions.
There was much higher degree of cohesion among the church
leaders. Earlier tensions between the episcopate and the ascetics
had by and large fallen away. From as early as the 5th century (as
the Nestorian crisis illustrates in the capital city’s monasteries) 33
the monks of the suburban monasteries had even come to serve
the clerical functions of the imperial bureaucracy to such an extent
that they had more or less become a sub class of the civil servants
of the Byzantine Empire. 34 Clearly, then, the Pantelleria foundation
document reflects a level of regulation regarding daily life of a new
order of specificity. Administrative matters, how the day should be
spent, the regulation of prayer life and the level of obedience to the
superior all exceed the rules that preceded it. 35 Although not much
is known about its founder, the Ktitor John is described as having
been both a confessor and the superior of the monastery. 36
Ibid, 60–62.
See: J A McGuckin. Nestorius and the Political Factions of 5th Century
32
Byzantium: Factors in his Downfall. Bulletin of the John Rylands University

33
Library. (Special Issue), The Church of the East: Life and Thought. Edd. J.F.
Coakley & K. Parry, Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library 78. 3.
1996. 7–21
34 P Charanis. ‘The Monk as an Element of Byzantine Society.’
Dumbarton Oaks Papers. 25. 1971. (accessible at: www.myriobiblos.gr

/texts/english/charanis_monk.html)
35 Thomas, et al. BMFD. Vol. 1, 60–61.
36 Ibid. Vol. 1, 59.

RHETORIC IN THE TYPIKON OF JOHN

As a document that delineates the ins and outs of monastic life and
administration, the key to the rhetorical argument employed is logos,
a word that ranges in meaning from (divine) Word, to discourse or
document, but in this case especially ‘ordered system’. The word or
document of the rule, provides an ‘order’ of living, a path to the
Logos. This typikon sought, therefore, to define monastic life in a
deeply structured way that would appeal to reasoned order, effi-
ciency and obedience, as primary steps towards to God. At the
time of the typikon’s writing, this sense of ordered micro-cosmos
corresponded closely with what the larger Christian society saw to
be God’s manner of dealing with the larger cosmos. The monk’s
observance of prayerful order (logos) was here set out as an exem-
plar of the way purified humanity was meant to be re-ordered back
to the service of God. To this extent the Pantelleria typikon is pre-
dictably orthodox and theological in nature, and its precepts surely
represent the beliefs that were held as axioms by most, if not all, of
the community. 37 Section 65 demonstrates the powerful bonding
that such a commonality of spiritual kinship as this can create: He
who loves his neighbor until death shall offer his own life (for him), and shall
serve him and remain with him. 38
The rhetorical argument extends to drawing close parallels be-
tween the authority of the typikon and that of the words of Christ
himself (in the Gospel of John): 39 He who abides by such rules of our
Father, and keeps them, shall have life. 40 By pressing this dramatic theo-
logic, the Pantelleria typikon argues that the love of one’s (monastic)
neighbor conveys eternal life comes to the ascetic who abides in
the rules of the superior. The Higumen stands for Christ; the neigh-
bour is the fellow monastic. The life of the monastic community
thus becomes a microcosm of the world under God’s call to salva-
tion, and the ascetic vocation itself is thus clearly presented rhetori-
Crowley and Hawhee, Ancient Rhetorics for Contemporary Students,

133.
37
Thomas, et al. BMFD. Vol. 1, 65.

Jn. 8.51–52; 14.21.
38
40 Thomas, et al. BMFD. Vol. 1, 65.

39
JULIA KHAN 107
cally as fulfilling Christ’s summative commandment: to love God

and neighbour as the fulfilment of the Law. 41 This prioritizing of
the powerfully cohesive and unanimous community built on solidly
maintained orthodox premises, would have been particularly appo-
site as a counter statement to times in the Empire of loss and
stress, or a faltering of a totalist belief in the certainty of the ‘victo-
ry of the Cross’ in the Byzantine East at this time; a time of re-
trenchment of Roman power and influence. Pantelleria’s typikon did
not seek to justify a theological position or to argue any controver-
sial biblical exegeses. It did not feel the need to establish lineages,
or explicate problems of tradition. The lineage and traditions of
monasticism in the Byzantine Empire were already a well-
established and an accepted reality. The Typikon of John rather, was a
document written by a monk, out of his own extensive experience,
to set up a re-statement of a classical guide, in sharper detail, and
with a more noticeable stress on the need for obedience to the im-
mediate authority of the pneumatikos (spiritual father). This obedi-
ence is underlined as not only ‘appropriate’ but even no less than
the path to salvation.
CONCLUSION
This paper has tried to demonstrate that the rhetoric employed in
composing and recording the rules and practices of early Byzantine
monastic communities changed according to the intended audi-
ence. Depending on whether the audience was the monks of a par-
ticular monastery, the members of the Byzantine court, or all the
Christian faithful, the terms of rhetoric employed shifted to ac-
commodate and entice (persuade) the various constituencies.
Changing historical circumstances in the Byzantine Empire, as well
as dramatic shifts in ascetical forms of life, meant that the ‘classical’
idea of monasticism had to be repristinated, reclaimed, and also at
the same time readjusted as the generations of the Christian Em-
pire wore on. Pantelleria is one such example of the repristination
(and refashioning) of much earlier forms of cenobitic observance.
41 Mt. 22.37.
The author of the Pantelleria: the Typikon of John sought to posi-

tion his argument in a manner that would make his outlook more
palatable to his audience. The Typikon of John was written in a time
marked by societal conflict and uncertainty. The background may
explain why such emphasis is placed on conformity and consensus.
In his era, in his location, the ascetical focus was no longer on the
solitary defeating of one’s personal demons, as it had been in the
Lausiac History that had set up 4th century Egypt as the gold stand-
ard of monastic lore. Rather, the focus was now squarely set on the
controlling of one’s passions, and the purification of one’s soul, for
the glory of God and the edification of the community.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
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A. N. Athanassakis The Life of Pachomius: Vita Prima Graeca.
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P. Charanis The Monk as an Element of Byzantine Society.
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Byzantine Studies, 1971.
S. Crowley, et al Ancient Rhetorics for Contemporary Students.
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of Caesarea, Christian, Humanist, Ascetic: A
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don: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1980.
JULIA KHAN 109
J. A. McGuckin The Westminster Handbook to Patristic The-

ology. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox
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——— Pachomius: The Making of a Community in
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THE DEVIL IN THE DESERT
KEVIN MCKEOWN
And forthwith the spirit drove him into the desert. And he
was in the desert forty days being tried by Satan, and he
was with the wild beasts, and the angels ministered to him.
(Mark 1,12–13)
The phrase ‘battling one’s demons’ is hardly an obscure one in our
modern day and age. Every person, at some time or another, expe-
riences internal conflict – the divergence between one’s moral ide-
als and one’s desires, or between one’s reality and one’s wishes and
dreams. The conflict is something that can turn the psyche into
something of a battle-ground. We characterize ourselves as falling
prey to our weaknesses, as falling under bad influences or into bad
habits; but the key concept in this notion is that, ultimately, the
conflict originates and ends within us. Today we tend praise our
quality of self-control, as it symbolizes the triumph of the rational
mind over our diverse and ever-changing desires and impulses.
This is not how ancients approached the issue, however. For the
Christians of Late Antiquity, demons (daimones) were hardly a ro-
manticized allegorical rendering of our internal psychological di-
lemmas.
The spiritual realm of antiquity was heavily populated by un-
seen powers, and very enmeshed in the affairs of the immaterial
world. As Peter Brown phrases it: ‘The sharp smell of an invisible
battle hung over the religious and intellectual life of Late Antique
111
112 THE DEVIL IN THE DESERT
man.’ 1 This was especially true for the Christian monastic. Brown
continues: ‘To sin was no longer merely to err: it was to allow one-
self to be overcome by unseen forces … But if the demons were
the ‘stars’ of the religious drama of Late Antiquity, they needed an
impresario. They found this in the Christian Church.’ 2 To battle
one’s demons was understood by the early Christians as an actual
conflict with the Devil and his minions to protect one’s soul from
their influence, and it mirrored the eschatological cosmic division
and conflict between the spiritual forces of good and evil; God and
his angels standing against the Devil and all his powers, that Chris-
tianity had inherited through late Judaism. 3 Just as this conflict
raged eternally, in and around this world, so too did the monk’s
combat against the demons on the earthly plane. This understand-
ing of daimonic conflict was definitive to the monastic way of life
and was something that could only be dissolved when the ascetic
was released from life in the world. After death the monk who had
‘fought the good fight’ would be rewarded for his perfect fidelity
and fighting in God’s kingdom by joining the angels.
This being the case, it will follow that there is a great deal of
demonology to be found in the literature of the Desert Fathers. It
is of central importance to the literature and the ascetic experience
the literature seeks to describe, because it was of central im-
portance to pass on the experiences and memories of this spiritual
conflict from one generation of ascetics to another. This spiritual
conflict was of central importance to the monk’s identity. As John
Chryssavgis notes, ‘The teaching is fairly clear: if my devils leave me,
then my angels will too.’ 4 Much modern literature on asceticism has
been embarrassed by the prevalence of the demonology and has
‘chosen not to see it’ in terms of its analyses.
1 P. Brown. The World of Late Antiquity: AD 150–750. Norton. 1989.

p. 53.
Ibid. pp. 53–55.
2
Ibid. p. 55.
3
4 J. Chryssavgis.In the Heart of the Desert: The Spirituality of the Desert Fa-
thers and Mothers. 2003 p. 38.

KEVIN MCKEOWN 113
The importance to the ascetic of combating the devil and his

demonic minions is amply summarized in saying 59 from the Anon-
ymous Collection of the Apophthegmata Patrum:
One of the old men of the Thebaid used to tell the following
story: ‘I was the son of a pagan priest. When I was small I
would sit and watch my father who often went to sacrifice to
the idol. Once, going in behind him in secret, I saw Satan and
all his army standing beside him; and behold, one of the chief
devils came to bow before him. Satan said, ‘Where have you
come from?’ He answered, ‘I was in a certain place and made
much blood flow, and I have come to tell you about it.’ Satan
asked, ‘How long did it take you to do this?’ He replied, ‘Thirty
days.’ Then Satan commanded him to be flogged, saying, ‘In so
long a time have you done only that?’ And behold another
demon came to bow before him. He asked him, ‘And you,
where have you come from?’ The demon replied, ‘I was on the
sea, and I made the waves rise, and small craft foundered, and
I have killed many people, and I have come to inform you of
it.’ He said to him, ‘How long did it take you to do this?’ and
the demon said, ‘Twenty days’. Satan commanded that he also
should be flogged, saying, ‘That is because in such a long time
you have only done this.’ Now a third demon came to bow be-
fore him. He asked, ‘And where have you come from?’ The
demon replied, ‘There was a marriage in a certain village, and I
stirred up a riot, and I have made much blood flow, killing the
bride and bridegroom, and I have come to inform you.’ He
asked him, ‘How long have you taken to do this?’ and he re-
plied, ‘Ten days.’ And Satan commanded that he also should
be flogged because he had taken too long. After this another
demon came to bow before him. He asked, ‘Where have you
come from?’ He said, ‘I was in the desert forty years fighting
against a monk, and this night I made him fall into fornica-
tion.’ When he heard this, Satan arose, embraced him, and put
the crown he was wearing on his head and made him sit on his
throne, saying, ‘You have been able to do a very great deed!’’
The old man said, ‘Seeing this, I said to myself, ‘Truly, it is a
great contest, this contest of the monks’, and with God assur-
ing me for my salvation, I went away and became a monk.’ 5
By this we see that not only did the ancient ascetics recognize the
all-pervasive evil spiritual presence in the world, but that they also
envisioned themselves as the foremost targets of the Devil’s on-
slaught, the front-line troops in the eschatological battle as it were.
It also conveys the importance placed on handing down these ex-
periences for the edification of other monks, to bolster both their
faith and their ‘spiritual armaments.’ The ascetics took up the mo-
nastic life in imitation of Christ and of the angels and their spiritual
combat stood as a direct reflection of Christ’s forty days in the de-
sert, in the New Testamental account, where he was tried by Satan
and the wild beasts. 6 Several studies have been devoted to under-
standing specific aspects of demonology in the literature of the De-
sert Fathers, and not a few have tried to elucidate their roots cul-
turally and psychologically; however this is not the intention of the
present paper. This study will choose, instead, to focus on the im-
portance of the transmission and preservation of demonological
teachings in the literature of the Desert Fathers, in hopes of illumi-
nating the central importance of the concept of ‘spiritual combat’
for the early Christian desert ascetics, and the larger (lay) Christian
audience for whom the works were also written.
While we will look at various passages from the literature of
the Desert Fathers, there are some central texts which will take
precedence: the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto 7 and the Lausiac His-
tory, read in conjunction with the Coptic Palladiana, as well as four
most prominent biographies: those of Pambo, Evagrius, and the
two Macarii. 8 These works stand out as ‘historical’ 9 endeavors that
5 B. Ward, (tr). The Wisdom of the Desert Fathers: The ‘Apothegmata

Patrum’ (The Anonymous Series), pp. 20–21.
6 Mt 4,1–11; Mk 1,12–13; Lk 4,1–13.
7 The translation used here is that by Norman Russell: The Lives of the
Desert Fathers: the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto. Cistercian Publications.

Kalamazoo. 1981
8 The translation used here is that by Tim Vivian: Four Desert Fathers:
Pambo, Evagrius, Macarius of Egypt and Macarius of Alexandria: Coptic Texts

KEVIN MCKEOWN 115
relate the lives, teachings and experiences of the most significant

figures of Late Antique monasticism. They also were a great influ-
ence on Western monastic thought, and preserved the legacy of the
Desert Fathers in the Western churches long after the Christian
East and West had fallen out of communion. The other main
source utilized in this paper is the Apophthegmata Patrum 10 – an early
semi-systematic effort to record the wisdom of the early Desert
Fathers to preserve their example and instruction for later genera-
tions of monastic practitioners. 11
Our investigation of these passages concerning demonological
instruction will be approached first by setting up a few categories
of instruction (paideia). We see three main categories of instruction
operating, relating to the three common threads in this area of spir-
itual instruction: 1) lessons on the true physicality of spiritual com-
bat, 2) lessons on pride and deception and their associated demons,
and 3) lessons on the importance of communal support in instruc-
tion for opposing the demons. These three foci of instruction en-
compass the core of monastic thought on spiritual warfare and
demonology; firstly that combat with the demons is a true physical
contest; secondly that pride and its deceptive nature is the chief
root of the purchase the demonic forces have against a monk; and
thirdly, that the support, instruction and prayers afforded to the
relating to the Lausiac History of Palladius. St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press,

Crestwood. 2004.
9 This statement must be understood in the sense that ancient histo-
riography differed greatly from our modern conception of historiography.

The material put forth in these works does not follow the rules of our
modern senses of historical accuracy and intellectual taxonomies, but ra-
ther accords with the religious and social agenda of its authors. Regard-
less, (and presenting us with enduring problems of modern classification)
these works stand out as writings intended from the outset to be ‘histori-
cal’, grounded accurately in the ‘real’ world of (Byzantine) experience, as
opposed to the collections of the Apothegmata-, which were much more
consciously intended as symbolic collections of passed-down monastic
oral wisdom.
10 Specifically for this paper, the Anonymous Collection.
11 Ward. 1975. pp. xi–xii,
monk by his community were his greatest aid in this eschatological

ascesis. However, it is very important to recognize that these works
and the lessons contained therein, were not for monastics alone;
the wider Christian world, both clerical and lay, were also the in-
tended recipients of these teachings when framed in literary form:
something that is especially the case in the Palladian literature. 12
These texts represent an effort to disseminate the wisdom and ex-
periences of the tradition of the Egyptian ascetics into the broader
Church. This particular pedagogic concern has had a hand in shap-
ing the three main categories of teaching examined in this paper: in
so far as all three realms of spiritual warfare were applicable as de-
siderata to non-monastics in society.
THE PHYSICALITY OF SPIRITUAL COMBAT

One of the most notable features of demonological passages from
the literature is the utter physicality of the demons’ assaults. De-
mons were not just spiritual forces that afflicted the psyche of the
monk, they could manifest themselves as physical beings to assault
even the more spiritually powerful among the Fathers. If they
could not pierce into the psyche to cause damage, through tempta-
tions, the demons most certainly could equally settle for beating up
the monks. These beatings were both seen and heard. The Life of
Piammonas provides us with one such tale. Piammonas is described
as a holy and humble man, who received many visions on account
of his ascesis. 13 It is said that demons often tormented him physical-
ly, rendering him so weak that he could hardly reach the altar to
worship. Echoing the synoptic Gospel accounts of Gethsemane,
the Vita says an angel would come to minister to him, lifting him
up and giving him strength to approach the altar. This was enough
to renew his strength to overcome his physical afflictions, the
marks of which were visible to his brethren.
12 D. Brakke. Demons and the Making of the Monk: Spiritual Combat in

Early Christianity. Harvard University Press. 2006. p. 136.
13 Historia Monachorum 25.
KEVIN MCKEOWN 117
The Lausiac History’s Life of Evagrius 14 relates several stories of

Evagrius’ encounters with the demons during his hermitage in Kel-
lia. In fact, of the four most extensive biographies in the History
that of Evagrius contains by far the most demonic encounters. This
should come as no surprise to anyone familiar with the works of
Evagrius (and thus the school of writers who followed him as a
master) because this quintessential monastic theologian was re-
nowned for his spiritual discernment and expertise on the passions
and the presence of demons. However even though Evagrius’ own
works focus on the spiritual and noetic theory of the passions and
demons, the History includes him among those Fathers who were
most physically afflicted by the demons. The text recalls a time
when Evagrius was attacked by demons bearing ox-hide whips.
None of the brethren witnessed the attack, but they reported hear-
ing his cries of pain and the raised demonic voices.
These physical assaults, however, were not always so one sid-
ed. One notable passage from the Historia Monachorum (HM) con-
cerning Apelles of Achoris is a testament to this. 15 We are told that
the Abba of the monks at Achoris was visited by a devil in the
guise of a woman, trying to tempt him into fornication. As she ap-
proached he pulled a red hot iron from the fire and scorched her
face, driving her back in agony, her cries reaching the ears of the
other brethren. On account of his courageous resistance, it is re-
counted that Apelles was graced by God with the charism, from
that time onwards, of being able to hold red-hot iron without pain
or damage.
PRIDE: CHIEF OF THE DEMONS, MASTER OF DECEPTION

Stories and teachings concerning the demon of pride also form a
recurring theme in our sources. Just as tortuous to a monk as the
demon of fornication, pride is depicted an extra shade of sinister
on account of its deceptive powers. Pride, it is argued, was able to
even deceive the wisest monks and those whose ascesis and disci-
pline were the most rigorous. As varied as are the manifestations of
Lausiac History. 38.

Historia Monachorum. 13. 1–2.
14
15
pride in our sources, there is a common thread underlying all its

exemplars. In the desert literature, it is closely associated with civi-
lization, that is with villages, cities, and their inhabitants. This topos
adheres to the most basic ideology of Egyptian monasticism, which
is the break with society the monk has undertaken, so as to remove
himself from worldly temptations. By the time a majority of our
sources had been penned, the fame and fascination associated with
the monastics of the Egyptian desert had resulted in pilgrimages by
monastics, clerics and lay-people from abroad to experience and
mine the wisdom and praxis of these increasingly renowned ascet-
ics. This no doubt put an increase of tension on the ascetic’s delib-
erate self-separation from society. The increased presence of out-
side observers could no doubt rouse aspirations of prestige in the
monastic being so publicly ‘acclaimed’ as a spiritual master. It
therefore stands as an imperative lesson in our sources that monks
must learn to expose this added demonic snare and lay bare the
root of its power.
The pervasiveness of pride is shown clearly in an anecdote
from the Lausiac History’s Life of Evagrius. It relates that early in
Evagrius’ career, when he was still heavily involved in ecclesial life
in Constantinople, his impressive knowledge and learning caused
him to fall into pride. On account of his pride: ‘He fell into the
hands of the demon who brings about lustful thoughts for women,’
which manifested as an uncon-summated love affair with a married
noble woman. 16 An angel is said to come to his aid in realizing this
spiritual threat, and this experience ultimately leads Evagrius to
abandon life in the city for a monastic life at Kellia. The anecdote
attests to the association of pride with civic life, and how its powers
lead to further corruption (here appearing as the demon of fornica-
tion). This anecdote is also important because of its main character
(even a figure as wise and blessed as Evagrius) is not impervious to
the wiles of the demons. In fact, his wisdom leaves him vulnerable
to the temptation of pride: and pride is the gateway to demonic
assault.
16Lausiac History. 38.3; In our text it is stressed that Evagrius never

acted upon his sinful desires because of the shame it would bring him in
the eyes of all the heretics he refuted.
KEVIN MCKEOWN 119
Pride is also described as feeding off the monastic’s desire for

spiritual excellence through ascesis. In the Historia Monachorum 17 we
are told a story of Macarius the Great, student of Anthony the
Great, and one of the most revered figures among the tradition of
the desert Fathers, concerning his conflict with the Devil. 18 In it,
the Devil finds Macarius physically exhausted from is ascetic prac-
tice. He tries to tempt Macarius into taking things more easily, say-
ing: ‘Look, you have already achieved the grace of Anthony…’
Macarius valiantly responds with: ‘You shall not tempt the servant
of God,’ and drives the Devil away. This story serves as a paradigm
meant to check the monastic from aspirational behavior to rise to
equal the glory of great monastic figures. As inspiring as the stories
of the great Desert Fathers and their feats might be, the present
day practitioner is warned here not practice ascesis in the hopes of
rising to such a blessed condition. It also serves as a reality check to
anyone inspired by such stories, monastic or non-monastic alike,
that the graces resulting from ascetic practice are for God alone to
bestow and to recognize, and cannot simply be gained through
simple imitation of the externals.
Another anecdote from the Historia Monachorum reveals anoth-
er side of this demonic deceit. 19 Apelles of Achoris shares a story
of his former brother John: ‘A man of another age, who surpassed
in virtue all the monks of our own time.’ 20 In this tale the Devil
came to John’s cell dis-guised as a priest, in order to offer him
Communion. John, immediately realized who it was, said: ‘O father
of all subtlety and all mischief, enemy of all righteousness, will you
not cease to deceive the souls of Christians, but dare you even to
attack the Mysteries themselves?’ The devil then reveals that he has
only just failed in deceiving John, but he had deceived another of
John’s brothers in the same way and had driven him mad. It was
only through the prayers of ‘many just men’ that latter monk had
been brought back to his right mind. This anecdote seems to be a
cautionary tale that the demons not only attack from outside the
Historia Monachorum. 21.

Historia Monachorum. 21. 3–4.
17
18
19 Historia Monachorum. 13. 5–6.
20 Historia Monachorum . 13. 3.
Church, but also have achieved a level of infiltration in the Church

itself. It may very well be a commentary on the role of political
ambition, manipulation and deception (three wellsprings of pride)
found within the ecclesial hierarchy of the Church. Given that
these cautionary tales were written around the same time as the
infamous Origenist controversies involving the oppression of sev-
eral communities of Egyptian monks at the hands of the Alexan-
drian bishop Theophilus, this interpretation might be a likely con-
text. 21 It also hearkens back to the association of pride and its de-
ceptiveness with civilization, in so far as the ecclesial hierarchy was
inherently associated with urbanized areas.
IMPORTANCE OF COMMUNAL SUPPORT STRUCTURE

The third main category of instruction in the demon-narrative texts
relates to the importance for the individual monk of communal
support and instruction, aimed at spiritual growth. While some of
the earliest monastic figures, a prime example being Anthony the
Great, were known for their extreme solitude and ascesis, there is a
common thread in the desert literature that isolation from the
brethren and extreme ascesis were more often harmful to spiritual
progress than helpful. The figure of the spiritual father (Abba,
Geron) is given great importance in these texts, and time and again
the prayers and support of the brethren or the holy ‘Old Man’ lead
to the healing or helping of afflicted monks. While this lesson has
its clear application for the monastic reader, it also seems to carry a
message concerning community and education, especially in the
realm of spirituality, to the wider Christian Church (the readership)
of Late Antiquity.
In the Anonymous Collection of the Apophthegmata, the role of
the spiritual father and the support of the monastic community are
heavily stressed. 22 There are many short anecdotes which show this
and sayings 38 and 33 provide clear examples. Saying 38 reads as
follows:
21 Brakke. 2006. pp.127–128; Vivian. 2004. pp. 26–28.

22 Ward. 1975. pp. xii–xiii.
KEVIN MCKEOWN 121
The disciple of a great old man was once attacked by lust. The
old man, seeing it in his prayer, said to him, ‘Do you want me
to ask God to relieve you of this battle?’ The other said, ‘Abba,
I see that I am afflicted, but I see that this affliction is produc-
ing fruit in me; therefore ask God to give me endurance to
bear it.’ And his Abba said to him, ‘Today I know you surpass
me in perfection.’
And Saying 33 reads:
A brother was attacked by lust, and he fought and intensified
his ascesis, guarding his thoughts so as not to consent to those
desires. Later he came to the church and revealed the matter to
everyone. And the commandment was given to all to do pen-
ance for that week for his sake, and to pray to God; and lo, the
warfare ceased.
This theme is also to be found in our more historically slanted
sources as well. The Life of Evagrius preserves an anecdote where
Evagrius consults his famed spiritual father, Macarius, on how he
might resist the spirit of fornication. 23 As the text relates: ‘The old
man said to him: “Do not eat anything in order to be filled up, nei-
ther fruit nor anything cooked over a fire.”’ This story echoes
Evagrius’ own teachings in Praktikos 94 where he passes on strik-
ingly similar advice to that given to him by Macarius. 24
The Historia Monachorum speaks of Abba Pityrion’s excellence
as a spiritual father. 25 Pityrion was one of Antony the Great’s disci-
ples and the second in line to succeed him as superior in the The-
baid. As the text notes, having succeeded Antony and his disciple
Ammonas, ‘It was fitting that he should also have received the in-
heritance of their spiritual gifts. He delivered many discourses to us
on a variety of topics, but he spoke with particular authority on the
discernment of spirits.’ Pityrion gives his monks a lesson concern-
ing the manner in which the demons follow the passions. In a very
Evagrian turn, stressing the necessity of apatheia, he exhorts his
23 Lausiac History. 38.10.

24 Vivian. 2004. p. 80.
25 Historia Monachorum. 15.
disciples: ‘Therefore, my children, whoever wishes to drive out the

demons must first master the passions.’ His synoptic teaching as a
renowned spiritual father is here presented as stressing in first or-
der of importance the role of spiritual combat.
CONCLUSION: THE ‘WHY?’ OF DEMONS IN THE DESERT

This paper is far from being an exhaustive analysis of the topic of
demonological instruction in the Desert Literature. This would
amount to a study far greater in scope than this paper can aspire to.
Instead, this study aims to isolate a set of revealing anecdotes,
which elucidate this important theme in three focused areas, areas
which I argue had equal relevance and applicability both to monas-
tic and non-monastic audiences. Our first category stands as the
physicality of spiritual combat with the demons. It serves a two-
fold purpose, as a literary topos to serve as a warning on the need
for spiritual attentiveness and at the same time as a motif of (what I
would designate as) the ‘hagiographical heroicizing’ of the great old
monks of the Egyptian desert. No doubt stories and anecdotes of
monks physically combating with demons enthralled readers by its
employment of supernatural themes so vividly. In doing so it
served a pedagogical purpose par excellence. Beyond working as a
literary device of encomium for monks themselves, however, this
depiction of the desert heroes as battle-hardened veterans with
even the wounds to show for it, can also be interpreted as an ap-
peal to that wider circle of readers involved in the realms of politics
and military of the Late Antique Church and Empire. Barbarian
invasions plagued the Roman Empire in the 4th and 5th centuries.
Doubtless the image of the Christian monastic triumphing over the
wild (barbarous) demons in physical combat could serve as a paral-
lel encomium to the Christian imperial soldier triumphing over the
alien and destructive influence of the barbarians. This association
would have brought the monk, appositely enough for a Constan-
tinopolitan readership, from the iconic role of a peaceful recluse to
that of a valiant warrior of God, combating the main source of op-
position to the security of the Christian world – the hatred of bar-
KEVIN MCKEOWN 123
barian powers. Such a motive, I believe, was certainly on the mind

of Palladius when he penned his Lausiac History. 26
Reflection on the varieties and dangers of pride forms another
important category of this demonological literature because, as ar-
gued above, its influence was perceived as the most pervasive ma-
trix of rebellion against God present throughout the world, with a
species of deceptiveness harmful to the monastic and non-
monastic alike. The sin of pride is that which is most fundamentally
associated with Satan and his demons, since it was believed in the
Byzantine world that it was precisely because of their pride that
they fell from God’s grace. It was equally pride that caused experi-
enced monks who had achieved a rigorous ascesis to fall into the
folly of self-reliance and to shun communal aspects of monastic life
and the guidance of one’s spiritual father, deceiving them into
thinking their ascesis is all they need. 27 The falling away of such
leaders doubtlessly caused far greater scandal than the temptations
of younger or less important monks, and required a fuller theologi-
cal explanation. Just as the Devil and his demons in their pride
withdrew from their spiritual Father and from the heavenly com-
munity of the angels of light, so too did the monk who fell prey to
pride. 28 But it also seems clear that our authors had in mind to
stress the dangers and destructiveness of pride omnipresent within
urban life as well. The tale of Evagrius’ personal struggle with pride
and the demon of fornication, and his eventual flight to the desert
to combat it, clearly renders intelligible the dangers associated with
pride in the ecclesial realm. As we have seen, the anecdote from
Historia Monachorum 13 concerning John of Achoris and the devil
disguised as a priest, inherently touches on this theme, hinting at
the infiltration of demonic influence into the ecclesial hierarchy
through political and bureaucratic ambitions of power and prestige.
Issues of growing ecclesial ‘worldliness’ in the 5th century, and in-
creasing divisions within the church arising from ecclesial power-
plays, can explain a context to this theological anxiety. Palladius, in
dedicating his work to Lausus, an official in the court of Theodosi-
26 Brakke. 2006. pp. 135–136.

27 ibid. p. 137.
28 ibid. p. 137.
us II, and by including such lessons within his work, has an avowed
intent to disseminate traditions of the ‘simple’ Desert Fathers to
the wider and much more ‘sophisticated’ Christian world. 29 His
literary aim is surely to exhort the Byzantine laity, especially those
of political importance, to be vigilant about the corruptions pride
brings in its train. If pride is able to deceive even the most asceti-
cally prepared of targets, the most senior monks, then how much
more was the non-monastic at risk of bringing dark forced into the
very heart of the body politic?
Finally, the literary theme in this literature pertaining to com-
munal support and instruction can be seen to carry the same mes-
sage for monastic and layperson. The authors of these demonolog-
ical themes seem to have wished to use these dramatic monastic
examples to influence the wider Christian world. The support of
the monastic community and the guidance provided by the spiritual
father are central themes in our source literature. When they are
lacking, the monk runs aground on the shores of spiritual trouble.
Such a lesson, when read by the laity, stresses the importance of
participation in the Church community for a virtuous and holy life,
free from demonic influence. They also serve to elevate the im-
portance of the clergy’s role in instructing the community, a local
and sacramental figure of the ‘spiritual father’. These literary tales
stress the importance of having teachers and theologians made wise
by experience and rigorous scriptural study within the Church
community, so as to ensure its proper guidance and spiritual pros-
perity. Again, the motive for this argument can be provided by
contemporary society. It was a time when the role of the bishops
was perhaps seen as having been politically compromised, as their
energies were more heavily commandeered by the Imperial Admin-
istration in the 5th Century Church: a time of great social expan-
sion, and numerous temptations to generate clerical wealth and
power. A figure like Palladius would have been very aware of this,
being a senior cleric who had been trained in the traditions of the
Desert Fathers at the feet of Evagrius. 30
29 ibid. p. 136.
30 Brakke. 2006. pp. 134–136; Vivian. 2004. pp. 28–30.
KEVIN MCKEOWN 125
I hope this paper has served to highlight the high pedagogical

importance of these demonological tales in the literature in the De-
sert tradition, for both monastic and non-monastic audiences. For
monastics, this demonological paideia was a synopsis of the preserva-
tion of the teachings of the great elders of previous generations, in
the genres of hagiographical icon. For the non-monastic reader-
ship, this paideia served as an extremely vivid point of dissemination
for this tradition. Stories about demons and the devil captivated the
Byzantine reader and sharpened their focus on the prevalence and
significance of the other-worldly even in their daily, urban lifestyles.
But by their very concentration on the fantastical and alien, they
nonetheless contained important religious cautions (about pride-
fulness and self-reliance) which the non-monastic could use to in-
spire their own spiritual life. It is a great mistake if we relegate these
tales, just because of their lurid supernatural nature, to the sidelines
of scholarly analysis.
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W. Harmless ‘Remembering Poemen Remembering: The

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1981
T. Vivian (tr). Four Desert Fathers: Pambo, Evagrius, Mac-
arius of Egypt and Macarius of Alexandria:
Coptic Texts relating to the Lausiac History of
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SLG Press. Oxford. 1975.
AN ANCIENT ASCETICAL DRAMA OF
WOMAN AND THE DRAGON:
PERPETUA’S RISE INTO THE ANIMUS-
WORLD
JEFF PETTIS
Thanks be to God that I am happier here now than I was
in the flesh. (Martyrdom of Perpetua, 12.7)
In this paper I intend to come at the issue of askesis (the Greek
term for the dynamic struggle of the athlete) from the perspective
of a major text of an early Christian martyr. In this analysis I aim to
scrutinize the first dream-vision contained in the Martyrdom of St.
Perpetua, with a specific focus upon the significance of the dragon,
representative of Perpetua’s attachment to the earthly realm. This
analysis has three parts. Part I explores the text and socio-historical
background of Perpetua’s first dream-vision. Part II discusses the
details and significance of the imagery of the ladder by which Per-
petua ascends into the higher realm. Part III explores the symbol-
ism and significance of the dragon image that appears as a core
interaction (complex) in the text, relating Perpetua’s inner struggle
with/ between the opposites of matter and spirit. Her command
over the dragon occurs inseparably from her journey of ascent into
the male animus realm of the transcendent where she is received by
the figure of the shepherd into a circle of worshipers. I will then
give a brief conclusion.
PART I: TEXT
The Latin text Passio Perpetuae et Felicitas was discovered in the mid-
dle of the 17th century among manuscripts from Monte Cassino
Monastery. A Greek version of the Passio was found in Jerusalem in
127
128 PERPETUA’S RISE INTO THE ANIMUS-WORLD
1889 and published the following year. 1 The Passio also occurs
along with the accounts of other early Christian martyrs collected
in the Acts of the Martyrs (Acta Martyrum). Eusebius of Caesarea may
have been the first to put together such a document in his Synagoge
Ton Archaion, which is no longer extant. 2 The redactor of the Acts of
the Martyrs probably had the Passio Perpetuae et Felicitas before him. 3
In my reading, I draw from the Acts of the Martyrs, working from
both the Latin text and translation presented by Herbert Musuril-
lo, 4 as well as the translation of the text by Marie Louise Von Franz
in her monograph The Passion of Perpetua.
Background Observations
The simple, dream-like style of the prison diaries of the martyr
Perpetua, along with the absence of extensive Christian coloring,
lend to the historical authenticity of the vision material. 5 The four
1 Marie-Louise von Franz, The Passion of Perpetua (Irving, Texas: Uni-
versity of Dallas, 1980): 13.

2 ‘Acts of the Martyrs,’ in, F.L. Cross, ed., The Oxford Dictionary of the
Christian Church (London: Oxford University Press, 1957): 14.

3 E.R. Dodds, Pagan and Christianity in and Age of Anxiety: Some Aspects
of Religious Experience from Marcus Aurelius to Constantine (Cambridge: Cam-

bridge University Press, 1965): 49.
4 Herbert Musurillo, trans., The Acts of the Christian Martyrs (Oxford:
Clarendon Press. 1972). His is adapted from the critical edition of C. J. M.

J. van Beek, Passio sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis (Nijmegen, 1936): 1–62.
Beek groups the 9 MSS in the Latin recension into 5 families. An im-
portant Greek version exists also, extant in a single manuscript: H = co-
dex Hierosolymitanus S. Sepulchri I. According the Musurillo, the Greek
version is derived from the Latin original (p. xxvii). See also J. A. Robin-
son, Texts and Studies, Contributions to Biblical and Patristic Literature, Vol. 1
(Cambridge, 1891); P. Franchi de Cavalieri, La Passio SS. Perpetuae et Felic-
itatis (Rome, 1896); Jacqueline Amat, Passion de Perpétue et de Félicité: Introduc-
tion, Texte Critique, Traduction … (Paris, 1996); Marie-Louise von Franz, The
Passion of Perpetua, 4–5; Jacqueline Amat, Passion de Perpétue et de Félicité:
Introduction, Texte Critique, Traduction … (Paris, 1996).
5 See E.R. Dodds, Pagan and Christian in an Age of Anxiety. 49–53; Ma-
rie-Louise von Franz, The Passion of Perpetua, 9–11.

JEFF PETTIS 129
visions of Perpetua are thought to be actual recordings of an early

2nd century Christian martyr written during her imprisonment in a
period of fourteen days prior to her execution in the arena at Car-
thage in the year 203. Perpetua and Saturus, one of her two broth-
ers, were catechumens of the (Montanist) African church. In 202, a
decree of the Emperor Septimius Severus forbade conversions to
Christianity. 6 Perpetua indicates that just prior to her imprisonment
she received the rite of baptism (3.5). 7 The narrator (possibly the
theologian Tertullian) says that Perpetua was a newly married
woman ‘of good family and upbringing’ (2.1). She was about twen-
ty-two years of age, and at the time had an infant son at the breast
(2.2). The child was brought to her several times while she was in
prison. No mention of her husband occurs in the tract. Perpetua
relates her experience in the prison:
A few days later we were lodged in the prison; and I was terri-
fied, as I had never before been in such a dark hole. What a
difficult time it was! With the crowd the heat was stifling; then
there was the extortion of the solders; and to crown all, I was
tortured with worry for my baby there. (Acts of Perpetua 3.5–6) 8
Perpetua’s religious conviction and subsequent condemnation to
the arena drew criticism from her father and sorrow from her close
friends. Her text offers a glimpse into the community of the early
African church, and it may represent an early 3rd century, proto-
6 Entry, ‘Perpetua, St.,’ F.L. Cross, ed., The Oxford Dictionary of the
Christian Church, 1046.

7 ‘For a few days afterwards I gave thanks to the Lord that I was
separated from my father, and I was comforted by his absence. During

these few days I was baptized, and I was inspired by the Spirit not to ask
for any other favor after the water but simply the perseverance of the
flesh.’ Acts of Perpetua 3.4–5.
8 The Acts of Perpetua consists of an introductory statement (chs. 1–
2), Perpetua’s visions (chs. 3–10), the visions of a young catechumen

named Saturus, also imprisoned to be executed (chs. 11–13), and a con-
clusion (chs. 14–21).
Montanist document circulating within the Montanist circle of Ter-

tullian himself. 9
Perpetua’s first dream-vision: synopsis

In her first vision, Perpetua is encouraged by her brother to ask for
an instructive vision in order to learn whether she is to be con-
demned or freed. According to the diary, Perpetua then makes a
request to God. She says, ‘…for I knew that I could speak with the
Lord, whose great blessings I had come to experience.’ She subse-
quently has a vision. In her epiphany, she sees an image of a bronze
ladder having tremendous height, reaching all the way to the heav-
ens. The ladder is narrow, restricting movement to one person at a
time. It also has along its sides iron hooks (swords, spears, daggers,
and spikes) which will catch and mangle the flesh of one who is
careless. At the foot of the ladder lies a great dragon, which terrifies
and will try to attack anyone who attempts to climb the ladder.
Saturus makes it up the ladder first and then calls Perpetua, warn-
ing her of the bite of the dragon. Perpetua however seems not at all
disturbed, and with clear authority commands the dragon: ‘In the
name of Christ,’ which then sticks out its head. Perpetua uses the
head of the dragon as the first step of her ascent. She climbs and
reaches the top of the ladder where she beholds an immense gar-
den, and in its midst a gray-haired, male shepherd milking a sheep.
Surrounding him are thousands of worshippers clad in white gar-
ments. Perpetua informs us that, ‘He raised his head, looked at me,
and said: ‘I am glad you have come, my child.’ The shepherd then
calls her over and gives her a mouthful of milk, which she takes in
cupped hands and consumes. Everyone says, ‘Amen!’ and Perpetua
awakes with the taste of milk still in her mouth. She realizes from
the dream-vision that she and her brother are going to die and
leave this world.
Observations on the first dream-vision

Perpetua speaks of a ‘vision’ (visionem, 4.1), although her statement
at the end of the account that she ‘woke up’ (experrecta sum) suggests
9 Herbert Musurillo, The Acts of the Christian Martyrs, xxvi.

JEFF PETTIS 131
that she had a vision of the night/dream experience. 10 Her broth-

er’s words: ‘You are greatly privileged; surely you might ask for a
vision?’ acknowledges the existence of an ‘inner’ knowledge to be
accessed through a dreaming experience which holds the secret as
to the plight of Perpetua and others with her. He encourages her to
‘ask’ (postules) for a vision, thus suggesting the parallel (Asclepian)
practice of dream incubation. A patron enters sleep with the delib-
erate intention to acquire some kind of revelation. In Perpetua’s
case it is the knowledge of the future: whether or not Perpetua will
die or be freed from imprisonment. The dire circumstances of Per-
petua and her baby and also the suffering of those close to Perpet-
ua and who pity her, drive the incubation petition and experience
(4.9). Unlike the Asclepius cult, for example, no reference to tem-
ple setting or rituals occurs here. Perpetua has the capacity, it
would seem, for immediate access to divine encounter. She refers
to the experta of great blessings and of being able to ‘speak to the
Lord’ (4.2).
PART II: THE LADDER: TRANSITUS, SACRIFICE,

PREPARATION
Perpetua’s reference to a ‘bronze ladder of tremendous height
reaching all the way to the heavens’ relates the transitus from the
material world to the spiritual world. The ladder facilitates progres-
sive, step-by-step, movement into an ‘inner knowing’ of the dream-
vision revelation, which will consist of the partaking of a portion of
milk (4.8). The dream-vision experience thus entails a bringing to
(higher) consciousness some inner knowledge within her uncon-
scious.
The passage from earth to heaven has dangers and is fraught
with difficulty. The very narrow dimensions of the ladder constrict
and thus intensify any movement upon the ladder. As we have not-
ed, metal weapons (swords, spears, hooks, daggers and spikes) are
attached to the sides of the ladder and will catch the flesh of any-
one who tries ‘to climb up or down carelessly or without paying
attention’ (4.3). Additionally, only one person can climb the ladder.
10 Cf. 4.10; 7.9; 8.4; 10.13.

It must be done with extreme concentration and deliberation, and

there can be no turning back or looking back. 11 The climb must be
done alone, without the help of another. The dream-vision entails a
(rite of) passage which is perilous, demanding, and dangerous. We
might compare the alchemical tract of the near contemporary
Greek 3rd century alchemist, Zosimos, whose vision of fifteen
steps facilitate a process of spiritualization of the dreamer trans-
formed from a lower to higher state of consciousness. 12 According
to Marie-Louise von Franz, the imagery of ascending steps has its
origins in ancient Egyptian mysteries and the planetary spheres
through which the posthumous soul journeys to the deity. 13 Addi-
tionally, the Mithraic mysteries relate a klimax heptapylos, which en-
tails ascent by means of a stair with seven gates through the metals
of the seven planets. 14
As one who ‘was later to give himself up of his own accord’
(4.5), Saturus, Perpetua’s brother, appears to have a sacrificial role in
the dream-vision. He is first to climb the ladder, before Perpetua’s
own progression takes place. At the top of the ladder he looks back
to Perpetua and the lower world, tells her that he is waiting for her,
and warns her: ‘Do not let the dragon bite you’ (4.4). 15 The figure
of Saturus willingly accepts the immanence of the torturous ladder
and martyrdom, and in this way readies earth-bound Perpetua in
order to accomplish her own transitus. The dream is ‘preparing’
Reminiscent of Lot’s wife, Gen. 19.26

See C.G. Jung, Alchemical Studies, translated by R.F.C. Hull (Prince-
11
ton: Princeton University Press, 1967): 59.

12
13 Marie-Louise von Franz, The Passion of Perpetua, 26.
14 Marie-Louise von Franz, The Passion of Perpetua, 26. For a discus-
sion on Zosimos spiritualization see C. G. Jung, Psychology and Alchemy,

translated by R.F.C. Hull (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,
1953): 90ff.
15 ‘Saturus was the first to go up, he who was later to go give himself
up for his own accord. He had been the builder of our strength, although
he was not present when we were arrested. And he arrived at the tip of
the staircase and he looked back and said to me: ‘Perpetua, I am waiting
for you. But take care; do not let the dragon bite you.’’ (Acts of Perpetua
4.4)
JEFF PETTIS 133
Perpetua to come to terms with the reality of her fate in the waking
world, that is, her execution in the amphitheater which is only days
away. Does Saturus represent a strong, proactive (and un-lived)
masculine aspect of the dreamer? He is Perpetua’s animus some-
how coming to focus in the experience and giving her impetus,
instructions and direction toward the reception of a higher state of
being.
PART III: SUBDUING THE DRAGON: DIFFERENTIATION

AND RESISTANCE
Perpetua’s reliance on the ‘word’ – Non me nocebit, in nomine Iesu
Christi (He will not harm me, in the name of Jesus Christ), protects
her from the treacherous bite of the dragon and subdues the drag-
on which slowly, as if afraid of Perpetua, sticks out its head from
underneath the ladder. The dragon serves Perpetua’s purpose of
ascent, and provides her with the initial step toward the heavenly
sphere: ‘Then, using it as my first step, I trod on his head and went
up’ she says (4.7). The imagery recalls Genesis 3.15, where it is de-
clared that Eve and her offspring will crush the head of the ser-
pent. We may also compare Isaiah. 27.1 with its reference to the
great mythological sea monster, Leviathan, ‘that twisting serpent’
whom God will punish and destroy with his strong and hard
sword. This imagery probably stems originally from the Ugaritic
mythology of the dragon Lothan, which battles against Baal on the
side of Mot the god of the underworld. 16 The figure of the dragon
in the Passio, also relays the strong dualistic perceptions between
good and evil characteristic of the Montanist Christianity to which
Perpetua possibly belongs. 17
16 Entry, ‘Leviathan,’ in HarperCollins Bible Commentary, edited by Paul
Achtemeier (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 1996): 602. See also the drag-
on account in Rev. 12.3ff, as well as divine victory over sea monsters: Ps.
74.13–14 (‘Thou didst divide the sea by thy might; thou didst break the
heads of the dragons on the waters. Thou didst crush the heads of Levia-
than, thou didst give him as food for the creatures of the wilderness.’); Ps.
104.26; c.f. Job 3.8; 26.12–13; 41.1–34.
17 Herbert Musurillo, trans., The Acts of the Christian Martyrs, xxvi.
In Antiquity, serpents also represented ‘regeneration.’ The

sinuous, chthonic imagery of the serpent, bound to the earth, ren-
ders an instinctive,’ ‘nature-spirit’ quality, as depicted in a fresco of
this first Perpetua vision in the Roman catacombs. Here the ser-
pent resides amidst a cornfield, out of which ascends the ladder. 18
The serpent symbolizes an earth spirit of fertility – something
found also in the Egyptian dying and resurrection deities of vegeta-
tion such as Attis, Osiris, Adonis, and the Phrygian Papas. 19 We
may compare the Asclepius cult where the serpent marks, directs
and symbolizes the presence and temple of the healing god Ascle-
pius. 20 If we interpret the serpent as an earth-spirit in Perpetua’s
dream-vision, the dragon would represent Perpetua’s own, instinc-
tive will to live in the waking world. Is it this which she subdues
and steps upon in order to ascend the ladder to a higher realm?
In this way the text of Perpetua may reflect African Christiani-
ty’s break from this earth-god association. The ladder from earth to
heaven relates to Perpetua’s renunciation of the mortal, earth-
world, and there can be no turning back. Marie-Louise von Franz
writes that in the vision the dragon represents the danger of falling
back into the old, pagan spirituality, out of which the ladder reach-
es into a higher consciousness. 21 Von Franz is rather sweeping in
her comment. She makes a sharp distinction between what she calls
‘Christian’ and ‘Pagan,’ and she speaks of a ‘Christian standpoint,’
as if early Christianity was of a unified consensus, as distinct from a
18 Fernand Cabrol, editor, Dictionannaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de lit-
urgie (Paris: Letouzey et Ane, 1907): Vol. II, col. 151, and also see under
‘Balbina.’
19 Marie-Louise von Franze, The Passion of Perpetua, 23. Cf. Number
21.9, Moses places a bronze snake on a pole, and anyone who had been
bitten by a snake and looked upon the image was healed. The saviour-
serpent was read as a symbol of Christ in the early Church.
20 Some instances of cures from the bite of a serpent appear in the
Asclepius testimonies. See Inscriptiones Graecae, IV, 966, no. 121–125 [2nd
half of 4th c. BCE]. From Edelstein, Asclepius, T423, p. 233. Also, Mabel
Lang, Cure and Cult in Corinth: A Guide to the Asklepieion (Princeton: Prince-
ton University Press, 1977).
21 Marie-Louise von Franz, The Passion of Perpetua, pp. 23–24.
JEFF PETTIS 135
variety of extant early Christian cults and movements in the earliest

ages. However, the strong contrast between earth and heaven in
the vision, coupled with the reference to the abyss of separation in
Perpetua’s second vision, certainly seems to point toward a differen-
tiation from the ‘bodily, instinctive’ world by early Montanist Chris-
tianity in 2nd century Africa.
Implicit within the strong contrast between earth and the
transcendent realm is the resistance of Perpetua (and her community)
to the ‘world’ which she is leaving behind and to which her father
vehemently wants her to return:
While we were still under arrest my father out of love for me
was trying to persuade me and shake my resolution. ‘Father,’ I
said, ‘do you see this vase here, for example, or waterpot or
whatever?’ ‘Yes, I do,’ he said. And I told him: ‘Could it be
called by any other name than what it is?’ And he said: ‘No.’
Well, so too I cannot be called anything other than what I am,
a Christian.’ At this my father was so angered by the word
‘Christian’ that he moved towards me as though he would
pluck my eyes out. But he left it at that and departed, van-
quished along with his diabolical arguments. (Acts of Perpetua.
3.1–3)
Perpetua’s refusal to cede to her father’s passionate request that she
renounce her Christian ways (cf. her father’s tearful imploring in
Acts of Perpetua. 5.1ff) appears to relate what V. L. Wimbush refers
to, in the context of a discussion regarding the ascetic impulse in
ancient Christianity, as a ‘critical attitude of resistance, a refusal to
orient the body, language, indeed the self in the world in traditional
or socially acceptable ways.’ 22 The martyrdom of Perpetua and her
cohorts represents a radical opposition to the world. It entails a
giving over and spiritualizing of the body as an ultimate sacrifice in
22 V. L. Wimbush, ‘The Ascetic Impulse in Early Christianity: Some
Methodological Challenges,’ Studia Patristica, Vol. 25 (1993): 467. See also

his essay entitled, ‘…Not of This World …: Early Christianity as Rhetori-
cal and Social Formation,’ in Reimagining Christian Origins: A Colloquium
Honoring Burton L. Mack, edited by Elizabeth Castelli and Hal Taussig (Val-
ley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1996): 23–36.
the community’s battle for self-definition. 23 The African church

was one of other early Christian groups in the process of social
(re)formation, one of many movements responding to a ‘loss of
world’ in the ancient Mediterranean environment. 24
Perpetua’s martyrdom in the arena will make ‘concrete’ the
subjugation of and break from the serpent, that is, her attachment
to the earth and all that this represents: motherhood, family devo-
tion, ties to her father, and the ‘world’ values and traditions bond-
ing all those things in her waking twenty-one years. So beckoning
and poignant is this world that Perpetua cannot look back, as she
transcends the ladder into the higher animus realm, lest she be swal-
lowed up by the pull of that world. At the core of the dream there
exists an inner resistance to the world below, and the (heroic)
task/journey requires the differentiation from its mass by the
dreamer through the personal and singular ascent into the ‘trans-
cendent vision’ of the new world with its immense garden, shep-
herd, white robes and sweet milk.
Cf. Wimbush, ‘The Ascetic Impulse,’ 465.

Wimbush writes: ‘In comparative-sociological-historical perspec-
23
tive Christianity is not viewed as a unique phenomenon. With respect to

24
the ascetic impulse, it can be viewed as one of many movements having

their origins in a period in which ‘loss of world’, some degree of alienation
from and critique of world, was not uncommon across many different
cultural divisions. The whole of the period from the first millennium BCE
through late antiquity is especially significant for such an interest. This
period was first designated the ‘Axial Age’ by Karl Jaspers; it has since
been taken up by others and further discussed and explained. It is a period
characterized by the critique and eventual rupture of the traditional, static
‘holistic’ societies and aristocratic empires of antiquity. The critique was
inspired by the ‘transcendent visions’ of group élites. Such visions reflect-
ed the conceptual and existential tension that obtained between the tradi-
tional order and the Other that was imagined, and eventually led to such a
critical evaluation of traditions that they inspired a devaluation and renun-
ciation of the world.’ Wimbush, ‘The Ascetic Impulse,’ 465–66. See also
the discussion on Montanus and Montanism in E.R. Dodds, Pagan and
Christian, 63–68; W.H.C. Frend, The Rise of Christianity (Philadelphia: For-
tress Press, 1984): 253–257.
JEFF PETTIS 137
In this way, the materia of the waking world has itself propa-
gated into ‘otherness,’ not unlike the philosopher’s stone yielded
from the refining process of crude materiality. A ‘spiritualization’
of plant, mineral and animal substance occurs as these things are
caught up and themselves ‘transformed’ by and within the early
Christian (re)imagining of terminus, that is, the top of the bronze
ladder in Perpetua’s vision. The martyr/ prison text of Perpetua
thus gives imagistic expression to and experience of, ‘alienation
from the world,’ and re-bodies the visioning of another world void
of dragons and replete with nurturing and regeneration. It catches
up a spirit (ecstasy) of martyrdom. 25 We can consider also the writ-
ings of another early Christian martyr, Ignatius of Antioch. As an
early 2nd century bishop, he also chose not to participate in the
25 See the history and writings of ancient Israel, including the Mac-
cabean literature and the Book of Daniel. This ‘loss of world’ and its core
quality of resistance in Perpetua’s dreams to yield the self to ‘the world’
has resonance with events in Jewish history such as the Babylonian exile,
the Maccabean revolt and the literature which issues from these conflicts.
Nearer the time of Perpetua there occurs the Roman siege of the Masada
fortress in 73 CE, where the Jews inside the fortress martyr themselves by
committing a mass suicide, rather than surrender to Roman troops. For
post-exilic texts see social reforms of the Book of Ezra (chs. 9–2) and the
Nehemia, read in light of Daniel L. Smith, ‘The Politics of Ezra: Sociolog-
ical Indicators of Postexilic Judaean Society,’ edited by P. R. Davies, in
Second Temple Studies 1: Persian Period (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press,
1991). For Macabeean texts see H. Anderson, trans, 3 Maccabees, in The
Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, edited by James H. Charlesworth (New York:
Doubleday, 1985); H. Anderson, trans, 4 Maccabees, in The Old Testament
Pseudepigrapha, edited by James H. Charlesworth (New York: Doubleday,
1985). For Massada see Josephus, The Jewish War III.70–109; VII.252–408,
translated by H. St. J. Thackery, LCL (1927); Christopher Hawkes, ‘The
Roman Siege of Masada,’ Antiquity, vol. 3 (1929): 195–213; Yael Zerubav-
el, ‘The Fall of Masada,’ in Collective Memory and Recovered Roots: the Making
of Israeli National Tradition (Chicago and London: University of Chicago
Press, 1994).
ways of the world, and offered himself as a sacrifice to the beasts in

the arena at Rome. 26
CONCLUSION
Perpetua’s dream-vision relates the martyr’s struggle, and coming
to terms, with her own impending death in the arena. Implicit to
26 Like Perpetua, he has a radical resistance to his immediate world-
circumstances – including those who care for him want him not to go
through with his martyrdom: ‘Grant me nothing more than that I be
poured out to God, while an altar is still ready’ (Ignatius to the Romans 2).
The text continues: ‘… that forming yourselves in a chorus of love, you
may sing to the Father in Christ Jesus, that God has vouchsafed that the
bishop of Syria shall be found at the setting of the sun, having fetched
him from the sun’s rising. It is good to set to the world towards God, that
I may rise to him.’ It is uncertain what happened in Syria to result in Igna-
tius’ crisis and martyrdom. See William R. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch: a
Commentary on the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch (Philadelphia: Fortress Press,
1985): 3–7; Jeffrey R. Zorn, ‘Epistles of Ignatius,’ The Anchor Bible Diction-
ary, vol. 3 (New York: Doubleday, 1992): 384–5. Ignatius longs for the
teeth of the beasts, that he might have the ecstasy of death and enter into
the higher realm. Although his letters do not contain dream-visions per se,
there are sections which are certainly ecstatic in tone. To the Romans he
writes: ‘I am God’s wheat, and I am ground by the teeth of wild beasts
that I may be found pure bread of Christ. Rather, entice the wild beasts
that they may become my tomb, and leave no trace of my body, that when
I fall asleep I be not a burden to any. Then shall I be truly a disciple of
Jesus Christ, when the world shall not even see my body. Beseech Christ
on my behalf, that I may be found a sacrifice through these instruments’
(To the Romans. 4; cf. 6). In his letter to the Ephesians, Ignatius interprets
the mystery of the Nativity of Jesus in Mt. 2, and the shining of the star,
‘with the sun and moon gathered in chorus around this star … and all
magic was dissolved…’ (To the Ephesians, 19). He writes his letters in
strong dualistic language that sets up an oppositional view of the world
and those who live in it. Cf. the Johannine literature and what Vincent L.
Wimbush refers to as the language and rhetoric of ‘kosmos-opposition’ –
that is, opposition to all outsiders (‘…Not of This World…,’ 31). Believ-
ers live under the rule of the bishop in ‘harmony and in prayer with one
another’ (Trall. 12).
JEFF PETTIS 139
the vision is the narrow bronze ladder upon which Perpetua as-
cends into the spirit-animus realm. Her ascending is dependent up-
on her coming face-to-face with the dragon at the base of the
bronze ladder. As archetypal earth spirit, the dragon represents
Perpetua’s own ties to the earth, and the success of her step-by-
step journey to the domain above is presaged upon her power to
subdue the dragon and thus gain release from the instinctive, em-
bodied realm. At the same time, at the core of the dream-vision
there exists an inner resistance to the material world below, and the
(heroic) task/journey requires the differentiation from its mass by
the seer through the personal and singular spiritual movement into
the ‘transcendent vision’ of the animus world.
THE PURE ‘EYE OF HER SOUL’: THE
ASCETICISM OF THE DEACONESS
OLYMPIAS AS REFLECTED IN THE
WRITINGS OF THE FATHERS
V. K. MCCARTY
The eye of your soul is clean … and by means of these di-

vine words it looks without hindrance toward the undefiled
Beauty. (St. Gregory of Nyssa). 1
We might imagine John Chrysostom’s earliest days coming to serve
as bishop of Constantinople at the close of the fourth century: with
dawn light angling in through the Baptistery windows before the
morning liturgy and the immensity of the Great Church still unfa-
miliar to his travel-weary eyes. 2 What must Chrysostom initially
have thought of his earliest encounters with the Deaconess Olym-
pias, the frail, aristocratic heiress who: ‘would not budge from the
church’? 3 As a widow who devoted her life to prayer, ‘zealous for
1 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies on the Song of Songs. Prologue 10–12. RA.
Norris. (tr.) Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta. 2012. 3 This work is

dedicated to the Sr. Jan McNabb, RSCJ, chaplaincy co-worker of the au-
thor, and in memory of Sr. Mary Gregory, CSM, her God-mother.
2 For information about the Great Church of Constantinople before
the time of Justinian, see RJ. Mainstone. Hagia Sophia: Architecture, Structure,
Liturgy of Justinian’s Great Church. Thames and Hudson, London. 1988.
120–124.
3 See Palladius. Dialogue on the Life of St. John Chrysostom. Robert T.
Meyer. (ed.) Ancient Christian Writers. 45. Newman Press, New York.
141
142 THE ASCETICISM OF THE DEACONESS OLYMPIAS
the road to heaven,’ 4 Olympias served as founder and higumen for

the monastic foundation she herself had developed on her estate
adjacent to the Great Church in the capital. Her unparalleled phi-
lanthropy and personal ascetical practices had caused the previous
bishop of Constantinople to ordain her a Deaconess. While more
letters from the hand of St. John Chrysostom to Olympias survive
than to any other single person, what can we know of this woman
when her share of the correspondence is lost? And what did St.
Gregory of Nyssa mean by referring to ‘the pure eye of her soul’
(sou kathareuein ton tes psyches ophthalmos) in his dedicatory preface to
her of his work on the Song of Songs? 5
Senior hierarchs corresponded with her, praised her, and re-
buked her, even as they enjoyed her generous donations. In the
highly patriarchal society of her time, Olympias managed to net-
work and operate among the bishops of the day, and euergesia and
megalopsychia were said to run through her veins like any élite Greek
man trained in the finest paideia. 6 Furthermore, John Chrysostom’s
1985. 66. Other principle sources for Olympias are: John Chrysostom.
Anne-Marie Malingrey. (tr.) Lettres à Olympias. Sources Chrétiennes. 13
Éditions du CERF, Paris. 1947. Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies on the Song of
Songs. (tr.) RA. Norris. Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta. 2012.
Sozomen. The Ecclesiastical History. P Schaff. (ed.) The Nicene and Post-
Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, Series II, vol. 9. especially Book
VIII. T & T Clark, 1997. Edinburgh. Palladius. The Lausiac History. (tr.)
RT. Meyer. Paulist Press, New York. 1964. Especially No. 56.
4 E.A. Clark. ‘The Life of Olympias.’ in: Jerome, Chrysostom, and
Friends: Essays and Translations. Edwin Mellen Press, New York. 1979. 128.
While the Vita (hereafter noted as Vita with section and page number) is
hagiographic in character, the text provides a window into developing
fifth century monasticism, offering examples of spiritual virtues held up as
role models for ascetical practice. It has been suggested that the text was
written by a writer contemporary to the events who knew Olympias and
community personally, perhaps Heraclides, who was Bishop of Nyssa
around 440 AD. Vita.Intro. 108.
5 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies on the Song of Songs. Prologue.2.10–12.
6 Eugesia means the urge to do good things; megalopsychia is high-
minded for open-handed gestures of largesse, both attributes considered

V. K. MCCARTY 143
ample and lively correspondence with Olympias, as well as his

acknowledgement of her letters, is one indication that the stark lack
of extant manuscript evidence authored by Early Christian women
is not necessarily a sure measure of their lack of writing productivi-
ty. Although much less is known about Olympias than about sever-
al of her celebrated male ecclesiastical associates, a portrait of her
asceticism and the depth of her Christian relationships emerges
from the threads of evidence that do survive. An examination of
the texts that cite Olympias also offers a useful glimpse into the
ascetical ideals operating in the early centuries of the development
of monastic practice.
The ascetical life was a burgeoning phenomenon in the Con-
stantinople of Olympias’ day, especially in aristocratic circles. A
strong showing of élite women dedicated to a ‘philosophical life’
(philosophou bios) of virginity focused on the church 7 was a feature of
the ecclesiastical landscape; and by the end of the fourth century,
crowds of chanting virgins as a component of cathedral proces-
sions were ‘an integral part of a bishop’s show of power’ as Brown
phrases it. 8 Additionally, church widows were a strategic philan-
thropic resource, which no bishop could ignore. An aristocratic
heiress such as Olympias could transform urban churches into
what Elm calls, ‘powerful economic enterprises.’ 9
Olympias was born of senatorial Byzantine lineage, probably
in 368. 10 She was the granddaughter of Abblavios, a praetorian pre-
evidence of a proper Greek philosophical education. P Brown. Persuasion

in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire. The Curti Lectures. 1988.
Univ of Wisconsin Press, Madison. 1992. 83.
7 During the fourth century, the search for the perfect, philosophical
life (philosophos bios) came to mean in the Christian sense, ‘nothing less than
a life devoted to the fulfillment of the highest Christian ideals, a life of
virginity.’ S Elm. ‘Virgins of God:’ The Making of Asceticism in Late Antiquity.
Clarendon Press, Oxford. 1994. 44.
8 See P Brown. The Body and Society. 260. This was later attested by
Augustine in Letter 23.3 PL33:96.

9 Elm. Virgins of God. 181.
10 Although a birth date for Olympias of 361 can be calculated ac-
cording to Libanius (EP. 672), more plausibly, an estimation of her birth

fect of Constantine the Great, 11 and was the daughter of Count

Seleucus, a member of the order of imperial companions to the
Emperor. 12 However, even with the advantages of august parent-
age and several relatives close to the imperial throne, Olympias was
orphaned at an early age and taken under the wing of the prefect of
Constantinople at the time, Procopius. Her education was relegated
to a kinswoman of St. Gregory the Theologian, Theodosia, one of
the well-known ‘cultivated ladies of her time.’ 13 During this forma-
tive period, Olympias and her family were in fact well acquainted
with St. Gregory 14 and were instrumental in bringing him to the
episcopal throne of the capital. 15 Olympias also came in contact
with Gregory’s Cappadocian colleague, St. Gregory of Nyssa, when
he was consecrated bishop. Gregory Nyssen participated in the
Council of Constantinople in 381 and may have first encountered
the pious Olympias then; in the circle of Nicene defenders gathered
round his own tutor, Gregory the Theologian. 16 As a cosmopolitan
hostess in the Byzantine capital, and a generous benefactor, she
had the opportunity to associate with those holding power in the
in 368 places her age at eighteen when wedded to Nebridios. Robert Mey-
er, in his Notes for Palladius: The Lausaic History. 212.
11 See Palladius. The Lausaic History. 56.137.
12 Vita. Notes. 143.
13 Elm. Virgins of God. 179.
14 Part of the understanding of Olympias’s life and relations is gen-
erally based on a poem of Gregory Nazianzun written on the occasion of

the wedding of Olympias. The thread of her story which has come to be
substantiated by this poem, while still plausible, was challenged recently by
a few scholars. See M Whitby. ‘Sugaring the Pill:’ Gregory of Nazianzus’
Advice to Olympias (Carm. 2.2.6).’ in: Ramus: Critical Studies in Greek and
Roman Literature. 37:1–2. 2008. 79–98. N McLynn. ‘The Other Olympias:
Gregory Nazianzus and the Family of Vitalianus,’ in: Christian Politics and
Religious Culture in Late Antiquity. Ashgate Publishing Ltd., Farnham. 2009.
227–246.
15 J.A. McGuckin. The Westminster Handbook to Patristic Theology.
Westminster John Knox Press, Louisville. 2004. 242.

16 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. xxi.
V. K. MCCARTY 145
church ‘to a greater extent than she could have had in any other
role open to a woman.’ 17
In 384 or 385, Olympias was given in marriage along with her
massive estates to Emperor Theodosios’ nephew, Nebridios, as a
second wife, who was then younger than Nebridios’ son by his first
marriage. This marriage arrangement was likely meant as an imperi-
al perquisite in connection with Nebridios’ appointment in 386, as
prefect of Constantinople. 18 This nuptial arrangement was short-
lived, however; when her husband died after only twenty months
of marriage. It is said that: ‘her later admirers were convinced that
she had remained a virgin.’ 19 Not surprisingly, the Emperor en-
deavored to re-align her generous estates in the hands of another
of his relatives; but this time she resisted, ‘leaping like a gazelle over
the snare of a second marriage.’ 20 Instead, ‘seized with Christ’s
flame,’ 21 she experienced a call to a religious life of charity and re-
nunciation, using Melania the Elder, ‘that female man of God,’ 22 as
17 E.A. Clark. ‘Introduction to The Life of Olympias.’ in: Jerome,
Chrysostom, and Friends: Essays and Translations. The Edwin Mellen Press,
New York. 979. 115.
18 See Clark. ‘Introduction to The Life of Olympias.’110.
19 Brown. The Body and Society. 282. See Palladius. The Lausiac History.
56.137. See also Vita 2.128.

20 Palladius. Dialogue.17.114.
21 John Chrysostom ‘Homily XIII on Ephesians 4:17–19.’
NPNF.XIII.115.
22 Melania the Elder (ca. 342–ca. 410), praised by Palladius as ‘that
female man of God’ (Laus. Hist.9.43), was, like Olympias, a prominent

heiress; when widowed very young, she sold all she had and traveled to
the desert hermitages outside Alexandria, ‘seeking out all the holy men.’
(Laus. Hist.46.123) Finally, for nearly thirty years, she led the monastic
community she founded in Jerusalem. Her grand-daughter, Melania the
Younger (ca. 385–438/9) followed her in the ascetical life as a hegumen of
her own community in Bethlehem, and is said to have visited Constanti-
nople, where it is possible that she may have encountered Olympias be-
fore the final chapter of her life in Jerusalem. Both Melania the Elder and
Melania the Younger made singular contributions to the development of
Christian monastic asceticism in the fourth and fifth centuries.
her role model, in whose steps she ‘zealously followed.’ 23 Olympias

is recorded responding to the Emperor’s demand that she re-marry
in words resonant of the Gospel imperative in Mt. 11:29–30: ‘If my
King had desired me to live with a male, He would not have taken
away my first husband… He freed me from subjection to a man,
while He laid on me the gentle yoke of chastity.’ 24 As a celibate
widow, she adapted ascetic practices modeled on that of Melania
and the monks who had withdrawn into the Egyptian desert.
In retaliation for resisting the emperor’s ambitions, Theodosi-
us sequestered Olympias’ vast fortune, which included real estate in
Thrace, Galatia, Cappadocia and Bithynia, beside her two palaces in
the imperial city. A further stipulation, that she not only stop her
pious visits to church but also stop meeting with clerics, serves as
intriguing evidence of interactions in which she must have engaged
with the clergy of the Great Church, including the bishop Nektari-
os. 25 Palladius notes that she, ‘addressed priests reverently and
honoured bishops.’ 26 Still, one wonders who were among ‘the list
of distinguished ecclesiastics entertained by Olympias.’ 27
Finally, however, the emperor ‘heard of her ascetical life-
style,’ 28 and relented in his imperial displeasure. He allowed Olym-
pias to manage her own property and philanthropic projects again,
giving her leave to abandon her life of ‘preparation for courtly mar-
riage.’ 29 In fact, not long after that, Nektarios, ‘notwithstanding her
youth,’ had Olympias ordained a Deaconess at only thirty years of
23 E.D. Hunt. ‘Palladius of Helenopolis: A Party and its Supporters
in the Church of the Late Fourth Century.’ Journal of Theological Studies 24:2.
1973. 477. Hunt has made the tantalizing suggestion that Olympias could
have also plausibly ventured to the Holy Land on pilgrimage and encoun-
tered her mentor in asceticism, Melania.
25 See Palladius. Dialogue.17.114.
26 Palladius. The Lausiac History. 56.137.
27 J.B. Cahill. ‘The Date and Setting of Gregory of Nyssa’s Commen-
tary on the Song of Songs.’ Journal of Theological Studies. NS 32. 1981. 447.
29 M.W. Elliott. The Song of Songs and Christology in the Early Church:
381–451. Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen. 2000. 24.

V. K. MCCARTY 147
age, 30 when it was not customary to ordain Deaconesses until they

were sixty. 31 In this, she enjoyed something of ‘the ambiguous sta-
tus attested for Macrina of being both widow and virgin.’ 32 In re-
fusing to marry, widows like Olympias were ‘adapting the ecclesial
principle of univira, giving it an additional mystical resonance.’ 33 On
the terrestrial plain, Olympias’ philanthropic donations to the
church were inestimable; among them, she contributed ‘10,000
pounds of gold, 100,000 pounds of silver, properties scattered all
over western Asia Minor, and her family’s share of the civic corn
dole.’ 34 It is no surprise that Byzantine bishops courted her; she
‘provided their crucial financial base.’ 35 Palladius even reports that
John Chrysostom’s future adversary, Patriarch Theophilus of Alex-
andria, ‘kissed her knees’ in cringing flattery courting Olympias for
church funding. 36 By the time Nektarios died in 397, Olympias had
not only made extensive gifts to the church, but had also gathered
her relatives, household, and a growing number of her followers
into a developing ascetical community; her Vita reports that she
See Sozomen. The Ecclesiastical History.8.9.

Clark. ‘Introduction to the Life of Olympias.’ notes. 123. See Ter-
30
tullian. ‘On the Veiling of Virgins’ available at: http://www.newadvent.

31
org/fathers/0403.htm In the years following, the Theodosian Codex ad-

dressed this issue as well; available at: http://www.mountainman.com.au/
essenes/codex_theodosianus.htm
32 Macrina the Younger was the older sister of Gregory of Nyssa and
Basil the Great; in the years after her short engagement ended abruptly,
she spearheaded the development of a residentially based monastic asceti-
cal community on their estate in Assina. Gillian Cloke. ‘This Female Man of
God:’ Women and Spiritual Power in the Patristic Age, AD 350–450. Routledge,
London. 1995. 94.
33 Cloke. This Female Man of God. 84.
34 Brown. The Body and Society. 284. Vita.5.130, 7.132.

35 See N Denzay. The Bone Gatherers: The Lost Worlds of Early Christian
Women. Beacon Press, Boston. 2007. 191.

36 Clark. ‘Introduction to the Life of Olympias.’ 115.
built a monastery to the south of the Great Church with a pathway

leading directly into the narthex. 37
John Chrysostom, the new Bishop of Constantinople, brought
to the capital in haste from Antioch, soon learned about the mo-
nastic heiress whose generosity was said to have ‘maintained’ his
episcopal predecessor, Nektarios, ‘to such an extent that he took
her advice on ecclesiastical policy as well.’ 38 Even apart from finan-
cial considerations, there can be no doubt that John Chrysostom
found in Olympias the soul-mate of a lifetime. The friendship he
developed with her over time was based on what White calls,
‘shared and whole-hearted devotion to the service of Christ.’ 39 El-
ements in John’s background undoubtedly worked in favor of a
good relationship with Olympias from the start. He admired and
respected the ascetical monks he had already encountered at Anti-
och, and as a young man had come to join their life in the moun-
tain wilderness outside the city, soon after his mother’s death. Also,
among John’s relatives was his aunt, the much-respected Deacon-
ess Sabiniana, who was herself described as ‘a venerable woman, on
intimate terms with God.’ 40 And in Olympias herself, Chrysostom
encountered a life situation similar to that of his own mother, An-
thusa. Both women had refused to consider a second marriage after
being widowed at an early age. Anthusa had instead focused entire-
ly on the education of her brilliant son. 41 Thus, John could say to
37 Vita 6.131. A neighborhood in Constantinople is even attested
from the eighth century as ‘of the Deaconess,’ and it is likely that the iden-
tity of this area of the city had threads of origin stretching back to Olym-
pias’s palace near the Great Church which she transformed to house her
growing spiritual community. L Neureiter. ‘Health and Healing as Recur-
rent Topics in John Chrysostom’s Correspondence with Olympias.’ Studia
Patristica. XLVII. 2010. 275.
39 See C White. Christian Friendship in the Fourth Century. Cambridge
Univ. Press. 1992. 85.

40 A. Lucot, Textes et Documents. 15. Picard, Paris. 1912. See AG. Mar-
timort. Deaconesses: An Historical Study, KD. Whitehead. (tr.) Ignatius Press,

San Francisco. 1986. 121.
41 See John Chrysostom. On the Priesthood. I.5. NPNF.IX.34.
V. K. MCCARTY 149
each of them, as he did addressing his Letter to a Young Widow:

‘Your own soul, having once for all torn yourself away from all
worldly interests, will display amongst us a heavenly manner of
life.’ 42
Let us ask, then, what practical elements of spiritual askesis are
indicated when the historian Sozomen describes Olympias as ‘zeal-
ously attached to the exercises of monastic philosophy according to
the laws of the church.’ 43 Or when Emperor Theodosios learns of
‘the intensity of her ascetic discipline.’ 44 It is fascinating to consider
what actually constituted ascetical practice at this very early stage of
monastic development in the capital city. Although textual evidence
is scarce, Palladius describes the depth of Olympias’ asceticism in
this way: ‘She disposed of all her goods, giving them to the needy.
She took part in no small contests on the behalf of truth… Those
who live at Constantinople number her among the confessors. She
died and traveled on to the Lord in her struggles for God.’ 45 Her
hagiographic Vita boasts that she practiced hospitality like Abra-
ham, fought for self-control like Joseph, suffered patiently like Job,
and was martyred like Thecla. 46 Further on in the Vita, the ‘holy
chorus’ of her Olympiad convent sisters, reflecting the piety of
their founder, are praised for their monastic virtues; these include:
chastity, sleepless vigils, offering praise, charity, and stillness, 47 all
similar to ideals expressed by the sayings of the Desert Fathers
(Apophthegmata Patrum). 48 As John reminded her congregation of
nuns in one of his letters to Olympias 49, ‘Although you were mar-
John Chrysostom. ‘Letter to a Young Widow.’ NPNF.IX.126.

Sozomen. The Ecclesiastical History. NPNF.IX.404.
42
44 Palladius. Dialogue.17.114. See Vita.5.130.

43
45 Palladius. The Lausiac History.56.137.
46 See Vita.1.127.
47 See Vita.8.132.
48 Indeed, John Chrysostom acknowledged that women sometimes
‘outshone men in spiritual warfare and spiritual athletics,’ which were two
of his favorite images for the ascetical life. ‘Homily XIII on Eph.’
NPNF.XIII.115–116.
49 Throughout this work, the numbering of John Chrysostom’s Let-
ters to Olympias follows the standard critical Malingrey edition with, par-
ried, you now belong to the band of wise virgins, for you were al-
ways mindful of the things of God, through almsgiving and pa-
tience in suffering, through self-control in eating and sleeping, and
in all other things, but especially through modest simplicity in
dress. It is in these things that true virginity lies.’ 50 Furthermore,
the practice of radically limited bathing, which was admired as an
element of ascetical practice during this period, was considered an
important component of renouncing the pleasures of the world in
order to seek divine truth. 51 As John Chrysostom cautioned about
the ascetical life: ‘There are many young women who are strong
enough to observe it; but yet they are not prepared to renounce
fine clothes.’ 52 As Olympias’ religious community grew, it drew
more than 250 followers to a life of prayer and charity. 53 Like Ma-
crina’s monastic experiment in the Cappadocian community of
Annesa, the Olympiad ascetical community embraced the holy life
of the desert hermits within the setting of a city residence; and a
‘prestige location and noble profile may have shaped it into a fe-
male institution like none other.’ 54
The world of women’s asceticism in the fourth and fifth cen-
turies was, however, a ‘zone of exceptional fluidity and free choice’
enthetically, the Migne Patrologia Greaca numbering included. John

Chrysostom. Lettres à Olympias. A-M. Malingrey. (ed.) Sources Chrétiennes.
vol. 13. Éditions du CERF, Paris. 1947.
50 Letter VIII (II). C Baur. (tr.) in: John Chrysostom and his Time. vol. 2.
Sands & Co. London. 1960. 375.

51 Palladius. Dialogue.17.115. The idea may not be so appealing to us
today, but it was not ‘merely’ a matter of renouncing personal cleanliness,

but more of dissociating from the social circle attendant on the great bath-
houses that were so much a part of the capital’s social scene at this era,
and making new kin-circles in relation to the Church.
52 Letter VIII (II). Baur. John Chrysostom and his Time. vol. 2. 376.
53 Vita.6.132.
54 P Hatlie. The Monks and Monasteries of Constantinople, ca. 350–850.
Cambridge Univ. Press. 2007. 98.

V. K. MCCARTY 151
as Brown describes it , 55 and Palladius, who was a contemporary of

Olympias, and also her friend, 56 does not specifically mention her
convent. So, although there may have been great ascetical zeal
among certain aristocratic Christian women to follow the com-
mand of Christ and embark on the monastic life, especially within
the residential structure of the family, nevertheless, monasticism
was still in its very early stages of development and still significantly
flexible in its styles. Therefore, to impose upon the evidence for
the piety of Olympias and her fervor for charitable works (even her
zeal for launching and organizing spiritual community) the expecta-
tions of a formal structure like that of later monasticism, including
the use of its terminology, may pay a disservice to the record of her
life. 57 Even so, as McGuckin says, ‘Her work gave a model for the
several communities in the capital later led by women aristocrats
and ascetics who exercised considerable patronage through their
charitable works.’ 58 In addition to Olympias, Ilaria Ramelli notes,
bishop John Chrysostom personally, ‘ordained as deacons of the
holy church three of her relatives, Elisanthia, Martyria, and Palladia,
for the monastery. Thus, by the four diaconal offices, the estab-
lished procedure would have been accomplished by them uninter-
ruptedly.’ 59 In terms of liturgical monastic practice, this may indi-
cate the offering of a full complement of Daily Office, possibly
even the Psalter chanted without interruption. 60
55 In the fourth century, ‘the organization of the ascetic life of any
consecrated woman remained remarkably informal.’ Brown. The Body and

Society. 265.
56 Cahill. ‘The Date and Setting.’ 451.
57 See Hatlie. The Monks and Monasteries of Constantinople, ca. 350–850.
72–74. Esp. note 34. Nevertheless, Hatlie does maintain that the commu-
nity of the Olympiads was, ‘likely the first, best organized and most prom-
inent of all these endeavors.’
58 McGuckin. The Westminster Handbook to Christian Theology. 242.
59 Vita.7. Ilaria Ramelli. (tr.) in: ‘Theosebia: A Presbyter of the Cath-
olic Church.’ Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion. 26:2. 2010. 98.

60 However, it is unlikely that Olympias’s ascetical community was a
monastery of the akoimetai or ‘sleepless’ type, offering perpetual psalm-

In his work as bishop of Constantinople, John Chrysostom

was no prince of diplomacy, however; and although the crowds
who stood to hear his sermons sometimes interrupted him with
applause, his preaching often rankled his fellow bishops, and not
least the Empress. Eventually, charges were drawn up against him
over several issues, and he was exiled. After a reprieve and a second
exile, it is likely that St. John died on the road, force-marched by
the empress to evacuate to the farthest reaches of the empire.
Olympias, too, came under persecution, and was accused of caus-
ing a fire in the Great Church on the night John departed and she
is thought to have died in exile in Nicomedia, probably around
408. 61 John Chrysostom expresses profound gratitude for the ther-
apeutic consolation of a lady of ‘such intelligence and wealth of
piety (eulabeias ploutos kai philosophias hypsos) that her soul has tram-
pled underfoot the pageantry of daily life.’ 62 Yet we still have only
evidence of John’s letters to Olympias; and of those, only examples
from the very last years of their long friendship. The letters do
provide, though, tantalizing indications of the female voice re-
sponding. The fact that their friendship continued with such inten-
sity after Chrysostom was exiled from Constantinople is ‘evidence
for its strength.’ 63
For Olympias receiving his correspondence, as for us today
when reading John Chrysostom, it is as Archbishop Demetrios
says: ‘You are walking in a paradise of literature, theology and aes-
chanting day and night. WD. Ray. Tasting Heaven on Earth: Worship in Sixth-
Century Constantinople. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids. 2012. 11.
61 A vision of perigrinatio. a favorite topic of asceticism, surrounded
her choice of burial ground: the Metropolitan of Nicodemia dreamed that

she appeared to him saying, ‘Place my remains in a casket, put it in a boat,
let the boat go adrift into the stream, and at the place where the boat
stops, disembark onto the ground and place me there.’ The casket landed
at Brochthoi and was translated into the Church of St. Thomas there.
Vita.11.135.
62 Letter VIII(II). Malingrey (ed.) 141.
63 See C White. Christian Friendship in the Fourth Century. 86.

V. K. MCCARTY 153
thetics;’ 64 for considered together the Letters to Olympias form an

effective vademecum of pastoral care, especially for the healing of
despondency. The historian Philip Schaff said of them that they,
‘breathe a noble Christian spirit in a clear brilliant and persuasive
style.’ 65 On the one hand, John encourages Olympias to bear her
sufferings bravely, even to be insensible to them; yet, on the other
hand, he vividly describes struggling with his own suffering. Like
any good pastor, he works to diffuse his own stress as well as hers,
maintaining that patient fortitude in the face of discomfort is the
‘evidence of a robust spirit, rich in the fruit of courage,’ and ‘proof
of a most finished philosophy.’ 66 John even has the confidence to
describe his letters as ‘a salutary medicine capable of reviving any-
one who was stumbling and conducting one into a healthy state of
serenity.’ 67
Chrysostom sees Christ’s Passion reflected in his own suffer-
ing and the monumental challenges of the Apostles and early fol-
lowers mirrored in his ‘innumerable stumbling blocks.’ 68 In his last
heart-breaking letter to Olympias, he even wryly proffers a thorn of
cheerfulness into the side of her ‘tyranny of despondency,’ adding:
‘Are you ignorant of how great a reward, even of sickness, awaits
one who has a thankful spirit?’ 69 Ultimately, St. John is convinced
that cheerful endurance releases sin: ‘It is the greatest means of
purification for those who have sinned.’ 70 He now considers her
whole household of Olympiad Deaconesses to have a ‘higher place
assigned to it in Heaven by reason of the suffering which it en-
64 Archbishop Demetrios. ‘What is the Bible? The Patristic Doctrine
of Scripture.’ Keynote Lecture. 3rd Annual Symposium in Honor of

Georges Florovsky. Princeton Seminary. Feb. 16, 2013. Available at:
http://bit.ly/14RRhzE (accessed 9/1/2013).
65 P Schaff. ‘Prolegomena: The Life and Work of St. John Chrysos-
tom.’ NPNF.IX.15.
66 Letter XII (VI).NPNF.IX.297. He uses the term ‘philosophia’
here is in the sense of Christian training and moral discipline.

67 Letter IX (XIV).NPNF.IX.301.
68 Letter VII (I).NPNF.IX.292.
69 Letter XVII (IV).NPNF.IX.293.
70 Letter XVII (IV).NPNF.IX.295.

dures.’ 71 Although both Chrysostom and Olympias espoused radi-

cal asceticism as a component of their faith, his letters to her de-
scribe how, even more than the remedies and medical art (tekne) he
received, it was friendly affection (sympatheia) which has often
helped him to heal from many of his own physical afflictions; 72
therefore, he lavishes vigorous encouragement on the downcast
Olympias in his letters, 73 exhorting her to work diligently to over-
come the strength of her sadness and suffering. She should en-
deavor to replace despondency with joy (poetically rendered in the
Greek as replacing athymia with euthymia). 74
Before any of these letters of John Chrysostom to Olympias
were penned, however, Gregory of Nyssa crafted his Homilies on the
Song of Songs as a favor for her. Richard Norris maintains that it was:
‘Entirely consonant with the character of Olympias, who was much
given to study of the Scriptures, that she should request of Gregory
an interpretation of the Songs of Songs.’ 75 Her commissioning of
Gregory, Norris surmises, is ‘best assigned to the year 391, or
shortly thereafter, when though still in her twenties, she had
emerged as a person of significance in her own right.’ 76 The intro-
ductory covering letter and dedication the Commentary bears is:
‘To the great ascetic Olympias,’ 77 and it functions as a sort of apolo-
gia to Gregory’s use of allegorical exegesis, since he observes that
the Song of Songs is best understood by Olympias as offering secret
wisdom, which when uncovered, provides what Norris calls: ‘a
glimpse of God’s intolerable beauty.’ 78
Letter XVII (IV).NPNF.296.

Letter IV(XII). Malingrey (tr.) 98.
71
73 See, for example, in Letter VIII(II). Malingrey (tr.) 116.

72
74 Letter VIII (II). Malingrey (tr.) 141. See L Neureiter. ‘Health and
Healing.’ 272.
75 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. Norris (ed.) xx–xxi.
76 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. Norris (ed.) xxi.
77 ‘Its ‘publication’ was doubtless attributable to her desire to have a
copy of Gregory’s observations.’ RA. Norris. ‘The Soul Takes Flight:

Gregory of Nyssa and the Song of Songs.’ Anglican Theological Review. 80:4.
1998. 518.
78 See Norris. ‘The Soul Takes Flight.’ 532.
V. K. MCCARTY 155
Gregory Nyssen explains that, by using the rhetorical tech-

nique of analogy to unfold its inherent mystery, the Songs of Songs is
able to illustrate how ‘lovers of the transcendent Beauty are to re-
late themselves to the Divine.’ 79 For even as Gregory of Nyssa
praises Olympias for her chaste life (semnos bios) and pure soul (ka-
thara psyche), Olympias and her community will encounter in the
Song of Songs a wisdom (sophia) that stands hidden (egkekrymmene). 80
By enclosing and concealing (and perhaps protecting) the spiritual
sense, 81 the Song of Songs becomes a ‘teaching that guides those who
pay careful heed to it toward knowledge of the mysteries and to-
ward a pure life.’ 82 Nevertheless, in choosing such inherently ex-
plicit Scripture for her chaste sisters, ‘Olympias can hardly have
been oblivious to the paradoxical character of the situation.’ 83
It is interesting to consider whether she may have reached out
to Gregory Nyssen to commission a commentary on the Songs of
Songs because she and her fellow Deaconesses saw and experienced
themselves as brides espoused to Christ. If so, it is completely fit-
ting that Gregory of Nyssa would craft a Commentary on the Song of
Songs meant to draw Olympias, with the other virgins in her com-
munity, ‘like a bride toward an incorporeal and spiritual and unde-
filed marriage with God.’ 84 In fact, the opening of Homily 1 appears
to address the Olympiad community deaconesses directly: ‘You,
who in accordance with the counsel of Paul, have taken off the old
humanity with its deeds and lusts like a filthy garment (Col. 3:9)
and have clothed yourselves in purity of light in the lightsome rai-
ment of the Lord…’ 85
In conclusion, although it is impossible to state it with any
certainty, a ‘likely’ form of early urban monastic profile can be as-
Gregory of Nyssa. Homily 6.183.

Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. Prologue.2.4,14–15.
79
81 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. Introduction. xlvii.

80
82 Gregory of Nyssa. Homilies. Prologue.5.
83 H Boersma. Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa: An Anagogi-
cal Approach. Oxford Univ. Press. 2013. 77.

84 Gregory of Nyssa. Homily 1.15.
85 Gregory of Nyssa. Homily 1.15.

sembled from the textual sources about the ascetical life deaconess
Olympias shared with her holy sisters in the religious foundation
she established within her Constantinopolitan villa. As virgins con-
secrated to the church, who had renounced the free use of their
wealth redirecting it in charity and almsgiving, so as to follow
Christ, then a daily office of psalm-chanting and processions in the
Great Church may have comprised an important component of
their liturgical life. Prayer vigils, Scripture study, fasting, limited
bathing, chaste and simple dress style and stillness (withdrawal)
may have aligned their lifestyle in some ways with that of Melania
and the hermit monks praying in the desert whom she visited.
Olympias’ spiritual community represents a pivotal moment in the
development of female monasticism but at a time so early that later
institutional terminology, such as ‘convent,’ was not yet used. Nev-
ertheless, her ascetical life and philanthropic works, as attested
both by contemporary accounts and in later hagiographic memory,
witness to a remarkable chapter in the progress of the practice and
faith of the Orthodox Church.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Primary Texts
E. A. Clark ‘The Life of Olympias,’ in Jerome, Chrysostom,
and Friends: Essays and Translations. New
A. M. Malingrey (tr) John Chrysostom. Lettres à Olympias, Sources

York. 1979.
Chrétiennes, v. 13. Paris. 1947.

R. A. Norris (tr) Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Song of
Songs. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature,
2012.
R. T. Meyer (tr) Palladius, Bishop of Aspuna, The Lausiac His-
tory, New York. 1964.
——— Palladius, Bishop of Aspuna, Dialogue on the
Life of St. John Chrysostom. New York. 1985.
P. Schaff (ed) Sozomen, The Ecclesiastical History, Volume
IX, The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of
the Christian Church, Series II, Edinburgh.
1997. pp. 179–427.
H. Delehaye (tr) Vita Sanctae Olympiadis et Narratio Sergiae.
(Analecta Bollandiana. 15). 1896. 400–423.
V. K. MCCARTY 157
Studies
C. Baur John Chrysostom and his Time. London. 1960.
P. Brown The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sex-
ual Renunciation in Early Christianity. New
York, 1988.
J. B. Cahill ‘The Date and Setting of Gregory of Nyssa’s
Commentary on the Song of Songs.’ Journal of
Theological Studies. 1981. 447–460.
Archbp. Demetrios ‘What is the Bible? The Patristic Doctrine of
Scripture.’ Keynote Lecture. 3rd Annual Sym-
posium in Honor of Georges Florovsky.
Princeton Seminary. Feb. 16, 2013. Available
at: http://bit.ly/14RRhzE. (accessed
9/1/2013).
M. W. Elliott The Song of Songs and Christology in the Ear-
ly Church: 381–451. Tübingen. 2000.
S. Elm Virgins of God: The Making of Asceticism in
Late Antiquity. Oxford. 1994.
P. Hatlie The Monks and Monasteries of Constantino-
ple, ca. 350–850. Cambridge. 2007.
E. D. Hunt ‘Palladius of Helenopolis: A Party and its Sup-
porters in the Church of the Late Fourth Cen-
tury.’ Journal of Theological Studies 24. 1973.
456–480.
V. A. Karras ‘Female Deacons in the Byzantine Church.’
Church History.73:2. 2004. 272–316.
J. N. D. Kelly Golden Mouth: The Story of John Chrysos-
tom—Ascetic, Preacher, Bishop. London.
1995.
W. Mayer ‘Patronage, Pastoral Care, and the Role of the
Bishop at Antioch.’ Vigiliae Christianae. 55.
2001. 58–70.
N McLynn ‘The Other Olympias: Gregory Nazianzus and
the Family of Vitalianus.’ in: Christian Politics
and Religious Culture in Late Antiquity. Farn-
ham. 2009. 227–246.
R. A. Norris ‘The Soul Takes Flight: Gregory of Nyssa and
the Song of Songs.’ Anglican Theological Re-
view. 80:4. 1998. 517–561.
I. Ramelli ‘Theosebia: A Presbyter of the Catholic

Church.’ Journal of Feminist Studies in Reli-
gion. 26:2. 2010. 79–102.
M. Whitby ‘Sugaring the Pill:’ Gregory of Nazianzus’ Ad-
vice to Olympias (Carm. 2.2.6).’ Ramus: Critical
Studies in Greek and Roman Literature. 37:1–
2. 2008. 79–98.
C. White Christian Friendship in the Fourth Century.
Cambridge. 1992.
EVAGRIUS PONTICUS, THE ORIGENIAN
ASCETIC (AND NOT THE ORIGENISTIC
‘HERETIC’)
ILARIA L.E. RAMELLI
Barhebraeus (1226–1286), the Syriac bishop and polymath who

wrote in Syriac and Arabic on theology, philosophy, history, sci-
ence, and else, and admired Origen for his Hexapla, that first multi-
lingual critical edition of the Bible, described Evagrius Ponticus (†
399) as ‘the greatest of the gnostics.’ Evagrius is one of the most
important ascetic theologians and authors in all of Christianity, and
probably the most remarkable in all of Patristic literature. He had a
great impact on the development of spirituality, on the Origenist
movement, and on the spiritual interpretation of the Bible; indeed,
he offered the first complete system of Christian spirituality, as
noted by Louis Bouyer. 1 All this is widely recognised. However,
1 The Spirituality of the New Testament and the Fathers (transl. M.P. Ryan;
London: Burns & Oates, 1963). See also Irenée Hausherr, ‘Le traité de
l’oraison d’Évagre le Pontique (ps. Nil),’ Revue d’Ascétique et de Mystique 15
(1934) 34–118; Antoine Guillaumont, ‘Le problème de la prière conti-
nuelle dans le monachisme ancien,’ in L’Experience de la prière dans les grandes
religions (Louvain-La-Neuve: Presses universitaires, 1980), 285–294; Idem,
Études sur la spiritualité de l’Orient chrétien (Bégrolles en Mauges: Bellefon-
taine, 1996), 143–150; Gabriel Bunge, ‘Priez sans cesse. Aux origines de la
prière hésychaste,’ Studia Monastica 30 (1988) 7–16. See also Columba
Stewart, ‘Imageless Prayer and the Theological Vision of Evagrius,’ Journal
of Early Christian Studies 9,2 (2001) 173–204; Luke Dysinger, Psalmody and
Prayer in the Writings of Evagrius (Oxford: OUP, 2004).
159
160 EVAGRIUS PONTICUS, THE ORIGENIAN ASCETIC
what is often missed by scholarship, still today, is that he was an

Origenian, a faithful follower of Origen of Alexandria († 256 ca.) and
of his close disciple Gregory Nyssen, and not (as Guillaumont fa-
mously suggested, which has been followed by many) an Origenist
of the kind of those who radicalized and distorted Origen’s legacy,
that is, those known to, and condemned by, Justinian in 543 and
553. Origen’s and Nyssen’s line was essential to the shaping of
Evagrius’ ascetic theory and way of life.
The same reassessment of Origen’s true thought (beyond the
construals that are a heritage of the Origenistic controversy, and
partially still hold today) that is needed, and is underway, is also
needed for Evagrius’ thought. Evagrius’ ideas also, are undergoing
a reassessment, and rightly so. This is necessary, particularly (1)
with respect to a unitary vision of his production against a long-
standing split imposed between his metaphysical and his ascetic
works (the former accepted, the latter deemed dangerously ‘Ori-
genistic’) and (2) with respect to his often misunderstood ‘Origen-
ism.’ With regard to problem (1), Kevin Corrigan rightly pays atten-
tion to the Kephalaia Gnostika (KG) and the Letter to Melania (LM)
and maintains a holistic approach to Evagrius’ thought. The same
holistic approach, without a split between Evagrius’ ascetic and
philosophical works, is also correctly adopted by Augustine Casiday
and Julia Konstantinovsky. 2
But to fix both problems together and thereby recover a uni-
tary vision of Evagrius’ production and to correct the sore misun-
derstandings related to his ‘Origenism,’ it is necessary to clarify and
reassess Origen’s true thought, for instance recognizing that he in
fact supported the anti-subordinationism of the Son (and the Spir-
it) and described the Trinity as one oὐσία in three ὑποστάσεις, with
ὑπόστασις meaning ‘individual substance’ of one Person. 3 On this
2Kevin Corrigan, Evagrius and Gregory: Mind, Soul and Body in the 4th
Century (Farnham/Burlington: Ashgate, 2009). Julia Konstantinovsky,
Evagrius Ponticus: The Making of a Gnostic (Farnham/ Burlington: Ashgate,
2009); Augustine Casiday, Reconstructing the Theology of Evagrius Ponticus
(Cambridge: CUP, 2013).
3 See my ‘Origen’s Anti-Subordinationism and Its Heritage in the
Nicene and Cappadocian Line,’ Vigiliae Christianae 65 (2011) 21–49;

ILARIA L.E. RAMELLI 161
account, Origen can be seen as lying behind the very formulas of

Nicaea and Constantinople I. Only in this way, on the basis of a
reassessment of Origen’s true thought, will it be possible to deter-
mine its exact impact on Evagrius’ system, as well as to investigate
the possible role of the Cappadocians in the transmission of Ori-
gen’s authentic ideas to Evagrius. 4 Nyssen in particular is the most
insightful and faithful follower of Origen among all patristic think-
ers, the one who best understood and developed Origen’s genuine
ideas. A methodical study of Gregory’s reception of Origen’s phi-
losophy and theology is showing more and more that Gregory is
the patristic philosopher-theologian who, instead of misunder-
standing Origen’s ideas, and thus either condemning or radicalizing
them, best understood Origen’s true thought.
Both Origen and Evagrius devoted a treatise to prayer, 5 and
both of them considered true theology as theology done in prayer –
a ‘theology on one’s knees,’ as Hans Urs von Balthasar would put it
much later – to the point that Evagrius stated: ‘If you are a theolo-
gian, you will pray truly; and if you pray truly, you will be a theolo-
gian’ (De or. 60). Prayer is the nourishment of the intellect, just as
bread is the food of the body and virtue is the nourishment of the
‘Gregory of Nyssa’s Trinitarian Theology in: In Illud: Tunc et Ipse Filius.

Anti-Subordinationism and Apokatastasis,’ in Volker H. Drecoll–Margitta
Berghaus (eds.), Gregory of Nyssa: The Minor Treatises on Trinitarian Theology
(VCS, 106; Leiden: Brill, 2011), 445–478; ‘Origen, Greek Philosophy, and
the Birth of the Trinitarian Meaning of Hypostasis,’ HTR 105 (2012) 302–
350.
4 See my ‘Evagrius and Gregory: Nazianzen or Nyssen? A Remarka-
ble Issue that Bears on the Cappadocian (and Origenian) Influence on

Evagrius,’ Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 53 (2013) 117–137.
5 On prayer in Evagrius, besides the works listed above in fn. 1, see
also Irenée Hausherr, Les leçons d’un contemplatif: le Traité de l’oraison d’Evagre
le Pontique (Paris: Beauchesne, 1960); Gabriel Bunge, Das Geistgebet. Studien
zum Traktat De oratione des Evagrios Pontikos (Köln: Luther-Verlag, 1987);
Idem, ‘Aktive und kontemplative Weise des Betens im Traktat De oratione
des Evagrios Pontikos,’ Studia Monastica 41 (1999) 211–227; Luke
Dysinger, Psalmody and Prayer in the Writings of Evagrius Ponticus (Oxford:
OUP, 2005); Casiday, Reconstructing the Theology, 136–166.
soul subject to passions (De or. 81). 6 In Skemmata 21 Evagrius con-

sistently delineates a progression from asceticism to knowledge and
contemplation to prayer as the highest point, in which not only has
the soul divested itself of all its passions, but also the intellect has
divested itself of all conceptual forms: ‘When the intellect is in
praktikē, it stands in the intellections of this world. When it is in
gnosis, it passes its time in contemplation. Having come to be in
prayer, it is in formlessness, which is called the ‘place of God.’’
Note the equation between knowledge and contemplation, and the
transcending of both in prayer and formlessness. The last stage is
related to the transcending mystical experience, beyond not only
material forms, but also intellectual forms, as becomes the unity of
the divine.
The expression ‘place of God,’ which expresses this tran-
scendence, is dear to Evagrius, who repeatedly uses it, e.g. in Περὶ
λογισμῶν 40: the intellect, in pure impassivity, transcending all the
intellections of objects, in prayer can see the ‘place of God’ within
itself:
Even when the intellect does not delay among the simple intel-
lections of objects, it has not yet attained the place of [true]
prayer; for it can remain in the contemplation of objects and
be engaged in meditation on their logoi, which, even though
they involve simple expressions, nevertheless, insofar as they
are contemplations of objects, leave their impress and form on
the intellect and lead it far from God. Even if the intellect has
transcended the contemplation of corporeal nature, it has not
yet beheld perfectly the place of God, for it can be occupied
with the knowledge of intelligible objects and so be involved
with their multiplicity. (De or. 56–57)
This is the very same argument as used by Plotinus for the exclu-
sion of intellectual knowledge from the encounter with God: 7 all
6 PG 79.1189.23: Ὥσπερ ὁ ἄρτος τροφή ἐστι τῷ σώματι, καὶ
7 See my ‘The Divine as an Inaccessible Epistemological Object in

ἀρετὴ τῇ ψυχῇ, οὕτω καὶ τοῦ νοῦ ἡ πνευματικὴ προσευχή.
Ancient Jewish, ‘Pagan,’ and Christian Platonists,’ Journal of the History of

Ideas 75.2 (2014).
knowledge, including intellectual knowledge, implies a duality of

knower and known; this is why God, being Unity, cannot be know,
but encountered in a mystical experience beyond knowledge and all
intellectual contents and forms. Indeed, for Evagrius the divine
Logos Creator manifests itself in prayer (De or. 51) but not as any
mental representation or intellectual content: ‘When you pray, do
not form images of the divine within yourself, nor allow your intel-
lect to be impressed with any form, but approach the Immaterial
immaterially and you will come to understanding’ (De or. 66). In
Cap. disc. 78 the light of the intellect, and not its intellections, or
contents, or representations, is said to increase in prayer – there-
fore in a direct relation to God: ‘when the intellect is progressing in
prayer, it will see its own light become more brilliant and shining.’
Light and prayer are associated by Evagrius also in Antirrh.
6.16, where he reports John of Lycopolis’ opinion that the mind
can be illumined during prayer only thanks to the grace of God.
That prayer entails a relation between the praying intellect and God
is clear from Evagrius’ very definition of prayer as ‘the intellect’s
conversation [ὁμιλία] with God’ in De or. 3, a definition that is so
important as to be repeated in Skemmata 28 and 31 and in Schol. in
Ps. 140(141):2, and echoed in De or. 4, 34, and 55. This definition
comes from Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 7.39.6; cf. 7.73.1–3. 8
According to Columba Stewart, Evagrius’ use of that definition of
prayer inherited from Clement of Alexandria is more than just a
bow to tradition. Prayer is an encounter with a personal God, and
Evagrius keeps biblical words and imagery in play even in his de-
scription of the highest stages of prayer. 9 Like Clement, Origen,
and Nyssen, Evagrius really built up a theology of prayer, which
was surely grounded in his everyday ascetic life.
To try and determine, to the extent that is possible, which of
the Cappadocians transmitted Origen’s ideas and their interpreta-
8 On this definition of prayer in Clement see Henny F. Hägg, ‘Prayer

and Knowledge in Clement of Alexandria,’ in The Seventh Book of the Stro-
mateis (eds. Matyas Havrda, Vit Husek, Jana Platova; Leiden: Brill, 2012),
131–142, esp. 132–135.
9 ‘Imageless Prayer and the Theological Vision of Evagrius Ponti-
cus,’ in Journal of Early Christian Studies 9 (2001), 173–204, esp. 191.

tion to Evagrius (who also had direct access to those ideas) is cru-
cial to the assessment of Evagrius’ intellectual heritage. Even some
elements of Evagrius’ life bear on his ideas and his relationship
with those of the Cappadocians and consequently with those of
Origen himself. Actually, the reassessment of Origen and, contex-
tually, Evagrius’ thought, and the clarification of Origen’s direct
and indirect influence on Evagrius, is one of the most important
issues to be investigated in scholarship on contemporary Patristic
theology.
Now, this issue must be addressed on the basis of a careful
study of Origen’s authentic ideas, those of the Cappadocians, and
those of Evagrius, but even some biographical details may become
significant in this connection. The main sources concerning
Evagrius’ biography are Palladius HL 38, Socrates HE 4.23,
Sozomen HE 6.30, and a fifth-century Coptic biography. Other
sources are Gregory Nazianzen’s will, the anonymous (end-fourth-
century) Historia Monachorum (20.15), the anonymous (fourth/fifth-
century) Apophthegmata, (the alphabetical collection s.v. ‘Evagrius’),
Gennadius Vir. Ill. 6.11 and 6.17, and Jerome Ep. 133; Dial. adv.
Pel. preface, and Comm. in Ier. 4, preface. Evagrius was born in Ibora
in Pontus, and his father was a presbyter who had been ordained in
Arkeus by Basil of Caesarea (Palladius HL 38.2) and elevated as a
‘rural bishop’ (χωρεπίσκοπος). Evagrius received a good education
in philosophy, rhetoric, and the liberal arts, thus being ‘perhaps the
best educated in philosophy of all the early monks.’ 10 Thanks to
Basil and Gregory Nazianzen, the very probable compilers of the
Philocalia, Evagrius became familiar with Origen’s ideas. He was
ordained a reader by Basil, some time after whose death (which
occurred in late 378 or early 379) Evagrius moved to Constantino-
ple to study, according to Socrates and Sozomen, with Nazian-
zen. 11 He participated in the 381 Constantinople Council as a dea-
con. At this Council, during which Nazianzen withdrew from the
10 Columba Stewart, ‘Monastic Attitudes toward Philosophy and

Philosophers,’ Studia Patristica 46 (2010) 321–327, praes. 324.
11 ‘He studied philosophy and sacred Scripture under the direction
of Gregory, bishop of Nazianzen’ (Sozomen, HE 6.30).

episcopate of Constantinople, Gregory Nyssen surely played a core

role.
Evagrius was ordained deacon by Nazianzen according to
Socrates HE 4.23. Socrates’ affirmation is followed by most schol-
ars, but Palladius indicates Gregory of Nyssa instead. Unlike Socra-
tes and Sozomen, Palladius had known Evagrius personally, as he
himself attests in HL 12, 23, 24, 35, 38, and 47 and had been a per-
sonal disciple of Evagrius (HL 23). He devoted to Evagrius a
whole chapter of his Lausiac History, all of which was composed ‘in
the spirit of Evagrius,’ 12 and in Ch. 86 he speaks of Evagrius very
highly. Palladius was an Origenian monk himself and a friend of
the Origenian monks dubbed ‘Tall Brothers,’ as well as of Rufinus
and of Melania the Elder. These were in turn close friends of
Evagrius.
This is why Palladius represents a reliable source. 13 Now, in
HL 86. 14 Palladius reports that it was Nyssen who ordained
Evagrius and was a close friend of his: ‘After the death of the bish-
op saint Basil, saint Gregory, the bishop of Nyssa, a brother of the
bishop Basil who enjoys the honour of the apostles, saint Gregory
I say, most wise and free from passions to the utmost degree, and
illustrious for his wide-ranging learning, became friends with
Evagrius and appointed him as a deacon.’ On this account, it is
12 See René Draguet, ‘L’Histoire Lausiaque: une oeuvre écrite dans

l’esprit d’Évagre,’ Revue d’Histoire Ecclésiastique 41 (1946) 321–364; 42
(1947) 5–49.
13 Palladius, unlike Socrates, was personally acquainted with Evagrius
and is a first-hand source. Socrates wrote his information some forty years
after Evagrius’ death, while Evagrius wrote of what happened during his
own lifetime. Moreover, Socrates seems to be much better informed on
Nazianzen than on Nyssen. This is particularly clear from his HE 4.26, as
I have argued in a detailed manner in ‘Evagrius and Gregory: Nazianzen
or Nyssen?’. Socrates seems to know nothing of Nyssen’s option for the
ascetic life, of his ecclesiastical career, of his anti-Arianism and his theo-
logical works. Yet, Nyssen was even more of an Origenian than Nazian-
zen and Basil were, and this would have been a very interesting aspect to
highlight for the strongly philo-Origenian Socrates.
14 PG. 34.1188C.
unequivocally Gregory of Nyssa – ‘the brother of the bishop Basil’

and ‘the bishop of Nyssa’ – who treated Evagrius with friendship
and ordained him a deacon. Note Palladius’ most praising descrip-
tion of Nyssen in this passage. The reason is easy to guess. Gregory
was the closest follower of Origen and the spiritual father of
Evagrius, and Palladius profoundly admired both Origen and
Evagrius. The relationship between Nyssen and Evagrius may go
back to the former’s sojourn in Ibora, between the late 379 and
380, when the inhabitants of Ibora asked Gregory to supervise the
election of a new bishop. In HL 86, Palladius goes on to say,
‘When he left, saint Gregory the bishop handed Evagrius to the
blessed bishop Nectarius at the great Council of Constantinople.
For Evagrius was most skilled in dialectics against all heresies.’
Here too, the bishop Gregory is regularly identified by scholars
with Nazianzen. However, the Gregory whom Palladius mentions
in the immediately preceding sentence is Nyssen. Thus, the Grego-
ry who handed Evagrius to Nectarius may also have been the bish-
op of Nyssa.
Also, the source of Socrates’ report in HE 4.23 that Gregory
went to Egypt with Evagrius likely referred to Nyssen, since Nazi-
anzen never went to Egypt or Jerusalem after the council of Con-
stantinople, but after the Council Gregory of Nyssa certainly trav-
elled to Jerusalem late in 381 and in 382, as attested in his Letter 3.
He may also have gone from Jerusalem to Egypt with Evagri-
us, when Evagrius left Jerusalem for Egypt. For Evagrius, as all his
biographies agree, left Constantinople hurriedly to disembroil him-
self from a dangerous affair 15 and travelled to Jerusalem (382),
where he frequented the Origenians Melania the Elder and Rufi-
nus; the former, as the head of the double monastery where Rufi-
nus too lived, gave Evagrius monastic garb, and suggested him to
leave for the Egyptian desert. He first headed to Nitria, a cenobitic
environment, and then Kellia, where Evagrius practised an eremit-
ic, extreme form of asceticism, and remained until his death in 399.
In Egypt Evagrius was a disciple of Macarius of Alexandria and
especially of Macarius the Egyptian, the Great, who was converted
to asceticism by St. Antony (an Origenian), founded Scetis, and
15 Sozomen HE 6.30; Palladius LH 38.3–7.

was, he too, like Origen, Antony, and Evagrius himself, a supporter

of apokatastasis or universal restoration. 16 They too, like Origen and
Nyssen, taught Evagrius the aforementioned ‘theology of prayer.’
Near Alexandria, Evagrius may also have visited Didymus, the
faithful Origenian who was appointed by bishop Athanasius head
of the Alexandrian Didaskaleion. Evagrius had disciples himself,
among whom were the above-mentioned Palladius, Cassian, 17 and
many pilgrim visitors.
Evagrius, refused the episcopate at Thmuis that Theophilus of
Alexandria offered to him. Indeed, like Origen and Nyssen,
Evagrius tended to emphasise the spiritual authority coming from
inspiration, prayer, learning, teaching, and even miracles, rather
than that which comes from ecclesiastical hierarchy. 18 The possible
presence of Nyssen with Evagrius in Jerusalem and later in Egypt,
or his being in contact with Melania and Evagrius, would explain
the reason why Gregory Nyssa’s own dialogue De anima et resurrec-
tione was translated into Coptic in Egypt very early (possibly before
Gregory’s death). 19 This is even more probable in that Gregory in
16 The former seems to be mentioned by Evagrius in Περὶ λογισμῶν
33 and 37 and Antirrh. 4.23 and 4.58; 8.26. In Praktikos 93–94, instead, the
reference seems to be to the latter; Robert E. Sinkewicz, however, refers
Praktikos 94 to Macarius of Alexandria as well in Evagrius of Pontus, The
Greek Ascetic Corpus (Oxford: OUP, 2003), XIX. As for St. Antony and
Macarius and their adhesion to the apokatastasis doctrine see my The
to Eriugena (Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae, 120; Leiden: Brill, 2013),

Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis: A Critical Assessment from the New Testament
the chapter devoted to Antony.

17 For a revisitation of the figure and the works of Cassian, however,
see now Panayiotis Tzamalikos, The Real Cassian Revisited: Monastic Life,
Greek Paideia, and Origenism in the Sixth Century (Leiden: Brill, 2012); Idem,
Marseilles (Leiden: Brill, 2012).

A Newly Discovered Greek Father: Cassian the Sabaite Eclipsed by John Cassian of
18 For the derivation of these ideas from Origen see: Ilaria Ramelli,
‘Theosebia: A Presbyter of the Catholic Church,’ Journal of Feminist Studies

in Religion 26.2 (2010) 79–102.
19 Ilaria Ramelli, Gregorio di Nissa sull’Anima e la Resurrezione (Milan:
Bompiani–Catholic University, 2007), first Appendix. The very ancient

this dialogue with his sister Macrina supported apokatastasis, like

Melania and Evagrius himself. Nyssen was also in Arabia – close to
Palestine and Egypt. The Council of Constantinople sent him to a
church there, for the rectification of their doctrine. While in Arabia,
Nyssen was called to Jerusalem, exactly (as it seems) during the
period when Evagrius was sojourning at Melania’s and Rufinus’
monastery. Besides being close to Nyssen, Evagrius was the assis-
tant of Gregory Nazianzen in Constantinople – who mentions
Evagrius in his will, written in 381 (PG 37.389–396), as ‘the deacon
Evagrius, who has much worked with me’ – and was also educated
by him in philosophy and Scriptural exegesis (Sozomen HE 6.30).
Evagrius fought against ‘Arians’ and Pneumatomachians, just
as his mentors, Nyssen and Nazianzen, as well as Basil, did. It is
not accidental that Evagrius’ Epistula de fide was ascribed to Basil as
Ep. 8. It supports the Trinitarian description μία οὐσία τρεῖς
ὑποστάσεις, which goes back to Origen himself. 20 This letter clearly
espouses Cappadocian theology. According to Julia Konstanti-
novsky, however, Evagrius’ ideas are not very similar to those of
‘the Cappadocians.’ 21 Actually they are not so similar to those of
Basil, but they are very close to those of Nyssen, for instance in
eschatology, anthropology, and metaphysics. A systematic investi-
gation into Evagrius’ dependence on Nyssen’s ideas yields an im-
pressive amount of elements, from protology to eschatology, from
theology to anthropology.
Coptic translation is also used here in the establishment of as new edition

of De anima et resurrectione, which is included in the same volume. Now
these philological contributions are received in the definitive critical edi-
tion Gregorii Nysseni, De anima et resurrectione (Gregorii Nysseni Opera,
3/3; Opera dogmatica minora Pars III; ed. Andreas Spira; post mortem
editoris, praefationem accurate composuit Ekkehardus Mühlenberg; Lei-
den: Brill, 2014), based on all the 72 available manuscripts.
20 For the roots of this formula in Origen see Ilaria L.E. Ramelli,
‘Origen’s Anti-Subordinationism and its Heritage in the Nicene and Cap-

padocian Line,’ Vigiliae Christianae 65 (2011) 21–49 and Eadem, ‘Origen,
Greek Philosophy, and the Birth of the Trinitarian Meaning of Hyposta-
sis,’ Harvard Theological Review 105 (2012) 302–50.
21 J. Kostantinovsky, Evagrius Ponticus, chs. 3–6.
Now, as I mentioned, Nyssen was the most faithful and intel-

ligent disciple of Origen, which means that Evagrius through him
absorbed much of Origen’s true thought and spirituality. (This of
course does not rule out that Evagrius also read Origen’s works
directly). Indeed, it is not a matter of chance that Evagrius was
friends with many Origenians such as Rufinus, Melania, the Tall
Brothers, John of Jerusalem, and Palladius who admired him just as
he admired the other Origenians. Jerome too, for a long period,
was an admirer of Evagrius. In Letter 4.2, he called him ‘reverend
presbyter.’ However, after his sudden volte-face against Origen, he
became hostile to Evagrius no less than to Origen, a clear indica-
tion that he perceived Evagrius as a close follower of the great Al-
exandrian.
Besides the number of Evagrius’ intellectual and spiritual
debts to Nyssen, it is probable that Evagrius also referred to him at
some points. His reference to ‘Gregory the Just’ in the epilogue of
his Praktikos is generally taken to refer to Nazianzen; however, it
could also refer to Nyssen: ‘The high Sun of Justice shines upon us
[…] thanks to the prayers and intercession of Gregory the Just,
who planted me, and of the holy fathers who now water me and by
the power of Christ Jesus our Lord, who has granted me growth.’
As I will show in a moment, Evagrius mentions the same Gregory
the Just also in Gnostikos 44 apropos the four cardinal virtues,
which were first theorized by Plato. These virtues were in fact
treated by Nyssen. This fact, together with the agricultural meta-
phors and terminology used by Evagrius in this passage, makes it
very likely that the Gregory at stake here was Nyssen. Indeed, when
Evagrius uses agricultural metaphors in KG 2.25 as well, in refer-
ence to the resurrection-restoration, it is virtually certain that he has
Nyssen in mind: ‘Just as this body is called the seed of the future
ear, so will also this aeon be called seed of the one that will come
after it.’ This kephalaion, like KG 1.24, relies on Paul’s seed-ear im-
agery in 1Cor 15, on which Nyssen commented extensively at the
end of De anima et resurrectione in connection with the resurrection-
restoration. 22 While he depicted God as the good farmer who as-
22 Full commentary in my study: Gregorio di Nissa sull’Anima e la Res-

urrezione.
sists the process of development of his plants, liberating them from

illnesses and weeds (that is, sins and passions). Gregory was remi-
niscing about Philo’s De agri cultura, where the cultivation of the
fields was an allegory of the cultivation of the soul. Philo was
known to Evagrius, too, and to Origen, who often used agricultural
imagery allegorically. Nyssen followed in his footsteps. In KG 2.25
Evagrius extends the application of the seed-ear metaphor (used by
both Paul and Gregory in reference to the dead and resurrected
body) to the present and the future aeon: both the present body and
the present aeon are the germ and seed of the body and the aeon to
come.
Now in Gnostikos 44, too, as I anticipated, Evagrius adopts an
agricultural metaphor that is again likely to be inspired by Nyssen,
in relation to the cardinal virtues: ‘There are four virtues necessary
for contemplation, according to the teaching of Gregory the Just:
prudence, courage, temperance, and justice … The reception of the
first sower’s seed and the rejection of what is sown secondarily is
the proper work of continence, according to Gregory’s explana-
tion.’ Given the above-mentioned allegory of God as the first
planter in Gregory’s De anima et resurrectione, and given his descrip-
tion of passions and vice as secondary epigennēmata that must be
rejected by means of a life of virtue and asceticism, it is very prob-
able that Evagrius’ reference to ‘Gregory the Just’ is to the Nyssen.
Likewise in Praktikos 89 Evagrius expounds the tripartition of the
soul according to Plato, with the relevant virtues that are proper to
each part of the soul, crowned by justice which is a virtue of the
whole soul. However, interestingly he does not attribute this doc-
trine (again the theory of the four cardinal virtues) to Plato, but
rather to ‘our wise teacher’ (κατὰ τὸν σοφὸν ἡμῶν διδάσκαλον). In
this case, too, it is usually assumed that this unnamed teacher is
Gregory the Theologian, for instance by Antoine and Claire Guil-
laumont, 23 followed by Columba Stewart, 24 who however admits
that it is unlikely that the Nazianzen transmitted this doctrine to
Evagrius, but does not propose alternative solutions. For my part, I
23 Antoine and Claire Guillaumont, Evagre le Pontique. Traité pratique

ou Le moine (Paris: Cerf, 1971), 680–689.
24 Columba Stewart, ‘Monastic Attitudes,’ 324.
deem it more probable that Evagrius meant Gregory Nyssen, who

used this doctrine extensively in De anima et resurrectione and else-
where. And I have suggested above that this dialogue was circulat-
ed in Egypt, and soon translated into Coptic, precisely thanks to
the influence of Evagrius there. Evagrius’ sympathy for this dia-
logue was no doubt enhanced by its defense of apokatastasis, which
he also supported. As a consequence of these considerations, then
also the ‘Gregory the Just’ mentioned in the epilogue of Evagrius’
Praktikos is likely to be the Nyssen.
A good deal of Evagrian ideas influenced by Gregory Nyssen
can be found in the KG 25 which offer a compendium of Evagrius’
thinking concerning reality, God, protology, eschatology, anthro-
pology, and spiritual exegesis of the Bible. This is the third and
most advanced piece of a trilogy devoted to ascetic, monastic life
and also composed by the Praktikos (also called Kephalaia Praktika
[KP]) and the Gnostikos. The KG are the masterpiece of Evagrius,
lost in Greek apart from scanty fragments, but entirely preserved in
Syriac, in two different redactions. 26 The Syriac version discovered
by Antoine Guillaumont (S2), unlike the other Syriac version (S1), is
not expurgated from what was subsequently perceived as danger-
ously Origenistic material. Guillaumont first contended in an arti-
cle 27 that the original text is S2 and offered the first critical edi-
tion. 28 His hypothesis concerning the priority of S2 has been fol-
25 I have recently completed a full translation, based on Guillau-

mont’s edition with some improvements (emendations and some different
textual choices vis-à-vis that of Guillaumont); hopefully I have offered
many improvements in the translation and interpretation of Evagrius’
text; for the first time I have also provided a complete, running commen-
tary, in Evagrius Ponticus’ Kephalaia Gnostika: Propositions on Knowledge (Lei-
den: Brill – Atlanta: SBL, forthcoming).
26 None of the surviving Greek fragments can be dated before the
Second Origenistic Controversy. See Casiday, Reconstructing the Theology, 67.

27 Antoine Guillaumont, ‘Le texte véritable des Gnostica d’Évagre le
Pontique,’ Revue de l’Histoire des Religions 142 (1952) 156–205.

28 Les six centuries des ‘Kephalaia Gnostika’ d’Évagre, édition critique de
la version syriaque commune et édition d’une nouvelle version syriaque,

lowed by all scholars, with the exception that I shall discuss short-
ly. 29 The KG seem to have been deliberately left incomplete by
Evagrius. Babai († 628), who commented on the KG, observes
that, instead of the 600 kephalaia promised by Evagrius in his Letter
to Anatolius, (i.e. the prologue to his Praktikos), he wrote only 540.
According to Babai, the supplement to this incomplete work is to
be found in Evagrius’ Skemmata. Babai’s version of this work con-
tained 60 kephalaia, 30 which appear nowhere else. On the other
hand, Socrates, when listing Evagrius’ works in about 440, only
forty years after Evagrius’ death, designates this as ἑξακόσια
προγνωστικὰ προβλήματα (HE 4.23). Either he knew of a com-
plete edition, now lost and unknown to Babai more than one cen-
tury later, or he was unaware that the KG were never written in
number of six hundred. In fact Evagrius seems to have intended
this incompleteness, in order to reflect the limits of human
knowledge of the divine and theological discourse. As Monica To-
bon puts it:
The ‘missing chapters’ are in fact ‘silent chapters,’ correspond-
ing to the passage of the contemplative nous beyond the words of
intégrale, avec une double traduction française par Antoine Guillaumont

(Patrologia Orientalis 28; Paris: Firmin Didot, 1958–1959).
29 See James W. Watt, ‘The Syriac Adapter of Evagrius’s Centuries,’
in Studia Patristica XVII,3 (ed. Elizabeth A. Livingstone; Oxford: OUP,

1982), 1388–1395; David Bundy, ‘The Philosophical Structures of Origen-
ism. The Case of the Expurgated Syriac Version S1 of the Kephalaia Gnos-
tika of Evagrius,’ in Origeniana V, ed. Robert J. Daly (Leuven: Peeters,
1992), 577–584.
30 See Evagrius Ponticus (ed. W. Frankenberg; Abhandlungen der
Königlichen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen, Philologisch-

Historische Klasse, n.s. 13.2; Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1912),
vol. 2:422–471 = Pseudo-Supplément des Six Centuries des Képhalaia Gnostica.
The problem is noted by Antoine Guillaumont, Les ‘Kephalaia Gnostika’
d’Évagre le Pontique et l’histoire de l’origénisme chez les grecs et chez les syriens (Paris:
Didot, 1962), 18–22, and Luke Dysinger, Psalmody and Prayer in the Writings
of Evagrius Ponticus (Oxford: OUP, 2005), 204.
human teachers to the Word himself, beyond image and sign to the
unconstrained and uncontainable infinity of God. 31
The state of prayer as formless state without intellectual mul-
tiplicity, of which I have spoken at the beginning, will correspond
to these ‘silent chapters.’ Moreover, Tobon suggests that these
‘missing chapters’ are spoken by God, as God’s Logos or Word,
and constitute the final chapters of the KG, where an authority is
quoted, just as one is quoted at the end of the two other works of
the trilogy. The authority cited in the KG is not human, unlike
those cited in the two other works, but divine; this is why it is spo-
ken in silence. A suggestion in this sense of negative theology and
apophaticism was already given by Dionysius Bar Salibi in the
twelfth century, in his Introduction to his Commentary on the Centuries of
Evagrius, ch. 1:
We say that the knowledge of the perfected ones here below,
compared to that which they will receive in the next world, is
incomplete, since now we see as if in a mirror and there we will
see face to face. And he has removed ten chapters from each century
because the number ten is perfect and complete and symboliz-
es for us the perfect accomplishment of the divinity of Jesus,
he whose name begins with the letter youdh, which is to say
ten, and in the world to come it is in Jesus-God that the
knowledge of the saints will be completed and accomplished
… The number of chapters in the six centuries comes to five
hundred and forty: six times ninety gives five hundred and for-
31 See Monica Tobon, ‘Reply to Kevin Corrigan,’ in Studia Patristica

LVII, ed. Markus Vinzent, vol. 5, Evagrius Ponticus on Contemplation (ed.
Monica Tobon; Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 27–29, esp. 28. Now more exten-
sively Eadem, ‘A Word spoken in Silence: the ‘Missing’ Chapters of
Evagrius’ Kephalaia Gnostika,’ in Studia Patristica, forthcoming, who reads
the strategy of the missing chapters within the overall framework of
Evagrius’ spirituality. On mystic apophaticism in Evagrius see my ‘Mysti-
cism and Mystic Apophaticism in Middle and Neoplatonism across Juda-
ism, ‘Paganism’ and Christianity,’ in Constructions of Mysticism: Inventions and
Interactions across the Borders, ed. Annette Wilke, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz,
2014.
ty. The number five symbolizes the senses, and the number
four, the four elements. The number one hundred, when it is
multiplied five times, makes five hundred, symbol of spiritual
knowledge, and the number ten, when it is multiplied four
times, makes forty: this signifies that by means of spiritual
knowledge of the five senses of the soul one enjoys the con-
templation of this world which is constituted of the four ele-
ments and, on the basis of this knowledge which is now given
to us through the medium of numbers, we progress toward the
impassible contemplation of the world to come.
Together with these apophatic, voluntary gaps, what makes the KG
the most difficult text of Evagrius is their concision and lack of
explanations. This is because these short sentences were destined
for Evagrius’ most advanced disciples and presuppose a long path
of learning, as well as advanced ascetic training. In order to under-
stand something of these propositions, therefore, it is necessary to
be very familiar with the rest of Evagrius’ works and his spirituality.
Even if Evagrius’ propositions are concise to the point of obscuri-
ty, however, the KG are very long. In fact, as Monica Tobon re-
marks: ‘The Kephalaia Gnostika, the most explicitly contemplative of
the three volumes, is four times as long as the other two volumes
combined,’ [the two other works of Evagrius’ monastic trilogy,
Praktikos and Gnostikos]. 32 But the KG are not to be considered as
‘separated’ from the Praktikos and therefore from asceticism;
knowledge itself must be an ascetic practice. The trilogy aims at the
spiritual transformation of the whole human person, body, soul,
and spirit. I will argue that indeed there is much to be reassessed
about Evagrius’ anthropology, as well as about his theology and
Christology.
As I mentioned earlier, Antoine Guillaumont deemed the S2
redaction of the KG original, and the S1 expurgated. I tend to agree
with this view, which has been received by virtually all scholars, but
I doubt the validity of the related claims by Guillaumont that
Monica Tobon, ‘Introduction,’ in Studia Patristica LVII, ed. Mar-

32
kus Vinzent, vol. 5, Evagrius Ponticus on Contemplation (ed. Monica Tobon;

Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 3–7, esp. 4.
Philoxenus of Mabbug was the author of the expurgated version

(S1) 33 and, especially, that Evagrius’ own ideas were condemned
under Justinian. Augustine Casiday is right to question this last
point, which I also strongly doubt, but his argument that S1 is
Evagrius’ original redaction and S2 is a later reworking in a radical-
izing Origenistic sense 34 is not better demonstrated than Guillau-
mont’s own representation of Evagrius as a radical Origenist.
In fact, I have demonstrated extensively in many points of my
commentary on Evagrius’ KG 35 that S2 is perfectly in line with Or-
igen’s true thought, rather than being a radicalized version close to
the Origenism condemned under Justinian and is also absolutely
consistent with other works by Evagrius himself, including both his
‘Cappadocian’ (that is, Origenian) Epistula de fide and his speculative
(and again Origenian) LM. In the KG, version S2, the one I chose
to translate and comment on, I find not so much what was con-
demned by Justinian, as Evagrius’ original assimilation of Origen’s,
and Gregory Nyssen’s, ideas, and I deem this version very likely to
be Evagrius’ own product, more than a subsequent radicalization.
S1 is probably an expurgated version, possibly quite old; it is not
even to be ruled out that Evagrius himself provided an alternative
redaction, though this is not very likely. If S1 is expurgated, it is
expur-gated in an anti-Origenian sense: likewise expurgated, anti-
Origenian, redactions were prepared of the Dialogue of Adamantius,
the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto, and even of John Scotus
Eriugena’s Latin translation of Gregory Nyssen’s De hominis opificio.
In all of these works, the parts that were dropped in the expurgated
redactions (i.e. the extant Greek texts of the Dialogue and the Histo-
33 See John Watt, ‘Philoxenus and the Old Syriac Version of Evagri-
us’ Centuries,’ Oriens Christianus 64 (1980) 65–81; Idem, ‘The Syriac
Adapter of Evagrius’ Centuries,’ in Studia Patristica 17.3 (1982), 1388–
1395; Ilaria L.E. Ramelli, ‘Philoxenus and Babai. Authentic and Interpo-
lated Versions of Evagrius’s Works?’ in Eadem, The Christian Doctrine of
34 Casiday, Reconstructing the Theology of Evagrius, 49, 69–70, and passim.

Apokatastasis.
35 In Evagrius Ponticus’ Kephalaia Gnostika: Propositions on Knowledge.

ria, and the Latin translation of De hominis opificio) were all expres-
sions of Origenian ideas, and primarily apokatastasis. 36
Evagrius regarded as heretics those who did not believe in the
consubstantiality of the Persons of the Trinity (Exh. ad mon. 45),
which is thoroughly consistent with his Epistula de fide. I think that
in fact Evagrius’ Trinitarian orthodoxy is perfectly compatible with
the Christology 37 that is found in his KG and his LM. This is not,
as is often assumed, 38 a subordinationist Christology, and it is just
natural that it is not so in a follower of Origen and the Nyssen,
neither of whom was a subordinationist, but both of whom com-
bated Christological subordinationism. 39 The supposition that
Evagrius was a subordinationist mainly comes from a distorted
reading of KG 6.14, which, if read correctly, provides, on the con-
trary, a strong support to Evagrius’ anti subordinationism. The fol-
lowing is the correct reading I propose:
Christ is NOT consubstantial [ὁμοούσιος] with the Trinity; in-
deed, he is not substantial knowledge as well. But Christ is the
only one who always and inseparably possesses substantial
knowledge in himself. What I claim is that Christ is the one
who went together with God the Logos; in spirit, Christ IS the
Lord [sc. God]. He is inseparable from his body and in unity IS
consubstantial [ὁμοούσιος] with the Father.
The particle ‘but,’ which I have underlined for emphasis, signals
that what comes before is not Evagrius’ own doctrine, but is rather
the opinion of an adversary, which Evagrius refutes. Evagrius’ own
idea is introduced by: ‘What I claim is…’ For this reason I used
36 See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, chapters on the Dia-
logue of Adamantius and Eriugena.

37 On which see Konstantinovsky, Evagrius, 109–152.
38 E.g., Antoine Guillaumont, Un philosophe au désert: Evagre le Pontique
(Paris: Vrin, 2004), 375; Konstantinovsky, Evagrius, 144; Claudio Mo-

reschini, I Padri Cappadoci: Storia, Letteratura, Teologia (Rome: Città Nuova,
2008), 307, who ascribes to Evagrius ‘un subordinazionismo alla maniera
origeniana,’ ‘an Origen-like subordinationism,’ while neither Origen nor
Evagrius were subordinationists.
39 See my ‘Origen’s Antisubordinationism.’
different quotation marks in my edition, to underscore that this is a

debate. Indeed, the last sentence, which expresses Evagrius’ own
position, flatly contradicts the initial one: ‘Christ IS homoousios with
the Father,’ and ‘IS the Lord’ God. This evidently overturns the
initial statement by an adversary, that ‘Christ is NOT homoousios
with the Trinity.’ The adverb ‘inseparably,’ in reference to Christ
who possesses ‘inseparably’ the substantial knowledge that is God
(cf. KG 1.89), is the same as the adverbs which at Chalcedon will
divine (ἀχωρίστως and ἀδιαιρέτως). It is no chance that the adjec-

describe the inseparability of the two natures of Christ, human and
tive ‘inseparable’ is used here by Evagrius exactly to describe the

union of the divine and human natures in Christ. Of course Christ
‘is the Lord’ in his divine, spiritual nature (‘in spirit’), and not in his
human nature. Christ is both fully God and fully human; the fact
that he is a rational creature, and in particular a human being, does
not mean that he is not divine, or that he is God only incompletely,
as accounts of Evagrius’ Christology commonly go. KG 6.14 does
not prove that (as is often repeated 40) Evagrius considered Christ
not to be consubstantial with the other Persons of the Trinity, but
it rather demonstrates that he firmly rejected this latter position and
regarded Christ, in his divine nature, as God and as consubstantial
with the Father. This was Origen’s and Gregory Nyssen’s view as
well, accepted by Eusebius also, who may even have conveyed Ori-
gen’s teaching on the homoousia of the Father and the Son (i.e.
Christ in his divine nature) to Nicaea 325 through Constantine, 41
while Gregory Nyssen introduced Origen’s teaching on ‘one es-
sence, three individual substances’ to Constantinople 381. 42
Evagrius clearly followed in their footsteps.
In Ep. de fide 3, indeed, Evagrius likewise declares that the Fa-
ther and the Son have the same essence. Christ in his divine nature
is the Son, while in his human nature he is a human being. This is
why he states that Christ has God the Logos in himself (Ibid. 4).
This clearly points to the divine nature of Christ. The Christology
of this letter is a perfect parallel to KG 6.14. In the first of his
For instance, Konstantinovsky, Evagrius, 144–145.

Argument in my ‘Origen’s Anti-Subordinationism.’
40
42 Demonstration in my ‘Origen, Greek Philosophy.’

41
Skemmata, similarly, Evagrius states that Christ qua Christ (that is,
qua compound of human and divine nature) possesses the essen-
tial/substantial knowledge, that is, possesses God, his own divine
nature, which is again the same as is found in KG 6.14. Consistent-
ly with this, even in his biography in Palladius Evagrius is repre-
sented as supporting, against ‘heretics’ such as ‘Arians’ and Euno-
mians, the full divinity of Christ-Logos, the Son of God, who also
assumed a human body, soul, and intellect. Palladius’ biography
reports an epigram that praises Evagrius’ orthodoxy in respect to
both the Son and the Spirit and their position within the Trinity.
That Christ in his divine nature is the Son is manifest in KG 3.1:
‘The Father, and only he, knows Christ, and the Son, and only he,
the Father,’ where Christ and the Son significantly occupy the same
position in the equation, which means that Evagrius is using the
two terms as synonyms in the intra-Trinitarian discourse.
Just as Evagrius was no subordinationist, he was no isochristic
theologian either. I absolutely agree with Augustine Casiday that
the LM does not give voice to ‘isochristic’ ideas such as those that
were later condemned under Justinian, 43 and I would add that nei-
ther do the KG voice such ideas. Casiday rightly opposes Antoine
Guillaumont’s claim that Evagrius’ Christology is the same as that
of the isochristic monks which was anathematised in the 553
Council under Justinian. 44 I cannot agree with Casiday, however,
when he remarks that: ‘Origen taught cycles of falling and reconcil-
iation, which is precluded by Evagrius’ reference to the endless and
inseparable unity of God,’ 45 with reference to Jerome’s Letter 124.
Jerome, however, ceases to be a reliable source on Origen after his
U-turn against him. In fact, Origen, exactly like Evagrius, thought
that there will be a final unity with God, after which no more falls
will be possible, as can be seen from Origen’s own Commentary on
Romans and many other passages, some of which preserved in
43Augustine Casiday, ‘Universal Restoration in Evagrius Ponticus’

‘Great Letter’,’ Studia Patristica 47 (2010) 223–228.
44 Guillaumont, Les Kephalaia Gnostika, 156.
45 Casiday, ‘Universal Restoration in Evagrius,’ 224.
Greek. 46 Therefore, also in this respect, Evagrius did not distance

himself from Origen, but rather followed in his footsteps.
In sum, Antoine Guillaumont’s thesis that the doctrine con-
demned at the fifth to eighth ecumenical councils was not that of
Origen (as was previously supposed) but that of Evagrius, 47 needs
to be refined in turn: that doctrine, in fact, was neither that of Ori-
gen nor that of Evagrius, but those of later Origenists who radical-
ised and distorted Evagrius’ thinking. Furthermore, the doctrine
condemned, even if it does reflect ideas circulating in Origenistic
circles, is as such a more or less artificial construct, as it was assem-
bled in a hostile dossier-pamphlet by the anti-Origenistic monks of
St. Saba. 48 Evagrius’ ideas rather follow Origen’s authentic ideas,
also as transmitted by the Nyssen.
Evagrius’ writings are all closely interconnected and concern
theology and metaphysics as well as spiritual ascent and ascetic
practice; 49 one part cannot be separated out from the rest, as has
been too often done in the past: with his ascetic works being read
and treasured, while his metaphysical, protological, and eschatolog-
ical Origenian ideas were rejected. In this system, asceticism (prak-
tikē) leads to knowledge (gnōsis) and is inseparable from it; this is
why in his most speculative works there is a great deal about asceti-
cism, and his ascetic works are a preparation for gnosis but also its
peak in prayer and contemplation. The inter-connection of all as-
pects of Evagrius’ thought is clear not only in the KG, but even in
46 In The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, the section on Origen.

47 See Antoine Guillaumont, ‘Évagre et les anathématismes anti-
origénistes de 553,’ Studia Patristica 3 (1961) 219–226, and Idem, Les Kepha-
48 István Perczel, ‘Note sur la pensée systematique d’Évagre le

laia Gnostika d’Évagre.
Pontique,’ in Origene e l'Alessandrinismo cappadoce (eds. Mario Girardi and

Marcello Marin; Bari: Edipuglia, 2002), 277–297. The comparison be-
tween Evagrius’ obscure and concise language and the coherent and ex-
panded system of the anti-Origenian sources seems to confirm Perczel’s
thesis. See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, Ch. 4, in the section
devoted to Justinian and the Origenists.
49 A complete English translation of Evagrius’ main ascetic works is
found in Sinkewicz, Evagrius of Pontus: The Greek Ascetic Corpus.

the LM, 50 which deals with the Trinity, protology, eschatology, apo-
katastasis, and spiritual knowledge; all issues that surface also in the
KG.
The addressee of the LM in one of the two Syriac manuscripts
in which it is preserved, as in other letters by Evagrius extant in
Armenian, is Melania the Elder, who converted Evagrius to the
ascetic life and changed his clothes into monastic attire. In the Syri-
ac translation Evagrius addresses Melania thrice as ‘my lord,’ but
this in my view does not rule out that the recipient was Melania, a
woman. For Palladius repeatedly calls Melania ἡ μακαρία Μελάνιον,
‘the blessed, dear Melanion,’ using this neutral form as a sign of
endearment (HL 38.8 and 9 51). Evagrius too, like his disciple Palla-
dius, may have used to call Melania Μελάνιον, and Syriac transla-
tors may easily have understood Μελάνιον as a masculine, all the
more so in that in Syriac there are only masculine or feminine
forms, and no neuter; Greek neuters are more similar to masculine
than to feminine forms. Some even think that a masculine address
to a woman is to be read in a ‘gnostic’ context, as honorific, for a
woman who has overcome the purported weakness of women with
her intellectual and spiritual strength and prowess. 52 Anyway, both
of the possible addressees, Melania and (according to those who
have difficulties accepting her as addressee) Rufinus, were strong
admirers of Origen and his followers, like Evagrius himself, and
this letter is composed against the backdrop of Origen’s theology.
Just as the KG have been left incomplete by Evagrius (as I be-
lieve, on purpose) so also in the LM does Evagrius refrain from
committing to paper some ideas. However, the reasons for the
omission seem to be slightly different: in the KG, as I have men-
tioned, the omission is for an apophatic, mystical reason; in the LM
50 CPG 2438.
51 = 86 (PG 34.1193D).
52 Michel Parmentier, ‘Evagrius of Pontus’ Letter to Melania,’ Bijdra-
gen 46 (1985) 2–38, esp. 5–6. Reprinted in Forms of Devotion, Conversion,

Worship, Spirituality, and Asceticism (ed. Everett Ferguson; New York: Gar-
land, 1999). Parmentier includes an English version of the letter. The title
Letter to Melania is also kept by Paolo Bettiolo, Evagrio Pontico. Lo scrigno
della sapienza: Lettera a Melania (Magnano, Biella: Edizioni Qiqajon, 1997).
it seems it is more for a question of prudence (sections 1 and 17).

Yet, it might be also for a more structural reason, similar to the
apophatic reason for the omissions in KG, since in section 18
Evagrius repeats that there are things that ink and paper cannot
simply report. The omissions from the LM do not concern Apoka-
tastasis (of which Evagrius in fact speaks rather overtly, as in KG)
but probably with the way the Spirit and the Son communicate
with intellects, and with the reasons why the intelligible creation
was joined to the sense-perceptible creation, ‘for reasons that it is
impossible to explain here.’ Moreover, it is impossible to speak of
the divine mysteries, and in this connection, the silence strategy
used by Evagrius in this letter may parallel that of his KG.
With some rational creatures the Spirit and the Son communi-
cate directly, but with others, less advanced, they communicate by
means of intermediaries, that is, God’s sense-perceptible creation,
what Evagrius in his KG calls the ‘secondary creation.’ This is the
object of ‘natural contemplation,’ 53 φυσικὴ θεωρία, which will
deeply impact Maximus the Confessor. 54 In turn, the roots of
Evagrius’ natural contemplation lie in Clement, who calls it
φυσιολογία, and Origen. 55 This secondary creation, which is the
object of natural contemplation, is not evil; on this, Origen had
already insisted against ‘Gnostics’ and Marcionites, and Evagrius
keeps his line not only in his LM but also in the KG. His doctrine
of bodies – which, as I will show, can be reconstructed better with
the help of his KG’s Syriac terminology for different kinds of bod-
ies, so far entirely overlooked – is perfectly consistent with this, as I
will point out. The secondary creation is providential, and, as
Evagrius explains, was wanted by God as mediation, out of love
53 On natural contemplation in Evagrius see D. Bradford, ‘Evagrius
Ponticus and the Psychology of Natural Contemplation,’ Studies in Spiritu-

ality, 22 (2012) 109–125.
54 See Joshua Lollar, To See into the Life of Things: The Contemplation of
Nature in Maximus the Confessor and His Predecessors (Turnhout: Brepols,

2013).
55 See also Paul Blowers, Drama of the Divine Economy (Oxford: OUP,
2012), 316–318. A review of mine is forthcoming in Zeitschrift für antikes

Christentum.
for those who are far from God because ‘they have placed a sepa-
ration between themselves and their Creator, due to their evil
deeds.’ God instituted this mediation through his Wisdom and
Power, i.e. the Son and the Spirit. For Evagrius, ‘the whole ministry
of the Son and the Spirit is exercised through creation, for the sake of
those who are far from God’ (LM 5). All this is close to what Gregory
of Nyssa maintained, in the footsteps of Philo and Origen: God’s
operations play a core role in the acquisition of the knowledge of
God, since humans cannot know God’s essence or nature, but they
can certainly know God’s activities and operations, the most im-
portant of which is the creation. 56
The rational creatures that are not separated from God due to
sin do not need the mediation of creation, because they are helped
directly by the Son-Logos and the Spirit: ‘Just as the intellect oper-
ates in the body by the mediation of the soul, likewise the Father,
too, by the mediation of his own soul [sc. the Son and the Spirit],
operates in his own body, which is the human intellect’ (LM 15).
Thus, human intellects know thanks to the Logos and the Spirit,
who make everything known to them (LM 19); only through the
Logos and the Spirit, who are their souls, can they become aware
of their own nature (LM 21). Human intellects are the bodies of
the Son and the Spirit (LM 21), and the Son and the Spirit are the
soul of God. The intellect-soul-body tripartition applies both to
rational creatures and to the relationship between God and rational
creatures, who, as intellects, are the ‘body of God.’ This is probably
a development of Origen’s notion of the logika as the body of
Christ-Logos; 57 this concept is also connected with Origen’s equa-
tion between the body of Christ and the Temple, whose stones are
rational creatures: this is why in Comm. in Io. 6.1.1–2 the Temple is
called a ‘rational building,’ λoγικὴ oἰκοδομή, a building made of
rational creatures. Humans are part and parcel of the ‘rational
56 See my: ‘The Divine as an Inaccessible Epistemological Object in
Ancient Jewish, ‘Pagan,’ and Christian Platonists: A Common Cognitive

Pattern across Different Religion Traditions,’ in the Journal of the History of
Ideas, 75.2. 2014. 167–188; and for the reflections of this idea in Evagrius
see Konstantinovsky, Evagrius, 47–76.
57 See my ‘Clement’s Notion of the Logos ‘All Things as One.’’
Temple’; they belong to the intelligible creation and are now found
joined to the visible creation, with their mortal bodies, ‘for reasons
that it is impossible to explain here.’
Evagrius shies away from speaking of the relationship be-
tween the fall of the intellects and their acquisition of sense-
perceptible bodies, a kind of bodies that require the mediation of
souls. He ascribes the role of ‘soul’ to the Logos and the Spirit as
well, evidently because of the mediation they perform between the
Father and the intellects. Evagrius does not specify whether non-
sense-perceptible bodies (which, as I will detail, he does postulate)
also require the mediation of the soul. Therefore it would seem that
it is protology (i.e. the creation, the fall, and its consequences) that
Evagrius omits to explain in his LM. Of eschatology, instead,
Evagrius does speak, and he does so in terms of universal restora-
tion both in his LM and in his KG. In LM 22–30 Evagrius charac-
terises apokatastasis as a ἕνωσις, a ‘unification’ of the three compo-
nents of humans – body, soul, and intellect – and of rational crea-
tures with God, in the framework of the elimination of divisions,
oppositions, and plurality:
And there will be a time when the body, the soul, and the intel-
lect will cease to be separate from one another, with their
names and their plurality, since the body and the soul will be el-
evated to the rank of intellects. This conclusion can be drawn from
the words, ‘That they may be one in us, just as You and I are
One’ [John 17:22]. Thus there will be a time when the Father,
the Son, and the Spirit, and their rational creation, which con-
stitutes their body, will cease to be separate, with their names
and their plurality. And this conclusion can be drawn from the
words, ‘God will be all in all’ [1Cor 15:28] (LM 22)
The elevation of each level to the superior level, so that inferior
levels are not destroyed, 58 but subsumed into the superior ones,
must be noted, since it is very relevant to Evagrius’ asceticism and
spirituality: I will return to it in a moment, to show that this doc-
So also Casiday, ‘Universal Restoration in Evagrius,’ 228: ‘There is

58
no compelling reason to think that this elevation destroys rather than, say,
consummates or fulfills the body and the soul.’
trine is reported to go back to Gregory Nyssen, and that it will be

taken over by Maximus the Confessor and especially Eriugena.
Evagrius teaches that bodies and souls will be elevated to the order
of intellects not only here in the LM, but also in KG 2.17; 3.66;
3.68; 3.15; 1.65. Both of the scriptural citations adduced by Evagri-
us in the block quotation above were among Origen’s and Grego-
ry’s favourites in reference to the telos as apokatastasis and unity:
John 17:22 for the final unity or ἕνωσις, and 1 Cor 15:28. 59
As is evident from the LM, Evagrius receives both the body–
soul–intellect/spirit tripartition and the Platonic division of the
soul into three: the Intellectual or rational faculty or part (νοῦς,
λογικόν), the noblest, original, and most excellent, which defines
rational creatures by itself; the irascible faculty or part (θυμός,
θυμικόν), and the concupiscible or appetitive faculty or part
(ἐπιθυμία, ἐπιθυμητικόν).
The last two components are not original, but adventitious (as
Gregory Nyssen 60 also maintained) and contingent upon the fall,
secondary, and against nature; they did not exist at the beginning
and will not endure in the end. Evagrius argues that, since all the
faculties that humans have in common with animals belong to the
corporeal nature, then clearly the irascible and the concupisci-
ble/appetitive faculties were not created together with the rational
nature before the movement of will that determined the fall (KG
6.85). That is to say, they are adventitious; they do not belong to
the authentic human nature, which is the prelapsarian nature of
rational creatures or logika. Evagrius in KG 6.83 squarely declares
the irascible and the concupiscible/appetitive parts of the soul to
be ‘against nature.’ Their major fault is that they produce tempting
59 See my ‘Harmony between arkhē and telos in Patristic Platonism
and the Imagery of Astronomical Harmony Applied to the Apokatastasis

Theory,’ International Journal of the Platonic Tradition 7 (2013) 1–49. On the
use of 1 Cor 15:28 in support of apokatastasis in Evagrius’ mentors, Ori-
gen and Gregory Nyssen, see my ‘Christian Soteriology and Christian Pla-
tonism: Origen, Gregory of Nyssa, and the Biblical and Philosophical
Basis of the Doctrine of Apokatastasis,’ Vigiliae Christianae 61 (2007) 313–
356.
60 See my Gregorio di Nissa sull’Anima.
thoughts, logismoi that prevent the intellect from knowing God (the
sense in which Evagrius uses λογισμός, as an evil thought inspired
by a demon, depends on Origen, as so much else in Evagrius’
thinking).
Intellects were created by God in order that they might know
God; this is their nature. The faculties of the inferior soul that ob-
stacle this knowledge are therefore against nature. This is why,
since passions were not at the beginning (being not included in
God’s plan for rational creatures) they will not endure in the end.
However, in KG 3.59 Evagrius warns that what is really against
nature is not the inferior faculties of the soul per se, but their bad
use, that is, again, their use against nature, since it is from this that
evilness or vice (κακία) derives: ‘If all evil is generated by the intel-
lect, by the irascible faculty, and by the appetitive one, and of these
faculties it is possible to make use in a good and an evil way, then it
is clear that it is for the use of these faculties against nature that
evils occur to us. And if this is so, there is nothing that has been
created by God and is evil.’ Evagrius’ main concern in this declara-
tion is theodicy, the same that constantly guided Origen in his own
theology. God is not responsible for evil: Plato’s principle, θεὸς
ἀναίτιος, was repeatedly adopted by Clement, Origen, and Gregory
Nyssen.
The Platonic tripartition of the soul is evident also in Praktikos
38, 78, and 89, and KG 5.27, 4.73, 3.35, 1.84, and 3.30. 61 The excel-
lence of the intellect among the faculties of the soul is proclaimed
in KG 6.51: ‘The intellect is the most valuable of all the faculties of
the soul,’ and in 3.6 and 3.55, where the reason for the excellence
of the intellect is individuated in its relation with God: ‘The bare
intellect is that which, by means of the contemplation that regards
it, is joined to the knowledge of the Trinity. In the beginning the
intellect had God, who is incorruptible, as teacher of immaterial
intellections. Now, however, it has received corruptible sense-
perception as teacher of material intellections.’
This kephalaion is perfectly consistent with Evagrius’ doctrine
in his LM: perfect intellects know directly, thanks to God, without
61 I refer readers to my commentary on these kephalaia in Evagrius’

Kephalaia Gnostika.
the mediation of the secondary creation, but after the fall for many
rational creatures the material creation has become necessary for
the sake of knowledge. Origen regarded the ψυχή as an intellect
that has undergone a ψῦξις, or cooling, and due to a lack of ardent
love of God and carelessness about its own eternal destiny has fall-
en down from its original status. Evagrius follows Origen in re-
garding the soul as a fallen intellect and, exactly like Origen, de-
scribes the soul as an intellect that, because of carelessness, has
fallen down from Unity (hence the division between intellect and
soul, and further intellect, soul, and body, while initially the intellect
was undiv-ided) and, due to its lack of vigilance, has descended to
the order of the praktikē, being now a soul that needs ascetic train-
ing against passions (KG 3.28). The intellect initially enjoyed spir-
itual contemplation, but after the fall it has become divided into
intellect and soul, and, as we shall see, its spiritual body has become
a mortal body. The intellect has now descended to practical life,
which needs ascesis and the search for virtue and liberation from
passions.
Πρακτική, πρακτικός, and related terms are also attested in
‘pagan’ Neoplatonism in the same sense of ‘ethics’ (Olympiodorus
Proleg.in Arist. Categ. 8). Evagrius offers his own definition of prak-
tikē in Praktikos 78: ‘πρακτική is the spiritual method for purifying
the part of the soul subject to passions,’ its aim being apatheia or
impassivity, that is, absence of passions or bad emotions. 62 Praktikē
is deemed by Evagrius the first component of the Christian doc-
trine, which is inseparable from the highest component or theolo-
gy: ‘Christianity is the doctrine of Jesus Christ our Savior, consist-
ing in ethics/asceticism [πρακτική], philosophy of nature [φυσική],
and theology [θεολογική]’ (Praktikos 1). The intellect, which is now
distinct from the soul and especially the part of the soul subject to
passions, ought to proceed along its own contemplative path to-
ward the angels; if, on the contrary, it proceeds on the path of the
soul subject to passions (renouncing the πρακτική), while this soul
62 On apatheia in Evagrius see now Monica Tobon, Apatheia in the

Teachings of Evagrius Ponticus: The Health of the Soul (Farnham: Ashgate,
2014), esp. Ch. 3.
should rather be the instrument of the intellect (just as the body is

of the soul), it risks ending up among demons (KG 2.48).
Evagrius’ ethics of asceticism and theory of spiritual ascent are
grounded in this Origenian tenet of the descent of the intellect to
the rank of soul due to neglectfulness, and in the Platonic triparti-
tion of the soul. Evagrius’ related theory of the λογισμοί, tempting
thoughts that lead to the death of the soul, also draws on Origen,
particularly about the logismos of ἀκηδία. 63 Evagrius is indeed an
Origenian ascetic, and not the Origenistic heretic he has often been
depicted. In his view the perfection of the intellect, which consists
in knowledge, requires the perfection of the inferior parts of the
soul, those subject to passions; this sequence itself was a Neopla-
tonic idea. 64 Thus, in Περὶ λογισμῶν 26 Evagrius insists that it is
impossible to acquire knowledge without having renounced mun-
dane things, evil, and, after these, ignorance. 65 Clement, who also
influenced Evagrius more or less directly, already posited a similar
passage from the cathartic to the epoptic mode, therefore from
purification to contemplation (Strom. 5.70.7–71.2). In Evagrius,
however, purification-πρακτική and contemplation-γνῶσις-θεωρία
are not simply Step 1 and Step 2, but are deeply interrelated.
LM 22, quoted above, may also suggest that the hypostases of
the Trinity and the distinction between the Creator and creatures
will be obliterated in the very end. But Evagrius goes on to declare
that the three hypostases of the Trinity will continue to subsist in
the ultimate end and that the three components of rational crea-
tures will be absorbed in each of the three divine Persons:
But when it is declared that the names and plurality of rational
creatures and their Creator will pass away, this does not at all
mean that the hypostases and the names of the Father, the
Son, and the Spirit will be obliterated. The nature of the intel-
63 See my commentary on KG 1.49 in my Evagrius’ Kephalaia Gnosti-
This has been rightly shown by Blossom Stefaniw, ‘Exegetical

ka.
64
Curricula in Origen, Didymus, and Evagrius: Pedagogical Agenda and the

Case for Neoplatonist Influence,’ Studia Patristica 44 (2010) 281–295.
65 See also KG 1.78–80.
lect will be joined to the substance of the Father, since it con-

stitutes his body. Similarly, the names ‘soul’ and ‘body’ will be
subsumed under the hypostases of the Son and the Spirit. And
the one and the same nature and three Persons of God, and of
God’s image, will remain eternally, as it was before the Inhu-
manation, and will be after the Inhumanation, thanks to the
concord of wills. Thus, body, soul, and intellect are (now) sep-
arate in number due to the differentiation of wills. But when
the names and plurality that have attached to the intellect due
to this movement (of will) have passed away, then the multiple
names by which God is called will pass away as well. […] It is
not the case that those distinctions [God’s epinoiai] are inexist-
ent, but those who needed them will no more exist. But the
names and hypostases of the Son and the Spirit will never dis-
appear, since they have no beginning and no end. As they have
not received them from an unstable cause, they will never dis-
appear, but while their cause continues to exist, they too con-
tinue to exist. They are different from rational creatures, whose
cause is the Father as well; but these derive from the Father by
grace, whereas the Son and the Spirit derive from the nature of
the Father’s essence. (LM 23–25)
The eventual unity cannot be interpreted in a pantheistic sense: the
unity in the very end will be unanimity of wills, and not a merging
of substances, for Evagrius, just as for Origen. The three hyposta-
ses of the Trinity have the same will, and all rational creatures will
have the same will, because in the end everyone’s will shall be ori-
ented toward God. In the present, fallen state rational creatures’
volitions are all different from one another, and moreover each
component within a single human has a different will: the intellect
wants one thing and the body another, and the soul should align
itself with the intellect, but this does not happen at all times and it
may be that the soul follows the body and animal life, falling prey
to passions. But in the end the two inferior components – the body
and the faculties of the soul subject to passions – will be elevated
into the intellect, so that they will no longer have wills that are in
conflict with the will of the intellect. Evagrius, like Origen, ac-
counts for the present differentiation of rational creatures with the
differentiation of their wills, which occurred at the fall. Before the
fall, their wills were uniformly oriented toward God, but at a cer-
tain point they became fragmented into a multiplicity of acts of

volition that had not the highest Good as their object. This is the
‘movement,’ as Evagrius, like Origen, calls the movement of will
made possible by freedom of will, a gift of God to all rational crea-
tures. Jan Suzuki states that this meaning of κίνησις is ‘unique’ to
Evagrius, but in fact it is typical of Origen and his tradition, on
which Evagrius relies. 66
Likewise, in KG 6.20 Evagrius notes that God created the
first creation, of incorporeal realities, and only subsequently the
second: the latter came after the logika’s ‘movement,’ that is, after
they dispersed their wills in different directions, instead of toward
God alone. This is why Evagrius states in LM 26–30 that sin re-
moved the logika from that unity of will and also diversified the
intellect from the soul and the body. At the final apokatastasis, when
God will be ‘all in all’ (1Cor 15:28), the dispersion and difference of
wills shall cease to exist, since all wills shall finally be directed to-
ward God, the supreme Good. Like fire: ‘the intellect in its power
will pervade the soul, when the whole of it will be mingled to the light
of the Holy Trinity’ (LM 26). The body will be elevated to the rank
of soul and the soul to the rank of intellect, and the intellect in turn
will be pervaded by the light of God.
The economic epinoiai of God will disappear as well, since they
exist now for the sake of the salvific economy but need not subsist
in the end. Evagrius drew this conception from Origen (Princ.
4.4.1) and Gregory Nyssen; the latter, like Evagrius, speaks of epi-
noiai of God more than of Christ, since in his view the epinoiai of
Christ as God are shared by all the Trinity. But while the economic
epinoiai will not endure in the end, the Persons of the Trinity will
never disappear. Evagrius keeps the spheres of theology and econ-
omy well distinct: the Son and the Spirit stem from the Father by
nature and are ὁμοούσιοι with the Father, while rational creatures
derive from God by grace and have a different οὐσία or φύσις. In his
Epistula de fide Evagrius is clear that the final θέωσις will depend on
grace: humans, who are creatures, will be ‘deities /gods by grace,’
and not by nature as the Persons of the Trinity are. Again, any
66 Jan Suzuki, ‘The Evagrian Concept of Apatheia and its Origenism,’

in Origeniana IX, 605–611, praes. 208.
similarity with the later ‘isochristoi,’ as well as with a Sudhaili-like

‘pantheism,’ is excluded.
In LM 26, Evagrius draws an Origenian parallel between
protology and eschatology. 67 The descent of the intellect to the
rank of soul and further of body at the beginning, as a result of the
fall and the differentiation of rational creatures’ wills is paralleled
with the eventual elevation of the body to the rank of the soul and
of the soul to the rank of the intellect, when all rational creatures’
wills shall enjoy again perfect unity both within themselves (be-
cause they will have returned simple) and among themselves, be-
cause they will be again oriented toward God alone, who is the su-
preme Good. The unity of concord of the telos will mirror the unity
of concord of the arkhē:
There was a time when the intellect, because of its free will, fell
from its original rank and was named ‘soul,’ and, having
plunged further, was named ‘body.’ But there will come a time
when the body, the soul, and the intellect, thanks to a trans-
formation of their wills, will become one and the same thing.
Since there will come a time when the differentiations of the
movements of their will shall vanish, it will be elevated to the
original state in which it was created. Its nature, hypostasis, and
name will be one, known to God. What is elevated in its own
nature is alone among all beings, because neither its place nor
its name is known, and only the bare mind can say what its na-
ture is. Please, do not be amazed at my claim regarding the un-
ion of rational creatures with God the Father, that these will be
one and the same nature in three Persons, with no juxtaposi-
tion or change. […] When the intellects return to God, like
rivers to the sea, God entirely transforms them into his own
nature, colour, and taste. They will be one and the same thing,
and not many any more, in God’s infinite and inseparable uni-
ty, in that they are united and joined to God. […] Before sin
operated a separation between intellects and God, just as the
earth separated the sea and rivers, they were one with God,
without discrepancy, but when their sin was manifested, they
67 See e.g. Princ. 2.8.3.

were separated from God and alienated from God […] When
sin, interposed between intellects and God, has vanished, they
will be, not many, but again one and the same. However, even
if I have said that the rivers were eternally in the sea, with this I
do not mean that rational creatures were eternally in God in
their substance, since, although they were completely united to
God in God’s Wisdom and creative power, their actual crea-
tion did have a beginning; however, one should not think that
it will have an end, in that they are united to God, who has no
beginning and no end. (LM 27–30)
Again, the final ἕνωσις will not be a pantheistic confusion, but a
unity of will, that is, concord. The notion that the ‘bare intellect’
alone can see the nature of God, whose name and place are un-
known, is found also in KG 2.37 and 3.70. 68 Evagrius’ pure or bare
intellect (nous), without form, is strikingly similar to Philo’s ‘purest
intellect’ or nous, ‘without form’ (ὁ ἀειδὴς καὶ καθαρώτατος νοῦς,
Plant.126). In LM 30 Evagrius, as can be seen in the block quota-
tion, distinguishes between the eternal existence of the ideal para-
digms of all creatures in God’s Wisdom-Christ and their creation as
substances only at a certain point, so that they did not exist ab aeter-
no in God in their substance, but only as prefigurations. This dis-
tinction also comes from Origen:
God the Father existed eternally, eternally having his only-
begotten Son, who at the same time is also called Wisdom. […]
Now in this Wisdom, which was eternally together with the
Father, the whole creation was inscribed from eternity: there
was never a time when in Wisdom there was not the prefigura-
tion of the creatures that would come to existence. […] There-
fore, we do not claim that creatures were never created, or that
they are coeternal with God, or that God was doing nothing
good at first, and then suddenly turned to action. […] For, if
all beings have been created in Wisdom, since Wisdom has al-
ways existed, then from eternity there existed in Wisdom, as
68 I refer readers to the commentary on these kephalaia in my study:

Evagrius Ponticus’ Kephalaia Gnostika.
paradigmatic prefigurations, those beings that at a certain point

in time have been also created as substances. (Princ. 1.4.4–5) 69
Evagrius repeats Origen’s argument. Origen also thought that,
when rational creatures were created as individual substances, they
also acquired a fine, immortal body, which they needed on order to
exist as creatures (since for Origen only God is entirely incorporeal
and immaterial: if creatures were entirely incorporeal, they would
not be creatures, but they would be God). Evagrius remarks that,
even if rational creatures began to exist as independent substances
only at a certain point and therefore they had a beginning, they will
have no end, because in the telos they will enjoy unity with God,
who has no end. Evagrius was aware of the ‘perishability axiom,’
according to which whatever has a beginning in time will also have
an end in time (this axiom was used by Origen and Basil against the
eternity of the world, but Gregory Nazianzen in Or. 29 de Filio
dropped ‘in time’ from it in order to maintain that souls had a be-
ginning but will never have an end). The spatial and temporal infin-
ity of God (or better, God’s transcending every διάστημα, in LM
30), was developed especially by Gregory Nyssen. He and Evagrius
could find the notion of the infinity of God already in Philo. 70 In
LM 30 Evagrius maintains that union with God, who is infinite
also in the sense of eternal (as Origen highlighted strongly, also
using this argument against Christological subordinationism 71) will
qui simul et Sapientia […] appellatur. […] In hac igitur Sapientia, quae semper erat
69 Deum quidem Patrem semper fuisse, semper habentem unigenitum Filium,
eorum, quae futura erant, praefiguratio apud Sapientiam non erat. […] Ut neque
cum Patre, descripta semper inerat ac formata conditio et numquam erat quando
egerit Deus, in id ut ageret esse conversum […] Si utique in Sapientia omnia facta
ingenitas neque coaeternas Deo creaturas dicamus, neque rursum, cum nihil boni prius
sunt, cum Sapientia semper fuerit, secundum praefigurationem et praeformationem
70 See Albert Geljon, ‘Divine Infinity in Gregory of Nyssa and Philo

semper erant in Sapientia ea, quae protinus etiam substantialiter facta sunt.
of Alexandria,’ Vigiliae Christianae 59 (2005) 152–177; Ramelli, Gregorio di

Nissa sull’anima, the second Integrative Essay.
71 See Ramelli, ‘Origen’s Anti-Subordinationism,’ and, for the all-
important implications of God’s eternity on Origen’s philosophy of histo-

render the logika eternal too, in the end. Gregory Nyssen based his
famous doctrine of epektasis, the infinite tension of rational crea-
tures toward God and their eternal growth in beatitude, precisely in
this principle of the infinity of God. 72 So Gregory described human
τελειότης as ‘wishing to attain ever more in the Good’ (VM 4–5).
For ‘no limit could cut short the growth in the ascent to God, since
no boundaries can be found to the Good,’ which is God (VM 116).
In LM 32 Evagrius criticizes those who assume that habit be-
comes a second nature, and claims that a habit can chase away an-
other habit. This is the same argument as used by Origen in his
polemic against the ‘Gnostics,’ and especially the ‘Valentinians,’
and their deterministic division of humanity into different natures.
Origen refuted this view all of his life long, demonstrating exactly
that a habit can dispel another habit and one’s allotted state de-
pends on one’s moral choices. Indeed, Origen’s whole protology,
eschatology, and doctrine of free will took shape in his refutation
of the ‘Gnostic’ theory of different human natures. 73 Evagrius fol-
lows Origen in this respect, too. In LM 38–39 Evagrius also re-
ceives Origen’s differentiation of beings into sense-perceptible and
intelligible. By mentioning ‘this perceptible body,’ composed by
God’s Wisdom from the four elements and subject to God’s prov-
idence, Evagrius points to another type, or other types, of bodies,
which are not sense-perceptible. This is also consistent with Ori-
gen’s view and is confirmed by the Syriac text of Evagrius’ KG, in
which there is a specific, and so far completely overlooked, termi-
nological differentiation between sense-perceptible, heavy, mortal
bodies and spiritual, immortal bodies. I will return to this shortly.
In LM 46 Evagrius remarks that humans assumed heavy,
mortal bodies because of the original fall, which points to their be-
ing previously equipped with either another kind of body or with
no body at all. With the fall, ‘they gave up being God’s image and
wanted to become the image of animals.’ This account is identical
ry and eschatology, The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, section on Ori-

gen.
72 The model is Moses in VM 112–113.
73 See my ‘Origen, Bardaisan, and the Origin of Universal Salvation,’
Harvard Theological Review 102 (2009) 135–168.

to Gregory of Nyssa’s description of the fall and the equipping of

humans with mortal bodies, subject to passions and corruption.
Gregory, who thought that prior to the fall humans were equipped
with angelic bodies, especially in De anima et resurrectione already de-
scribed this transformation of the angelic into the mortal body as
the abandoning of the image of God and getting closer to animals,
exactly like Evagrius. This is why at the end of the dialogue Grego-
ry posits as the telos the restoration of the image of God in hu-
mans. 74 This is also the outcome foreseen by Evagrius, who in LM
53–55 repeats that God created humans in his image and will never
change his will, and moreover wants no one to be lost (2Pet 3:9).
This points to the restoration of all human beings.
Likewise in Hom. op. 12 Gregory claims that the human intel-
lect is the image of God and transmits the beauty of God’s image
to the soul, which in turn transmits it to the body; if the intellect
does not tend to God, but to matter, instead of the beauty of God
it receives the ugliness of matter. This is evil, insofar as it is the
privation of Good and Beauty (καλόν, which in Gregory often des-
ignates both 75). The ontological negativity of evil was shared by
Origen, Nyssen, and Evagrius. 76 Consistently with his and Nyssen’s
idea that with the fall humans gave up the image of God and took
up that of animals, in LM 56–58 Evagrius observes that Christ
submitted himself to conception and birth, curse and death, to free
humans from all this, which is unnatural not only to Christ himself
but, in the plan of God, also to humans, since these were not creat-
ed to share in the life of animals, but in that of God. This will be
realized in the telos, with θέωσις. Evagrius indeed thinks of the
eventual restoration as entailing deification (θέωσις), to the point of
calling it downright ‘the Holy Trinity’ in KG 6.75.
See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, the section devoted

to him.
74
75 See I. Ramelli, ‘Good/Beauty, ἀγαθόν / καλόν,’ in The Brill Dic-

tionary of Gregory of Nyssa, eds. G. Maspero & L.F. Mateo-Seco (Leiden:
Brill, 2010), 356–363.
76 See my commentary on KG 1.40–41 in Evagrius’ Kephalaia Gnosti-
ka.
In LM 52 Evagrius also appropriates Origen’s idea of the

death of the soul, which was drawn from Paul and also present in
Philo and early imperial philosophy. 77 Evagrius observes that, as
the body dies without food, so does also the soul without virtue
(see also De or. 81, cited above). Origen too had posited
vice/sin/evil (κακία) as the cause of the death of the soul. Evagrius
in LM 60 describes Christ as ‘the leaven of the divinity who, in its
goodness, has hidden itself in the unleavened lump of humanity,’ in
order to ‘raise the whole lump to all that God is.’ 78 This comes very
close to the definition of Christ-Logos by the Christian Middle Pla-
tonist Bardaisan of Edessa shortly before Origen’s time:
The Logos is the unknown leaven that is hidden in the (hu-
man) soul, which is deprived of knowledge and extraneous in
respect to both the body and the Logos. If this is the case, the
body cannot adhere to the soul, because it is earthly, nor can
the soul adhere to the Logos, which is divine. (Ephrem Prose
Refutations, 2, p. 158.20ff.)
Bardaisan, like Origen and Evagrius, assigned to humans a spirit or
intellect in addition to a body and a soul. The latter, understood as
vital soul or soul subject to passions, possesses no knowledge,
which is rather proper to the intellect/ logos/spirit, that is, the di-
vine part in each human (as attested in a core fragment from Bar-
daisan’s De India preserved by Porphyry). 79 Evagrius in the LM
likewise states that the Logos and the Spirit of God are active in
the human intellect. It is very possible that Evagrius, who enter-
tained the same concept of the tripartition of the human being, and
77 See my ‘1 Tim 5:6 and the Notion and Terminology of Spiritual
Death: Hellenistic Moral Philosophy in the Pastoral Epistles,’ Aevum 84

(2010) 3–16, and ‘Spiritual Weakness, Illness, and Death in 1 Cor 11:30,’
Journal of Biblical Literature 130 (2011) 145–163.
78 This seems to be an allusion to Matt 13:33 and Luke 13:21.
79 See my ‘Bardaisan as a Christian Philosopher: A Reassessment of
His Christology,’ in Religion in the History of European Culture. Proceedings of the
Messina (eds. Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, Augusto Cosentino, and

9th EASR Conference and IAHR Special Conference, 14–17 September 2009,
Mariangela Monaca; Palermo: Officina di Studi Medievali, 2013), 873–888.

the same view of apokatastasis, knew Bardaisan’s thought. Gregory

Nyssen certainly did, just as Porphyry and Eusebius did, and prob-
ably already Origen. 80
Evagrius’ notion (LM 60) that God, by becoming a human be-
ing, allowed all humans to ‘become God’ in the eventual θέωσις has
its roots in Origen; later Athanasius developed it, recapitulating this
idea at the end of De incarnatione: ‘Christ became a human being so
that we could be deified.’ Evagrius appropriates another pivotal
idea of Origen in LM 62, where he remarks that to be in the image
of God belongs to human nature, but to be in the likeness of God
is beyond human nature and is bestowed by grace as a result of
one’s own efforts. Also in his Letter to Anatolius, 61 and 18, Evagri-
us states that the intellectual soul is in the image (εἰκών) of God as
an initial datum in humans, while likeness (ὁμοίωσις) must be ac-
quired voluntarily by each one, by means of virtue: ‘Love manifests
the divine image, which is conformed to the Archetype (God), in
every human […] Your luminous homage to God will be when, by
means of the energies of Good that you possess, you will have im-
pressed God’s likeness in yourself.’ Evagrius’ view of image and
likeness in these three passages is exactly what Origen already
maintained, for instance in Princ. 3.6.1. Here Evagrius seems to ad-
here more to Origen’s own position than to Gregory Nyssen’s. For
the latter, even while receiving Origen’s ‘theology of the image,’ did
not insist on the distinction between image as a datum and likeness
as a voluntary conquest and a gift of grace.
The last sections of LM are devoted to the telos, characterized
by ἕνωσις and θέωσις. At LM 63 Evagrius describes this not as nat-
ural, but as a gift of grace: for thanks to God’s grace will rational
creatures enjoy eternal union with their Creator, after being alienat-
ed from God because of the mutability of their free will. Origen
80 See my Bardaisan of Edessa: A Reassessment of the Evidence and a New
India (Piscataway: Gorgias, 2009) on the relationship between Origen’s

Interpretation, Also in the Light of Origen and the Porphyrian Fragments from De
and Bardaisan’s thought, and here 131–142 on Eusebius’s acquaintance

with, and Nyssen’s dependence on, Bardaisan. My conclusions are re-
ceived by Patricia Crone, s.v. ‘Daysanis,’ third edition of Encyclopedia of
Islam (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 116–118.
likewise conceived the eventual restoration as ἕνωσις and as a gift

of grace. In Letter 63, Evagrius again emphasises this element of
unity, also applying it to the unification of all kinds of knowledge
into the ‘essential knowledge’ of which he often speaks in the KG
also: ‘all the different and distinct forms of knowledge will fuse
together, into one and the same essential knowledge: all of those will be-
come this only knowledge, forever […] the great ark containing all the treas-
ures of wisdom is the heart of Christ, on which John reclined during the
Last Supper.’ It is significant that Evagrius chooses here the figure
of John, as a symbol of both love and knowledge together, the
apex of Christian life. Just because Christ is the ultimate
knowledge, being God who is (as we shall see) ‘essential
knowledge,’ he is said to be, for all rational creatures, ‘the very telos
and ultimate blessedness.’ Likewise in LM 66 Evagrius describes
‘the telos of all intellects’ as ‘the union of all these different knowl-
edges in one and the same, unique real knowledge’ and as ‘they all
becoming this one without end.’
The conclusion of the LM depicts God as a compassionate
farmer. This is the same theological metaphor used by Gregory of
Nyssa in the conclusion of his own De anima et resurrectione. God,
the good farmer, takes care even of the most damaged seeds and
makes sure that all seeds become fruitful. As a result, ‘the earth will
be blessed, and the farmer, the soil, and those who have been fed
will sing glory and praise to the First Farmer, to whom all the seeds of
blessing belong, in eternity.’ Evagrius shares with Origen and Nyssen
the thesis that evil has no ontological consistency, being a lack of
Good as a result of a bad use of free will (consistently, Nyssen used
among others the agricultural metaphor of ‘empty seeds’). Evagrius
expound this theory especially in Περὶ λογισμῶν 19: the cause of
sin is not anything endowed with a substantial existence (ὑφεστὸς
κατ᾽ οὐσίαν), but it is a pleasure generated by free will, which forces
the intellect to make a bad use of God’s creatures. In Cap. Discip.
118, evil is presented again as a byproduct of free will, being de-
scribed as ‘the movement of free will toward the worse.’ The moral
subject is the only one responsible (αἴτιος) for the appearance of
evil, as well as for its disappearance (ibid. 165) – a position that
goes back to Plato’s myth of Er: αἰτία ἑλομένου, the responsibility
is with the moral subject, who makes the moral choice.
In KG 1.1, which Evagrius puts forward as a foundation of
his metaphysics, he maintains that: ‘There is nothing that is op-
posed to the first Good, because it is Good in its essence, and

nothing is opposed to its essence’ (KG 1.1). Therefore, nothing is
opposed to God, and indeed evil, the opposite of God, who is the
Good, is nothing, having no ontological consistency, but being
merely a negativity. So in KG 1.89 Evagrius claims that: ‘The whole
of the rational nature has been naturally made in order to exist, and
to be knowing, and God is essential knowledge. The rational nature
has non-being as its contrary, and knowledge has wickedness and
ignorance as its contrary, but none of these things is contrary to
God.’ Evil, like ignorance, cannot be a principle on a par with God
and antithetical to God, like the Manichaean sense of evil, but it is
rather a lack of the Good that God is, just as ignorance is a lack of
the Knowledge that God is; since God is both the Good and Es-
sential Knowledge.
In God, thus, we find virtue and knowledge together, which
are the respective goals of the πρακτική and γνῶσις. This is the
highest point where these converge in Evagrius’ ascetic-’gnostic’
system. Evagrius’ notion of γνῶσις 81 is the direct descendant of
Clement’s. Here, γνῶσις in its highest degree is inseparable from
θέωσις. The opposite of knowledge for Evagrius is not only igno-
rance, but also evil (wickedness) (KG 1.89 and passim). For him
knowledge is at one with goodness/ virtue and cannot be separated
from it; this results from many points in his KG. This is because
knowledge cannot intrinsically be knowledge for evil, but only for
the Good. Evil belongs with ignorance, and never with knowledge.
In Evagrius’ ethical intellectualism, like that of Origen and Nyssen,
the choice of evil is a result of an obfuscated knowledge, a lack of
81 See, e.g., Antoine Guillaumont, ‘La vie gnostique selon Évagre le
Pontique,’ Annuaire du Collège de France 80 (1979–80) 467–470; Idem, ‘Le

gnostique chez Clément d’Alexandrie et chez Évagre,’ in Alexandria: Hellé-
nisme, judaïsme et christianisme à Alexandrie. Mélanges Claude Mondésert (Paris:
Cerf, 1987), 195–201 = Études sur la spiritualité de l’Orient chrétien (Begrolles-
en-Mauges: Bellefontaine, 1996), 151–160. On Evagrius’ theory of a pro-
gression from πρακτική to γνωστική and to θεολογική see Idem, ‘Un phi-
losophe au désert: Évagre le Pontique,’ Revue de l’histoire des religions 181
(1972) 29–56 = Aux origines du monachisme chrétien (Begrolles-en-Mauges:
Bellefontaine, 1979), 185–212; Kostantinovsky, Evagrius, 27–76.
knowledge. Lack of knowledge and lack of goodness/virtue go

together. But knowledge and virtue/goodness and the lacks thereof
have not the same ontological status: in KG 1.41 Evagrius pro-
claims the metaphysical (and not just chronological and axiological)
priority of Good(ness) and virtue over evil (wickedness) and vice:
‘If death comes after life and illness after health, it is clear that evil-
ness, too, is secondary vis-à-vis virtue: for vice is the death and ill-
ness of the soul, but virtue comes before.’ Origen had already stated
this principle, for instance in Hom. in Ier. 2.1, where he claimed that
in all humans, what is in the image of God (that is, virtue) ‘comes
before [πρεσβύτερον] the image of evil’ or vice. Evagrius likewise
states that virtue is πρεσβύτερον than vice, just as health is prior to
illness. Illness, a lack of health and a degeneration of health, is of-
ten understood spiritually by Evagrius, just as by Philo and Ori-
gen. 82 Evagrius follows in Origen’s footsteps in seeing Christ as the
infallible Physician of souls: there is no illness of the soul that the
Logos cannot heal, as Origen had it 83 (see, e.g., Evagrius Περὶ
λογισμῶν 3 and 10; Schol. 2 in Ps. 102.3; Schol. 9 in Ps. 106.20; Schol.
6 in Ps. 144.15; Schol. 2 in Ps. 145.7; Letters 42; 51; 52; 55; 57; 60).
Like Origen and Gregory Nyssen, from the ontological,
chronological and axiological priority of Good and virtue over evil
and vice Evagrius deduces the eschatological vanishing of the latter
in KG 1.40:
There was a time when [the state of] evil did not exist, and
there will come a time when it will no more exist [ἦν γὰρ ὅτε
οὐκ ἦν κακία καὶ ἔσται ὅτε οὐκ ἔσται]. But there was no time
when the Good/virtue did not exist, and there will be no time
when it will no more exist. For the seed of the good energies is
inextinguishable.
This principle is so important to Evagrius that he repeats it identi-
cally in Περὶ λογισμῶν 31, Letters 43 and 59, and Schol. 62 in Prov.
See my ‘Spiritual Weakness, Illness, and Death.’

On Christ-Logos as the infallible Physician of souls in Origen see
82
83
my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, the chapter on Origen; in Evagri-

us see Monica Tobon, ‘The Health of the Soul: ἀπάθεια in Evagrius Pon-
ticus,’ in Studia Patristica 44 (2010) 187–203.
5.14. In the continuation of KG 1.40 and Περὶ λογισμῶν 31

Evagrius buttresses his assertion of the inextinguishability of the
germs of virtue with the parable of Dives and Lazarus: ‘I am con-
vinced of this by Dives in the Gospel, who, albeit condemned to
hell because of his vice, entertained merciful thoughts toward his sib-
lings, and mercy is the best seed of the energies of the Good’ (see
also Praktikos 1.65; PG 40.1240AB). The seeds of virtue (the
Good) never die, not even in hell, since they come from God, the
Good. But evil was not created by God; this is why it will disappear
in the end. This view was strongly advocated by both Origen and
Nyssen; the latter in his short commentary on 1Cor 15:28 in In Il-
lud: Tunc et Ipse Filius described the eschatological triumphal March
of the Good that will advance and destroy every evil. 84 Evagrius
was directly inspired by both Origen and Gregory of Nyssa, and
very probably also by the interpretation of the Dives and Lazarus
parable given by the Nyssen in De anima et resurrectione. Indeed,
Evagrius understands hell in the same ways as Gregory presented it
there, i.e. as ‘the darkness of the ignorance of those who cannot
contemplate God.’ 85 Hell is interpreted in the same way in KG 6.8
(‘Just as Paradise is the place of instruction for the righteous, so
can Sheol produce the torment of the impious,’ with torment as
opposed to instruction and therefore consisting in ignorance) and
Gnostikos 36: ‘The highest doctrine concerning the Judgement
should remain unknown to mundane and young people, in that it can easi-
ly produce scorn and neglect. For they do not know that the suffer-
ing of a rational soul condemned to punishment consists in ignorance.’
Here Evagrius voices the same concern as Origen did 86 about the
divulgation of his eschatology to morally immature people.
84 Full commentary on this short treatise in my Gregorio di Nissa
85 Philokalia. Testi di ascetica e mistica della Chiesa orientale (ed. Giovanni

sull’Anima.
Vannucci; Florence, 1978), 49.

86 Ilaria Ramelli, ‘Origen’s Exegesis of Jeremiah: Resurrection An-
nounced throughout the Bible and its Twofold Conception,’ Augustinia-

num 48 (2008) 59–78, and Mark S.M. Scott, ‘Guarding the Mysteries of
Salvation: The Pastoral Pedagogy of Origen’s Universalism,’ Journal of Ear-
ly Christian Studies 18 (2010) 347–368 insist on Origen’s prudence in dis-
While the torments of hell consist in ignorance, bliss is perfect

γνῶσις and θεωρία of God. One major Biblical passage with which
Evagrius buttressed his apokatastasis theory is 1Tim 2:4–6: ‘The
‘gnostic’ must be neither sad nor hostile: for the former attitude is
proper to those who do not know what Scriptures say concerning
that which is to happen; the latter, of those who do not want ‘all
humans to be saved and reach the knowledge of the truth’’ (Gnostikos
22). One must want all humans to attain the knowledge of the truth
and be saved, which is what God wants. Evagrius on the basis of
Scripture and Neoplatonism draws an equation between salvation,
blessedness, and knowledge/contemplation. In KG 1.27 in particu-
lar he lists five forms of θεωρία:
The contemplation of God the Trinity,
The contemplation of incorporeal realities,
The contemplation of bodies,
The contemplation of the Judgement, and
The contemplation of divine Providence.
As I have demonstrated in my commentary, these five contempla-
tions are likely arranged, not in a hierarchical order, from God
down to lower and lower realities, as is generally assumed 87 (since it
is not clear that the contemplation of Providence, for instance, is
lower than that of the Judgement or that of bodies) but rather in a
‘historical’ order. The list begins with God who is the principle of
all; it passes on to the creation of intelligent beings, and then to
that of material bodies, until the judgements that close every aeon,
closing the apokatastasis doctrine to the simple. The latter are the morally
immature, those who do good out of fear of punishment and not out of
love of the Good, who is God. Origen and Nyssen seem to me to have
used two different strategies, while sharing the same eschatological doc-
trine. Whereas Origen used the strategy of not telling immature people
about the eventual salvation of all, because he was aware of the moral
danger this can entail, Nyssen wished to tell everybody (and did so in his
Oratio Catechetica), but through Macrina he also warned people that evil is
hard to purify and the ultramundane sufferings of the wicked will be long
and atrocious.
87 Konstantinovsky, Evagrius Ponticus, 48.
up to the last Judgement that will conclude all aeons, and finally
God’s Providence that accompanies creatures during all aeons and
that will overcome in the end, at the eventual restoration of all,
after all aeons and all judgements. Providence comes after the
Judgment and completes it; it does not contradict it, because God’s
justice is not at odds with God’s Providence, as Origen also
thought.
This synergy of Judgment and Providence, of divine justice
and divine mercy, was stressed above all by Origen, who had to
polemicize against the separation of divine justice and divine mercy
hypothesized by ‘Gnostics’ and Marcionites. 88 For Origen, too, the
triumph of divine justice is in the judgments after the aeons, and the
triumph of divine mercy and Providence will be the eventual apoka-
tastasis. Not accidentally, in Gnostikos 48 Evagrius quotes with deep
veneration and admiration a saying by a faithful follower of Origen,
Didymus the Blind, concerning the necessity of meditating both
God’s judgement and God’s Providence:
Always exercise yourself in the meditation of the doctrines
concerning Providence and Judgement – said Didymus, the
great ‘gnostic’ teacher – and endeavour to remember their ma-
terials, since almost all people err in these topics. As for the ra-
tionale of Judgement, you will find that this lies in the variety
of bodies and worlds; that concerning Providence, instead, lies
in the turns that from evilness and ignorance bring us back to
virtue or knowledge [ἐν τοῖς τρόποις τοῖς ἀπὸ κακίας καὶ
ἀγνωσίας ἐπὶ τὴν ἀρετὴν ἢ ἐπὶ τὴν γνῶσιν].
Providence restores rational creatures to virtue and knowledge; its
work will be concluded when this restoration will be universal.
Evagrius never separates the idea of the Judgement, with the retri-
bution of rational creatures’ deeds and passions or virtues, 89 from
that of God’s Providence, which is prior to that of the Judgement,
because it was anterior to the fall, which brought about the necessi-
ty of the Judgement: ‘The rationale concerning the Judgement is
See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, the section on Ori-

gen.
88
89 See, e.g., KG 4.33; 4.38; 6.57.

secondary, as has been said, vis-à-vis that concerning movement

and that concerning Providence’ (KG 5.24).
The rationale concerning the movement is rational creatures’
free will, which is a gift of God; this is more important than the
Judgment and is prior to the fall, even if it did cause the fall (but
not by necessity; indeed, in the end free will shall abide, but it will
cause no fall any more). From Schol. 8 in Ps. 138.16 as well it is clear
that for Evagrius God’s Judgement is inseparable from God’s
Providence: here too, the logoi of Providence and Judgement are
joined. Providence cares for the spiritual healing of rational crea-
tures and operates on their intellects, which take care of their own
souls (KP 82). This healing is salvific, because it destroys sins (KG
1.28). Evagrius is exactly on Origen’s line in thinking that divine
providence, which is universally salvific, is not in the least at odds
with individual free will, but divine justice rewards each one ac-
cording to his or her deeds, and divine providence operates at the
same time, always allowing each one’s will to be free: ‘God’s Provi-
dence accompanies the freedom of will, whereas God’s Judgement
takes into consideration the order of rational creatures’ (KG 6.43).
The close affinity with Origen’s thinking in this respect is clear;
Origen, for instance, declared: ‘Providence acts in favour of each
one, and at the same time it respects each one’s freedom of will’
(Princ. 3.5.8).
I have already highlighted how for Evagrius virtue and
knowledge go hand in hand. The close connection between the
πρακτική, aiming at apatheia as the compendium of all virtues, and
knowledge is highlighted in KP 2–3: ‘The Kingdom of Heavens is
impassivity in the soul, along with the true knowledge of beings.
The Kingdom of God is the knowledge [γνῶσις] of the Holy Trini-
ty, which proceeds along with the intellect’s getting closer to it.’
The intellect’s getting closer and closer to God and acquiring ever
further knowledge parallels Nyssen’s epecstatic process 90. The
90 See my ‘Apokatastasis and Epektasis in Nyssen’s Hom. in Cant.:
The Relation between Two Core Doctrines in Gregory and Roots in Ori-
gen,’ Forthcoming in the Proceedings of the XIII International Colloqui-
um on Gregory of Nyssa, Rome, 17–20 September 2014, ed. Giulio Mas-
pero (Leiden: Brill, 2015).
knowledge of the Trinity is the highest; the knowledge of created

beings is the knowledge of their logoi, their paradigmatic reasons
and metaphysical forms. Evagrius cites, not accidentally, Antony
the Great, the model of asceticism, as an authority with regard to
the contemplation of creation aimed at the knowledge ‘of the na-
ture [φύσις] of creatures’ (Praktikos 92).
The knowledge of the Trinity is an end (telos) in itself, unlike
the knowledge of creatures which is aimed at the superior
knowledge of the Creator: ‘Let us do everything for the sake of the
knowledge of God’ (KP 32). The ultimate end of human life is
knowledge. This is also based on the aforementioned 1Tim 2:4–6,
where knowledge of the truth is tantamount to salvation, and
Matth 5:8 (‘Blessed are the pure of heart, because they will see
God’) quoted in Letter 56. Thus, seeing God, (i.e. knowing God) is
blessedness: Jesus ‘proclaims them blessed not because of their
purity, but because of their seeing God; for purity is the ἀπάθεια of
the rational soul, whereas seeing God is the true γνῶσις of the Holy
Trinity, who must be adored.’ All rational creatures, according to
Evagrius, will reach the knowledge of God and the ultimate bless-
edness. Like Origen and Nyssen, Evagrius maintained that all ra-
tional creatures belong to the same nature and were created equal,
but have become differentiated into angels, humans, or demons
due to their different choices. Humans, through the exercise of free
will, can become good like angels (‘the better transformation’) or
evil like demons, being intermediate between angels and demons
(KG 4.13; 5.9–11). Spiritual death reigns over demons, spiritual life
over angels; humans are ruled by both life and death (KG 4.65).
Even if humans and demons have chosen evil to different extents,
none of the logika is evil by nature, according to Evagrius just as to
Origen and Nyssen (KG 4.59). If they were evil by nature, God
would be responsible for evil, which would contradict Origen’s,
Gregory’s, and Evagrius’ theodicy. The three categories of logika
have three kinds of relation to the θεωρία of beings: angels are
nourished by it always, humans not always, and demons never (KG
3.4). But at the final restoration, all rational creatures, freed from
evil, will enjoy contemplation and knowledge, eternally.
Evagrius sides here with Origen and Nyssen, though it is usu-

ally assumed that he stresses the intellectual aspect more. 91 Evagri-
us, however, does not regard θεωρία as separate from ἀγάπη, the
latter being prominent in apokatastasis according to both Origen
and the Nyssen (Origen especially in his Commentary on Romans and
in the Commentary on the Song of Songs, Gregory in De anima et resurrec-
tione and in Homilies on the Song of Songs). 92 In KG 1.86 indeed love
and knowledge are inseparable: ‘Love is the perfect state of the ra-
tional soul, a state in which the soul cannot love anything which is
among corruptible beings more than the knowledge of God.’ Grego-
ry of Nyssa very probably inspired Evagrius with the notion of the
inseparability of knowledge and love. For Gregory in De an. 96C
places knowledge and love together at the highest level, within the
divine life: ‘The life of the divine nature is ἀγάπη, since Beau-
ty/Goodness is absolutely loveable to those who know it. Now the
divine knows itself, and this knowledge [γνῶσις] becomes ἀγάπη.’
In addition, for Evagrius, as for the Nyssen, ἀγάπη is no πάθος but
impassivity: ‘ἀγάπη is the bond of impassivity and the expunging
of passions […] ἀγάπη possesses nothing of its own apart from
God, for God is ἀγάπη itself’ (Eul. 22). The link between ἀπάθεια
and ἀγάπη is also stressed in Praktikos 8: ‘ἀγάπη is the progeny of
impassivity’ and especially in Ep. Ad Anat. 8, where Evagrius em-
phasises the passage from apatheia (the fruit of asceticism) to love
and from love to knowledge and thence beatitude:
Faith, o child, is steadied by the fear of God, and the latter in
turn by continence [ἐγκράτεια]. Continence is made unshakable by
patient endurance and hope [ὑπομονὴ καὶ ἐλπίς]: from these im-
passivity is born [ἀπάθεια], which brings into being charity-love
[ἀγάπη]. Love is the door to the knowledge of nature, which leads
to theology [θεολογία] and the ultimate blessedness. 93
91 See Hans Urs von Balthasar, ‘Metaphysik und Mystik des Evagrius
Pontikus,’ Zeitschrift für Askese und Mystik (1939) 31–47; Brian Daley, The
Hope of the Early Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991),
91.
92 See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, sections on Origen
and Nyssen.
93 Translation from Dysinger with some alterations.
So apatheia and love are depicted as a joint between praktikē

and gnōsis. Precisely because ἀγάπη is no pathos, this is why it will
abide in the end: ἀγάπη is the life of God, who is supremely free
from passions and is perfect knowledge. The same close connec-
tion between ἀγάπη and γνῶσις is established in KG 4.50, where
the good and eternal love is said to be that which true knowledge
elects, and which is inseparable from the intellect, and in KG 3.58,
where spiritual love is declared to be necessary for one to learn the
wisdom of beings. Just as there is no knowledge without virtue for
Evagrius, so is there no knowledge without love; for love plays in
knowledge the same role as light does in vision (KG 3.58). 94 As I
have mentioned, for Evagrius the opposite of knowledge is igno-
rance, but this in turn is ‘the shadow of evil’: only after the elimina-
tion of evil will ignorance also disappear from rational creatures
(KG 4.29), at the final restoration.
All rational creatures will experience this restoration. All will
come to the ultimate end, which is knowledge (KG 3.72), which in
turn is inseparable from virtue/goodness and love. Like Origen and
Gregory Nyssen, Evagrius interprets 1Cor 15:24–28 as a voluntary,
universal submission that implies universal salvation. This will take
place through virtue and knowledge: Christ’s two feet are the
πρακτική, i.e. the pursuit of virtue, and θεωρία; if Christ ‘puts all
enemies under his feet’ (1Cor 15:25), then ‘all’ will ultimately ac-
quire virtue and contemplation. ‘The whole nature of rational crea-
tures’ will submit to the Lord (KG 6.27), this universal submission
implying again universal salvation. Origen drew this equation be-
tween universal submission and universal salvation commenting on
1Cor 15:28, which was later developed by Nyssen in his own
commentary on 1Cor 15:28, 95 and was appropriated by Evagrius
again with 1Cor 15:28 in mind. For Evagrius the sentence ‘for he
must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet’ (1Cor
15:25) means that Christ will have to continue reigning ‘until all the
94 On Evagrius’ theology of light see at least Konstantinovsky,
Evagrius, 77–108.
95 See my ‘Christian Soteriology and Christian Platonism’ and ‘The
Trinitarian Theology.’
unrighteous [ἄδικοι] have become righteous [δίκαιοι]’ (Schol. in Ps.

21.29).
If Sel. in Ps. 21, preserved in Greek under the name of Origen,
is authentic, then Evagrius was repeating Origen’s exegesis literally:
‘‘He must reign until he has put all enemies under his feet’ means
‘until all the unrighteous have become righteous.’’ That this passage
is indeed Origen’s is very likely since another, surely authentic, pas-
sage from Origen, Comm. in Rom. 9.41.8, states the very same thing,
interpreting again 1Cor 15:25–28 together with Phil 2:10: But when
Christ has ‘handed the Kingdom to God the Father’ (1Cor 15:28), that is,
presented to God as an offer all, converted and reformed, and has fully per-
formed the mystery of the reconciliation of the world, then they will be in God’s
presence, that God’s word may be fulfilled: ‘Because I live – the Lord says –
every knee will bend before Me, every tongue will glorify God’ (Isa 45:23).
The voluntary nature of the final submission, indicated by the
glorification, explains why universal submission for Origen, Euse-
bius, Nyssen, and Evagrius will coincide with universal salvation.
Origen insisted that Christ’s reign, during which he will submit all,
will finally achieve the conversion and salvation of all. This view
was espoused by Eusebius as well, when he spoke of the
θεραπευτική and διορθωτικὴ βασιλεία of Christ, during which he
will heal all those who will be still spiritually ill and will make right-
eous all those who will still be unrighteous. 96 Julia Konstantinovsky
has suggested 97 that Evagrius was original in this respect, but in
fact he was following Origen, Eusebius, and Gregory Nyssen.
Evagrius, like Origen, claims that Christ destroys the unrighteous
by transforming them into righteous: ‘Once the impious have
ceased to be such, they will become righteous [δίκαιοι]. Indeed, in
96 See my ‘Origen, Eusebius, and the Doctrine of Apokatastasis,’ in

Eusebius of Caesarea: Traditions and Innovations (eds. Aaron Johnson & Jere-
my Schott; Hellenic Studies 60; Cambridge, MA: Center for Hellenic Stud-
ies Press of Harvard University Press, 2013), 307–323.
97 Konstantinovsky, Evagrius, 157: ‘’He must reign till he has put all
enemies under his feet.’ How this is to happen, however, constitutes Evagri-
us’ originality. The defeat of Christ’s enemies will come about when all the
wicked, including evil men, demons, and the devil himself, become right-
eous.’ But her book as a whole is very good.
this passage [Ps 28:28] ‘destruction’ [ἀπώλεια] means the vanishing

of the impiety of that man. Precisely in this way, the Lord brought
about the destruction of the publican Matthew, by giving him the
grace of righteousness’ (Schol. in Prov. 355). Evagrius defines right-
eousness (δικαιοσύνη) in Praktikos 89: its task ‘is to generate the
symphony and harmony of all parts of the soul.’ This definition
derives from Plato’s definition of justice (δικαιοσύνη), but Evagrius’
idea that the destruction of the unrighteous performed by Christ is
their transformation into righteous comes from Origen.
Even the examples Evagrius adduces of this destruction-
transformation are the same as Origen’s: that of Matthew the pub-
lican transformed by the Lord into a righteous man, which is ad-
duced in the scholion quoted above, and that of Paul ‘the persecu-
tor,’ transformed by the Lord into an apostle of Christ, adduced by
Evagrius in Schol. in Ps. 17.8–9. Evagrius here identifies the fire
from the face of the Lord (Psalm 17:8–9) with God’s ‘destroying
evil habits,’ so as to transform people into better persons. Evagrius
adduces the examples of Matthew, who was a publican, and of
Paul, who was ‘a persecutor and violent,’ but became an apostle of
Christ and righteous. Likewise Origen in Hom. in Ier. 1.15–16: ‘Who
is the person whom ‘I (the Lord) shall kill?’ It is Paul the informer,
Paul the persecutor; and ‘I shall make him live,’ that he may be-
come Paul the apostle of Jesus Christ.’ Origen and Evagrius ex-
press the same ideas and use the same examples. Also, Evagrius’
interpretation of God’s fire as God’s burning away evil from sin-
ners, which Evagrius offers again in Schol. in Ps. 17.8–9 and else-
where, is the same as Origen’s (e.g. CC 6.70; Hom. in Ier. 1.15–16)
and the metaphor of God’s destroying evil and planting a new gar-
den in its place, used by Evagrius in Schol. in Ps. 43.3 (‘God eradi-
cates evil and ignorance, and instead plants virtue and knowledge’),
is identical to that used by Origen in Hom. in Ier. 1.16: sin and vice,
in all its varieties, will be eradicated, so that upon the ruins of evil
God may plant the garden of the Good, the new Paradise.
Likewise 1Cor 15:24–28 and John 17:21–22, the most im-
portant scriptural proofs Evagrius adduces in support of apokatasta-
sis, are the same with which Origen primarily buttressed it: the
submission of all enemies and the annihilation of evil and death
during Christ’s reign, the handing over of the Kingdom to the Fa-
ther, and the unity, when God will be ‘all in all.’ This is also the
basis of Origen’s and Evagrius’ distinction between the Kingdom
of Christ and the Kingdom of God, the latter being the ultimate
reality: ‘They say the Kingdom of Christ is every material
knowledge, while that of God the Father is immaterial knowledge’
(Letter 63). Origen already identified the Kingdom of Christ with
the contemplation of the logoi of salvation and the accomplishment
of the works of justice and the other virtues, and the Kingdom of
God with the blessed, perfect condition of the intellect (De or. 25).
The Kingdom of Christ is absorbed into the Kingdom of God. For
Evagrius, at the end of all aeons, 98 in the telos, all will submit to
Christ, who will entrust all to God (according to Origen’s interpre-
tation of 1Cor 15:28) and thus all will be brought to unity and sal-
vation. When Christ will no longer be impressed in various aeons
and names, then he too will submit to the Father (1Cor 15:28), and
rejoice in the knowledge of God alone (KG 6.33).
This knowledge is not divided into aeons and increments of ra-
tional creatures, because after the end of all aeons rational creatures
will have stopped increasing. Then the fullness of God’s absolute
eternity (ἀϊδιότης) will remain. During the aeons rational creatures
will acquire more and more knowledge, with a view to the
knowledge of the Trinity (KG 6.67), and at the end, after the aeons,
God will have them acquire the essential knowledge of God (KG
6.34). Evagrius adheres closely to Origen when he maintains that
the succession of aeons had a beginning and will have an end. E.g.
in KG 5.89 he declares that the creation of the first aeon was not
preceded by a destruction, and so also the destruction of the last
aeon will not be followed by a new aeon. Aeons are necessary to ra-
tional creatures’ spiritual and intellectual development.
Only once they are perfect will God bestow his goods on
them, otherwise they would be unable to receive God’s richness
(KG 4.38). Each aeon begins with the end of the preceding one,
when a Judgement takes place about the moral choices made by
rational creatures during the preceding aeon. In this Judgement,
Christ establishes the role and the kind of body that each rational
98 See my ‘Aἰώνιος and Αἰών in Origen and Gregory of Nyssa,’ in
Studia Patristica XLVII (eds. Jane Baun, Averil Cameron, Mark Edwards,
Markus Vinzent; Leuven: Peeters, 2010), 57–62; Eadem, The Christian Doc-
trine of Apokatastasis, the chapter on Origen.
creature will have in the following aeon, on the basis of the moral
and spiritual development of each one (KG 3.38; cf. 3.47). Thus,
the number of judgments corresponds to the number of aeons
(KG 2.75). A Judgment is the creation of an aeon that allots bodies
to every intellectual creature according to its moral and spiritual
development (Schol. 275 in Prov. 24.22). The division of rational
creatures into angels, humans, and demons, and their assignment to
different places or states, is the result of every Judgment, so ‘the
exact knowledge of these realms/states and the different bodies
[allotted to angels, humans, and demons] consists in the logoi re-
garding the Judgement’ (Schol. 2 in Ps. 134.6). We receive
knowledge according to our state’ (Schol. 8 in Eccl. 2.10), and each
aeon is aimed at the knowledge of God on the part of rational crea-
tures: ‘An aeon is a natural system that includes the various and dif-
ferent bodies of rational creatures, for the sake of the knowledge of
God’ (KG 3.36). Here Evagrius’ definition of αἰών as a ‘natural
system’ also depends on Origen.
Virtue, the Good, ‘will consume evil, and this will come to pass
in the future aeon, until evilness will vanish’ (In Prov. p. 108.9). So the
future aeon(s) will last until all evil is eliminated. The eschatological
triumphal march of the Good, which progressively conquers evil
and consumes it, was already described by Evagrius’ inspirer,
Gregory of Nyssa, in In illud: Tunc et ipse Filius. According to
Evagrius, during the aeons angels help other rational creatures to
attain salvation – as also Origen and Nyssen thought – by means of
instruction, exhortation, and the liberation from passions, evil, and
ignorance (KG 6.35). For the intellects of the heavenly powers are
‘pure and full of science’ (KG 3.5) and have learnt ‘the intellections
that concern Providence, by means of which they quickly push the
creatures who are inferior to them toward virtue and the
knowledge of God’ (KG 6.76). Note once again the association of
virtue and knowledge in the telos that rational creatures must pur-
sue. Evagrius in KG 6.86 specifically lists the different strategies
used by angels in their activity of assistance to the work of salva-
tion. The process of improvement and purification that must pre-
cede universal apokatastasis involves an amount of suffering pro-
portionate to the amount of sins of each one. Punishment through
fire purifies the part of the soul that is liable to passions (KG 3.18),
whereas the rational soul needs instruction. The principle that suf-
fering decreed by God is purifying was anticipated by Clement of
Alexandria and consistently upheld by Origen and Gregory Nyssen;

Evagrius took this over from them. The wheat in Matth 3:12 is
allegorized by Evagrius as virtue, the chaff as wickedness or vice,
and the aeon to come as a purifying instrument that will attract the
chaff to itself, thus cleaning sinners from vice (KG 2.26).
Consistently with his threefold anthropology, Evagrius distin-
guishes three kinds of resurrection, each of which is a kind of res-
toration to the perfect state: the resurrection of the body, or the
restoration of the corruptible into an incorruptible body (KG 5.19);
The resurrection of the soul, that is the restoration from a passible
to an impassible soul (KG 5.22); and the resurrection of the intel-
lect, or the restoration of the intellect from ignorance to true
knowledge (KG 5.25), that is, from illness to health (KG 2.15),
which happens when it receives contemplation (theōria).
Like Origen’s and the Nyssen’s, Evagrius’ idea of the resurrec-
tion is holistic, involving the whole of the human being, including its
soul, which will be freed from passions, and its intellect, which will
be vivified by knowledge, since its life is knowledge (Evagrius iden-
tifies knowledge with life, since human life was intended for
knowledge: KG 1.73). The eventual resurrection-restoration is in
fact a total vivification of the dead (KG 5.20), including the spiritu-
al resurrection of those who have died because of sin and igno-
rance. This is made possible by Christ, for Evagrius as for all the
main patristic supporters of apokatastasis. 99 Evagrius stresses in
many passages the indispensable role Christ plays in the process of
the restoration of all, with his inhumanation, teaching, death, and
resurrection, and Christ’s activity as Logos, Wisdom, Teacher and
Physician. Now this depends on the fullness of humanity and di-
vinity in Christ, as Origen, Gregory Nyssen, and Gregory Nazian-
zen also thought. According to Evagrius, too, Christ is fully God in
his divine nature (as I have demonstrated he affirmed, above) and
fully logikon and fully human together. He is Life, the Logos of
God, and the Wisdom of God. The telos of all rational creatures is
the Divinity, who created them for Godself, and Christ, the Wis-
dom of God, grows in rational creatures (KG 4.1). To allow all
rational creatures to return to God, Christ took upon himself the
99 Demonstration in my: The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis.

very nature of a logikon, died, and was resurrected, calling all to life
eternal: this is exactly why he is the Savior (KG 4.26).
As Origen had already understood, 100 Christ’s resurrection in-
cludes also the resurrection and restoration of all rational creatures,
who are now dead because they are unrighteous: in them the justice
of God is dead (KG 1.90). But they will be resurrected and be
made righteous. For Christ ‘makes’ justice, both because he is the
judge and because he is the agent of the justification of rational
creatures by means of his sacrifice and of his eschatological reign
of instruction and purification. Christ’s justice is evident in the par-
tial Judgements that take place after each aeon, and in which each
rational creature is assigned a given body and place in the world
according to its spiritual progress, but Christ’s mercy is evident
from the fact that he extends divine Providence to all, including
those who would not deserve it (KG 2.59) and turns even fools
from evilness to virtue (KG 1.72). As I have mentioned, the logoi of
judgment for Evagrius are always followed by the logoi of Provi-
dence. These logoi of Providence indeed have to do with ‘how
Christ leads the rational nature throughout the aeons up to the un-
ion of the Holy Unity’ (KG 4.89). Christ is teacher of wisdom to
rational creatures (KG 3.57), using mortal bodies to this end: bod-
ies are a valuable instrument in the process of the instruction of
intellects that will lead to restoration, as I have mentioned in con-
nection with the LM.
Not only does Christ instruct rational creatures, but he also
purifies them, with a view to their restoration; this is alluded to by
‘the houses of the impious will receive purification’ (KG 3.9). Only
thanks to Christ’s work can Evagrius speak of the eventual partici-
pation of all (including those who are now in hell) in the life of the
Trinity, ‘the accom-plishment/restoration (apokatastasis) of the orbit
of all’ (KG 3.60). What escaped Guillaumont and the other com-
mentators is that Evagrius here is playing on the astronomical
meaning of the word ἀποκατάστασις, signifying a return of all the
100 See my ‘Cristo-Logos in Origene: ascendenze filoniane, passaggi
in Bardesane e Clemente, e negazione del subordinazionismo,’ in Dal Log-

os dei Greci e dei Romani al Logos di Dio. Ricordando Marta Sordi (eds. Alfredo
Valvo & Roberto Radice; Milan: Vita e Pensiero, 2011), 295–317.
stars to their original position after the end of a cosmic cycle, a

meaning that Evagrius symbolically applies to the eventual restora-
tion of all rational creatures, both those who are in heaven and
those who are in hell. 101 Reaching the final unity and delighting in
contemplation together with Christ will correspond to participating
in divine life or θέωσις (KG 4.8). The ultimate end is described as
the knowledge of Unity in KG 3.72 and 4.18. Evagrius, like Origen
and Gregory Nyssen, within the framework of Platonism, posits
the absolute metaphysical and gnoseological pre-eminence of the
Unity (KG 2.3), which characterises both the beginning and the
end. 102 This pre-eminence is evident, for instance, in KG 1.19,
where the divinity itself is described as ‘the One,’ and the one ‘who
only is.’ In KG 3.1–2 and 3.11 Evagrius describes the Father as
‘unique in Unity,’ and the Son as ‘Monad and Unity/Henad.’ Christ
is the only one who has the Unity/Henad in himself, in his divine
nature; the incorporeal nature both shows the Wisdom of the Unity
(this Wisdom being Christ) and is susceptible of the Unity (to the
highest degree in the final deification). Similarly, in KG 4.21 Christ
only is said to sit to his Father’s right, which indicates ‘the Monad
and the Unity/Henad.’
It seems to me clear enough that Evagrius was once again in-
spired by Origen and his metaphysical principle, that God is Mon-
ad and Henad (Princ. 1.1.6). Evagrius explains that: ‘The Monad
and Henad/Unity indicates the simple and incomprehensible sub-
stance’ of God (Ep. de fide 2.41–42). The eventual Unity will be dei-
fication: all rational creatures will be gods: ‘In the Unity there will
be no leaders, nor (others) submitted to leaders, but all of them will
be gods … There will be only pure intellects who continually sati-
ate themselves from its impossibility to satiate’ (KG 4.51 and 1.65).
They will never be entirely satiated in their longing, because of the
infinity of God. Origen had already insisted that there will be no
κόρος for intellectual creatures in the final apokatastasis, because of
perfect love after its manifestation in Christ: this was still lacking in
the beginning, when rational creatures fell. Evagrius’ conception
101 Full demonstration in my commentary on this kephalaion in
102 See Ramelli, ‘Harmony between arkhē and telos.’

Evagrius’ Kephalaia Gnostika.
also reflects the Nyssen’s notion of epecstatic progress, which is

also based on that concept of absence of satiety, which the infinity
of God makes possible. The unity that characterizes the telos also
was in the arkhē, but the latter was unstable (according to Origen,
because it was before the manifestation of the love of God in
Christ), and many logika fell from it. The eventual unity, instead,
will be stable and eternal.
God’s first creation was of ‘primary beings,’ intelligent crea-
tures, who originally dwelt in a unity of concord that is now lost
and will be recovered permanently in the telos. That unity is also
described as essential knowledge, which is the definition of God
the Trinity. A differentiation of the intellects’ acts of will broke the
unity and, as a consequence, the intellects became souls. In KG
3.28, which provides a parallel to the protology of the LM, Evagri-
us speaks of sin and vice as ‘carelessness,’ as Origen had repeatedly
done. After the transformation of intellects into souls, God
equipped them with mortal, heavy bodies subject to passions in the
case of humans, or dark, immortal bodies subject to passions in the
case of demons. This second creation, of ‘secondary realities,’ re-
sulted from the first judgement, operated by Christ, as the first of a
series of judgments, each of which will follow an aeon. Christ di-
vided rational creatures into angels, humans, and demons, in ac-
cord with the gravity of their falls, and transformed their bodies
accordingly as well. This second creation, according to Evagrius as
well as to Origen, 103 is not evil: ‘none of the mortal bodies should
be declared to be evil’ (KG 3.53). Evil only arises from wrong mor-
al choices.
The secondary creation, as I have already mentioned, far from
being evil, is rather a providential strategy excogitated by God to
help the restoration of souls to intellects. Now bodies are of vari-
ous kinds, and a regularly neglected 104 terminological distinction in
103 For Origen see my ‘Preexistence of Souls? The ἀρχή and τέλος of
Rational Creatures in Origen and Some Origenians,’ in Studia Patristica

LVI, vol. 4 (ed. Markus Vinzent; Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 167–226.
104 Even in such insightful papers such as Julia Konstantinovsky,
‘Soul and Body in Early Christian Thought: A Unified Duality?’ Studia

Patristica 44 (2010) 349–355.
the Syriac version of the KG needs to be pointed out here, since it

bears on the exact interpretation of Evagrius’ anthropology and,
consequently, of his ascetic system. One noun, pgr’, which in Syriac
also means ‘corpse,’ refers to fleshly, heavy, and mortal bodies,
whereas the other, gwšm’, also includes immortal, incorruptible, and
fine bodies. In the original Greek there may have been a distinc-
tion, sometimes, between σάρξ and σῶμα (both terms that in his
extant Greek works Evagrius uses frequently), though the Syriac in
the KG translates σάρξ with yet a third term. Evagrius, like Origen
and the Neoplatonists, 105 may also have added adjectives to σῶμα
to detail which kind of body he was meaning. He does so, for in-
stance, in some passages that are preserved in Greek: in De vitiis
quae opposita sunt virtutibus, a treatise preserved under the name of
Nilus of Ancyra, PG 79.1144.45: ἐν φθαρτῷ σώματι, which indi-
cates the corruptible, mortal body; in De octo spiritibus malitiae, an-
other treatise preserved under the name of Nilus, PG 79.1148.19:
νεκρωθὲν σῶμα, which designates the dead body, like pgr’, and ibid.
79.1148.20: σῶμα νεκρόν, which is a synonym of the previous ex-
pression. In De malignis cogitationibus, also handed down under the
name of Nilus, 25.10 Evagrius is speaking of the process of sense-
perception and of the intellections of sense-perceptible objects: in
this process a basic role is played by ‘this organic body,’ which is the
mortal body, endowed with organs of sense perception, and con-
ceived as an instrument (ὄργανον) of the soul: διὰ τοῦ ὀργανικοῦ
σώματος τούτου.
Earlier translators of the KG, such as Guillaumont, Dysinger,
and Fr. Theophanes, rendered both Syriac terms ‘body/corps’
(though only Guillaumont really translated from the Syriac; the
others tended to translate from his French), but in my translation
and commentary I have carefully and consistently differentiated the
two. Indeed, many other clues show that Evagrius, like Origen,
Gregory Nyssen, and most Neoplatonists, thought of different
kinds of bodies. E.g. in LM 38–39 he speaks of ‘this sense-
perceptible body,’ assembled by God’s Wisdom out of the four
elements, thereby suggesting that there are also bodies that are not
105 See my ‘Iamblichus, De anima 38 (66.12‒15 Finamore/Dillon): A
Resolving Conjecture,’ Rheinisches Museum (2013).

sense-perceptible, as Origen also thought. Likewise, in the Greek

text of Praktikos 49 Evagrius describes the intellect as ‘naturally
constituted for prayer even without this body’ (and not: ‘without the
body’ tout court), which points again to another kind of body. In the
same way in Praktikos 53.4 he speaks of those who have reached
the impassivity of the soul ‘through this body’ (οἱ τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς
ἀπάθειαν διὰ τοῦ σώματος τούτου κτησάμενοι), since of course the
exercise of praktikē for the attainment of apatheia does not apply to
creatures endowed with spiritual bodies. And again in Exp. in Prov.
p. 102.12 Evagrius blames those who accuse ‘this body,’ i.e. the
mortal body, and thereby insult or offend the creator: τοὺς
κατηγοροῦντας ἡμῶν τοῦτο τὸ σῶμα καὶ τὸν δημιουργὸν
ἐνυβρίζοντας.
Also, in KG 5.19 Evagrius describes the resurrection of the
body as a passage from a bad to a good quality, i.e. from corrupti-
ble and mortal to incorruptible and immortal. This indicates that at
least the bodies of the resurrection will be different from the mor-
tal bodies. And because the resurrection is for Evagrius a restora-
tion to the original state, the restoration of the body to the ‘better
quality’ points to the original existence of an incorruptible body.
Indeed, in KG 3.36 Evagrius overtly mentions ‘the various and differ-
ent bodies of rational creatures,’ which implies the existence of bod-
ies that are not mortal, heavy, and fleshly as those of humans in the
present, fallen state. Likewise in the Greek fragments from the
Gnostikos 48.5 Evagrius speaks of ‘the difference of the bodies’ as a
result of the logoi of the judgment (τοὺς μὲν περὶ κρίσεως λόγους ἐν
τῇ διαφορᾷ τῶν σωμάτων). This again indicates that different kinds
of bodies are allotted to rational creatures as a result of the judg-
ment concerning their moral choices in the past aeon. Evagrius
actually remarks on the bodies of angels and those of demons, not
only in the KG, but also in works preserved in Greek, e.g. in De
malignis cogitationibus 33.12: ψυχρὰ γὰρ λίαν τὰ τῶν δαιμόνων
σώματα καὶ κρυστάλλῳ παρεμφερῆ, ‘demonic bodies are extreme-
ly cold and somewhat similar to ice.’ These bodies are not fleshly
like ours, and indeed are not mortal, and have just an appearance of
shape: μορφῆς γλύμμα φορεῖ ἄσαρκος δαίμων; ‘a demon without
flesh brings about an impression/appearance of shape’ (Tractatus ad
Eulogium PG 79.1117.25).
In KG 6.17, Evagrius Platonically distinguishes the incorpore-
al nature from the corporeal one, and, according to the Syriac
translation and its terminology of bodies, this distinction seems to

be absolute: there are beings that are corporeal, i.e. endowed with
any kind of body, thicker or finer, mortal or immortal (gwšm’), and
there are realities that are absolutely incorporeal, i.e. without any
kind of body, either fine or thick. God, for both Evagrius and Ori-
gen, is absolutely incorporeal. In KG 6.20 God is said to have cre-
ated first the first creation, that of incorporeal realities, including
rational creatures, of whom God is the Father; and then the sec-
ond, that of bodies, which came after the ‘movement’ of rational
creatures, that is, after they began to direct their wills in different
directions, instead of orienting them only toward the Good. The
first creation is kept distinct from the second also in KG 4.58: God
the Father, while creating rational creatures, was in nobody and
nothing, whereas while creating the corporeal nature and the aeons
He was in his Christ, the creative Logos. Thus, when Christ created
the aeons and the bodies had God in himself, so that, on account of
Christ’s divine nature, we cannot speak of an inferior creative
agent, different from God, for bodies. In KG 3.19 the ontological
distinction between incorporeal and corporeal realities brings about
a parallel gnoseological distinction between the primary and the
secondary contemplation, the former immaterial, the latter being in
matter. The same distinction between two kinds of know-ledge and
two kinds of creation is kept in KG 3.24 and 3.26: the knowledge
of the primary nature is the spiritual contemplation which the Crea-
tor used in creating the intellects, which alone are susceptible of the
divine nature. And the knowledge concerning the secondary nature
is a spiritual contemplation that Christ used in creating bodies and
aeons. God’s science or knowledge produced primary beings, i.e.
intellectual realities; secondary beings, bodies, only came after the
afore-mentioned ‘movement’ of rational creatures’ free wills (KG
1.50). Moses’ account of creation in Genesis, according to Evagrius
(and Basil), refers to the secondary creation, which took place after
the first Judgement of fallen rational creatures, whereas there exists
no account of God’s primary creation, which came to existence
before the Judgement (KG 2.64).
As I have pointed out, the secondary creation in the LM is de-
scribed as providential in that, while with some advanced intellects
the Spirit and the Son communicate directly, with others they must
do so by means of the secondary creation. The intelligible creation
at a certain point was joined to it, ‘for reasons that it is impossible
to explain here,’ he says. It is unclear whether Evagrius refers here

to the union of souls (already descended from the rank of intel-
lects) with mortal bodies or of intellects with bodies tout court.
Sense-perceptible creation makes the object of natural contempla-
tion. As Origen too insisted in his anti-‘Gnostic’ and anti-
Marcionite polemic, the secondary creation is neither evil nor a
punishment (KG 3.53), but God’s strategy for the restoration of
souls to intellects. 106 It is mediation for those who are far from
God and was created by God’s Wisdom and Power, the Son and
the Spirit. When God’s first creation of ‘primary beings’ experi-
enced a dispersion of their acts of will, some intellects descended
to the rank of souls. Heavy, mortal bodies were thus provided by
God for these. Christ himself assumed one, and after his resurrec-
tion he had a body that revealed how human risen bodies will be
(KG 4.41). The fact that mortal bodies will vanish at the end of all
aeons (KG 2.17) does not imply that they are not good: they serve
their purpose during the aeons, but will disappear when all inherit
immortality (KG 1.58). For, if the mortal body is a part of this
world, and if ‘the form of this world will pass,’ then the form of the
mortal body will also pass (KG 1.26). Since Evagrius regards mor-
tal bodies as a positive means for intellects to return to God, as
Origen also did, in KG 4.60 he warns that those who hate the mor-
tal body hate the Creator; and KG 4.62 also blames those who
‘disparage our body.’ Mortal bodies will vanish, when evil will dis-
appear, but they are neither evil themselves nor the cause of evil;
and all secondary beings, to which bodies belong, will cease to exist
as such when ignorance will be removed (KG 3.68; cf. 3.66). The
first bodies to disappear will be mortal bodies, which will vanish at
the resurrection when they are not annihilated, but turned into im-
mortal. Then all bodies will cease to exist as secondary beings,
when the body will be elevated to the rank of soul and the soul to
the rank of intellect. In this way, only primary beings (intellects)
will remain, because bodies and souls will have been, not destroyed,
but subsumed into intellects.
106 Konstantinovsky, Evagrius Ponticus, 27–46, rightly stresses that,
according to Evagrius, the body and sense-perception are part of the as-
cent to perfection.
What is inferior will be subsumed into what is superior, bodies

into souls and souls into intellects. Actually the fluidity of body and
soul is hinted at by Evagrius already when he states that in the
Gospel Jesus, saying that the eye is the lamp of the body, calls
‘body’ what is in fact the inferior part of the soul, non-rational and
liable to passions, what in Platonic terminology is called the irasci-
ble and concupiscible part(s): Χριστὸς δὲ ἐν τοῖς εὐαγγελίοις σῶμα
τὴν ψυχὴν ὀνομάζει, Ὁ λύχνος, λέγων, τοῦ σώματός ἐστιν ὁ
ὀφθαλμός· λύχνον μὲν εἰπὼν τὸν νοῦν, αὐτὸς γάρ ἐστιν γνώσεως
δεκτικός, σῶμα δὲ τὸ θυμικὸν καὶ ἐπιθυμητικὸν μέρος τῆς ψυχῆς,
ὅπερ τινὲς μὲν ἄλογον, τινὲς δὲ παθητικὸν μέρος καλοῦσιν (In Prov.
p. 92.4). The notion of the transformation of body into soul and
soul into intellect, and this finally into God at the stage of θέωσις
and unity, according to Eriugena (who made the most of it) comes
straight from Gregory Nyssen, Evagrius’ teacher. Eriugena signifi-
cantly chose to cite the Nyssen in reference to the eventual deifica-
tion, which for Gregory will be universal, just as restoration will be:
Gregorius similiter et incunctanter astruit mutationem corporis tempore resur-
rectionis in animam, animae in intellectum, intellectus in Deum (Per.
5.987C). This is a further important element of inspiration provid-
ed by the Nyssen to Evagrius (one of many, as becomes clearer and
clearer). This idea of the subsumption of what is inferior into what
is superior with a view to unification, which is so clear in Evagrius
and which came from the Nyssen, will become prominent in Max-
imus the Confessor, who was strongly influenced by the Nyssen,
and in John Scotus Eriugena, who will follow both Gregory of
Nyssa and Maximus very closely, 107 and who explicitly ascribed this
doctrine back to the Nyssen.
Maximus in his Ambiguum 41 (PG 91.1305B-1308C) postulat-
ed in partic-ular the overcoming of the gender division in humanity
when this takes up the spiritual body, ἄνθρωπος μόνος instead of
κατὰ τὸ θῆλυ καὶ τὸ ἄρσεν ἰδιότης (1305C). Eriugena will follow in
this regard, providing the rationale that homo melior est quam sexus, so
107 On the process of unification in Maximus see Doru Costache,

‘Living above Gender: Insights from Saint Maximus the Confessor,’ JECS
21 (2013) 261–290; on this process in both Maximus and Eriugena see my
The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, the chapters devoted to them.
the mortal body is subsumed into the spiritual body above gen-
ders; 108 the earth will be subsumed into paradise (Eriugena too will
postulate this unification) and paradise will be subsumed into heav-
en; all rational creatures will be subsumed into angels and will reach
the knowledge of angels; finally creatures will be subsumed into the
Divinity in deification: Eriugena too will foresee this final stage.
For Evagrius, once the body has been elevated to the rank of
the soul, the intellect in its power will pervade the soul, when the
whole of it will be mingled with the light of the Trinity (KG 2.29).
This will happen at the eventual restoration and deification. When
the intellects receive contemplation, then the whole nature of the
bodies will be eliminated, not because they will be destroyed, but
because they will be transformed into souls and souls into intel-
lects, so that the contemplation or θεωρία concerning them will not
disappear, but will ‘become immaterial,’ since bodies themselves
will have become immaterial (KG 2.62). Plurality, numbers, and
names will disappear along with the aeons (KG 1.7–8) and bodies,
which were useful for life in the aeons. Quantity, plurality, and
number are attached to secondary beings, what Gregory of Nyssa
called diastematic realities. 109 Quantity pertains to the mortal cor-
poreal nature; thus number relates to secondary natural contempla-
tion (KG 4.19). This contemplation pertains to secondary beings,
which will be subsumed into the first. So also their contemplation,
far from disappearing, will become primary, and the perfection of
the intellect will consist in immaterial knowledge. Now immaterial
knowledge is only the Trinity; therefore the intellect will become a
seer of the Trinity (KG 3.15). The contemplation of the Trinity
produces in turn the deification of the creaturely intellect.
But this is the last stage of a progression that begins with the
praktikē, asceticism, whose goal is virtue and the eradication of pas-
sions (apatheia), and not just their moderation (metriopatheia).
108See also Chapters on Love 2.30: ‘The one who is perfect in love and
has advanced to the apex of impassivity (apatheia) knows no difference
between male and female’ (PG 90.993B).
109 On which see my Gregorio di Nissa sull’Anima and Hans Boersma,
Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa (Oxford: OUP, 2013).

Evagrius shares the ideal of apatheia 110 with Clement, Origen,

Gregory of Nyssa, most Neoplatonists, and the Stoics. Apatheia is
closely related to knowledge for Evagrius: as virtue and knowledge
are entirely interdependent, so are apatheia and knowledge, since
virtue is freedom from passions and the very goal of praktikē. The
close connection between apatheia and knowledge is clear e.g. in KP
56 and 67: ‘We will say that the absence of passions is the health of
the soul, and that its nourishment is knowledge. Impassivity is pos-
sessed by the soul that not only does not suffer for the things that
happen, but remains imperturbable even at their memory.’ Apatheia
is the perfection of the soul liable to passions, knowledge is that of
the intellect (KG 6.55). The relation between apatheia and
knowledge is made clear especially by KG 4.70: freedom from pas-
sions allows for contemplation. The intellect approaches intelligible
realities when it does not unite itself any longer to logismoi arising
from the inferior soul liable to πάθη (KG 1.81). The intellect pos-
sesses a creative power (another notion that returns in Eriugena 111)
when it is free from passions, and intellectual knowledge becomes
completely independent of sense-perception (KG 5.12). That vir-
tues and apatheia are the prerequisite of knowledge is confirmed in
Schol. in Prov. 258: the soul subject to passions is, ‘the mother of the
intellect’ because, ‘by means of virtues it brings the intellect to
light.’ This is the case in the present life, where praktikē enables
contemplation, while ontologically the intellect existed before the
110 See Jeremy Driscoll, ‘Apatheia and Purity of Heart in Evagrius,’ in
Purity of Heart in Early Ascetic and Monastic Literature (eds. Harriet A. Luck-
man and Linda Kulzer; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999), 141–159;
Somos, ‘Origen, Evagrios Ponticos and the Ideal of Impassivity’; Corri-
gan, Evagrius and Gregory, Ch. 4; Monica Tobon, ‘The Health of the Soul:
Apatheia in Evagrius Ponticus,’ Studia Patristica 47 (2010) 187–202; Suzuki,
‘The Evagrian Concept of Apatheia;’ Tobon, Apatheia in the Teachings of
111 See my ‘Eriugena’s Commentary on Martianus in the Framework

Evagrius.
of his Thought and the Philosophical Debate of his Time,’ in Carolingian

Scholarship and Martianus Capella (eds. Sinead O’Sullivan and Mariken
Teeuwen; Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, 12;
Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), 245–272.
soul, and eschatologically the soul will be elevated to the rank of

intellect.
For Evagrius, as for Gregory Nyssen, passions are against na-
ture and must be totally eradicated by means of praktikē, but
ἀγάπη, charity-love, will not disappear, being no πάθος. Evagrius,
like Origen and Gregory, insists that love will never fade away but
will endure eternally. Origen had adduced Paul’s argument that
‘ἀγάπη never falls’ to this end. Charity-love, far from being a pas-
sion, ‘is the product of impassivity’ (Prakt. 81). Since in turn impas-
sivity is the goal of praktikē, charity-love is the result of asceticism:
‘The end of πρακτική is charity-love; that of knowledge is the doc-
trine concerning God, and the principles of both are faith and nat-
ural contemplation’ (ibid. 84).
Not only does love come from asceticism and impassivity,
but, reciprocally, charity-love overcomes the passions of the soul:
‘bodily passions are overcome by continence; those of the soul are
overcome by spiritual love [ἀγάπη πνευματική]’ (ibid. 35). The in-
terdependence between love and impassivity is made clear in Eulo-
gius 22: ‘Charity-love is the bond of impassivity and the expunging
of passions […] Love possesses nothing of its own apart from
God, for God is Love itself.’
In KG 4.50 Evagrius remarks that ‘There is one good kind of
love, which is forever: that which true knowledge elects, and it is
said to be inseparable from the intellect.’ Since in the end only in-
tellects will remain (bodies being elevated to souls, and souls to
intellects) then, if love is inseparable from the intellect, love will
never vanish. If ‘love is the perfect state of the rational soul, a state
in which the soul cannot love anything which is among corruptible
beings more than the knowledge of God’ (KG 1.86), then, once all
rational creatures have reached perfection, love will always endure.
And because love is related to knowledge, whoever has to learn the
wisdom of the beings needs spiritual love (KG 3.58). A strong love,
which Evagrius, like Origen, the Nyssen, and Ps. Dionysius, calls
desire, 112 is the main factor in the continual growth of the intellect
in knowledge and approximation to God, similar to Gregory of
See my The Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, section on Ps. Dio-

nysius.
112
Nyssa’s infinite epecstatic movement: ‘the intellect, when it ap-

proaches the intellections of beings, will be full of spiritual desire
and will never detach itself from admiration’ (KG 5.29). Love is the
only movement that will remain in the infinite epektasis toward
God.
Even though Evagrius’ works on theology/metaphysics and
those on spiritual ascent and asceticism have been unfortunately
kept apart by scholars and treated very differently (as I mentioned
at the beginning: the latter treasured and the former condemned)
such a division has no reason to exist and both of these artificially
separated sets of works help reconstruct Evagrius’ doctrine of in-
tellects and souls, their origin, their relation to bodies, the different
kinds of bodies, and rational creatures’ eschatological destiny.
The close connection between Evagrius’ doctrine of intellects,
souls, and bodies, and that of universal restoration is particularly
evident in the LM and the KG. Here Evagrius’ eschatology is at
one with the rest of his thought, all oriented toward the telos, exact-
ly as is also the case with Origen and Gregory Nyssen. For the end
is the accomplishment of God’s plan for rational creatures; this is
why it reflects the beginning, the pre-lapsarian state. At the same
time, however, the end is much better than the beginning: for, as
Origen puts it, it will be the voluntary accomplishment of the like-
ness with God, after the manifestation of God’s love in Christ, and
not simply the initial datum of the ‘image of God.’
Evagrius’ protological and eschatological ideas are strikingly
close to those of Origen (I mean his authentic ideas and not the
misrepresentations that are such a prevalent heritage among com-
mentators of the Origenistic controversy) and to St. Gregory
Nyssen. Such parallels extend also to many other aspects of their
thought. Indeed Evagrius absorbed Origen’s and the Cappadoci-
ans’ theology, as well as that of Didymus, whom he may have fre-
quented personally. What is more, as I have indicated, Evagrius’
closeness to Gregory of Nyssa and his ideas is more substantial
than has been generally assumed. I have provided some examples
here.
The influence of both Origen and the Nyssen on Evagrius’
LM, KG and other works is noteworthy, as I hope to have pointed
out, and deserves further investigation. I hope that the present
work, and that which still needs to be undertaken, will help recover
the true image of Evagrius, the Origenian ascetic and ‘gnostic,’ be-
yond the mask of the Origenistic ‘heretic’ that has been superim-
posed over him.
ASCETICISM THROUGH THE LENS OF
ANTHROPOLOGY: THE GREEK
FATHERS FROM JUSTIN TO GREGORY
NAZIANZEN ON THE SOUL AND THE
HOLY SPIRIT
VICKI PETRAKIS
Christian Orthodoxy is distinguished by its doctrine of the Holy

Trinity: three Persons in one essence maintaining distinct Proper-
ties/Functions. If we take a step back and survey the literature to
understand the dynamics of this in relation to creation, we arrive
inevitably at physical theories in Aristotle for whom there must be
a First Mover, (τό ώς πρώτον πάντων κινούν πάντα) 1 which is
common to everything and together with the thing it moves. 2
When Aristotle suggests: ‘It is the mover that makes each one’ 3 (ωϛ
τό κινούν ποιεί) 4 we see here a shift from the notion of creation to
one of relationship and of assimilating incompatibles. It is a rela-
1 Met. Λ 4.1070b35, W.D. Ross (trans.), Aristotle’s Metaphysics,Vol. II,

(Oxford at the Clarendon Press1924).
2 C.f. Met. Λ 4.1070b35; Λ 6.1071b 20; Λ 7.1072a 25; Λ 7.1072b 15–
30.
3 Met. Λ 10. 1075b 37–38, G Apostle & L.P. Gerson (trans.), Aristotle
Selected Works, Third Edition, (The Peripatetic Press, Iowa, 1991), 421. See
H. Tredennick (trans.), ‘…that it is the moving cause that makes them
[form and object] one.’ Aristotle Metaphysics X–XIV, Loeb Classical Library,
T.E. Page & Ors. (eds.) 173, 175.
4 Met. Λ 10. 1075b 37, Ross.
225
226 ASCETICISM THROUGH THE LENS OF ANTHROPOLOGY
tionship defined by Aristotle as life, (φαμέν δή τόν θεόν είναι ζώον

αΐδιον άριστον) and the name he gives to this dynamic relationship
is ο Θεός (the divinity). 5 Among the Christian cosmological think-
ers, the Incarnation of the Logos can also be said to have taken
place for this similar root reason: to clarify how things incompati-
ble can subsist. The early Christian philosophers sought through
divine principles to understand how Christ the Logos presided in
the individual. This paper will investigate the struggles they under-
went in coming to terms with both the language and the metaphys-
ics necessary for defining the terms of this divine union, posited by
means of the Holy Spirit’s indwelling in the human soul. This has
been a central Christian task of ascetical theology, but one framed
in a cosmic (and at the same time highly personalist) scope.
Jesus in the Gospel of John appears to be very mindful that fol-
lowing His Ascension there will be a space required to be filled in
the human condition: ‘I will not leave you orphans; I will come to
you … At that day you will know that I am in My Father, and you
in Me, and I in you.’ (Jn. 14:18–20) In the previous passage, He
clarifies how this living takes place: ‘And I will pray the Father, and
He will give you another Helper that He may abide with you forev-
er – the Spirit of truth … for He dwells with you and will be in
you.’ (Jn. 14:15–17). St. Symeon the New Theologian writing about
this biblical text advocates for the necessity of the indwelling pres-
ence of the Holy Spirit in each human person:
Turn your mind to what is within the soul’s members, and
consider that all its actions … I mean fasting and vigil, sleeping
on the ground and a hard bed, non-possession and abstinence
from bathing, and everything which follows from these – are
like dead bones fastened to one another … So where is the
profit if it lies unsouled and breathless, the Holy Spirit not be-
ing within? For only when the Latter comes and makes a home
5Apostle & Gerson, 414. Greek text in Ross (trans.), Met. Λ 7.

1072b 28–30.
VICKI PETRAKIS 227
in us does He then come and bind together with nerves of

spiritual might the acts of virtue which were dead… 6
This insight was not always so succinctly expressed in the earlier
theologians. The early Christian philosophers who had inherited
from the ancients, and especially the Middle Platonists, a dualistic
capacity of talking about Being, sometimes fumbled with the terms
of their Christology and anthropology. It was not until Origen and
Irenaeus of Lyons (and as some have argued Clement of Alexan-
dria), 7 that a single commanding notion of the eternal generation of
the Logos before all time, and stemming from the Father, started
to be clarified among the Christians at large. And, it was not until
Irenaeus and Gregory the Theologian that the dualistic tendencies
in human anthropology could also start to be harmonized with the
detailed concept of the Person of the Holy Spirit. Through the di-
vine activity of Christ the Logos which manifested as different
terms, logikon, hegemonikon, pneuma, eikon, kardia, early Christian
thinkers continued, in a sense, the Platonic mission of finding ways
to bring incompatible essences into relation: God and His media-
tion within the human condition, not least in that. The place of this
assimilation was to be found at the level of the soul and more par-
ticularly the soul’s Nous or spiritual consciousness.
For Justin Martyr, the divine seed implanted spiritually within
the human person was different to the spermatic logos, which ema-
nated as the Logos’ created activity. In Clement’s work, the seed
was finally fused with this spermatic logos implanting divine capacity
into the human condition. While he and Justin both spoke of the
notion of pneuma and its role in facilitating the divinization of the
human condition, it was for both referenced back to the Holy Spir-
it’s relational capacity to the Logos, or as a condition of the soul’s
formation. It was not until the work of Origen that we come closer
to seeing that participation in the principle of life through the logos,
6 ‘Seventh Ethical Discourse’, A. Golitzin (trans.) in On the Mystical

Life The Ethical Discourses, Vol. 2: On Virtue and Christian Life, (St. Vladi-
mir’s Seminary Press, New York, 1996), 92.
7 See M.J. Edwards, ‘Clement of Alexandria and His Doctrine of the
Logos’, Vigiliae Christianae 54, (Brill NV, Leiden), 2000).

is fundamentally akin to living in the Holy Spirit. For both of them,

however, the manner in which the later fathers can seamlessly re-
late the pneuma Agion to human anthropology was a step too far.
Justin Martyr’s theology centered on the Person of Christ and
His cosmic identity as divine activity was affiliated in the human
condition as seed. 8 From the First Apology, we learn that the seeds
are: ‘from God, which is the Logos.’ 9 However we also note the
complete distinction between the seed and that which it seeks to
mimic, the divine Logos and His activity:
For, through the presence of the implanted seed of the Logos
[εμφύτου τού λόγου σποράς], all these writers were able dimly
to see what actually is. 13.6. For the seed of something, and an
imitation of something … is not the same as the thing of
which the participation and imitation are made… 10
This entailed a metaphysical gap between God and creation, and
while Justin accepts the Holy Spirit from the Old Testament as a
spiritual instrument (Apol. I. 33.2) and from liturgical adoration
(Apol. I.6.2), the absence of the Holy Spirit in the human condition
is a noteworthy factor in his theology. 11 Justin overcame dualistic
difficulties in some respects by the association of the Logos with
God’s spirit (πνεύμα) and power (δύναμιs) (Apol. I.33.6), 12 but his
methodology for activating the seeds suggested one’s own initia-
8 ‘διά τό έμφυτον παντί γένει ανθρώπων σπέρμα τού λόγου’, Second

Apology 7(8).1, D. Minns & P. Parvis (eds.), in Justin, Philosopher and Martyr
Apologies, (Oxford University Press, 2009), 296, 299. C.f. Minns & Parvis,
note 2, 309.
9 ‘οικεί τό παρά τού θεού σπέρμα, ο λόγος.’ Justin’s Apology on Behalf of
Christians, 32.8, Minns & Parvis, 170, 171.

10 The Second Apology, 13.5–6, Minns & Parvis, 321.
11 Cited in A.W.F. Blunt, The Apologies of Justin Martyr, (Cambridge
University Press, 1911), xxvii–xxviii.

12 See S.R.C. Lilla, Clement of Alexandria A Study in Christian Platonism
and Gnosticism, (Oxford University Press, 1971), note 4, p 22–23.

VICKI PETRAKIS 229
tive. 13 To his anthropology he introduces the nous, (του νού όμμα 14)
or the ‘mind’s eye’ 15 as that which is capable of seeing Being, when
it has itself become purified. The affinity between the human per-
son and God is here based heavily on the mind’s purity and its de-
sire for God, the latter being described as the ‘regal mind’ 16
(βασιλικού νού 17). This reflects Philo’s Logos theology, and seems
to be what will later become in Origen the concept of pneuma, or
the image of the human soul in its assimilation to the divine Logos.
According to Justin the soul, which does not have life of its
own, partakes in life according to the will of God granted to it
through God’s life-giving Spirit (ζωτικόν πνεύμα). 18 Thus, it seems
that he adds, through the notion of pneuma, another layer between
the human person and God, envisaging it as a mediating principle
like the spermatikos logos rather than a permanent human quality. The
unclear dimensions of these ideas, and their exact place in regard to
the human condition, are certainly confused in Justin Martyr’s
work, and in his era. By the time of Clement and Origen, the intel-
lectual landscape is changing.
The doctrine of the Logos as a metaphysical principle (a con-
cept very popular among Alexandria’s Jewish Diaspora) was widely
utilised in the formation of Christian cosmological theology (the
Church’s earliest science). Clement’s anthropology (the human abil-
ity to participate in the divine) is essentially a work of unpacking
this doctrine stemming from the identity of the Son in the Father.
A full examination of this concept is beyond the scope of this pa-
per, but suffice it to say that Wolfson presents an important insight
13 The foundations for the ascetic formula that is to become charac-

teristic of the Alexandrian hermeneutical tradition are well founded in
Philo. C.f. De Opificio Mundi VI.25.
14 Dialogue Avec Tryphon, IV. 1, G. Archambault (trans.), Justin Dialogue
Avec Tryphon, Tome I, (Librairie Alphonse Picard Et Fils, Paris, 1909), 20.
15Dialogue With Trypho, IV, A. Roberts, & J. Donaldson, (eds.), The
Vol. I., (WM. B. Eerdmans Pub. Co. 1979), 196.

Ante-Nicene Fathers Translation of The Writings of the Fathers down to A.D. 325,
16 Dialogue With Trypho, IV, Roberts & Donaldson, 196.

17 Dialogue Avec Tryphon, IV. 2, Archambault, 20.
18 Dialogue Avec Tryphon, VI. 2, Archambault, 34.
from Clement’s Stromata. He suggests that in Clement, the Logos in

the first stage with the Father, the Logos Incarnated, and the first
principle responsible for creation and all that is implanted in it, are
all together under different forms of existence. 19 For Clement the
Logos is the unity which assumes everything in Himself, (ως πάντα
έν). 20
The Son is the eternal Logos with the Father, the impassable
man, (άνθρωπος απαθής) and as the royal Image of the Father
(λόγος θείος καί βασιλικός), He presents to the human condition
via the nous, its ability to participate in this principle/image by
means of what Clement calls a ‘divine correspondence’
(ακολουθίαν…θείαν). 21 The principle he employs for this is reason,
logos (or the helmsman of reason) in the human person. 22 When
reason has been successful in curbing desires, it then grants to the
human person divine-like qualities. Placing this as the principle in
the human logistikon (accessed by the mediation of the soul’s nous),
Clement takes us one step further. He implants and activates Jus-
tin’s concept of spermatikos logos in the human nous, thus showing
how it is that the (divine) Image is imaged in the human person.
19 H.A. Wolfson, The Philosophy of the Church Fathers Faith, Trinity, In-
carnation, 3rd Edition Revised, (Harvard University Press, 1976), 214. C.f.
Stromata IV.XXV, A. Roberts, & J. Donaldson, (eds.), The Ante-Nicene
Fathers Translation of The Writings of the Fathers down to A.D. 325, Vol. II.,
(WM. B. Eerdmans Pub. Co. 1979), 439,
Now God, who is without beginning, is the perfect beginning of the
universe, and the producer of the beginning. As, then, He is being, He is
the first principle of the department of action…as He is mind, on the
other hand, He is the first principle of reasoning and of judgment.
20 Stromate IV.XXV, 156.2–157.1, C. Mondesert, (trans.), in Les Stro-
mates, Source Chretiennes, No. 463, (Les Editions Du Cerf, Paris, 2001),
318.
21 Stromata, Book V, XIV Roberts & Donaldson, 466. Greek text
V.XIV. 94.3–6, P. Voulet, (trans.), in Les Stromates, Tome I, Source Chre-

tiennes, No. 278, (Les Editions Du Cerf, Paris, 2006), 180.
22 C.f. Strom. I.XXIV (I.159.3); II.XI (II.51.6); V.VIII (V.52.5–
53.1);VI.XVI (VI.134.1–136.3).
VICKI PETRAKIS 231
Achieved on the model of a divine correspondence, this suggests

an ascetical tuning and affinity between Creator and creation.
If we move to the case of Origen, we find that in his theology,
the being and making of the human person is posited as a relation-
ship founded within the Holy Trinity, 23 but fundamentally that be-
ing is understood from the perspective of all life residing in the
Logos. 24 Crouzel points out that, for Origen, it is at the deepest
level of the human person’s make up (made ‘after the image’), that
Being manifests, as we become that for which we are divinely insti-
tuted. 25 This deep-spirited sense of the term logos 26 is connected in
Origen with the pneuma as part of a Biblically based human anthro-
pology. But even so, the question raises itself: is it grace mixed in
with the human condition that was presented as pneuma, or the Per-
son of the Holy Spirit indwelling?
The central tenet of Origen’s theology is that the soul under-
goes paideia and a return to God (Apokatastasis) along with the add-
ed luggage of the body. 27 This recovery of fallen souls to their orig-
inal place of proximity to the Logos is enabled through their ra-
tional faculties, discovered, as Torjesen notes, ‘By an act of
knowledge, by penetrating into their hidden nature.’ 28 What exactly
this discovery is that the soul makes in relation to its ascent or de-
scent concerns its own personal realization in salvation, and the
23 C.f. De Principiis, Book I, III.8

24 C.f. Commentary On John, II.13.
25 H. Crouzel, Origen, The Life and Thought of the First Great Theologian,
A.S. Worrall (trans.), (Harper & Row, San Francisco, 1989), 95.
26 C.f. Against Celsus, Book IV. 85; De Princ. II.XI.5.
27 K.J. Torjesen, Hermeneutical Procedure and Theological Method in Ori-
gen’s Exegesis, (Walter De Gruyter, Berlin, 1986), 84 writes that Origen

describes this return or rest in God using several metaphors, ‘face-to-
face’, ‘knowledge’, ‘consummation’, ‘contemplation’ as participation in
God. In some instances these refer to the soul prior to the fall, elsewhere
participation in Him is via a mystical union encompassing contempla-
tion/knowledge that suggests the soul’s restoration in God.
28 Torjesen, 109.
role it plays in possessing a divine image. 29 In his 2nd Homily on

Jeremiah, quoting Genesis 1:26, Origen reflects on this divine image
that is found in the human person, distinct from their earthly and
inferior human image. 30 The transformation required is a subtle
move from the outer and earthly person to the spiritual one.
Through his anthropology (consisting of the body, the vital spirit,
as well as two souls coexisting), Origen emphasises the higher soul,
the nous 31 found in the inner person, as that which deserves inves-
tigation for understanding ‘Being’, by which he means primarily the
divine pneuma and how this may be accessed. Origen takes the su-
preme faculty, the nous of the human person (their rational compo-
nent mediated through the logos), and associates it with the Biblical
concept of the heart (kardia), 32 the image (eikon) 33 and the spirit
29 Citing the work of W. Volker, (1931), Torjesen notes at 72 & 76, a

three-fold scheme according to which the soul is being restored, that of
purification, knowledge and perfection. This journey fits in with the
theme in the Prologue of The Song of Songs based on repentance, instruc-
tion and perfection.
30 Homilies on Jeremiah, Homily 2.1, J. C. Smith (trans.) The Fathers of
the Church A New Translation, (Catholic University Press of America,

Wash., D.C., 1998), 24.
31 Origen utilizes the nous specifically in relation to the Logos, both
as to Christ and as to His Being, ‘…for He made the thinking principle

immortal in its nature, and kindred to Himself…’ De Princ. Book III, 1.13,
F. Crombie (trans.), The Ante-Nicene Fathers Translations of the Writings of the
Fathers Down to A.D. 325, Vol. IV, (A. Roberts & J. Donaldson, (eds.)),
(WM. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co, 1979), 314, from the Greek, the Latin
reads, ‘For He made the rational nature, which He formed in His own
image and likeness, incorruptible;’
32 C.f. Comm. on John, I, 42, A. Menzies (ed. & trans.), The Ante-Nicene
Fathers Translations of the Writings of the Fathers Down to A.D. 325, Vol. X,
(WM. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co, 1978), 321, …so His heart is to be
understood of His rational power, by which He disposes all things, and
His word of that which announces what is in this heart of His.’ B.P.
Blosser, Become Like the Angels Origen’s Doctrine of the Soul, (Catholic Univer-
sity of America Press, Wash. D.C., 2012) writes at 89 that Origen’s genius
lies in connecting the Platonic nous, the Stoic hegemonikon, with the Biblical
concept of the heart. In this capacity the pure heart is seen as a governing
VICKI PETRAKIS 233
(pneuma) of God. Characterizing the nous as another sense, he sug-

gests that it, ‘bears a certain relationship to God, of whom the
mind itself is an intellectual image, and that by means of this it may
come to some knowledge of the nature of divinity…’ 34 However in
its fallen state, the soul is devoid of the logos that belongs to the nous
and also the essential pneuma needed to spiritualise it, as well as
matter and all the associated senses.
This spiritualisation of the human person, for Origen, 35 in-
volves their participation in the Logos which the pneuma instigates
on behalf of the divine economy. 36 What Origen has in mind in
principle and an intellectual power. C.f. De Princ. I.I.9; Against Celsus, VI.69
where the heart is likened to understanding; Comm. John, II, 29 (references
cited in Blosser, 89, note 50).
33 Blosser notes at 92–3 that Origen’s use of the terms ‘image’ and
‘likeness’ to parallel the work of the nous and its association to the divine
was appropriated both from Scripture, Plato and the Middle Platonists.
He notes De Princ. III.6.1 at 93, note 62. The importance of the image as
cited from Genesis is that it is the part which God exclusively made after
Himself. Thus the rational soul is the seat of the image of God in the hu-
man person.
34 De Princip. Book I. I.7, Crombie, 245. In Against Celsus, VIII. 49,
Crombie, 657–8, noted from Blosser, 93, note 65, Origen likens the soul
and the nous in their capacity as the rational and divine element to a ‘spir-
itual substance’ (πνευματικόν τούτον) an ‘intelligent spirit, holy and
blessed’ (πνεύμα νοερόν άγιον καί μακάριον), and a ‘living soul’ (ψυχήν
ζώσαν). Greek translations see Contre Celse, VIII.49, M. Borret, (trans.),
Origène Contre Celse, Tome IV, Sources Chrétiennes, No. 150, (Les Editions
Du Cerf, Paris, 1969), 280.
35 H. Urs von Balthasar, Origen Spirit and Fire, A Thematic Anthology of
His Writings, R. J. Daly (trans.), (Catholic University of America Press,

Washington, D.C., 1984), 218, writes, ‘Working from scattered words in
scripture and from his own doctrine of the ‘double’ human being, Origen
was the first to build up the doctrine of the spiritual senses which has
remained a core element of all later mystical theology.’
36 The pneuma is responsible for spiritualising the senses which in-
cludes the nous and the kardia. Origen writes referring to Hebrews, ‘…there
are other senses in man besides these five bodily senses; these other sens-
es are acquired by training, and are said to be trained when they examine
relation to the senses, and the many senses within the soul, as well
as those physical ones which belong to the outer person, 37 is their
ability, through exercise (askesis), to lead to higher perceptions of
reality (Being), and thus partake in this pneuma. His understanding
of Being in the human person lies somewhere between this notion
of pneuma as sanctifying grace and the work of the intellect as de-
picted by the nous. 38
Even though it is different to the Holy Spirit, and sometimes
endorsed as divine anthropology, the pneuma is a divine created el-
ement which guides the nous. 39 In relation to this nous the pneuma is
like: ‘grace and its graced recipient’. 40 Hans Urs von Balthasar says,
‘As a result of the theory of the triple division of the human being,
the Holy Spirit and the human spirit overlap without sharp bound-
aries. Now Origen did expressly emphasize their difference. How-
ever, the idea of grace as a participation of the human spirit and as
a living indwelling of the divine in the human spirit makes this bor-
the meaning of things with more acute perception.’ Song of Songs, Book I.4,
R.P. Lawson, (trans.), in Origen The Song of Songs Commentary and Homilies,
Ancient Christian Writers, Vol. XXVI. (J. Quasten, & J. C. Plumpe,
(eds.)), (Longmans Green & Co., London, 1957), 79.
37 To the extent that it is associated to the outer man the body does
not fair in the equation of being seen as made after the image, unless it is
capable of being made by the spiritualized inner man the seat of God. The
body is glorified in this sense when it is ‘led’ morally and spiritually other-
wise Origen is often found rebuking it as the ‘tomb’ and the ‘prison’ in
Dialogue With Heraclides, ch. 23–24, R.J. Daly (trans.), Origen Treatise on the
Father, the Son , and the Soul, Ancient Christian Writers, No. 54, W.J.
Passover and Dialogue of Origen with Heraclides and His Fellow Bishops on the
Burghardt, T. C. Lawler & J.J. Dillon (eds.) (Paulist Press, NY, 1992), 75–
6.
38 See Crouzel, 89.
39 See Blosser 96–7, noting H. Crouzel, ‘L’anthropologie d’Origene:
de l’arche au telos,’ (Milan, 1981)

40 Blosser, 96 noting Crouzel, ‘L’anthropologie’ C.f. De Princ.
II.VIII.3–4 where Origen shows the distinction between the soul and the
pneuma as being the gradual transformation of the former to the latter
VICKI PETRAKIS 235
der so to speak fluid.’ 41 Origen thus uses the pneuma as the mediat-
ing principle between God and the human nous similar to the way
Gregory the Theologian will later utilize the closeness of logos/logoi
in a number of different ways to describe God’s activity and for-
mation within the created realm. However, in Gregory the role of
the pneuma is transferred in his Orations to the Holy Spirit itself.
Thus, what pneuma or any of the other terms used by Origen to
denote this activity, whether kardia or eikon, the pneuma presents a
dynamic anthropology of shifting barriers in the realization of the
divine element in the human condition. For Origen, it was at the
realm of moral choices that this pneuma was acquired or engaged
with, when one discovered the rightful use of contemplation (theo-
ria) or the wrongful use of matter.
This ‘coming and fleeting’ capability of the pneuma as part of
the potential divine-human condition is to be distinguished, as
Crouzel notes, from the Holy Spirit, because: ‘It is … a kind of
created participation in the [Holy Spirit] and the Spirit’s seat when
He is present in a man.’ 42 The first to start differentiating the ca-
pacity of the Holy Spirit as the image of the Son, as Crouzel notes,
was Origen’s pupil, Gregory Thaumatourgos in his Exposition of the
Faith which is cited in Gregory of Nyssa’s Life. 43 A clearer identity
of the Holy Spirit and its place in the human condition, however,
was made in the theology of Irenaeus, who presented both Creator
and creation in a unified field of Being, an idea that was highly in-
novative for its time and unusual in its optimistic outlook.
Starting from the traditional line that the human person is
body and soul and made in the image and likeness of God (Against
Heresies, 5.6.1), Irenaeus anticipates that the Spirit of God must be
added to human existence for the latter to come alive and to par-
take in God. He bases the assimilation between God and the hu-
41 Urs von Balthasar, 183. Origen accepts the personal Being of the
Holy Spirit (c.f. De Princ. I.III.1) and sees It as drawing its dependence on
the divine Logos (c.f. Comm. John, II.6).
42 Crouzel, 88.
43 Crouzel, 94.
man person in the Incarnate Logos, 44 who evidences the image of

God, so that in human flesh Christ presented the perfect Man. 45
Both the flesh and becoming divine-like were important human
conditions for Irenaeus and it was Christ who affected what Cart-
wright terms, this ‘existential change’ and ‘mutual identity’. 46
In Against Heresies (5.6.1), the human person is presented in a
holistic manner as a unified body, soul, and spirit with the Holy
Spirit active in their constitution. Quoting Ephesians Irenaeus sug-
gests that the Holy Spirit (τού Πνεύματος αυτού) also called ‘His
Spirit’, or ‘the Father’s Spirit’, is granted to the human condition in
portions, and he calls this co-mingling an engagement (αρραβώνα),
or ‘an earnest’. 47 In what follows Irenaeus outlines his ascetical
formulation for the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit. 48 Cart-
wright, citing Foster, has suggested that God’s image is enabled
44 Against Heresies, (V.16.2). The Incarnation was singularly important

for resolving and perfecting the human condition, c.f. E. Osborn, Irenaeus
of Lyons, (Cambridge University Press, 2001), 213.
45 S. Cartwright, ‘The Image of God in Irenaeus, Marcellus, and Eu-
stathius’, in Irenaeus Life, Scripture, Legacy, (P. Foster and S. Parvis (eds.)),
(Fortress Press, Minneapolis, 2012), 175 citing Minns, Irenaeus (1994, 60)
shows that the image in Christ presents the assimilation between God and
humanity based on flesh.
46 Cartwright, 175, 176.
47 Against Heresies, V.8.1, A. Roberts & J. Donaldson, (eds.) in The
325, Vol. 1, (WM. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., Michigan, 1979), 533.

Ante-Nicene Fathers Translations of The Writings of the Fathers Down to A.D.
Greek text cited from A. Rousseau (trans.) in Irenee De Lyon Contre Les
Heresies, Livre V, Sources Chretiennes, No. 153, (L. Doutreleau, & C.
Mercier. (eds.)), (Les Editions Du Cerf, Paris, 1969), 93.
48 Against Heresies, V.8.2, Roberts & Donaldson, 534, (Greek from A.
Rousseau, 97)Those persons, then, who possess the earnest of the Spirit
[τόν αρραβώνα τού Πνεύματος], and who are not enslaved by the lusts of
the flesh, but are subject to the Spirit [υποτάσσοντας εαυτούς τώ
Πνεύματι], and who in all things walk according to the light of reason
[λογικώς αναστρεφομένους], does the apostle properly term ‘spiritual,’
because the Spirit of God [τό Πνεύμα τού Θεού οικεί εν αυτούς] dwells in
them.
VICKI PETRAKIS 237
within the human person, in Irenaeus’ understanding, by the addi-

tion of the Spirit to the body and the soul.’ 49 Furthermore, Minns
writes: ‘When Irenaeus says that the human being who is fashioned
in the image and likeness of God will not be made up just of body
and soul, but of body and soul and spirit, he means by ‘spirit’ the
Holy Spirit. We will only be completely and perfectly human when
we are partially divine…’ 50 In Irenaeus, the spiritual condition of
the human person is directly related to the indwelling presence of
the Holy Spirit. He commences a new under-standing of anthro-
pology in line with the divine economy of the Trinity, and the bear-
ing of God in creation, a theme which is significantly espoused in
the work of Gregory the Theologian.
The power of the Holy Spirit in Gregory Nazianzen’s work
presents a formidable insight in addressing humanity in a signifi-
cantly dignified manner. The use of the term logos/logoi in Gregory
as a principle of Being (the revelatory and creative Word of God),
fuses the nature of the dichotomy between God and His otherness,
He does this particularly through the anthropology device of join-
ing the Holy Spirit to the human condition integrally. When Grego-
ry defines the human person he does not suggest that they have
pneuma, as well as all the other categories, soul, body, and logos but
rather that they possess the presence of the Holy Spirit itself. 51
Gregory infers by this single principle of logos/logoi, how God is
49 Cartwright, 175 noting P. Foster, ‘God and the World in Saint Ire-
naeus’ (unpublished PhD Thesis, University of Edinburgh, 1985), 310–20.
C.f. Osborn, 225, ‘One cannot divide the divine spirit which shapes and
saves man from the spirit which is a constituent of man. The spirit of man
participates in the spirit of God and thereby brings life to body and soul.’
50 D. Minns, Irenaeus An Introduction, (T&T Clark, 2010), 93.
51 Letter 101.6, L. Wickham (trans.) in St Gregory of Nazianzus On God
and Christ The Five Theological Orations and Two Letters to Cledonius, (St. Vla-
dimir’s NY, 2002), 159, …notice that I myself have had room for soul
[ψυχήν], reason [λόγον] and mind [νούν], and Holy Spirit [Πνεύμα άγιον]
as well, and that before me the cosmos, this structure, I mean, of visibles
and invisibles had room for the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. It is
the nature of things ideal to be mixed with one another and with bodies in
an indivisible and incorporeal way.
inseparably bonded with His creation, and how the human person,
(conditioned with this principle) partakes in the Logos via the in-
dwelling (συμπολιτευόμενον) of the Holy Spirit.
For Gregory, the Holy Spirit indwelt in the human person act-
ing as the ‘Agent’ leading one to prayer, contemplation and desire
for God. He expresses it so: ‘How wondrous is the chain forged by
the Holy Spirit with indissoluble links!’ 52 While asceticism was an
important factor in averting sin, the Holy Spirit, for Gregory, ulti-
mately reveals Its plans and thus guides one in reason. 53 In his Ora-
tion On Pentecost, he has a very corporeal understanding of the Holy
Spirit and its place in creation:
Then he [the Holy Spirit] acted in the disciples of Christ …
and this in three ways…the first manifested him indistinctly,
the second more expressly, and the present one more perfectly,
since he is no longer present [only] by an energy as at first, but
in essence, if one may speak thus, coming to be with them
[συγγινόμενόν] and living [συμπολιτευόμενον] with them. For
it was fitting, since the Son associated with us corporeally, that
the Spirit also should appear corporeally… 54
In Origen, by contrast, the work of the Holy Spirit was reliant on
the Father and the Son rather than ever seen to possess the auton-
omous expression and will of the Trinity. 55
Gregory has a unique understanding of the place of Being as
the logoi vested via the Holy Spirit’s indwelling of the human per-
son. The logoi for Gregory are the divine causes implanted in the
52 Or. 36.1, M. Vinson (trans.), St. Gregory of Nazianzus Select Orations,

(Catholic University of America Press, Washington, D.C., 2003), 220.
53 Or. 31.6, L. Wickham (trans.) On God and Christ, 121, ‘How comes
it then that he [Holy Spirit] does act? He says things, he decrees, he is

grieved, he is vexed – all of which belong to a being with motion, not to
the process of motion.’
54 Or. 41.11, N. V. Harrison (trans.) Festal Orations St Gregory of Nazi-
anzus, (St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, NY, 2008), 153.

55 See P. Martens, ‘Holy Spirit’ in The Westminster Handbook to Origen,
J.A. McGuckin (ed.), (Kentucky, 2004), 125–126, 128. Note however

Crouzel’s comments at 198–203.
VICKI PETRAKIS 239
human condition where we ‘find’ and live God. Gregory takes the
Platonic logistikon of the Soul and makes from this a single princi-
pled formula, a place where divine activity operates in an immanent
capacity, and this because in the human person is placed the seat of
the Holy Spirit. The living presence of the Holy Spirit in the human
condition is subject to our acknowledgement of His presence with-
in us, which brings to mind John Chryssavgis’ insight: ‘Pride is not
the ultimate sin; forgetfulness of who we are is the ultimate trage-
dy.’ 56
56J. Chryssavgis, In the Heart of the Desert Revised The Spirituality of the
Desert Fathers and Mothers, (World Wisdom, 2002), 47.
ST. SHENOUTE OF ATRIPE AND HIS
MONASTIC ORDER
DEACON ANTONIOS THE SHENOUDIAN (A. BIBAWY)
After Pachomius, St. Shenoute of Atripe (c. 348 – c. 466 A.D.) is

the most important monastic figure of coenobitic monasticism in
Egypt. In spite of that, his name is nowhere to be found in the ma-
jor texts that record Egyptian monastic history and the teachings of
the monastic spiritual leaders of his time, including the Lausiac His-
tory of Palladius (c. 419–420 A.D.), the Apophthegmata Patrum (The
Sayings of the Desert Fathers), the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto (The
Lives of the Desert Fathers in Egypt), and the Conferences of John Cassi-
an. There are several theories as to why such a prominent monastic
leader disappears from these famous writings, but laying them aside
for the moment, we would like to concentrate in this paper on
what is currently known and published about Shenoute, resulting
from modern scholarly research that has finally begun give him the
attention he deserves.
There was very little academic attention given to Shenoute un-
til ten to fifteen years ago when his literary corpus was reconstruct-
ed by Stephen Emmel (2004). 1 Prior to that the extant manuscripts
and fragments which remained of the great White Monastery li-
brary in Suhaj, Upper Egypt, were spread throughout the world at
various sites. 2 The only major work worthy of mention was that of
1 c.f. Emmel. 2004.

2 C. Louis, develops this theme in: Christianity and Monasticism in Up-
per Egypt. 2008.
241
242 ST. SHENOUTE OF ATRIPE
Leopold in 1906 3 followed much later (1983) by a translation of

his life from the Bohairic Coptic. 4 Now, besides a few versions of
Shenoute’s biography, there are several academic studies extant,
including translations of nine volumes of his Canons, eight volumes
of Discourses, and a number of letters. There is also an international
team of researchers at work, directed by S. Emmel, professor of
Coptology at the Institute of Egyptology and Coptology at the
University of Münster in Germany. This team is working on tran-
scribing, editing, translating and studying these precious manu-
scripts in order not only to understand Shenoute and his monastic
federation, but also to fill in the gaps of understanding concerning
various other aspects of life in late antiquity with which Shenoute
was involved 5. There has already been a significant increase in dis-
sertations and publications related to Shenoute, and these are
bound to increase and open further doors for studies in a diversity
of academic fields once the translations become readily available.
There are two limitations to the sources currently available.
The first is that not many primary texts from what is extant are yet
widely available. Thus, we must rely on the studies done to date on
the thought of Shenoute, even though only certain isolated quota-
tions have been translated and ‘re-set’ in the context of the author
of the particular study (as distinct from the context of the original
author and work). Once the work of Stephen Emmel’s team is
complete, this limitation should be at least partially resolved, taking
into consideration the extent to which the manuscript corpus sur-
vives in good (and representative) condition. The second limitation
is that all that has been found in the archive are first-hand accounts
from Shenoute himself. This is extremely useful, but when looking
at the broader circumstances of his day and the interactions he had
(at times disagreements) with others, the whole picture cannot be
drawn fully, since the other voices are missing.
3 Johannes Leipoldt. Sinuthii Archimandritae Vita et Opera Omnia,

1906–1913. Accessible at: https://archive.org/details/sinuthiiarchiman
04shen
4 c.f. Bell. 1983.
5 See: http://www.yale.edu/egyptology/ae_white_shenoute_ writ-
ing.htm
DEACON ANTONIOS THE SHENOUDIAN (A. BIBAWY) 243
THE VITA SINUTHII

Besides the known Bohairic Life of Shenoute that was published by
Bell in 1983, there are several other versions of Shenoute’s biog-
raphy that are extant: Sahidic, Arabic, Ethiopic, and Syriac. All are
complete except for the Sahidic. The Arabic version is more than
twice as long as the Bohairic and contains many more additional
episodes and details, compared to the Bohairic. The Syriac version
is the shortest of them all. Nina Lubomierski 6 has analyzed these
different versions and come to the conclusion that the original
script is most likely the longer Arabic version and that the shorter
versions were composed as later abbreviations for different audi-
ences and purposes.
Traditionally, Besa, the disciple and successor of Shenoute as
leader of the White Monastery federation, was considered to be the
author of the Vita Sinuthii, given the many first-person references
and events that are related therein, as if he himself had experienced
them. But recently, given the multiple versions of how Besa ap-
pears in the different episodes presented by these different texts,
Lubomierski has concluded that Besa is most likely not the author
of Shenoute’s biography. A current working hypothesis is that as
Shenoute was remembered yearly on the day of his departure (Abib
7), various sermons and encomia were given in his honor, in which
different stories about his life were told. Over time, the comp-
ilation of these liturgical memoria would grow to become his Vita.
A CHRONOLOGY OF SHENOUTE’S LIFE

The dates of Shenoute’s birth and death are also controverted. The
Vita Sinuthii gives him a long life span of 118 years, because God
had given him the longevity of Moses the archprophet (who lived
120 years). Shenoute proclaimed: ‘The Lord has favoured me with
the lifespan of Moses the archprophet: one hundred and twenty
years. But if you anger me, I shall pray that he take me away before
those years [are accomplished]’ 7. Stephen Emmel supports this
6 With an article in Gabra. 2008

7 Bell. 1983. p. 89.
number 8 but others question it, on account of the individuals who

appear in Shenoute’s correspondence. 9 The normally posited
‘working dates’ for his life are 348–465 (or 466) A.D.
The Vita presents Shenoute as a unique and saintly child. In
fact, his name is a purely Christian Egyptian name meaning ‘son of
God’ which is in contrast to many other early Christian saints’
names that are derived from pagan Egyptian deities (e.g. ‘Serapion’
from the god Serapis, ‘Ammonius’ from the god Amun, ‘Isidorus’
meaning ‘gift of Isis’, etc.). He was born in ‘a village called
Šenalolet in the nome of Šmin’. 10 According to Amélineau,
Šenalolet is the modern village of Shandawîl, situated on the west
bank of the Nile, and less than a dozen miles from both Akhmîm
and the White Monastery. 11 Šmin is the Greek city of Panopolis,
now known as Akhmîm. Shenoute was the son of a farmer who
owned a flock which he left under the care of a shepherd. At the
age of seven, Shenoute began assisting the shepherd. In the even-
ing, the shepherd would send Shenoute home, but on the way, we
are told, the boy would make his way: ‘to a water-cistern, and
stretch out his hands and pray … with the water coming up to his
neck’. 12 When the parents complained to the shepherd that their
child was always late coming home, the shepherd decided to follow
Shenoute one evening after dismissing him. The shepherd found
him under a sycamore tree next to the water-cistern and said: ‘I saw
the young boy’s ten fingers, like ten flaming lamps.’ 13
Shortly after this episode, his parents took him to be blessed
by his maternal uncle, Apa Pjol, who was the first leader of the
White Monastery federation. At this meeting, Apa Pjol: ‘Took Apa
Shenoute’s hand and placed it on his head, saying: ‘Bless me, my
father and archimandrite!’ 14 From that moment, Pjol took in
Shenoute and made him a monk in his monastery. After this, we
8 With an article in Gabra. 2008.

9 See: Lopez. 2013, Appendix A. pp. 131–133).
10 Bell. 1983. p. 42.
11 Bell. 1983. p. 94, n. 7.
12 ibid. p. 42.
13 ibid. p. 43.
14 ibid. p. 43.
encounter numerous stories in the Vita Sinuthii of miraculous oc-

currences at the hands of the ascetic, including exorcisms, prophet-
ic and clairvoyant utterances, multiple visions of Christ (as well as
biblical prophets, apostles, and monastic saints), and miraculous
increases of food to provide for the monks and the people visiting
his monastery.
Even though Shenoute came from a simple background, it is
clear from his writings that he knew both Coptic and Greek. This is
in contrast with Pachomius who, as we know, needed an interpret-
er to communicate with his Greek-speaking monks. Shenoute’s
growing popularity and importance extended outside the bounda-
ries of his Egyptian monastic federation. We know of three patri-
archs of Alexandria who corresponded with him: Cyril of Alexan-
dria (412–444), Dioscorus (444–454), and Timothy. 15 It is not clear
if this latter was Timothy I (380–385) or Timothy II (454–477).
This depends on when Shenoute became the archimandrite of the
federation, and also on the date of his death, both of which are
uncertain.
The patriarch with whom he had the most interaction was St.
Cyril of Alexandria. At one point, Cyril wanted to consecrate him
as bishop, but Shenoute refused. We know this from Shenoute’s
own discourses when he says: ‘How many bishops have spent how
many days and nights here (i.e., at Shenoute’s monastery) with a
multitude of clerics, the élite, soldiers, and other laypersons by the
command of the archbishop, and with his letters, so that I might go
to him to be ordained bishop? But I did not go, because I wanted
the name of God to be glorified.’ And again: ‘When we went to the
great meeting of the holy ecumenical council [in Ephesus 431], the
glorious archbishop testified [about me] to other archbishops,
bishops, and the whole council, praising me and boasting of me,
saying things like: ‘When I sent for him because of that issue (i.e.,
to ordain him as bishop) he did not come, but when I wrote to him
to come to the council with us, he did not place any concern for
himself and joined us quickly in this city before other bishops, be-
fore we had decided anything’. 16 Though Shenoute never became a
15 Lopez. 2013. Appendix A, pp. 131–133.

16 ibid. p. 32 & p. 155, n. 70.
bishop, we know that he received the rank of priest, from several

other references in his biography.
This question becomes important when considering whether
or not he truly attended the Ecumenical Council of Ephesus, in
431 A.D. Some have questioned his presence at this council, as a
part of the Egyptian delegation with Cyril of Alexandria, based on
his name not being listed as one of the members and a story in his
Vita that is considered by most scholars to be folklore. According
to the Vita, at the Council of Ephesus, 431:
When they went into the church to set out the seats and sit
down, they set out in the middle of the assembly another seat
and placed upon it the four holy gospels. When the impious
Nestorius came in with a great display of pride and shameless-
ness, he then picked up the four holy gospels, placed them on
the ground, and sat down in the chair. When my father Apa
Shenoute saw what Nestorius had done, he leaped quickly to
his feet in righteous anger in the midst of our holy fathers,
seized the gospels, picked them up from the ground, and
struck the impious Nestorius on his chest, saying: ‘Do you
want the Son of God to sit on the ground while you sit on the
chair?’ In reply, the impious Nestorius said to my father Apa
Shenoute: ‘What business do you have in this synod? You
yourself are certainly not a bishop, nor are you an archiman-
drite or a superior, but only a monk!’ Our father replied and
said to him: ‘I am he whom God wished to come here in order
to rebuke you for your iniquities and reveal the errors of your
impiety in scorning the sufferings of the only-begotten Son of
God, which he endured for us so that he might save us from
our sins. And it is he who will now pronounce upon you a
swift judgement!’ At that very moment [the impious Nestorius]
fell off his chair to the ground… There and then, the holy Cyr-
il arose, took the head of our father Apa Shenoute and kissed
him. He took the stole which was around his neck and placed
it round the neck of Apa Shenoute. He put in his hand his
staff, and made him an archimandrite. And all who were pre-
sent at the synod cried out: ‘Worthy, worthy, worthy archi-

mandrite!’ 17
Since, historically, Nestorius never attended the sessions of the
council of 431, this story has been met with some skepticism. Even
so, there is considerable evidence that Shenoute did attend the
council.
Another story in the Vita about Shenoute and the Council of
Ephesus concerns his thaumaturgical reputation, and turns around
the Egyptian delegation’s departure from Ephesus to return to
Egypt:
When the king had dismissed them so that they could go back
to their [own] places, my father Apa Shenoute went to board
the ship with our holy fathers Abba Cyril the archbishop and
Apa Victor the archimandrite, but because the lesser servants
did not know him, they said to him: ‘You cannot go on board
with the archbishop’. My father said to them: ‘If not, then the
Lord’s will be done!’ Then he and his disciple who had gone
with him went a short distance away and he stood in prayer,
saying, ‘My Lord Jesus Christ, how will you take me to my
monastery?’ While he was thinking these things to himself, be-
hold! a shining cloud came down from heaven, lifted up both
him and his disciple, snatched him up into the heights, and
flew off with him. And when they reached the open sea, Abba
Cyril looked up and saw my father Apa Shenoute with his dis-
ciple in the middle of the cloud, and cried out: ‘Bless us, our
holy father, the new Elijah!’ My father Apa Shenoute said to
him: ‘Remember me, O my holy father’. And in this way the
cloud flew off with him and brought him to his monastery. 18
The story continues with Cyril the archbishop interrogating
Shenoute about when he arrived back to his monastery. After some
17 Bell. 1983. pp. 78–79.

18 ibid. pp. 47–48.
reservation, Shenoute replies that he had arrived that same evening

to pray with the monks in the monastery. 19
Shenoute’s interactions with Nestorius did not end with the
Council of Ephesus, of 431. The Coptic tradition concerning Nes-
torius preserves stories about his exile most of which are not found
elsewhere. According to the History of the Patriarchs, Nestorius was
being escorted to the Great Oasis when his guard learned that the
warlord Mazices had sacked it, and so he was taken immediately
instead to Panopolis and incarcerated at Psinblje near Shenoute’s
monastery. The Coptic History of the Church in Twelve Books tells of a
confrontation between Nestorius and Shenoute while the former
was there. Nestorius appears to have asked Shenoute to distribute
his goods to the poor, and Shenoute in return is said to have de-
manded that he acknowledge that Mary is the Mother of God.
When Nestorius refuses, Shenoute declines to distribute his goods.
The same story appears in other works (such as the Arabic Life of
Shenoute) where Shenoute calls down an angel who beats Nestorius
to death. Some recent scholars have seen this episode as a possible
indication that Shenoute had a hand in Nestorius’ murder. But
Nestorius’ death as a result of a fall, is related by Evagrius; and the
story of the avenging angel is an obvious theologization after the
event. The Coptic History of the Church also mentions a petition sent
by Nestorius to the Governor Caesarius at Antinoopolis (since
Caesarius was a friend of Shenoute) to ask him to persuade the
latter to desist from his enmity. Caesarius is well known from
Shenoute’s own letters and from an inscription found at the White
Monastery. The existence of such a petition would fit the picture of
Nestorius as portrayed by Evagrius. 20
Shenoute had extensive relations with the secular officials in
Egypt. There is a certain Theodotos, whom Shenoute claims he
19 ibid. pp. 48–49. This story must have become so popular in Egyp-
tian monastic circles that an addition is included in accounts related to
Macarius the Great. In this addition, Shenoute is on the cloud flying over
the wilderness of Scete and sees the prayers of the monks there ascending
like fire before God (c.f. T. Vivian, Saint Macarius, the Spiritbearer. 2004, pp
109–110.
20 Further see: Aziz. Coptic Encyclopedia, pp. 1786a–1787b.
had spoken with, who is possibly the same Theodotos who was a
military governor of Lower Egypt in 435. 21 More importantly, there
were apparently close relations with Caesarius, the military gover-
nor of Upper Egypt. He is mentioned by Shenoute in two separate
discourses and he seems to have visited his monastery at least
twice. He is recorded in the History of the Church of Alexandria as a
personal friend of Shenoute’s, and, crucially, he is named in an in-
scription above the main gate of Shenoute’s church as the founder
of the temple. 22 There is also some evidence in Shenoute’s dis-
courses that he had communications with the emperor Theodosius
II. According to one story in his biography, the emperor once
‘thirsted’ for Shenoute’s presence in Constantinople. The military
governor of the Thebaid was therefore commanded to bring him
over to the imperial capital where the ‘entire senate’ was looking
forward to his visit. Shenoute thought the visit too much of a dis-
traction from his life of prayer and repentance in the monastery,
and as a result applied great thaumaturgical power once again. He
mounted a shining cloud, flew over to the royal palace in Constan-
tinople, blessed the emperor, and came back the same night.
Though this is clearly a variant of the Ephesine travel tale, it speaks
about some level of access to the imperial court’s patronage.
His own writings do speak about time spent in Constantinople
(perhaps in the aftermath of the Council of Ephesus when intense
lobbying was being conducted in the capital city and at Chalcedon
on behalf of Cyril and Nestorius who were being held under house
arrest in the immediate aftermath of the Council of 431). On that
occasion the emperor came down decisively in favor of the Egyp-
tian leaders. It may not be surprising, therefore, that Shenoute
could later threaten his enemies at Panopolis with the emperor’s
disfavor. These political relations would help explain how Shenoute
was able to provide so extensively for the poor at his monastery
and also how he might have been allowed state funds to build the
White Monastery’s great church.
21 Lopez, 2013, Appendix A, p. 131.

22 ibid., p. 132.
Lastly, the Life of Shenoute goes into some detail concerning the
time and manner of his death. 23 In order to establish his status with
the saints and great monastic fathers, the biography states that after
he had been in a coma:
Suddenly he cried out: ‘Of your charity, my holy fathers, bless
me; come and sit before me in your ordered ranks.’ He said
again: ‘Behold! The patriarchs have come with the prophets;
behold the apostles with the archbishops; behold the archi-
mandrites have come with all the saints’. And again he said:
‘My father Apa Pšoi, my father Apa Antony, my father Apa
Pachomius, take my hand so that I may rise and worship him
whom my soul loves, for behold! He has come for me with his
angels!’ At that moment, there came a great fragrance. Then,
on that day, the seventh of Epiphi, he gave his soul into the
hands of God.’ 24
SHENOUTE’S MONASTIC ORDER: THE WHITE

MONASTERY FEDERATION
Shenoute of Atripe was the third leader of a notable monastic fed-
eration near Panopolis in Upper Egypt (present day Akhmim) that
included two monasteries for male monks, the White Monastery
(commonly known as Deir Anba Shenuda) and the Red Monastery
(commonly known as Deir Anba Pšoi), and one for women in
Atripe itself. This federation was separate and distinct from the
Pachomian Koinonia, or federation, even though it is known that the
bishop of Panopolis asked Pachomius to establish a monastery in
the Pachomian region. 25 The first leader of the White Monastery
federation was Pjol, Shenoute’s maternal uncle. It was traditionally
believed, from the Vita, that Shenoute inherited the leadership of
the federation after the departure of his uncle. However, from the
recent work done on the manuscripts of the White Monastery li-
brary, it has become more evident that there was a monk by the
name of Ebonh that immediately succeeded Pjol as the head of the
23 ibid. pp. 89–92.

24 ibid. p. 91.
25 Veilleux. 1980–82. Pachomian Koinonia, vol. I pp. 352–353.
federation. During the leadership of Ebonh, there was some behav-

ior within the monastery that Shenoute was unhappy with. There
was evidence of improper sexual behaviors along with stealing and
other disorders that, according to Shenoute, was either not being
dealt with properly by Ebonh or was being overlooked. Therefore,
when no action was being taken, Shenoute left the confines of the
monastery and decided to live in the wilderness. This self-exile into
a hermit state resulted in his being recalled as the new higumen-
abbot. Under his leadership the number of male monks reached
2,200 and female monks 1,800. Shenoute remained the head of the
federation until his death in 465/6 at which time his disciple, Besa,
became the new leader. After Besa one Zenobius became the ab-
bot. 26
THE STRUCTURE OF THE FEDERATION

As was the case with the Pachomian Koinonia, the hierarchical sys-
tem of authority in the White Monastery federation under
Shenoute 27 began with the supreme head being the archimandrite,
i.e. Shenoute himself, who presided over all the federation. But
then, in each of the three different monasteries there was also an
‘Eldest’ with a supportive council. Of course, for the male monas-
teries both the eldest and the council were male monks. For the
women’s monastery, there was also an eldest female monk with a
supportive council. There seem to be times when another senior
(male) monk was sent to the monasteries, either as their superior or
in the name of Shenoute as his envoy. 28 Last in the hierarchy of
officers was the housemaster of the divisions, the buildings where
the monks lived. There were also hermits living in solitude in the
desert outside of the monastery, but they were still collectively un-
der Shenoute’s supreme authority. When someone desired to enter
one of the monasteries in this federation, they were to take an oath:
Every person shall say this: I vow before God in his holy place,
the word which I have spoken with my mouth being my wit-
26 Bell. 1983. p. 22 & p. 35, n. 126.

27 See: Bentley Layton’s paper in Gabra. 2008.
28 Krawiec. 2002.
ness: I will not defile my body in any way; I will not steal; I will
not bear false witness; I will not lie; I will not do anything de-
ceitful secretly. If I transgress what I have vowed, I will see the
kingdom of heaven, but will not enter it. God, before whom I
made the covenant, will destroy my soul and my body in the
fiery Gehenna because I transgressed the covenant I made. 29
It is the first known form of a formal monastic ‘profession’ vow. In
this oath, we see a great emphasis on each monk’s individual purity
and holiness not only for his own sake and salvation, but also be-
cause the monastery itself was a holy place and a monk’s life should
be compatible, protecting it from defilement. 30
From several letters to the women’s monastery from Shenoute
that are extant, it appears that there were some tensions resulting
from Shenoute’s interactions with them and his visits to them. 31 It
seems that his predecessors Abbots Pjol and Ebonh had not been
very involved in the life of the women’s monastery and, therefore,
the women had evolved a fairly loose system, with more freedom
to choose their own rules. When Shenoute became the head of the
federation, he tried to unify the monastic rules and set canons to be
followed by both men and women monastics alike. This was not
well received at times by some of the women monks, or the elders,
an outcome that prompted supervisory visits by an elder male
monk, perhaps even Shenoute in person. These visits in at least
two instances stirred up further strife in the women’s community.
But the long duration of Shenoute’s leadership puts these few in-
stances of dissent among the women’s community into perspective,
and they may be explained as a result of change of policy in his
early years; settling down in due time. Krawiec’s analysis of
Shenoute’s rule over the women monastics is critical of his ‘imposi-
tions’. While her study is a closely detailed one, many of her pre-
suppositions about gender roles at play here reflect more of a 21st
century theoretical grounding than a 5th century one. She also fails
to take into consideration the canonical fact that Shenoute was a
29 Bell. 1983. pp. 9–10.

30 Schroeder. 2007.
31 Krawiec. 2002.
priest with not only monastic, but significant sacramental ecclesias-

tical authority. At that time, as now, the female monastics would
have depended on having an ordained male monastic to serve the
liturgy, to take confessions, to give spiritual guidance, and to cele-
brate the Eucharist.
THE DAILY SCHEDULE OF MONASTIC LIFE

In analyzing Canons 4 and 5 of Shenoute’s rule, Bentley Layton 32
has been able to reconstruct the probable daily schedule of the
monks in the White Monastery. ‘Just before dawn, a great assembly
was organized, that is, a collective meeting for prayer and handi-
work in each entire congregation (possibly in the church building).
At 1st hour (6 A.M.), prayer and handiwork in the houses; at the
[…] hour (9 A.M.?), prayer and handiwork in the houses; at the 6th
hour (12 noon), the daily meal; at the 9th hour (3 P.M.), prayer and
handiwork in the houses; at eventide, a great assembly.’ These ca-
nonical hours of prayer are identical to the liturgical book of hours
used in the Coptic Orthodox Church to this day. Furthermore, on
a quarterly basis, the canons (rules or ethos of the house) were read
to the entire monastery. It should be noted here that what are
commonly called the canons are not a specifically numbered set of
rules laid out in a systematic fashion, but rather a set of exhorta-
tions given in a sermon-like format on different occasions over
time as various situations occurred. However, from early times they
have been considered and propagated as canons for the monastic
rule, as deriving from Shenoute.
RULES CONCERNING HEALTH CARE AND FOOD:

In Late Antiquity, the care of the sick was based mainly on the re-
mit of personal finances available locally. If one had money, availa-
ble medical care was possible. Otherwise, they could only rely on
local patrons (as clientes). However, the patron was often not willing
to pay for medical care since the one he was paying for was benefi-
cial to him (usually in a mutual way) through services rendered to
him and work performed for him. Once that person became ill, he
32 Layton, in Gabra. 2008.

or she was no longer useful (no longer a cliens fulfilling the basic
duties of that state). The sick person became a liability instead of an
investment. Due to this endemic neglect of those who were ill, at
the core of this ancient social-patronage system, Christian charity
(individual and institutional) became increasingly more important
in caring for the sick. Christian charity did not require the mutual
benefit of the sick who could render services back to whoever pro-
vided them health care. In the coenobitic monastic rule, this behav-
ior became institutionalized in the commands to care for the
monks. This can be seen as a notable factor in both the Pachomian
Koinonia and in the White Monastery federation. 33 Several of the
canons speak directly about the care of sick monks in the monas-
tery complex. An infirmary was provided that was in an isolated
area separate from the rest of the community. If necessary, a physi-
cian was brought in to examine and treat the monks. Extra food
rations and more varied types of food were provided for the ill that
were not generally allowed for the healthy monks. In fact, at times
healthy monks would feign illness in order to go to the infirmary
and get extra food. This ruse was specifically prohibited in the can-
ons (in addition to a severe prohibition about keeping extra food
reserved in one’s cell). Crislip (2005) suggests that this aspect of
particular care for the sick, witnessed in Pachomian and Shenoutian
monasticism, was adopted by Basil the Great and Gregory the
Theologian when they developed the great Basileiad project, and
through this mediation it came into the great ‘spread’ of Byzantine
monastic consciousness. This innovation in antique society is, of
course, similar to the invention of our modern conception of a
hospital. The Basileiad became a model for the development of mo-
nastically staffed hospitals throughout the Byzantine empire and
thereafter.
SHENOUTE’S DISCIPLINARY CANONS

One of the major themes in Shenoute’s canons is the issue of mo-
nastic purity and holiness. 34 This holiness was not just something
33 Crislip. 2005.
34 Schroeder. 2007.
considered at the level of the individual monk, but was seen collec-
tively: in the sense that each monk’s holiness affected the holiness
of the entire community. Each monk was to keep his own body
pure for his own sake and for the sake of the single monastic body
comprised of all the monks in the community. For Shenoute, the
defilement by sin of any one monk would risk the entire family of
monks being defiled with impurity in God’s sight. Shenoute de-
rived this theme of his theology from the Pauline concept of the
Church being the single mystical body of Christ. 35 Therefore, if a
monk was unrepentant, he was liable to be expelled from the
community, just as the Apostle Paul excommunicated the sinner of
Corinth, 36 not only so that he might be shocked into repentance,
but also for the protection and salvation of the larger community
of ‘pure believers’. In this way Shenoute builds upon the eschato-
logical teaching of Christ when he says:
But when he (the Lord) says, ‘If your brother does not listen to
you, let him be for you an enemy, like one whom you have
never seen,’ because the Lord first wishes that we cut him off
from us after we reproach him in order that he perhaps indeed
might regret after he has become a stranger with respect to
God, since he is our brother, and so that he might return and
repent, and we might forgive him up to seventy seven times,
such that he does not sin again, since we know to cut him off
from us because of his sin. But if it does not please him to turn
from sin – because of which we know to cut him off from us –
then we will indeed cut him off from us, and he shall not re-
turn to us, and we shall not love him. But he shall be for us an
enemy with respect to God, even though he is our brother.
And in this way, the person who loves God reveals all of his
desire for the Lord, since he loved him (the Lord) more than
his brother and more than his father and his mother. For it is a
great perfection for the person to cut himself off from his
brother or his son or his daughter or his father or his mother
35 1Corinthians 12; Ephesians 1:22–23; 4:15–16; Colossians 1:24

36 1Corinthians 5.
or any other person because of God, whenever they sin against

God who created them. 37
Alongside with expulsion (as one of the most severe disciplinary
actions against unrepentant monks, there also stood a robust atti-
tude in Shenoute’s federation towards the use of corporal punish-
ment. This application of discipline involved beatings 38 – some-
thing that is perhaps shocking to a modern sensibility, but which
was an aspect of the social control of ancient villages (in peasant
levels of low-ranking citizens – as it was forbidden to the higher
ranks of the kalokagathoi). The female monks were beaten on their
feet whereas it appears that the male monks were beaten more se-
verely on their upper body. The theological justification for this
practice was based on the perception of the monastic community
as a family and the application of the Old Testament injunctions
such as that from Proverbs: ‘The one who spares his rod, hates his
sons and daughters’ (Proverbs 13:24). It is notable that we do not
have the same level of physical discipline in the Pachomian Koi-
nonia. It was used in the Byzantine houses later, particularly for
lower class and recalcitrant monks. And one imagines it occurred
more often than it appears in texts. It is in one’s clear sight in
Shenoute because it appears in the canons, and also, one suspects,
because the majority of the community were of the fellahin class.
The ‘diplomatic silence’ in other Byzantine monastic sources does
not allow us a really fair comparison – as to how ‘violent’
Shenoute’s system was in the wider Christian perspective of the
time. In one notorious case, however, a monk was beaten for re-
peated sins in the monastery, and subsequently died. 39 The cause of
death is not clear, but Shenoute was apparently greatly blamed for
it by a group of monks who used the occasion to lead an uprising
against Shenoute’s governance. Shenoute defended himself (again
applying a notably ‘direct’ eschatological sense of theodicy) by say-
37Shenoute, Canon 3, YA 426–27, in Leipoldt, Opera Omnia, 4:128.

See Mt. 18:16–22, 10:37; Luke 14:26; as cited in Schroeder. 2007. pp. 79–
80.
38 Krawiec. 2002. pp. 28–29, 40–42, 141–143.
39 Krawiec. 2002. pp. 43–45.
ing that it was God’s time for that monk to pass away, according to
God’s judgment. Unfortunately, the complete details as to the age,
health, sins committed, and the severity of the beatings of the
monk who died are not available to us, and whether the beating
directly caused the death, and therefore, a clear adjudication of the
issue cannot be made. A careless causation of death by a cleric, of
course, was a serious canonical offence in the Church systems of
the day; and generally would be grounds for deposition. Shenoute
evidently survived this rebellion against his authority.
SHENOUTE’S CARE OF THE POOR

Perhaps one of the most interesting aspects of Shenoute’s monastic
order was his involvement with the lay people of that region 40. In
contrast with the Pachomian Koinonia, Shenoute opened his monas-
tery on Saturdays and Sundays to lay people and pilgrims and gave
them religious instruction. He was quite generous in providing for
the poor and in many cases acted as their patron while at the same
time he was robustly denouncing the wealthy, particularly the mid-
dle and upper classes of the local capital Panopolis; whom he
thought had a careless attitude to the physical and spiritual welfare
of their local people. This theme is seen throughout his Letters and
Sermons. We even have accounts of Shenoute defending poor Chris-
tians in civil suits. There is a detailed story in the Arabic Life of
Shenoute of when he and his monastery accommodated 20,000 peo-
ple (so it says) whose villages had been raided by the Nubians (the
Blemmyes tribe in the south). 41 In a short work by Shenoute, enti-
tled Continuing to Glorify the Lord, found in an Appendix to Canon 7 42
he refers to this story himself relating how the Lord worked during
this time to provide for the masses of people in need. Putting the
two sources together, we learn how the federation fed multitudes
of refugees (at times miraculously), buried 94 people, assisted with
52 new births, and provided seven physicians to care for the sick
and wounded, entirely from out of the monastery’s own expenses
40 Lopez. 2013.
41 Lopez. 2013. pp. 57–62
42 ibid. p. 57 & p. 166, n. 63.
which God had blessed for fulfilling these acts of charity in time of
war.
SHENOUTE’S OPPOSITION TO PAGANISM

Paganism was still very much alive in Egypt in this period of Late
Antiquity despite its adoption as the state religion of the Byzantine
empire. Emperor Theodosius I’s anti-pagan decrees opened the
door for the abolition of pagan festivals, practices, and the destruc-
tion of pagan temples and sites as we see with the Serapeum of
Alexandria during the time of Theophilus, the 23rd Pope of Alex-
andria. Once Egyptian religion lost its state subsidies and extensive
taxation rights, it soon financially collapsed. The priesthoods were
ruined almost immediately, but the ‘spiritual practices’ of the old
religion (never a domestic entity as Christianity would come to be),
and its thought patterns still existed in wider society, even if not as
openly as before.
This was Shenoute’s context in 5th century Upper Egypt.
Some pagan temples were transformed into churches at this time
and spaces previously used for secular purposes were comman-
deered; but many sites still existed as pagan cult centers even
though a very large number of them were abandoned when they
lost their endowment. We have at least three accounts of
Shenoute’s involvement with pagan sites and practices. 43 One of
these events involved Shenoute’s destroying an abandoned and
ancient pagan temple in Atripe because of its symbolic value and
the negative effect it’s presence may have had on the Christians in
that area. This, surprisingly, did not create the uproar one would
expect from the destruction of an ‘ancient religious site’. Shenoute
also relates to us another episode when in the middle of the night
he took seven monks and secretly stole the household idols of a
rich landowner and patron in Panopolis by the name of Gesios.
According to Shenoute, this was done without any harm to anyone
and for the purpose of exposing this man’s hidden idol worship
and hypocrisy (for he regularly appeared to receive public Christian
teaching by Shenoute himself). This second ‘raid’ created more of a
43 ibid. pp. 102–126.

disturbance among the people than the previous instance because

Gesios was apparently somewhat abusive and ruthless to those to
whom he provided his patronage. The third situation did not in-
volve direct participation by Shenoute. Some of the Christians in
the countryside village of Pneuit (Banawit today) located in the dis-
trict of Panopolis attacked and burned down the village temple.
This provoked a furious reaction from the local pagan priests, who
in turn accused the Christian mob before the provincial governor.
As a result these Christians were taken to Antinoe, the provincial
capital. When Shenoute got word of this, he departed immediately
to defend them before the governor, and succeeded in getting the
Christians absolved from punishment for their act. He was then
paraded triumphantly on the shoulders of the (Christian) crowd to
the local church in Antinoe where the people sought to touch him
and receive his blessing.
CONCLUSIONS
There are many important facets of Shenoute which touch on
many important aspects about ancient Christianity, monasticism,
and general conditions of life in Late Antiquity. His Vita and writ-
ings allows us a glimpse into the still obscure culture of his day. His
important personality and the larger impact he had on the devel-
opment of monastic lifestyles is only now being appreciated in its
real importance. This small summary certainly does not do him
justice, but hopefully it gives some insight into the range and depth
of his involvement in the lives of not only the monks under his rule
but also the people and society of his day and region. Unfortunate-
ly, until the past decade or two we have had to rely on the major
focus of earlier scholarship on Shenoute which had caricatured his
strict rule as violent and deranged, and his theology (bizarrely since
it is passionate and devout) as ‘Christ-less.’ His personality was de-
scribed as an ‘erupting volcano’ (given his use of corporal punish-
ment, his protocol of expulsion for severe crimes, and his orches-
tration of the raiding of pagan sites). Most of this depiction of him
as an ‘undesirable’ was massively colored by anachronistic expecta-
tion of the tenor of ancient societies, and a strange set of adjudica-
tions from those who professed to be historians. Today, some of
the latest scholarship that has studied Shenoute’s life and ministry
from the larger store of manuscripts now available, has begun to
put his behavior, teaching, and theology in the perspective of his
own words and times thereby giving him a greater depth, and al-
lowing us deeper appreciation. We look forward to the ongoing
work of transcribing, editing, and translating the remaining primary
texts in order to gain an even more comprehensive picture of this
important strand of Egyptian monasticism, which should open the
door for many more enlightening studies to come.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
A.S. Aziz Coptic Encyclopedia, New York. 1991.
D. Bell, (tr). Besa, Life of Shenoute. Kalamazoo. 1983.
A.T.Crislip From Monastery to Hospital: Christian Monas-
ticism & the Transformation of Health Care in
Late Antiquity. Ann Arbor. 2005.
S. Emmel Shenoute’s Literary Corpus. Louvain. 2004.
G. Gabra, (et al.) Christianity and Monasticism in Upper Egypt.
Cairo. 2008.
R. Krawiec Shenoute & the Women of the White Monas-
tery: Egyptian monasticism in Late Antiquity.
Oxford. 2002.
A. G. Lopez Shenoute of Atripe and the Uses of Poverty:
Rural Patronage, Religious Conflict, and Mo-
nasticism in Late Antique Egypt. Berkeley.
2013.
C.T. Schroeder Monastic Bodies: Discipline and Salvation in
Shenoute of Atripe. Philadelphia. 2007.
A. Veilleux (tr). Pachomian Koinonia. Kalamazoo. 1980–1982.
T. Vivian (tr). Saint Macarius, the Spiritbearer: Coptic Texts
Relating to Saint Macarius the Great. Crest-
wood, N.Y. 2004.
HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF
ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM
ATSEDE MARYAM ELEGBA
Ethiopia is a place and concept where the mystical and material

meet, in story and song, image and stone, on parchment, in greet-
ing, conversation, and even the characters of the fidel (alphabet).
Church and monastery, gädäm (desert) or däbr (mountain), are
words used interchangeably, because the monasteries are often ac-
tive places of worship for monks, priests and laity. The church:
whether on a mountain, in a cave, or cut out deep in the bowels of
the earth, is a place where heaven on earth is realized. Humans be-
come angels and God transcends; not least in the storyteller (gädlat:
literally – struggles, hagiographies) and most of all through the ex-
amples and persons of the saints.
The Ethiopians have always regarded monasticism as a highly
elevated form of Christianity. Monasteries have been a centrifugal
force of national faith and practice as well as serving as the major
regulators for domestic and foreign policy of the Christian king-
dom from ancient times until the twentieth century. As Getatchew
Haile says: ‘The monks were the voice of the church and the mon-
asteries the heart of the church.’ 1 Many examples of exist of Ethio-
pian monastics who suffered martyrdom because they publically
chastised political leaders for behaving contrary to Christian ethics.
Most significantly these Christian holy ascetic men and women
have been powerful exponents in the spread of Christianity
1 Haile, 1991. Entry reference CE:990b–995b in vol. 2 of Atiya (ed).

The Coptic Encyclopedia.
261
262 HAGIOGRAPHIC TRADITIONS OF ETHIOPIAN MONASTICISM
throughout all of Ethiopia and beyond. This great missionary im-

pulse of Ethiopian monasticism is a likely explanation why the in-
stitution is so widely and so highly regarded.
Monasticism might seem odd, relative to so many and deep
African traditions that place such a big emphasis on familial com-
mitment, generational continuum, and the place of the ancestors,
and correspondingly nurture a low regard for those who have no
children. 2 But like the scriptural commands to leave family and kin
for the sake of the Gospel, this paradox has its roots in the founda-
tions of the Christian religion itself. In Ethiopia the ascetic life took
root in the very early stages of Christianity’s presence there. Solitary
eremitism came to the Ethiopian highlands from the tradition of
St. Antony, and communal cenobitism came as exemplified by the
Pachomian Koinonia. Indeed, the rule of Pachomius was among the
first books ever translated into Ge’ez (an ancient dialectic of Ethi-
opic). 3
Scholars of Ethiopia today think three events to be singularly
responsible for the historical spread of monasticism in Ethiopia:
firstly Monks migrating from North Africa; the Mediterranean or
Byzantine world, particularly Egypt and Syria in the 5th to 6th centu-
ries; secondly the rise of Abuna Täklä Haymanot (1214–1313); and
thirdly the arrival of Metropolitan Ya’eqob (1338–1345) during the
reign of Ae’Amd Seyon. Several groups of monks have been identi-
fied as coming from the Byzantine world between the 5th and 7th
centuries. One group in particular is called the Nine Saints. This
important group came, with a strong hierarchical structure they had
learned elsewhere (possibly Syria) bringing their advanced books of
ascesis with them, as well as traditions of scriptural copying, and,
possibly, service books, and other educational materials. 4
2 Persoon, 1999. p. 61.

3 Haile, 1991. op. cit.
4 Aragawi/Zamikael was leader of the nine saints who came to Ethi-
opia, and had a profound reorganizing effect. Eachone traditionally estab-

lished their own monastic center or school. The Nne are: Pantelwon, who
is remembered for helping King Kaleb in 525 by praying for his success in
rescuing the Christian community in Najran in Arabia. And also for never
leaving his cell for 45 years until his death. Yeshaq (Isaac)/Garima- most
ATSEDE MARYAM ELEGBA 263
Monastic values permeate the Ethiopian church especially

through the hagiographies that hold up to the laity a standard and
image of holiness. Monastic saints are remembered every single day
in the Orthodox Church calendar. Legends of sainted monks work
their way into every Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church ser-
vice (EOTC) as a story, a hymn or in iconic form. It is not unusual
to hear a conversation referencing the exploits of one of the saints.
I Myself have heard such remarks in church as these, repeated by a
lay member explaining the contemporary rules of fasting: ‘We only
fast a few days … but you know what he did, (pointing to the icon of
Täklä Haymanot) and he was standing on one leg all that time.’ 5 And
on another occasion: ‘Lalibela had a vision. The churches revealed
themselves as he was digging them out. The vision told him where
to go. He started digging and the next day when he came back,
twice as much was dug out because the angels had helped him’. 6 It
is remarkable how close their recollection is to the gadla even
likely a prince who left his parents palace to come to Ethiopia at the re-
quest of Abba Pantelwon. His monastery is Madera at Adwa, in Tigre.
This house is also the keeper of the oldest known illustrated gospel manu-
script in the world, as well as the former home and school of two influen-
tial monks and ecclesial leaders in the twenty-first century. Afse is said to
have ascended to heaven like Elijah. Gubba founded his monastery near
Abba Garima but there are no remains surviving today. Alef founded
Dabra Halle Luya in Tigre. There is then Yemata but little is known about
his activities or person. Liqanos built his hermitage, Debre Qonasel, north
of Aksum. Today it is called Dabre Liqanos. And lastly - Sehma settled
southeast of Adwa but his monastery no longer exists. All Ethiopian
monks today take pleasure in in tracing their monastic lineage to one of
these saints; however, most are linked to Arägawi/Zämikael through Yo-
hanni, the 7th abbot of Dabra Damo. Yohanni’s spiritual sons Iyyasus
Mo’a of Amhara, Täklä Haymanot of Shoa and Daniel of Tigre have been
the most influential in Ethiopia’s monastic history.
5 Girma Tessema, ETOC lay church member (Personal communica-
tion, 22 September 2013).

6 Kidane Mariam, ETOC lay church member (Personal communica-
tion, 3 February 2014).

though the persons speaking might not even remember reading

these stories, or hearing them read.
In this paper I would like to sketch out some of the ways mo-
nastic tradition lives in the Ethiopian theological experience, par-
ticularly through the narratives of the saints. These stories, embed-
ded with miraculous elements and legends that can be so frustrat-
ing to western historians, are integral to Ethiopian literary, histori-
cal, and theological culture. They are not simply random or enter-
taining folklore, but build on a complex oral, textual and visual
pedagogic tradition. They still inform an Ethiopian understanding
of theology, identity and also politics. Every significant culture has
its own national narrative, or myth, that seeks to establish a more
encompassing identity in place and time. In the case of Ethiopia it
is lodged in the monastic hagiographies. I propose in what follows
to discuss selected saints, and give a brief history and taxonomy of
Ethiopian monasticism and canon law, in order to show how mo-
nasticism functions in the wider society. The mystical, supernatural
and the intentional act of ‘recreating biblical and divine presence in
everyday life’ will be recurring themes throughout this paper, since
it is our thesis that they are also the leitmotif of the historic Ethio-
pian culture.
SAINTS AND HAGIOGRAPHIES

The saints celebrated by the Ethiopians include: most of the saints
of the Christian church who were renowned before the council of
Chalcedon (451), all the saints of the Alexandrian Coptic church;
and then a large list of indigenous Ethiopian saints. The Coptic
Synaxarion is the major source of the Ethiopian hagiographies. Like
many other examples of ancient Synaxaria the passage of time has
introduced many divergent readings in the different vitae. The list is
so massively dominated by monastic saints that one is hard pressed
to find a single example of a married saint with a family, with the
possible exception of the Kings and Queens of the Zagwe dynasty
(1137–1270).
A concrete example of a major monastic saint may give us the
essential flavor. Abuna Täklä Haymanot the most celebrated of all
Ethiopian saints is also revered in the Coptic Church. A glimpse of

his life, as translated by Wallis Budge, 7 will tell us much about the
character of most Ethiopian hagiography. It is worth recording in
some length:
The head of the monks, Täklä Haymanot was born to a priest
and a barren mother, who prayed for a son. After rescuing the
couple from danger, Michael the Archangel came back to an-
nounce the birth of their son whose righteousness should be
heard of in all the ends of the earth …. A son was born on 24
Tahsas (January2) and they named him Fesehha Seyon (or Za-
ra Yohannes in the Synaxarion). On third day after his birth he
cried out: ‘One is the Holy Father, One is the Holy Son, One
is the Holy Spirit’. As a child he worked signs and wonders and
learned the Psalms of David and all the books of the church at
the age of seven. As a young man he refused marriage. He
sealed himself in his virginity, and he was adorned with holi-
ness … Shortly after the woman to whom his parents be-
trothed him died. As he was hunting wild beasts in the desert,
our Lord appeared to him sitting on the wings of St. Michael
saying: ‘O My beloved, hence forward thou shalt not be a
hunter of wild beasts, but thou shalt catch many souls in thy
net. And thy name shall be Täklä Haymanot, for I have chosen
thee from thy mother’s womb, and I have sanctified thee like
Jeremiah the prophet, and John the Baptist. And behold, I
have given thee power to heal the sick, and to drive out un-
clean spirits in all the world.’ …
Shortly thereafter, his parents died and he became a priest. In
the years to come he was beaten and died more than once, but
God raised him sound and unharmed. Following God’s orders,
he consecrated tabernacles, served with other disciples, taught
the books of the Prophets and Apostles, made countless pros-
trations, worked the flour mill, drew water, and cut firewood
7Budge, 1928. for Nehasse 24 (August 30) the day he died. ibid. pp.
714–716; also Budge. life of Takla Hâymânôt 1906.
without ceasing, performed miracles, raising the dead and heal-

ing the sick 8 …
When Täklä Haymanot left his spiritual father Abba Iyasus
Moa in the monastery at Hayak by the sea, he followed St Mi-
chael as he led him, walking on the sea as if it were dry land.
He went to Tigre and ascended the mountain and lived in
Dabra Damo monastery where Abba Yohanni was the abbot.
He received the cowl and the cloak from him and proceeded
to emulate the famed nine saints and began to observe the or-
dinances of the monastic life. After a time God then told him
to leave the mountain and go into the deserts and visit the
monasteries. 9
Abba Yohanni and the other monks went with him to the edge
of the mountain that was impossible to descend without a
strong rope. As they watched Täklä Haymanot go down, the
rope broke and as our father the holy man fell, six wings were
given to him and he rose up through beating the air with them
and he flew away for a distance of three stadia whilst the
monks of the monastery were watching him. 10
8 Budge, 1906. pp. 62–63.

9 Budge, 1928. p 716
10 Budge, 1928. 180.
Abuna Täklä Haymanot

Many years later after passing through all the deserts he came
to Showa, and in due course to Gerarya where he built a cell
among the rocks in the desert. He began a new and more se-
vere asceticism, so that he might acquire the knowledge of the
taste of perfect contending. 11 The cell was just large enough
for him to stand and to stretch out his hands to his left and
right. He placed sharp iron goads all around him so as to
pierce him if he were to sit or lie down. He stood like a pillar
without a stick and he said: ‘I will not go up into my bed, and I
will give neither sleep to my eyes, nor slumber to my eyelids,
nor rest to my jaws until I find the place of God, and the habi-
tation of the God of Jacob.’ He did not eat or take drink ex-
cept on the Sabbath. He did not speak except to praise God
11 Ibid, 222
day and night. He never left his cell, and many disciples came
to him. After standing in his cell for so long, his thighbone
broke and one of his legs dropped off. His disciples wrapped it
and buried it under the ark of the church. Then he stood up on
one foot for seven more years, for four of which he did not
even drink water. Eventually he finished his spiritual servitude,
having fasted like the prophets, preached the gospel like the
apostles, endured suffering like the martyrs and led a solitary
life like the monks. One day our Lord Jesus Christ, Lady Mary,
fifteen prophets, twelve apostles and multitudes of the hosts of
heaven came to set him free from his servitude. 12
St. Täklä Haymanot is a historical figure whose life and works have
been heavily embellished (as with most saints) in his gädl (hagiog-
raphy), to solidify his position as a preeminent national saint. The
stated spiritual lineage from one of the foundational ‘Nine Saints’,
further validates him, and thus his later disciples and the enduring
importance of his monastery. Täklä Haymanot’s gädl traces his spir-
itual lineage directly to St. Antony. The gädl is our primary source
for his life and for many Ethiopian saints the hagiographical note is
the only source or record about their lives, their history and
works. 13
Historically speaking the saint was born in Shewa (central
Ethiopia) during the Zagwe dynasty (1137–1270). According to
tradition his ancestors migrated from the north to the central re-
gions and were concerned with the evangelization of an area then
considered to be a pagan and Islamic stronghold. As a priest, Täklä
Haymanot is known to have converted many in Shewa and Damot.
As the hagiography tells, he later went north to study in the ancient
Christian centers; namely, with Abbot Basalota Mika’el at Dabra
Gol in Amhara; with Abbot Iyyasus Mo’a at Dabra Hayq Estifanos
in Amhara; and with Abbot Yohanni at Dabra Damo in Tigre. Af-
ter receiving the monastic garb and acquired the authority to ton-
sure monks he returned to Shewa and established the monastery
that would eventually become the renowned Dabra Libanos. The
12 Ibid, 224
13 Kaplan. 1984. p.10
followers of both Iyyasus Mo’a and Täklä Haymanot claim the re-
sponsibility for reinstating the Solomonic dynasty in 1270. It has
long been thought that it was the support of this monastery’s lead-
ing clergy that was most instrumental in overthrowing the Zagwe
dynasty and enthroning Yekunno Amlak. Many of the close fol-
lowers of Yekuno Amlak and Täklä Haymanot were blood relatives
of each of them – which would have given them a considerable
advantage in terms of close bonding and unanimity of purpose. 14
Monasticism flourished again after the restoration of the Solomon-
ic dynasty. 15 During Täklä Haymanot’s leadership of the renowned
monastery, Dabra Libanos wielded enormous political and ecclesial
influence and spread Christianity throughout Ethiopia. However
the most celebrated stories of this saint, still recounted by the faith-
ful, are more concerned with his personal severe ascetic practice
and devotion.
Another major figure in the hagiographies is St. (Abuna) Ara-
gawi or Zamika’el. He was the leader of a group of famous saints
that came from Egypt to Ethiopia. He founded the monastery of
Dabra Damo where Iyyasus Mo’a and Täklä Haymanot were
clothed in the monastics habit by Abba Yohanni, ‘a spiritual de-
scendent of Aragawi’. 16 He established and built his monastery, on
the top of a mountain that could only be accessed by rope (as it is
even today). Abuna Aragawi initially ascended the steep precipice,
it is said, holding the tail of a great serpent. Once there, again in
Wallis Budge’s translation:
He fought countless noble spiritual fights’. ‘God made a cove-
nant with him … he was hidden from the face of death by the
grace of God’. He established among his followers the rules of
the monastic life that he learned from his spiritual father Pa-
chomius. Abuna Aragawi’s mother, Edna also came with the
group and established a nunnery for girls, Beta Danegel
(House of the Virgin), nearby. 17
14 Haile, 1991. article ref. CE:990b–995b

15 Kaplan. 1984. p.12
16 Haile, 1991. art. ref. CE:990b–995b
17 Budge, 1928. p 89
Abuna Aragawi
St. Gabra Manfas Qeddus is another very popular Ethiopian saint.
His Vita has been translated by Budge and can be presented synop-
tically here: He was born in Egypt to a previously barren mother.
He was taken from his mother’s breast and brought to the desert to
live with the monks. He was fed with food from the kingdom of
heaven and presented to all the hosts of heaven and kissed by Our
Lady Mary. He was instructed by God to go into the inner desert
and dwell with sixty lions and sixty panthers. Abuna Gabra Manfas
Qeddus was naked and hair grew to cover his body and the hair on
his head and beard grew very long. Everyday he healed the sick and
blind until the crowds of the faithful who had been healed by him
amounted to more than fifty thousand. He remained naked in win-
ter and summer and prayed standing in both cold and heat. He de-
voted himself to prayer, fasting, prostrations and ceaseless vigils.
He ate intermittently – fruit, roots, plants, and sometimes berries.

Angels visited him because ‘he was like them in his behavior and
speech’. 18
Abuna Gabra Manfas Qeddus probably came from a monas-
tery in Nehisa (Egypt). Exactly when he came is not known but he
taught predominately in the Shewa region, Medra Kabd, before
secluding himself on the top of Mount Zeqwala. He died possibly
around 1382. He was a people’s saint, having nothing to do with
politics or aristocrats. Tradition says that he had the power to split
a cliff in half as if it were a blade of grass. Icons picture him with
long hair covering his body surrounded by the lions and leopards
(themes from the Coptic desert literature), which were his compan-
ions and even carried him around. His monastery survives today on
the top of Mount Zeqwala. 19
In Ethiopian church tradition, these narratives are imbedded
also in the wider culture and are reflected many times over in popu-
larly known images and stories. The stories are alive, and like the
liturgy, are repeated often, even in daily conversation. They have
thus become narratives that the faithful learn to live by, serving
thus to inculcate examples of saintly lifestyle. This kind of storytell-
ing, parables and song, permeate the Ethiopian religious and eccle-
siastical psyche in ways that dogma and rhetoric may not. They
become a powerful didactic tool. A loose translation 20 from Ge’ez
of a popular mezmur (hymn) about Täklä Haymanot demonstrates
this when it sings:
He went to Dabra Libanos. He stayed there because the angels
told him to go. He stayed even when his leg fell off. He started
something and finished like a warrior. With prayer and fasting,
he finished his mission. Praise him, even when he was in pain
he didn’t stop. He was firm in his mission.
The popular song teaches lessons about obedience to God, perse-
verance in life’s tasks, the value of prayer and fasting, and all using
18 Budge, 1928. pp. 434–435.

19 Haile,1991. art ref. CE:1044a–1056a.
20 Girma Tessema, ETOC lay church member (Personal communi-
cation, 22 September 2013)

the medium of the life of the saint: all this regardless of how ‘in-
credible’ the story may seem to a modern historical analyst (in
terms of its legendary accretions).
WOMEN’S HAGIOGRAPHIES
According to Ethiopian canon law, 21 nuns and pious widows have
the same obligations as men, except that the texts make it clear that
she is appointed to serve alongside other widows and holy women,
and is not to receive the ‘laying on of hands’ since she is not to
offer a priestly service in any form. This is an aspect that mirrors
the ancient church orders of the 3rd and 4th centuries. Women are
meant to be appointed to the ecclesiastical office of widow when
they reach 60 yrs. of age, and have lost their primary family ties.
The encomia texts state that it is honorable for a widow to fast and
pray much, and to serve the sick and the poor. Virgins have prece-
dence over widows in the monastic context. Today a key EOTC
publication recognizes there have been significant women monastic
saints. 22 After noting St. Walatta Petros as one of the few women
saints in Ethiopian hagiography who founded several comm.-
unities, the booklet continues: ‘However often there are too few
nuns to form a community so they are often living alone, some-
times in a hut in a churchyard. Widows and virgins are eligible mo-
nastics but are considered differently. Widows cannot take final
vows until their husbands have been dead for a long time and un-
less they are 60 yrs old. The dietary obligations and rules of con-
duct are the same as for men. She also wears a rough leather ‘saq’
under her clothes next to her skin at night. Their duties include
praying, and serving the sick and poor. She carries a staff and a fly
whisk, and may beg for flour to bake tiny cakes to give to the
poor’. 23
Salamawit Mecca has analyzed Ethiopic hagiographies of fe-
male saints. 24 She notes that of 202 hagiographies written in Geez,
21 Fetha Nagast 10:8. ed. Strauss. 1968.

22 Wondmagegnehu, 1970.
23 ibid. p.27.
24 Mecca, 2006.
only nine are about women. Several of these lived during the 15th
century. St. Krestos Samra of Shewa left her husband and eleven
children, became a nun, and founded a convent. Her grave became
a pilgrimage site after her death, reputedly at the age of three hun-
dred and seventy-five. St. Feqerta Krestos of Lasta also left her
husband and child, to become a nun, founded two monasteries and
is considered a defender of the Orthodox faith. She was impris-
oned for rebelling against King Susenyos and his conversion to
Roman Catholicism and encouraged the people to remain Ortho-
dox. St. Zena Maryam of Enfraz lived a severely ascetic life as a
hermit in caves. She flagellated herself in memory of Christ’s suf-
fering. Miracles were performed at her gravesite. St. Walatta Petros
of Gojjam is a martyred defender of the Orthodox faith, again dur-
ing the reign of Susenyos. She founded about seven monasteries
and made them self-supporting.
Mecca observes that although there are a lot of similarities in
the hagiographies of women to those of men, there are also some
marked differences. One of them is that: ‘Women saints are never
categorized as virgins, but rather as mothers who pray a lot and
receive revelations from God’. 25 I find this interesting in that it
contrasts immediately with the image of the Virgin Mary who is
sainted, and the Fetha Nagast, which says that ‘virgins have prece-
dence over widows’. These women, operating in their own agency,
left their husbands and children (again contrary to the notion of
being allowed to be an ecclesiastical widow if the husband died)
and are not ‘passively’ widowed or unmarried virgins. They have
created a wholly new ‘outsider role’ in taking their monastic vows.
Mecca also concludes that when women saints are highlighted by
the hagiographers (all of whom appear to be male), ‘they are simply
being used to achieve what are basically patriarchal ends’. 26
25 Ibid, pp. 161- 162

26 Ibid.
SUPERNATURAL ELEMENTS OF ETHIOPIAN

HAGIOGRAPHY
The extensive mystical and miraculous elements we see in the
saints’ lives are, unarguably, foundational for all forms of Orthodox
Christianity. But they are especially prevalent in Ethiopian tests.
Embracing the mystical strand in Ethiopian theology (and history)
requires, for many modern commentators, an uncomfortable posi-
tion, one that runs against the grain of much modern western ana-
lytical customs, one that the historian Craffert argues yet needs to
favor: ‘the acceptance of multiple cultural realities and an ontologi-
cal pluralism [as part and parcel] of the historians’ task’. 27 Craffert
is here applying a method of cultural anthropological historiog-
raphy as a different trajectory for historical Jesus research, which
creates a more culturally suitable context for Jesus’ healing miracles
(less anachronistic in nature than the Jesus Quests have often
proved to be). In researching Ethiopian monastics or saints in the
gadlat (the ecclesial literature), often the factual and fantastical ap-
pear to be intimately intertwined and conflated. There are many
narratives that reenact biblical stories of the prophets being di-
rected by God the Father or Christ Jesus and/or the apostles per-
forming miracles.
Likewise, the influence of the Hebrew bible and Judaic prac-
tice in Ethiopian culture and theology is immense. Ethiopia is
named as a region over fifty times in the bible. The divine or cove-
nant relationship is solidified in the national narrative, called the
Kebra Nagast and today most exemplified by the presence of the
tabot or Ark of the Covenant, centrally placed in every church. Re-
garding this tendency, along with certain types of prayers, and an
awareness of demonology that was ‘common to the ancient Semitic
world’, 28 Edward Ullendorf calls ‘the survival of magical practices’
in Ethiopian Christianity, as something that stems directly from
this deep seated allegiance to Hebraic thought patterns and biblical
archetypes. The scholar Ephraim Isaac similarly refers to ‘elements
27 Craffert, 2008. p.77

28 Ullendorff, 1968. p79.
of religio-magic’ as a distinctive aspect of Ethiopian Christian tradi-

tion. 29
Modern foreign commentators find it difficult to see anything
more in the hagiographies than their legendary ‘phenomena’. But
we are not dealing here with concrete ideas of (ever mysterious)
time and space in the modern Western sense. Cultural understand-
ing and the very concept of ‘plausibility’ is inevitably concretized
within its indigenous cultural context and belief systems. Plausibil-
ity structures, or what is intuitively seen as rational and convincing,
is culturally determined. Many, if not most, nonwestern worldviews
readily accommodate supernaturalism, although they also appreci-
ate the value of scientific empiricism. 30 Perhaps the same is true of
the West, for all its vaunted rationalism. Cultural blindness is more
readily seen in retrospect. One researcher, regarding the accounts
of the life of an Ethiopian saint, contended that: ‘like many legends,
it was full of repulsive, trivial, details and assaults on common
sense.’ 31 Another summed up the tradition as generally: ‘A tenden-
cy to gross exaggerations’. 32 More efficacious, contextualized, and
empathetic research would, I suggest, focus rather on what the
sources and stories were about, their meaning and purpose, rather
than what actually happened and which sources are correct, 33 (and
perhaps how the researcher’s own tradition is so clearly ‘superior’
to that being studied in a rather condescending way.
For more than anything else, such ‘wondrous stories’ try to ar-
ticulate the sense of divine intervention in the daily lives of people,
and to present it as a power available to the average believer, so as
to be able to call on God or one of His emissaries and change
one’s circumstances, procure healings or basic life necessities. They
show God’s movement on earth within nature, animals, and gov-
ernmental power: all of which is an expression of the Christian sto-
29 Ibid p. 79; also E. Isaac, 2012. p27.

30 Keener, 2011, p.211.
31 Hein, 1999. p. 53 (on the late 19th century commentator F. Praeto-
rius, reviewing E. Cerulli’s edition of the life of Tekle Hawarat, the only
saint whose gadl was written in the same century in which he lived)
32 Heine, 1999. p.54. (comment by Rudolf Kriss).
33 Craffert, 2008. p.79.
ry, and the Gospel’s proclamation of the Kingdom of God being

among us. It is core Christianity that God came to earth in the
form of a man and activated a paradigm shift that affected all be-
ings. These tales are about the constant struggle (the central recur-
ring theme of gadlat) of humans aspiring to a holy life, and seeing
the church as a heaven upon this earth. Therefore, collapsing heav-
en and earth (in the way our texts do habitually) allows a liminal
space for reciprocal human entry to the divine, just as God entered
human history, space and time, through the Incarnation, and its
ongoing effects. Through visual, literary and oral narratives and
materiality, that is, from such things as the icon, the stone monas-
tery, to holy water and incense, the believer is allowed the grace of
‘spiritual transference’. Exemplified in a very high form in the mo-
nastic, who stands as an icon by virtue of his or her separation
from the world, the observer too can become ‘other’ or outsider in
the world, just as they are, can become disengaged (to an extent)
from normal social functions and behaviors. As Kaplan puts it so
succinctly: ‘A monk has neither country nor family … he is a
stranger and capable of acting as a mediator in the affairs of the
faithful’. 34
34 Kaplan. 1984. p.75

Lalibela Monks in Liturgical Procession

The Ethiopian Archbishop and scholar Abuna Yesehaq has called
the Ethiopian Tewahedo church: ‘An integrally African church’ 35 –
as it is rooted in the earliest period of Christian development. The
complicated history of Christianity in Ethiopia, this prevalence and
character of the supernatural and miracles that we can see in the
monastic hagiographies, and the important relationship of the
whole to a broader African cosmology deserves further investiga-
tion and attention than I can give in this paper. However, suffice it
to say, that more often than not African or non-western spiritu-
al/religious practice, Christian and otherwise, inclines toward non-
dualist presuppositions: hence not separating but rather integrating
the physical and spiritual. Ephraim Isaac puts it this way: ‘The He-
brew bible and certain African monistic traditions can unite the
sacred and the profane into one single reality or creator-creation,
combining the laws of humanity and nature into one single harmo-
nious principle … Hebraic and certain African traditional religions
including ancient Egypt, are in general homo-socio-centric and put
emphasis on the unity between the divinity and creation (the mate-
35 Archbp. Yeshaq. 1988.

rial world) and make little or no distinction between the sacred and
secular’. 36 There tends to be an active belief or faith in miracles, an
affinity with the supernatural, as well as the work of the divine and
the devil in one’s private life. It is something that also applies to
many African descendants in the western diaspora.
Ethiopian Priest with Holy Water. Dabra Berhan Sellassie

Church.
36 Isaac, 2012. p. 77.

THE MONASTERY: ‘A PLACE WHERE HEAVEN AND

EARTH MEET’
There is a strong psychic geography of the Ethiopian monastic
landscape, as Niall Finneran observes. 37 Eremitic impulses would,
from the beginning, purposely distance the monastic site from so-
ciety; either vertically on a mountain, or in the depths of the earth,
deep in a desert, or hidden in a cave. Walking though the monas-
tery churches in Lalibela, along the trenches from one underground
passage to another, is a transformative experience. The smell of
wood, fresh earth mixed with incense, and dry air, at once simu-
lates a desert and a cave. The journey through tunnels in complete
darkness and then suddenly opening out into dazzling sunshine, is
a recurring epiphany of ‘darkness giving way to light’ and vice ver-
sa: a paradigmatic symbol of the life of the soul under God’s eye.
All there is still and secluded. Layers of carpet cover the sanc-
tuary floors as in most Ethiopian churches. The kebero (drum), ma-
quomia (prayer stick), and ceremonial umbrellas are lined up in vari-
ous corners, signifying this is a place of active worship. Some
monks are available to greet visitors and others are settled reflec-
tively into niches. Evidence of living acetic monks can be seen in
the form of the holes and caves in the adjoining rocks and walls.
Some have cloth coverings over their entrances. Remnants of
monks of former days, who died in their cells, are also visible since
their relics are exposed for pilgrims: old bones still covered in
mummified skin that did not putrefy. These are reminders to the
faithful who come to venerate the saints and renew their commit-
ment to be ‘separate and holy unto God’. Incorruptibility of the
relics is taken, throughout the Orthodox world, to be a great sign
of the holiness of the monk while alive.
37 Finneran, 2012. p. 253.

Ethiopian Icon of St. George
Hermit Cave & Relics. Bet Giorgios. Lalibela.

In the Ethiopian registry it is often hard to establish whether a giv-

en religious site is a monastery or not. In the local language two
terms are used: gadam and dabra which can both be translated as
monastery. Gadam (desert) connotes a place of seclusion where
strict ascetic monks live in monasteries called menat. The term Dab-
ra (mountain) chiefly denotes a monastery where monks live in
community. A dabra is meant also to be place of common worship
and special learning. Such a center can also have daughter monas-
teries that could be either gadam or menat. 38 But, in much of the lit-
erature the words gedam and dabra or church and monastery are
simply used interchangeably. A church can only be built with the
permission of a bishop. 39 Bishops must take monastic vows; hence
according to canon law no church can be established without a
monk’s blessing.
There are four types of church or monastery buildings in
Ethiopia. The most ancient are the monolithic rock-hewn churches
of Aksum and Lalibela, the cave churches of Imrahanni Krestos
and N’kwuto Leab, but there are also the basilica type of founda-
tions such as Däbr Damo, and the circular shape is the most com-
mon in Ethiopia such as at Ura Kidane Meret. All churches are
divided in three concentric parts or ambulatories. The outer part is
called the qene mahlet, the place where the choir sings or where the
debtaras or cantors stand, the next area is the qeddest, the place re-
served for liturgical processions and where the laity receives Holy
Communion; and the inner and most sacred place is the mäqedäs
(sanctuary) or qeddestä qeddusan (Holy of Holies). It is usually square
in shape with an altar that holds the tabot, a small replica of the Ark
of the Covenant. This area can only be entered by ordained clergy.
This spatial arrangement evokes and corresponds with the Hebrew
Tabernacle and the layout of Solomon’s Temple. 40
The church building is meant to symbolize the ‘heavenly Jeru-
salem’. As a new church is being consecrated, the altar is anointed
with meron (Myron or Chrism); but it is mainly the presence of the
38 Haile, 2000. pp.454 –460.

39 Fetha Nagast . 1968. p. 11.
40 Wondmagegnehu, 1970. p. 46.
tabot within it that is felt to sanctify the place. 41 Hymns are sung at
the four corners of the building. According to one of the consecra-
tory hymns: ‘the church was built to be a symbol of heaven, a place
where we receive forgiveness of sin’. The song goes on to include
words from the Psalms and Revelations that describe the church of
the ‘heavenly Jerusalem’. The very first dictate of the Fetha Nägäst
(the Book of Ethiopian Canon Law) concerns the consecration of
the church in the likeness of heaven as well as its likeness to the
biblical Hebrew Temple. It reads:
It must be lighted with many lamps, in the likeness of heaven:
especially during the reading of verses from the Holy
Books…It shall be lighted with wax tapers and with lamps
when the bishop consecrates the Tabot on the altar … seven
priests shall be with him, and he shall make the sign of the
cross on the Tabot with chrism, which is the oil of happiness,
as it is the seal of God. After this has been done the sacred
mysteries may be celebrated in the church … If the Tabot
breaks or is transferred elsewhere, the church shall be conse-
crated again. The Tabot shall be such that it can be transferred
from one place to another like the stone of the children of Is-
rael which could be transferred from one place to another. The
dust which is swept from the sanctuary shall be thrown into a
running river. 42
Lalibela is perhaps the most magnificent example of the Ethiopian
rock-hewn churches. There are twelve churches concentrated in
two large complexes here on one single site, (Bete Giorgis, or St.
George) in one small geographic area. Ethiopia’s ancient Christian
center at Aksum, is also the inheritor of the Ark of the Covenant
traditions. Aksum was called the New Jerusalem, and the Second
Zion. Lalibela or Gabra Masqal was one of the saintly kings of the
Zagwe dynasty that ruled Ethiopia from 1137 to 1270. He had
lived as a monk dedicated to fasting and prayer before he came to
power, even while he was married to Masqal Kebra who is also
sainted (they both committed to celibacy). His unparalleled legacy
41 ibid. p. 46.
42 Fetha Negast. 1968. p. 11.
in the history of the Ethiopian church is visible today in his con-

struction of the rock-hewn churches of Lasta. When Lalibela (a
word that means ‘bees’) was born around 1150: ‘bees encircled him
foretelling that he would become king and be escorted by the na-
tional army’. 43
The city where the churches were built, once the capital, was
called Roha but the name was later changed to Lalibela. Roha de-
rived from the Syriac name of Edessa, the royal city of King Abgar,
with its famed Mandylion of Christ traditions. 44 Perhaps, due to the
diffusion in Ethiopia of the legend of Abgar and his correspond-
ence with Jesus, the Ethiopic Legend of Abgar flourished strongly
in 17th century Ethiopian manuscripts. 45 This cultural diffusion or
conflation infers that seeing the churches of Lalibela is like seeing a
vision of the face of Christ. 46
The gadla or hagiography of Lalibela tells us that well before
he became king, God appeared to him in a vision and transported
him to the seventh heaven and said to him: ‘Open the ears of your
mind and comprehend what I shall show you, in order that you
may build my temple on earth where I shall dwell with my people
and where I shall be sanctified by the mouth of my people’. 47 God
thus made him King for the purpose of building these churches.
Later, the hagiography tells us, God described to him the detailed
specifications, including color and spatial delineation, of ten mon-
umental churches hewn from living stone. The churches were also
named (denoting clear archetypal relationships): Medhane Alem
(Savior of the World), and Beta Maryam (St Mary), Dabra Sina
(Mount Sinai), Beta Emmanuel (house of Emmanuel), Beta Masqal
(house of the Cross), Beta Golgotha and more. The completion of
the churches concurred with the end of Lalibela’s life and his reign
in 1270. 48 Current oral tradition in Ethiopia concurs with parts of
his gadl to sing that: ‘Angels built Lalibela’s churches … He had an
43 Haile, 1991. art. ref. CE:990b–995b.

44 Heldman, 1995. p.29.
45 Isaac, 2012. p.243
46 Heldman,1995. p. 30
47 Perruchon, 1892. p. 88
48 Haile, 1991; Perruchon, 1892. p.88; Heldman, 1995. p.28.
army of angels and an army of men because the angels came to join
to the workmen, with the carriers, to the stonecutters and the dig-
gers. The angels worked with the men during the day and worked
alone at night’. Folk traditions tell that each day, on resuming their
labors, the builders would find their work had progressed while
they were asleep. 49
Lalibela. Church of Bet Gabriel.
49 ibid. Perruchon, 1892.

CONCLUSION
In some way, ‘digging away to reveal’ (an idea prevalent in these
churches, which stand as living symbols of Ethiopian monastic life,
and as concrete extensions of the lives of the saintly founders who
stood behind them and are now enshrined within them), is like a
metaphor for God digging away at the soul to reveal Himself in the
depth of a believer. The tunnels stand as metaphors for the spiritu-
al journey and Christ bringing light into darkness. Interpreting spir-
itual meaning in all the ordinary things of life might be intrinsic in
an Ethiopian environment that is still predominately agrarian.
There is a pattern of biblical reenactment at work throughout the
monastic experience that has informed a deep cultural awareness,
the relationship of individuals and community to each other and to
the divine. At the same time, this fluid spiritual transcendence so
omnipresent in daily life seems to stand in contrast with the more
rigid insistence so often encountered on maintaining ancient tradi-
tion in stubbornly orthodox ways. The monastic experience seems
to be offered as the core Christian experience in Ethiopia; almost
implied as the only way to be holy, that is to live or sustain the
character of a monastic. But, as often is the case within the broader
Ethiopian hermeneutic, there are many layers that are not so readily
revealed to those outside the tradition.
Today monasticism stands at a new juncture in Ethiopia.
Monasteries have been on the wane as educational centers, and
many are now moving to populated urban areas. The position in
the extensive diaspora is complicated in other ways again. With lack
of state and social support, in Ethiopia, the monastic centers are
struggling to subsist. The education of young men and clergy is still
deeply rooted in monastery culture. But now that power and mon-
ey has shifted from the monastery what does it bode for the future
of ecclesial education and even for the ancient Ge’ez language? The
study of the monastic traditions of the Ethiopian church, conduct-
ed from a perspective of intelligent, empathetic and deeply re-
searched investigation, has never been more apposite or important.
It is a field that is opening up in the 21st century and promising
great things.
Bet Gabriel Church. Lalibela.
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Lalibela Monastics.
THE EVOLUTION OF FUNDAMENTAL
CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE
WORKS OF ST. CYRIL OF ALEXANDRIA
VASILY NOVIKOV
In the history of the Church, monastic ascetic practices have been

understood not so much as a goal in themselves but rather as an
important tool for the ‘one great aim’ of salvation and deification.
In St. Cyril of Alexandria’s life, as Archbishop in 5th century Egypt,
monastic communities played a large part. His theological formulae
reflect this, and were also based on his own spiritual experience, in
part deriving from his close acquaintance with monastic praxis. The
active support monastics gave to St. Cyril in his controversy with
Nestorius, in Egypt, Syria, and Constantinople, was due to the pro-
foundly soteriological base apparent in his Christology, which
could be recognized by the ascetics as parallel to their own endeav-
ors. Indeed, the Nestorian crisis begins its literary career, at least,
with Cyril’s Letter to the Monks of Egypt, 1 where he carefully shows
the ascetics the significant principles at play, and at stake, in the
intellectual controversy.
Among the scholars examining the theological works of St.
Cyril, one finds a variety of views on the interrelationship between
his earlier and his later works as regards the sources of his Chris-
tology. At the turn of the 20th century church historians 2 and
1 Text in J A McGuckin. St. Cyril of Alexandria and the Christological

Controversy. Leiden.1994. pp. 245–261.
2 See e.g.: Болотов В.В. Лекции по истории древней Церкви. Т.
IV. С. 180; Карташев А.В. Вселенские Соборы. М., 1994. С. 204, 214.
291
292 CHRISTOLOGICAL ELEMENTS IN THE WORKS OF ST. CYRIL
scholars of Cyrilline theology mostly adhered to the opinion that

from the start of the controversy with Nestorius, St. Cyril’s Chris-
tology underwent significant change in the direction of the Miaphy-
site position. 3 However, over the last 20–30 years, these views have
been largely set aside, and many modern scholars no longer care to
contrast early Cyrillian Christology with his later statements. 4
Most of St. Cyril’s early works consist of interpretations of the
various books of the Old and New Testaments, exegetical compo-
sitions which define the style of the scriptural books and comment
on their theological terminology. In addition to this, among the
early works are also found extensive Trinitarian studies: On the Holy
Trinity and the Thesaurus, in which the Alexandrian prelate considers
deep questions of Christology.
The writings of St. Cyril, therefore, can be chronologically di-
vided into three parts: 1. Early works (before 428); 2. Works writ-
ten during the Nestorian controversy (428–433); 3. Late works
3 Lebon J. Le monophysisme sévérien: étude historique, littéraire et

théologique sur la résistance monophysite au Concile de Chalcédoine
jusqu’a la constitution de l’Église jacobite. Louvain, 1909. P. 21–22.
Harnack, A. von, Lehrbuch der Dogmengeschichte, 1909, S. 352–353. Raven,
Charles E. Apollinarianism: An Essay on the Christology of the Early
Church. Cambridge: University Press, 1923. P. 231, 279–280. Quasten J.
Patrology. Vol. 3. Utrecht; Antwerpen, 1975. Р. 136–137; Keating Daniel A.
The appropriation of divine life in Cyril of Alexandria. Oxford University
Press. New-York, 2004. P. 17. A. Grilmayer, who wrote already in the 70s
of XX century, believed that in his later works of St. Cyril took a step
toward the real dyophysitism, recognizing the presence of Christ a rational
soul. Grillmeier, A., Die theologische und sprachliche Vorberaitung der
christologischen Formel von Chalkedon. // Das Konzil von Chalkedon I.
T. I. Würzburg, 1951. S. 173.
4 See e.g.: Liébaert J. La doctrine christologique de saint Cyrille
d’Alexandrie avant la querelle nestorienne. Lille: Facultes Catholiques,

1951; Koen Lars. The Saving Passion. Incarnational and Soteriological
Thought in Cyril of Alexandria’s Commentary on the Gospel according to
St. John. Uppsala, 1991; Welch J.L. Christology and Eucharist in the early
thought of Cyril of Alexandria. Catholic Scholars Press, 1994; Weinandy Th.
G. Cyril and the Mystery of the Incarnation.
VASILY NOVIKOV 293
(434–444). After the outbreak of controversy with Nestorius St.

Cyril’s writing became largely polemical. Perhaps this apologetic
sharpness was what had stimulated scholars’ interest in studying the
early works, which are written in a contrastingly calm tone. It is
exactly these works, of course, that can supplement the under-
standing of the fundamental and structural ideas of the Cyrillian
Christology, around which there has been significant divergence of
interpretation among modern commentators. It is known that the
specific, but imprecise, terminology of the Cyrilline Christology
actually created much of the contentiousness in the Church during
the Nestorian crisis. The study of his earlier works (especially the
Commentary on the Gospel of John which was most likely written before
the controversy), provides a clearer understanding of the Alexan-
drian’s theological view of these problems. L. Koen compares the
views of Protestant theologians who believe that the Commentary on
the Gospel of John does not reflect the complete theological scope of
St. Cyril’s later thought, with those Roman Catholic theologians
who generally tended to consider the Cyrillian theology to be equal-
ly deep, before and after the Nestorian controversy. The difference
of approach is perhaps explicable on the basis of how the readers
appreciated (an unquestioned fact) the depth of Cyril’s theological
underpinnings, and the manner in which he was so firmly rooted in
Tradition. L. Koen traces the influence of the fathers of the
Church on St. Cyril, especially that of his predecessors in Alexan-
dria. Also noteworthy is the interpenetrative relationship of St. Cyr-
il’s Christology with his Soteriology, again something which re-
mained unchanged from the time of the earlier Cyrillian Commen-
taries. 5
A close study of the early works of St. Cyril shows that the an-
ti-Nestorian struggle was not just a kind of specious trump card in
a suspected ecclesio-political rivalry between Alexandria and Con-
stantinople, but rather that fundamental theological ideas of Chris-
tology, sacramentology and soteriology had clarified themselves
and were present even in the earliest works St. Cyril. And, pace
those who think that there is a huge difference between the early
5 See e.g.: Weinandy Th. G. Cyril and the Mystery of the Incarnation.
p. 24.
and the late works, 6 one can now say with some assurance that dur-
ing the Nestorian controversy we do not see new ideas being con-
structed, as much as long held views being presented more force-
fully and extremely. Bardenhewer, 7 Liébaert, 8 Koen, 9 and Wei-
nandy, 10 hold similar views on this fundamental unity of Cyrillian
Christology.
From the beginning of the Nestorian controversy, neverthe-
less, St. Cyril began to assert a number of positions of his Christol-
ogy, while defending himself against the charges of his opponents.
These Christological positions can be expressed in the following
sections of our paper.
THE ABSOLUTE UNITY OF THE INCARNATE WORD OF

GOD
The concept of the Unity of the Son is indisputably the main idea
of the Christology of Saint Cyril. Without an understanding of what
this Unity entails it is impossible to formulate Cyril’s main soterio-
logical insight: that Christ is connected with humanity not at the
(historical and accidental) level of the individual, but rather at the
level of the genus, and because of this, and only in this case, does
He save all of humanity, not simply saving the individual Jesus. The
6 See e.g.: Quasten J. Patrology. Vol. 3. Utrecht; Antwerpen, 1975. p.

136.
7 ‘Over time, his eyes became more penetrating, thought - more sub-
tle, expressions - clearer, but we can not say that there is a profound dif-
ference between the first and the last to clarifications’. Bardenhewer, O.,
Geschichte der altkirchlichen Literatur. T. IV. – Freiburg-in-Brisgau,
1923. S. 70.
8‘There is the one Cyrillian christology, and we believe that, despite
the external changes, it never changed in his manner, even during the
Nestorian controversy’. Liébaert, J., La doctrine christologique de S. Cyrille
d’Alexandrie avant la querelle nestorienne. – Lille, 1951. p. 237.
9Koen Lars. The Saving Passion. Incarnational and Soteriological
Thought in Cyril of Alexandria’s Commentary on the Gospel according to

St. John. Uppsala, 1991, p.22.
10 Weinandy Thomas G. Cyril and the Mystery of the Incarnation. pp.
24, 30, 53.

VASILY NOVIKOV 295
proclamation of the unity of Christ by St. Cyril becomes most pro-

nounced during the controversy with Nestorius. Reviewing the
Third letter to Nestorius, which includes the Twelve Anathemas, we can
clearly see that the chief literary goal was to defend the concept of
the Unity of Christ. But the same intent was present even in his
earlier exegesis, where he speaks of the impossibility of separating
Christ into two persons, and the necessity of defending the abso-
lute unity of the Son after the Incarnation. 11
To sceptics who might suspect that St. Cyril put these phrases
into his commentaries later, during the Nestorian controversy, it
can be remarked that parallel statements are easy to find in a range
of other early works. For example, in the early 8th Paschal Homily (c.
420), St. Cyril speaks of the unity of the Son, citing the words of
apostle Paul: ‘Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and for-
ever’ (Hebr. 13:8). This unity pertains to not only the bare (γυμνῷ)
Word of God the Father, Cyril says, but rather to the Word Made
Man, Jesus Christ. 12 Thus, after the Incarnation of the Word, no
other entity appears other than the Person of God the Word, now
enfleshed. And in the Old Testament interpretations (written be-
fore the period of controversy with Nestorius), we find the term
‘Christ’ consistently explained by Cyril as the term denoting his
united personal state as God the Word made flesh. 13 For St. Cyril,
the Gospels were a primary authority in provide the Church with
an image of Christ as a single entity, a single individual, both divine
and human inseparably. His favored image was how the divine and
human natures were united in one Person of Christ, just as the
body and soul are inextricably connected in a human being. This
was an imagistic comparison (often referred to as the ‘anthropolog-
11
Alexandrini in D. Joannis evangelium, 3 vols. Ed. P.E Pusey, Volume 1, p.

Commentarii in Joannem. Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi
224, lines 14–19.

12 Homilia paschalis VIII, PG 77. Col. 568BC.
13 Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in xii prophetas, 2
vols.’ Ed. PE Pusey, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1868, Repr. 1965. Volume
2, page 364, lines 13–15.
ical paradigm’) which represents this unity, but does not answer the
question, how it was reached? 14
The expression ‘One and the Same’ as referred to the Son of
God is found in the Acts of the Ephesian Council. 15 But this expres-
sion is also found three times in Cyril’s Commentary on the Gospel of
St. John. 16 Moreover, the Paschal Letters of St. Cyril can be consid-
ered as casting an important light on the early works. J. O’Keefe,
has argued that their analysis explains for us the evolution of the
Cyrillian Christology. 17 Letters, of course, are not specifically dog-
matic treatises, and Cyril’s Paschal Epistles are not particularly
complex from a theological point of view – their purpose is defined
for a wide range of listeners. Even so, they have the advantage that
their appeared annually, and tended to reflect on the nature of the
sufferings of the Lord and His resurrection; and this fact allows us
to see that the fundamental ideas of Cyrillian Christology, revealed
during the controversy with Nestorius at the Ephesus Council in
431, were already present in his theological thought from the very
beginning of his episcopate.
Indeed, ‘with remarkable consistency’ 18 for thirty years,
O’Keefe says, St. Cyril based his writings about Christ on the same
set of primary texts from the New Testament, namely: John. 1:14,
Heb. 1:3 and Phil. 2:14–17. As was the case in all his other writings,
the main ideas of the Christology of Saint Cyril of Alexandria ex-
plicitly followed the self-same theological tradition established by
his predecessor, St. Athanasius of Alexandria. This determined,
above all, his overarching soteriological vision. Thus, Christ, out of
14 See: Weinandy Thomas G. Cyril and the Mystery of the Incarnation.

p. 35.
15 ἕνα καὶ τὸν αὐτὸν. See e.g: (Schwartz E (ed). Acta conciliorum oecu-
menicorum, Tome 1, volume 1, part 1, page 53, line 27; page 57, line 18;
page 72, line 21; part 2, page 84, line 8; part 4, page 46, line 29; part 5,
page 27, line 10.
16 Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in D. Joannis evangeli-
um, 3 vols. Ed. P E Pusey, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1872, Repr. 1965.
Volume 1, page 642; Vol. 3, page 152.
17 St. Cyril of Alexandria, Festal Letters 1–12. Washington. 2009. p. 27.
18 Ibid. p. 27.
VASILY NOVIKOV 297
love for fallen humanity, became incarnate from the Virgin Mary
and redeemed mankind from death, lifting human nature to incor-
ruption. Citing an example from the 17th Paschal Letter (c. 429),
O’Keefe draws attention to the fact that though this is the dawn of
the Nestorian controversy, St. Cyril’s basic Christological ideas re-
main the same as before the dispute. 19 We can conclude, then, that
there was a deep unity of Christological purpose and style through-
out the entire episcopate of St. Cyril. As was the case in his other
writings, as the dispute with Nestorius deepened, the language of
the Paschal Letters of St. Cyril became more acute. Despite this, St.
Cyril avoided using the ‘technical’ terms ϕύσις, ὐπόστασις,
πρόσωπον, in the Paschal Letters, basing them instead on an interpre-
tation of the above mentioned fundamental Christological New
Testament texts.
THE PERSONAL APPROPRIATION OF THE HUMAN

NATURE BY THE SON OF GOD
Speaking about the connection of the divine and human in Christ,
St. Cyril uses the term ‘appropriation’ (from the verb ἰδιοποιέομαι
– to appropriate to oneself, or make one’s own). The point in this
is, as Cyril phrases it in the cause of defending the Anathemata at
Ephesus, that: ‘The Word of God the Father appropriated flesh
capable of death so that by means of that which is accustomed to
suffering, he could take on suffering for us and because of us, and
so liberate us all from death and corruption by making his own
body alive, as God, and by becoming the first fruits of those who have
fallen asleep (1 Cor. 15:20), and the first born from dead (Col. 1:18). 20
This concept of ‘appropriation’ is contrasted by St. Cyril with the
terms οἰκειότης (likeness) and συνάφεια (union, conjunction),
which Nestorius used in his Christology, terms that imply that the
deity and humanity of the Savior are connected relatively and indi-
19 Ibid. p. 30.
20Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum, Tome 1, volume 1, part 5, page 25,
line 20–27.
rectly, imputing that Christ is a just man in the state of grace, like
the prophets and the righteous of old. 21
St. Cyril’s does not only write about the Word taking on the
suffering of the flesh, but more to the point, taking on the proper-
ties of the human nature in general. Thus, in the one of his earliest
works, St. Cyril says that Christ is not ignorant as to the day and
hour of His Second Coming and does not pretend to say that he is
unaware of it (as a man), but rather speaks this way because when
he became flesh he appropriated the infirmities of the flesh to him-
self. 22 He was not circumscribed by the limitations of the flesh,
therefore, but he willingly adopted them as appropriate to his
salvific mission in the flesh. Several Cyrilline researchers have paid
attention to St. Cyril’s notion of ‘appropriation.’ Using it, Cyril em-
phasizes again and again that the flesh, in some sense, (however
paradoxically) is the Logos. In the flesh, that is, the true identity of
the Logos Incarnate develops as a revelation and rescue for mortal
humanity. 23 Indeed, the Logos, the Eternal Son, identifies himself
with the flesh, and with being a man, even in such a radical way
that the flesh is made ‘his very own’ since He is committed to his
human existence. Thus, the incarnation of the Son means that the
eternal Son appropriated human existence, and He himself became
Man. 24
The Cyrilline scholar, B. Meunier, begins his monograph with
a detailed description of how St. Cyril understands Adam’s fall: the
destruction of our race’s union with God and its material conse-
quences: the range of physical and mental damages it incurs for
human nature: chiefly death. Salvation comes with the Incarnation,
as Cyril sees it, and it is thought of as the abolition of the power of
Satan (holding humanity locked into death and Hades) and as the
reconstruction of the whole human nature to a pristine condition.
21 D Fairbairn. Grace and Christology in the Early Church. pp. 106–108.

22
ἰδιοποιήσασθαι. Thesaurus, PG 75. Col. 376C.

τὸ γενέσθαι σὰρξ͵ καθὸ γέγραπται͵ καὶ τὰς τῆς σαρκὸς ἀσθενείας
23 Шенборн К. (при участии Конрада М. и Вебера Х. Ф.) Бог
послал Сына Своего. Христология. (Пер. с немецкого – Верещагин Е

M.). М., 2003. С. 150.
24 Ibid.
VASILY NOVIKOV 299
Christ is the Mediator between God and fallen humanity, pos-

sessing a nature common to both God and the whole community
of mankind. B. Meunier traces the genesis of these Cyrillian ideas
to the earlier tradition of Alexandrian theology, again as expressed
primarily in the writings of St. Athanasius of Alexandria.
THE PRESENCE OF CHRIST’S HUMAN SOUL AS AN

IMPORTANT SOTERIOLOGICAL FACTOR
J. Liébaert in his work on the Christology of St. Cyril before the
Nestorian controversy, describes in detail the sources (including the
Dialogues on the Holy Trinity, and the Thesaurus), and their history.
The author employs the schema of two types of Christological se-
mantics, prevalent, he argues, in the fourth to sixth centuries: the
Logos-sarx scheme, most starkly exemplified in Apollinarius and
partly assimilated by the Alexandrian tradition; and the Logos-
Anthropos scheme, more characteristic of the Antiochian tradition.
The first scheme denies (Apollinarius) or underestimates
(St. Athanasius of Alexandria) the presence and significance of the
human soul in Christ; the second one assumes the connection of
the Logos with a perfect humanity. The reception of the human
soul by the Savior, as St Cyril points out, has a distinct soteriologi-
cal character: firstly because only with a human soul could the Sav-
ior endure His suffering wisely and consciously, according to the
axiomatic terms of ancient thought. 25 Secondly, because even if in
Christ ‘the human conditions became excited and troubled’, such
passions never overwhelmed the Savior as they did with ordinary
people, but in his case they were overcome by the force of the in-
dwelling Word and ceased their agitation. In this way, in the exem-
plar of Christ’s humanity, all of human nature was transformed.
What was healed in Him passed on to us. If it has been otherwise,
St. Cyril argues, the image of the healing of the passions in Christ
could never have been imputed as passing on to the human race
and the Incarnation could not have been the salvific event it was
25
Alexandrini in D. Joannis evangelium, 3 vols.’, Ed. PE. Pusey, Volume 2, p.

Commentarii in Joannem. ‘Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi
316, lines 11–17.

for humanity. 26 Cyril approaches the weakness of Christ flesh as

follows: Being a man, Christ hungered and was troubled. In the
same way, being a man, Christ was ‘subject to embarrassment from
suffering’. However, this weakness never prevailed over Him, and
He returned to ‘His rightful daring’ (as a man). Consequently, it can
be seen that in Cyril’s schema (often supposed by commentators to
be of the Logos-Sarx type) Christ very clearly and evidently has a
rational soul. And to it (and not just to the flesh) extends the saving
action of Christ’s grace. Cyril teaches that Human nature is thus
reborn directly in Christ. 27 When Cyril says that human nature
would never have been freed from the passions, if the Saviour had
not undergone them himself, and if he had not suffered, it be-
comes evident that Cyril has carefully taken notice of the writings
of St. Gregory the Theologian. The latter’s axiom (Epistles 101–102)
that ‘What is not assumed [by Christ] is not healed’ (itself taken
from the works of Origen), is also at the core of Cyril’s elevation of
the soteriological motive as the basic rationale of the Incarnation. 28
In his work ‘Christology and Eucharist in the Early Thought
of St. Cyril of Alexandria’ L. Welch says that Duran and Grillmeier
under the influence of Liébaert were both largely mistaken in prop-
agating the view that Cyril is a Logos-Sarx thinker, and only started
to consider the larger role of the humanity of Christ after Nestorius
had accused him of being an Apollinarist; thus introducing the
concept of the soul of Christ in the later works. This error, as
Welch argues, could only have been sustained by someone who
had never studied the Cyrillian exegesis. 29 But these early works
reveal the Cyrillian doctrine of the Eucharist in more or less com-
plete form, a eucharistic doctrine which is based deeply and sub-
stantively on his Christology. It presents a paradigm of the Incar-
nate salvation. Here, for Cyril, we do not have the ‘bare Logos’
(γυμνῷ) but always the Logos incarnate, in other words, Christ the
Lord among us. The Eucharist saves and deifies. It shows that
26 Ibid. p. 317, lines 12–26.

27 Thesaurus. XXIV. PG 75. Col. 397BC.
28 Koen op. cit. p.73.
29 Welch, Christology and Eucharist in the early thought of Cyril of Alexan-
dria. 1994. p. 102.

VASILY NOVIKOV 301
Christ must be God (or He could not save) and Man (or we could
not be touched by what he accomplishes in the flesh).
THE NATURAL UNITY OF THE SON OF GOD WITH

MANKIND WHICH HE SAVES AS MEDIATOR
The Incarnation, according to St. Cyril, has no other purpose than
the salvation of mankind, and therefore it was in a sense ‘neces-
sary’. Indeed, the chasm between Mankind and God, introduced by
sin, cannot be overcome without the intervention of a mediator,
who would be both God and man. Without ceasing to be God and
yet assuming all the conditions of human existence, the Incarnate
Word became the mediator between God and man (μεσίτης Θεού
καὶ ἀνθρώπων). 30 It was precisely at this point, according to J.
Liébaert, that Cyril’s soteriology connected with his Christology. 31
In the Cyrillian Old Testament commentaries, this theme of Christ
the Mediator is clearly of great importance. This is why St. Cyril
insists on both the perfection of the divinity of the Word and the
fullness of His humanity, so as to be able to show Jesus Christ as
the Mediator and Redeemer, having long before been foretold in
the Old Testament 32. St. Cyril speaks of the mediation of Christ,
consubstantial with the Father in His divinity and with mankind in
His humanity, in his Commentary on the Gospel of John, 33 as well as in
the Old Testament commentaries. 34 Beginning with the work On
Worship in Spirit and Truth St. Cyril illuminates the soteriological as-
pects of his Christology as its foundation. I have discussed these
30 De Adoratione PG 68. Col. 881B; Glaphyra. PG 69. Col. 325B, Col.

596A; Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in xii prophetas, 2 vols.
Ed. Pusey, Oxford. 1868, Repr. 1965. Volume 2, page 260, lines 13–16.
31 Liébaert La doctrine christologique de saint Cyrille d’Alexandrie avant la
querelle nestorienne. p. 218.

32 Ibid.
33 Commentarii in Joannem. 6.1. PG 73. Col. 1045C.
34 See e.g.: In Aggaeum prophetam. 1. PG. 71. Col. 1041 BC.
aspects about the work of Christ as foretold in the Old Testament

at greater length elsewhere. 35
THE HARMONY OF ST. CYRIL’S CHRISTOLOGY AND

EUCHARISTIC DOCTRINE
Almost all the exegetical and dogmatic-polemical writings of St.
Cyril involve the subject of the Eucharist. In accordance with re-
ceived church teachings, the saint speaks of the reality of the
change of bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ, and
that through partaking we receive the life-giving and sanctifying
power of Christ. Despite the fact that in the Cyrilline works we
sometimes find the concept of the bread of heaven being the sus-
tenance of the mysterious word, 36 the overall central emphasis in
his interpretation is placed on Eucharistic realism, that is, on the
literal interpretation of Christ’s words. In the Commentary on the Gos-
pel of John, the interpretation of the Eucharist is contained mainly in
the discussion of the Bread of Heaven (6th chapter), and since the
Gospel of John does not speak of a Eucharistic institution narra-
tive, St. Cyril in the respective interpretations only mentions it in
passing.
In his study of the Alexandrian’s theology, John McGuckin
formulates the Cyrillian understanding of Incarnation dynamically;
that is, as the sacrament of implemented salvation. 37 This is the
archetype of the action by which the Logos saves humanity. 38 For
35 Новиков В.В. Ветхозаветная экзегеза святителя Кирилла

Александрийского как источник его христологии. ТРУДИ Київської
Духовної Академії, № 16.
36 See e.g.: In Zachariem prophetam. Commentarius in xii prophetas minores.
‘Sancti patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in xii prophetas, 2 vols.’, Ed.
Pusey, Volume 2, p. 338, line 2; In Habacuc prophetam, p. 142, line 27; In
Isaiem prophetam, PG 70. Col.1428C.
37 J. McGuckin. (tr). On the Unity of Christ. New York. 1995. p. 43.
38 J. McGuckin. ‘St. Cyril of Alexandria’s Theology of the Eucharist’.
Report at the Vth International Theological Conference of the Russian

Orthodox Church Orthodox Teaching on the Sacraments of the Church.
Moscow, 13–16 November 2007.
http://theolcom.ru/doc/sacradoc/2_07_McGuckin_en.pdf
VASILY NOVIKOV 303
St. Cyril, the teaching on the Eucharist is one of the main analogies
which explains the way the mysterious action of salvation occurs. It
became an important method by which St. Cyril evaluated proper
theological thought. The Eucharist for St Cyril is a reference to a
valid source of salvation, bestowed upon mankind by the Logos in
the Sacrament of the Incarnation. Other researchers also note the
reality of Eucharistic communion with God in the Eucharistic the-
ology of St. Cyril. 39
God is by nature Life and Giver of Life – this idea runs
through all the creative work of St. Cyril. And the Eucharist is spo-
ken of as ‘life-giving’; 40 it is the vivifying Body of Life. 41 One can
even say that salvation is understood as the receiving of the gift of
vital force. Thus, the possession of this power of life makes it pos-
sible to ascend to the communion of divine life. After all, the faith-
ful receive Holy Communion not just as bread, but as the flesh of
the Lamb slain for the world. 42 Only the true Body of Christ can be
life-giving. 43 The Eucharistic body is inseparable from the Source
of Life, Christ Himself. That is, the flesh itself is most closely unit-
ed and does not permit of any division of unity with the Logos.
This doctrine of the Eucharist also has an ecclesiological di-
mension: in other words the Church as the Body of Christ is
viewed in the light of the Christological dogma. After all, St. Cyril
speaks of the Church as a communicant of the divine nature. 44
Thus, the Church of Christ, which became ‘According to Christ …
39 See e.g.: B Meunier. Le Christ de Cyrille d’Alexandrie. pp. 180,181.

40 In Isaiem prophetam, PG 70. Col. 96C.
41 Τίνα γὰρ τρόπον ζωοποιή σειεν ἂν ἡμᾶς τὸ σῶμα αὐτοῦ εἰ μή
ἐστιν ἴδιον αὐτοῦ ὅς ἐστι ζωή; Quod unus sit Christus, ‘Cyrille d’Alexandrie.
Deux dialogues christologiques’, Ed. A. de Durand. p. 722. line 39; Εἰ γὰρ
οὐκ ἀμέσως ἰδία τοῦ Λόγου γέγονεν ἡ ἀπορρήτως αὐτῷ καὶ ὑπὲρ νοῦν καὶ
ἄρτος ὁ ζῶν… A. De Durand p. 776. lines 23–29.

λόγον ἑνωθεῖσα σάρξ͵ πῶς ἂν νοοῖτο ζωοποιός; Ἐγὼ γάρ εἰμι͵ φησίν͵ ὁ
42 Commentarium in Lucam. PG 72. Col. 905BC.

43 E. Concannon. ‘The Eucharist as Source of St. Cyril of Alexan-
dria’s Christology.’ Pro Ecclesia 18.3 (2009). P. 326–327.

44 τῆς θείας αὐτοῦ ϕύσεως κοινωνὸς. Comm. In Isaiem pr. PG 70.
Col. 1144CD.
in the communion of the Holy Spirit’, 45 is said to be, if not directly

the general nature of Christ, then the implied divine nature. Entry
into the Church is by no means ‘mechanical’, but implies fighting
off in oneself of ‘unclean and earthly thoughts’ along with the puri-
fication of the mind. 46 St. Cyril offers a similar interpretation of
Zion as the Christian Church in his Conversations on the Psalms. 47 The
Body and Blood of Christ are united with the Deity, but are not
themselves the essence of the Deity; they do not provide deifica-
tion themselves, but because of their dynamic connection with the
Divine. St. Cyril of Alexandria insisted on this, pointing to the un-
solvable problems that Nestorianism created for the Church’s
teaching on the Eucharist: here the communicant is not deified by
the material nature of the Gifts themselves, but that communi-
cating (via consumption) with the human nature of Christ, which is
itself inextricably in communion with the Divine, so that a partaker
of this dynamic material communicates with God in and through it.
Therefore, for the Nestorians who divide the One Christ, the
eating of human flesh is a meaningless ‘anthropophagy’ 48 Cyril ar-
gues. At this point the Cyrillian Christology and Soteriology closely
converge here. The Cyrilline scholars Concannon, Welch, Wei-
nandy and Keating 49 all agree on this point. The Sacrament of the
Holy Communion, ‘gives us life and sanctification,’ and cannot be
considered without an association with the confession of the
salvific sufferings of the Christ. 50
St. Cyril closely and extensively links the Eucharist with the
process of the deification of humanity. When he speaks of our spir-
itual consecration as supernatural, it is specifically the Eucharist
that is the means of ‘natural blessing’ and adoption. Indeed, in his
Dialogue on the Incarnation of the Only-begotten, which is a kind of water-
shed between the earlier and later works, St. Cyril says:
45 Ibid.
46 In Isaiam prophetam. Liber V. PG 70. Col. 1144B.
47 Expositio in Psalmos. PG 69. Col. 1128A.
48 Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum, Tome 1, volume 1, part 5, page 25,
line 2–11.
49 Concannon.’ The Eucharist as Source…’ p. 319.
50 Glaphyrorum in Exodum. Liber II. PG 69. Col. 428A.
VASILY NOVIKOV 305
He, being the only-begotten God, through the dispensation of

union as man became first-born in us and among many breth-
ren, so that we, in Him and through Him, have become chil-
dren of God by nature and by grace. By nature – in Him and
only (καὶ μόνῳ) in Him; by communion and grace – we are the
children of God through Him in the Spirit. 51
Here, we should note the expression καὶ μόνῳ – and only [in Him
– in the Son]. In speaking about deification by grace, many Fathers
of the Eastern Church have tended to refer it to a work of the Spir-
it. But it is noteworthy how Cyril so exclusively refers it to the Eu-
charistic action of Christ: a natural, physical sanctification through
the Son, in the Son, and only in Him. This is a unique and distinc-
tive characteristic of the Christology of St. Cyril. Speaking of our
bodily consecration, St. Cyril means that consecration that we have
obtained by participation in the Eucharist. Christ sanctifies us (even
after our departure to heaven) by and with his flesh, using his Eu-
charistic Body as the instrument of deification. And yet, the flesh
of Christ gives life not in and of itself, but only because it is con-
nected to God who is holy and is life. 52 As Cyril puts it:
Because the very body of the Lord was being sanctified by the
power of Word connected with it, which is why it is effective
for us in a mysterious blessing (the Eucharist), so that it can
implement its holiness in us. 53
The connection that we have with Christ in the Eucharist is so real,
that it is compared by St. Cyril to the interpenetrative connection
of two pieces of wax 54 or the combination of dough and yeast. 55 A
late Cyrilline treatise On the Unity of Christ provides also the image
51 De incarnatione unigeniti, ‘Cyrille d’Alexandrie. Deux dialogues chris-

tologiques’, Ed. de Durand, Paris: 1964; Sources chrétiennes 97. p. 700,
line 10.
52 In Ioannis Evangelium. Liber XI. Cap. IX. PG 74. Col. 528C.
53 Ibid. Col. 528B. Русс. перевод: Там же. С. 734.
54 In Ioannis Evangelium. Liber IV. Cap. II. PG 73. Col. 584B. Там же.
С. 41,42.
55 Ibid.
of iron and an inter-penetrating fire. For Cyril this transference of

divine power through the flesh is not solely an event that happens
for communicants; rather, the sanctifying power of Christ is con-
nected with His sufferings in the flesh (never sufferings of the Di-
vinity). 56 Thus, especially as it is located by St. Cyril in the Eucha-
ristic context, the Passion of Christ once again manifests to us the
absolute unity of the Christ with His flesh. Interpreting the verses
of John’s Gospel in which the Lord speaks of Himself as the
vine, 57 Cyril applies the passage to that ‘natural’ communion which
we receive from partaking of the holy Eucharist. Along similar lines
Keating argues that the spiritual blessing that we receive in Baptism
through the Holy Spirit is equally the way to bodily sanctification
through the Eucharist. 58
In Cyril’s Old Testament commentaries, we find the expres-
sion ‘In Christ, and only in Him’ set out in relation to the Church
of Christ. In his treatise On the Incarnation of the Only-begotten and his
Commentary on the Prophet Zephaniah, we find the phrase ‘In Christ,
and only in Him’ (ἐν Χριστῷ δὴ καὶ μόνῳ). 59 For example: ‘In
Christ and only in Him, is the spiritual and holy Sion justified, and
that is the Church, or the holy multitude of believers. And through
Him and by Him we are saved … and have a Mediator Who ap-
peared in the image of our own King, and the very word of God,
of the essence of God the Father’. 60 But our consubstantiality to
the Savior cannot by itself serve as an automatic guarantee of salva-
tion. 61 Even so, we cannot bear spiritual fruit and achieve salvation
56
μὴ παθεῖν τὸν Υἱόν. Quod unus sit Christus. ‘Cyrille d’Alexandrie. Deux dia-
οὕτω πως συνήσεις καὶ ἐν τῷ σαρκὶ λέγεσθαι παθεῖν͵ θεότητι δὲ
logues christologiques’, Ed. de Durand, Paris: Cerf, 1964; Sources chré-

tiennes 97. p. 776, line 17–18.
57 In Ioannis Evangelium. XV, 1, PG 74. Col. 341CD.
58 D Keating, Divinisation in Cyril: The Appropriation of Divine Life .
New-York, 2000. p. 166.

59 In Sophoniam prophetam. Commentarius in xii prophetas minores. Sancti
patris nostri Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in xii prophetas, Volume 2, p. 235,

line 13.
60 Ibid.
61 In Ioannis Evangelium. XV, 1, PG 74. Col. 341CD.
VASILY NOVIKOV 307
alone: as individuals, we are united with Christ through the mystery

of communion (the Eucharist), which makes us bodily united (or
co-bodied) to Him and to each other. 62 And since Christ cannot be
divided, the Church is an assembly of the faithful around the Eu-
charistic meal which is called the Body of Christ. As Cyril puts it:
And we … communicating in His holy flesh, acquire unity
through His body, which means with Christ … If we all be-
come one body with each other in Christ, and not only with
each other but [with] Himself, evidently Him who dwells in us
through His flesh; is it not yet clear that the one whole we
make with regard one another, is like it is in Christ? Christ is,
in fact, Himself an alliance of unity, being together both God
and man. 63
It follows, then, that for St. Cyril the sanctification of our flesh is
not fundamentally different from the sanctification of the humanity
of Christ. After all, Christ does not have a different human hyposta-
sis and His unity with mankind is conceived at the level of natural
community, i.e. with the whole human race. One can even concur
with Fairbairn who talks about the natural ‘sonship’ of those who
are being saved. 64
Based on this, we can see that for St. Cyril, all the perfection
which the humanity of Christ possesses, may be transferred to us.
After all, if His humanity is sanctified by the power of hypostatic
union, it cannot become the source of our sanctification, since it is
impossible for us to connect with God in such a unique and sub-
stantial manner. But the very same hypostatic union of the natures of
Christ, in what is evidently a highly soteriological approach, is clear-
ly conceived as an objective and necessary foundation of the new
sanctification of the human nature. As Janssens explains the Cyril-
line theology: ‘In fact, since he had all of us in himself, having be-
come man, and since he had resurrected with Himself the whole of
62 In Ioannis Evangelium. Liber XI. Cap. XI. PG 74. Col. 560В–561A.

63 Ibid.
64 As he emphasizes repeatedly elsewhere, there are two modes of
sonship, the natural and that by grace. D. Fairbairn, Grace and Christology in
the Early Church. Oxford – New York, 2003. p.100.
nature, He also received the Spirit for us, in order to sanctify the
whole of nature. In light of our solidarity with Christ, we receive
the Holy Spirit in Him, and this gift of the Spirit is intended for all
of nature.’ 65
This was the very reason that, during the period of controver-
sy with Nestorius, St. Cyril stressed that the Son of God did not
take on the human person (i.e., the individual), but became flesh ,
that is became man. 66 Since in Christ there is no separate human
face (a human being), we have in Him rather ‘the total face of hu-
manity’ (τὸ κοινὸν τῆς ἀνθρωπότητος … πρόσωπον), 67 ‘contemplat-
ing in humanity the face of the Only-begotten’. 68 Equally the Sav-
iour Himself by virtue of, or in, His humanity, is not simply one of
the members of the human race, but rather is revealed as a new
beginning, the first fruits of a renewed humanity. 69 It is through
Christ that all of human nature is changed. 70 Such considerations
permit J. Pelikan to call Christ: the ‘Universal Man’ 71 encompassing
the entirety of man (τον Καθόλοv).
The same concept of first fruits is also used in On the Unity of
Christ to describe our victory in Christ over sin and decay. 72 Thus,
the eucharistic doctrine of St. Cyril, which includes his idea of the
reality of the Body and Blood of Christ in the Eucharist, and his
thought about the sanctification of the body given in it, and about
65 L Janssens. ‘Notre filiation divine d’après Saint Cyrille

d’Alexandrie.’ Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses. 1938. T. XV. pp.
242–243.
66 Οὐ γὰρ εἴρηκεν ἡ Γραφὴ ὅτι Λόγος ἀνθρώπου πρόσωπoν ἥνωσεν,
ἀλλ᾿ ὅτι γέγονε σάρξ - Ep. 4 ad Nestorium. PG 77. Col. 48С.

67 In Ioannis Evangelium. I, 14. PG 73. Col. 161C.
68 In Ioannis Evangelium. XVII, 18, 19. PG 74. Col. 549D.
69 In Ioannis Evangelium. XIV, 20, PG 74. Col. 276AB.
70 In Ioannis Evangelium. XVII, 18–19. PG 74. Col. 545C.
71Пеликан Ярослав. Дух восточного христианства. Христианская
традиция. История развития вероучения. Культурный центр

«Духовная библиотека», М., Б/г. С. 76.
72 Ὡς ἐν ἀπαρχῇ δὲ Χριστῷ μετεστοιχειώμεθα καὶ ἡμεῖς εἰς τὸ εἶναι
καὶ φθορᾶς καὶ ἁμαρτίας κρείττονες. Quod unus sit Christus, Sources
chrétiennes 97. p. 723, line 11–13.
VASILY NOVIKOV 309
the deification of the human nature in Christ, is all expressed in the

same manner, equally in his earlier, and in his later works. Unfortu-
nately, in the case of a desired analysis of the Eucharistic doctrine
of St. Cyril of Alexandria, it is not possible to use the Alexandrian
anaphora texts, which would have reflected his liturgical practice.
The extant text of the Anaphora of St. Cyril, being too late, cannot
serve as the basis for such an analysis, but can, at most, be used
illustratively.
So, for example, when the Egyptian anaphora contains the
Cyrillian expression μία φύσις τοῦ Θεοῦ λόγου σεσαρκωμένη, it is
used only in the context of refuting the Chalcedonian Oros. 73 In
addition, one sees the significant influence of the Christology of St.
Athanasius and Cyril of Alexandria on the texts of the Egyptian
anaphora which speak about the deification of communicants by
the life-giving Body and Blood of Christ. 74 This can be illustrated
by reference St. Cyril’s liturgy where it is said that Christ partook of
the bread and cup during the establishment of the Eucharist [at the
Last Supper]; 75 This is a detail which emphasizes the commonality
of Christ and the communicants; but it is far from being unique to
Alexandria, as it is also said in some of the Syrian anaphora. 76
However, the presence of the so-called Logos-Epiklesis in
St. Serapion of Thmuis’ extant Anaphora (in his Euchologion), in
which the Logos himself is called on to sanctify the Holy Gifts,
rather than the Holy Spirit, 77 is actually a unique part of the
Anaphora of the Church of Alexandria.
As to the distinction of two natures and two wills in Christ,
the Church formulated these differences in an elaborate semantic,
73 S J Davis. Coptic Christology in Practice Incarnation and Divine Participa-

tion in Late Antique and Medieval Egypt. p. 96.
74 Ibid. Р. 174.
75 Собрание древних Литургий Восточных и Западных в
переводе на русский язык, составленное редакцией «Христианскаго

Чтения», издаваемаго при С.-Петербургской Духовной Академии.
Выпуск III: Отдел II: Литургии Александрийские. СПб.: 1876. С. 71.
76 Там же.
77 Православная энциклопедия. [электронный ресурс]
http://www.pravenc.ru/text/64464.html
but well after the time of St. Cyril. And although we can find both
dyophysite and dyothelite terminology in his early and later writ-
ings, it is not as precise and clear as the above-mentioned elements
of his Christology. The inadequacy caused by the lack of precision
in key semantic terms. was finally overcome in the Church in the
sixth and seventh centuries on the basis of differences in the natu-
ral action arising from the two natures, real and self-moving, but
differing only in ‘deep spiritual thought’ (επίνοια). Despite some
minor variegations 78, St. Cyril’s core Christology and, above all, its
soteriological content, did not change throughout his career, not
even at the time of the Nestorian controversy; and this because it
was all built on the same soteriological foundation. Perhaps be-
cause of such reasons the communities of the ancient ascetics were
strong defenders and supporters of the Cyrilline Christological
teaching. In later times Alexandrian monasticism became Monoph-
ysite, equating the doctrine of Severus of Antioch with that of Cyr-
il, in which such key soteriological concepts for Dyophysite tradi-
tion as sanctification (ἁγιασμός) and deification (θέωσις), and also
the understanding of salvation as a real transformation
(Μεταμορφωσις) of human nature by virtue of its participation in
the real humanity of Christ were actually occluded. The controver-
sy with Nestorius, therefore, did not introduce any significant new
elements into the Christological doctrine of St. Cyril of Alexandria.
His Christology, as expressed in his early writings, is virtually iden-
tical in its theological content, to the Christology of his later works.
The eucharistic analogy is critical for understanding how he envis-
aged the transference of redemption form the divine incarnation to
the church of believers. The dynamism of his spiritual vision, ex-
plains a pattern for the ascent of the individual, and the church as a
collective, to union with God. To this extent it was a perfect para-
digm for the ascetical endeavor, which explains why so many mo-
nastics, across so many generations, have championed the defence
of St. Cyril of Alexandria as ‘The Seal of the Fathers.’
78 Fairbairn. Grace and Christology in the Early Church. pp. 129–130.

VASILY NOVIKOV 311
BIBLIOGRAPHY
E. Concannon ‘The Eucharist as Source of St. Cyril of Alex-
andria’s Christology.’ Pro Ecclesia 18.3 (2009).
P. 318–336.
O. Давыденков Догматическая система Севира
Антиохийского. Мoskva. 2008.
О. Давыденков Христологические основания
православного учения об обожении.
S. J. Davis Coptic Christology in Practice: Incarnation and
Divine Participation in Late Antique and Medi-
eval Egypt. Oxford. 2008.
D. Fairbairn Grace and Christology in the Early Church.
Oxford – New York, 2003.
D. A. Keating Divinisation in Cyril: The Appropriation of
Divine Life. In T. Weinandy. The Theology of
St. Cyril of Alexandria. A Critical Appreciation.
New-York, 2000.
L. Janssens ‘Notre filiation divine d’après Saint Cyrille
d’Alexandrie.’ Ephemerides Theologicae Lova-
nienses. Louvain. 1938. vol. 15. 242 – 243.
L. Koen The Saving Passion. Incarnational and Soterio-
logical Thought in Cyril of Liébaert la doctrine
christologique de saint Cyrille d’Alexandrie
avant la querelle nestorienne. Lille, 1951.
——— Alexandria’s Commentary on the Gospel ac-
cording to St. John. Uppsala, 1991.
J. A. McGuckin On the Unity of Christ. St. Cyril of Alexandria.
SVS Press. NY. 1995.
——— (И.Макгаккин). Богословие евхаристии в
творениях свят.
——— Кирилла Александрийского. Доклад на V
Международной конференции Русской
Православной Церкви «Православное
учение о церковных Таинствах», 13–16
ноября 2007 г.
B. Meunier Le Christ de Cyrille d’Alexandrie: l’hummanité,
le salut et la question monophisite. Paris:
Beauchesne, 1997.
В. В. Новиков Ветхозаветная экзегеза святителя Кирилла
Александрийского как источник его
христологии. ТРУДИ Київської Духовної

Академії, № 16. Київ, 2012.
J. J. O’Keefe St. Cyril of Alexandria, Festal Letters 1–12. The
Fathers of the Church. CUA Press, Washing-
ton. 2009.
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традиция. История развития вероучения.
Культурный центр «Духовная библиотека»,
М., Б/г. С. 76.
К. Шенборн (при участии Конрада М. и Вебера Х Ф.)
Бог послал Сына Своего. Христология.
(Пер. с немецкого – Верещагин . M.). М.,
2003.
T. Weinandy Cyril and the Mystery of the Incarnation. The
Theology of St. Cyril of Alexandria. A Critical
appreciation. New York, 2000.
J. L. Welch Christology and Eucharist in the Early
Thought of Cyril of Alexandria. Catholic Scho-
lars Press, 1994.
HUMANITY’S RECONCILIATION WITH THE
DIVINE THROUGH THE MYSTERY OF
THE INCARNATION OF THE WORD IN
THE THOUGHT OF ST. ISIDORE OF
PELUSIUM & ST. CYRIL OF
ALEXANDRIA
EIRINI ARTEMI
THE INCARNATION OF WORD: PATH TO GOD’S
RECONCILIATION WITH HUMANITY
In Orthodox theology, Christ is true God and true man at the same
time. He is theanthropos. The Hypostatic Union of two natures of
Christ is no moral conjunction, no union in a figurative sense of
the word; but a real union that is physical, a union of two substanc-
es or natures so as to make One Person; a union which means that
God is Man and Man is God in the Person of Jesus Christ. 1 The
word theanthropos is the key semantic for understanding this mystery
of Incarnation; the unity of the Uncreated with Created, for only as
God and man could this be effected by Jesus after reconciling hu-
mankind with God and thereby making a new creation 2 and a new
1 E. Artemi, Isidore’s of Pelusium teaching for the Triune God and its relation
to the teaching of Cyril of Alexandria, Athens 2012, p. 304.
2 2 Cor. 5:17–19: ‘Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new
creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new’.
313
314 HUMANITY’S RECONCILIATION WITH THE DIVINE
human being. 3 Christ personally demonstrated man such as he had

to be become. He put into practice the ultimate purpose of man,
namely deification, and led him within the embrace of the Holy
Trinity. The Incarnation thus gives man the possibility of objective
salvation. This belief is the foundation for the Orthodox faith and
is the great desire for all Christians. This great restoration is also
seen as the return to the benefits and state of our earliest created
condition, when man participated in the actions of God and was
invested in the holiness of salvation. 4
In his soteriological teachings St. Cyril underlines this salvific
motive for the Incarnation. He says that:
Being God, and by nature God, the Only-Begotten became
man in order to condemn sin in the flesh, put death to death
by his own death, and make us sons of God, regenerating
those on earth in the Spirit and bringing them up to a dignity
that transcends their nature. For surely it was well planned that
by this method the race which had fallen away should be reca-
pitulated and brought back to its original state, that is to say,
the human race. 5
St. Isidore of Pelusium, the contemporary of Cyril, follows the
same ecclesial teaching and refers to the fact of the incarnation of
Word as the highway to the reconciliation of man with God. Citing
St. Paul, Isidore depicts Christ as theanthropos, God and Man at the
same time:
Who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be
equal with God: But made himself of no reputation, and took
upon him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness
of men: And being found in fashion as a man, he humbled
3 Eph. 2:15: ‘Having abolished in his flesh the enmity, even the law
of commandments contained in ordinances; for to make in himself of
twain one new man, so making peace;’
4 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannen, 4, 2, Pusey, vol. I, p. 5352–3 (=PG
73, 584Β).
5 Cyril of Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 72317–18 (=PG 75,
1269C).
EIRINI ARTEMI 315
himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of

the cross. 6
In his theology Isidore consistently argues that the Father intended
His Son to be sent into the world as the atonement of humanity’s
sins. By this obedience Christ was destined to reveal His own right-
eousness, and the Father accepted Christ as the sin-offering that
removed the animosities between Himself and mortal man, who
had fallen from grace. 7 In his approach Isidore was deeply influ-
enced by the Apostle Paul, mainly the letters to the Romans, 8 II
Corinthians 9 and Hebrews. 10 Such an approach emphasizes that
salvation is subsequent to man’s vindication by God. It comes to
fruition with the presence of the incarnate Christ in the world, and
is consummated through His sacrifice on the cross. Though Christ
was sinless, he freely accepted our sins and bore the pain of cruci-
fixion. Isidore concurred with John Chrysostom who wrote: ‘He
made the righteous one a sinner, for the cause of making the sinner
righteous’. 11
In this patristic and biblical approach, therefore, the reconcili-
ation of man with God required not only the fact of Incarnation of
the Divine Word, but also His Passion and death on the cross. In
his work Quod unus sit Christus, St. Cyril says:
For He willed as God to render the flesh, which is subject to
death and sin, superior to both death and sin, and to restore it
to what it was in the beginning 12 … So that through death He
6 Isidore of Pelusim, Epist. 4, 22 – Zenoni, SC 422, 2646–7, 2668–9

(=PG 78, 1072ΑΒ). Cf. Philip. 2: 5–8.
7 Isidore of Pelusim, Epist. 4, 73 – Eusobio Episcopo, PG 78, 1132C,
1133A.
8 Rom. 1:16–17, 3:25.
9 2 Cor. 5:21.
10 Heb. 2:14.
11 Johh Chrysostomus, Ad Stelechion, II, PG 47, 416D.
1305Α).
might bring to nothing the one who had the power of death
(that is, the devil). 13
St.Cyril argues that through the incarnation, passion and resurrec-
tion of the Son of God, the fullness of man (body and soul) found
the way to be reconciled with God. 14 The Salvation of man and his
reconciliation with God, therefore, assumes two things, first the
unshared unity of the human nature and second the ontological
divine compoundedness with the human in the divine person of
Christ. 15
1265D). Hebr. 2, 14–15. Cyril of Alexandria, De incarnatione Unigenitii, SC
97, 6835 (=PG 75, 1197D). Hebr. 2, 14–15.
14 ‘For the Only-Begotten Word of God hath saved us, putting on
likeness to us in order that having suffered in the flesh and risen from the
dead He might set forth our nature superior to death and decay’, Cyril of
Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 77537–42 (=PG 75, 1357B). See
also: ‘ We proclaim the death according to the flesh of the only-begotten
Son of God, and confess the return to life from the dead of Jesus Christ,
and his ascension into heaven, and thus we perform in the churches an
unbloody worship, and in this way approach mystical blessings (eulogia)
and are sanctified, becoming participants in the holy flesh and the pre-
cious blood of Christ the Savior of us all. We do not receive this as ordi-
nary flesh – God forbid! – or as the flesh of a man sanctified and con-
joined to the Word in a unity of dignity, or as the flesh of someone who
enjoys a divine indwelling. No, we receive it as truly the life-giving and
very flesh of the Word himself’, Cyril, Third Letter to Nestorius 7 (trans.
John A. McGuckin, St. Cyril of Alexandria and the Christological Contro-
versy [Crestwood: St. Vladimir’s, 2004] 270). See Henry Chadwick, ‘Eu-
charist and Christology in the Nestorian Controversy,’ Journal of Theological
Studies 2 (1951) 145–164; for the Commentary on John, see Lawrence J.
Welch, Theology and Eucharist in the Early Thought of Cyril of Alexandria (San
Francisco: Catholic Scholars’ Press, 1993).
15 A. H. Armstrong, «Platonic Elements in St. Grecory of Nyssa’s
Doctrine of Man», Dominica Studies 1 (1948), 114. K. Ε. Papapetrou, H

αποκάλυψις του Θεού και η γνώσις Αυτού, Athens 1969, p.65. Κ. Β.
Scouteris, «Eνανθρώπηση καί Θέωση», Efimerios, vol 12, (December 1999),
p. 19.
EIRINI ARTEMI 317
In his turn, Isidore of Pelusium echoes Cyril’s stress that the

Incarnate Word, the fullness of revelation, restored to humans
once more that principle of vitalization and incorruptibility in hu-
man nature, which it once enjoyed before the fall. He sees those
who are honored with such a gift, as: Men who are honored with the
king’s honors, who partake in the divine mysteries, attributes and gifts. 16 Isi-
dore uses texts from the Old Testament to support his argument.
He argues that in the Old Testament, the Word of God does not
only reveal the will of the Father but also shows His own creative
abilities. He creates the world, visible and invisible, and shapes
man, in unity with the other two hypostases of the Trinity. Isidore
underlines that Isaiah prophetically saw the ‘incarnation’ of the
Savior. 17 In the New Testament, the pre-eternal Logos, consub-
stantial with the Father and the Holy Spirit, becomes perfect man
and remains, at the same time, perfect God. He incarnated in order
to free people from their bondage to the effects of ancestral sin
and reunite man with God the Creator. This soteriological path was
the way the incarnate Word of God revealed Himself throughout
the world, calling people to repentance and moral perfection, so
that the entire human race could achieve their subjective salva-
tion. 18
The patriarch of Alexandria also explains the incarnation of
the Word as the way to salvation for the whole human race. He
notes that while God could have saved human beings in a myriad
other 19 ways, he chose this path of Kenosis, and made it a transac-
tion of redemption:
16 Isidore of Pelusim, Epist. ΙV, 168 – Joanno Diacono, SC 454, 2509–10

(=PG 78, 1260C).
17 Isidore, Epist. ΙV, 154 – Anatolio Diacono, SC 422, 3567–9 (=PG 78,
1240Β). Cf. Is. 26: 9.

18 E. Artemi, ‘The knowledge of the Triune God according to Isi-
dore of Pelusium’, in The 12th International Symposium of Byzantologists Niš
Antiaireticon Egolpion, 24 June 2013, http://www.egolpion.com/

and Byzantium XII ‘Constantine, in hoc signo vinces, 313–2013’ 3–6 June 2013,
DCA0ED3E.en.aspx
19 Cyril of Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 434 (=PG 75,
1321C).
The Only Begotten did not become man only to remain in the
limits of the emptying. The point was that he who was God by
nature should, in the act of self-emptying, assume everything
that went along with it. This was how he would be revealed as
ennobling the very nature of man in himself by making (hu-
man nature) participate in his own sacred and divine honors. 20
This, for Cyril, was why the Word of God became perfect man.
Moreover, the humanity of Christ reflected the ‘real man’, he who
had been created originally in the image and likeness of God. In his
treatise De incarnatione Unigeniti Cyril stresses that the Son of God as
a perfect and sinless man could better understand the temptations
that were faced by mankind. The Word enfleshed (sesarkomenos)
thus helps mortals who are in temptation to conquer Satan and
thereby escape sin and its deadly effects. 21 For Cyril, the first Adam
failed to succeed in his mission to stand in communion with God,
but Christ as Second or New Adam managed to accomplish his
task with great success:
For we are earthy, in that there stole in upon us as from the
earthy one, Adam, the curse of decay, through which the law
of sin also entered in, which is lodged in the members of our
flesh. Even so, we have been made heavenly, receiving this in
Christ. For He who was God by nature, and out of God, and
from above, has come down in our estate, in a new and strange
manner, and was made offspring of the Spirit according to the
flesh, in order that we too might remain holy and incorrupti-
ble, as He is, that grace descending upon us as from out of a
second beginning and root, namely Himself. 22
St. Isidore stresses that Adam received his slavery from a demon.
As the legacy of their disobedience towards God’s commandments,
20 Ibid, SC 97, 432 (=PG 75, 1319B), trans. J. McGuckin, On the unity
of Christ, SVS Press. New York. 1995, p. 101.
21 Cyril of Alexandria, De incarnatione Unigenitii, SC 97, 68131–44 (=PG
75, 1196CD).
22 Cyril of Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 72113–15 (=PG75,
1265D).
EIRINI ARTEMI 319
Adam and Eve bequeathed a legacy of corruption and death to all

subsequent generations. This disobedience was not to be corrected
until the advent of the incarnate Logos as the New Adam. 23
Cyril is insistent that if the Word has not been made flesh, the
hold of death over humanity could never have been broken:
Otherwise sin could never have been brought to nothing, and
we would still have remained subject to the transgressions of
the first man, Adam, having no return to what was better,
through Christ the Saviour of us all. 24
Christ, then, is the New Adam, whose achievements of obedience
manage to lead man back to objective salvation and redemption,
which failed at the time of the old Adam. Following Paul’s lan-
guage, Cyril argues that as we are all in Christ, so we were once all
in Adam; and for this reason:
The common element of humanity is summed up in Christ’s
person, which is also why he was called the Last Adam. He en-
riched our common nature with everything conducive to joy
and glory just as the First Adam had impoverished it with eve-
rything conducive of gloom and corruption. 25
Both Alexandrian Fathers make it clear that the transgression of
Adam was the cause for God averting his face from humanity. But
the incarnation is the sign of promise God gives that, although ra-
tional beings had been removed from Him and had become captive
to their passions, he would still ‘remodel’ the whole face of creation
and release it from the chains with which Satan had dragged it into
the slavery of sin and death.
23 Isidore of Pelusium, Epist. IV, 204 – Isidoro Diacono, PG 78,

1292B.
24 Cyril of Alexandria, Quod unus sit Christus, SC 97, 72113–15 (=PG75,
1265D). cf . Heb. 2, 14–15. Cyril of Alexandria, De incarnatione Unigenitii,
SC 97, 76338–41 (=PG 75, 1337A).
25 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, Ι, 14, Pusey, vol. I, p. 14419 (=PG
73, 165B).
SONS OF GOD BY GRACE: MEMBERS OF THE BODY BY

PARTICIPATION IN DIVINE MYSTERIES
In Orthodox theology, Salvation is the divine gift through which
men and women are delivered from sin and death, united to Christ,
and brought into His eternal Kingdom. Those who first heard Pe-
ter’s sermon on the Day of Pentecost asked what they must do to
be saved. He answered then: ‘Repent, and let every one of you be
baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins; and
you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit’. 26 This is why Ortho-
doxy understands Baptism as the way in which a person can be
actually united to Christ. The experience of salvation is thus initiat-
ed in the waters of the mystery of baptism. In this mystery we ex-
perience Christ’s death and Resurrection. In it our sins are truly
forgiven and we are energized by our union with Christ to live a
holy life. The baptized have been united to Christ to be part of His
Church, his mystical body.
Christ saved man from the Original sin, the ancestral sin. 27
Only those who are in Christ have been redeemed and liberated
from their sins, as Paul expressed it: In Him we have redemption,
through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of his grace, 28
since redemption and forgiveness of sins are located entirely in
Christ, and only the members of His body, the Church, can exploit
the fruits of this reconciliation between God and Man. Both Isi-
dore and Cyril speak of how God redeems sinners, whom He has
adopted as his sons through Jesus’ Christ by the pathway of the
Incarnation 29. For both fathers, God gave this adoption through
the divine sacraments. Both concur that we must be baptized in the
name of the Triune God as scripture demands. 30 Isidore argues
that the mystery of Baptism is not only the one pathway for man to
26 Acts. 2:28.
27 Al. Golitzin, On the Mystical Life by Saint Symeon, St Vladimir’s Sem-
inary Press 1995, p.119.
28 Eph. 1: 7.
29 ‘In accordance with His pleasure and will to the praise of his glo-
rious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves.’ Eph. 1: 5–6.
30 Mt. 28:19.
EIRINI ARTEMI 321
get rid of the ancestral sin and be reunited with God, but also that
through this sacrament: Man can be adorned with the great gifts of Divine
Grace. 31 For the King of all delivered our nature from the prison and He lifted
it up in the greatest honor. 32 St. Cyril adds that Baptism mystically
cleanses the totality of our leprous humanity. 33 It is a cure no less
radical than the cleansing of the lepers of old: For Christ having our
likeness, visited us, outcasts as we were, and forced to dwell outside the holy and
sacred city. And having looked upon us, He made us clean through Holy Bap-
tism and His Body. 34 For Cyril, Christ makes us clean, sanctifying us
through Holy Baptism and the Eucharist. 35
Isidore highlights a contrast between Moses’ law and Christian
baptism. He argues that the former was concerned to punish the
faults of transgressors, even setting death as a penalty for great
transgressions; but the latter puts to death our mortality itself, and
our propensity towards a vicious life, and gives instead a new form
of life to man. 36 Since the original sin was the cause for concupis-
centia, humanity’s disordered desire for what is harmful, Christ gave
us a liberative freedom through Baptism gifting us with the grace
of the Holy Spirit. 37
For Cyril baptism is no less than a mystery of cosmic dimen-
sions. 38 Adam lost the image of God because through sin, he lost
31 Isidore of Pelusium, Epist. ΙΙΙ, 195 – Hermino Comiti, PG 78, 880C.

32 Ibid, PG 78, 881A.
33 Cyril of Alexandria, Glaphyra in Leviticum, L, 1, PG 69, 553A-D.
34 Ibid
35 Ibid, PG 69, 560A.
36 Isidore of Pelusium, Epist ΙV, 168 – Joanne Diacono, SC 454, 2509–10
(=PG 78, 1260C).

37 Isidore of Pelusium, Epist ΙV, 204 - Isidoro Diacono, PG 78, 1292B.
38 R. L. Wilken, Judaism and the early Christian mind. A study of Cyril of
Alexandria’s exegesis and theology, Yale University Press, New Haven 1971,
127–142. Idem, ‘The Interpretation of the Baptism of Jesus in the Later
Fathers’, in Studia Patristica 272. K. McDonnell, The Baptism of Jesus in the
Jordan: The Trinitarian and Cosmic Order of Salvation, The Liturgical Press,
Minnesota 1996, p. 71.
the Holy Spirit: 39 Our father Adam did not preserve the grace of the Spirit,
and thus in him the whole nature eventually lost its God gifted graces. The
restoration of the image, therefore, can only be linked to the return
of the Spirit. 40 The image once defaced is that image now restored
and made new in Christ. 41 The Alexandrian patriarch teaches that
through the incarnation of the Word of God and His redemptive
achievement for all people, He gave to the Holy Spirit the mission
to renew our nature and lead our souls back towards the sweet
bosom of the Father:
When the Word of God became man, He received the Spirit
from the Father as one of us, (not receiving anything for
Himself individually, for He was the Giver of the Spirit); but
that He Who knew no sin, might, by receiving the Spirit as
man, preserve Him to our nature, and might again restore in us
the grace which had left us. For this reason, I consider the holy
Baptist profitably added, ‘I saw the Spirit descending from
Hearen, and He remained upon Him’ (John 1:32). For the
Spirit had fled from us by reason of sin, but He Who knew no
sin, became as one of us, that the Spirit might be accustomed
to stay within us, having no reason to leave or withdraw in
Him. 42
Besides Baptism, and its centrally important place, both fathers
explain the mystery of the human race’s reconciliation in reference
to the Eucharist. The mystery of Eucharist has formed a central
rite of Christian worship from the beginning. The Church’s partici-
pation in the Eucharist enhances and deepens the communion of
faithful not only with the Enfleshed Word, Christ, but also with
each another. Isidore refers to the Holy Eucharist, the consecrated
39 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, V, 2, Pusey, vol. Ι, p. 69214–18

(=PG 73, 751C).
40 Ibid.
41 K. McDonnell, The Baptism of Jesus in the Jordan: The Trinitarian and
Cosmic Order of Salvation, The Liturgical Press, Minnesota 1996, p. 72.

42 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, II, 6, Pusey, vol. I, p. 3172–4 (=PG
73, 349AB). Cf Ibid, Pusey, vol. I, p. 3201, 32117, (=PG 73, 352D,
353CD).
EIRINI ARTEMI 323
elements, as the body and blood of Christ. 43 He argues that the

holy Eucharist completes Christian initiation. Those who have
been raised to the dignity of the royal priesthood by Baptism and
configured more deeply to Christ by the sacred Chrisma participate
with the whole community in the Lord’s own sacrifice by means of
the Eucharist. 44
For his part, Cyril saw and proclaimed with great ingenuity the
organic interrelation of the mysteries of Incarnation and Eucharist.
He says in his Commentary on St. John’s Gospel:
‘And the glory that thou hast given me, I have given to them’ 45
‘And we have seen his glory, the glory as it were of the only-
begotten of the Father’; the same glory which appeared in
Bethlehem and in the whole life of Christ, the glory of the Son
of God shining through the humanity as through a veil, re-
splendent in His teaching, in His miracles, in transfiguration, in
passion, resurrection and ascension: the splendour of the glory
and the figure of the substance of the Father. 46 There is a deep
relation expressed in Cyril’s Christology between the unity of
the Incarnate Christ’s single (divine) person enfleshed, and the
mystery of Eucharist: 47 For the bread of God is that which
comes down from heaven, and gives life to the world … I am
the living bread which come down from heaven; If any one
eats of this bread, he will live for ever; and the bread which I
shall give for the life of the world is my flesh … Truly, truly, I
say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of man and
43 Isidore of Pelusium, Epist Ι, 109 – Marathonio Monocho, PG 78,

256BC. Idem, Epist Ι, 123 – Dorotheo Cometi, PG 78, 264D. Idem, Epist ΙV,
166- Archibio Presbytero, SC 422, 1961–3 (=PG 78, 1256ΑΒ).
44 Ibid.
45 Jn. 17:22.
46 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, I, Prologue, Pusey, vol. I, p. 65–15
(=PG 73, 16ΑB)

47 P. Gray, ‘The Lifegiving Body of Christ in Cyril’, in The Eucharist
Patristic Age to the Reformation, eds. István Perczel, Réka Forrai, G. Ger’by,
in Theology and Philosophy: Issues of Doctrinal History in East and West from the
Leuven University Press, Leuven 2005, p. 25.

drink His blood, you have no life in you; he who eats my flesh
and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at
the last day. 48
Also, in Cyril’s view, there is a rich connection between Eucharistic
piety and Christology. Keating expresses it this way:
‘Cyril’s theology of the Eucharist appears to be quite straight-
forward: by eating of the consecrated bread, we in fact partake
of the flesh of Christ, and so receive into ourselves the life that
is in Christ through the medium of his very flesh; flesh which
has become life-giving by virtue of the ineffable Union of the
Word to this flesh.’ 49
It is evident, then, for St. Cyril, and the Orthodox Church which
has followed his teachings closely, that the One who offers this
flesh on the Cross must be the divine Son and Word of God Him-
self; a merely relative conjunction of a man alongside the Word of
God, would not have allowed for this hypostatic communication of
the life of God through the sacrificed, vivified, and energized flesh
of the Word as given to us in the mystery of the Eucharist.
Both fathers recognize that Christ: ‘Is the head of the body,
the Church’. 50 Believers who respond to God’s word and become
members of Christ’s Body, become intimately united with him, for
in that body the life of Christ is communicated to those who be-
lieve, who, through the sacraments, are united in a hidden yet real
way to Christ in his Passion and glorification. 51 This is especially
true of Baptism, which unites us to Christ’s death and Resurrec-
tion, and the Eucharist, by which really sharing in the body of the
Lord, we are taken up into communion with him and with one an-
other. 52
48Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, I, 6C, 51–54.

49Th. G. Weinandy and D. A. Keating, The Theology of St. Cyril of Al-
exandria, a critical appreciation, publ. T & T Clark, New York 2003, p. 163.
50 Col. 1:18.
51 1 Cor. 12:13.
52 Rom 6:4–5; 1 Cor 12:13.
EIRINI ARTEMI 325
Isidore and Cyril argue that from the beginning of Christ’s

public ministry, Jesus associated his disciples with his own life, re-
vealed the mystery of the Kingdom to them, and gave them a share
in his mission, his joy, and sufferings. 53 Jesus spoke of a still more
intimate communion between Him and those who would follow
Him when he said: ‘Abide in me, and I in you … I am the vine, you
are the branches’. 54 And he proclaimed a mysterious and real
communion between his own body and ours with the words:
‘Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in
him’. 55 When his visible presence was taken from them, Jesus did
not leave his disciples orphans. He promised to remain with them
until the end of time; sending them his Spirit as a pledge (arrabon). 56
As a result communion with Jesus has become, in a way, more in-
tense, for the Church of later days. By communicating His Spirit,
Christ mystically constitutes as His body those brothers and sisters
of His who are called together from every nation. This mystical
body is the Church.
Isidore is at pains to point out that the true meaning of
‘Church’ is derived from union with Christ and does not depend
on buildings or temples. He defined the church as: The assembly of
saints knit together by correct faith and excellent manner of life, adding that
it: should abound in spiritual gifts, for holy conversation is the bright ornament
of the Church. 57 The Church as the body of Christ in the present
moment, he says, ought to be crowned with divine and heavenly
graces just as the apostolic ages once were 58 and for this reason
people who are members of Church should try to live according
the teaching of Christ. 59 Isidore insists that Christians must be care-
ful about their behaviour, because their sins could contaminate the
53 Cf. Mark 1:16–20; 3:13–19; Mat 13:10–17; Luk 10:17–20; 22:28–

30.
54 Jo. 15:4–5.
55 Jo 6:56.
56 Jo 14:18; 20:22; Matt 28:20; Acts 2:33.
57 Isidore of Pelusium, Epist ΙΙ, 246 - Theodosio Episcopo, PG 78, 686C.
58 Ibid, PG 78, 686D.
59 Ibid.
Church. 60 Isidore distinguishes the word ἐκκλησιαστήριον and

Ἐκκλησία: The first is referred to the building the second is the
congregation 61 of souls who meet there. 62
For his part, St. Cyril of Alexandria does not make the previ-
ous semantic distinction, but like Isidore, asks that his readers:
Think carefully about the way in which we too are one in body
and spirit in relation to one another and also to God. 63 And so
the Church, the Ecclesia, is also called body of Christ and we
individually are limbs, as Paul teaches in 1. Cor. 12–27. For we
are all united to the one Christ through the holy body, since we
receive him who is one and indivisible in our own bodies. Our
obligation then as limbs of his is to him rather than to our-
selves. The Saviour’s role is that of head and the Church is the
remainder of the body, made up of the various limbs. 64
So Cyril as Isidore believe that the Ecclesia becomes the nexus of
the union between the divinity and the mankind. Baptism, Anoint-
ing and Eucharist are the ‘chain’ which gives to the believer the
chance to become true members of the Ecclesia and to be led into
salvation.
CONCLUSIONS
Both fathers explain that only in the Ecclesia can Christian believers
become the real Sons of God, through participating in the holy
mysteries. Baptism is obligatory for anyone wishing to enter into
the body of Christ, of the Church. For both fathers Christians be-
come sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus. They were bap-
tized into Christ, where there is neither Jew nor Greek, there is
neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for all are
one in Christ Jesus. When the Alexandrian fathers consider this
mystery, generally, Cyril and Isidore choose to articulate the revela-
60 Isidore of Pelusium, Epist ΙΙ, 16- Maroni, PG 78, 189BC.

61 Isidore of Pelusium, Epist ΙΙ, 246 - Theodosio Episcopo, PG 78, 686C.
62 Ibid.
63 Cyril of Alexandria, In Joannem, XI, Pusey, vol. II, p. 68126 (=PG
74, 500C).
64 Ibid.
EIRINI ARTEMI 327
tion of God through His Word in the Incarnation. Both writers

stress that through the Son’s self-revelation to the world in the in-
carnation, He simultaneously reveals the Father to man. This hap-
pens because the Son is always the archetypal image of the Father.
Both Alexandrians agree that the revelation of God the Word in
the world is the most important gift of the revelation of the Triune
God to man. Humanity after the Incarnation now no longer knows
the God-man Jesus Christ, but is also given the opportunity to
begin to appreciate the energies of the Triune God; both in itself as
self communicating Trinity, and as the source of all grace bent on
breaking down the prison of sin and death that had enveloped hu-
manity.
This revelation in Christ is lived out by believers and delivered
in the church by preaching and the participation of the faithful in
the Eucharist and the other Mysteries, which bestow the grace of
the Holy Spirit. Because of the revelation of Jesus Christ in the
world, the God-man, theanthropos, becomes the supreme starting
point and source of divine knowledge for each human person. Alt-
hough the grace of the Spirit is not a permanent and inalienable
possession of any individual member of the Church. The energy
and the sanctification of the Spirit are entirely the charismatic gifts
of God; but they spring up unfailingly in the Church, are always
reallocated to the believers, and shall abide forever in Christ’s
communion of the Ekklesia.
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THE MONK AS MOURNER: ST. ISAAC THE
SYRIAN & MONASTIC IDENTITY IN
THE 7TH C. & BEYOND
HANNAH HUNT
The ascetic life embraced by the earliest Christians remains vital

and sincere in the Eastern Christian world of today. As Galadza
puts it, modern secular society’s obsession with bodies and what
they do ‘resonates well with the postmodern stress on symbols,
imagery and paradox.’ 1 Asceticism must always find a way of bring-
ing together the body and the soul. Saint Isaac the Syrian covers in
his writings a vast range of spiritual concepts and advice. A recur-
ring motif is the importance of weeping; tears are a physical phe-
nomenon as well as expressing an inner penitence. Whilst Syrian
monks often identify themselves as ‘solitaries’ Isaac connects to
this the identity of the monk as mourner (abila). He is not a sys-
tematic writer, or even a systematic thinker; he writes from experi-
ence as well as to exegete scriptural and other sources, and his the-
ology of mourning is gleaned from many different references to
tears scattered throughout his texts. In places he does write about
various schema, such as the tripartite stages of the development of
the human soul towards perfection, and the duality of body and
soul. But to see him as offering a clear, unambiguous statement
about the place of mourning is to oversimplify him.
Likewise, to attribute his awareness of the conflicted relation-
ship between body and soul to a dualistic anthropology is a misrep-
1 P. Galadza, ‘Eastern Catholic Christianity’, in K. Parry (ed.), The

Blackwell Companion to Eastern Christianity, (Oxford, 2007), p. 300.
331
332 ST. ISAAC THE SYRIAN & MONASTIC IDENTITY
resentation of his subtle and varied teachings. However Saint Isaac

makes clear statements about the monk’s core identity as a mourn-
er and a solitary. Being abila, a mourner, is not simply to do with the
task of the monk, to grieve for his own and others’ sins. It is an
existential statement, and speaks not of the function but the sub-
stance of the monastic life. Today’s paper seeks to look at how this
might connect to the Semitic culture which was geographically and
intellectually so close to Isaac. This entails exploring the Judeo-
Christian tradition and other religious cultures in the seventh cen-
tury.
At the time Isaac was writing, the East Syrian church had suf-
fered persecution and exile several times over. In AD363 Nisibis
fell to the Sassanids, causing the East Syrian Christians to flee to
Edessa. The School of Persians they established there was closed
by Emperor Zeno in AD489, resulting in a further exodus to Anti-
och. 2 This experience of exile is shared with the Jewish people
whose exodus and oppression underlies much of their sense of
identity and their search for the homeland promised to Abraham. 3
Other examples of the sharing by East Syrian Christianity of ‘Se-
mitic’ views of the world and humanity’s place within it include the
use in Syrian churches of a ‘veil’ drawn across the sanctuary, in imi-
tation of the veil over the Holy of Holies in the temple in Jerusa-
lem. 4 Christian monks’ reading is dominated by the Hebrew
Psalms; they were known ‘by heart’, and many of them focus on
themes of grieving and alienation from God. More so than other
branches of the Christian church, Isaac’s tradition was rooted in
Jewish thought and practice, and these became absorbed into the
East Syrian tradition. 5
2 P. Hagman, The Asceticism of Isaac of Nineveh (Oxford, 2010), pp. 28–

30 and see also comments in D. Miller, tr., The Ascetical Homilies of Saint
Isaac the Syrian (Boston, 1984), pp. 481–515, passim.
3 Miller suggests that, what he calls, ‘the Hebraic elements’ of fourth
century Persian Christianity were in closer contact with the synagogue

than their western counterparts, op cit., p. 481.
4 G. Panicker, ‘Prayer with Tears: a Great Feast of repentance’, The
Harp vol. 4, nos. 1–3, July 1991, pp. 111–133.

5 Hagman, Asceticism, pp. 227.
HANNAH HUNT 333
The destruction of Jerusalem, powerfully recalled in Ps. 137,

recalls the Lamentations of Jeremiah 6 and feeds into much New
Testament appropriation of lamenting. Grief for loss is readily ex-
pressed in Ps. 42.3: ‘My tears have been my meat day and night’
and elsewhere the grief is tinged with remorse, as in Ps. 80.4–5: ‘O
Lord God of hosts, how long wilt thou be angry against the prayer
of thy people? Thou feedest them with the bread of tears, and
givest them tears to drink in great measure.’ The ‘exile’ of the peo-
ple of Israel is reconfigured by Christian exegesis: Egypt becomes
the ‘alien land of the passions’ into which the sinner is cast, far
from God’s favour. 7
The city lament is found not only in the Old Testament; it re-
sembles the Lamentation over the Destruction of Ur which is ‘the best
known and prototypical member’ of Mesopotamian City Laments. 8
The closing book of the New Testament presents the ‘New’ Jerusa-
lem as a place where lamenting and grief has ended, a metaphorical
city representing the new covenant of love of God for humanity. In
this place ‘God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there
shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor shall there be
any more pain for the former things have passed away’ (Rev 21. 3–
4 cf. Isa 25.8: ‘He will destroy death for ever, the Lord will wipe
away the tear from all faces’).The connection of the New Jerusalem
with a place where mourning has ceased is explicitly connected to a
time of God’s favour; the prophecy places the comforting of those
who grieve in the context of the ‘swallowing up of death in victory’,
a phrase found both in Isa. 25.8 and 1 Cor 25.26: ‘Death is swal-
lowed up in victory’. Is there a conscious echo of this in Isaac’s
assertion that at the point of transition into a place of pure prayer
and tranquillity, excessive grief and incessant weeping is replaced
by a calmer state in which tears occur only occasionally? ‘Sweet
tears’ he says, along with ‘groans, prostrations, heartfelt requests
and supplications’ are all forms of prayer that the mourner may
6 F.W. Dobbs-Allsopp, Weep, O Daughter of Zion: A study of the City-

Lament genre in the Hebrew Bible (Rome, 1993), p. 154.
7 See H. Hunt, Joy-Bearing Grief: Tears of Contrition in the Writings of the
Early Syrian and Byzantine Fathers (Leiden, 2004), pp. 77–8.

8 Dobbs-Allsopp, Weep, p. 1.
use. 9 They show the transition into ‘pure prayer’ which transcends
the physical in an apophatic state of ecstasy. As Isaac puts it:
When you attain to the region of tears, then you know that the
mind has left the prison of this world and set its foot on the
roadway of the new age, and has begun to breathe that other
air, new and wonderful. 10
For all ‘religions of the book’ scripture provides one of the sources
informing cultic practices. Wensinck, writing in 1917, finds parallels
between Hebrew, Syrian and Islamic uses of liturgical mourning.
He points out that Sūra 17.10 ff talks about the men ‘falling down
on their beards weeping’ with repentance and suggests that weep-
ing may have occurred as a religious rite among the earliest genera-
tion of Muslims very much at the time Isaac was writing. 11 In the
world people mourn the physical death of a relative, friend, mon-
arch, and (in the case of Christians) their Saviour. The monk
grieves for the death of innocence through sin, and for the impact
sin has on others. The Psalmist is expressing or exhorting the grief
of the people; 12 the Christian monk as mourner expresses his grief
for the people, for loss of the closeness they felt towards God be-
fore sin divided them. The vicarious or altruistic mourning deter-
mines the actual identity of the monk.
Turning to Saint Isaac; from the little that is known of him it
is believed he was born and educated in Beth Qatraye and after
becoming a monk was consecrated as bishop of Nineveh some
time during the 660s or 670s. However his desire for solitude was
such that within a few months he resigned his see and withdrew to
9 Hom. 23, Miller, p. 116.

10 Hom. 14, Miller, p. 82. See Hagman, Asceticism, p. 70 for more dis-
cussion of this point.
11 A. J. Wensinck, Some Semitic Rites of Mourning (Amsterdam, 1917),
pp. 84–85.
12 This altruistic type of mourning is readily expressed in Discourse
XVIII of the Liber Graduum. The relevant extract may be found in The
Syriac Fathers on Prayer and the Spiritual Life, S. Brock, (ed.), (Kalamazoo,
1987), pp. 55–6. For an entire translation of the text, see The Liber Gradu-
um, R. Kitchen/ F.J. Parmentier Martien, (tr.), (Kalamazoo, 2004).
HANNAH HUNT 335
the mountains of Khuzistan. 13 Several key texts survive and are still
being edited and translated. Here I refer to the 82 discourses
known as the First Part, which soon after his death were translated
from Syriac to Greek, and the Second Part, discovered and translated
towards the end of the twentieth century, which provides a further
set of texts of which forty two have been translated into English. 14
In both these texts he explores the nature as well as the function of
monastic life, to which we now give some background.
In the Syrian tradition there are two words for monk, the first
of which is ihidaya. This word, meaning literally ‘the single one’, is
related to the Hebrew yahid (single). 15 It is used to translate the
Greek monogenes (which has layers of meaning associating the
monk’s solitary way of life with the only-begotten nature of Christ)
and the prototype of the ihidaya is seen as Christ, the only Son of
God. Applying this term to human solitaries immediately elevates
the status of the monk; he is in imitatione Christi and the Syrian term,
compared to the Greek, is primarily scriptural. Within the monastic
community those ascetics who consciously ‘put on’ the persona (par-
sopa) of the Ihidaya from the bosom of the Father’ do so in con-
scious imitation of the kenosis of the incarnation. 16
The monk’s ‘singleness’ is not only a single-minded focus on
God but also living in solitude, and this is much valued in encratic
circles; this is not to say that there were not communities of hermit
monks in Syria but the life and witness of the solitary was especially
valued. Isaac’s Hom. 64 states: ‘The man who follows Christ in soli-
13 S. Brock, A Brief Outline of Syriac Literature (Kottayam, 1997), p.

54.
14 S. Brock, Isaac of Nineveh: The Second Part, chapters IV-XLL (Lou-
vain, 1995). Paolo Bettiolo is in the process of translating the remainder
of this text. Sabino Chialà is working on another text and the so-called
Third Collection is also being edited.
15 H. Alfeyev, The Spiritual World of Isaac the Syrian (Kalamazoo,
2000), p. 61.
16 S. H. Griffith, ‘‘Singles’ in God’s Service: thoughts on the Ihidaye
from the works of Aphrahat and Ephraem the Syrian’, The Harp vol. 4,
nos. 1–3, July 1991, pp. 145–59, p. 156.
tary mourning is greater than someone who praises God in the

congregation of men.’ 17
An ihidaya was not necessarily the same as one called an abila
or mourner, the other key term used to define monks in Syria. The
ihidaya would live separated from the world and seek to heal it
through prayer. The abila on the other hand undertakes a work of
grief and mourning which is so physical as to carve channels down
the face of the one who weeps continually. Isaac himself makes the
distinction: ‘A mourner (abila) is he who passes all the days of his
life in hunger and thirst for the sake of his hope in future good
things. A monk (ihidaya) is he who remains outside the world and is
ever supplicating God to receive future blessings. A monk’s wealth
is the comfort that comes of mourning.’ 18
The solitariness is what allows the monk to discover the
mourning. Alone in his cell: ‘what meditation can a monk have …
save weeping? Could he have any time free from weeping to turn
his gaze to another thought?’ he asks. 19 Not only does it take up all
his time, it is the best choice and grows from his solitude because
his cell is like a tomb, which ‘teach[es] him that his work is to
mourn’. 20 In a key passage from Homily Thirty Seven Saint Isaac ex-
plains that ‘the very calling of his names urges and spurs him on to
this, because he is called ‘the mournful one’ (abila), that is, bitter in
heart.’ 21 This homily clearly states the identity of the monk as abila,
the mourner: it is an ontological state as well as his labour on be-
half of humanity. The passage is steeped in the language of inner
contemplation, the monk gazing at his soul in an almost Ignatian
visualisation of the soul wounded by sin lying at his feet, in need of
the ‘medicine of repentance’ 22 and observed with a compassionate
detachment:
17 Miller, p. 61.
18 Hom. Six, Miller, p. 54, and see Alfeyev, Spiritual, p. 135 for a dis-
cussion of this passage.
19 Hom. Thirty Seven, Miller, p. 178.
22 S. Brock, Isaac of Nineveh: The Second Part, chapters IV–XLL Second
Part (Louvain, 1995), XL. 8, p. 76.

HANNAH HUNT 337
And if the perfect and victorious wept here, how could a man
covered with wounds endure to abstain from weeping? He
whose loved one lies dead before him and who sees himself
dead in sins – has he need of instruction on the thought he
should employ for tears? Your soul, slain by sins, lies before
you; your soul which is of greater value to you than the whole
world. Could there be no need for you to weep over her?
(Hom.37)
The great blessing achieved by weeping is not confined to an élite,
as far as Saint Isaac is concerned. Any who are truly penitent can
achieve it; ‘All the saints have left this life in mourning’ he says, 23 it
is ‘something which the majority of right-minded brethren experi-
ence’. 24 It is a state that can be found by ‘entering stillness and pa-
tiently persevering there’, 25 asking for the gift of tears as a gracious
charism and not the reward of righteousness. Indeed if salvation
depended on true righteousness, he says, only one in ten thousand
people would achieve a place in the kingdom of heaven. 26
In places, though not systematically, Isaac expands on his
teachings on tears. They can be bitter or sweet. Copious tears from
one who is naturally humble are of less value than scant drops
from one who has wrestled with his nature rather more. 27 Isaac
goes to some lengths to categorize the tears themselves, dividing
them into flowing from different causes and for different reasons. 28
The key point he makes is that tears of grief are: ‘a kind of bounda-
ry between what is bodily and what is spiritual and between pas-
sionateness and purity.’ 29 In mourning, therefore, the monk trans-
cends the limitations of physical human existence to take part in
the ‘hidden things of the spiritual man’. 30 Casting tears as a bound-

24 Brock, Second Part, II, 14.46, p. 82.
26 Brock, Second Part, XL, 8, p. 176.
27 Brock, Second Part, 18, 7–15, p. 97–100.
28 Brock, Second Part, 18, 4–6, p. 97.
30 See Hagman, Asceticism, p. 71 for more on this point.
ary marker in a spiritual journey places the monastic identity of the

mourner within a hierarchy of virtues. Isaac appears concerned
with deciding whether he can call himself abila or the more generic
ihidaya. ‘O Lord, hold me worthy to taste of this fountain!’ he
prays. 31 It is God who grants ‘a sorrowing heart’ (lebbā abīlā), which
relieves the heart constricted by sin, through the ‘comfort which
comes from sorrowing and from the gift of tears.’ 32 And he eulo-
gises the experience of weeping, which he describes in terms so
graphically physical as to refute any suggestion that Isaac takes a
dualistic approach to the human person. 33 He describes being so
overwhelmed with tears during the office that he is unable to con-
tinue his prayers, his whole body becoming as it were ‘a fountain of
weeping, stemming from the groaning of heart produced by the
grace that has been stirred within him; he is drenched in tears’ and
rendered speechless. Such intense weeping is accompanied by joy
and ‘an indescribable hope’. 34
So having established Saint Isaac’s self-identification as a
mourner as well as a solitary, how can we connect this to the prac-
tice of cultic mourning in the Jewish tradition? I suggest two points
for discussion here? The first way relates to Jewish mourning prac-
tices, both Biblical and Rabbinic. Wensinck lumps these together as
‘Semitic’ and contrasts them to Mandean and Islamic practices:
‘Semitic weeping for the dead is a distinct rite, consisting in elevat-
ing the voice and crying aloud, sometimes in uttering the zagharīt.’ 35
Ritual mourning for the death of loved ones (like mourning for the
fall of a city) gives a role for the mourner in relation to both God
and society, just as the monk who mourns both deepens his rela-
tionship with God and benefits those for whose sins he weeps. The
Hebrew Scriptures give various examples of mourning the death of
individuals; Gen 50.10 shows Joseph obeying Moses’ command to
31 Brock, Second Part, XVIII.16, p. 100.

32 Brock, Second Part, V. 3, p. 7.
33 On Isaac and dualism, see Hagman, Asceticism, p.71.
34 Brock, Second Part, II, 14.46, p. 82.
35 Wensinck, p. 78.
HANNAH HUNT 339
lament Jacob’s death for 7 days. 36 2 Samuel 8.4–6 describes both

men and women fasting in repentance. 37 Mourning in the Jewish
tradition is associated with silence, a key feature of Christian mo-
nasticism. Lev. 10.3, Isa. 23.3, Ps.4.5, ps. 30.13, Lam 2.10 and Lam
3.28 all make the connection between silence and mourning and Ps
94.17 (‘My soul had dwelt in silence’) is glossed by midrash as du-
mah meaning death, from the Accadian and Ugaritic cognates of
drum meaning to mourn or moan. 38 I have written elsewhere about
the role of women in cultic mourning. 39 Mourning by men had
quite different connotations and had serious ramifications on the
mourner’s place within the community. Men were required to
mourn the death of someone close to them but becoming an onen, a
mourner, rendered a Jewish man estranged from God. The defile-
ment of death meant that the mourner’s relationship with God was
‘temporarily suspended’ and he was effectively ‘desacralized.’ 40 This
resonates with the tripartite sequence commonly found in ritual as
identified by anthropologist Victor Turner in the 1960s. He de-
scribed the stages of rituals in many contexts as being separation,
liminality then reintegration. 41 The normal ritual practices enjoined
on Jewish males (such as wearing phylacteries, pronouncing the
blessing over food, reciting the sh’ma prayer) are actually forbidden
to a mourner. These restrictions are ones imposed on priests;
Feldman argues there is ‘no open and clear mourning legislation
36 E. Feldman, Jewish Mourning Customs: Biblical and post-biblical defile-

ment and mourning; law as theology (New York, 1977), p. 80.
37 Ibid, p. 84.
38 Ibid, p. 98.
39 ‘The monk as mourner: gendered Eastern Christian self-identity in
the seventh century’, Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies 2 (2013), pp. 19–37.
40 Feldman, Jewish, pp. 81–2.
41 See Hagman, Asceticism, pp.128–131 for an illuminating appraisal
of V. W. Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (London,

1969). This was discredited by John Millbank in 1990 but remains perti-
nent to our discussion.
directed to non-priests.’ 42 Similar prohibitions apply to excommu-

nicants. 43
There is some circularity here: the mourner may not enact the
ritualised relationship to God. He therefore behaves as a dead, or
incomplete, person himself, hence the deliberate neglect of the
mourner’s body and personal appearance. 44 Jewish mourning habits
therefore ostracize the mourner from God, creating a further sense
of mourning in the man who wants to be close to God. In the con-
text of the Jewish heritage to East Syrian theology outlined above it
is plausible that Isaac and other Syrian mourners were aware of the
constraints and implications of mourning. As an act of humility,
expressive of the alienation from God caused by sin, the Syrian
male monk’s self-identification as mourner takes on a new dimen-
sion. The Christianization of this attitude to mourning allows for
the grief for sin to engender joy, to break down rather than sustain
the barrier between the mourner and God. Whereas the Jewish
priest’s lamenting for physical death rendered the male mourner
desacralized, the Christian’s mourning for the metaphorical ‘death
of sin’ broke down the barrier between man and God and turned
lamenting into joy, as expressed in the passages from Revelation
cited above.
We come now to the second and final point about monastic
identity in the writings of St. Isaac. A very characteristic feature of
Syrian ascetic writing is the use of typology. Because Syrian ascetic
writers were poet-theologians imagery, metaphor, typology and
other literary devices are their tools for explaining how God’s word
became flesh. Syrian typology tends to work in pairs and opposites;
the inner/outer, the visible/invisible, the first/second. But we can
perhaps add a third ‘type’ to the pair. The first Adam’s sin is re-
deemed by the sacrificial death of Christ, the Second Adam. The
Syrian monk as mourner, mirroring the desacralized Jewish priest
lamenting a physical death, extends the typology of first and second
42Feldman, Jewish, pp. 91 and 103.

43Feldman, Jewish, p. 105.
44 Some of this neglect, such as the rending of garments and placing
of ashes on the head, were also done in order to render the mourner un-
recognisable to the dreaded spirits of the dead. Ibid, pp. 91, 93.
HANNAH HUNT 341
Adam. Adam cast out of Eden and lamenting his exile is paralleled
typologically with Christ’s triumphant entry into the New Jerusa-
lem, where there will be no more tears. The monk as mourner is an
‘Adam’ acting in imitation of Christ, lamenting for sin and leading
his fellow men out of the exile of sin and into the new heaven, like
a new Moses. So a tripartite typology gives us Adam-Christ-monk
as mourner. In Isaac’s teaching, compunction, expressed by tears,
‘defines the very identity of the monk. He is abila, the mourner, as
much as he is the solitary one.’ 45 The first Adam weeps as he is cast
out of Eden. 46 The second Adam weeps over his dead friend (John
11.35). The mourning monk weeps in order to regain entry to
heaven, not just for himself but for all humanity.
45 Hom. VI, on which see H. Hunt, ‘The Soul’s Sorrow in Syrian Pa-
tristic Thought’, Studia Patristica vol.33, 1997, p. 532.
46 Canticle Six, Ikos, The Lention Triodion, K. Ware and Mother Mary,
tr., (London, 1977), p. 175.

THE DYING CHURCH: HIERARCHY AS
SELF-SACRIFICE IN PSEUDO-
DIONYSIUS
KATE MCCRAY
Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite is one of the very few eastern

monastics to have as large an impact in the West as he did in the
East. His Divine Names and Mystical Theology became some of the
most quoted texts in Roman Catholic discussion of ecclesial struc-
ture, as well as negative theology, with Thomas Aquinas referenc-
ing the Areopagite so often that he is perhaps bested only by St.
Thomas’ use of Scripture. During the Protestant Reformation, Di-
onysius represented, for western theologians, an unflinching affir-
mation of papal structure; curiously so considering his reference to
‘hierarchs’ (in the plural) at the top rung of Dionysius’ church. 1
Correspondingly, the bourgeoning Protestant churches often vili-
fied and cautioned against ever reading this Latin Dionysius. Martin
Luther famously said, ‘Stay away from that Dionysius, whoever he
was!’ and of the Mystical Theology and other works that they should,
quite literally be ‘[shunned] like the plague.’ 2
1 See Rorem, P., Pseudo-Dionysius: A Commentary on the Text and an In-

troduction to Their Influence (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 29–35.
2 Martin Luther, ‘Disputation of Dec. 18, 1537,’ cited by Froelich,
K., in Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works (transl. Colm Luibheid and Paul
Rorem; New York: Paulist Press, 1987), 44, notes 45 and 46; see also Al-
exander Golitzin, ‘Dionysius Areopagita: A Christian Mysticism?’ Pro Ec-
clesia Vol. XXI, No 2 (2003):128–29.
343
344 HIERARCHY AS SELF-SACRIFICE IN PSEUDO-DIONYSIUS
Perhaps corresponding to the split in Western Christianity, a

split in the Dionysian corpus divides the so-called mystic,
apophatic texts from those that discuss structure. On the one hand,
Dionysius recommends the apophatic spiritual method, the process
of constant denial by which a Christian seeks God, ascends pro-
gressively toward the divinity, and becomes more and more like
God. But when it comes to the hierarchy, especially when digested
by modern scholarship, Dionysius appears to be proscriptive and
structural, not at all the same personality that asserts only to deny.
At best Dionysius can be classified according to these split person-
alities, siphoning off the structural works from the mystical to sal-
vage his meritorious writings. At worst, Dionysius represents a
combination of muddied theological statements mixed with an un-
flinching, immovable hierarchy. His Letter Addressed to the Monk De-
mophilus is perhaps an example of this, as he knocks the mouthy
monk down a peg and asserts that no priest can be corrected by a
Christian of a lower status.
Additionally Dionysian descriptions of hierarchy not only
seem to contradict his basic apophatic logic, in the light of massive
failures in church leadership, one of his most core statements, that
‘there is no unmediated light,’ rings especially painful for those hav-
ing experienced trauma justified by ecclesial power. The criticism
of Denys’ hierarchy and statement that there can be no unmediated
light usually indicates that there is a blanket acceptance and affir-
mation of power, that the hierarch is unchecked and that the divine
cannot or will not interact with a person outside of a very ‘papal
sounding’ handing down of information. The criticism is, of
course, validly founded in that historically-minded critics fear that
those at the bottom of the ladder may not receive any light at all.
This, of course, is a paradigm of a self-serving hierarchy rather than
a self-sacrificing hierarchy, and calls to mind countless examples: a
parishioner who when bringing sexual allegations against a pastor is
told that she missed the timeframe for filing; priests who rather
than being de-frocked are moved from parish to parish and hidden
within the hierarchy; like the thin blue line, the corrupt hiding the
corrupt and perpetuating their own existence by keeping the flock
in the dark, shepherds who feed on their sheep. In such a light of
bitter experience of the failures of a hierarchical structure, what do
we do we than make of Dionysius? Did the Areopagite have a split
personality, such that he could simultaneously maintain that all
KATE MCCRAY 345
suppositions should be denied (apophatic theology) at the same

time as coldly (kataphatically) affirming an unflinching, unyielding
hierarchical principle?
Here I contend that not only is the bifurcation of mystical
versus hierarchical writings in the Dionysian corpus an artificial and
a-textual distinction, but in fact the same denial and kenosis that tie
together the Mystical Theology and the Divine Names also undergirds
the Celestial and Ecclesiastical Hierarchies. In the same way that the
Areopagite asserts with the purpose of then denying that assertion
within his other more mystically regarded texts, he speaks of hier-
archy as a denial of self, a total transparency at every level.
Before turning attention to the structured hierarchy of the
Church, toward the monastics and priests and hierarchs, it is crucial
to pin out the two categories in which Dionysius discusses capacity.
Firstly, regarding the universal aspect of capacity, the Areopagite
describes the capacity of all human beings to experience divine
light, detailing the catechumen’s transition into the Church as a
progressive pouring out of self in the context of community:
He will not yet be sufficiently initiated into complete union
with and participation in God nor will his longing for this
come from within himself. Only gradually will he [the cate-
chumen] be uplifted to a higher state and this because of the
mediation of people more advanced than he. Helped on by
those at a higher level, helped on as far as the very first ranks,
following the sacred rules of order he will be uplifted to the
summit where the Deity is. The divine blessedness grants a
share of itself to someone uplifted thus, marks him with its
light as a certain sign, receives him into the company of those
who have earned divinization and who form a sacred assem-
bly. 3
Clearly Dionysius regards the hierarchy here as little more than the
structure of the community and the method by which light is dis-
3 Pseudo-Dionysius (the Areopagite), ‘The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy,’

in Pseudo Dionysius: The Complete Works, trans. Colm Luibheid and Paul
Rorem. Classics of Western Spirituality. (New York: Paulist Press, 1987):
400C–400D.
seminated, rather than a salvific order in which those above the

level of catechumen experience a greater quantity of the divine
promise. All predicated upon this one’s participation in the divinity,
he pours himself out to the point where even his longing comes
from outside of himself. Additionally, this universal description of
human capacity includes all, drawing all into the community and
marking them with light regardless of particular ability or individual
gifts. The participation of the catechumen is essential; it forms the
partnership that draws him into the community. Dionysius de-
scribes this participation as either a sort of kinetic receptivity that
chooses to accept a measure of electric energy or a malleable recep-
tivity that chooses to mold to the pressure of a stamp, forming an
imprint. Depending on the level of participation, the human matter
receives the divine energy on a spectrum and either ignites into
flame, burns as a piece of wood, burns less brightly as a coal, or
heats up, without the possibility of igniting, as water. 4 The more
receptive the person, the more easily the light-energy changes her.
Likewise, according to the receptivity of the human being,
when the divine presses it in as a stamp or seal, the material forms
a clear imprint like wax, a less clear imprint as hardening clay, a still
more opaque imprint as the material resists the contours of the
image. 5 Dionysius continues in the same way by describing light
through various transparent media, and then throughout the Celes-
tial and Ecclesiastical Hierarchies alluding to the transparency requires
in all levels of the hierarchy so as to transmit the divine light. 6 Be-
cause the individual’s receptivity is determined by personal choice
and participation, Dionysius also warns that ‘intelligent beings, be-
cause of their free will, can fall away from the light of the mind and
can so desire what is evil that they close off that vision, with its
natural capacity for illumination.’ Ever optimistic, however, Diony-
sius immediately describes the light benevolently following the will-
ful blind and ‘[shining] on their unseeing eyes.’ 7 The universal ca-
pacity of the human being to see and transmit divine light thus
4 Dionysius, ‘The Celestial Hierarchy,’ 205C, 301B.

5 Dionysius, ‘The Divine Names,’ 664A–664C.
6 Dionysius, ‘The Celestial Hierarchy,’ 13:3:301B-D.
7 Dionysius, ‘The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy,’ 400A.
KATE MCCRAY 347
ebbs and flows, depending on that individual’s participation, his or

her willingness to see, to be ignited, to be malleable.
If the reader is unaware that Dionysius speaks of capacity in
two distinct ways, universal and particular, it may seem at first
blush that the receptivity or conductivity of an individual is
grounded in a predetermined or predestined nature. Quite the op-
posite; when Dionysius specifies that the malleability depends on
human participation, he is including the human being in his or her
continued creation with human agency and choice determining the
substance of the person’s composition.
Now understanding that all persons in the community are
marked with light and share in the light according to their progres-
sive participation and transparency, we can turn our attention to
the particular aspect of Dionysius’ idea of human capacity; specifi-
cally the predetermined gifts that mark each as a member of a cer-
tain rung in the hierarchy. These capacities are skills that allow the
individual to carry out a role within and for the community, always
with that same goal of ultimate and complete transparency under-
girding that rank or status:
If one talks then of hierarchy, what is meant is a certain perfect
arrangement, an image of the beauty of God which sacredly
works out the mysteries of its own enlightenment in the orders
and levels of understanding of hierarchy, and which is likened
toward its own source as much as is permitted. Indeed for eve-
ry member of the hierarchy, perfection consists in this, that it
is uplifted to imitate God as far as possible and, more wonder-
ful still, that is becomes what scripture calls a ‘fellow workman
for God’ and a reflection of the workings of God. Therefore
when the hierarchic order lays it on some to be purified and on
the others to do the purifying, on some to receive illumination
and on others to cause illumination, on some to be perfected
and on others to bring about perfection, each will actually imi-
tate God in the way suitable to whatever role it has. 8
The structure Dionysius indicates for the hierarchy is like a Church
we have never seen: it is outside, above, within, and hidden just like
8 Dionysius, ‘The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy,’ 3:2:165B-C.

the ever present-divinity that the Church ever seeks. The structure
of the hierarchy serves as an icon of the celestial organization, and
how could that serve as a practical rule or guiding rubric for human
order? In the same way that Dionysius asserts and denies in a con-
tinuously upward moving direction, setting the bar for holiness way
above our grasping fingertips, so too his articulation of hierarchy
serves as a placeholder for perpetual self-denial. And this self-
denial is not without direction; for each one in the hierarchy pours
out himself (or herself, in the case of female monastics although he
does not mention them), for the sake of the other.
While Frs. Georges Florovsky and John Meyendorff as well as
Arch-bishop Alexander Golitzen all reference a possible contradic-
tion between an individual ascent and this other-oriented commu-
nal one in Dionysius’ description of divine encounter, Golitzen
goes on to argue that when the order of Dionysius’ texts are read in
the Greek manuscript tradition, which leads with the hierarchies,
this priority establishes that the ascent described in The Divine
Names does not take place individualistically but communally, and
reveals the corpus as a ‘deliberately progressive ‘mystagogy.’’ This
nuanced and important point her argues here has been largely ig-
nored by the commentators. 9 In The Divine Names, Moses is precise-
ly Florovsky and Meyendorff’s representation of this possible indi-
vidual encounter, as he ascends the mountain alone to meet with
God. Alongside The Mystical Theology and Ecclesiastical Hierarchy,
though, the Areopagite offers a more nuanced and complicated
representation of Moses, one in which this patriarch is called a hi-
erarch and rather than encountering God on an individual level
alone, Moses ascends the mount accompanied by other priests and
only glimpses the back of God. 10
Also one cannot forget that while Moses climbs Sinai to meet
with God, he does so to lay hold of the tablets of the Law on be-
half of the people. This ascent, then, cannot represent the life of
the general lay individual because the movement up the mountain
9 Golitzin, A., ‘Dionysius Areopagita: A Christian Mysticism?’ Pro

Ecclesia Vol. XXI, No 2 (2003): 170.
10 Dionysius, ‘The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy,’ 501C; Dionysius, ‘The
Mystical Theology,’ 1000D.

KATE MCCRAY 349
is not complete without Moses’ descent from the mountain. Alt-

hough, like St. Peter, he may have wanted to make tabernacles for
those on the mountain and stay with God forever, he was the rep-
resentative of the people and, as such, pours himself out by hand-
ing the Law and his experience of God to the people.
In his letter to the monk Demophilus, (a name which ironical-
ly would indicate he was born to be ‘a lover of people’), Dionysius
begins by setting Moses’ meekness as the reason he glimpsed God;
thus, recommending meekness to Demophilus. 11 The Areopagite
then responds to a previous letter addressed to him by the junior
monk who brags about one particular pious accomplishment. A
man whom Demophilus regards ‘as an impious sinner,’ threw him-
self at the foot of the presiding priest as the holy things were pre-
sented to the people. Demophilus takes it upon himself to correct
the priest, admonish the sinner, and rescue the elements from ‘de-
filement,’ presumably because the man seeking forgiveness came
for confession literally before the Eucharist rather than at the
proper time. While Demophilus expects support and affirmation
for bravely standing guard over the holy things, Dionysius rather
harshly reminds the monk of his purpose: that is, to specifically
pour himself out in direct service to the laity. Within Dionysius’
hierarchical taxonomy the monastics form the top rung of the lay
people, charged with praying always for the people and transmit-
ting the divine light they receive from priests and hierarchs to those
worshiping. It is precisely with this role and responsibility in mind
that Dionysius disassembles Demophilus’ logic, and pride, remind-
ing him of his station and status in a way that proves the Dionysian
hierarchy to be more idealistic and less rigidly structured than the
classical Western scholarship has maintained.
We might expect from Dionysius a defense of the priest’s ac-
tions, but rather than go into the minutiae of the man’s movements
and their religious significance, the Areopagite surprisingly makes
no mention of the priest’s pious or impious behavior, focusing in
contrast on only Demophilus’ decisions to seize the elements and
11 Pseudo-Dionysius (the Areopagite), ‘The Letters,’ in Pseudo Diony-

sius: The Complete Works, trans. Colm Luibheid and Paul Rorem. Classics of
Western Spirituality. (New York: Paulist Press, 1987): Letter Eight, 1084B.
turn away the penitent. On the surface, Dionysius is merely scold-

ing a fellow monk to stay in line, since a monk he should never
jump rank and try to supplant a priest or take it upon himself to
admonish him. But truly each rank in the hierarchy accomplishes
the same goal, that is connection with the divine, by pouring them-
selves out on behalf of the other, but how the ranks accomplish
this is determined by their pre-established inward capacity and call-
ing. Correspondingly capacity relates to responsibility; the hierarchs
are responsible for oversight and doctrine, the priests are responsi-
ble for transmitting knowledge and maintaining apostolic ritual,
and finally the monastics are responsible for supporting and pray-
ing for the laity.
In Dionysius’ classifications, monastics belong to the top rung
of the laity, so not only is Demophilus subverting another order’s
responsibilities and violating their special calling and election to
those responsibilities, he is actually neglecting his own sacred re-
sponsibilities, namely his kenosis for the sake of the people. It is no
coincidence that this monk, before usurping the priest’s position,
calls the one approaching the altar a ‘sinner,’ the only title, in fact,
that Demophilus gives him.
Dionysius anticipates Demophilus’ objections, especially the
cry for justice, purity, holiness in sacramental movements, but em-
bodying the justice of God is only a task for those who are worthy:
It is not permitted, according to the words of scripture, to per-
form what may even be a work of justice, except worthily.
Everyone must look to himself and, without thinking of more
exalted or more profound tasks, he must think only about
what has been assigned to his place. 12
To describe more fully the ranks and places assigned to humanity,
Dionysius explains that God is the center of ranks, each conform-
ing to him more fully the more directly they are located to the light.
And lest one would think he describes a structure by indicating
ranks, he specifies:
12 Dionysius, Letter Eight, 1092A.

KATE MCCRAY 351
Do not imagine that the proximity here is physical. Rather,

what I mean by nearness is the greatest possible capacity to re-
ceive God. If then the rank of priests is that most able to pass
on illumination, he who does not bestow illumination is there-
by excluded from the priestly order and from the power re-
served to the priesthood. For his is unillumined. A man thus
deprived is, in my view, insolent if he muscles in on priestly
functions, when, without fear or shame, he unworthily pursues
the divine things. 13
Dionysius intimates that Demophilus is such a person, assuming
his vision of the light grants him the power to correct someone
with a rank and responsibility that has not been given to him. The
Areopagite even goes so far as to call one like this ‘unillumined,’
referencing baptismal language. Since the purpose of all members
in the hierarchy is to transmit light in a transparent way, giving to
those below freely. The monk is so concerned with the rituals not
entrusted to him that he becomes derelict in his responsibility to
transmit light to the laity. He chooses to focus his attention on the
holy things, which have not been entrusted to him, and ignore the
person before him, casting himself before the priest in pursuit of
holiness. Demophilus is more concerned with maintaining holy
things than empowering holy people. In refusing to transmit the
light of his knowledge, he in essence becomes opaque, and for this
Dionysius calls him ‘unillumined.’
Now one might contend at this juncture that Dionysius’ ad-
monishment toward the younger monk is a perfect example of
practical theology and concrete rather than apophatic or denial-
based language about hierarchy. To this, I point to the middle of
the letter where Dionysius describes the content of Demophilus’
original letter. Surely the junior monk remembers his own descrip-
tions without Dionysius’ vivid retelling. By reiterating the details of
Demophilus’ letter, Dionysius opens up the audience in broader
way, including us in what would otherwise be a private dialogue
between brother monks. This poses the possibility that Demophi-
lus is a rhetorical construct in classic Greek polemical style, de-
13 Dionysius, Letter Eight, 1092C.

signed to highlight Dionysius’ specific concerns and provide the

perfect counter to which Dionysius’ superior arguments must
stand. In this way Dionysius possibly uses the conversation, con-
flict, and recommendations to Demophilus, not as a structural dic-
tum to which the Church should adhere but as a didactic tool used
to highlight the core need to sacrifice oneself regardless of status or
station.
Dionysius famously maintains that ‘there is no unmediated
light’, and while, at first glance this Letter’s argument might sound
like a support of quasi papal dictats, or the giving to ordained cler-
gy a heavy and unchallengeable power, when read alongside Diony-
sius’ descriptions of sacrifice, this ‘unmediated light’ reveals itself to
be based on the general Christian discipline of ascetical self-giving.
In direct defiance to a static Church organization, where powerful
men choose when and to whom they dispense divine wisdom, Di-
onysius’ hierarchs are defined by their transparency: that literally
light-transmitting clarity which allows the beam on one side to pass
through unchanged to the other.
Additionally, those who fill the seats of power, for Dionysius,
are apparently predetermined. Dionysius imagines hierarchs being
born that way in a sort of ecclesial spiritual election that, again, has
nothing do to with limiting the salvific principles in divine light. In
this aspect, Dionysius speaks of vocation and calling as a fulfill-
ment of one’s internal disposition, a dispensation of gifts that reach
their full realization when the person lives into the light. Fr. Andrew
Louth describes the hierarchy in this way: One does not go up the
hierarchy, but rather into it. 14 While divine light may purify on a
general and more universal level and draw all the worshipful up-
ward and inward, the way each moves and grows in this illumina-
tion follows a discernible structure, that is hierarchy. The light acti-
vates each human being’s nature. A child is born and as he strives
toward holiness and understanding, the method of his discovery
and the shape of his life makes itself evident to others such that the
community affirms: Axios!, he is worthy; he indeed is a monk, or a
14 Louth, A., ‘Denys the Areopagite,’ in The Origins of the Christian

Mystical Tradition: From Plato to Denys (New York: Oxford University Press,
1981), 171.
KATE MCCRAY 353
priest, or a hierarch. The inclinations and spiritual gifts that equip

someone to be a member of these orders come from within and
are lived out when each and all enter into the Christian discipline of
self-sacrifice. Regardless of what our individual capacities are, they
exist for the community, to be poured out for a total human uplift-
ing into the divine light. As there is no unmediated light, so too
there is no isolated light, no light achieved through power or self-
building.
Hierarchy, for Dionysius, is a light-bearing three-fold system
wherein each member seeks full transparency and transmits light
from the divinity to others. The interaction with divine light is not
an individualistic ascent, although it is personal. Dionysius, perhaps
naively or perhaps resolutely, maintains that light is not transmitted
without the pouring out of the entire community, each to the oth-
er.
It could be read, then, that there is no un-sacrificed light or no
non-kenotic light. The stability of the entire Dionysian order rests
on the a priori that the fully actualized human being will have self-
sacrifice as his disposition in all things. First will be last, last will be
first. Every person in the community is obligated and responsible
to the other, and no one stands without peers.
And what of Demophilus’ actions toward the repentant sin-
ner? Is his flaw only stepping out of line toward a superior, his
priest? Dionysius has not forgotten the man sent away by the
young monk’s pride and sternly reorients Demophilus’ priorities,
saying that he is so ashamed of these actions that he recommends
to Demophilus that he should: ‘Look for another God and for oth-
er priests, among whom you will not be perfected. Instead you will
become like a wild beast, the harsh minister of an inhumanity
agreeable to yourself.’ Continuing, Dionysius reminds Demophilus
of his own weakness and his own pressing need for forgiveness as
well as the fragility of the priests themselves, saying:
I would never have believed that Demophilus could have so
little awareness of God’s goodness and of his love for humani-
ty, that he could forget how much he himself needed a merci-
ful Savior, that he could take it upon himself to reject the
priests who are made worthy, out of goodness, and out of a
sense of their own frailty, to bear the errors of the people …
[Christ] denounces as wicked the servant who refused to par-
don the debt of his fellow servant and who did not share in
even the smallest way, the immense kindness that was be-
stowed on himself; that he should suffer the fate which he
dealt out is plainly shown to be right. And this is something
about which Demophilus and I must be careful. 15
Dionysius routinely includes himself in these monastic admonish-
ments and reminders and even calls the hierarchy ‘our hierarchy,’ 16
including himself in the requirements to which he calls Demophi-
lus’ attention. Dionysius does not end there but reminds the monk
of Christ’s great love for humanity and the Savior’s reticence to
punish; that meekness is the mark of anyone in the hierarchy as
they reflect the light of Christ’s own self-sacrifice:
Those who do not know must be taught, not punished. We do
not hit the blind. We lead them by the hand. You, however,
beat back that man who was beginning to raise his eyes toward
the light. Full of goodwill he came toward you and you (how
woeful this is!) you dare to drive him away. 17
The monastics, as senior laity, are responsible to those seeking the
light as first responders. Demophilus’ rejection of this sinning man
violates everything a monk is meant to be, and indeed any hierarch
or any Christian. To end his letter, Dionysius repeats a story that he
was told by a holy man in Crete. Directly following his baptism, a
parishioner, influenced by another, turns away from the Church
and toward his former godless life. The priest, Carpos, who pre-
sumably baptized this man, although expected to pray for their
penitent return, feels overcome with anger rather than mercy. His
anger solidifies over time and when he normally would rise in the
night to pray, his anger motivates him to request gruesome curses
on the two men who left the community. Just as this priest imagi-
nes the deaths of those whom he now regards as enemies, he sees
exactly what he prayed for, a bolt of lightning ripping open the sky
15 Dionysius, Letter Eight, 1096A–1096B.

16 Golitzen highlights this inclusivity: Golitzin, A., ‘Dionysius Are-
opagita: A Christian Mysticism?’ Pro Ecclesia Vol. XXI, No 2 (2003): 182.
17 Dionysius, Letter Eight, 1096D.
KATE MCCRAY 355
and a chasm ripping through the ground, threatening to swallow up

these two sinning men. Carpos looks into the sky only to behold
Jesus surrounded by angels. He looks below to see the two men he
had cursed surrounded by serpents, torturing them and attempting
to pull the men into the pit. At this point in Dionysius’ graphic
story, he turns his attention to Carpos’ face, which his audience
expects to be repulsed and remorseful. In contrast, however, Car-
pos is overjoyed, swelling with a sense of validation and pride.
Anxious to see the men die, Carpos attempts to aid the serpents
without success, growing increasingly angry. Finally Christ inter-
venes, coming down to the level of the two who are being tortured,
placing his body in between the men and Carpos, whose hand is
still outstretched to strike them. Carpos now interacts with the Sav-
ior:
Then Jesus said to Carpos: So your hand is raised up and I
now am the one you must hit. Here I am, ready once again to
suffer for the salvation of man and I would very gladly endure
it if in this way I could keep men from sin. Look to yourself.
Maybe you should be living with the serpents in the pit rather
than with God and with the good angels who are the friends of
men. 18
Here Dionysius hauntingly ends his letter, affirming: These things,
which I heard myself, I believe to be true, reminding Demophilus that
each one in a position over others has been placed in that rank to
be a reflection of the love, protection, and salvation offered to all
people. The hierarchy Dionysius imagines, protects rather than
dominates, transmits light and knowledge rather than hoards pow-
er. Ultimately every member of the hierarchy transparently points
to the supreme Hierarch, Christ Philanthropos the friend of humani-
ty. For Dionysius this vision serves as a reminder for those in posi-
tions of ecclesial authority, and specifically here the monastics, that
Christ is the lover, protector, and advocate of humanity and that
anything done to impede Christ’s own self-emptying is a violation
of Church order.
18 Dionysius, Letter Eight, 1100D.

The hierarchy Dionysius describes is, therefore, not primarily

something historical and institutional, neither is it something in full
that Dionysius has experienced, but rather a spiritual vision that
welcomes and ushers in a way of seeing the Church that pulls the
community into ever greater levels of service and sacrifice. It is the
‘ought to be’ rather than the status quo, and for this reason Dionysi-
us scolds Demophilus precisely because this junior monk refuses to
extend his vision past the current crisis. Rather than pouring out
his own concerns and replicating the icon of self-sacrifice com-
memorated in the Eucharist, Demophilus is concerned with the
order of the physical with no attention to transmitting light or re-
ceiving light from the priest stationed above him.
For Dionysius, order always gives way to divinization. The
transparency of each member of the hierarchy obligates one to the
other and knits together disparate parts to form a communal body.
The transparency he describes involves sacrificing the opacity that
defines one as separate and self-oriented. It requires kenosis, the
pouring out that St. Paul calls dying to oneself. For Dionysius the
hierarch is so transparent, so illuminated with the light transmitted
from the divine, and so ignited in partnership with that divinity,
that onlookers can barely see him. He leads the community toward
the transparencies they can accomplish according to the capacity of
each in constant participatory progression. The hierarch ultimately
teaches the community how to reflect light, how to be stamped by
the heavenly hierarch, and how to conduct the fullest measure of
divine energy, culminating in the dissolution of their self-oriented
opacities. As the hierarch teaches the community to die, transmit-
ting that same Light who died to defeat death, the entire communi-
ty radiates and reflects that selfless divinity.
PLOTINUS AND THE ESSENCE –
ENERGEIA DISTINCTION: A
NEOPLATONIC INFLUENCE ON
DIONYSIUS AREOPAGITA
JOSHUA PACKWOOD
In some strands of Eastern Orthodox theology there has been an

attempt to distance the Neoplatonic philosophy of Late Antiquity
from Greek Patristic thought. 1 In contemporary philosophy, how-
ever, Neoplatonic metaphysics has been a rather flourishing area of
study. One of the most prominent contemporary philosophers of
Late Antiquity, Professor E. K. Emilsson of the University of Oslo
has written a variety of illuminating works on Neoplatonic philos-
ophy. I will argue, in this paper, that through Emilsson’s exposition
of Plotinus’ double act theory of emanation, we can come to a bet-
ter grasp of the Eastern Orthodox distinction between the essence
and energeia in God. 2 In fact, I believe that Plotinus’ metaphysics
play a fundamental role in understanding the concept of the es-
sence and energeia. However, in this essay I will not address specif-
ically the Orthodox doctrine of the essence and energeia of God. 3
1 For example, Lossky (1997 & 2001), Meyendorff (1979 & 1983).
2 I refrain from referring to the energeia as energies as it is frequently
done in contemporary Orthodox theology. The word energies in English
generally has a rather scientific connotation. Thus I prefer to use the term
in Greek to maintain its meaning and limit its modern confusion.
3 For a theological account of the essence/energeia distinction, see
Divine Essence and Divine Energies: Ecumenical Reflections on the Presence of God
357
358 NEOPLATONIC INFLUENCE ON DIONYSIUS AREOPAGITA
Rather, my purpose is simply to show that there is metaphysical

insight to gain from Greek philosophy’s notion of the One as unity
and diversity, in relation to Orthodox theology. The es-
sence/energeia distinction will be alluded to here through the met-
aphysics of Plotinus’ double act theory of emanation. While there
are certainly differences between Neoplatonic philosophy and
Christian theology, my purpose here is to elucidate the similarities
with the hope of gaining some clarity regarding how Orthodox
Christianity can understand this distinction within the Trinitarian
God.
To begin, Plotinus’ metaphysics hinges on the central idea that
there are different ontological levels of reality, and the source of
those levels is the first principle, referred to, in Neoplatonism, as
the One. The One is the most simple and unified. In fact, the One
is so simple and unified that there are no parts in it. For Plotinus, a
being has limits, and these limits presuppose some type of distinc-
tions; thus the One, considered to be beyond all limits and distinc-
tions, is thought to be beyond all being. Ultimately, the One is so
completely other, that nothing can even be said about the One.
The One cannot be known or thought because one cannot know
what the One is. However, it is this One which is the cause of all
else. The One can be known, however, not directly but rather
through that which is caused by it.
Having begun his metaphysics with the First Principle, which
is the One, the One emanates from itself what is called the intellect
or Nous, which is the second hypostasis. The intellect and the con-
tent of intellect’s thoughts (the intelligibles) are what make up be-
ing. 4 Central to Plotinian metaphysics is the idea that being as such
is not to be understood as ‘coming forth’ in space and time. In-
stead, emanation is the outpouring of an atemporal but ontological-
ly dependent being. In emanation, the One is not separating itself
into different parts. Though something is coming about from with-
in Eastern Orthodoxy (2013). This text was suggested to me by Father Dr.

Lev Smith.
4 As with Aristotle’s Unmoved Movers that think themselves, the in-
tellect (the thinker) and the intelligibles (the content of thought) are the
same ontologically.
JOSHUA PACKWOOD 359
in the One, this in no way takes away any of the unity or simplicity
of the One.
That which emanates from the One, is the most beautiful, the
most good (other than the One), and an image of the One because
it is closest to the One. The way in which it comes about is as fol-
lows: all things that come from the One ultimately desire to go
back to their source, and this is true of the inchoate intellect. The
general idea behind the inchoate is that it is what being is, as it is
coming forth from the One. It has not yet completely become be-
ing, and thus it is inchoate or potential. (It is important to remem-
ber again that though the language here implies temporality, ema-
nation is not temporal.) Although the inchoate intellect attempts to
grasp the One, it cannot do so because the One cannot be known.
In attempting to think about the One, the inchoate intellect can
only think about that which is closest to the One, namely itself.
That is to say, in order for there to be thought, then there must be
something to think about, but because the intellect is thinking
about itself, it must therefore be dual. The intellect has the highest
degree of unity possible, second only to the One. But this unity
that the intellect has, cannot be something provided by itself be-
cause it is not complete unity. Therefore, the intellect is dependent
upon the One for its unity, and this makes the intellect’s unity sec-
ond to that of the One.
As a Platonist, Plotinus knows that in order to have a sensible
world there must be a world of Plato’s Forms. That is to say, Ploti-
nus will follow Plato, using the existence of the Forms to give an
account of everything in the sensible world. Take for example the
human person; our ability to reason and have sense perception pre-
supposes, according to Plotinus, an intellect which is free from lim-
itations due to sense perception and discursive reasoning. 5 Plotinus
believes that in order to explain the sensible world, or rather, to
make sense out of the sensible world, there must be something else
on which the sensible world depends. Therefore, we can see that at
this level Plotinus has a unified ontology and epistemology in the
Forms. For Plotinus, unlike Plato, the Forms are the thoughts of
the intellect, and they are what constitute the many in the intellect.
5 Emilsson (2007:2).
This is to say, in its thinking of multiple objects (i.e., the Forms),

intellect contains a plurality within it. Now that we see the basic
ontological distinction within Plotinian metaphysics between the
One and the intellect, we can better understand what is commonly
referred to as the activity of the One.
DOUBLE ACT
Plotinus describes the internal and external activity coming from
the One in an illuminating passage:
But, how, when that abides unchanged, does Intellect come in-
to being? In each and every thing there is an activity which be-
longs to substance and one which goes out from substance;
and that which belongs to substance is the active actuality
which is each particular thing, and the other activity derives
from that first one, and must in everything be a consequence
of it, different from the thing itself: as in fire there is a heat
which is the content of its substance, and another which
comes into being from that primary heat when fire exercises
the activity which is native to its substance in abiding un-
changed as fire. So it is also in the higher world; and much
more so there, while the Principle abides ‘in its own proper
way of life’, the activity generated from the perfection in it and
its coexistent activity acquires substantial existence, since it
comes from a great power, the greatest indeed of all, and ar-
rives at being and substance: for that Principle is beyond Be-
ing. (Enneads. V.2.2, 21–37)
Here we find that in each thing the activity is what constitutes it,
which is to say, its activity completes what it is. In other words, it
seems that the internal activity is fundamentally the essence of
whatever it is. Subsequently, an external activity comes from each
and every internal activity. This external activity becomes, ontologi-
cally, the next stage below in the hierarchy and is brought into
completion by a ‘conversion’ towards its source. 6 Plotinus uses fire
6 Ibid. It is this external act to which i am alluding the energeia of the

Christian God.
JOSHUA PACKWOOD 361
here as an analogy of the internal and external acts. The internal act
represents the heat itself (in the fire), whereas the external act rep-
resents the heat that surrounds the fire. While his argument may be
wrong scientifically, Plotinus is not primarily concerned with eluci-
dating sensible phenomena. The important quality here is that the
physical phenomena are meant to provide a picture of an ontologi-
cal reality.
In other passages Plotinus says that the external act is not ‘cut
off’ from the internal. For example:
The sun, too, is an example since it is like a centre in relation
to the light which comes from it and depends on it; for the
light is everywhere with it and is not cut off from it; even if
you want to cut it off on the one side, the light remains with
the sun. (Enneads. I.7.1, 27) 7
The external act depends completely on the internal act. If the in-
ternal act does not continue to be what it is, the external act cannot
itself be. Consider, for example, a mirror. If the object is removed,
the mirrored image is ‘cut-off’ from its source and ceases to exist.
The external act is thus an image of the internal. The intellect, for
example, is to be seen as an image and representation of the One.
This idea of an essence and its image certainly comes from the Pla-
tonic tradition, and it should not surprise us to see it in Plotinus.
As Plotinus says:
Just as the image of something, like the weaker light, if cut off
from that which it is, would no longer exist, and in general one
cannot cut off and make exist separately anything at all which
derives its existence from something else and is its image, these
powers also which came from that first could not exist cut off
from it. But if this is so, that from which they derived will be
there simultaneously where they are, so that again it will be
present itself everywhere all at once undivided as a whole.
(Enneads. VI.4.9, 36–40).
7 Also see V.2.1, 13–22; V.3.12, 44; VI.2.22, 33–35; VI.4.3, 8–10;
VI.4.9–10.
The external image can be compared to a mirror in that the mirror

image does not have any effect on the thing itself (i.e., the internal
act). The internal act is not changed by the external act. 8 The in-
ternal remains or abides the way it is. The unchanging nature here
can be seen clearly by the self-containment of the internal act. 9 The
distinction here is quite important; the internal act is completely
self-contained whereas the external act is completely other-
directed, toward the internal, as it were. As Plotinus explains:
But peace and quiet for Intellect is not going out of Intellect,
but the peace and quiet of Intellect is an activity taking its rest
from other activities, since for other beings also, which are left
in peace and quiet by other things, there remains their own
proper activity, above all for those whose being is not potential
but actual. The being, therefore, is activity, and there is nothing
to which the activity is directed; so it is self-directed … For it
had to be first in itself, then also directed to something else, or
with something else coming from it made like itself, just as in
the case of fire it is because it is previously fire in itself, and
has the activity of fire that it is able to produce a trace of itself
in another. (Enneads.V.3.7, 13–25).
Of course the self-containment here does not imply that the inter-
nal act cannot affect something external. 10 Instead, the significance
of the passage shows us that just by the internal act being ‘in itself’,
the external (energeia) is the effect of what the internal is (its es-
sence).
DIONYSIUS AND THE DOUBLE ACT

The metaphysical account of Dionysius depends on the under-
standing of the double act theory that we saw in Plotinus, which is
that by the One’s being what it is a multiplicity comes forth from it
as manifestations or images of the One, or for Dionysius, God.
8 Emilsson (2007: 28). Plotinus is here giving a philosophical justifi-

cation for the Christian understanding that God is immutable.
9 Ibid.
10 Emilsson (2007: 29).
JOSHUA PACKWOOD 363
These images are the result of what God is. Or to say it differently,
what God is doing. With this overflowing of the first image, intel-
lect, we have something that comes to be because of its source, the
overflow of the One’s isness, as it were. Therefore, the intellect
comes into being as the external activity of the One. Again, the
internal activity is simply God’s (or for Plotinus, One’s) being what
it is, which is, of course, beyond being. In the external act, howev-
er, the image of God becomes that which is most like the One
without actually being the One.
Now that we have set out this understanding of the double act
we come next to an important element of Neoplatonic metaphys-
ics, which is the dynamic and not static relationship between all
that is, i.e., the world, and its source, God. This relationship,
though it is non-temporal, is dynamic in that it is in a state of pro-
cess. This state of process is referred to by Dionysius as remaining,
procession, and reversion (or return). Now we will turn and see
how this state of process is elucidated by the double act of Ploti-
nus’ ontology.
Dionysius Areopagita takes the notion of procession and re-
version from Proclus (and other Neoplatonists), and it becomes his
metaphysical structure for how he can give names to God. Diony-
sius does this most famously in Chapter Four of the Divine Names
in which he gives an account of why God is good, light, beautiful,
love, ecstasy, and zeal. However, the most important divine name
given to God by Dionysius is, of course, the Good. Dionysius says:
It is the Good … from which all things originate and are, as
brought forth from an all-perfect cause; and in which all things
are held together, as preserved and held fast in an all–powerful
foundation; and to which all things are reverted as each to its
own proper limit; and which all things desire. (DN. IV.4,
700a–b).
Here we can see the Good as the source of all that is, thus for Dio-
nysius all beings have their proper isness (being) from the Good.
For example:
Because of this they have their own orders beyond the cosmos,
their own unities, their mutual relationships, their unconfused
distinctions … They remain supremely constant in their desire
for the Good … Everything … comes from the universal
Cause and Source of the goodness. From this Source it was

given to them to exemplify the Good, to manifest that hidden
goodness in themselves, to be, so to speak, the messengers of
the divine source, to reflect the light glowing in the inner sanc-
tuary. (DN IV.2, 696 b–d).
Dionysius makes this point in reference to angelic beings, but he
also intends it to apply to all beings. 11 Here he is emphasizing that
the existence of any being is its goodness. Or to say it differently,
the Good is what gives being its form (DN IV.3, 697a), which
means each being’s differentiation is its goodness. In order for any-
thing to be, it must, in some sense, have the Good which makes it
be, and conversely, makes being itself good. 12
For Dionysius the very being of everything in existence is its
procession and reversion to God. The proper activity of each be-
ing, which constitutes what that being is, is the distinct way in
which it reverts to God. 13 It is important to note how the meta-
physics of emanation not only gives an account for the One [God]
and the many, but also explains what each thing essentially is. The
external activity of God is the internal activity of being. Each be-
ing’s activity is its way of reverting to the One. The activity, rever-
sion, is also what Plotinus calls the internal act, or remaining, ac-
cording to the Proclean/Dionysian terminology, of that being. This
nontemporal sequence of activities continues not just in being, but
in the images of being which include everything that is. The inter-
nal and external activity will be different depending on the particu-
lar image of being, of course. For example, a stone is merely exist-
ing as a stone while exercising its own distinct activities of being
hard, solid, and heavy; a plant has a distinct activity of living; an
animal of living sensitively; and a human being in living rationally. 14
Essentially each thing by being what it is, i.e., being in its proper
way, is actively proceeding from and reverting to its source. The
activity of this occurrence is each thing’s desiring the Good
11 Klitenic Wear (2007: 20).

12 Ibid.
13 Perl (2007: 42).
14 Ibid., 43.
JOSHUA PACKWOOD 365
(though each in a different way), according to its unique determina-

tion. Both the procession and reversion are what constitute what
the being is and thus both are necessary for the being to be.
Since we cannot make a temporal distinction between proces-
sion and reversion of being, a thing’s being made to be by God is
not temporally prior to its desire for God. Oddly enough, the gen-
eration of being depends on its tending toward God just as much
as on its coming forth from God. This explains how reversion, as
the activity of the being, is in fact how the being shares in its own
beingness. Thus, for Dionysius, as well as in Plotinus and Proclus,
being must act in order for it to exist. In other words, God does
not cause being to ‘be’; apart from being’s own wanting or acting.
The implication here is that God does not cause or bring anything
into being without that being’s cooperation (or activity). 15 Conse-
quently, at every level of being, animals, plants, etc. there is an as-
pect of ‘self’, but only insofar as it shares in its own being by being
what it is. Most notably, for the human being the self would be
human personhood and the freedom to act. But more importantly,
this idea of freedom to act must occur at every level of being. Plo-
tinus made this point most poignantly when he stated that ‘all
things contemplate’ (Enneads. III.8) – specifically, the life of a
plant is a ‘growth-thought’, an animal is a ‘sense-thought’, and so
on. 16 In every level of being there is some form of ‘thought’ taking
place, though, of course, some are higher forms of thought than
others, depending on their level of being. For Plotinus, as well as
others in ancient Greek philosophy, the earth itself is living and
thus this principle of thought extends to everything in the earth. 17
Dionysius agrees that ultimately, if each being did not have this
15 It is also true, for Dionysius, that salvation cannot take place un-
less the being works or acts in a way corresponding to the One. This
means that God does not create and does not save any being apart from
that being’s cooperation. While it is beyond the scope of this work, this
Dionysian understanding has important ramifications for the problem of
evil in his metaphysics and theology.
16 Perl (2007: 45).
17 See III.8.1.4
active ‘self’, it would have no identity. 18 Therefore it would not be

distinct from any other thing, which is to say, it would not be.
Dionysius understands reversion (or conversion) as the onto-
logical account of love or desire that all things naturally have for
God. 19 Just as in Plotinus and Proclus, the existence of all things
depends on each being’s desiring its source, the Good, and so Dio-
nysius says of the angels that ‘by desiring God they have both be-
ing and being good’ (DN IV.1, 696a). Only by desiring goodness
can anything exist at all. This implies that no being can in fact be
unless it desires or reverts to God. Moreover, because there is no
temporal succession in Dionysius’ ontology, all things can only be
insofar as they are both proceeding from and reverting to God,
which is to say, loving or desiring that from which they come forth.
In conclusion, what we find in the Neoplatonic ontology of
Dionysius is not a denigration of everything that is, with the hope
of getting on to the next life, as some rather superficial readings of
Platonism (and Christianity) seem to infer. Rather, what we find is
a sense of goodness and value in everything that exists. Therefore,
the monastic following this Neoplatonic tradition does not see the
world, or her body, as something evil or bad. Instead, through Di-
onysius we find that everything, because it exist, is something holy
and thus something through which we can find God. Therefore, I
suggest that understanding Plotinus’ double act theory might help
us to understand the vital distinction between the essence of God
(internal activity) and the energeia of God (external activity); which
implies that we see all of creation, (animals, plants, humans, etc.) as
being images of God, simply because they exist. Thus, in Dionysi-
us’ metaphysics, we can conclude with George Herbert when he
states, ‘In everything God is seen.’
BIBLIOGRAPHY
E.K.Emilsson, Plotinus on Intellect. Oxford: Oxford Universi-
ty Press. (2007)
18 DN IV.7, 704a-c.
19 Ibid.
JOSHUA PACKWOOD 367
S. Klitenic-Wear, & J. Dillon Dionysius the Areopagite and the

Neoplatonic Tradition. Aldershot: Ashgate.
(2007).
V. Lossky The Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church.
New York: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press. NY.
(1997)
——— In the Image and Likeness of God. New York:
St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press. NY. (2001)
J. Meyendorff Byzantine Theology: Historical Trends and
Doctrinal Themes. New York: Fordham.
(1983)
——— Living Tradition. New York: St. Vladimir’s
Seminary Press. (1979)
E. Perl Theophany. Albany, NY: SUNY. (2007)
MAXIMOS AND NEUROBIOLOGY: A
NEUROTHEOLOGICAL INVESTIGATION
OF ASCETICISM AS EROSION OF THE
PASSIONS & THE GNOMIC WILL
LUIS JOSHUA SALÉS
This past summer I was finally able to return to my native Mexico

City after a prolonged absence due to my studies. I met my best
friend from high school who was then completing his philosophy
licentiate thesis which argued for an environmental ethics through
utilitarianism. He proposed that utilitarianism was the best of the
three ethical theories available (that is, virtue ethics, deontology,
and utilitarian consequentialism) to investigate ethical dilemmas in
environmental science. The argument ran somewhat as follows:
Utilitarianism is easily adapted to the natural sciences because it can
show cause and effect, action and consequences, and on these ba-
ses it postulates normativity for human action through which we
can effect change in the world. In other words, if humans can
know the consequences of their actions and visually apprehend the
repercussions of their deeds, they are sure to act differently.
In the following brief communication I have two objectives.
First, to show that a logical step is missing between positing that an
agent’s knowledge of what is right is sufficient for an agent to do
what is right. The simple form of this objection would take the
following form: I assume, quite safely I am sure, that a doctor I
know understands that smoking is noxious for her health, but her
knowledge somehow seems insufficient to prevent her from filling
her lungs with toxic smoke three times a day. Second, I attempt to
provide a neurotheological synthesis that offers a more sophisticat-
369
370 MAXIMOS AND NEUROBIOLOGY
ed account of human behavior than consequentialism and which

therefore is more successful in achieving moral human action.
My method follows what I term a neurotheological synthesis.
This method consists in placing two different disciplines side by
side to speak to an investigated phenomenon and through their
combined efforts to illuminate some aspect unapparent when
viewed unilaterally. 1) The theological account of my neurotheolog-
ical synthesis draws from the field of historical theology, more spe-
cifically Patristics, and focuses exclusively on a seventh-century
Byzantine theologian, Saint Maximos the Confessor. I employ three
key concepts the ancient monk developed, namely, a) the gnomic
will, b) the passions, and c) the asceticism of virtue. Put briefly, I
am attempting to develop a virtue ethics on the basis of the Con-
fessor’s texts. 2) The neurobiological account of my neurotheologi-
cal synthesis draws from the field of behavioral neurobiology and
focuses exclusively on a) neuroplasticity, b) the dopaminergic re-
ward structure in the ventral tegmental area, the nucleus accum-
bens, and the cingulate cortex, and c) the orbitofrontal cortex and
ways of bypassing it. Put briefly, I describe the brain structures
which form on the basis of sustained activities and elucidate the
possibilities and pitfalls of ‘rewiring’ them.
With regard to 1 & 2, above, the synthesis of them both con-
sists in postulating a neurotheological virtue ethics modeled on
Saint Maximos the Confessor’s thought and behavioral neurobiol-
ogy. On this basis I promote the thesis that a neurotheological syn-
thesis of Maximian virtue ethics and behavioral neurobiology casts
light on the shortcomings of consequentialism and offers a more
effective alternative for human morality. I ask the reader for some
charity and indulgence, since this is to the best of my knowledge
(and I would be glad to be corrected) the first neurotheological
study of any Eastern Christian figure and the first neurotheological
attempt to dialogue with virtue ethics, especially recent Orthodox
Christian virtue ethics, which is just about as fledgling a field as
neurotheology itself.
THE THEOLOGICAL ACCOUNT

In the course of his disputations with the monothelites St. Maxi-
mos the Confessor developed the concept known as the gnomic
(or deliberative) will, as raised in the third and seventh Opuscules.
The gnomic will represents the locus of human deliberation, which
LUIS JOSHUA SALÉS 371
is definitionally liable to bi-directional movements through appe-

tencies. While the idea of deliberating seems to us a daily and nor-
mal occurrence, for the monk it belies a serious human shortcom-
ing, especially when applied to ethical deliberation. It denotes the
inability to see the good clearly and distinctly and therefore to have
to weigh different options before acting, much as a consequentialist
would presuppose for a utilitarian calculus. Herein virtue ethics
exposes itself to an admittedly harsh critique. If its proponents pos-
tulate that the consummate virtuous human agent does the good
for no other reason than for the sake of the good itself, requiring
deliberation prior to action might indicate space to weigh self-
interest in the balance of decision and therefore to make self-
interest constitutive of the decision, even if the deed is itself good.
Thus, even a morally upright choice arrived at through the delibera-
tive will is liable to be marked with self-interest, calling into ques-
tion the possibility of a truly selfless deed. I address this critique in
the third part of this section and again in the conclusion.
The deliberative will as we encounter it, however, is not an
objective and abstracted intellect without debilitating histories of
behavior. Implicit in the definition of the deliberative will is the
possibility of making a mistake, perhaps at first through ignorance,
but afterward through habitual disposition. The cumulative effect
of poor choices begins to attach certain negative valuations to
states of affairs, not simply seeing things for their non-axiological
features (that is, non-valued characteristics), but attaching a certain
feeling, a certain emotion to them. Thus, a truly simple (as opposed
to synthetic) thought is, for Maximos, a rare, albeit inceptionally
desirable, occurrence.
Maximos calls these (negative) attachments to the non-
axiological features of states of affairs the passions, which are rep-
rehensible movements of the soul against nature. 1 The passions
aggravate the process of deliberation by either occluding or dis-
torting the range of possibilities from among which one can
choose; in this way they at least negatively affect moral perception,
but can also impel a person dispositionally to the degree that cer-
tain actions are very difficult and some truly impossible
1 Chapters on Love 1.35.

and/or/because unthinkable. Moreover, the passions are not con-

fined to the realm of decision-making, but go beyond and color our
perception of reality, that is, of other humans and how we perceive
them, of animals, of nature. Consequently, if the Confessor is cor-
rect in identifying these passions, which he calls: ‘Reprehensible
movements of the soul contrary to nature,’ 2 as impairments to the
gnomic will, itself problematic, then the idea of being able to do
something good simply because we know it to be good is patently
absurd. First, we may not even be able to identify the good, being
blinded by the passions. Second, even if we can identify the good
despite the distorting power of the passions, we might find that
their dispositional character, for which we are culpable to some
extensive degree, does not allow us to do what we wish. The Apos-
tle summarized this well when he said: ‘For I do not carry out the
good which I wish, but the evil which I do not wish, this I carry
out’ (Rom 7:19). Worst of all, a habit of the passions only feeds the
fire for more passions and has, as such, a profoundly intoxicating
and addictive nature.
Fortunately the Confessor does not leave us hanging. The key
here is to fight habit with habit. The asceticism of virtue provides
the dispositional antidote whereby not only the passions are slowly
mitigated but, in its highest form, this antidote even bypasses delib-
eration without sacrificing moral uprightness or laudability in the
process. Asceticism was originally a term which referred to the
process of athletic training to which youths in the Greco-Roman
world were subjected in hopes of physical excellence in its various
forms. In time the term came to be applied to monastic discipline,
which bore all the marks of a rigorous method of training, perhaps
no less physical but more spiritually focused. As a result I find the
following analogy entirely justified. When I was in college I ran the
four hundred meter hurdles. Our coach required us to practice our
hurdling technique almost daily so that our muscle memory could
repeat the precise motion during a race without needing to think
about how to hurdle properly, which could prove disastrous in a
competition. Through constant training we were able to perform a
beautiful and perfect movement without recourse to deliberation.
2 Ibid.
A simple trigger, like proximity to a hurdle, sufficed to complete

the action.
I and, I believe, a sizable segment of the monastic tradition
before me, see no reason to hold that such discipline cannot be
equally applied to our ‘moral muscle memory,’ as it were, and prove
equally effective. Maximos divided this process into three stages.
Two still imply the deliberative will; one transcends it. All three
stages, nevertheless, imply doing the good to another, even if the
first two are for the wrong reasons. First, we may do the good out
of fear. In the gnomic will we determine that we ought to do x be-
cause not to do x would entail punishment or pain. Second, we
may do the good out of an impending reward. In the gnomic will
we determine that we ought to do x because not to do x would be
accompanied by no reward or pleasure. Third, we do the good out
of a fixed or habitualized state (ἕξις) which allows us to act prior to
deliberation. In this final stage the human acts rightly out of a vir-
tuous disposition gained through asceticism and which structurally
bypasses the deliberative will. Let me conclude this section, then,
by adding that if none of my major contentions thus far can be
defeated, the previous criticism leveled at virtue ethics is, if not
entirely groundless, at least not unqualifiedly applicable.
THE NEUROBIOLOGICAL ACCOUNT

One of the first findings in the history of neurobiology was neuro-
plasticity. Ironically, outsiders to the field might think there is a
stable and universally agreed-upon definition of neuroplasticity
among neuroscientists, but this is simply not the case. Neverthe-
less, this much can be said: Neuroplasticity refers to the capacity of
the brain to adapt its synaptic and non-synaptic components to
new circumstances which arise out of behavioral and/or environ-
mental changes. For example, damaged axonal connections in-
volved in certain patterned behaviors can usually be repaired by
what is known as ‘new axonal sprouts.’ 3 While the process of repair
3 See Rothi, L.J. and J. Horner, ‘Restitution and Substitution: Two

Theories of Recovery with Application to Neurobehavioral Treatment,’
(Journal of Clinical Neuropsychology, 5:1, 1983), 73–81.
goes on, however, we can reasonably expect to see decreased per-

formance in the activity in which the damaged brain cells were in-
volved. Similarly, new and sustained behavior will require the brain
to adjust so that in time the activity engaged in does not seem as
difficult to perform. Very much like muscles, neural circuits are
strengthened through repeated use. Sometimes, if the available
connections are insufficient to perform on the level which a behav-
ior is requiring, the brain is likely to develop additional and thicker
connections to make an activity possible on the level needed. Most
established connections, barring direct damaging intervention, re-
main in place perpetually. The degree of sophistication of a neural
pathway depends extensively on behavior that stimulates and
thereby strengthens it. While reduced use will weaken the neural
circuit previously established, it is truly uncommon for connections
and circuits to disappear entirely, even if they can be rendered
largely ineffective.
One of several well-traced neural circuits is commonly re-
ferred to as the dopaminergic reward pathway, structure, or system;
it is also known as the mesolimbic pathway. We might be better off
thinking of this structure as hardware rather than software. The
dopaminergic reward structure relies extensively on the behaviors
that activate it and it in turn reinforces those behaviors by associat-
ing a reward with their performance; sustained activation of the
dopaminergic reward system through consistent behavior of a cer-
tain kind strengthens the neural circuits necessary for that behavior
and can lead to codependency. This structure is obviously not in-
herently bad, since it is the effective mechanism which teaches hu-
mans that eating and drinking are very good things.
This process can be described fairly accurately in neurobiolo-
gy. The mesolimbic dopaminergic pathway, the most relevant for
our present purposes, projects dopamine from the ventral tegmen-
tal area (VTA) into the nucleus accumbens, in the ventral striatum,
and in the cingulate cortex, in the limbic lobe. Now there are at
least three different theories about the role of dopamine in the re-
ward system, but let us stop here to consider one. The most com-
mon suggestion is that the reception of dopamine in the nucleus
accumbens is associated with what we could describe as pleasure
(the hedonic theory). 4 It should not be surprising that dopaminer-

gic release into the nucleus accumbens is a functional feature of
heroin and cocaine consumption as well as sexual arousal. Now the
absence of said behavior can in time induce a person to feel some
degree of anxiety until the behavior is repeated.
This is where the orbitofrontal cortex comes in. The orbito-
frontal cortex is engaged when we modulate our emotions and
make our decisions. Dopaminergic release, for example, indicates
desire for something which in turn can activate the orbitofrontal
cortex so that it pursues what is desired. When we make a decision
it is largely the orbitofrontal cortex that is involved, although the
process that causes us to make a decision is clearly more compli-
cated. Sustained behavior of a certain kind does not only activate
dopaminergic release into the nucleus accumbens and cingulate
cortex, but also strengthens the very neural structure which permits
that behavior to take place to begin with. Thus, the behavior can be
seen to influence the system through which the orbitofrontal cor-
tex is made to desire something. Now, if this behavior is noxious
and an agent wishes to change it, a number of problems may pre-
sent themselves. First, the new behavior requires time to form
strong neural pathways and might not necessarily stimulate dopa-
minergic release as directly or effectively as the older circuit – in
fact, it will not. Second, absence of dopaminergic release can be
accompanied by anxiety or stress, which can lead to reinforcement
of the behavior one is trying to overcome and the more the behav-
ior is indulged the stronger the neural circuitry becomes. 5 Third,
even if one is successful in establishing an alternate behavioral cir-
cuit, it will not always manage to circumvent the previous one;
moreover, the older circuit will not disappear and can resurface at
any time given the appropriate stimuli are in place. Nevertheless,
the problems are not insurmountable. Certain behavioral neural
pathways can be established that do not engage the reward system
4 Kelley, Ann and Kent Berridge, ‘The Neuroscience of Natural Re-

wards: Relevance to Addictive Drugs.’ (The Journal of Neuroscience, 22:9,
2009), 3306–3311.
5Everitt, B., A. Dickinson, and T. Robbins. ‘The Neuropsychological
Basis of Addictive Behaviour.’ (Brain Research Review 36, 2001), 129–138.

and therefore circumvent the orbitofrontal cortex, eliding what

could be considered addictive behavior. This is known as the
thalamocortical pathway, which essentially bypasses the primary
sensory cortices. Needless to say, behaviorism can strengthen its
effectivity such that activities are possible without recourse to the
orbitofrontal cortex. These lower-cortical activities often are con-
sidered irrational impulses or instincts, but human behavior is able
to affect lower-cortical activity and influence non-cognitive re-
sponses. 6
CONCLUSION
So what aspect do the two foregoing accounts illumine that would
otherwise remain hidden? Allow me to suggest a few findings
which should be carried forward if my neurotheological synthesis
has proven accurate and insightful. First, the theological and the
neurobiological accounts I have given posit a human agent who
deliberates about courses of action. Put differently, deliberation is
real, not an illusion, and thus a constitutive element of ethical theo-
ry. Second, the two accounts resonate strongly about the human
capacity to develop relatively fixed states of behavior through sus-
tained repetition. St. Maximos would have called this ἕξις and neu-
robiology a reinforced behavioral neural pathway. We may add that
while neurobiology does not address the moral features of a rein-
forced behavioral neural pathway, theology attempts to identify the
positive or negative nature of the ἕξις under question and to offer
an alternative. Here again we have a third resonance between the
two accounts, both of which seek to find alternate paths while ac-
knowledging the permanence of the previous structure. Now it
seems that on Maximos’ account one would expect, in neurobio-
logical terms, something akin to the thalamocortical pathway in
order to circumvent the locus of decision-making, the orbitofrontal
cortex. And perhaps herein lies one of the valuable insights of this
neurotheological synthesis, that on this account the lower and non-
See Bechara, A. H. Damasio, and A. Damasio. ‘Emotion, Deci-

6
sion-Making, and the Orbitofrontal Cortex.’ (Cerebral Cortex 10:3, 2000),

295–307.
cognitive brain functions, until recently and still today prevalently

derided in ethical considerations, might in fact be constitutive of a
person’s morality and show that rational decision-making is only
one small and fragmentary view of the impenetrable mystery of
human ethics. Let me close by suggesting that a virtue ethics which
is concerned with the totality of a human person, and how such a
person acts in the world, is not only ultimately more effective than
any consequentialist ethical theory, but is also more human.
CONVERTING THE USE OF DEATH: THE
ASCETIC THEOLOGY OF ST MAXIMUS
THE CONFESSOR IN AD T H ALASSIUM 61
GREGORY TUCKER
The theology of St Maximus the Confessor (c. 580–662) represents

the epitome of Greek Christian thought of the early Byzantine pe-
riod, and its author was declared by Hans-Georg Beck in the mid-
20th Century to be: ‘the most universal spirit of the seventh century,
and perhaps the last independent thinker of the Byzantine
Church.’ 1 Though the precise contours of Maximus’ life are no
longer as certain as they once were, it is surely beyond doubt that
he received an education of some quality. 2 At an early date, he en-
1 Hans-Georg Beck, Kirche und theologische Literatur im byzantinischen

Reich (Munich: 1959), 436; quoted in translation in Aidan Nichols, Byzan-
tine Gospel: Maximus the Confessor in Modern Scholarship, (Edinburgh: T & T
Clark, 1993), 216. The judgment is perhaps a little extreme on both
counts!
2 The most-well known and widely-rehearsed account of Maximus’s
life derives from the Greek Vita, which is thought to be rather late in date
(10th Century). The discovery in the later–20th Century of an earlier Syriac
life has prompted a revision of the traditional narrative and a reconsidera-
tion of the Confessor’s background and career. This has been most thor-
oughly and recently treated in Philip Booth, Crisis of Empire: Doctrine and
Dissent at the End of Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press,
2013). For the Greek Vita: J.-P. Migne, PG 90. 68–109; for the Syriac Vi-
ta: S. Brock, ‘An Early Syriac Life of Maximus the Confessor,’ Analecta
Bollandiana 91, 299–346.
379
380 THE ASCETIC THEOLOGY OF ST MAXIMUS
tered the monastic life, and from then on acquired a growing repu-
tation as a theologian, who ultimately would suffer torture and die
alone and abandoned for the defense of a doctrine which would
receive ecumenical authority less than twenty years after his death.
St. Maximus was no doubt immersed in the literature of the
monastic tradition to which he committed himself, and Andrew
Louth has noted that three main streams of Greek monastic theol-
ogy, Evagrian, Macarian, and Diadochan, can be seen to fuse and
underscore Maximus’ ascetical theology. 3 Of course, Maximus
wrote numerous works specifically addressing the concerns of the
monastic life, his Liber Asceticus and various collections of Centuries,
to name only the most obvious, but the ascetical tone of his theol-
ogy was not limited to these works alone. This paper will examine
closely just one well-known and much-loved text of the Confessor,
in which he tightly weaves the weft of asceticism and the warp of
positive dogmatic theology into a very fine brocade. Though the
text is addressed to a monastic (the Abbot Thalassius) it is clearly
speaking to a wider audience, and I believe that it shows most
beautifully how Maximus conceives of the whole economy of
Christ and the creation and salvation of humankind in ascetical
terms.
Ad Thalassium 61 considers verses from 1 Peter 4 which, with
their discussion of suffering in the flesh for the hope within, sober
living, and life in community conducted in love, have natural reso-
nances for those engaged in the ascetic struggle of the monastic
life. Specifically, Maximus’ attention is drawn to the meaning of
two phrases within verses 17 and 18: the first: ‘[The] time (kαιρός)
of the beginning of the judgment from the House of God’; and the
second: ‘If the righteous man is scarcely saved.’ We shall focus only
on Maximus’ treatment of the first of these, which occupies him
for the larger part of Question 61. The saint constructs his argu-
ments by carefully linking words and achieving an internal exegesis
in the matrix of Scripture. Therefore his analysis of ‘the time of the
beginning of the judgment from the House of God’ starts from his
understanding of kαιρός time, or more precisely, the definitive moment,
Andrew Louth, Maximus the Confessor, The Early Church Fathers

3
(New York: Routledge, 1996), 23–26.

GREGORY TUCKER 381
the appointed time. This time, Maximus well knows, is Christ, to whom
Peter refers kαιρός at the beginning of his epistle when he writes:
‘[The prophets] are searching into who or what kind of time
(kαιρός) the Spirit of Christ within them was making visible,
[when] forewitnessing the sufferings [which lead] into Christ
and the consequent glories.’ 4
The Confessor makes these connections clear when he writes:
If, in Adam, death existed as the condemnation of nature – the
pleasure of his own origin (γένεσις) being the beginning (ἀρχή)
– fittingly, death in Christ has become a condemnation of sin,
[death] having received the origin of nature in Christ, pleasure
again [being] pure. So that, just as in Adam the sin according to
pleasure was a condemnation to corruption through the death
of nature and became time for the condemnation of nature to
death on account of sin; in this way in Christ, according to
righteousness, nature has condemned sin and become time for
the condemnation of sin to death, on account of righteous-
ness, the origin of nature from pleasure being entirely eliminat-
ed in Christ. 5
Thus, for Maximus, time (kαιρός) is the decisive intervention of
Christ in human life, made known beforehand in the prophets as
sufferings which lead to glory. This time is understood in terms of
origin or generation (γένεσις) and death, and we see that in Christ,
there is a complete overturning and reversal of the perceived order
of the world: that which in Adam condemns nature, in Christ con-
demns sin. In Adam, sin condemns nature to corruption through
death; in Christ, nature condemns sin to death, and the origin of
nature in illicit pleasure in worldly things is overcome. But it is nev-
ertheless the very same nature which, once condemned, now con-
demns; it must be the same nature for human beings to be able to
share in the soteriological victory.
4 1 Peter 1.11 – a rather literal translation, but one which preserves

the sense of the epistle, that the prophets searched into the salvation of
which Peter is writing, rather than the sufferings of Christ himself.
5 AdTh 61, l. 194–206.
The primary locus of this transformation of nature is, unsur-

prisingly, baptism. Maximus states that:
All who have been willingly reborn of Christ in Spirit, through
the bath of regeneration, have by grace put off the former
origin of Adam according to pleasure, and they preserve the
grace of sinlessness [received] in baptism and the undiminished
and undefiled power of the mystical adoption in Spirit by
guarding the law of the evangelical commandments. Fittingly
they activate the use of death for the judgment of sin, having
received time to judge sin in the flesh, [which means] in gen-
eral, the very time of the incarnation (σάρκωσις) of the Word,
which pertains to the same great mystery of becoming human
(ἐνανθρὠπησις), according to the nature of grace, and specifi-
cally, according to the operation of grace, each has received the
grace of adoption through baptism. Thus, through this [time]
they freely activeate the commandments, alone having origin in
Spirit, establishing the condemnation of sin through many suf-
ferings, retaining the use of their death. 6
Spiritual rebirth through the water of holy baptism grants one the
power to put off the former origin which was according to pleas-
ure, in favor of the active use of death to condemn sin, if one keeps
the evangelical commands. This rebirth constitutes a mystical adop-
tion, a new origin in [the] Spirit, in which one acquires the use of
death for the purpose of life. Whereas death once was the con-
demnation of nature, now that it is purified again in Christ it be-
comes the condemnation of sin, if one endures the many sufferings
which remain. Thus, Maximus concludes:
[Divine and unending life] indeed [awaits] the saints who, for
the sake of truth and righteousness, through the many suffer-
ings of [their] true birth, have completed the course of life
which is at hand. 7 This is the mystery of becoming human
(ἐνανθρώπησις).
6 AdTh 61, l. 228–244.

7 AdTh 61, l. 248–251.
GREGORY TUCKER 383
So we can see the basic structure of the anthropology with which

St. Maximus is working in this text, and how he arrives at it from
the passage from 1 Peter which is the subject of this Question.
Christ is the decisive moment, the time (kαιρός), who, on the basis
of the fundamental righteousness of human nature establishes
death as the condemnation of sin; this is appropriated to human
beings through baptism in which they receive a new origin in Spirit
and acquire the use of their death as a condemnation of sin, the
culmination of the course of this life lived through many sufferings.
Such is the basis for Maximus’ lengthy exposition of the nature of
man and his recapitulation in Christ which begins Question 61, and
which, at first glance, may seem a strange starting point for an
elaboration of the verses from 1 Peter about which Thalassius had
enquired. However, given this baptismal context and the general
literary context of 1st Peter, we can see that Maximus’ reflection on
Adam and Christ is a deeply practical one, rooted in the universal
experience of suffering which is transformed through baptism into
ascetical discipline with a pedagogical purpose.
Thus, Maximus begins Ad Thalassium 61 by painting a picture
of Adam, surrounded by the mercy of God, who orders all things
‘according to [his] foreknowledge, [being] the one who is con-
cerned for our salvation.’ 8 In the beginning, God did not create
man with a capacity for sensual pleasure to which was attached
pain, rather with a capacity for pleasure derived from contempla-
tion of the divine. 9 Pleasure is proper, therefore, to human nature
when directed towards God, but at the same instant of creation,
man, in his very first movement, directs his mind to sensible things
(τα αἰσθητά) and thus activates the unnatural pleasure in sensible
things. 10 But, as the one who is always the Savior and for the pur-
pose of salvation, ‘God … affixed pain alongside this sensible
pleasure, in the manner of an avenging faculty, whereby the Law of
Death was implanted by Wisdom in the nature of our body, mark-
8 AdTh 61, l. 17.

9 AdTh 61, l. 8–12.
10 AdTh 61, l. 12–16.
ing a boundary for the unnatural frenzy of the mind (νοῦς) in the
motion of its appetite towards sensible things.’ 11
There is no sense of temporality to these opening observa-
tions. God creates human nature with a capacity for pleasure in the
mind, which is activated as ‘unnatural’ (παρὰ φύσιν) by man
through its being directed towards sensible things at the very moment
of creation. In Question 61, the Genesis account of the origin of trans-
gression in humankind is not one which attests to a period of time
in which man enjoyed existence unconditioned by the transgres-
sion, so any consequence of this within creation is not subsequent
to the origin of man but atemporally concurrent with it. Hence, the
affixing of pain to sensible pleasure is not consequent in time to
either the act of creation or the misdirection of the capacity for
pleasure. This observation impacts significantly our reading of the
clause which follows: ὥσπερ τινὰ τιμωρὸν δύναμιν. Pain is not af-
fixed to pleasure as a subsequent reaction by God in time to man’s
turn to sensible things (it is not the unrolling of Plan B) but in one
and the same instant of creation and turning, and so that the force
of ὥσπερ is perhaps more ‘like’ than ‘as,’ rendering the clause, ‘like
a kind of avenging faculty.’ 12
St. Maximus therefore achieves two important things in this
opening passage. First, he shows us that he understands Genesis to
be speaking of the first-formed man in terms of kαιρός rather than
χρόνος, and this is consistent with the way he treats Adam later in
the Question, and established an understanding of both Adam and
Christ as χρόνοι, consistent with Paul’s understanding of creation.
Second, Maximus defines both the transgression and its correction
11 AdTh 61, l. 18–21.

12 The footnote Paul Blowers supplies to this passage in his transla-
tion (p. 132, n. 3) is unhelpful. He introduces the term ‘the fall’ which is
not found in Maximus’ text, and potentially encourages the attachment of
alien ideas to Maximus’ theology, not least that of a pristine human exist-
ence ‘before’ the fall. Further, his comments on a ‘dialectic of pleasure
and pain’ would seem to fit uneasily with the text, in which there is more
clearly a dialectic between the rational and irrational use of pleasure, with
pain being attached by God to the irrational use of pleasure, as a kind of
merciful limiting device.
GREGORY TUCKER 385
in the terms of ascetical discourse: pleasure and pain, the νοὺς and
appetite, and death.
The Confessor goes on to explain how the Law of Pleasure,
which is God’s response to Adam’s transgression and his attempt
to correct Adam’s noetic misdirection, was intended to work peda-
gogically:
On account of the entry of irrational (παράλογον) pleasure
alongside nature, rational pain has entered in opposition by
means of many sufferings (τα παθήματα), in which and from
which death effects the removal of the pleasure contrary to na-
ture – but does not truly and perfectly remove it – in accord-
ance with which grace has revealed the divine pleasure which
accords with the mind (νοὺς) to be exalted. 13
Pleasure derived from the senses is irrational (παράλογον), but the
pain that enters alongside and against it accords with reason (κατὰ
λόγον). 14 Death, through and in many sufferings (παθήματα), ef-
fects the removal of unnatural pleasure, but not its complete de-
struction, by which the grace of pleasure taken in the divine is
shown to be exalted. 15 So pain and death accord with reason and
the correct disposition of the mind in that, by testing a person, they
point to the fact that pleasure found in God is superior. Maximus
goes on to explain that every labor or toil (πόνος) has as the cause
of its origin the logical precedent of the activity of pleasure, as the
result of which it is to be understood as a natural debt to be extr-
acted from those who share in human nature. Thus he extends the
point made above, that through pursuing sensible things unnatural
pleasure is activated, and he sees that what befalls man – his suffer-
ing – is to have to labor, in accordance with the account in Genesis
3.
13 AdTh 61, l. 22–27.

14 Παράλογον is used rather than ἄλογον, perhaps deliberately echo-
ing παρὰ φύσιν earlier in AdTh 61.
15 Παθήματα, ‘sufferings,’ ought to be taken in the sense of ‘things
which come upon one as a passive recipient’ rather than with the modern
implication of ‘painful things,’ and certainly distinguished from πόνος
(‘work, toil, labour’) which Paul Blowers also translates as ‘suffering.’
God implements the Law of Pleasure, by which pain is estab-

lished in opposition to the maniacal wanderings of the mind, in
order that, through sufferings and finally death, the sensual pleas-
ure which is opposed to nature will be removed and the noetic
pleasure of contemplation will be promoted. Maximus argues that
grace reveals the true purpose of humanity through death, by
which he presumably intends to convey the sense that, from our
present perspective at least, the contemplation of death ought to
reorient the mind to God. To this end and by these means, God
has established in Adam, from the very moment of creation, the
passage by which man can return to God, despite the transgression
in which he initially turned against him.
In what follows, Maximus moves from speaking of the partic-
ular case of the first man to the general situation for all men, which
amounts to repeating much of what he has already said, consider-
ing that he does not speak of the situation of the first man as an
historical one. After the ‘first’ transgression, pleasure preconditions
the origin of every human being, and no person is free from an
origin according to nature which does not involve the sufferings
which accompany this pleasure. 16 The point which Maximus seems
to be making here is that the condition of all people is the same as
that of the first man, who, from the point of his origin turned to
sensible pleasure and thus suffered pain and the labors which ac-
company this, for the sake of his salvation, limiting the horizon of
sensible pleasure.
Labor or toil (πόνος), therefore, conditions all human exist-
ence. We can see that there is perhaps an apologetic dimension to
Maximus’ work, seeking to explain the human condition as it can
be observed in the terms of a Christian theology of the positive
value of creation as the handiwork of God, and the real possibility
of salvation through the lived experience. Maximus is emphatic
that there is no ‘escape’ from this situation: the way of freedom
from the Law of Pleasure was wholly without passage to those who
16 AdTh 61, l. 36–39.

GREGORY TUCKER 387
were under the tyranny of unjust pleasure and the just labor and
most just death which naturally proceed from it. 17
In order to effect release from the corruption (φθορά) of un-
just pleasure and just death, and the correcting of human nature, it
is necessary to contrive the opposite: unjust and likewise uncaused
labor and death. This release is necessary not because the creation
is somehow ‘broken’ but because the pedagogical lesson designed
by God to work in creation was unheeded by man:
The suffering man (ὅ ἄνθρωπος) was being pitifully torn asun-
der [by unrighteous pleasure and righteous death], holding fast
that the beginning/principle (άρχἠ) of the origin according to
pleasure [was] from corruption, and that the end (τέλος) of life
concludes in corruption through death. 18
That is to say, rather than educating man and bringing him back to
God, the Law of Pleasure fretted his mind, and led him to the false
and sinful conclusion that he originated not as the handiwork of
God but from corruption or ruin. In short, man fails to learn the
lessons which are written into the cosmos for his benefit: his mind
is so tormented by his sufferings, that he is unable to focus on
God. The reality of God’s original will for man to derive pleasure
from the noetic contemplation of the divine would, Maximus pos-
tulates, be revealed by one who could show that the principle of
origin is not sensible pleasure (by accepting labor and its limiting
death without having sought pleasure) and freely embrace death
(because it is not the end of life). 19
And so we find ourselves delivered to the recapitulation which
is wrought in Christ, the exegesis of 1 Peter 4.17. Maximus asserts
that:
17 Maximus seems to mean ‘unjust’ (ἄδικος) in the sense of ‘oppos-

ing the divine plan for man to take pleasure in God’ and ‘just’ (δίκαιος)
therefore, in the sense that God, by implementing the Law of Pleasure
which binds pain and labour to sensible pleasure, places a limit on the
noetic madness of the pursuit of sensible pleasure. AdTh 61, l. 41–43.
18 AdTh 61, l. 46–49.
19 AdTh 61, l. 44–61.
For the purpose of setting aright the suffering nature [it is nec-
essary] to think of unjust and likewise uncaused labor and
death…in order that…the human race might again have an
origin free from pleasure and pain, receiving the good fortune
of nature from the beginning (ἀρχή). 20
Thus he establishes that the work of Christ will be a full share in
the human experience but without any preceding transgression, in
order to show to humankind that they have misunderstood the
condition of their nature, and that the death in which their life ap-
pears to end is not a true end in itself. And so:
For this reason, the Word of God, being truly God by nature
becomes truly man (ἄνθρωπος), from a noetic soul and suffer-
ing body, being together alongside us according to nature, ex-
cept alone without sin, on the one hand in no way whatsoever
having the pleasure from disobedience preceding his birth
from a woman in time, yet on the other hand, through philan-
thropy, voluntarily appropriating to himself the pain derived
from it [the pleasure], being the end of nature. 21
This is the first point at which Maximus introduces the word ‘sin’
(ἁμαρτία), quoting Hebrews 4.15, and the first mention of ‘birth’
(γέννησις). It is important to note two things which here shed light
on the nature of Christ’s birth from a woman: first, the perfect
body of this man, who is the Word of God, is passible, and so the
‘fault’ (which must be absent in Christ for him to effect salvation)
does not lie in one’s being liable to affliction by sufferings; hence,
and secondly, the sin must be that which makes man subject to the
Law of Pleasure (which does not govern Christ), that is the trans-
gression which is seeking pleasure in sensible things. Christ is able
to sympathize with our propensity to sin because he shares with us
a passible human nature and knows temptation, but he remains
without sin, unmoved in the orientation of his capacity for pleasure
to the noetic contemplation of the divine. In this way, therefore,
pleasure in no way precedes his birth: it is not that his birth in the
20 AdTh 61, l. 49–59 with omissions.

21 AdTh 61, l. 61–68.
GREGORY TUCKER 389
flesh is necessarily unconditioned by pleasure in sensible things, but

that the one who is born is not preconditioned by this pleasure.
Thus, Maximus goes on to say, the death and suffering which
the Lord endures inaugurate a new beginning (ἀρχή) and a second
origin for humankind, a new time (kαιρός). Christ has liberated
‘those [who] no longer have the pleasure which is from Adam as
the origin from Adam, but only the action of the pain from Adam
in them – not as a debt owed for sin, but according to the econo-
my, in which death surrounds nature, opposing sin.’ 22 Out of love
for humankind, Christ accepts the unjust suffering so that he might
end the tyranny under which the unjust sensible pleasure is thought
by man to be the origin of nature. The economy of Christ, accord-
ing to Maximus, does not eliminate the experience of suffering,
pain, and ultimately death, for human beings, but rather reveals the
underlying pedagogy of these things, by which those who embrace
them turn suffering and death from a condemnation of sin-afflicted
nature into a condemnation of sin itself, converting the use of
death.
In the action of his incarnation in which he accepts suffering,
labor, and ultimately death, Christ does not overturn divine justice
but displays its equity through the greatness of the condescension,
demonstrating human passibility to be the tool through which sin is
eradicated, and through that, death as the end of man. 23 Maximus
here restates in different terms the point he made at the outset of
Question 61: the pain (suffering) affixed to pleasure which is directed
towards the sensible world is for no other purpose than salvation.
God establishes this pain as just, not as a punishment but to cor-
rect human perception as to the source of true pleasure. Christ fur-
ther confirms the justice of this situation by willingly embracing
these sufferings which lead to death, in order to show that the pur-
suit of sensible pleasure should not rule human nature and, fur-
thermore, that death is not the end of human life. This situation
properly accords with God’s nature, which is said to be ‘wise and
just and capable.’ 24 Moreover, it is through Christ’s redemptive
22 AdTh 61, l. 131–135.

23 AdTh 61, l. 85–92.
24 AdTh 61, l. 77.
action – ‘becoming a man without undergoing any kind of change

or alteration’ – that this state of affairs is revealed, Christ manifest-
ing the divine plan (λόγος) in the way he effected the cure. 25
Christ reveals his power by establishing a new, changeless
origin for human nature in his death. 26 He gives to human nature
impassibility through sufferings, rest through labors, and eternal
life through death. 27 St. Maximus summarizes this conclusion, say-
ing: ‘In truth, then, the God-man came to be, and rendered to na-
ture another beginning (ἀρχή), a second origin, which through labor,
ends in the pleasure of the life to come.’ 28 Christ, the God-man
establishes a new principle (ἀρχή) for human existence, through a
life unmoved by the sufferings which afflict it, overcoming pain
through a series of contradictions. The death of Christ thus be-
comes a second origin (δευτέρα γένεσις) because Christ, having no
sin and therefore not being subject to the just limiting of sensible
pleasure by death, willingly embraces it nonetheless, effecting resto-
ration (ἀποκατάστασις). This origin in death is changeless
(ἄτρεπτον) because death is itself the only unchanging factor in
human life, after our birth in a body, and moreover because it is
not subject to χρόνος but rather is kαιρός.
Having outlined the nature of Christ’s saving restoration,
Maximus returns to the narrative of Adam: 29 ‘The forefather Ad-
am, having transgressed the divine command, established another
25 AdTh 61, l. 83–84.

26 AdTh 61, l. 100–103.
27 AdTh 61, l. 103–104.
28 AdTh 61, l. 109–111.
29 Curiously, though Maximus goes on to exegete the deception of
the serpent, he nowhere mentions Eve, though she is the one who was
beguiled in Genesis 3. Maximus is obviously drawing on the Pauline for-
mulation of Christ as the New Adam, though it may also be relevant that
Eve’s naming in Genesis is subsequent to God’s establishment of the Law
of Pleasure following the transgression, whereas Adam is referred to as
such throughout (in the LXX). However, it is quite clearly the case that
Maximus is not beginning with the exegesis of Genesis which defines the
‘problem’ but with Christ, who reveals the truth of the human condition
and its restoration, and through this the meaning of the Scriptures.
GREGORY TUCKER 391
principle (ἀρχή) of [human] origin from sensible pleasure, culmi-

nating in death through labor.’ 30 The counsel of the serpent caused
Adam to think that pleasure terminates in labor rather than follows
from antecedent labor. 31 This is a slightly complex point which
benefits from further comment. It is not the counsel of the serpent
which leads Adam into the transgression, because, as Maximus ex-
plains at the outset, the transgression occurs simultaneously with
Adam’s origin. Rather, the counsel of the serpent misguides Adam
as to the meaning of labor. Maximus’ deliberately slippery use of
terminology easily deceives us, too! Of course, pleasure derived from
sensible things (which has been the sense in which Maximus has most
often used ἠδονή throughout) does terminate in labor, in accord-
ance with the Law of Pleasure established by God in the beginning,
for the correction of our primordial error. The first deception of
the serpent is to cause man to think that pleasure (which man
thinks of as sensible pleasure) naturally ends in labor, whereas in fact
it is on account of sensible pleasure that labor is introduced to limit the
noetic madness. The second deception of the serpent is to con-
vince man to think that this sensible pleasure is the pleasure according
to his nature (which should be pleasure contemplating the divine), and to
obscure the truth that through antecedent labor (which is rendered
on account of sensible pleasure) God makes true natural pleasure a
possibility for man even after he has chosen to pursue sensible
pleasure in the transgression. 32
30 AdTh 61, l. 111–115. Maximus does not explain what ‘the divine
command’ is.
31 AdTh 61, l. 115–117.
32 It seems to me that the only way to make sense of this passage is
to understand, as I have tried to explain, that Maximus uses ἡδονή here in

both senses of ‘unnatural pleasure oriented to sensible things’ and ‘natural
pleasure oriented to the divine.’ By so doing, Maximus identifies – and
indeed immitates for our edification – the wiley deception of the serpent,
which is a multifaceted and persuasive lie about the origin (ἀρχή/γένεσις)
and end (τέλος) of human pleasure and labour, with the intention of ob-
scuring in the frail mind of man the fact that God always wills his salva-
tion and has ordered the cosmos to this end.
All who, like Adam, are begotten in the flesh, through which
they have pleasure as their unjust principle, are led with him into
the end (τέλος) in death through labor. 33 Maximus immediately con-
trasts this birth in the flesh with the second origin for human nature
in the Holy Spirit which Christ fashions, having himself become
man; the contrast is not between the first origin of man in the flesh and
the second origin in the Holy Spirit, but between birth in the flesh and the
second origin. 34 The Lord effects the destruction of both the begin-
ning/principle (ἀρχή) and end/goal (τέλος) of the origin according to
Adam, in the manner described above, neither having their prece-
dent in God. He liberates all who are mystically reborn in his Spirit
from these things, such that they no longer have the pleasure of
Adam’s origin, but only the action of the pain in them. This pain,
which includes labor and death, is not a debt owed for sin, but ra-
ther death accords with the economy, surrounding nature (with no
negative connotation) after sin. 35 So the work of Christ reveals a
second principle of origin in which sensible pleasure no longer
governs the disposition of man, and this is entered through birth,
not in the flesh, but in the Spirit of Christ. Whilst this rebirth and
33 AdTh 61, l. 117–120. Maximus has only used ‘birth’ once up to

this point in AdTh 61. When he did, he wrote of ‘τῆς ἐκ γυναικὸς ἐν
χρόνῳ γεννήσεως’ of Christ (AdTh 61, l. 66) not of his birth ‘ἐν τῇ σαρκί’
specifically. This suggests to me that Maximus thinks of ‘birth in the flesh’
as something subsequent to the origin of human nature (which is perpetu-
ated through procreation) specifically related to the perception that sensi-
ble pleasure is the ἄρχη of human origin, which all humans in the type of
Adam undergo, but which Christ does not, never having the sensible
world as the source of his pleasure. Moreover, Christ’s birth from a wom-
an is in the Spirit, according to the nativity accounts in the gospels of Mat-
thew and Luke. Furthermore, Adam was not born in the flesh – he was
created by God from the dust of the earth; thus for all humankind to
share in Adam’s ‘birth,’ we must not think of the origin of his human na-
ture.
34 AdTh 61, l. 120–122. He must surely have in mind John 3.5–6.
The verb Maximus uses, δημιουργήσας, is the same one he used in the
opening clause of AdTh 61 to describe the creation of human nature.
35 AdTh 61, l. 226–135.
GREGORY TUCKER 393
second origin eliminate the tyrannical reign of sensible pleasure,

they do not eliminate suffering, labor and death, instead transform-
ing these.
Thus Maximus concludes this first section of Ad Thalassium
61:
Death, once it has ceased having pleasure as its ‘birth mother’
… clearly becomes the ‘father’ of everlasting life. Indeed, just
as Adam’s life according to pleasure became the mother of
death and corruption, so too the Lord’s death for Adam’s sake,
being free of the pleasure from Adam, became the progenitor
(γεννήτωρ) of eternal life. 36
Thus Christ ‘converted the use of death’ into a condemnation of
sin, rather than of human nature which in itself is good, and effect-
ed the judgment of sin in the flesh. 37 For those who reject sensible
pleasure as the principle of the origin of human nature and enter
into birth in the Spirit receiving a second origin, suffering becomes
that through which one is led to death passing over into life. Christ
overcomes both the ἄρχη and the τέλος of the Law of Pleasure,
opening human nature to the contemplation of the divine, for
which it was created in the beginning.
In a very real way, the work of Christ does not alter the hu-
man experience of the world (of pleasure, suffering, and death) in
the sense that these things are changed or irradiated, but in the
sense that they are renewed and experienced in a fundamentally
different way, through a worldview which sees the human experi-
ence as pedagogically oriented to salvation. Through Christ, the
decisive moment (kαιρός) who establishes a new origin for human-
kind, suffering, pain, and death, which were implanted in creation
at the moment of the first-formed man’s transgression for the very
purpose of his salvation, are revealed to be the means of salvation
which, in the victory of Christ, become a condemnation not of the
God-fashioned nature of humankind, but of the sin which leads us
away from God. For St. Maximus, all human begins are involved in
an ascetic contest with suffering and death, but it is only through
36 AdTh 61, l. 135–141.

37 AdTh 61, l. 161–164.
the waters of the mystery of holy baptism in which one receives a

Spiritual rebirth in Christ, that one is able to take hold of death and
experience it as the condemnation of sin itself; that is to say, to
experience suffering, pain, and finally death, as salvific. Asceticism,
therefore, is for Maximus the basic disposition of all human beings,
but it receives life-giving power only in Christ, by whom suffering
is redeemed, and through whom this present life is known to be for
salvation.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Maximus Confessor, Quaestiones ad Thalassium, t. II, Qu. LVI–
LXV, Corpus Christianorum Series Graeca 22
(Turnhout: Leuven University Press, 1990).
Maximus the Confessor, On the Cosmic Mystery of Jesus Christ,
tr. Paul M. Blowers & Robert Louis Wilken
(Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press,
2003).
Hans Urs von Balthasar, Cosmic Liturgy, tr. Brian E. Daley (San
Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2003; Kosmische
Liturgie: Das Weltbild Maximus’ des Beken-
ners, 2nd Edition, 1961).
Paul M. Blowers, Exegesis and Spiritual Pedagogy in Maximus
the Confessor: an Investigation of the Quaes-
tiones ad Thalassium (Notre Dame, IN: Uni-
versity of Notre Dame Press, 1991).
Philip Booth, Crisis of Empire: Doctrine and Dissent at the
End of Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2013).
Andrew Louth, Maximus the Confessor, The Early Church
Fathers (New York: Routledge, 1996).
Aidan Nichols, Byzantine Gospel: Maximus the Confessor in
Modern Scholarship, (Edinburgh: T & T Clark,
1993).
Lars Thunberg, Microcosm and Mediator: the Theological An-
thropology of Maximus the Confessor (Chica-
go & La Salle, IL: Open Court, 1995).
THE MONK PHILOSOPHER IN YAḤYĀ IBN
‘ADĪ (D. 974) AND SEVERUS IBN AL-
MUQAFFA’ (D. C. 987)
ZACHARY UGOLNIK
Philosophy is rendered as the cultivation of right reason

(logou orthotetos): so that, necessarily, all that comes about
through error of reason is a mistake, similarly called sin
(hamartema). For example, since the first man sinned and
disobeyed God, it is said, he became like the beasts. 1
(Clement of Alexandria)
Clement of Alexandria (c. 150–215) is famous for his harmoniza-
tion of Hellenic philosophy and Christian theology, a process that
continued through much of early Christianity. As the Greek term
philosophia (falsafa in Arabic) reminds us, to be a philosopher is to be
a lover of wisdom. The Christian way of life, from early times, was
associated with this path of seeking knowledge. Monastics, as ex-
emplars of Christian piety, despite their severe appearances on oc-
casion, were often considered the best exemplars of the human
ideal as made in the image of God. As lovers of eternity and wis-
dom, monastics were a specific type of philosopher. This tradition
continues in tenth century Arabic Christianity.
This paper will examine the treatment of asceticism and mo-
nasticism in the works of two tenth century Arabic Christian writ-
1 Clement of Alexandria, Paedagogus 1:13, PG: p. 372B–373A. My

translation adapting Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers. Philip Schaff. (ed).
Christian Classics Ethereal Library. Grand Rapids, MI. 1819–1893, p. 235.
395
396 THE MONK PHILOSOPHER
ers: Severus ibn al-Muqaffa’ (d. c. 987) and Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī (893–
974). I will focus on one text by Severus, his Ṭibb al-Ghamm wa-
Shifā’ al-Ḥuzn, which has been translated, in its critical edition, as
‘Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow,’ 2 but can also be ren-
dered ‘The Medicine of Grief and Cure of Sorrow.’ I will focus on
two texts written by Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī: his Kitāb tahdhīb al-akhlāq, 3
which has been translated as ‘The Reformation of Morals,’ but can
also be rendered the ‘Cultivation of Morals’; and also his ‘Treatise
on Virginity.’ 4
These various texts come to us from two different thinkers
and two different geographical contexts: the philosopher and mar-
ried layperson Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, a Syrian Orthodox Christian work-
ing in Abbasid Baghdad and the celibate Coptic Bishop Severus of
Egypt. Despite these differences, both of these writers were con-
cerned with presenting Christianity in apologetic terms in their
Muslim environments and, as I will argue, ground asceticism and
monasticism in a philosophical framework. Though Sidney Griffith
has written extensively on the role of Christian philosophy in
Baghdad and has commented on the treatises under discussion in
separate occasions, this present study, through a close reading of
the texts, hopes to further articulate how Yaḥyā and Severus articu-
lated the way of the monk. 5 For both thinkers, the angelic life is
2 Severus ibn al-Muqaffa’. Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow (Ṭibb
al-Ghamm wa-Shifā’ al-Ḥuzn). Edited and Translated by M.J.L. Young and
R.Y. Ebied. [Secretariat du CSCO]. Louvain. 1978. All translations of this
text in this article are cited from this volume.
3 Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī. The Reformation of Morals: a Parallel Arabic-English
Text. Translated by S.H. Griffith. Brigham Young University Press. Provo,

Utah. 2002. All translations of this text in this article are cited from this
volume.
4 This text is available in French and Arabic in ‘Traité Sur La Conti-
nence De Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī.’ Edited by Vincent Mistrih. Studia Orientalia

Christiana Collectanea 16. Cairo, 1981. All translations from this text cited in
this article are my own.
5 See Griffith, S. H. ‘The Virtue of Continence (al-’iffah) and the
‘Perfect Man’ (al-insān al-kāmil): An Islamochristian Inquiry in Abbasid

Religious and Philosophical Circles,’ in Gotteserlebnis Und Gotteslehre: Christ-
ZACHARY UGOLNIK 397
associated with rationality and abstinence is the best means to at-

tain this state. Monks, as experts in abstinence, seek the highest
forms of knowledge and are thus counted among the true philoso-
phers of this world.
PRIMARY PREMISES: PHILOSOPHY AND THEOLOGY

Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī (whose full name is Abū Zakarīyyā’ Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī)
was born in Takrīt in Iraq, a major center of Miaphysite Syrian
Christianity. He moved to Baghdad in his youth as a professional
scribe and by the 940’s was firmly established in the Baghdad
school of Aristotelians, becoming one the leaders of the ‘Peripatet-
ic’ school of thought, and earning the title al-Manṭiqī, or ‘the logi-
cian.’ 6 He studied under the famous Muslim philosopher Abū Naṣr
Muḥammad al-Fārābī (c. 872–950) and, as major figure in the re-
naissance of Baghdad, translated many of Aristotle’s texts, includ-
ing his Topics and Physics. 7
Unlike Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, who wrote mathematical and philo-
sophical treatises as well as theological, Severus wrote in explicitly
religious terms under his office of Bishop. He seems to have origi-
nally gone under the name Abū ‘l-Bishr, but he took the name Se-
liche Und Islamische Mystik Im Orient, edited by Martin Tamcke, Harrasso-

witz Verlag, Wiesbaden, 2010; ‘Yaḥya Ibn ‘Adi’s Colloquy on Sexual Ab-
stinence and the Philosophical Life,’ in Arabic Theology, Arabic Philosophy.
From the Many to the One: Essays in Celebration of Richard M. Frank, edited by
James E. Montgomery, Peeters Publishers & Department of Oriental
Studies, Leuven; Paris; Dudley, MA, 2006; The Church in the Shadow of the
Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam, Princeton University
Press, Princeton, N.J., 2008; ‘The ‘Philosophical Life’ in Tenth Century
Baghdad: The Contribution of Yaḥyā ibn ʿAdī’s Kitāb tahdhīb al-akhlāq,’ in
Iraq, edited by David Thomas, Brill, Leiden; Boston, 2003; and for Seve-
Christians at the Heart of Islamic Rule: Church Life and Scholarship in ‘Abbasid
rus see ‘The Muslim Philosopher al-Kindī and His Christian Readers:
Three Arab Christian Texts on ‘The Dissipation of Sorrows’ Bulletin of the
John Rylands, University Library of Manchester 78, 1996, 111–127.
6 Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, p. 122.
7 Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, p. 122–123.
verus (Sāwīrus in Arabic) when taking the habit of monasticism. 8

He later became bishop of al-Ashmūnain in Upper Egypt. 9 Aware
that many of his parishioners were forgetting the Coptic language,
he is one of the first Egyptian Christians to write theological trea-
tises in Arabic. 10 His work titled Miṣbāḥ al-’Aql (‘Lamp of the Intel-
lect’) outlines basic theological positions of the Christian church.
The work we will be focusing on today contributes to a genre of
literature that applied philosophical constructs to the alleviation of
life’s sorrows, in the tradition of Islamic scholars, such as Ya’qūb
ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī (c. 800- 873), and the Roman Philosopher Boe-
thius (d. c. 525). Severus in his ‘Afflictions,’ written sometime
around 955, 11 cites by name and nearly quotes verbatim al-Kindī’s
work entitled Risālah fi al-Ḥilah li-Daf’ al-Aḥzān (‘Epistle on the
Means for Repelling Sorrows’). In Sidney Griffith’s words however,
Severus ‘theologizes’ al-Kindī’s philosophical approach through
incorporating biblical references. 12
Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, on the other hand, has been described as do-
ing something of the opposite. Joel Kraemer, writes: ‘Ibn ‘Adī
treated theological notions as embodiments of philosophical con-
cepts.’ 13 However, where Kraemer sees a subjugation of theology
to reason and philosophy in the thought of Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, Griffith
sees a harmony. Griffith has argued persuasively that Arabic Chris-
tian theologians in the 9th and 10th centuries, particularly in the
8 Griffith, ‘The Muslim Philosopher al-Kindī and His Christian

Readers,’ p. 117.
Readers,’ p. 117.
10 Introduction to The Lamp of the Intellect of Severus Ibn Al-Muqaffa’,
Bishop of Al-Ashmūnain. Edited by R. Y. Ebied and M. J. L. Young. [Secre-

tariat du CSCO]. Louvain. 1975, p. VI.
Readers,’ p. 117.
12 Griffith also points to the influence of al-Kindī’s Risālah fi al-Ḥilah
upon two other Christian Arabic writers: Elias of Nisibis (d. 1046) of the
Church of the East and Elias al-Jawharī (fl. 893). Griffith, ‘The Muslim
Philosopher Al-Kindī and His Christian Readers,’ p. 124.
13 As quoted in the introduction to The Reformation of Morals, p. xxii.
ZACHARY UGOLNIK 399
Baghdad Milieu, ‘were thinking and writing within a tradition that

had long since learned to present the claims of their religious con-
victions in the Greek Idiom of Aristotelian logic.’ 14 According to
Griffith, Muslim thinkers and mutakallimūn were faced with a dif-
ferent set of issues than their Christian counterparts due to the in-
flux of Greek logic and philosophy in the Abbasid translation
movement, texts that were not earlier available in the development
of classical Islamic thought. This encounter produced a conflict
between Aristotelian philosophers who wrote in Arabic and classi-
cal Muslim scholars of Arabic grammar in the 9th and 10th centu-
ries. 15 Christianity, however, encountered these philosophical
schools from its earliest development and had grown accustomed
to employing philosophical categories as supplemental to theologi-
cal arguments. Griffith points out that many scholars focusing on
Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī’s translations of classical philosophy and his Refor-
mation of Morals, overlook his overtly theological works, including
treatises on the incarnation, the defense of his Miaphysite faith, and
celibacy. 16 Rather than characterize Yaḥyā as a humanist, we find a
cohesion of philosophy and theology in his writings, each drafted
with a fine sense of his audience. Severus, also, though primarily
addressing Christians, is just as comfortable citing Aristotle or Pla-
to as he is citing Paul or the Psalms. We can thus imagine from this
context, that for both writers, the ascetic is viewed as an ideal type
of Philosopher. In order to illustrate how they accomplish this, in
not always explicit terms, let us begin with a brief examination of
our thinkers’ anthropology.
THE RATIONALITY OF THE ANGELIC LIFE

In both writers we find rationality equated with eternity, divinity,
and the highest ranks of existence. Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, adopts Plato’s
tripartite division of the soul. He writes, in the Reformation of Morals:
14 Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, p. 123–124.

15 Griffith, ‘The ‘Philosophical Life’’, p. 148.
16 Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, p. 124. For the
works of Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī, see Endress, G. The Works of Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī: An
Analytical Inventory. Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verglag. Weisbaden. 1977.
‘The soul has three faculties…the appetitive soul, the irascible soul
[which can also be translated as the ‘spirited soul’], and the rational
soul.’ 17 For Yaḥyā, much as we saw in the opening excerpt from
Clement of Alexandria, rationality distinguishes man from the ani-
mals. Man can reach perfection through subjecting the lesser parts
of the soul to this higher form of rationality.
As I mentioned, however, there is debate over the religious
dimensions of the program Yaḥyā’s proposes. Irfan Shahîd, of
Georgetown University, characterizes The Reformation of Morals as a
secular treatment of ethics. 18 In his reading of the text, ‘there is no
trace of any religious sentiment, only a slight reference towards the
end with no significance.’ 19 The reference to which he is referring,
often quoted by Griffith, reads as follows:
Men are a single tribe, related to one another; humanity unites
them. The adornment of the divine power is in all of them and
in each one of them, and it is the rational soul. By means of
this soul, man becomes man. It is the nobler of the two parts
of man, which are the soul and the body. So man in his true
being is the rational soul, and it is a single substance in all
men. 20
Throughout this work Yaḥyā seems to be addressing the intellectu-
al or ruling elite of Baghdad, both Muslim and Christian, with spe-
cial references to princes and kings. As Shahîd notes, Yaḥyā avoids
explicit Christian terminology and thus the genre of the text can be
characterized as ‘secular’ in the sense of not being addressed to one
particular religious tradition. However, in my reading, the reference
above is very important in understanding Yaḥyā’s overall anthro-
pology.
Yaḥyā’s audience was either Muslim or Christian, and Yaḥyā
clearly equates the rational soul with the ‘adornment of divine
power,’ a statement amenable to both groups. This association be-
17 The Reformation of Morals 2.1, p. 15.

18 Shahîd, I., ‘Review: The Reformation of Morals.’ Journal of Semitic
Studies 50:2, 2005, 410–413, p. 412.
19 Shahîd, ‘Review: The Reformation of Morals,’ p. 412.
ZACHARY UGOLNIK 401
tween the divine and the intellect is found in the prayer that con-
cludes the treatise: ‘Praised be the One who endows the intellect
always and forever. Amen.’ 21 What is also interesting in the excerpt
above is Yaḥyā’s phrase ‘Man becomes Man,’ rather than the Chris-
tian formula, anathema to Muslims, that through emulating Christ
and empting oneself of selfish desires, i.e. cultivating morality:
‘Man becomes God’.
In this text, however, Yaḥyā explains his notion of the perfect
man (al-insān al-kāmil), and thus we can imagine this phrase just as
easily being read: ‘Man becomes the Perfect Man.’ Regardless of
whether of the secular/ religious binary can be applied in this con-
text, for the purposes of this essay, Yaḥyā’s treatment of rationality
as divinely inspired is important when considering his understand-
ing of the Perfect Man and its potential parallels to his notion of
the ascetic. In the beginning of the text, in one of the few other
explicitly theological references in the work, Yaḥyā writes of the
perfect man:
The complete man is the one whom virtue does not bypass,
whom vice does not disfigure. A man seldom ends up at this
point. But, when a man does finally come to this point, it is the
angels he resembles more than he resembles men. 22
In this passage, Yaḥyā sets up the exemplar of the Perfect Man in
terms that are evocative – for his Christian readers – of the associa-
tion between the angelic habit and the monastic vocation. In the
Christian tradition, the life of the monk has long been described as
emulating the angelic life in order to regain humanity’s true nature
as made in the image of God, an image which ‘vice does not disfig-
ure.’
We find this association between celibacy and the angelic life,
for instance, in Gregory of Nyssa’s treatise On Virginity. Gregory, in
reference to the kingdom of heaven, writes:
The peculiarity of the angelic nature is that they are strangers
to marriage; therefore the blessing of this promise has been al-

ready received by him who has not only mingled his own glory
with the halo of the Saints, but also by the stainlessness of his
life has so imitated the purity of these incorporeal beings. 23
Of course, to ascribe this monastic association to the Christian
readers of the Reformation of Morals is speculative. Nonetheless, it is
clear from the prior passage quoted above, that Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī
equates the apogee of the rationality, the perfect man, with an an-
gelic image.
We find a similar connection of rationality and the angelic life
in Severus. Though following his program of extinguishing sorrows
(which in many ways can be paralleled to the cultivation of the mo-
rality in the soul), Severus explains that man can ‘become a rational
being, living the life of the angels and behaving as a spiritual being,
and in the hereafter thou shalt come to the Most Exalted Abode
and the highest rank, and shalt resemble the creatures of light.’ 24
Severus refers to celestial beings as ‘the rational angelic powers.’ 25
Just as the rational soul is the highest aspect of man’s nature and is
divinely endowed, for Severus, rationality is associated with eternity
and divinity. When recounting the creation story before the expul-
sion from the Garden of Eden, Severus explains that God created
man ‘to dwell in a higher abode than that of the world of genera-
tion and decay, but below the rational world, that is to say in the
Paradise of Grace, of whatever nature that Paradise may be.’ 26
Mortality, however, befell man after his departure from Eden, set-
ting up an arduous and long-suffering journey in life.
Severus, though, hints ever so slightly at a theology of theosis
or deification (for those readers familiar with the concepts), when
explaining our path to regain our status in the Garden of Eden. For
Severus, our attachment to this world is the cause of our misfor-
tunes and abstinence is the remedy for our sorrow. Severus writes
that in regard to the world of temporality and decay, ‘our course
should be to be abstemious towards it and to reject it, but to desire
23 Gregory of Nyssa, On Virginity, 13.

24 Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow, trans. p. 2, Arabic p. 3.
25 Ibid. trans. p. 3, Arabic p. 4.
ZACHARY UGOLNIK 403
that rational world and seek it. Thus we shall achieve for ourselves
a state better than that which we were in before we erred and
committed sin.’ 27 Thus salvation lies in seeking the rationality of
the heavens. As we shall see, for both Yaḥyā and Severus the ascet-
ic seeks this very path.
THE WAY OF ABSTINENCE

For both writers the primary virtue in the path towards rationality
is abstinence (al-’iffah), or chastity. Yaḥyā, in his reformation of
morals, lists twenty virtues to strive after and twenty vices to avoid
when pursuing the status of a perfect or complete man. 28 Absti-
nence is listed first among the virtues. 29 In his treatise on virginity,
where he defends the Christian practice of celibacy, he explains
that Christ taught man four chief virtues, of which he lists Absti-
nence first. 30 In his Reformation of Morals he defines abstinence at
length:
It is the soul’s control of the appetites, and the constraint of
them to be satisfied with what furnishes the body with the
means of subsistence and preserves its health, and no more. It
is also the avoidance of intemperance, the curtailment of all
pleasures, and the endeavor to be moderate. 31
Abstinence, in the description above, is a virtue for all classes.
However, Yaḥyā also lists ‘high ambition’ among those desired vir-
tues, 32 clearly not an ideal quality for monks. Yaḥyā obviously has
different types and classes of people in mind when explaining par-
ticular virtues, a distinction he makes plain in his explanation of
moral qualities that are ‘virtues in some people but vices in oth-
ers.’ 33 Among these qualities, he lists ‘the love of pomp and splen-
dor,’ which Yaḥyā clearly deems unsuitable ‘for monks (al-ruhbān),
27 Ibid. trans. p. 10, Arabic p.14–15.

28 The Reformation of Morals, 3.
29 Ibid. 3.2, p. 29.
30 Traité Sur La Continence, 129, p. 61.
31 The Reformation of Morals, 3.2 p. 29.
32 Ibid. 3.20. p. 45.
33 Ibid. 3.1- 3.41, pp. 29–59
ascetics (al-zuhhād), elders, and scholars.’ 34 Yaḥyā explains, ‘what is

to be considered good for them is clothing of hair and coarse ma-
terial, traveling on foot, obscurity, attendance at churches and
mosques and so forth, and an abhorrence for luxurious living.’ 35
Renunciation (al-zuhd) 36 is also listed among such qualities, which
we can consider as a more extreme version of abstinence. Renunci-
ation, Yaḥyā writes, ‘is for scholars, monks, religious leaders, ora-
tors, preachers, and whoever gives people an interest in eternal life.
It is not to be deemed good for kings and leaders, nor is it appro-
priate for them.’ 37 Monks are not of the world of pleasure and vice
but direct their attention to things of eternity, which Yaḥyā has
already established as being equated with spiritual rationality. This
quality of monks makes them great companions.
At the beginning of the cultivation of morals treatise, before
listing these various qualities, Yaḥyā explains his reasoning for de-
scribing the perfect man. He writes, ‘We shall describe the way…so
that those who gaze at the high rank will yearn to be like him, and
so that those who keep their eyes on the farthest goal will long to
imitate him.’ 38 This same premise of mimesis or emulation is ap-
plied to the monk. Yaḥyā recommends that ‘Whoever wants to
tame his appetitive soul must frequent the company of ascetics,
monks, hermits, pious people, and preachers, in addition to attend-
ing the gatherings of leaders and scholars.’ 39 He also recommends
reading books on morals, deportment, the sciences, ‘as well as ac-
counts of ascetics, monks, hermits, and pious people.’ 40 Through
following this program, however, one will not necessarily join their
social class, but rather adopt their qualities of abstinence and thus
‘join the rank of those who are extolled in the assemblies,’ 41 that is,
the ruling class. Moderation leads to advancement in this world and
34 Ibid.3.43, p. 61.
35 Ibid., 3.43, p. 61.
36 Ibid., 3.45, p. 63.
37 Ibid. 3.45, p. 63.
38 The Reformation of Morals, 1.3, p. 7.
39 Ibid. 4.11, p. 73.
40 Ibid. 4.11, p. 75.
41 Ibid. 4.11, p. 75.
ZACHARY UGOLNIK 405
the next. For ‘the ordinary citizen and commoners,’ Yaḥyā recom-
mends always frequenting the ‘sessions of scholars and sages,’ but
those of the highest class, such as Kings, are more limited in their
interactions and must first take nobles as their entourage. 42 Regard-
less of a man’s class, however, Yaḥyā recommends following ‘a rule
according to which he will restrict himself in eating and drinking.’ 43
We also find a premise of mimesis or emulation in the Seve-
rus. Severus, in his characteristic manner of navigating between
biblical and philosophical references, cites Aristotle when com-
menting on the Psalms and the constant glorification of God by
the angels. Severus explains the Aristotelian notion of the constant
movement of the higher world towards its cause and Creator in
heaven, continuing: ‘There is no way to attain it except by becom-
ing like its dwellers and imitating those who reside therein.’ 44
THE MONK AND THE PHILOSOPHER

While Severus’ audience is clearly a Christian layperson or a fellow
celibate, the lifestyle that he describes as a remedy for sorrows (or
at a least a means of better embracing life’s inevitable sorrows) can
be described as highly ascetical. In a near exact quote of the Mus-
lim philosopher al-Kindī, Severus cites the cause of suffering as
falling under two categories: ‘the loss of that which is cherished,
and the failure to attain something desired.’ 45 Like al-Kindī, Severus
also makes use of Socrates when offering a solution: ‘If you wish
your sorrows to be few make your possessions few.’ 46 Severus also
cites Aristotle in order to illustrate that all our possessions will de-
cay and are not worthy of cherishing. 47 Not to acknowledge the
inherent degeneration of this world is a form of ignorance. Severus
lists those who fall prey to this delusion and when describing the
42 Ibid. 5.4, p. 95.

43 Ibid. 5.7, p. 99.
ideal approach, he uses imagery that is very evocative of asceticism.

In regards to those that make the right choice, he writes:
There are others who make the correct distinction, and allow
the intellect to judge correctly, and so reject this world, and
seek what will bring them to that precious state. They may be
likened to the person who voyages on the sea and endures its
terrors, who travels over deserts and wildernesses, falling
among robbers and murderers, searching for what is more val-
uable and more profitable, and seeking a pearl of great price or
some advantageous bargain of which he has been informed. 48
As Ebied and Young point out in their introduction to the Severan
text, Severus conflates the metaphor of a perilous sea journey (em-
ployed by al-Kindī) with the New Testament parable of the Pearl
of Great Price (Matthew 13:45–46). 49 His reference to wandering in
the wildernesses, though, can easily be applied the life of a monk,
who in the early Christian centuries often ventured into the desert
either aimlessly or for the duration of Lent, forgoing the pleasures
of this world for the grace of the world to come.
Interestingly, Severus describes this choice as an act of the in-
tellect that judged the pros and cons correctly. Unlike Yaḥyā, Seve-
rus goes on to explicitly describe monastics as a type of ideal phi-
losophers, eschewing sorrows, ironically, by embracing them. He
writes: ‘I believe that whoever follows the true philosophy, which
was chosen by Antonius, Makarios, Pachomius and their like, will
never be sad, nor grieved.’ 50 For Severus the ‘true philosopher’ (al-
Faylasūf al-Ḥaqīqa) is ‘the one who has preferred the excellent way
of life and rejected this world.’ 51 Severus, like Yaḥyā, also promotes
moderation and thus his category the ‘true philosopher’ is not lim-
ited to monastics, though they certainly espouse its ideals. In addi-
tion to the founders of monasticism listed above, Severus cites the
48 Ibid. trans. p. 13, p. 20 Arabic.

49 Introduction to Affliction’s Physic and the Cure of Sorrow, Tomus 35, p.
VI.
ZACHARY UGOLNIK 407
wisdom of Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nyssa, John Chrysostom,

as well as Aristotle, Hermes Trismegistos, and Galen of Pergamon.
We can turn to Yaḥyā’s defense of Virginity in order to find a
similar cohesion of the monk and the philosopher. Much like Seve-
rus’ goal of eradicating sorrow, Yaḥyā presents the goal of philo-
sophical inquiry as the acquisition of happiness, which Thérèse-
Anne Druart in her essay on this work, describes as being focused
on obtaining knowledge in the sciences and divine wisdom. 52 In
Druart’s reading, the term ‘divine wisdom’ (al-ḥikmat al-ilāhiyyah)
can mean both knowledge in the religious sense and in the meta-
physical sense, as Yaḥyā seems to employ both meanings and oscil-
lates between them. 53 Yaḥyā’s main objection to procreation is that
it hinders one’s ability to pursue knowledge. He believes procrea-
tion is justified if it aims at producing a prophet, a just king, a pious
priest, or a learned scholar. 54 Additionally, intercourse is permissi-
ble when undertaken as a preventive measure or cure for dis-eases
resulting from a lack of sexual activity. 55
In a Muslim environment that saw celibacy as abhorrent to
natural divine order, Yaḥyā’s treatise can be read as a defense of the
practice of celibacy in Christianity and a defense of the monastic
lifestyle in general. Yaḥyā connects celibacy with the lives of the
ancient philosophers and presents it as means of obtaining philo-
sophical illumination. Those great sages that had wives and chil-
dren, Yaḥyā argues, procreated under the permissible conditions,
all the while, maintaining their focus on the pursuit of knowledge. 56
While the Qur’an refers to monasticism as a corrupt innovation,
Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī presents celibacy and monasticism as being as old
as philosophy itself. The Qur’an 57:27 reads:
52 Druart, T. ‘An Arab Christian Philosophical Defense of Religious

Celibacy Against Its Islamic Condemnation: Yaḥyā ibn ‘Adī,’ in Chastity: A
Study in Perception, Ideals, Opposition, Edited by Nancy Van Deusen, Brill,
Leiden. 2008, p. 80.
53 Druart, ‘An Arab Christian Philosophical Defense of Religious
Celibacy,’ p. 80.
54 Traité Sur La Continence 59.
55 Traité Sur La Continence 59.
56 Traité Sur La Continence 120, 125–127.
We sent Jesus son of Mary: We gave him the gospel and put
compassion and mercy into the hearts of his followers. Monas-
ticism (rahbāniyyah) was something they invented – We did
not ordain it for them – only to seek God’s pleasure, and even
so, they did not observe it properly. 57
Yaḥyā, however, equates images of classical philosophy with mo-
nasticism. In one of the more fascinating sections of the text, a
Muslim interlocutor describes those who pursue a solitary life in
the desert as more similar to wild animals than man. 58 Yaḥyā ibn
‘Adī’s response, which deserves an extended quotation and transla-
tion, references Plato’s allegory of the cave:
As for your words regarding the life of savage individuals that
you compare with beasts – best God reconcile you. The dis-
cussion of this matter (and the attempt to indicate its merits) is
superior to the subject matter (ṭabaqa) with which we now
speak, and more refined than what can grasped in understand-
ing by those who have not trained in the renouncing of physi-
cal desires. By that means one is capable of the knowledge of
what happens to those individuals in their training (which is
despised by those who have not experienced it): the psychic
power (al-quwwa al-nafsaniyya) of a clear intelligence and an in-
telligent mind and gentleness in psychic powers through divine
illumination. This is not the perspective from which to turn’s
one attention to delving into the subject, for there is no way
for interlocutors to imagine it and even if one desired to ex-
plain it to them to decipher, he would become to the hearers
of his words like the man Plato describes in his comparison of
the world to a cave and its inhabitants. That man realized hap-
piness upon turning from the side of the cave to which he was
chained to the side of the luminous entrance until he came out
to the place of light. As he told the inhabitants of the cave,
who had not seen this, what he had experienced and saw, they
considered him crazy and a fool. Therefore we should not pro-
57 Translation from Abdel Haleem, M.A.S. The Quran: A New Trans-

lation. Oxford University Press. New York. 2010, p. 361.
58 Traité Sur La Continence 93, Arabic p. 45, French, p. 111.
ZACHARY UGOLNIK 409
ceed in speaking about this matter because it is also out of our

scope. 59
This passage illustrates a number of interesting points. First of all,
in response to his opponent’s characterization of monks as beasts
and savages, Yaḥyā subverts this image through his description of
their great mental abilities including a clarity of mind and an intelli-
gence. Yet these psychic abilities are so beyond the ken of those
who have not participated in their training, that any discussion by
non-monastics regarding the merits of their way of life, is idle. For
this reason, Yaḥyā dismisses the subject of monks as irrelevant to
this particular discussion (perhaps due to the apparent philosophi-
cal grounding of the debate) yet in doing so, through his use of
Plato’s cave describes monks in terms evocative of true philoso-
phers. Yaḥyā equates monks with the enlightened cave dweller who
eventually ascended out of the cave into the light of the sun.
Even so, Yaḥyā and his respondent occupy the role of those
still chained to the wall of the cave, only able to decipher shadows
that they mistake as reality. Just as the imprisoned cave dwellers
mistake the wisdom of the man freed as foolishness, Yaḥyā’s and
his respondent are not in the position to identify the true wisdom
of the way of the monk, a lifestyle often interpreted in the Baghdad
milieu as uncivilized and unnatural. In Plato’s text, Socrates uses
the cave allegory to represent the way of philosophy and whether
our nature is ‘educated’ (witnesses paideia) or ‘uneducated’. 60 Simi-
larly, through conflating the freed cave dweller and the monk,
though Yaḥyā does not claim to understand the life of the hermit
completely, he presents the illumination found in the desert as a
rational knowledge. In this sense, for Yaḥyā, the monk is a philos-
opher of a different order than ordinary seekers of knowledge.
This is perhaps a most effective example of how Yaḥyā and
Severus present monasticism in philosophical terms. The monk or
ascetic according to Yaḥyā and Severus should be regarded as a
specific type of the larger category of a ‘true philosopher’ or ‘per-
59Traité Sur La Continence 124, Arabic p. 58–59. French, p. 129–130.

60The Republic of Plato, Volume 2: Books VI–X and Indexes. Edited by
James Adam. Cambridge University Press. Cambridge. 2009, p. 88.
fect man.’ Both writers conceive of rationality in spiritual and celes-

tial terms and thus man’s pursuit of knowledge is likened to a
monk’s pursuit of the kingdom of heaven. Abstinence is the prima-
ry means of reaching this state and its champions, monks and as-
cetics, provide an ideal to be emulated, though not necessarily cop-
ied.
WHAT IS THE ‘BREATH OF GOD’? –
BIBLIOGRAPHIC THEOLOGY IN
ARMENIAN HISTORY FROM
ASTVACASHUNTCH TO ST. GRIGOR
NAREKATSI’S THE BOOK OF SADNESS
ANTHONY J. ELIA
In the somewhat storied ‘history of books’ as venerated, holy, and

powerful objects, there has accompanied that history a parallel
hermeneutic, which is not often recognized. Among those engaged
in the historical and historiographic tradition of ‘book history,’
(Darnton, Chartier, Febvre, and Johns, among others), many of
their questions about books as objects come to us as critical obser-
vations of the physical embodiments of these objects, some as rel-
ics, others as works of art. They are determined to have meaning
and presence and a history based on their corporeal constructions
and physical appearances and the composition of their vellum or
leather bindings. Yet, this parallel hermeneutic I speak of is the oft
silent, yet interpretive instrument of how all individuals have en-
countered, engaged with, and responded to these physical objects
in very distinct, powerful ways. As a sub-discipline of ‘the history
of books,’ where we engage in exploring these understandings, the
‘theology of books’ (or, ‘bibliographic theology’) as defined vari-
ously in articles beginning in 2008 1 continues to be of interest to
me, precisely as an expression of philosophical and phenomenolog-
1 See A. Elia, ‘Beyond Barthes and Chartier: On the Theology of

Books in the Digital Age’ and ‘On the Hermeneutics of Books’.
411
412 BIBLIOGRAPHIC THEOLOGY IN ARMENIAN HISTORY
ical importance. It may be considered in contemporary academic

circles as an obvious statement: that ‘books have meaning and im-
portance.’ But a simplistic statement as this must be qualified with
another two: a) that books have held semiotic influence and im-
portance from the time of their invention; and b) that the meaning
of ‘book’, which is multivalent (and multi-definitional) today, has
been so since the beginning, and will continue to be such in the
future (e.g. book, volume, codex, e-book, e-text and so on).
In this short essay, I will be looking at the historical develop-
ment, description, and use of key Armenian religious texts, espe-
cially the Armenian Bible or ‘Breath of God’ and Grigor
Narekatsi’s medieval masterpiece, ‘The Book of Sadness’ (or,
Lamentation). With this examination, a ‘bibliographic theology’
emerges, which describes the phenomenological and hermeneutical
importance of ancient books, and expresses the reach of their se-
miotic power from priestly respect of the ‘Breath of God’ (Armeni-
an Sacred Scripture) to folk veneration of Grigor Narekatsi’s ‘Book
of Sadness.’
The intrigue in this history is the relationship between the
book as mere object, and the religious book, specifically the Bible
(or types of Bibles). The Greek root biblo has a dozen or so occur-
rences in the New Testament, each indicating a specific type of
object: ‘book of the generation of Jesus,’ ‘in the book of Moses,’ ‘in
the book of the words of Isaiah,’ ‘in the book of Psalms,’ and so
on. The nature of these statements leads the historian to suggest
these are both collections and objects of specific content and di-
mension; while to the theologian, specifically fixed to understand-
ing the phenomenology and experiential theology of books, these
statements carry a different weight. Throughout history, the human
expression of thought into a specific product (whether an intangi-
ble shared tradition such as an oral myth or physical object such as a
book) has given rise to traditions embodied in a meaningful corpus.
The evocation of ‘books’ in antiquity did not mean bound hard
covered editions of a text, especially when such physical objects
had not yet been invented. The scroll (or even ‘volume’ / ‘volu-
men’ – or ‘rolled object’) predates the so-called ‘book.’ That said,
the issue at hand for us is the relationship between those using so-
called physical objects of texts and the importance of the power
vested in these objects to create enhanced theological, spiritual,
ANTHONY J. ELIA 413
emotive, and even historical feelings around such objects, so as to

guide one’s own religious directions and opinions.
TREE BARK BECOMES HOLY, OR ‘WHEN GOD

BREATHED’
The historical foundations of physical books come to us through
their etymological descriptions, specifically in the Greek and Latin
terminologies of Late Antiquity: ‘Codex/Caudex,’ ‘Liber,’ ‘Volu-
men,’ and ‘Biblos,’ to name a few. Each of these comes from the
physical object that made them: tree bark, the act of peeling bark,
and sheets of such materials. Yet these terms conflated the more
ancient ideas of ‘book,’ which were created on tablature or scroll,
were now becoming bound in vellum or other material, to create
more hand-held, durable, and portable objects. But more im-
portantly, they represent a wedding of ‘textual idea’ and ‘textual
object’ such as came together in the evocation of 2 Timothy 3:16,
where the Greek text uses (πᾶσα γραφὴ θεόπνευστος καὶ
ὠφέλιμος), specifically noting ‘Theopneustos,’ a term translated in
various ways including ‘God-breathed,’ ‘breathed out by God,’ ‘in-
spired (by God),’ and ‘written by the Spirit’ to name a few. ‘Scrip-
ture is God-breathed.’ Or as the Armenians took it, ‘the Breath of
God,’ that is, Scripture IS ‘the Breath of God’ (Arm. Astvacashuntch).
The Hebrew Bible often used terms more readily to distinguish
ַ – see Job 34:14, for ex-
between ‘breath’ (‫ )נשימה‬and ‘spirit’ (�‫)רוּ‬
ample; while the Greek of 2 Timothy sticks to this very specific
word ‘theopneustos.’
The ‘Breath of God’ in the Armenian context, as it is wedded
to the physical object of the Bible as Book, makes it a paradigmatic
example of our phenomenology and bibliographic theology. First,
the divinely delivered or ‘inspired’ text comes into existence as an
idea, written down by those to whom it is revealed; Second, those
revelations become corporeal, in the form of ink on the scrolls and
objects peeled from physical, organic material; as a result, the God-
breathed, God-inspired objectification weds itself to the physical
object, making the item both holy and venerable in itself. Thirdly,
these objects in the pre-Mashtots, pre-Christian Armenia had their
own symbolic and semiotic values among Christians, distinct
among their vernacular groups (Syriac, Coptic, Greek, Latin). Once
the Armenian alphabet took shape, and Masrop Mashtots began to
teach the language at the Amaras Monastery in the region of
Artsakh, and Isaac 2 of Armenia (354–439) began a translation of

the scriptures into the newly devised Armenian writing system, we
are able to identify a wedding of a distinct Armenian theology of
the book: the Breath of God as a vernacularized and venerated ob-
ject. 3
The present examination is an attempt to understand the rela-
tionship between the ‘God Breathed’ book-object, which takes
shape in Late Antiquity as something holy and venerated, and those
who see the book-object as holy and venerate it. The object be-
comes, then, a theological manifestation, whereby not only is
God’s word objectified, it may be considered anthropomorphized,
as physical embodiment, tangible, visible, and engaging to the poli-
ty and body of the Church itself. 4 This embodiment is easily and
often seen in the iconography, both accurate and anachronistic,
whereby saints in the Church, such as Gregory the Illuminator,
Moses of Chorene 5, and others are depicted holding tightly onto
the Holy Scriptures, as if they are not merely objects of accom-
paniment, but loyal, unrelenting, and devoted partners in this
world, and the foundation of all that they believe in.
‘THE BOOK OF SADNESS’ AND GRIGOR NAREKATSI’S

MEDIEVAL ‘THEOLOGY OF THE BOOK’
Turning to the later medieval period, I want to focus attention on
Grigor Narekatsi (951–1003) and his masterwork ‘The Book of
2 Or, ‘Sahak’.
3 The observance of wearing white gloves in liturgical settings to
hold and read the Scriptures may be referred to here in the discussion of
the book-object’s axiology and determination of types of spiritual, theo-
logical, or mystical value.
4 Further discussions might consider the mystical or theological na-
tures (if or how they changed) between earlier Syriac biblical texts and the
earliest Armenian texts. What relationship did each have to each other,
and did the Armenian versions have some more robust or greater power
attributed to them among Medieval communities?
5 Armenian: Movses Khorenatsi.
ANTHONY J. ELIA 415
Sadness,’ 6 which is a substantial piece of medieval Armenian theol-

ogy. I offer these remarks from Prof. James Russell on the subject,
from his monograph Yovhannes T’lkuranc’i and the Medieval Armenian
Lyric Tradition, which have a significant bearing on our present dis-
cussion:
St. Gregory of Narek (Arm. Grigor Narekac’i) is best known as
the author of a series of mystical poems called the Book of
Lamentation (Arm. Matean Olbergut’ean), or simply Narek.
Many Armenians ascribe magical properties to the pages of
this book; they tear these out, fold them into diamond shapes,
and hang them on their children’s necks as talismans. Different
poems are believed to have different powers and properties. A
1926 edition of Narek has, in addition to a printed list of po-
ems according to the power of each, another list scrawled in
ink opposite by a former owner: (6–3) For protection from a
demon; (91) And the destruction of the latter’s power; … (18)
For all kinds of cures … and so on. A number of popular leg-
ends have grown up around Narekac’i’s life, about which a few
facts may be stated with relative certainty. 7
6 Or, ‘Book of Lamentation,’ depending on one’s translation – Rus-

sell uses this term. In the modern sense, we would expect to use the Ar-
menian word ‘գիրք’ (girk), though in the ‘Book of Sadness’ or ‘Book of
Lamentation(s),’ the word commonly used is the term hearkening back to
the Grabar language (Classical Armenian). This word is ‘matean’ (as with
the whole title ‘Matean Oghbergut’ean’). See James Russell’s work and intro-
duction to the 1981 facsimile reproduction of the 1948 Buenos Aires Edi-
tion. For a comprehensive listing of texts, translations, and studies of this
work (Matean Oghbergut’ean), please see p. xxv of Russell’s introduction
to this facsimile. In the French translation from 1961 by Isaac Kéchichian,
S.J., the French word used is ‘livre.’
7 James Russell, Yovhannes T’lkuranc’i and the Medieval Armenian Lyric
Tradition, Chapter 5: The Marvels of Narekac’i, p. 149. (Note also: Text

about Gregory of Narek, he lived ~951CE-born to ‘Xosrov, Bishop of
Anjewac’ik’; and he spent most of his life at the monastery of Narek …
and died as a hermit in a cave overlooking Lake Van shortly after he had
completed the Book of Lamentation, in 1003.’)
What struck me from my own reading of Narekatsi’s book was

how vigorous and alive a work it is, and especially the emphasis he
puts on the physicality of the book that he has just written, and
what that means in the theological context. The more that I read of
this work, the more I realized that there was an expression of theo-
logical reasoning here, which I’d not come across before, and
which demonstrates a form of ‘theology of books’ (or bibliographic
theology), that is both unique and powerfully evocative for readers.
The context of Narekatsi, and the legacy of his work is also some-
thing remarkable, because it is the very text that he has created,
which possesses an almost magical and mystical power. The mere
presence of the book he wrote had over centuries been cherished
as an object containing restorative power, as Russell noted above.
One of the most intriguing statements about Narekatsi’s work
comes from a translation by Khachatoor Khachatoorian, who
comments on the status of The Book of Sadness, but also on the role
that it has played and taken on throughout its history. Khacha-
toorian writes:
The Book of Sadness is the principal literary masterpiece of
the great Armenian writer St. Grigor Narekatsi (951–1003).
Through the centuries it has been revered as a holy thing. The
wonder-working strength of The Book of Sadness is featured
in multiple legends and traditions … Being a masterpiece of
Medieval Christian writing, this book has been largely un-
known to the Christian world because it is written in Old Ar-
menian which is presently familiar only to a restricted number
of scholars. […] The text contains allusions and references to
the Bible almost in every line, in fact it serves as an illustration
of the at-oneness of the Bible and a Christian’s life. The reader
finds himself in a situation where his soul and the truths and events of the
Bible are closely intertwined, he eventually perceives the Holy Book as a
room for his own existence rather than as a story to read. 8
The translator’s introduction goes on to cite a specific segment of
The Book of Sadness text, which embodies this claim. The text reads:
8 My emphasis. See pp. 5–8, The Book of Sadness, by Grigor Narekatsi.

(trans. by Khachatoor Khachatoorian) Yerevan, ‘Nairi,’ 2001.
ANTHONY J. ELIA 417
I crave, not only through the touch of your extended hand,

O God, compassionate and proximal,
But even at a great distance
I shall be cured by the power of your word.
I cannot tell between the possibility and grace,
By using words expressing doubt,
For you desire as the graceful, and have capacity as the creator.
Say only your word, and I shall be relieved.
I join the faith of the centurion,
Trusting that not at a short stretch only,
As if it were from house to house,
You can provide recovery and cure, 9
But even seated in the heaven supreme,
Down below, on earth, you do miracles to perfection
Which I can recompense with nothing. 10
Khachatoorian speaks of how this text has grown to become talis-
manic:
‘Throughout the centuries this book enjoyed a reputation of a
universal healer. It has been believed that a person will be
cured of all ailments by its mere possession. This special quali-
ty of the book is many times mentioned even by the author.
The book is extremely powerful proof of God’s existence, the
mere acquaintance with its contents will convert thousands of
people into genuine faith and repentance.’ 11
In Prof. James Russell’s work 12 on Narekac’i, we find similar dis-
cussions of the power of his book, describing cases where individ-
uals would actually take the object, and use it as a form of protec-
tion, almost as a panacea. 13
9 My emphasis.
10 ‘The Book of Sadness,’ (XVII. B) – see p. 79–80.
11 Introduction by Translator, ‘The Book of Sadness,’ (p. 7–8).
12 James Russell, Yovhannes T’lkuranc’I and the Medieval Armenian Lyric
Tradition, (Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press; UPenn, Armenian Texts and

Studies), 1987.
13 Russell, see p. 149: Chapter 5: The Marvels of Narekac’i.
The idea of a ‘theology of books’ in the Armenian tradition –

specifically in the case of The Book of Sadness – seems to have ex-
pressed itself in a way that engaged the textual materials and mean-
ings with the physical object, so that the object would take on palli-
ative and protective powers. The referral to the book itself within
the text appears strong and constant, such that the author is self-
referential throughout the text. For instance, one finds such evoca-
tions so often that one might ask if these references prompt a ‘self-
sacralizing’ of the text, or perhaps the book’s mastery of divine
evocation prompted the sacralization of the text? Here are but a
few examples of this idea at play:
O, omnipotent palm of Jesus,
Extend to me the holy hand of your favors,
Dwell in me, join me,
Do not leave the love cell
Of my exhausted heart,
And your incorruptible image –
The glorious bread
Of the lighting salvation of Christendom,
Will remain in me,
So, appealing to you in this book
With eternal commandments of life
That your spirit annunciated
From heaven to your procreator,
And to you, the single and only source,
And to you, the single one of the single cause,
And to the possessor of the single cause
A praise is due from the heavenly dwellers
And throngs of the saints,
For the ages and ages. Amen! 14
And from Book 33: G. of the same:
14 The Book of Sadness, p. 160 XXXII: D – Khachatoorian transla-

tion
ANTHONY J. ELIA 419
And since one of your Trinity is sacrificed,

With the other accepting it,
Accessing us through the blood of your firstborn,
So receive our prayers
And prepare us as an honorable cell
Fitted with everything so as to taste worthily
Of the heavenly lamb… 15
From Book 34: H…
This shout of hidden thoughts
Embodied in this book
I will send up to your all-hearing ears, great God,
Only armed with them, I will enter a conversation,
Not because for the sake of your fame
You need the sounds of my voice,
For even before creating all,
Before the emergence of heaven and its immortal eulogizers
Or intelligent entities created from earth,
You had been glorified with your excellence;…’ 16
From p. 313: LXVI: A:
Now, if anyone should accept prayer as a remedy,
By praying with this humble book,
And if the praying one might be a sinner,
I would adjoin with my speech to him;
Provided that the moaner be a righteous person,
Along with him and for his sake I will be pardoned for this
prayer,
If however that one will regard himself as blissful,
Leaving the moans to myself alone,
I will assert the same things about myself,
But then let him remember Solomon and his inspired say-
ing… 17
15 The Book of Sadness, p. 168 XXXIII: G

16 The Book of Sadness, p. 177 XXXIV: H
17 The Book of Sadness, p. 313: LXVI: A
Ibid. C:
This book, in my voice, as if it were myself,
Will shout in my stead,
Spread the hidden,
Reveal the mysterious,
Lament what has occurred.
It will resound the unremembered,
Make clear the invisible,
Call out the charges,
Announce what is deeply covered,
Recount the sins,
Disclose the unseen,
Show their hidden likeness.
Let this book
Make traps tangible,
Pitfalls located,
Display what is unsaid,
Strain off remnants of evil …’ 18
In Armenian attitudes to the book as talismanic, two things are
remarkable: first, the idea that scripture becomes something more
dynamic than simply a story, or even the object of a book; it be-
comes, as Khachatoorian suggests in his preface to the translation,
a: ‘Room for his own existence,’ which allows a place for ‘his soul
and the truths and events of the Bible’ to cohabitate. This curious
interpretation by the translator should not be dismissed, as the role
of the Holy Book (i.e. the Bible, as described by Grigor Narekatsi)
becomes not simply a mystical idea, but a mode of hermeneutical
interpretation and discourse, remotely akin to the mnemonics and
memory palaces of Simonides of Ceos and Matteo Ricci. 19 Second,
as Russell, commented, the texts are invested with quasi ‘magical
properties in the pages of the book,’ 20 which pages are often seen
18 The Book of Sadness, pp. 432–434: LXXXVIII: B

19 See Jonathan Spence, The Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci. (NY: Pen-
guin, 1985).
20 i.e. The Book of Sadness (or, Lamentation).
ANTHONY J. ELIA 421
to be torn out and venerated as protective, palliative, and curative

elements against multiple evils.
A simple and short analysis of these expressions shows an en-
hanced sense of understanding about not simply the texts, but the
objects which embodied God-inspired works. The ‘Breath of God’
(the Armenian Bible) was and is something of great spiritual and
individual importance. But a medieval text such as The Book of Sad-
ness creates its own set of interpretive powers, highlighting the
power of scripture, while enhancing its very own powers as a tes-
tament of divine inspiration, and physical/metaphysical power, as
an object sought after for protection from evil. Without that physi-
cal object of The Book of Sadness, medieval (or early-modern) Arme-
nian adherents would not be able to construct text amulets to hang
around their children’s necks.
In trying to assess what exactly is the place of a bibliographic
theology (or, theology of books) within this classical part of Armeni-
an Church History, one thing that is clear enough is that there is a
fine expression of the semiotic and interpretive power of early
books, from the Armenian Bible itself, to this monumental text of
Grigor Narekatsi in the early 11th century. The Book of Sadness is a
complex text, and yet from our brief discussion and treatment here,
a preliminary offering has been made, for the consideration of fur-
ther elements of hermeneutical discourse and study. With such a
rich and variegated history in the Armenian Church and its theo-
logical tradition, I would venture to say that there is a far more
bountiful trove of bibliographic theology in the Armenian corpus
than we are presently aware of.
Narek died as a hermit in a cave overlooking Lake Van shortly
after he had completed the Book of Lamentation, in 1003. It sur-
vived to enjoy a thousand years’ deep and enduring influence
among the Armenian monastic communities.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
A. J. Elia ‘Beyond Barthes and Chartier: The Theology of
Books in the Digital Age,’ in ATLA Summary
of Proceedings, 2008, pp. 105–116.
——— ‘On the Hermeneutics of Books: How Semi-
nary Students Read and the Role(s) of Theo-
logical Libraries,’ in ATLA Summary of Pro-
ceedings, 2009, pp. 183–197.
Gregoire de Narek Le livre de prières. Introduction, traduction de

l’arménien et notes par Isaac Kéchichian, S.J.
(Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 29. Maubourg,
1961.
Grigor Narekatsi The Book of Sadness. Trans. by Khachatoor
Khachatoorian. (Yerevan: Nairi, 2001).
——— Matean Oghbergut’ean (Book of Lamenta-
tions): A Facsimile Reproduction of the 1948
Buenos Aires Edition with an Introduction by
James R. Russell (Delmar, NY: Caravan Books,
1981).
J. Russell Yovhannes T’lkuranc’I and the Medieval Ar-
menian Lyric Traditio. (Atlanta, Georgia:
Scholars Press; UPenn, Armenian Texts and
Studies, 1987).
J. D. Spence The Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci (NY, NY:
Penguin, 1985).
A ROYAL FAMILY: THE SIGNIFICANCE OF
SAINT SAVA AND HIS PARENTS FOR THE
ESTABLISHMENT OF SERBIAN
MONASTICISM AND THE SERBIAN
CHURCH
V. REV. ŽIVOJIN JAKOVLJEVIĆ
As a young man of seventeen years, Rastko, the youngest son of

the Serbian ruler Nemanja and his wife Ana, fled his father’s court
in Serbia around 1190 and joined the monastic community of the
Russian monastery of Saint Panteleimon on Mount Athos, Greece,
taking the monastic name, Sava. Sava’s decision at first greatly dis-
turbed his parents. Shortly after his flight, according to the biog-
rapher, they were ashamed to call him son anymore, but instead
began to address him as a ‘teacher and intercessor.’ 1 Five years lat-
er, following the example of their son, Saint Sava’s parents, Ne-
manja and Ana, also took vows and joined monasteries. I should
note here that the Serbs, as is true of other Eastern Orthodox
Slavs, do not have separate words for monastery and convent, but
call both Orthodox institutions a ‘monastery,’ sometimes adding
for clarity, ‘women’s monastery.’ His parents were tonsured by
bishop Kalinik I in 1295. Ana became the nun Anastasija and
joined the Monastery of Holy Theotokos in Toplica. Nemanja be-
came Simeon and at first went to the monastery he founded, Stu-
denica, near Kraljevo. Upon Saint Sava’s insistence, monk Simeon
1 Kašanin, M. 1968. ‘Studenica.’ Studenica Monastery. Belgrade:

Književne novine. 5.
423
424 SAINT SAVA AND SERBIAN MONASTICISM
joined his son on Mount Athos. 2 In 1198, Saint Sava and Saint
Simeon rebuilt the monastery of Hilandar on the ruins of an old
Greek monastery, which the Byzantine Emperor Alexios III (1195–
1203) gave to them as a ‘gift in perpetuity to the Serbs.’ 3 The fact
that Stevan the First Crowned, the middle son of Nemanja, was the
son-in-law of Emperor Alexios III, certainly had influence in ob-
taining the permission from the Emperor to rebuild Hilandar.
In addition to building the monastery Saint Simeon and Saint
Sava ensured the financial stability of the monastery by affixing
territories with residents to work the land and support the central
monastery. This latter type of property is known by the Greek-
borrowing metochion, or metoh in Serbian, (monastery land). Thus,
for example, the official name Kosovo and Metohija, literally signi-
fies that it refers to monastic property. By the 15th century Hilandar
monastery had 360 villages under its authority. 4 This property was
given by special documents known as chrysobulls, or gold-sealed
letters, issued by Serbian rulers. When Hilandar monastery was es-
tablished it had only 15 monks. When Saint Sava came to Serbia in
1207 the monastic community numbered 200 monks. 5
In addition to rebuilding Hilandar, Saint Sava established the
Rules by which the monks lived. They were similar and often pat-
terned after the rules and regulations followed by monastic com-
munities in Greece as well as in Palestine and Egypt. In 1199, he
wrote the Karyes’ Typicon, with rules and regulations for a monk,
‘who distinguished himself in ascetic life and literacy,’ and was
therefore selected to live in the Karyes cell.
This Typicon was unique in the entire Orthodox world. Gener-
ally in Eastern Orthodox monasteries the entire Psalter is supposed
to be read once during the weekly services, and twice during Great
2 Jireček, K. 1952. Istorija Srba. Beograd:Naučna knjiga. p. 159.

3 Matejić, M. 1983. The Holy Mount and the Hilandar Monastery. Co-
lumbus: The Ohio State University. p. 28.
4 Vuković, S. 1996. Srpski jerarsi od devetog do dvadestog veka [Serbian Hi-
erarchs from ninth to twentieth century]. Beograd:Evro; Podgorica:Unireks;

Kragujevac:Kalenić. p. 422.
5 Spasović, S. 1994. History of the Serbian Orthodox Church and Serbian
Nation. Libertyville: St. Sava School of Theology. p. 28.

V. REV. ŽIVOJIN JAKOVLJEVIĆ 425
Lent; but the Karyes’ Typicon requires that the entire Psalter be read
in one day. 6 Because of the greater severity of the Rule, the selected
psalteric monk was granted special privileges. He was allowed to
spend the rest of his life in this cell. No one was supposed to dis-
turb him, and Hilandar was supposed to contribute basic supplies
to this cell.
Later this rule was modified by the monks of Hilandar. Ac-
cording to subsequent changes, Hilandar was no longer supposed
to supply the cell, and the person living in it was not allowed to
stay there if he did not show diligence and excellence in spiritual
and literary activity. 7 Contrary to Lazar Mirković, who suggests that
it was Saint Sava himself who amended this Rule, it seems rather
that it was the monks who did so at a later period. The monks add-
ed paragraph 42, which states that Hilandar had no obligations to-
ward the cell and the cell had no obligation toward Hilandar. 8 The
monks, consequently, could remove any monk who was unworthy
to live in it. 9
Saint Sava compiled two more very important legislative doc-
uments, the Hilandar Typicon in 1207, and the Nomokanon in 1219.
The Hilandar Typicon was the governing document and Rule for the
conduct and life of the monks of Hilandar monastery. It was based
on the rules and regulations used in the monastery of the Mother
of God the Benefactress (Euergetes) in Constantinople. The
Nomokanon, based on Byzantine laws, was the collation of rules and
regulations which established the relationship between the Serbian
state and the Serbian church: and it was used for the following 150
years.
According to Saint Sava’s biographer, Teodosije, Saint Sava
lived a very strict ascetic life. Although of a royal ancestry, he was
very severe toward himself yet very merciful toward others. Walk-
6 Vuković, op. cit. 421.

7 Živojinović, M. 1972. Svetogorske kelije i pirgovi u srednjem veku. [Mount
Athos Cells and Towers in Middle Century]. Beogard: Vizantološki Institut
SKA. p. 95.
8 Mirković, L. 1934. Skitski Ustav Sv. Sava [Skitski Constitution of St.
Sava]. Belgrade: Bratstvo. p. 56.

9 Živojinović, 95.
ing barefoot, he even became used to sharp stones underfoot. And

as for food and drink, he ate very little and even drank water in
moderation. He would sleep an hour or two and the rest of the
time he spent in prayer in vigilance. The biographer concludes,
‘With painful efforts he achieved the life without pain.’ 10 One of
the great undertakings of the Saint was achieving the Autocephaly
of the Serbian Church in 1219, which was granted by the Byzantine
Emperor Theodor Laskaris and the Patriarch of Constantinople
Emmanuel I Haritopoulos Saranten. The Serbian Church was
granted the right to choose its own Archbishop without having to
come to Constantinople for approval. The only obligation that the
Serbs had toward Constantinople was to mention the Patriarch
during church services. Upon the insistence of the Patriarch and
the Emperor, Saint Sava became the first Serbian Archbishop.
The biographies, that is, the Lives of Saint Sava’s parents, Ne-
manja and Ana, are not as replete with what might be considered
firm historical data, and therefore, much less is known to us about
them. Mostly, historians focus on Nemanjas’ life as a ruler from the
period when he received an area around Dubočica (the present day
Leskovac region) from the Byzantine Emperor in 1168. The date
of his birth, however, is unknown. He was married to princess Ana,
whose origin still continues to be a subject of scholarly debate.
Some historians think she was a daughter of the Bosnian Ban Stef-
an Boric; others, of the Hungarian king Koloman I; some say that
she was French, while others that she was daughter of the ruler of
Zeta. Most, however, including Saint Sava’s biographer, Domenti-
jan, claim that she was a daughter of the Byzantine Emperor Ro-
manos. 11 Predrag Puzović provides a very useful summary of the
state of research relating to Princess Ana’s origin, but he does not
resolve this question. 12
10 Slijepčević, Đ. 1962. Istorija srpske pravoslavne crkve od pokrštavanja
Baptism of Serbs until the End of 18th Century]. Vol. 1. München: Iskra Druck-
Srba do kraja XVIII veka [The History of the Serbian Orthodox Church from the
erei und Verlag. p.39.

11 Puzović, P. 1997. Prilozi za Istoriju Srpske Pravoslavne Crkve [Contri-
butions to the History of the Serbian Orthodox Church]. Niš:Ogledalo. pp. 9–10.
12 Ibid., 12.
In my opinion, the most plausible argument is that she was a

Byzantine princess. If Domentijan, as Karanović argues, indeed
states that Ana was a Byzantine princess, and daughter of Byzan-
tine Emperor, 13 then I suggest that greater weight should be given
to Domentijan’s opinion, as he was Saint Sava’s biographer and a
contemporary. 14 Juraj Pavić correctly points out that ‘Domentijan
deserves to be fully trusted. He is the contemporary, friend, and
sojourner of Saint Sava, and for this reason the Life of Saint Sava
belongs to ‘first level’ sources.’ 15 As someone who personally knew
Saint Sava and who accompanied him during his second journey to
the Holy Land, Palestine, and Egypt in 1234, he must have been
informed about Saint Sava’s parents. Sima Ćirković discusses the
names, which are mentioned by Domentijan, and says that Ana, as
Nemanja’s wife, (pp. 118–119) and Saint Sava’s mother (p. 45), of
41 names mentioned, is the only woman mentioned in his biog-
raphy; and yet he does not say anything about Ana’s origin. 16
A second argument in favor of Ana being a Byzantine prin-
cess would be the peace treaty Nemanja concluded with Byzanti-
um. It was after this peace treaty with the Emperor Emmanuel,
that Nemanja received the territory of Dubočica in 1168, and the
rank of Tsar. If we take into consideration that peace treaties were
often confirmed with marriages between the royal families, and that
these titles were given by the Byzantine court only to immediate
family members such as sons, daughter, sons-in-law, it is plausible
that Nemanja could have received this title and the land as a family
13 Ibid.,10.
14 Cf. Pavić. J. 1938. Domentijan, Život sv. Save i sv. Simeona [Domentijan,
Lives of Saint Sava and Saint Simeon]. Beograd: Srpska književna zadruga. p.
237. ‘Domentijan nije svoje djelo pisao u namjeri da služi kao povjesni
izvor, nego da čita na dan smrti svetiteljeve među monasima i da im služi
kao primjer u duhovnom životu. Ali i kao povjesničar zaslužuje Domenti-
jan puno povjerenje. On je savremenik, drug i pratilac sv. Save, pa zato
Život sv. Save i spada u izvore prvoga reda.’
15 Pavić, 237.
16 Ćirković, S. 2008. ‘Domentijanova Prospografija’ [Domentijan’s
Prosopography]. In Zborik Radova Vizantološkog Instituta [Collection of Papers

of Institute for Byzantine studies] 45: 145.
member of the Byzantine Emperor, upon his marriage within the

royal house. 17 Thirdly, Nemanja received permission to build
churches on the territory which was under the jurisdiction of the
Ochrid Archdiocese, which shows that Nemanja was in good rela-
tionship with Ochrid’s Archbishop. This too supports the hypothe-
sis of Nemanja’s possible family relationship with the Byzantine
royal family. 18
Mihailo Laskaris in his dissertation titled ‘Byzantine princesses
in Medieval Serbia,’ provides a very useful discussion, but also
opens up a number of questions and issues about the complexity of
determining the facts about the period of the marriage of Neman-
ja’s son, Stefan the First Crowned, to Evdokija, daughter of the
Byzantine Emperor Alexios III. He does not, however, give any
information about Nemanja. Ivan Pavlović claims that Evdokija’s
marriage to Stefan the First Crowned was the reason Nemanja ab-
dicated from his throne and that he had to yield the throne to Stef-
an, the son in law of the powerful Byzantine Emperor. 19 This ar-
gument cannot be completely accepted for the simple reason that
St. Simeon’s biographers emphasize Nemanja’s and Ana’s devotion
to God as their primary reason for leaving worldly affairs. This is
evident from Teodosije the biographer’s statement that Nemanja
and Ana joined a monastery as a tribute to God for granting them
the wish to have one more child, Rastko (in monasticism, Sava)
who would in time become Serbia’s national saint. In return, they
promised that they would live a celibate life until the end of their
lives. Additionally, although, it remains unclear to what degree Byz-
antine politics had an effect on Nemanja’s life at the time of his
abdication, the fact that both he and Princess Ana had both built
and endowed several monasteries much earlier in their lives, while
17 ibid., 10–11.
18 Kalić, J. ‘Srpska država i Ohridska arhiepiskopija u XII
veku’[‘Serbian state and Ochrid’s archbishopric in 12th century’]. In Zborik
ies] 44: 204–205.

Radova Vizantološkog Instituta [Collection of Papers of Institute for Byzantine stud-
19 Laskaris, M. 1926. Vizantijske princeze u srdnjevekovnoj Srbiji [Byzan-
tine princesses in Medieval Serbia]. Second edition. Beograd:Knjižnica

Franje Baha. p. 7.
still in active power, testifies they were significantly moved by reli-

gious rather than purely political motives. Of the five monasteries
that Nemanja built, four were completed prior to his abdication:
the monastery dedicated to the Mother of God in Toplica, Saint
Nicholas in Kuršumlija, Saint George in Ras (also known as St.
George’s Pillars, Studenica, which is dedicated to the Mother of
God and is near Kraljevo), and, together with his son, hieromonk
Sava, Hilandar Monastery on Mount Athos. All of these factors
suggest that Nemanja’s and Ana’s motives for joining monasticism
were based on authentic devotion rather than political expediency.
Nemanja’s age and date of birth is similarly a matter of a de-
bate. 20 We do not have precise information when he was born or
how old he was at the time of his death. When he met the Byzan-
tine Emperor Emmanuel in 1168, Nemanja was described as being
a youngish man. If we take into account that Emperor Emmanuel
was born around 1123, it means that the Emperor at the time of
meeting was around 45 years old. This reference consequently
means that Nemanja was very significantly younger than has been
thought. Saint Sava, in the life of Saint Simeon, compares him and
Ana to Abraham and Sarah who prayed to God to grant them one
more child to be a comfort to them. If Saint Sava was born around
1173 this would mean that Vukan and Stefan, the two older broth-
ers of Saint Sava, must have been much older, especially if the typi-
cal practice of parents to marry off their children while at a younger
age was followed. Jireček points out that the account of Saint Sim-
eon’s life written by Saint Sava is a copy, which dates from 1619,
which underwent changes and interpolations. 21 This may be part of
the explanation of the discrepancy between these accounts.
The fact that we possess so many conflicting views and argu-
ments about the lives of these two very significant Serbs, the fore-
fathers of the Serbian state and church, due to lack of the original
data, means that these and many other questions must remain un-
answered and stand in need of further research. Nevertheless, I
wish here to mention a great resource for scholars who wish to
pursue such study in the field of medieval Serbian history, liturgics,
20 Jireček, 148.
21 Ibid.
language, literature and other related disciplines: namely the Slavic

manuscript library of Hilandar Monastery. This library preserves
many Slavic Cyrillic medieval manuscripts which reflect the internal
prolific scribal activity of the monks who lived in it, as well as the
monastery’s role as a place of learning, as well as of spirituality. Not
counting those manuscripts which were taken away over a long
period of time and are presently found in libraries all over Europe,
the Hilandar library still currently has 833 codices, which were writ-
ten in the period of the eight hundred years following the estab-
lishment of the monastery. Of those 833, 47 are written on parch-
ment, one on bombicine (hemp, an older non-watermarked Euro-
pean paper), and 785 on paper. In addition, the library has 230
Greek codices. There are 208 imperial and church edicts of which
147 are issued by Serbian medieval rulers. In addition we can find
considerable numbers of Russian, Bulgarian, Moldavian and Turk-
ish edicts. 22
Of particular importance is the Hilandar Research Library of
The Ohio State University in Columbus, OH, which preserves and
makes accessible microfilms of all the Slavic manuscripts of Hilan-
dar library. Thanks to the great effort of two scholars: V. Rev. Dr.
Mateja Matejić, professor Emeritus of the Ohio State University,
and his son Dr. Predrag Matejić, curator of the present Hilandar
Research Library in Columbus, who photographed these manu-
scripts in the period between 1970 and 1976, these important re-
sources are available and easily accessible to scholars. This is par-
ticularly significant for women scholars who are unable to go to
Mount Athos in person. 23
CONCLUSION
Stanimir Spasović beautifully summed up the role of Hilandar
monastery when he said: ‘The works of art bear witness to the cul-
tural wealth of Serbian Medieval times and the genius of its crea-
tors – the Serbian monks.’ 24 The most deserving of these Serbian
22 Matejić, 33.
23 Ibid.
24 Spasović, 28.
monks are certainly the monastery’s originators, Saint Sava and his
holy parents, Simeon and Anastasija. Among the treasures that Hi-
landar possesses, in terms of churches, frescoes, icons, jewelry,
land, and a very rich library, perhaps the most significant of all of
them is that still active and vibrant monastic community at the
heart of the Serbian Church. Although established over 800 years
ago, Hilandar monastery was able to overcome all manner of phys-
ical and spiritual dangers, and continues to endure up to the pre-
sent day. The example set by Saint Sava and his parents in estab-
lishing and supporting the Serbian Church and the Hilandar Mon-
astery, set a precedent that was faithfully followed by their de-
scendants, and even by many other Christian queens and princesses
(including several who were not even Serbian). It is for this reason,
in part, the preference of the aristocracy to build churches and
monasteries rather than castles and cities, that virtually every mem-
ber of the Nemanjić dynasty and many of their wives who lived in
the 13th and 14th centuries were canonized as saints of the Serbian
Orthodox Church.
There is even a striking visible representation of this, a famous
fresco portraying the ‘Family Tree of the Nemanjić Dynasty’ as a
type of the Tree of Jesse.
The House of Nemanjić, (Vine fresco) from the Visoki

Dečani Monastery
In Serbian, rather than ‘Tree’, the word used is ‘vine,’ that is ‘grape
vine.’ The ‘Nemanjić Vine’ in this fresco is to be found in the
Dečani Monastery and is believed to date from 1346–1347. It is
headed by Saint Sava and his parents, and includes several more
saints who were descended from them. Somewhat later versions
show more than a dozen descendants along with several of their
wives, almost all of them who today are canonized saints of the
Serbian Church.
St. Sava.
THE 15TH CENTURY TYPIKON OF NEILOS
DAMILAS FOR THE CONVENT OF THE
MOTHER OF GOD ON VENETIAN-
CRETE
MARY MCCARTHY
Abstinence quenches desire, love calms the temper, prayer presents the very mind
to God. 1 So speaks Neilos Damilas, founder of the convent of ‘Our
Most Holy Lady the Mother of God and Ever-Virgin Mary, Queen
of All’ at Baionaia. The convent was located in southeastern Crete
at or near the modern village of Vaina. Its construction is believed
to have been completed around 1399 and Damilas is believed to
have written the rule or typikon for this convent around 1400. Al-
most everything known about both the convent as well as its
founder comes from the pages of this typikon. 2 Another document
1 J. Thomas and A. Constantinides Hero (eds), Byzantine Monastic

Foundation Documents, A Complete Translation of the Surviving
Founder’s Typika and Testaments, ‘Testament and Typikon of Neilos Damilas
for the Convent of the Mother of God Pantanassa at Baionaia on Crete’, trans. Al-
ice-Mary Talbot, (Dumbarton Oaks Project, internet version, 1998), pg.
1470. Hereafter to be referred to as Damilas, Typikon.
2 Alice-Mary Talbot has done the only English translation of the
Damilas Typikon. The edition from which she worked (as described in the
notes to her translation) was the Testament: S. Pétridès, ‘Le typikon de
Nil Damilas pour le monastère de femmes de Baeonia en Crète (1400)’,
IRAIK 15 (1911), 92–111, with text at 95–109. The manuscript itself (Pa-
risinus graecus, 1295, fols. 108–117v (15th and 16th c) is inventoried at the
Bodlein Library, Oxford, the Codex Baroccianus 59, fols. 226v–227v
433
434 THE 15TH CENTURY TYPIKON OF NEILOS DAMILAS
attached to the typikon and dated April 22, 1417 is an inventory of

the author’s library. 3
The text provides a fascinating glimpse into the life and work-
ings of a Byzantine orthodox convent making the transition from
an idiorhythmic to a coenobitic way of life. 4 That this is occurring
in Crete is of interest given that the island had been a Venetian
colony since 1211 when it was first sold to Venice by Boniface of
Montferrat. One of the leaders of the Fourth Crusade, Boniface
had received Crete as part of the spoils of war and: ‘Latin victors
divided up conquered territory in feudal fashion among them-
selves.’ 5 Venice maintained possession of Crete until 1669 when
the island was finally ‘surrendered to the Turks.’ 6
Not much is known about Neilos Damilas other than that he
was a hesychast monk from the monastery of Ton Karkasion in Hi-
(15thc). As also noted by Talbot (p.1462), there is one other extant refer-
ence to Neilos Damilas found in the State Historical Library of Moscow
which contains the manuscript of his treatise ‘On the Procession of the Holy
Spirit’. It is in this document that Damilas is identified ‘as an ordained
monk of the monastery of ton Karkasion in Hiera Petra’ (Damilas, Typikon.
1462).
3 It is not certain whether or not this inventory of Damilas’ books
was in fact left to the convent of the Mother of God (Theotokos) at

Baionia or whether Damilas left his books to his own monastery, but re-
gardless the inventory has been included with the Damilas Typikon as an
Appendix.
4 In contrast to a coenobitic monastic lifestyle where all property
was owned in common and monks lived as hermits or were enclosed to-
gether, the term idiorhythmic was specifically applied to the monastic
community of the house at Mt. Athos (today in Halkidiki, Greece) where
monks were allowed a greater degree of freedom including the right to
maintain personal property.
5 P. Whiting, ed. Byzantium, an Introduction. New York University
Press, 1971,113.
6 C. Maltezou, ‘Crete Under Venetian Rule: Between Byzantine Past
and Venetian Reality’ in (A.Drandaki, D. Papanikola-Bakirtzi and A.

Tourta, eds.) Heaven and Earth, Art of Byzantium from Greek Collections,Benaki
Museum, Athens, 2013, p. 308
MARY MCCARTHY 435
era Petra which was about three miles southeast of the convent.
Damilas was acquainted with Joseph Bryennios (c1350–c1438), a
well-known monk, writer and teacher who was a staunch defender
and supporter of the Orthodox faith. Between the years of c1382
and 1402, Bryennios came from Constantinople to Crete where he
lived and worked as a missionary and preacher. 7
The Damilas typikon opens with a plea to preserve and obey
the canons of orthodoxy. ‘First my sisters’, writes Damilas, ‘I ex-
hort you to maintain the confession of orthodox faith unchanged
and without innovation’, that is, ‘believe in One God, as it was
transmitted to us by the first holy and ecumenical council, assem-
bled at Nicaea … for all the saints and most holy fathers … con-
demn to anathema those who dare alter this creed.’ 8 The typikon
concludes with a stern admonition not to stray from the rules Da-
milas has set down. ‘If anyone dares to transgress this present typ-
ikon of mine … may he find the most holy Mother of God, the
protectress of the convent, as his opponent and enemy on the Day
of Judgment, and may he be subject to the curses of the 318 divine-
ly inspired fathers of the Council of Nicaea, and may his lot be with
that of the traitor Judas.’ 9
It is interesting that Damilas feels so compelled to begin and
end his typikon with strong admonitions and the invective of judg-
ment. Olga Gratziou, writing on Cretan architecture and sculpture
during the Venetian period, discusses some of the religious con-
flicts native Cretans would have faced. And as such, her writing
allows a glimpse into the world of Damilas and his fellow monks
and nuns, providing a small piece of historical context. She argues
that: ‘religious conflicts did not simply arise out of the imposition
of the Latin Church on the Orthodox population of the island.
Points of friction appeared between the Vatican and Venice over
the handling of ecclesiastical issues on the island. Venetian policy
was obliged to keep a balance, but itinerant monks, Dominicans
and Franciscans, as well as Greek Orthodox’ (perhaps such as Jo-
7 A. Kazdan, ed. Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, Oxford Univ. Press,

online version, 2005.
8 Damilas, Typikon. 1467.
9 Ibid, 1478.
seph Bryennios, as mentioned earlier) ‘preached fiery sermons as to

the orthodoxy of their beliefs, attempting to proselytize, and stir-
ring up fanaticism.’ 10
Additionally, over the course of the fourteenth century,
churches on Crete were being constructed with the expectation that
they would house ‘services according to the rites of the Roman or
the Greek Orthodox Church. This is confirmed by the fact that in
some, formerly Greek, churches with tripartite sanctuaries, which
had been given to the Latins, there was an altar intended for the
celebration of the liturgy according to the Greek Orthodox rite.’ 11
Gratziou believes that such an accommodation within the structure
of the church ‘was an attempt on the part of the Latin Church to
reach out to the Orthodox, possibly with a view to proselytizing.’ 12
Regardless of motives, by the mid-fifteenth century onwards ‘the
practice of celebrating both (the Latin and Greek Orthodox) rites
within the same, usually Greek, church became widespread.’ 13 This
is the world in which Neilos Damilas lived and worked, worshiped
and prayed and exhorted his nuns to hold fast to the confessions of
the orthodox faith ‘unchanged and without innovation.’ 14
In between his opening and closing admonitions, two primary
themes are woven into the typikon text. First and foremost, Damilas
as (re)founder, is concerned that the convent, in its governance and
structure, should fully transition from an idiorhythmic to a coeno-
bitic institution and that this should be evident in the conduct,
work and worship of the nuns living within its walls. Second, Da-
milas finds great value in education (paideia), and as such he ac-
claims the worth of books and prioritizes the value of reading. We
will look more closely at both of these larger themes. All this is not
to say that Damilas neglects to address the spiritual life he intends
10 Olga Gratziou, ‘Cretan Architecture and Sculpture in the Venetian

Period’ in (A. Drandaki, ed.), The Origins of El Greo Icon Painting in Venetian
Crete, Alexander S. Onassis Public Benefit Foundation, New York, 2009,
p. 19.
11 Gratziou, 22.
12 Ibid, 22.
13 Ibid.
14 Damilas, Typikon, 1467.
MARY MCCARTHY 437
for his nuns. He stresses that of the commandments of the Lord:

‘the most important of them all and the uniting bond is pure and
honest love for one’s neighbor.’ 15 He advises that apt instruction as
to how to love one another can be found in ‘the ascetical works of
St. Maximos, St. Zosimos and St. Makarios,’ 16 and he then encour-
ages his nuns to read these treatises directly. As noted by Alice-
Mary Talbot, Damilas’ ‘special concern for the convent library sug-
gests that it may have received his bequest’ 17 and therefore his
books were in fact contained within the convent walls. Regardless,
his particular recommendation of the writings of St. Maximus the
Confessor, St. Zosimos and St. Makarios suggests that ‘the nunnery
must have (at the very least) possessed copies of these works.’ 18
He requests that his nuns not be too attached to their posses-
sions. Damilas includes children in the category of ‘possessions’,
citing Job as an example of one for whom ‘neither the loss of so
many possessions, nor the sudden death of his children could sway
him from his love of God. This’, continues Damilas, ‘is the attitude
all we Christians, and especially monastics, ought to have in the
face of adversity.’ 19 (This being said, Damilas still seems quite at-
tached himself to the books he possesses as well as the books
owned by the superior of the convent, as he is loathe to allow these
possessions to leave the convent grounds for any reason.) 20
He writes, as well, about the virtues of virginity, describing the
practice thereof so important that: ‘Our Lord wishing to honor
virginity, was born of a holy virgin.’ 21 And finally, Damilas uses the
words of the 7th century monk, John Klimakos in order to speak to
humility and chastity:
15Ibid, 1467.
16Ibid, 1468.
17 Alice-Mary Talbott, ‘Blue Stocking Nuns: Intellectual Life in the
Convents of Late Byzantium’ in Women and Religious Life in Byzantium,

Ashgate Publishing, 2001, p. 613.
18 Ibid. 614.
20 Ibid, 1477.
21 Ibid, 1469.
Anxious repentance, and sorrow purified of every blemish, and

the holy humility of the novices are as different and distinct
from each other as leaven and flour in bread. For the soul is
worn down and attenuated by manifest repentance, and is
somehow united and, so to speak, kneaded together with God
through the water of genuine sorrow, by which blessed humili-
ty which is unleavened and not puffed up, baked by the fire of
the Lord, is made into bread and made firm. 22 And as to chas-
tity: Entrust to the Lord the weakness of your nature, recog-
nizing your own frailty once and for all, and you will receive
imperceptibly the gift of self-control. 23
Therefore, Damilas says, returning to his own voice of admonition:
‘If you wish to be relieved of and liberated from all evils, strive to
achieve abstinence and love and prayer.’ 24 He concludes with the
following: ‘I have said enough on these matters; now I wish to give
you certain instructions, which you will find beneficial and advan-
tageous for your souls if you follow them. But if you disregard
them and do not follow them eternal punishment lies in store for
you.’ 25 Eternal punishment thus punctuates the end of his remarks
in regard to the spiritual life of his nuns and Damilas moves from
talk of love, virginity, chastity and humility to the first of his larger
concerns: the transformation of the convent from idiorhythmic to
coenobitic lifestyle. The number of protestations, threats of judge-
ment and firmly worded directives that Damilas includes in his typ-
ikon all seem to imply that, formerly, the nuns enjoyed a great deal
of freedom in their life and work as well as a considerable amount
of contact with the outside world. As such, Damilas addresses what
is and is not the appropriate relationship for nuns to maintain with
the outside world; organizes the administrative structure of the
convent in the appointment of a superior and advisors; as well as
setting up specific criteria for the selection of a spiritual father
(pneumatikos).

23 Ibid. 1470.
24 Ibid, 1470.
25 Ibid. 1470.
MARY MCCARTHY 439
In regard to the relationship between the nuns and monks (it

is assumed they would have come from Damilas’ own adjacent
monastery) he writes: ‘When I was building the convent and the
church and the other buildings which I had constructed in your
convent, I did not have my lodgings nearby; for this reason I and
the other (laborers) associated and lodged with you … this situa-
tion occurred because of the pressing necessity of circumstances.’ 26
‘When it was necessary, monks and laymen did perform tasks at the
convent. But now, through the grace of Christ, as I have already
said, the necessary common work is finished. Moreover, the work
took place in my presence and with my knowledge and consent, as
is permitted by the thirty-eighth canon of the Council of Car-
thage.’ 27 And therefore ‘I forbid any work to be done inside or out-
side the convent by a monk … for I do not permit monks to stay
or sleep in the place even one night now that I myself have depart-
ed from the convent.’ 28 ‘Neither should they approach (the nuns)
freely or speak with them, nor eat alone with them … therefore, we
authorize you to have all your work inside and outside the convent
performed by virtuous laymen … we forbid monks to do any work
within the convent, except what they can make for you in their
cells, that is, a habit, shoes and other handiwork. In the same way
you should make nothing else in your cells for monks except their
habits.’ 29
In regard to familial relationships, Damilas is determined there
be a definite separation between the nuns and their families. He
writes: ‘Henceforth I forbid a nun to have any private conversa-
tion, either with her own brother or child, or with a stranger, ex-
cept in the presence of the superior’. And, ‘from this moment on,
any nun who is found to have a passionate attachment to her rela-
tives or children and wishes to give them money from her own
work, even one coin, in accordance with previous custom which
you wrongfully followed, is to be excommunicate for one year.’ 30
26 Ibid, 1473.
27 Ibid, 1472.
28 Ibid, 1471.
29 Ibid, 1472.
The text leaves us with the idea that the nuns have been previously
selling items they have made and as such have been able to help
feed and support their families. Damilas goes on: ‘Nor do I permit
the nuns to give anything to their relatives except food … If one of
her relatives or a stranger wishes to buy or sell anything, whether
they are laymen or monks, let the purchase or sale take place in ‘the
presence of the superior and one or two elderly nuns.’ 31
The position of ‘superior’ is a new one for the refounded
convent. Damilas sets in place a hierarchy consisting of a superior
as well as two nuns who serve as stewards and who together: ‘have
the responsibility for the administration of the affairs of the con-
vent.’ 32 A nod to the Venetian authorities in charge of this island is
found here as Damilas explains that he is: ‘recording in the official-
ly registered document how there should always be three of them
(superior and two nuns)’ and then he goes on to explain that as the
‘official document’ is written in Latin ‘which (the nuns) do not
know how to read’, he will also ‘write it in our language (Greek).’ 33
This statement offers another small window into the everyday ex-
perience of fifteenth century Cretans.
As a result of the Venetian occupation, ‘the local government
was made up of Venetian officials (a duke, councillors, rectors,
higher functionaries and others) closely monitored from Venice,
herself.’ 34 Additionally, Venetian officials attempted to assert a fur-
ther level of control over the populace by ‘making Orthodoxy sub-
ject to the Latin Church. Catholics were installed in place of Or-
thodox bishops while priests and preceptors who declared alle-
giance to the Venetian state (which paid their salaries) were ap-
pointed to head the Orthodox clergy.’ 35 To put it mildly, this action
did not go over well with the people. Cretans resisted, ‘refusing to
31 Ibid. 1471.
32 Ibid, 1147
33 Ibid. 1147.
34 Chryssa Maltezou, ‘Crete under Venetian Rule: Between Byzantine
Past and Venetian Reality’ in (A. Drandaki, D. Papanikola-Bakirtzi and A.

Tourta, eds.) Heaven and Earth, Art of Byzantium from Greek Collec-
tions, Benaki Museum, Athens, 2013, p. 305.
35 Maltezou, 306.
MARY MCCARTHY 441
fall in line with the preaching of Catholics and insisted on main-

taining the same religious climate as the one prevailing in the free
Byzantine territory.’ 36 In the end, ‘forced to deal realistically with
the new situation, the Cretans naturally shifted their (political) alle-
giance to Venice while at the same time remaining ideologically
attached to the world of the Byzantine Empire, whose language,
religion, and cultural traditions they shared.’ 37 As such, it seems
logical to presume that the local population would only (or pre-
dominantly) speak Greek, while the Venetian authorities would
conduct the business of Venice in the language of the conquering
kingdom.
As for the spiritual father whom Damilas feels the nuns
should have, he intends a fairly narrow liturgical role for him. He
does not want ‘him as a teacher in everything, so that he can, God
forbid, alter my instructions (for this I do not permit), but so that
you may summon him to come to your convent when you wish to
partake of the divine mysteries.’ 38 Damilas further presses the point
as to the limits of authority granted the spiritual father, insisting
that he be ‘elected to his position by common consent of all or the
majority (of the nuns)’ and that at no time may he ‘remove from
the convent any nun whom he tonsures therein. For they are not
under his authority, but should render obedience to their superior
and to the rules of the convent.’ 39 And yet while effectively tying
the hands of the ‘spiritual father’ in all things outside of participa-
tion in the ‘divine mysteries’, Damilas does concede him ‘the rights
appropriate to a spiritual father over all; for this is the case in all the
venerable female convents which are subject to the authority of the
Roman Empire and also in male monasteries.’ 40
36 Ibid. 306.
37 Ibid. 306.
39 Ibid, 1476.
40 Ibid, 1476. ‘Roman Empire’ is the way in which Greeks would
have referred to the Eastern Empire. As such it is important to remember,

as John McGuckin states in his book Standing in God’s Holy Fire,
(Maryknoll, NY 2001, p. 16) that ‘the last of the Roman emperors, Con-
In a typikon constructed of only twenty-one ‘rules’, a second

notable theme centers in and around books. Damilas owned 41
books, 7 of which he had hand-copied himself. An inventory of the
books is attached to the typikon and of the two documents, the in-
ventory is the one that bears a date, April 22, 1417. Alice-Mary
Talbot describes Damilas’ (large) library of 41 volumes as contain-
ing the expected and ‘standard liturgical books and patristic works’
as well as ‘a volume containing the writings of Boethius, Cato, and
Manasses.’ 41 From the text it seems clear that the newly appointed
superior was also in possession of books of her own and Damilas
insists that on no account should her books be loaned ‘outside the
convent and church.’ 42 His reasons seem pragmatic for he says: ‘If
they are damaged, you do not have anyone to restore them.’ 43 But
it also seems that he intends the superior’s books to become part
of the convent’s holdings as he adds the additional request that:
‘with regard to the books which are your personal property, [I re-
quire] that you not bequeath them to anyone outside the convent
after your death.’ 44
Additionally, Damilas suggests that as part of her duties, the
superior should ‘strive to teach other nuns their letters, so that this
may be to your eternal memory. This is a fine and admirable
deed.’ 45 Indeed, nuns who are unable to read upon entering the
convent appear assured of an education. Another such reference is
found earlier in the typikon in regard to who may or may not be
admitted for tonsuring. Damilas says that: ‘under no circumstance
should you admit a woman with a little girl under the age of 10; but
even then only if the child wishes to learn her letters and become a
nun for I forbid her to learn any other skill until she dons the nov-
ices habit at 13.’ 46 Damilas approaches reading with ‘an enthusiasm
stantine XI, actually fell in battle defending the Christian capital in 1453,
at the St. Romanos gate of Constantinople’.
41 Talbot, Women in Religious Life in Byzantium, 613.
43 Ibid, 1477.
44 Ibid.1477.
45 Ibid. 1477.
MARY MCCARTHY 443
not seen in the other documents found in the Byzantine Typika

collections.’ 47 And whereas Alice-Mary Talbot argues that in gen-
eral, ‘education was not an important function of the Byzantine
convent,’ 48 the approach taken at Baionaia under the direction of
Damilas seems something else entirely. The convent founder holds
the act of reading in such high regard that he instructs the entire
community in this, asking that: ‘every night you (should) read aloud
at least twice, if not more, for prayer and reading are like two eyes;
and St. Isaac sets reading before psalmody with the following
words: ‘If possible, honor reading even more than assembly for
prayer.’ 49
Given that almost all that is known about Neilos Damilas and
the Convent for the Mother of God is found within the text of this
typikon, the picture emerging from its pages has much about it that
is remarkable. The implication of the text leads one to the assump-
tion that Damilas has founded an educated community of nuns
devoted to the practice of the Eastern Orthodox faith ‘unchanged
and without innovation,’ 50 who are training and educating the
younger members in the faith as well, everyone encouraged to read,
out loud, ‘at least twice’ every single night. They have been en-
joined to ‘have prayer in (their) hearts night and day’ and to per-
form the services ‘slowly … rhythmically, in a dignified manner …
reciting psalms with contrite heart and sedate character and atten-
tive mind.’ 51 Damilas reminds his community that ‘abstinence
quenches desire, love calms the temper, prayer presents the very
mind to God.’ 52 Here, in this small corner of southeastern Crete,
which had already been a Venetian colony for almost 200 years, the
orthodox faith looks to be not only healthy, but flourishing.

48 Talbot, Women in Religious Life in Byzantium, p. 609.
49 Damilas, Typikon. 1475. Annemarie Weyl Carr makes the point
that ‘most reading in Byzantium was done aloud. To read was to give
voice to the text, making it speak’. (Heaven and Earth, Art of Byzantium from
Greek Collections, Benaki Museum, Athens, 2013, p. 181.)
51 Ibid, 1474.
52 Ibid, 1470.
PART TWO: MONASTIC REFLECTION AND
MODERNITY
445
CONTEMPORARY MONASTICISM: WHY
JOIN A MONASTERY?
+ METROPOLITAN JONAH (PAFFHAUSEN)
‘What must I do to be saved?’ This is the essential question that

motivates men and women to seek monastic life. The Lord an-
swers: ‘Go, sell all that you have and give to the poor, and you will
have treasure in heaven. Then come follow me.’ (Lk. 18.22).
Another equally important insight: ‘the world holds nothing
for me.’ It is the beginning of renunciation, but is itself a dropping
away of the veil of illusions about this life and life in the world.
One comes to a point where nothing of the old man has meaning:
possessions, relationships, even family, position and status. The
only thing that matters, that has any lasting, unchanging and eternal
meaning, is our communion with God. The Lord says, ‘If you love
father or mother more than me, you are not worthy of me; if you
love wife, children, possessions, more than me, you are not worthy
of me.’ (Mt. 10.37). When we come to a point where we see that
our life is in crisis, that we have messed up our life by our behavior,
attitudes, and actions, and know that we have to change, then the
Lord’s preaching echoes in our hearts: ‘Repent, for the Kingdom of
Heaven is at hand.’ (Mt. 3.2).
Monasticism is our feeble attempt to live a life according to
the Gospel, the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, in community,
in repentance, in renunciation. This Way has been handed down to
us through the ages by the holy Fathers who have gone the same
path, to sanctification and salvation. As St Ignatiy Brianchaninov
writes, ‘Unless our monasticism is rooted in the Gospel, it is not
authentic.’ Real monasticism has nothing to do with following ex-
ternal forms and rituals, being all dressed up and expecting support
447
448 WHY JOIN A MONASTERY?
and honor from the people in the world. Rather, real monasticism
is about a life lived solely in relationship to Christ, striving to live as
He lived, to live with His life; whether that means to be loved or
hated, embraced or rejected, lauded or persecuted. It means to fol-
low the Gospel without compromise.
It is a great trap, especially in the contemporary West, to think
that if it looks right, sounds right, smells right (just the right combo
of stale sweat and incense), has the right diet, and so forth …then
it is right. How much of that is to please people, and make them
think that we monks are holy? How much of it is projection of a
romantic vision/illusion/delusion, of how things ‘should be’? It is
easy to recreate the external forms of medieval monasticism. What
is very hard, is to recreate the content. The form without the con-
tent is meaningless. The forms, when they proceed from the con-
tent, are there to nurture and protect the content; but it is the life
lived in repentance and transformation of heart, striving for God in
love, that is the true core of monasticism.
St Maximos once said that the real monk is not the one who is
all dressed up, but the monk who is a monk in his heart. To be a
monk in one’s heart is to renounce all the passionate thoughts, and
to live in communion with God. It means, in the vein of St Symeon
the New Theologian, to live in unbroken conscious awareness of
God; or, in the tradition of St Isaac the Syrian, to dwell in the still-
ness of contemplation of God, alive in God and conscious in God;
or, back to the Apostolic vision, it is as St James writes: ‘Pure reli-
gion and undefiled before God and the Father is this: To visit the
fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself un-
spotted from the world’ (James. 1:27).
As the lives of the great Fathers have shown us, monasticism
is not simply about our own spiritual life, but about the ministry
that proceeds from it. While not all in the monastery are called to
active ministry outside the community, their lives and their witness
should be more than adequate to convey to others what it means to
live according to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Those who are so
equipped and blessed for ministry, especially to serve those who
come to visit the monastery, play a crucial role for many pilgrims.
If the Church is a hospital, the monastery is the intensive care
unit; not only for those who come to join, but for those coming to
visit it for spiritual guidance and consolation. One of the contem-
porary Athonite fathers has said that what matters most is that
+ METROPOLITAN JONAH (PAFFHAUSEN) 449
people can find someone who is authentic, who can hear and un-
derstand the woundedness of people today, their broken hearts,
their demoralization, and address it and lead them to healing. This
is what monasticism is about: to develop people who have an ear to
listen and a heart to understand, and the ability to relate to and
console those who are suffering, and to provide a place for people
to heal from the wounds inflicted by life, and be transformed.
We live in a pornographic culture completely dedicated to
self-gratification, whether sexual, material, culinary or emotional.
Everything in the culture is a constant assault for sensual stimula-
tion or, even more important, the desire to purchase and possess.
The primary values of wealth and power – ability to spend and abil-
ity to possess and control – are constantly reinforced by all the cul-
tural means of communication. Personal gratification is the goal of
life for this culture. However, it leaves us ever wanting more, with
nothing able to satisfy our lusts for sex, power and material goods;
and hence leaves us frustrated, angry, and demoralized. It is no
wonder that aspects of the pop culture idolize death. It is a culture
without hope, a culture of despair, and it is a culture sick with self-
hatred.
If the élites in the culture, who are most caught up in the end-
less cycle of the addictive pursuit of wealth, sex and power, are in
despair; it goes without saying that the poor, trapped in their pov-
erty by lack of education and training, as well as the demoralization
that leads to lack of initiative and motivation, have even less chance
of escaping their plight. Every Ad. on television or in the media
reinforces the message that they don’t measure up, because they
could not possible afford what is being advertized. Even cults of
wealth, the so-called ‘prosperity gospel,’ have developed exalting
wealth as God’s blessing, and poverty as God’s curse. So the poor
descend lower and lower into demoralization and despair.
Truly this world is vanity. The Lord teaches us through the
Beloved Disciple: ‘Love not the world, neither the things that are in
the world. If any man loves the world, the love of the Father is not
in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust
of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the
world. And the world passeth away, and the lust there of: but he
that doeth the will of God abideth forever’ (1Jn 2:15ff). And St
James reminds us that to be a friend of the world is enmity with
God. But the monastery is a place where we can go to try to leave
the world behind, whether for a few hours, weeks, years or our
whole life. We can leave it at the door of the monastery, or we can
cling to it and bring it in with us; or rather, realize that it clings to
us, and it is incised into our minds and thoughts. The monastery is
a place where we go to learn how to shake off the horrific effects
of the world: the constant bombardment with provocative images,
words and impressions; the constant appearance of self-deprecating
thoughts, shame and guilt; the endless desire to anesthetize our
minds to the bitter recriminations and resentments of our past.
People join a monastic community to bring their minds and
hearts, their lives, under control, in a disciplined lifestyle in which
they can be healed. It is nothing instant, but a process of spiritual
life and discipline in discipleship to an elder, that by the grace of
God works healing. Once the process of healing begins, the pro-
cess of growth to spiritual maturity kicks in. Young people in our
society are often the victims of the world and its dysfunction:
abused, neglected, bathed in self-hatred and self-loathing, afraid
and just plain broken. Our society leaves our young people desper-
ately immature, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Family life and
the work-a-day world may, or may not, lead them to maturity.
Monastic life is a program to bring people to maturity, to be
able to take responsibility for themselves, their thoughts and emo-
tions, and for others. Spiritual growth is also the ability to control
one’s thoughts and emotions, and deny oneself; and ultimately,
spiritual maturity is to become free of selfishness, selfish goals and
ambitions, both for oneself and projected on others. Deep spiritual
maturity leads us to constant consciousness of God. Spiritual ma-
turity, to put it another way, is the most profound freedom. It is
the freedom that comes from hearing the Word of God, and doing
it; of intuitively knowing the will of God, and conforming oneself
to it. The highest level of spiritual maturity is synergy with God;
this is the realm of the saints.
The way this is done is to follow the Gospel, and the Lord’s
teaching: ‘Repent, for the Kingdom of God is at hand.’ (Mt. 3.2).
Repentance, μετανοια, is the essence of Christianity and of monas-
ticism. Repentance does not mean to feel guilty and beat yourself
up. Repentance, as St Paul unpacks the rich word, means to ‘be
transformed in the renewal of your mind’ (Romans 12:2). Repent-
ance also means conversion, and both turning toward God, as well
as away from sin. To live the monastic life means a to live a lifestyle
of repentance, a constant process of turning away from sin and the

ego, and turning towards God and the other; of conversion of life,
of mind and heart. It means the process of dying to the old man,
and living according to the New.
Repentance is worked out through discipleship to an elder.
The great elders, those who are truly advanced in the spiritual life
and have been transformed by grace through repentance, are few
and far between. We who are broken and immature can benefit
greatly from them, if we know how to receive their words. Howev-
er, we are incapable of the strict obedience that is required for such
an advanced level. For our situation, however, the elders that we
have recourse to may not be not so advanced, but should still be
long experienced in the spiritual life. Instead of the radical obedi-
ence of the more mature, we live by their advice. We take their
words and weigh them and discern what we can and can’t do; on
their part, they are responsible for the advice, but not for how we
apply it. The great elders even take responsibility for their disciples’
actions, but we cannot begin to live up to it. We remain responsible
for our own actions.
One of the great traps is for a seeker to desire an elder ‘wor-
thy’ to hear his confession, to whom he can offer his obedience.
Sadly such a person would find shortcomings in Christ Himself.
What is critical here is mutual humility. Finding a spiritual father is
a matter not so much of discerning the gifts of the elder, but rather,
finding someone to whom you can relate, to whom you feel you
want to expose your most intimate wounds, for healing. You rec-
ognize your spiritual father by his love for you, and your love for
him. Through him you realize you can receive the divine milk of
healing, until you are ready for the meat that will nourish you to
spiritual maturity.
When the disciples brought a demoniac to the Lord, whom
they could not heal, the Lord told them that some demons can only
come out by prayer and fasting. This refers, I think, not only to the
spiritual power to cast out demons that comes from a life of prayer
and fasting; but that we can only overcome the demons that afflict
ourselves by prayer and fasting. Monastic discipline consists of
prayer and work, in a context of constant fasting. The prayer con-
sists not only of the hours per day of liturgical services, the Psalter
and cycles of hymnography; but also of personal prayer alone in
one’s room, the prayer of stillness or the Jesus Prayer, hesychia.
Fasting consists of a constant attitude of abstention not only from

certain kinds of foods, but of abstention from all kinds of actions
that gratify the will and the senses. Fasting from certain foods re-
minds us of that greater fast, and helps us keep the discipline. Pray-
er and fasting support one another: the better one fasts, the better
the prayer; the better the prayer, the more disciplined the fasting.
When we fast from the things that distract our attention, the pas-
sions, then we are able to focus when we pray.
The most powerful tool for the work of healing and spiritual
growth is the prayer of stillness, or hesychia. It is the contemplative
discipline that is at the heart of Orthodoxy, and leads us into true
communion with God. The Jesus Prayer is a practice that is used to
lead us to the point of stillness, of contemplation; and then it is the
Holy Spirit who takes us deeper. What happens is that during this
prayer, we open ourselves to God to allow Him to heal our souls,
to show us what we need to confess and repent of, and to illumine
us and transform our awareness as we are freed from the effects of
the burden of sin and resentment we are carrying around. Most of
this is accomplished by the process of forgiveness; the rest,
through renunciation and detachment. Once the bulk of the detri-
tus of a lifetime has been dealt with, our soul itself is illumined and
deified, transformed and transfigured by grace. Here again, this is a
very long process, consisting of years and years.
The monastic vows of poverty, chastity, obedience and stabil-
ity are really evangelical virtues that form the context of our prayer
and work, and are held up as goals towards which we are striving.
They have both a literal and spiritual sense. Poverty, non-
acquisitiveness, means not only owning no thing, but also being
detached from all things; the community owns everything, and
each is given what he needs (but not necessarily what he wants!).
Chastity, celibate virginity, also means striving towards complete
integrity of personhood, free from any selfish agenda to use anyone
or anything for sensual gratification. Obedience not only means
cutting off the will, and conformity to the requests of the Elder,
but it means to bring oneself into synergy with the will of God, and
cut off any contrary motives. Stability means both the commitment
to remain in the monastic life until death, but also inner emotional
and personal stability, which comes from being purged of the ego.
These virtues become the essential foundation for spiritual life.
One cannot proceed to the higher levels of spiritual maturity with-

out having made progress in these virtues.
To enter the spiritual path is to go by the way of renunciation
and detachment. The Lord said to the rich young man who came
to him, ‘If you wish to be perfect, go, sell all you have and give it to
the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. And then come
follow me’ (Matt. 19:21). Naked we come into this world, and na-
ked we leave it. The way to freedom is through renunciation, to
renounce the things of this world and to detach from them. Again,
the Lord said, ‘If you love father or mother more than me, you are
not worthy of me; if you love brother or sister, wife of children,
lands and possessions more than me, you are not worthy of me.’
(Mt. 10.37). This is the way of the Cross. We follow Jesus in the
way of renunciation when we leave all these things behind, and
thus, as he says, receive back a hundredfold, with persecutions, in
this life; and in the world to come, life everlasting. (Mt. 19.29).
Renunciation and detachment go together. To renounce does
not mean to curse, but rather to withdraw from something; to de-
tach means that we cut off all emotional ties and any ties of owner-
ship. To go by the way of renunciation means that we begin the
process of renouncing and detaching from the things of this world,
putting our hope on God to supply us with our needs, and seeking
the Kingdom of God first above all things. The Fathers tell us this
goes by stages; at first, it is difficult; later, things fall away. First, we
renounce our external possessions and relationships. With people,
we don’t renounce the people themselves, but we order our rela-
tionship with them aright, subordinate to the Gospel. For example,
with our parents, we have a sacred responsibility to honor them;
but, it must not keep us from following Christ. It is not absolved
by monastic vows. But we detach from them, and derive our identi-
ty from Christ and our relationship with Him. The next phase is to
cut off our internal attachments to our thoughts and to our ego,
our self-created idea of ourselves, and detach from them. Finally,
when our prayer has reached a certain level, we cut off our attach-
ment to concepts and conceptual images. It is only then that we
experience the radical freedom of knowledge of God. We must be
crucified to the world, and the world to us, in our relationships, in
our minds, and in our hearts; and then we will be able to live and
behold freely the grace of God in our lives.
Monastic life is structured by the services and by work, with

times designated for private prayer. The work is assigned and ac-
complished as an act of obedience, like everything else in the mon-
astery. Work is an equally important discipline in monastic life, and
takes on a whole new meaning in the context of a monastery.
There are two basic kinds of work, the daily housekeeping and
tending the garden and whatever; and the second kind, income-
producing work. Few monasteries in our days are so endowed that
the monks or nuns need not generate an income. People have ex-
penses, monastic or not. But rather than being meaningless drudg-
ery, the work – whatever it is – takes on the meaning of contrib-
uting to the life of the whole community, a task done in love for
the sake of one’s brethren. It could be dipping candles or making
incense, gathering fruit or tending the goats, making cheese or
whatever; even doing the bookkeeping, shopping or auto repair. It
is not the task itself, but rather the attitude with which we approach
it. While it brings in money, that is only part of the goal; rather, the
goal is the welfare of the community, and of my brothers or sisters.
Given our broken culture, many people do not know what it
is to be loved. They may know sex. They may know what it is to be
used. They may have had checks thrown at them, instead of love.
But it is the love of Christ that is healing and transformative. If
they have not known love, they probably don’t know how to love.
That too, changes and is revealed in their lives as they heal and
grow, through the love of the spiritual father and brethren, or spir-
itual mother and sisters. St Silouan was given the word: ‘My broth-
er is my life.’ Community is not simply a bunch of guys living to-
gether and sharing chores and expenses. It is rather a brotherhood
gathered in love, caring for one another and serving one another,
and all those who come to participate in the life of the community.
When it is done right, the love overflows and embraces all around
them, because it is the love of Christ, and He is both the One who
loves, and the Beloved, all at once, in each person.
The point of all the asceticism, of detachment and renuncia-
tion, of prayer and fasting, and of the struggle to be purified, is to
be able to love. To love purely, unselfishly, without any agendas or
expectations – this is the goal. This is the likeness to Christ that is
itself salvation.
A TRIPTYCH OF CONTEMPORARY
ROMANIAN SPIRITUAL ELDERS
+ HIS GRACE THE RT. REVD. DR. MACARIE DRĂGOI
At the beginning of the 20th century, after the First World War,
Romanian monasticism experienced a movement of renewal and an
increase in vocations related to the hesychastic revival of the spirit-
uality of the Jesus Prayer and the Philokalia, the rediscovery of
which was encouraged by the translation of the first four volumes
of the Romanian Philokalia by Father Dumitru Stãniloae at Sibiu
from 1946–1948. This rebirth was also a result of the spiritual im-
pact of the ‘Burning Bush’ movement centered at the Antim Mon-
astery in Bucharest. A group of important Romanian intellectuals
and monks had gathered around the figure of Sandu Tudor (1896–
1960), a Romanian poet and journalist who became the Monk Aga-
ton and subsequently the Schemamonk Daniel, a dedicated seeker
of the Jesus prayer and deep hesychastic experience. The group
also encountered the Russian Priest John Kulîghin (born 1885),
who had taken refuge from 1943–1946 at the Cernica Monastery
near Bucharest. Under the guidance of these two spiritual fathers,
and aided by the texts of the two volumes of the Sbornik from Va-
laam, the group was initiated into the practice of hesychasm. Fr.
John would be arrested by the Soviet troops in 1947 and would
after that ‘disappear’ in Siberia; while Fr. Daniel would withdraw to
the Rarău Skete in Moldavia, where he would be arrested in 1958
and condemned by the communists, along with the rest of the
members of the Antim group, many of them dying as confessors in
455
456 CONTEMPORARY ROMANIAN SPIRITUAL ELDERS
the dreadful prisons of Romanian Communist system. The survi-

vors were freed in 1964. 1
During the time of the communist regime the greatest setback
to Romanian monasticism took place in 1959 through a govern-
ment decree and a new regulation which dissolved an entire series
of monastic communities, forcing monks under the age of 50 to
leave the monasteries for many years. The monasteries became
nursing homes, production cooperatives, museums or tourist at-
tractions. In 1968 this repression was eased and a significant num-
ber of monastics returned to the monasteries. During the liberaliza-
tion period of the first years of the Ceauşescu dictatorship, the
monasteries benefited from a time of relative tolerance. Between
1975 and 1981, Fr. Dumitru Stăniloae was allowed to publish the
fifth to tenth volumes of the Romanian Philokalia, while Archiman-
drite Ioanichie Bălan of Sihăstria Monastery succeeded in publish-
ing, between 1980–1988 his monumental trilogy dedicated to Ro-
manian monasticism. 2
At the fall of the communism in 1989, Romanian monasticism
found itself, paradoxically, in a relatively flourishing situation,
grouped around a few important fathers who had survived the per-
secutions and were now being sought out by thousands of the
1 Deacon Ioan I. Ică Jr., Monahismul românesc şi spiritualitatea lui, in the

volume Mărturii de sfinţenie românească. Monahi îmbunătăţiţi din secolele trecute,
Sibiu, 2002, pp. 24–25.
2 Ibid. p.25. This massive trilogy dedicated entirely to Romanian mo-
nasticism includes: Vetre de sihăstrie românească (1981, 570 p.), dedicated to

the beginnings of monasticism in the Romanian area and an inventory of
monastic sites; Patericul românesc (1980, 736 p., ed. III, 1998; Greek transla-
tion 1984; American translation 1994), a concise presentation of the char-
acters and words of the most memorable figures of the monks in the Ro-
manian territories, from the origins until the first half of the 20th century;
and Convorbiri duhovniceşti, (in two volumes, 1984, 1988, 632 + 808 p.; vol-
ume 1, Greek translation 1985 and American translation in 1994; frag-
mentary Italian translation in 1991 by Elia Citerrio, Volti e parole dei Padri
del desserto romeno, Bose, 1991). These consist of dialogues with the most
important living spiritual and theological figures of Romanian monasti-
cism and Romanian Orthodoxy from the second half of the 20th century.
+ HIS GRACE THE RT. REVD. DR. MACARIE DRĂGOI 457
faithful each year. The most influential were two great figures, fa-
mous startsi of the Sihăstria Monastery in Moldavia: Paisie Olaru
(1897–1990), ‘a genuine Romanian Seraphim of Sarov’, and Cleopa
Ilie (1912–1998), ‘a true Abba Pimen and the uncrowned Patriarch
of Romanian monasticism’, as they have been described by the well
known theologian Ioan I. Ică Jr. from Sibiu. 3
Together with other startsi, these great spiritual fathers’ influ-
ence resulted in hundreds of monastic vocations, both during the
communist period and later. I myself chose the monastic life fol-
lowing an encounter I had with Abba Cleopa. I first came to know
him in my childhood, through the accounts of several good Chris-
tians from my native village in Transylvania who visited him at the
Sihăstria Monastery. I was fascinated by their stories, the blessings
and teachings they received together with many other pilgrims
from all over the country, when Father Cleopa would speak at cer-
tain times during the day, on the veranda of his room inside the
monastic compound. I later read some of his works, but the direct
encounter would take place long afterwards, when I started my
theological studies in Moldavia, in the city of Suceava, not far from
the monastery where Elder Cleopa lived. My first visit was made
together with other colleagues from the Theological Seminary dur-
ing the summer of 1994, when I simply listened alongside hundreds
of other pilgrims, and could not approach him in person.
The direct encounter would take place a few months later
through the help of a seminary professor, Fr. Constantin Cojocaru,
whom Abba Cleopa had known very well for many years. I was
thus able to get access to his room on an autumn morning, at the
time when Fr Cleopa was saying his morning prayers. He put aside
his large prayer book in old Romanian script and spoke to us al-
most for an hour. We knelt piously at his feet while he sat on his
small bench, as was his custom. He enveloped us with his love and
his sweet voice. He spoke of some of the hardships he had experi-
enced during time of persecution, when he lived in solitude in the
mountains. He even showed us the box where he had kept the Ho-
ly Eucharist during that period of rigorous asceticism, moments of
which the elder spoke extremely rarely. In the end, he prayed a
3 Ibid. pp. 25–26.

blessing upon us, invoking from memory as mediators a long suc-

cession of saints, prophets, apostles, hierarchs, martyrs and her-
mits. Fr. Constantin asked him to bless me so as to become a ‘good
married priest’. Fr. Cleopa hesitated, in spite the insistence of my
teacher, and finally uttered, decidedly and emphatically, blessing me
on the head with the sign of the Cross: ‘No, let him become a good
monk’. After a while, even though my situation had not changed,
since I was still attending the Seminary, Fr. Cleopa reconsidered his
blessing, not to change it as much as to add to it, and he told me:
‘Become a good bishop as well’. At our last meeting, before he left
to go to the eternal places, he gave me the prayer rope with which I
was tonsured a monk and which I preserve with great devotion,
hoping that my spiritual father’s advice and prayers will continue to
accompany me. 4
Ever since his passing, a great number of pilgrims continue to
visit the Sihăstria Monastery, praying in Abba Cleopa’s room,
which became a small sanctuary, and at his grave, from which even
the clods of earth are taken by the pilgrims for a blessing and cure.
Many miracles have taken place through the intercessions of Fr.
Cleopa. I believe that his canonization as a saint will be not be long
in coming.
From among this cloud of great contemporary Fathers, I can
also mention Elder Arsenie Papacioc from the St. Mary Skete in
Techerghiol (the Dobrogea region), and Elder Teofil Părăianu from
the Brâncoveanu, Sâmbătă de Sus Monastery (in Transylvania). The
first published dialogues from both of these elders can be found in
Archimandrite Ioanichie Bălan’s book, Convorbiri duhovniceşti, issued
in 1984 and 1988 before the fall of communism, a publication
which was of great spiritual benefit in those times of censorship
and the general paucity of spiritual books in Romania. Fr. Arsenie
was born in 1914 and was tonsured at Antim Monastery in Bucha-
rest. He was a close friend of Elder Cleopa, with whom he lived for
a while at Slatina Monastery in Moldavia, although their visions of
the spiritual life were different, as Father Arsenie recalled:
4 See this account as well as those of others who met Fr Cleopa in

the memorial volume, Părintele Cleopa Ilie (1912–1998). Prieten al Sfinţilor şi
duhovnic al creştinilor - in memoriam, Iaşi, 2005.
It is true that I lived with Fr Cleopa in the wilderness. We had

long discussions, and the special object of our arguments was
the following disagreement: he was more inclined to an asceti-
cism characterized by intense fasting, prayer, and tears, while I
rather emphasized spiritual vigilance. And I still maintain that
point of view. For it is not asceticism itself that God seeks in
us, but rather a broken and contrite heart that is aware every
moment of His continual presence in our lives. 5
Like many others, Father Arsenie too was condemned in 1959 by
the communist regime and sentenced to 20 years of imprisonment
and forced labor. He was freed in 1964 through a decree of general
pardon for political prisoners. 6 For a while he served as parish
priest in a village in Transylvania (Filea), then became Father Con-
fessor at the Dintrun Lemn Convent. Since 1976 he has been Fa-
ther Confessor at St. Mary Skete in Techerghiol. Until his depar-
ture, aged 97, although weakened and ill after a tumultuous life of
privations as a hermit and then sufferings in communist prisons,
Fr. Arsenie continued to give advice to pilgrims, albeit with some
diminution of his former zealous energy and accessibility. In the
last years of his life it was difficult for him to get to the church, and
he had only certain hours designated for confession and counsel, as
compared to the past, when the door of his room was always open.
In 2005, I had the great joy of meeting him personally for the
first time at St. Mary’s Skete, and we twice concelebrated the Di-
vine Liturgy at the altar of the tiny wooden church inside the mo-
nastic compound. I was overwhelmed by his kindness and spiritual
attention to me. When we first met, I kissed his hand, a natural
gesture for a younger monk, but he kissed my hand too, which he
does to all priests, as he tells us in one his books: ‘I do this, even if
5 Arhimandrit Arsenie Papacioc, Cuvânt despre bucuria duhovnicească.

Convorbiri, Cluj-Napoca, 2003, pp.162–163.
6 Andrei Andreicuţ, Mărturistori pentru Hristos, volume I, Alba-Iulia,
2005, pp. 111–112.

the priest is younger; I kiss his hand publicly to show that I recog-
nize his authority’. 7
I had the opportunity to discuss with him, in the intimacy of
his cell, a few issues that were troubling me, and I especially appre-
ciated his spiritual sensitivity and depth. I particularly remember his
words to me: ‘Getting out of harmony creates stridency’ and, ‘Eve-
ry moment is a period of time, and every sigh is a prayer’. I bought
from the Skete some of his works on spirituality 8 and asked him to
write a few words in them. He was kind enough to write in each of
them words which could be added to the Paterikon of the contem-
porary Fathers. Here are a few: ‘The good Lord sends down His
grace only on heroes. Beggars waste it. Always be a hero!’ ‘Don’t let
the sword of the Word be shaky in your hand.’ ‘Come, rejoice!’
‘Ah, humility, humility, great reward awaits you!’ ‘Reward in battle
does not come at the first step, but at the last step!’ ‘Remain a hero
of Christ!’
I met Abba Arsenie again in 2007 when he came, discreetly,
on account of medical problems created by his increasingly fragile
health, to Cluj-Napoca, the Transylvanian city where I lived. I say
discreetly, because if news of his visit had got out, the courtyard of
our Metropolis head-quarters would have been filled with great
numbers of Christians wishing to ask him for prayers, blessings or
advice for their various problems. Our Metropolitan, Bartolomeu
Anania, received him with great joy, especially since he himself is
one of his spiritual sons. Father Arsenie had been the Metropoli-
tan’s Confessor since the latter’s youth. Bartolomeu met the starets
in the 1950s, when the Patriarch of the Romanian Orthodox
7 Ne vorbeşte Părintele Arsenie Papacioc, volume II, Sihăstria, 2004, page

106.
8The majority consist of verbal dialogues, further transposed in let-
ters sent to spiritual sons. We can mention: Iată,Duhovnicul.Părintele Arsenie
Papacioc, vol. I, Dervent Monastery, 1999, vol. II, Bucarest, 2006; Cuvânt
despre bucuria duhovnicească, Cluj-Napoca, 2003 ; Ne vorbeşte Părintele Arsenie,
vol. I–III, Sihăstria Monastery, 2004; Veşnicia ascunsă într-o clipă, Alba-Iulia,
2004; Singur Ortodoxia, Constanţa, 2005.
Church at that time, Justinian, commissioned him, together with

Fr. Cleopa, to visit all the monasteries in the country to give spir-
itual guidance to the monks. On that occasion, the current Metro-
politan of Cluj met Fr. Arsenie and chose him as his Confessor,
impressed by what the wise man uttered, after a long spiritual con-
versation, regarding his confession: ‘This is no longer an issue for
two, but from now onwards, only one’.
I was assigned by my then superior, Metropolitan Bartolomeu,
to help Fr. Arsenie during his short stay in Cluj. I took him first to
visit the Cathedral, which the Elder had not seen for more than 40
years, when, after being freed from prison in 1964, he had served
two years as a parish priest in this diocese, from Transylvania. It
was during the afternoon, and there were only a few people praying
in the church. Those few noticed the presence of the well known
Father Arsenie and came quickly to ask for blessings. Among them
there was a couple, husband and wife, who came with tears in their
eyes to ask for his prayers. He counselled them gently and then
asked if they had been religiously married. They responded that
they were not and tried to make various excuses. Father advised
them to do so and no longer live in sin, but they kept making ex-
cuses. He scolded them calmly, saying, ‘Be careful what you do,
because Hell is full of good intentions!’
Shortly after his visit to the Cathedral, many Christians found
about Father Arsenie’s presence in Cluj, and several gathered at the
door of the guest house where he was staying. Among them was a
distinguished professor of philosophy, who came with his daugh-
ter, a student, to ask for a blessing, because, as he maintained, the
birth of his daughter was the fruit of Fr. Arsenie’s prayers. Only
after his departure from Cluj, the Faithful found out about his visit
and regretted they could not at least have seen him. The last time I
met Fr. Arsenie was in the autumn of 2008, shortly after the begin-
ning of my Hierarchical mission amongst the Romanians in the
Scandinavian lands. I received word and blessing. I asked him,
among other things, what counsel would he give the young? Spon-
taneously he gave us his marvellous answer: ‘Young ones, give your
youth to me, the ninety year old one, if you do not know what to
do with it.’
The second spiritual father about whom I would like to speak
now, could be referred to as the ‘Itinerant Confessor’. In contrast
with Fr. Arsenie, whose mission was to be the only permanent
priest available at the convent to conduct services and receive pil-

grims, Fr. Teofil from Sâmbăta de Sus received seekers at the mon-
astery, but also traveled a great deal, especially during the two great
fasts of the Eastern tradition, Lent and Advent. During these peri-
ods, the Associations of Orthodox Youth customarily organize
conferences with the senior spiritual fathers in Romania, and Fr.
Teofil missed none of them each year. He responded to all invita-
tions, either from large cities with famous academic centers, where
he addressed audiences in large halls and cathedrals, or from small
cities and village parishes, and he even travelled also to the Roma-
nian communities in the European Diaspora.
Fr Teofil was born in 1929 in a Transylvanian village near Si-
biu called Topârcea and he died peacefully in 2009. His parents
were peasants and he was the oldest of four siblings. He began his
conscious life blind; that is he was born blind. From 1935–1940 he
attended a special school in Cluj, which he was forced to discon-
tinue because of the war; then from 1943–1948 he went to high
school in Timişoara. From 1948–1952 he attended the Theological
Institute in Sibiu and earned a degree in theology. On April 1st,
1953 he entered the Sâmbăta monastery, desiring to become a
monk. Because of his theological studies, as well as his spiritual
background, he was tonsured the same year. In 1960 he was or-
dained deacon by an exceptional act of Metropolitan Nicolae
Bălan, and in 1983 was ordained priest by Metropolitan Antonie
Plămădeală. On September 8, 1988 he was elevated to the rank of
archimandrite.
From my first encounter with him during my adolescence, I
sensed him as man of joy. He imparted much optimism and peace,
and his discourse was full of spiritual joy. His dialogues were always
seasoned with humor, which created an atmosphere of spiritual
intimacy and made him very pleasant. He had extraordinary success
with young people, with whom he liked to spend much time, be-
cause, as the abbot confessed, ‘the young are malleable’. The result
was that Fr. Teofil was increasingly sought out by young people
and was often invited to address them in various locations. 9
9 Several books emerged from his preaching, conferences and

dialogues with the young, of which we mention: Ne vorbeşte Părintele Teofil,
From my very first contacts with him I gave attention to the

‘life handbook’ which he constantly recommended in his lectures,
which he also heard for the first time from the well known Father
Arsenie Boca (1910–1989), a system captured in five points: (a)
‘Oxygen’, living in fresh air as much as possible; (b) ‘Glycogen’,
referring to good mental food; (c) ‘Sleep’, having an appropriate
amount of rest so as to be able to work at our full capacity; (d)
‘Preserve your hormones’, that is lead a correct sexual life, without
dissipating the sexual energy; and (e) ‘Have the concept of a Chris-
tian life’, that is, offer your life in service to God.
After I was tonsured a monk, I again met Fr. Teofil on the
occasion of a conference held close to the monastery I lived in. He
asked me my new monastic name and I responded ‘Macarie’. With
his characteristic humor, he told me I would need to pass a few
more stages to measure up to the name of Macarie, which in Greek
means ‘blessed’: first, Teopist, faithful to God, because he who believes
in God is a servant of God and becomes Teodul, the servant of God.
He who is Teodul then comes to know God, because to him who
fulfils God’s commands, God reveals Himself, as St. Mark the As-
cetic said: ‘Christ is hidden in His commands and reveals Himself
to those who fulfil His commands’. Therefore, he who knows
Roman, 1997; Lumini de gând, Cluj-Napoca, 1997; Gânduri bune pentru gându-
ri bune, Timişoara, 1997; Prescuri pentru cuminecături, Timişoara, 1998; Cuvinte
pentru tineri, Craiova, 1998; Din visteria inimii mele, Craiova, 2000; Întâmpinări,
Bucarest, 2000; Pentru cealaltă vreme a vieţii mele, Sibiu, 2001; Veniţi de luaţi
bucurie.O sinteză a gândirii Părintelui Teofil în 750 de capete, Cluj-Napoca, 2001;
Darurile Învierii, Craiova, 2002; Cuvinte lămuritoare.Articole şi scrisori, Cluj-
Napoca, 2002; Amintiri despre duhovnicii pe care i-am cunoscut, Cluj-Napoca,
2003; Maica Domnului-raiul de taină al Ortodoxiei, Cluj-Napoca, 2003; Să luăm
aminte!, Alba-Iulia, 2003; Cine sunt eu, ce spun eu despre mine, Sibiu, 2003; Hris-
tos în mijlocul nostru, Cluj-Napoca, 2003; Credinţa lucrătoare prin iubire: predici la
duminicile de peste an, Făgăraş, 2004; Bucuriile credinţei, Craiova, 2004; Gânduri
senine, Bucarest, 2005; Sărbători fericite! Predici la praznice şi sărbători, Făgăraş,
2005 Puncte cardinale ale Ortodoxiei- Îndrumar duhovnicesc, Bucarest, 2005 ; Din
ospăţul credinţei, Craiova, 2006, 2007; Gânduri de altădată, pentru atunci, pentru
acum şi pentru totdeauna, Craiova, 2006.
Christ through the fulfilment of His commands comes to be called

Teognost, the one who knows God. And He who knows God comes to
love God, that is Teofil, and he who loves God is Macarie – truly blessed.
Also, after my call to the Hierarchical mission I had the joy of
meeting him and serving the Liturgy with him several times at the
Monastery Sâmbăta de Sus (the Upper Saturday), where he used to
live. He was glad for the fact that his niece from his sister’s side,
who was very dear to him, lived in Stockholm. I invited him to pay
us a visit in Stockholm and he answered he would come willingly.
In 2009, a few months before his death, he felt weakened. While
serving a Liturgy at Sâmbăta de Sus (the Upper Saturday Monas-
tery) he answered me with his well known humour: ‘My dear bish-
op, I would come for the mission in Stockholm, but I feel very
weakened and here I receive confessions and counsel always. The
ones here would leave me for being tired and the ones over there,
in Scandinavia, would take me as a rested man.’
My last encounter with Fr. Teofil took place at the end of Oc-
tober 2009, only a few days before his departure from this world. I
had arrived in Romania for the duties of the Holy Synod, but be-
fore the synodal session took place in Bucharest, I made a stop in
my natal village, near the town of Cluj-Napoca, in Transylvania, to
pay a visit to my parents. I found out that Fr. Teofil was in poor
condition in one of the hospitals in Cluj. I went to see him and
found him to be bright, but very weak. I read him the prayers of
absolution. He asked me, as I was leaving to go to the Holy Synod,
if I would send them the message that he was praying for the Holy
Synod. As his farewell he told me: ‘My dear bishop, this is our last
meeting in this world’. I tried to encourage him: ‘Father Teofil, it is
not our last, we have to meet again in peace and good health’. He
confirmed: ‘Indeed, it is not the last one.’ While attending the Syn-
od, in the morning of October 29th, we were informed that Fr.
Teofil had passed to the eternal places. Together with other Hier-
archs, we hastened as soon as we could to his funeral at the
Sâmbăta de Sus Monastery. Indeed, Fr. Teofil was right, our last
meeting took place there, at his requiem, when we stood by him on
his departure from this world.
In what follows, I would like to say a few words about other
two confessors who have had a great impact on spiritual life in
Romania since the collapse of the communist regime. They are Fr.
Rafail Noica and Fr. Ioan Cojanu. Fr. Rafail Noica, born in 1942, is
the son of the great Romanian philosopher, Constantin Noica. At

home, he received very little Orthodox Christian education, and at
the age of 13 left for England with his English mother and his sis-
ter, in order to obtain a good education. He went through a period
of spiritual searching, seeking fulfilment in various religions that he
found in the West. One day he sensed, as he recalls: ‘Like a light in
my soul, the thought of returning to Orthodoxy. And I became
increasingly reconciled with the idea, without any logical explana-
tion’. 10 Providentially, he met Archimandrite Sofronie Saharov
(1896–1993), the abbot of St. John’s monastery in Essex, England,
who inspired him to choose the monastic life. In 1961 Fr. Rafail
returned to Orthodoxy and 1965 he was tonsured at Essex, monas-
ticism being for him: ‘The answer to the questions I had asked in
my childhood, and with the passing of time I had come to under-
stand that death holds the meaning of life, and now I see that our
existence here on earth is but the second stage of our passing from
nothingness into what God is calling us, God’s Being, or immortal-
ity’. 11
In 1993, Fr. Rafail, after 38 years abroad, ‘like the paralytic in
the Gospel’ 12 returned to Romania. First he came for a short visit,
then subsequently settled in a hermitage in the Western Carpathian
Mountains, where he started to translate and publish into Romani-
an the works of Starets Sofronie Saharov from Essex. He chose the
life of solitude so as not to be disturbed in his spiritual work by the
many faithful who wanted to visit him, seeking advice and prayer.
From time to time, usually during Lent, he comes down to the
nearby city of Alba Iulia, the Archdiocesan Center of the area he
lives in, and holds a conference which has been publicized a few
weeks beforehand, and then he opens up to answer questions from
the audience. The great Auditorium of the Cultural Center in Alba
Iulia is usually filled to capacity, and some have to listen via loud-
speakers specially installed outside the building. Since Fr. Rafail
10
cuvinte de folos ale Părintelui Symeon, edited by Fr. Eugen Drăgoi and Fr.
Celălalt Noica. Mărturii ale monahului Rafail Noica însoţite de câteva
Ninel Ţugui, Bucarest, 2002, p. 44.

11 Ibid. p. 31.
12 Ibid. p. 75.
comes down so rarely from the mountain, veritable pilgrimages are

organized on these occasions. Monks, nuns and the faithful come
from far afield in cars and buses especially rented for the event.
Several of the lectures and dialogues from these meetings have
been transcribed and published in a volume called Cultura Duhului
(The Culture of the Spirit), Alba Iulia, 2002. Many of them also circu-
late throughout the country and abroad in video or audio format.
I have had the joy and spiritual privilege to meet Fr. Rafail
several times, but I was satisfied just to receive his blessing. As the
Paterikon says: ‘Just to see him’ was enough for me. The simple fact
of seeing him brought an intense peace and joy in my soul, a thing
which can be felt only around the saints.
In closing I would like to quote a single passage from a dia-
logue included in the volume Cultura Duhului, where he argues, like
Fr. Teofil, for a return to frequent communion, a practice which is
(unfortunately) not very common in several parts of Eastern Or-
thodoxy:
Having communion with God, we now have the power to car-
ry on, to perhaps experience what we request in the Liturgy,
‘that the whole day may be perfect, holy, peaceful and sinless’.
Without God, nothing can be done, just as our Savior said:
‘Abide in Me, as the branch abides in the vine, because you can
do nothing without Me’ (John 15:4) – for if we cut a branch
from a tree it withers. And I would say that, to a certain extent,
a day without Holy Communion is a day in which we spiritual-
ly wither. 13
Fr. Ioan Cojanu is the abbot of St. John the Baptist Monastery near
Alba Iulia, an establishment founded after the fall of the com-
munism in 1989, and the place where I myself was tonsured. He
was born on January 27, 1959 in a Transylvanian village near Sibiu
called Caşolţ, and after primary studies he attended the Orthodox
Theological Seminary of Cluj-Napoca. Following graduation, at 22
years of age, he came to Archbishop Teofil Herineanu and request-
ed to be ordained as a celibate priest for a very poor parish, where
a priest with a family could not survive. The hierarch from Cluj
13 Ieromonahul Rafail Noica, Cultura Duhului, p. 158.

made a good discernment and ordained him, sending him to a

mountain village (Măguri Răcătău) where homes were widely scat-
tered among ancient forests. Here he remained for some nine
years, carrying on a remarkable missionary, pastoral, and, at the
same time, administrative ministry, so that upon his departure he
left a spiritually vibrant community gathered around the Holy Altar.
He built a new rectory, and the church was restored. During his
entire time at Măguri Răcătău, Fr. Ioan was under the careful spir-
itual guidance of the elderly Hieromonk Gavriil Miholca, from a
parish located not far from that of his disciple. In 1990, after the
fall of communism, Archbishop Andrei Andreicuţ of Alba-Iulia,
who was successful in attracting to the monasteries of his diocese
great spiritual fathers like Fr. Rafail Noica or Fr. Ioan Iovan from
the Recea Convent, also called Fr. Ioan Cojanu from his mountain
parish and tonsured him, appointing him abbot of the skete which
later became ‘St. John the Baptist’ Monastery.
One of the great spiritual qualities of the young Abbot Ioan is
the fact that he harmoniously combines spiritual work and adminis-
trative work, and does not allow the latter to overwhelm him. One
cannot, for example, that the monastery is still under construction,
with its main church currently being built. Besides the new church,
there is a wooden church, a historical monument dating from 1768,
repositioned here from a nearby village. In addition to the spiritual
help given to the many faithful who visit the monastery, the com-
munity concentrates on a life of prayer, work and study. I might
also note that until recently a monthly spiritual newspaper called
Epifania was published by the monastery, something that has been
temporarily halted because of the construction projects; while the
same publishing house brings out several spiritual books every year.
Great emphasis is placed on both physical labor and worship here,
with the daily liturgical cycle beginning at 2 a.m. Fr. Ioan himself
has no bed in his room. He spends his few sleeping hours sitting in
an armchair or lying on the floor of his room, seeking of course to
do so discreetly (but we who are close notice these things).
Like Fr. Teofil Părăian, Fr. Ioan is also to be found during
Lent and Advent all across the country and in the communities of
the Romanian Diaspora, engaged in so many meetings with young
people and the faithful, in academic halls, cathedrals and churches.
I met him at a turning point in my life, when I was ardently seeking
a ‘starets’ to guide my development in the monastic life. I entrusted
myself to him and I have benefited from his good counsel, even to
this day being under his spiritual care. My youth needed a firm and
solid model. During one of the meetings last year in Cluj with
young people, Father Ioan was asked: ‘What is the meaning of
youth?’ He replied that:
It means to remain childlike in your heart. When God created
man, He did not want to think that man would grow old. Not
even his body. Yet, He did envisage growth and development
of maturity and completeness. Thus nothing that God put into
man must disappear: first of all, his youth, although man must
be transformed inwardly. It is not really a matter of the mind,
brainpower, memory or bodily capacities, though the goal is
obvious: God wants man to grow spiritually. My beloved, what
does youth mean for us? It can mean anything, but the unique
dimension of a young person is this, for each one of us, being
available to God. 14
I have given an overview of just four of the most well known spir-
itual fathers of Romania, yet, as pointed out by Fr. Nicolas
Stebbing in his book which constitutes a genuine modern Paterikon,
beside the Romanian confessors who are ‘national figures’, there
are numerous monk priests or laypersons who continually guide
the faithful in the way of salvation and communion with Christ:
‘We have already seen that many people are more than happy with
their own parish priests and do not seek out monks or well known
theologians to give them guidance and to hear their confessions’. 15
Currently within the Romanian Orthodox Patriarchate there
are 400 monasteries and about 200 sketes operating, with more
than 8,000 monastics. Certainly in our country too the influence of
secularization is being increasingly felt, but we believe that as long
as spiritual Fathers exist to guide the destinies of the monks and
the faithful in the spirit of the Gospel, God will preserve alive in
our souls the faith which works through love (Galatians 5:6). St.
14Pr Ioan Cojanu, Rolul nevoinţei în formarea tânărului, ‘Filocalia’, sup-

plement of the ‘Renaşterea’ journal, no. 4/2006, Cluj-Napoca, p. 2.
15 Nicolas Stebbing, Bearers of the Spirit. Spiritual Fatherhood in Romanian
Orthodoxy, Kalamazoo, Michigan, 1999, pp. 272–273.

Philaret of Moscow said: ‘Give me a hundred good confessors and

I will change the face of the world’. 16 Therefore, we remain full of
optimism.
16 After Ne vorbeşte Părintele Arsenie, Sihăstria, 2004, p. 111.

THE BEAUTY OF SILENCE IN CHRISTIAN
MONASTIC TRADITION
TEODOR DAMIAN
Silence is the mystery of the age to come.

(St. Isaac the Syrian).
When St. Isaac the Syrian affirms that ‘silence is the mystery of the
age to come,’ he contrasts it with ‘words that are instruments of
this world.’ 1 If one thinks of words as language, and if words are
the language of this world, then silence can also be understood as
the language of the future ages. The idea of silence as language is
hidden in his comparison (or rather contrast) of silence with words.
However, silence as language is a notion that, while not excluding
mystery, is full of sense, challenge and beauty, because it involves
communication, meaning, conscious being and purpose. In the
monastic tradition silence is fundamental to this particular way of
life. It is not only considered the fastest way to virtue, but also the
mother of all virtues, a pathway to transfiguration and of experi-
encing the divine.
SOME DEFINITIONS
Among the many ways in which one can define silence, one general
monastic definition regards it as inner peace or rest of heart and
mind, or the liberation of the mind (nous) from any external influ-
ence, from worldly thoughts. Even if one can distinguish nuances
1 The Ascetical Homilies of Saint Isaac the Syrian, Tr. D Miller. (Holy
Transfiguration Monastery), Boston, MA, 1984, p. 321.
471
472 SILENCE IN CHRISTIAN MONASTIC TRADITION
in the concept, as for instance when silence is viewed as quiet (sigè,

σιγἠ) and rest as hesychia (ἡσυχἰα), 2 these nuances are used most of
the time interchangeably, silence being considered as implying
both, quiet and rest (hesychia, for instance, is understood as the
practice of inner silence and constant prayer, or the emptying of
mind of any visualization, of any thought). According to St. Basil
the Great hesychia, used to refer to silence in general, is an ideal not
only for the monastic but for Christian life in general, 3 and indeed,
this ideal has penetrated so deeply in people’s consciousness in
some cultures that the words monasticism and hesychasm became
synonyms. 4
Silence normally implies abstinence from many words, and in
that case it is called silence of the tongue, while there is a silence of
the body, too, as well as a silence of the mind. However, silence
does not have to be necessarily physical; it can also imply discern-
ment when it comes to a question of what to say and what not to
say, as Abba Poimen describes: ‘A man may seem to be silent, but
if his heart is condemning others, he is babbling ceaselessly. But
there may be another who talks from morning till night and yet he
is truly silent, that is, he says nothing that is not profitable.’ 5 In its
multiple aspects and manifestations, silence is a spiritual exercise
2 Denys L’Aréopagite, La Hiérarchie Céleste, Sources Chrétiennes, In-

troduction par René Roques, Etude et Text Critique par Gunther Heil,
Traduction et notes par Maurice de Gandillac, Les Editions du Cerf, Paris,
1970, p. xi.
3 The Fathers Speak, Translated and Edited by George Barrois, St.
Vladimir’s Seminary Press, Crestwood, NY, 1986, p. 47.

4 In Romania, for instance, the hesychastic spirituality is so much
embedded in the Orthodox Tradition that another word for a hermit

monk is ‘sihastru,’ and an isolated place where he lives is called ‘sihastrie’,
which is also a word for a smaller, sometimes more remote monastery.
The term ‘sihastru’ (from hesychia) is not a new borrowing in the Romani-
an language. It is attested already in the 15th century when the spiritual
advisor of theMoldavian Prince Steven the Great (1457–1504), the monk
Daniil, was called: Daniil Sihastru.
5 Sayings of the Desert Fathers: available at: www.gypojenny.wordpress.
com/2011/08/25/the-desert-fathers-on-silence.
TEODOR DAMIAN 473
that takes one away from the world in order to help see better
one’s right position in the world.
BIBLICAL FOUNDATIONS
The idea of silence as a way of being in human relationships is pre-
sent in the Bible in many ways and places. The monastic concern
for discernment, when it comes to what one is saying, can be found
in Psalm 39.1–2 for instance: ‘I told myself: ‘I will be careful not to
sin by what I say, and I will muzzle my mouth when evil people are
near’’, or in Psalm 141.3: ‘Help me to guard my words whenever I
say something,’ or in James 1. 26: ‘If you think you are being reli-
gious, but can’t control your tongue, you are fooling yourself, and
everything you do is useless,’ or in Proverbs 14. 3: ‘Proud fools are
punished for their stupid talk, but sensible talk can save your life.’
In terms of discernment when it comes to words, the monas-
tic practice of silence also has in view Christ’s warning about the
dangers of verbiage and His advice for brevity and simplicity in
communication: ‘When you make a promise, say only ‘yes’ or ‘no’.
Anything else comes from the devil’ (Mt. 5. 37). And also ‘I prom-
ise you that on the day of judgment everyone will have to account
for every careless word they have spoken. On that day they will be
told that they are either innocent or guilty because of the things
they have said.’ (Mt. 12. 36–37). This last warning by Christ is
commented on in this way by Abba Poimen: ‘If we only remem-
bered that it is written: ‘By your words you will be justified and by
your words you will be condemned,’ we would choose to remain
silent.’ 6
However silence is also viewed as an instrument of inner con-
centration that allows one to hear God’s voice or calling. That is
the reason why sometimes God leads certain people into the de-
sert: because the desert offers the context of such an attentive,
concentrated, faithful hearing, as in the case of Hosea 2. 14): ‘Israel,
I , the Lord, will lure you into the desert and speak gently to you.’
God proceeds this way because the desert’s silence has an effect, an
impact, an influence, on one’s soul. Also, the desert is the place
6 The Desert Fathers, see: www.orthodox.net/gleanings/silence.html.

where one is solely dependent on God. It is as if the desert’s silence

transfers itself into the soul of the one brought in the desert. That
move, by itself, takes one away from passive listening, as in the
world, where one listens to God among many other things, and
towards active, reflective, conscious listening. The desert simply
offers this chance for deep, quiet listening.
The desert thus becomes a kind of laboratory of listening. In
the world things happen in a different way. The world does not
teach you how to listen. In other words, one needs to know how to
keep silent in order to know how to listen. If one talks too much,
one listens too little. And this is what monks and nuns try to avoid
by their way of silence. As I heard an 8 year old child once put it:
‘Monks are not as talkative because since they have God talk to
them constantly they got used to listening to Him. They can’t inter-
rupt Him.’ 7
SPEAKING AS OPPOSED TO SILENCE

The polarity of world versus desert leads directly to another one,
that of speaking versus silence. In the monastic tradition silence is
preferred to speaking. However, there are rules, circumstances,
exceptions when speaking is a chance given to some monks in spe-
cial situations. According to St. Basil’s Rules, speaking, in a monas-
tic community, is a charge given only to some, and with special
purpose. The regular monk must do whatever he is supposed to do
in silence: ‘Those who work should apply themselves quietly (meta
hesychian) to their tasks and leave speeches of exhortation to those
entrusted with the judicious dispensation of the word for the edifi-
cation of the faith.’ 8 Even when speaking about God or when one
is trying to theologize, the Church Fathers encourage silence. Meis-
ter Eckhart, for instance, believes that the best way to speak about
God is to keep silent because speaking about God makes one lie
See www.anatolasarab.ro/cugetari-ale-copiilor-despre-divinitate [in

7
Romanian].
8 George Barrois, op. cit., p. 53.
TEODOR DAMIAN 475
and sin. 9 Silence thus becomes a sort of via negativa where one feels
perfectly comfortable to live with the mystery of the divine, and
without any attempt to decipher it in order to satisfy human ration-
al needs. As part of the via negativa, when it comes to approaching
God, the discipline of silence, which implies and ascesis of lan-
guage, intends to protect the human heart from the invasion of
words. Just as Jacques Ellul spoke of a proliferation of images to
the detriment of the word 10 in modern society, so, the ascetics fear,
there is a proliferation of the word and even thoughts, in the det-
riment of silence. Not only when one talks about God is silence
recommended, but even when one talks to God, when one prays,
many monks recommend no use of words and advise mental pray-
er, including the prayer of the heart: ‘Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of
God, have mercy on me, sinner,’ which brings rest (hesychia) to the
inner being. The assumption is that because God is silence, one
prays to God in silence.
THE DIVINE SILENCE

In Christian mysticism the foundation of the discipline of silence
ultimately resides in God who can be best approached apophatical-
ly, in contemplation, because God is silence. From the first centu-
ries Desert Fathers like Isaac the Syrian, or Evagrius Ponticus to
Pseudo-Dionysius, Symeon the New Theologian, Meister Eckhart,
John of the Cross, and many other inspired theologians and mys-
tics, all spoke about God in negative terms in order to demonstrate
the inability of any human capacity, be it reason, imagination, feel-
ing, intuition or anything else, to describe God appropriately. That
is why they portrayed God as darkness, silence, beyond being, as
God beyond God, hyper-substantial, the ‘cloud of unknowing’ and
so on. One of the most beautiful ‘definitions’ given to God, for
9 Meister Eckhart, The Essential Sermons, Commentaries, Treatises and De-

fense, Classics of Western Spirituality, Translation and Introduction by
Edmund Colledge and Bernard McGinn, Preface by Huston Smith, Pau-
list Press, New York, 1981, p. 207.
10 Jacques Ellul, The Humiliation of the Word, Translation by Joyce
Main Hanks, William B. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, Michigan, 1985.

example, comes from Meister Eckhart who wrote that God is a

Word at the end of silence. 11 The way John of the Cross put it is
also beautiful: ‘Silence is God’s first language.’ 12
One of the Church Fathers who, in his writings places a spe-
cial emphasis on God’s silence (sigè) was Ignatius of Antioch.
Speaking of the Incarnation of God’s Son, he explains that the di-
vine Logos came out of God’s silence or broke God’s silence 13 and
that the three great mysteries in Christian religion, the virginity of
Mary, her pregnancy and our Lord’s death on the cross were all
taking place in the silence of God. 14 In fact God created everything
in silence even though He spoke, and it is silence that makes all
things worthy. As the divine Logos participated in the act of crea-
tion, His creative power was manifested silently. In conclusion,
Ignatius advises that anyone who truly possesses the word of Christ
can listen to His silence, too, because the divine silence is just as
efficient as the divine word, and this is how one can advance on
the way to spiritual perfection. 15
St. Ignatius’ idea about breaking God’s silence is also present
in Pseudo-Dionysius. In his work The Celestial Hierarchy the great
mystic writes that one of the functions of the created order is to
make God come out of His silence. 16 Even the angels, who are part
of the created order, have the mission to reveal to us the unity and
the silence of God and to bring us to this unity and silence that
precede all multiplicity and expression. 17
This divine silence that preceded everything, including the
creation of the world, in which no creature dwells, is, in Jacob
11 In French: ‘Dieu est une parole à l’extremité du silence.’ This de-

scription is also attributed to St Isaac the Syrian (see:
www.cles.com/chronique/retrouver-la-vie-de-l-esprit).
12 See: www.diversejourneys.com/?tag=meister-eckhart.
13 Ignace d’Antioche, Polycarpe de Smyrne, Lettres; Martyre de Poly-
carpe, Introduction, Traduction et notes de P. Th. Camelot, O.P., Les Edi-

tions du Cerf, Paris, 1969, p. 87.
14 Ibid. p. 75.
15 Ibid. p. 71.
16 Denys L’Aréopagite, op. cit., p. LXX.
17 Ibid. p. xci.
TEODOR DAMIAN 477
Boehme’s understanding, paradoxically, accessible to the person

who strives diligently to hear God and be in communion with God.
In Boehme’s rendering of a conversation between a teacher and a
student we read this:
The student said to the master: ‘How may I come to the super-
sensual life so that I can see God and hear Him speak?’ The
master said: ‘If you can sweep up for a moment into that in
which no creature dwells, you can hear what God speaks.’ The
student said: ‘Is that near or far?’ The master said: ‘It is in you.
If you could be silent from all willing and thinking for one
hour, you would hear God’s inexpressible words.’ The student
said: ‘With what shall I see and hear God since He is above na-
ture and creature?’ The master said: ‘When you move silently,
then you are that which God was before nature and creature,
[that] out of which He created your nature and creature. Then
you will hear and see with that with which God saw and heard
in you before your own willing, seeing and hearing began.’ 18
The silence these authors describe is not something empty, it does
not indicate absence; on the contrary, it is a silence full of presence,
and just as God inhabits the divine silence, so is the ascetic sup-
posed to come to the level where, empty of all worldly preoccupa-
tions, he can immerse himself into this type of silence where he is
fully present and God is fully present.
THE USE OF SILENCE

If Plato is right when he asserts that man is built on conflicting
desires, on contradictions, then silence can be understood as an
instrument that brings to us a much needed inner harmony and
balance. According to the mystical Christian tradition, silence
brings a type of ineffable light in the soul, it clears the soul from
distractions or earthly thoughts, and it helps one reach the depth of
one’s soul and dwell there. In doing that, which allows one to rid
18 Jacob Boehme, The Way to Christ, Classics of Western Spirituality,

Translation and Introduction by Peter Erb, Preface by Winfried Zeller,
Paulist Press, New York, 1978, p. 171.
oneself of the strong human tendency to vain speech, and to listen

more effectively to God, silence sacralizes the human heart and
mind by helping us set ourselves apart. Holiness implies being set
apart for special use, in this case for doing the divine work of clear-
ing God’s image in the soul by fighting the corrupted, false ego.
Silence in the Orthodox ascetical tradition is also used as a
tool to attain dispassion (apatheia), detachment and purification.
According to Evagrius Ponticus, if one reaches total apatheia, im-
passibility, one becomes angelical, 19 or ready for the union with
God, through grace, which is theosis or deification, since silence
(sigè) and rest (hesychia) are characteristics of the mystical state that
lead to this ultimate purpose of one’s spiritual life. 20 Deification,
according to the doctrine of the uncreated energies promoted by
Palamite theology, is the most important goal for all human beings,
as it responds to the highest aspiration of man and is perfectly con-
sistent with the imago Dei theology. 21 It implies the constant longing
for God, and it is achieved only insofar as it is possible in this life. 22
THE RULE OF SILENCE

As a monastic, spiritual value, silence is regarded as leading to self-
knowledge, self-assessment and a more harmonious inner life. It
brings about nepsis, watchful, focused attention that helps eliminate
worldly thoughts, called by some mystics ‘thieves,’ and discard ver-
biage (polylogeia). In other words, in order to reach a mystical state
where one experiences the Ineffable 23 progressive elimination of
19 Evagre Le Pontique, Traité Pratique ou Le Moine, I, Sources Chré-

tiennes, Introduction par Antoine Guillaumont et Claire Guillaumont, Les
Editions du Cerf, Paris, 1971, p. 108.
20 Denys l’Aréopagite, op. cit., p. xi.
21 Theodor Damian, ‘A Few Considerations on the Uncreated Ener-
gies in St. Gregory Palamas’s Theology and His Continuity with the Pa-
tristic Tradition’ in The Patristic and Byzantine Review, vol. 15, Nrs. 1,2,3,
1996–1997, New York, pp. 105–106.
22 The Cloud of Unknowing, Classics of Western Spirituality, Edited and
with an Introduction by James Walsh, SJ, Paulist Press, New York, 1981,
p. 29.
23 Denys l’Aréopagite, op. cit., p. XXIX.
TEODOR DAMIAN 479
intelligible discourse is required, 24 because one is entering the di-

vine darkness, the divine unknowing in silence. As Pseudo-
Dionysius put it, man cannot meet God except in silence. 25
St. John Cassian praises the very strict rule of silence observed
by the Tabennesiote monks in Egypt and lists it among other char-
acteristics of the monastic life such as manual labor or reading, 26
while Ignatius of Antioch believed that silence has to be a main
feature of a bishop’s personality, even if he has administrative du-
ties, because it is silence that gives him the quality of representing
God, since God is silence and silence is the symbol of God. 27 As a
general rule Ignatius advised that it is better to be silent and be,
than speaking and not being, 28 which indicates how crucially im-
portant silence was for the bishop of Antioch who thus gave it an
existential dimension.
The monastics learn how to be silent even when they are talk-
ing, praying, working or singing. Their style of chanting might have
influenced liturgical Byzantine music where some of the prayers are
chanted in a way that not only shows how transparent silence is
therein, but also induces and introduces the participant believer to
its experience; as is the case with the cherubic hymn or the tropari-
on chanted during the sanctification of the offering in the divine
liturgy. Silence is also liturgically practiced, with great effect in that
it helps internalize the prayers, in the Roman-Catholic and
Protestant traditions where, during the liturgy, at a certain point
there is a pause where no words are spoken or sung. There are
many beautiful stories about silence, in terms of how it was ob-
served by monks or what its role was and how important it was for
them. One such tells about Abba Pambo. It is said that one day
Theophilus, bishop of Alexandria, went to Sketis (in Egypt) to visit
Abba Pambo. Some monks told Pambo: ‘Say a word to the bishop
24 Ibid., p. xxxviii.
25 Ibid., p. xxix.
26 Jean Cassien, Institutions Cénobitiques, Sources Chrétiennes, Intro-
duction, Traductions et notes par Jean-Claude Guy, Editions du Cerf,

Paris, 1965, pp. 137; 145.
27 Ignace d’Antioche, op. cit., pp. 38, 63.
28 Ibid. p. 71.
so his soul can be edified by this place’, to which the old man re-
plied: ‘If he is not edified by my silence, there is no hope that he
will be edified by my words.’ 29
SILENCE AND CONTEMPLATION

There is the physical world that reveals itself to us phenomenologi-
cally, and there is a noumenal world waiting to be discovered. And
just as there are signs of the time that one must learn to read in
order to decipher some of the Eschaton’s mysteries, (Mt. 24. 3–33),
so also is there the phenomenal world that stands as a sign of the
world beyond, which is the real home we are all called to; just as
the prodigal son was awaited by his father to come home from the
strange world he chose to go to. The perception of this ‘home,’ our
authentic world that we have been made for, is achieved through
contemplation, which is a non-verbal prayer or reflection or an
attempt to see God’s presence in any given thing in the created
order, and also an attempt to rid the mind of any thought whatso-
ever. Anoushka von Heuer put it beautifully: ‘contemplation repat-
riates the soul into being.’ 30 The contemplation of the divine purity,
which implies emptying oneself of anything that occupies the inner
space which needs to be filled with the divine presence only, can be
achieved only in silence. 31 One common metaphor the monastics
use to explain contemplation is that of clear water. If you want to
see your face in the water, it has to be still and clear. If it is trou-
bled, for the soul can be troubled by alien thoughts, you can’t see
clearly. In other words, if one wants to see God, one’s mind has to
be filled with God’s presence exclusively. However, according to
one medieval author, this attempt is taking place in the silence of a
paradoxical darkness:
For when you first begin to undertake it, all that you find is
darkness, a sort of cloud of unknowing; you cannot tell what it
is, except that you experience in your will a simple reaching out
29See, www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aophthegmata_Patrum.
30Anoushka von Heuer, Le huitième jour ou La dette d’Adam, Jean-Luc
de Rougemont Editeur, Genève, 1980, p. 38.
31 Jean Cassien, op. cit. p. 389.
TEODOR DAMIAN 481
to God. This darkness and cloud is always between you and

your God […] so, set yourself in this darkness […] for if you
are to experience Him or to see Him at all, insofar as it is pos-
sible here, it must always be in this cloud and in this
ness 32
We are given an explanation for this terminology: ‘Darkness is a
privation of knowing; whatever you have forgotten or do not know
is dark to you.’ ‘That which is between you and your God is
termed, not a cloud of the air, but a cloud of the unknowing. 33
There are several types of contemplation, and according to Symeon
the New Theologian, the highest of all is that mediated by ‘words
without sound’ when one wants to speak but is speechless. 34
Through such an experience a person can arrive at the level where
they can see the divine light with physical eyes, 35 just like those
who realized such an achievement in the Palamite hesychastic tradi-
tion. Silence, which brings about liberation of the mind, is the nec-
essary platform for contemplation of both created things, and of
the ideas of the created things, and, in order to achieve it, there is
an entire process that the mystic has to go through which implies
personal effort. St. Maximus the Confessor explains this process as
follows:
When the mind is completely freed from the passions, it jour-
neys straight ahead to the contemplation of created things and
makes its way to the knowledge of the Holy Trinity. When the
mind is pure and takes on ideas of things, it is moved to a spir-
itual contemplation. But when it has become impure by care-
32 The Cloud of Unknowing, pp. 120–121.

33 Ibid. p. 128.
34 Syméon Le Nouveau Théologien, Traités Théologiques et Ethiques (I),
Sources Chrétiennes, Introduction, Texte critique, Traduction et notes par

Jean Darrouzès, Les Editions du Cerf, Paris, 1966, p. 401.
35 Vasile Borca, ‘Neoisihasmul de la Lainici,’ [in Romanian] in Famil-
ia română, An 14, Nr. 3 (50), Septembrie 2013, Baia Mare, p. 16.

lessness, it imagines mere ideas of other things, so that receiv-

ing human ideas it turns back to shameful and evil thoughts. 36
Purity of mind, which is equivalent to the silence of the mind, silen-
tium mentis, implies that emptying of worldly thoughts and this indi-
cates a new type of inner dynamics, like a mental re-programming
which is obtained through constant exercise and which leads to a
new existential condition, to the formation of a different kind of
consciousness and perception. This is a self-transcending experi-
ence that shows a re-centering of the self. The common self, full of
worries, that apparently are important but in fact prove to be ines-
sential, and that together constitute its center, by virtue of becom-
ing empty, becomes also ‘lighter’ and thus begins to perceive extra-
sensorially the divine; to be filled by it and have it as the new inner
center.
The Divine Liturgy in the Orthodox tradition represents a
significant exercise in this sense, because it helps the participant
believer to re-center him or herself in God. This is done through
different means, one of which is prayer as a general context, and in
particular, prayer that is repeated cyclically, such as ‘Lord have
mercy.’ Also during the cherubimic hymn the believer is exhorted
to leave behind every worldly worry, to empty the mind in order to
contemplate silently the mystery of the transformation of the Eu-
charistic offering. It is only when the mind is completely empty
that one offers oneself to be completely inhabited by God, as St.
Paul testified: ‘From now on it is no longer I that live, but it is
Christ who lives in me’ (Galatians 2. 20). This kind of inhabitation
indicates an authentic personal union with God, union (henosis)
which is the third level of Christian perfection after purification
and illumination. Many mystics call this union theosis.
The need to leave behind every worldly worry is emphasized
by St. Ephrem the Syrian as well, in his beautiful prayer used in
liturgical services of Great Lent: Lord and Master of my life, take away
36 Maximus Confessor, Selected Writings, The Classics of Western

Spirituality, Translation and notes by George C. Berthold, Introduction by
Jaroslav Pelikan, Preface by Irenee-Herni Dalmais, OP, Paulist Press, New
York, 1985, p. 45.
TEODOR DAMIAN 483
from me the spirit of sloth, faint-heartedness (meddling or idle curiosity or in-

quisitiveness – periergeias), lust of power and idle talk… Of course, be-
yond the prayer that God help in this sense, the monk needs to
participate by using diakrisis, discernment of spirits, of thoughts, in
order to make sure he eliminates the mental ‘thieves.’ Our many
worries, if not left behind, risk becoming idols, and the idols, in
turn, monsters. 37 The theological idea behind the freedom from
many worries is that these worries lead to the reification of the
mind, to a distortion of the imago Dei in man. The elimination of
these worries then is part of the process of man’s re-modeling, res-
toration in Christ according to God’s image. Jesus warns about this
in Jn.14.1: Do not let not your hearts be troubled; trust in God, trust also in
me.
CONCLUSION
Silence in the Christian monastic tradition, therefore, is a complex
phenomenon that leads to inner transformation to the point where
one’s life becomes authentically theocentric. It is transcendence
that gives meaning to human existence; and silence (and after it
contemplation), are efficient tools for one’s opening and advance-
ment towards it. Cultivating silence is like weeding the land of the
soul in order to prepare it for the Word of God which, once fallen
on good fertile ground, will produce hundredfold fruit (Lk. 8. 15).
Through their practice of silence with all its implications, and the
theology it is based on, the monastics are effectively proposing a
new definition of man, a revision of our understanding of who we
really are, of our original vocation and destiny, in other words, they
propose a radically new anthropology, 38 all the more important
since ascetic practices are not reserved exclusively to those who
withdraw from the world but are meant for anyone in the world
37 A. Heschel, Who is Man?, Stamford University Press, Stanford,

CA, 1965, p. 86.
38 Theodor Damian, Theological and Spiritual Dimensions of Icons according
to St. Theodore of Studion, The Edwin Mellen Press, Lewiston, New York,
2002, pp. 269–270.
who wants to internalize monasticism and live a holy life dedicated

to God and to the service of others.
THE ‘MYSTICAL MUNDANE’ IN FR. NIKON
OF KAROULIA’S LETTERS TO GERALD
PALMER
CHRISTOPHER D. L. JOHNSON
Today the Philokalia is widely known as one of the primary texts

relating to Orthodox spiritual life, asceticism, and prayer. It can be
found at any number of bookstores and is often read even by those
far removed from the Orthodox Church or even from Christianity.
On the other hand, next to nothing is known of the story behind
the English translation of the Philokalia. One of the text’s transla-
tors, Metropolitan Kallistos Ware, has written several articles that
address aspects of this story (1994, 2008). Beyond a few short, scat-
tered references elsewhere, 1 these are the only sources one can find
on the subject. Little is known of the Philokalia’s editor, Gerald Eu-
stace Howell Palmer, and even less is known of his spiritual father
and the monastic inspiration behind Palmer’s translation project,
Fr. Nikon Strandtman. Palmer, though playing a very public role in
politics earlier in his life, left none of his own writings other than a
one-page description of silence on Mount Athos in a 1968 issue of
Holy Transfiguration’s Orthodox Life and three books on consulta-
tion and co-operation in the British Commonwealth from the
1930s and 1940s. In Ware’s articles on Palmer, he relies on what
1 Examples of such sources on Fr. Nikon Strandtman are Bol-

shakoff, 2001; Christensen, 2010; Cavarnos, 1953, 1959, 1973, 1997; Dor-
en, 1961a, 1961b, 1964; Kaestner, 1963; Karambelas, 1987; Maloney
1963a, 1963b.
485
486 FR. NIKON OF KAROULIA’S LETTERS TO GERALD PALMER
Palmer had told him in personal conversations and states that he

knows of no written account of his life (2008: 144, note 6). The
same elusiveness can be said to describe Fr. Nikon, who has re-
mained the mysterious figure who inspired the English translation
of the Philokalia and is seen in a single photograph in Graham
Speake’s Renewal in Paradise. It seemed as if he would only be indi-
rectly known by his influence on Palmer and for a single quote,
which was often repeated by Palmer and quoted elsewhere: ‘Here
[on Athos] every stone breathes prayer’ (2008: 144). Fortunately for
posterity, Palmer kept meticulous records of his correspondence.
Much of what has survived of this material was discovered during a
research trip in England over the summer of 2013. As a result,
many of the missing pieces of the story behind the English Philo-
kalia will now become available to help interested scholars put to-
gether a more complete picture of this fascinating story.
This chapter will focus on the figure of Fr. Nikon as discerned
in his letters to Gerald Palmer from 1948 until Fr. Nikon’s death in
1963, in Palmer’s journal of his first visit to Athos in 1948, and in
several other contemporary sources. While much remains to be
gleaned from these sources, the primary aim of this chapter is to
show Fr. Nikon’s life as an example of what could be called the
‘mystical mundane’. This concept suggests that if the mystical can
be considered hidden, it is often hidden in plain sight among life’s
ordinary daily duties and activities. In these sources, Fr. Nikon is
shown to have one foot on earth and the other in the heavens and
his letters alternate (often within a single letter) between profound
spiritual advice, expressions of personal unworthiness and love,
descriptions of the weather and everyday life in Karoulia, outstand-
ing humor, and desperate requests for material aid and visitors.
Often our only interactions with ascetic hermits take place in the
realm of hagiographic stories of the miraculous or in the form of
advice on profound spiritual matters. Rarely do we get a glimpse
into the everyday frustrations and quirks that can add up to a life of
solitary holiness. More traditional hagiography rarely gives such
glimpses, though perhaps Pavel Florensky’s Salt of the Earth could
be considered an unconventional modern exception.
These letters ultimately challenge the common hard and fast
distinction between ‘this-worldly’ and ‘other-worldly’ and, rather
than detracting from Fr. Nikon’s saintliness, reveal a very human
figure in a lifelong struggle for holiness who was often seen by oth-
CHRISTOPHER D. L. JOHNSON 487
ers as especially grace-filled. Recently, the otherworldly image of

the saint has been challenged by scholars such as Michael Plekon in
his works Hidden Holiness and Saints As They Really Are: Voices of Ho-
liness in Our Time and in the extremely popular Everyday Saints and
Other Stories by Archimandrite Tikhon Shevkunov. Fr. Nikon’s let-
ters continue this recent shift and reveal a very human figure who
struggled with sorrow, loneliness, poor health, and poverty but
who was also profoundly joyous, gregarious, indomitable, humor-
ous, and the inspiration for what was to become one of the most
influential Orthodox texts in the Anglophone world.
First it is necessary to give a brief sketch of who Gerald Palm-
er and Fr. Nikon were and how it was that they met. Gerald Eu-
stace Howell Palmer was born in 1902 as heir of the successful
English cookie manufacturer, Huntley and Palmer, in Reading,
England. Palmer decided to go into politics rather than take over
the family business and served as the Conservative M.P. for Win-
chester from 1935–1945. He was a spiritual seeker and disciple of
P.D. Ouspensky during part of this time. Before Ouspensky’s
death in 1947, his teacher had mentioned the use of the Jesus Pray-
er as one authentic spiritual path, which was affirmed by Ouspen-
sky’s personal secretary Evgeniya Kadloubovsky as a practice that
was still in use on Mount Athos. Ouspensky asked the two to em-
bark on a translation of parts of the Philokalia. 2 After his teacher’s
death, Palmer traveled to Athos to learn more about this prayer
and to meet several monks, one of whom was Fr. Nikon, a Russian
hermit living in the ‘terrible Karoulia’.
This visit and contact with Fr. Nikon was to have a profound,
though not immediate, effect on him and, through his influence,
many others. As Palmer’s colleague Ware says, the ‘immense and
far-reaching influence throughout the English-speaking world [of
the Philokalia] can be traced back to a single source: Gerald Palm-
er’s visit to the Holy Mountain in May 1948 and his providential
encounter with Fr. Nikon’ (1994: 26). Palmer soon overcame initial
doubts and hesitations following this trip and was chrismated as an
2 The role of Ouspensky in Palmer’s translation is clear, but details

of his influence require further research, which I hope to pursue in the
near future.
Orthodox Christian in London in 1950. He was never to marry and

neither did his sister Elizabeth, who also converted to Orthodoxy
and played a part in early translations efforts of Orthodox texts
into English. In fact, Gerald Palmer considered becoming a monk
himself on the Holy Mountain. While he didn’t take this step, he
did return there on pilgrimage at least once a year until his death in
1984 at his family estate at Bussock Mayne near Reading.
After his conversion in 1950, Palmer was to visit Fr. Nikon
once a year or more until the monk’s death on September 20, 1963;
this in addition to their lengthy correspondence. Palmer and Fr.
Nikon wrote hundreds of letters and postcards to each other be-
tween 1948 to 1963, many of which have survived. When Fr. Ni-
kon died, Palmer was to continue visiting Karoulia and other loca-
tions in the southern part of the Athonite peninsula until the end
of his own life on February 7, 1984. Palmer stayed with other Rus-
sian monks at Karoulia, such as Fr. Seraphim and Fr. Nikodim, and
with the Greek iconographer Fr. Elias at Great St. Anne’s Skete
until he was unable to make the steep climb to Karoulia. While Fr.
Nikon was his first spiritual father, after his death Palmer still felt
compelled to visit Athos for its holy atmosphere and other holy
inhabitants. From the 1970s on, he stayed at nearby Grigoriou
Monastery, which was easier to access by boat. The abbot of this
monastery, Fr. George, urged Palmer to consider staying at the
monastery for the rest of his life as a tonsured monk. As his close
friend, Ware suggested to Palmer that his vocation seemed to be ‘in
the world’ rather than at a monastery. 3 While Palmer considered
this invitation, he ultimately chose to spend his last years at his
family estate Bussock Mayne near Reading. Yet Ware notes Palm-
er’s ‘sense of the nearness of the Eternal in every part of the
Mountain’ and his overwhelming love for the Mountain which was
such ‘that he continued to travel there even when severely crippled;
his last two visits had to be made on crutches’ (Ware 2008).
Fr. Nikon Strandtman was born in Gradno, Belarus, having as
his godfather none other than Tsar Alexander II and serving as
Page at the time of Nicholas’s coronation. His father was a general
3This episode was related in a personal conversation with Bishop

Ware (2013).
of the Tsar’s household and his brother was later the Russian am-
bassador to Serbia. He was also a big game hunter and decorated
veteran of three wars, including the Russo-Japanese War, leading a
Regiment as a Colonel on the First World War front. Before be-
coming a monk he had been a member of the Indian branch of the
Theosophical Society in St. Petersburg and later met Krishnamurti
in 1931 but lost all respect for his teachings when, asking about the
role of love, he was told that ‘love was a degradation and that the
mind was the highest thing.’ 4 In 1920, after the First World War,
Fr. Nikon was living in Belgrade and followed up on a rumor that
the Tsar was still alive. When his hopes were dashed he retreated to
a monastery on the coast of Yugoslavia, which he then recognized
from a childhood dream he had of himself as a monk there. He
later moved to the Cell of St. John Chrysostom near Karyes on
Mount Athos, raised funds in England and the U.S. from 1929–
1934 and eventually moved to Karoulia in 1941 where he lived near
a community of six other Russians. This is where Palmer met him
in 1948 at age 72. Palmer was to visit him at least once a year until
Fr. Nikon’s death in 1963 and then continue visiting Athos until his
own death in 1984. Palmer was lucky to find Fr. Nikon when and
where he did both because the monk rarely left Karoulia and be-
cause he was one of the few monks of his kind left on Athos. Syd-
ney Loch, the Scottish humanitarian and author, mentions him in
his account of Athos:
Father Nikon, charming, educated, a Russian, and once a man
of the world, survives there [in Karoulia] in his chapel cell, ly-
ing down to sleep with a stone for a pillow and the skulls of
seventeen of his predecessors staring at him from a shelf.
There he shed his association with courts and kings, and
gained an ease of soul that shines from him. He is possibly the
last of the educated solitaries left on the Mountain, and to
spend an hour or two in his company is something out of this
4 All quotes without citations are from the unpublished materials of

Gerald Palmer, either journals or correspondence. I have the Eling Trust
to thank for access to these materials.
world. Only the stout-hearted can face the chains leadings

down to his eyrie. 5
Ware gives a similar description of this hermit with a very cosmo-
politan background and explains how this was to help Palmer’s
seeking:
Fr. Nikon was an altogether unusual kind of Athonite monk.
He was of noble birth, well educated, with a startling and
sometimes caustic wit … Despite his eremitic seclusion, Fr.
Nikon continued to take a lively interest in the outside world
… At the same time Fr. Nikon was a strict ascetic, devoted to
the Jesus Prayer and profoundly rooted in the Hesychast tradi-
tion of the Philokalia … In the person of Fr. Nikon, Palmer
had found the one Athonite monk who was qualified par ex-
cellence to assist him with his spiritual quest … his wide expe-
rience of the world before entering the monastic life enabled
Fr. Nikon to understand Palmer’s social and cultural milieu. 6
Fr. Nikon’s letters to Gerald Palmer make clear that, while Fr. Ni-
kon lived a very solitary life, he also maintained lifelong connec-
tions to many Russian nobles, pilgrims, and other friends through
their visits to his cell, his periodic trips to mainland Greece, the
United States, and other countries, and primarily through his writ-
ten correspondence. As with the slightly earlier example of St.
Theophan the Recluse and many other such figures going back to
St. Antony the Great, pilgrimage and written correspondence can
often link solitaries in complex and powerful ways to the world
outside their cells, making theirs a very qualified kind of solitari-
ness. Fr. Nikon may have been a quasi-solitary but his life was filled
with the virtual presence and mutual assistance of his many friends:
he advised them and kept them in his prayers while they offered
gifts, financial assistance, companionship and a degree of connec-
tion to the world outside his remote hut. His letters provide an un-
usual insight into the life of a rigorous ascetic and from them we
5 Loch 1957: 220.

6 Ware 2008: 146–7.
find that his links to the world are not as few as might be suspect-
ed.
This and Fr. Nikon’s multilingual cosmopolitanism tend to
complicate the all too common assumptions that hermits are uned-
ucated or illiterate, completely otherworldly, and not interested or
connected to anyone or anything in the outside world. There are
many references to Russian Duchesses and Princesses in his letters
and it is clear that he knew and kept in touch with many royals who
escaped after the October Revolution. Among his many visitors
were David Balfour, Edward Howell whose incredible survival sto-
ry was recorded in the book Escape to Live, humanitarian and author
Sydney Loch, theologian Boris Bobrinskoy, and Swiss layman Rene
Bruschweiler, who later became Elder Symeon at the Orthodox
monastery in Essex founded by Elder Sophrony Sakharov. While
Fr. Nikon’s life of luxury was now behind him, Palmer’s journal
recounts the hermit fondly describing what were once his favorite
hotels and champagnes and the pastimes of his ‘previous life’, such
as big game hunting.
As expected in letters to a serious seeker interested in the Je-
sus Prayer, Fr. Nikon instructs Palmer on how to practice this
prayer, giving him details on physical posture and on inner struggle:
(1) Before beginning my prayers, I stand awhile silent, pushing
every idea aside, then I say to myself ‘Attention,’ after which I
say ‘In the name of the Father and Son and the Holy Ghost.
Amen,’ and then I begin my prayers. In time, this ‘Attention’
will be as a whip to cheer me up. (2) To say the prayers slightly
loudly or silently depends of the circumstances. Better for the
beginner to say them slightly loud, the eyes half shut. (3) In the
beginning, keep your attention on the words themselves – the
development will come. (4) Better to leave the ideas related to
the heart for the future and do not think about them at all, as
you say. By and by, accustom yourself to the Prayer every-
where and at every time and never stop it if it goes on by itself.
Fr. Nikon also gives more general advice on the spiritual life:
You have two forces to help you on: one most mighty and the
other a meek whisper, but this must and will develop. The first
is the Supreme Help through your Holy Guardian Angel and
the second is your so minuscule and weak will. And you have
two very strong but not mighty adversaries: the enemy of hu-
manity and yourself with all the countless affinities and
tendencies, abstract and physical, the existence of which you
never even suspected. There are many unknown monsters hid-
ing in the deepest recesses of the bottomless abysses of our
souls.
To give Palmer encouragement in the struggle for prayer of the
heart, Fr. Nikon admits: ‘I was in a monastery since 1921 and only
in the first year of the 1940s was it given me to have a practical
notion of the heart. All will come in time.’ Yet, while insisting on
the purity of mind and purity of life that is require for prayer of the
heart, Fr. Nikon gives supreme authority to the divine initiative in
the encounter: ‘Make the Prayer at home in your mind, never losing
sight that it is exclusively a Gift of the Almighty, that man neither
had, has, nor will ever have, the possibility to achieve it by his own
efforts and actions.’
On several occasions, Fr. Nikon gives Palmer life advice and
mentions the subject of marriage. Initially he says: ‘About the ques-
tion of marriage, let me think it over. Principally, I do not think it
will be wrong, but the effect on the prayer is to be thought of.’ In a
subsequent letter he mentions a passage from Gregory Palamas in
the Philokalia that describes a certain Constantine who ‘was married
and had children and was very active with the state and his particu-
lar affairs and duties.’ As mentioned earlier, Palmer never married
and later thought about becoming a monk at Grigoriou Monastery
but eventually decided not to, with the encouragement of Metro-
politan Ware, who told him he thought Palmer’s vocation was in
the world. The relationship between Palmer and Fr. Nikon also
occasionally shows that the relationship between spiritual father
and disciple is not always one of unquestioning obedience, especial-
ly in its first stages. In Palmer’s journal from his first visit to Athos
in 1948, he reveals his sense of deep gratitude and awe for Fr. Ni-
kon, but also the tensions and hesitations that resulted from their
originally divergent worldviews:
A certain strain has now entered the position with Father Ni-
kon as was, I suppose, inevitable … he spoke too today of the
impossibility of my keeping promises or resolutions, and of the
differences of outlook between West European thought and
Orthodoxy. What it all seems to come to is that I am absolute-
ly set in my antipathy to the outward religious forms, crossings

and bowings, kissings etc. which go against my Quaker blood
horribly … This morning pressure was mounting and I really
feel quite glad of a day or two alone. … I think there will be
enough common ground for a lasting friendship on a limited
basis – but not on the one he has clearly begun to hope for.
The fact that he should have done so has also rather shaken
my view of his level.
This was written at a time when Palmer was still influenced by
Ouspensky, though he would soon become an Orthodox Christian.
Less than two years later, Palmer seems to have more or less com-
pletely overcome his aversion to such ‘exoteric’ religious practices:
he was baptized at a London parish in 1950.
Fr. Nikon also occasionally mentions the initial translations
Palmer was working on with Evgeniya Kadloubovsky. Palmer asks
Fr. Nikon to write a foreword to Writings from the Philokalia on the
Prayer of the Heart, which was published in 1951. Fr. Nikon is reluc-
tant and expresses doubts about being up to such an important
task:
About the question of the introduction, I am not fixed at all. I
have no capacity or cleverness to write an introduction of such
importance and I feel myself absolutely unworthy that my
name could be mentioned in connection with the so blessed
influence your devoted work could have in the future. I also
have not the courage nor the daring to do it. In first instant, I
was ready to try and I even I wrote down some ideas but,
thinking it over, grave hesitations arose in my mind.
Eventually Fr. Nikon relented and sent in materials for a foreword
but the text he originally sent is very much unlike the published
version. It seems Palmer edited the original piece significantly.
Fr. Nikon also gives more general advice on translation,
stressing the seriousness of Palmer’s project:
You mention, dear, your interest in the huge responsibility of
working on the very important translation. Do not lose sight
that the books were written when the whole world was Ortho-
dox, and while working on them, you breathe, you inhale the
purest essence of genuine Christianity. My dear Brother Ger-
ald, you ask me how would I view the idea of publishing what
you translate. There can be no hesitation to tell you that all my

wishes of success are with you, but only with one express con-
dition: that the translation is absolutely correct, conforming to
the text with the most careful observance of the most delicate
nuances, shades of abstract ideology, and expression … the
translation is a very, very serious responsibility.
One might expect that the main subject of Fr. Nikon’s letters to
Palmer would be on the publication of the Philokalia. Though he
does give such advice in several letters, most of his letters are not
directly concerned with this matter at all. In fact, many of them do
not have content that could be considered ‘spiritual guidance’ in
the strict sense, though Fr. Nikon certainly does fill the role of spir-
itual guide for Palmer. Instead most deal with the difficulties of
living in Karoulia, the needs of his small community, accounts and
postcards of his travels, and messages to give greetings to mutual
friends. When spiritual guidance does come up, it is typically at the
end of a letter after more practical concerns have been covered.
Additionally, much of the spiritual instruction is found in the first
few years of letters before Gerald became George at his chrisma-
tion. At this point, the letters assume a much more casual tone and
deal mostly with seemingly ‘mundane’ matters, though I do not
believe this indicates that his instruction has come to an end. In-
stead, it seems that when the formal instruction has ended, the
equally important lived instruction begins.
As can be expected for someone living in Fr. Nikon’s primi-
tive conditions in Karoulia, the weather is often a topic of conver-
sation. While many stylites and ascetics are portrayed struggling
against nearly insurmountable natural conditions, rarely do readers
imagine them complaining about, and needing commiseration for,
their battles with the elements. His letters are filled with descrip-
tions of the weather and occasional emergencies such as fires and
floods are described in detail. Fr. Nikon often paints a vivid picture
of the weather on Karoulia: ‘The sky is gloomy; the sea is wild, ha-
zy; large drops are falling; the dear fig tree before my window is
losing its last, quite yellow, old leaves; decidedly the major chord of
a winter symphony.’ On a flight from Athens to Salonica, Fr. Ni-
kon depicts clouds that: ‘were like stalagmites towering into the
blue sky, white and pink with reflections of blue from the sky and
sea. It was marvelous.’ This keen eye for beauty is noted in Palm-
er’s journal and its description of his first walk with Fr. Nikon who
rarely left his cell: ‘He saw every flower, every stone, every person
and every building with fresh eyes and infinite delight.’
Often Fr. Nikon’s letters mention the various health condi-
tions he was struggling with, from a foot abscess, to repeated falls,
to a mangled hand. He also complains of being lonely and even
seems to question his resolve to keep up his spiritual life in Karou-
lia but always ends with a statement about his trust in God’s will.
Increasingly, he speaks of his physical weakness and old age as the
letters progress. Yet in many of the same letters he reflects on the
spiritual significance of humorous daily occurrences:
These last days I had a mouse in my cell. Nothing was safe
from it. It was a perpetual nuisance, but she was very interest-
ed in the tick-tock of the watch on my window, as if inquiring
‘what can that strange creature be and who made it?’ (as so
many of us poor, dear humans looking and even studying the
munificence of God’s creations ask so many strange questions
and accompany them with no less barbarous deductions and
conclusions). What an ocean of difficulties to find the Way. It
is a proof of our utter impurity.
We learn of the many liturgies he struggled to celebrate in his old
age but just as often we hear about the food he is preparing such as
the beans he occasionally burns. Many times he requests medica-
tion, insecticide, or new shoes to be sent, giving us an indication of
his practical needs and daily struggles. Some of the most entertain-
ing moments of the letters are requests for National Geographic mag-
azines and science fiction books, such as Inhabited Universe and The
Flying Saucer Pilgrimage, which seem to be his favorite genre. These
requests grew especially during his later years when he was less able
to write and travel and he considered these gifts to be one of his
primary links to the outside world.
In addition to his correspondence with Fr. Nikon, Palmer also
kept a brief letter from Fr. Nikon’s neighbor hermit, Fr. Seraphim,
dated September 23, 1963, which informed him of Fr. Nikon’s
‘good, peaceful’ passing on September 20 and his burial on Sep-
tember 21st. The brevity of this simple letter stands in contrast with
the complex character it describes. As Palmer says in his journal: ‘It
would be impossible for me to give an exact impression of this
man, but his force is undeniable.’ Fr. Nikon is revealed in his letters
as a man of incredible tenacity, fervent prayer, with an overwhelm-

ing trust in God, as a solitary who loved the silence of Karoulia but
also cherished letters and visits from friends. His lasting influence
on Gerald Palmer’s conversion and subsequent life, and through
Palmer’s translations, on the entire English-speaking Orthodox
world is a testimony to his charisma and sanctity. At the same time,
his letters to Palmer also reveal him as profoundly human, as
someone who was often lonely and exhausted and had anxieties
and circumstances ‘rushing at his throat’ just like the rest of us,
even in his relative isolation.
This by no means detracts from the holiness that also per-
vades his letters, but rather makes this ideal more comprehensible
to the reader and makes Fr. Nikon into a more approachable figure
who, by his wonderful eccentricity, shows that holiness is often
hidden in the mundane. When traveling with Fr. Nikon, Palmer
said: ‘It was clear that he was regarded by people with whom he
came in contact as someone possessing quite unusual qualities.’
Perhaps it is best to end with excerpts from Palmer’s first impres-
sion of some of these qualities from his journal, an impression that
was to leave a mark on Palmer and was later to grow into a lifelong
relationship and a monumental publishing project:
His surroundings are utterly poor. The roof of his bedroom
does not leak, but the remainder of the building must certainly
does. He eats but once a day – beans and bread, and I suppose
sometimes oil – drinks nothing but water. His description was
‘we are quite wild’ … He has basically no books, but the keen-
est interest in everything, and full of fun and amusement. He
confessed that learning not to be clean when he first became a
monk was one of his hardest tasks … Father Nikon is genuine
… His face is nearer what I imagine a Saint’s to be than I can
remember seeing. … Really this man frightens me … he con-
cerns himself primarily in pursuit of his own development with
a singleness of purpose and a discipline which I have met no-
where. He is at the same time very humorous, kindly and genu-
inely concerned as to why God has sent me … To be in the
presence of such a person is certainly an experience of a very
particular character.
Monastic Rooftops Mount Athos
BIBLIOGRAPHY
S. Bolshakoff Wisdom for the Journey: Conversations with
Spiritual Fathers of the Christian East. New
York: Alba House, 2001.
D. Christensen Father Seraphim Rose: His Life and Works.
Platina, CA: St. Herman of Alaska Brother-
hood, 2010.
C. Cavarnos Nikon the Hagiorite. Κιβωτός (Ark) 19 (1953):
260–262.
——— Anchored in God: an inside account of life, art,
and thought on the Holy Mountain of Athos.
Athens: Astir, 1959.
——— The Holy Mountain. Belmont, MA: Institute
for Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies,
1973.
——— Blessed Hermit Philaretos of the Holy Moun-
tain. Modern Orthodox Saints 12, Belmont,
MA: Institute for Byzantine and Modern Greek
Studies, 1997.
DM Doren ‘Vision from the Past: The Cliff Dwellers on
Mount Athos.’ Massena Observer, November
21, 1961, 6.
——— ‘Letters from Europe: Doren Meets ‘The Last

of the Russians’.’ Massena Observer, Decem-
ber 5, 1961, 6.
——— ‘Hiking the Holy Mountain.’ The Saturday Re-
view, March 14, 1964. 44–46, 137–139.
E Kaestner Mount Athos: The Call from Sleep. London:
Faber and Faber, 1963.
C Karambelas Recollections of Mount Athos. Brookline, MA:
Holy Cross Orthodox Press, 1987.
G A Maloney ‘Monks on Mount Athos Differ on Possibility
of Unity.’ Catholic Northwest Progress, Janu-
ary 11, 1963, p. 2.
——— ‘A Priest Visits Haven of Orthodox Monks,’
Catholic Northwest Progress, January 18, 1963.
P. 2.
M Plekon Hidden Holiness. South Bend, IN: University
of Notre Dame Press, 2009.
——— Saints As They Really Are: Voices of Holiness
in Our Time. South Bend, IN: University of
Notre Dame Press, 2012.
T Shevnukov Everyday Saints and Other Stories. Dallas, TX:
Pokrov Publications, 2012.
K Ware ‘Gerald Palmer, the Philokalia, and the Holy
Mountain.’ The Friends of Mount Athos, Au-
thorized Reprint from the Annual Report,
1994, 23–29.
——— ‘Two British Pilgrims to the Holy Mountain:
Gerald Palmer and Philip Sherrard.’ In Monas-
tic Magnet: Roads to and from Athos, edited
by René Gothóni and Graham Speake, 143–
157. Bern: Peter Lang, 2008.
PURIFYING THE HEART IN ORDER TO
SEE: PRAXIS AND PERCEPTION IN
DOSTOEVSKY’S B ROTHERS
KARAMAZOV
TEA JANKOVIC
Dostoevsky was interested in the artistic challenge of depicting ho-
liness. We know from his personal letters 1 that he considered this
task an important one, one he felt was being ignored by contempo-
rary literature. The figure of Elder Zosima in Brothers Karamazov is
perhaps the most prominent example of a holy literary character.
He is a monk and the novel thus indirectly depicts the monastic life
as a particular manner of striving for holiness. Yet Zosima’s holi-
ness is not described as a static set of characteristics he had ac-
quired over the years. Rather, it is shown in his increasingly refined
perception – in his sensitivity to beauty and his almost supernatural
ability to read people. The subchapter on Elder Zosima’s homilies
starts with the question ‘What is a monk?’ He contrasts monks with
people of the world who strive to fulfill their insatiable needs:
Obedience, fasting, and prayer are laughed at, yet they alone
constitute the way to real true freedom: I cut away my super-
1 Cf. Dostoevsky’s letters on this topic (written in 1870 to Maikov

and Katkov) cited by Joseph Frank in The Mantle and the Prophet, 1871–
1881, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002, 455–57, as well as Sven
Linnér in Elder Zosima in the Brothers Karamazov. A study in the mimesis of vir-
tue. Stockholm Studies in Russian Literature. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell
International, 1975, Chapter I.
499
500 DOSTOEVSKY’S BROTHERS KARAMAZOV
fluous and unnecessary needs, through obedience I humble

and chasten my vain and proud will, and thereby, with God’s
help, attain freedom of spirit, and with that spiritual rejoicing!
Which of the two is more capable of upholding and serving a
great idea – the isolated rich man or one who is liberated from
the tyranny of things and habits? 2
He recommends the practice of active love, as opposed to any the-
oretical piece of knowledge. The love of others is closely related to
smirenie, the conquering of oneself that is the measure of spiritual
development in Orthodox practice. It is the goal of ascetic practice
for both monks and laity. Zosima addresses this recommendation
to everybody, but it is a monk that is the most free to pursue it. He
says, ‘A loving humility (smirenie) is a terrible power, the most pow-
erful of all, nothing compares to it.’ 3
Apart from achieving perfect freedom, Zosima sees the world
and other people more clearly towards the end of his life, through
the practice of active love. He succeeds in loving others by means of
ascesis: obedience and fasting which lead to smirenie. By continually
combating passions that blind him, he sees others’ needs more
clearly and is able to love them in an appropriate way. His character
development reveals how the lifetime of monastic ascetic practice
changed him. We learn about his life story retrospectively, in a hag-
iography his spiritual son Alyosha composes after Zosima’s death
(in Book VI). We are given an account of his decision to enter a
monastery. It all started when he fell in love – or thought he was in
love – with a girl. He fancied that she loved him too, visited her
often, but never professed his love. Then suddenly, he hears that
she has married someone else, that she was engaged to be married
all the time he knew her. He describes this so:
I was so struck by this unexpected event that my mind even
became clouded. And the chief thing was, as I learned only
then, that this young landowner had long been her fiancé, and
that I myself had met him many times at their house but had
Fyodor Dostoevsky Brothers Karamazov, Richard Pevear and Larissa

2
Volokhonsky (trans.), London: Vintage, 2004, p. 314. (henceforth BK).

3 BK. p. 319.
TEA JANKOVIC 501
noticed nothing, being blinded by my own merits. 4 He chal-

lenges his rival to a duel. But then he changes overnight.
Struck by the beauty of the world, and remembering his child-
hood and his brother who died young, he is ashamed of him-
self. He remarks that the world is paradise, and that he has not
seen this before. At the duel, he lets the other take a shot at
him but then throws his own gun away, without having taken a
single shot. Then he announces that he will enter a monastery.
The decision to become a monk is not depicted as a defeated re-
treat from the world, but precisely as the way to actively love the
world. It is the monastic practice of purifying the heart, conquering
the desires that distort his view on the world and other people that
allows him to see in an increasing clarity. The decision is foreshad-
owed by his brother, Merkel’s, story, who experienced a conversion
at the end of his life. Despite his terminal illness, he shares his own
joy about ‘the beauty of the world’, a phrase Zosima, too, takes up
in the night before the duel. Zosima’s change of heart is retrospec-
tively put in the tradition of St. Paul’s conversion narrative, in
which Saul, a Roman prosecutor of Christians is blinded by a vision
of Christ. When he regains his sight three days later, he is convert-
ed, changes his name to Paul and eventually becomes known as St.
Paul, after dying as a martyr. 5
In the night before the duel, Zosima’s eyes are opened to the
beauty of the world; he is repeating his brother Merkel’s words.
Later on in his monastic life, he is described as highly susceptible to
this beauty, as in the scene where he and a youth he meets on his
travels are completely immersed in the beauty of nightfall in the
country. It is suggested that he would not have even registered
such a scene before his change of heart, and that it is thanks to his
4 BK. p. 295.
5 Acts of the Apostles, 9.1–31; Elder Zosima especially emphasizes the
importance of Saul’s story in his recollections on the influence the Holy
Scripture has had on his life (cf. BK.p. 290ff).
502 DOSTOEVSKY’S BROTHERS KARAMAZOV
newly won innocence and purity that he is able to see the scene
before him. 6
Furthermore, when we compare this hot-blooded young man
to the Elder we meet at the beginning of the novel – which is the
end of his earthly life – we see another striking development. From
a man described as blinded, as having a clouded mind, at the end of
his life Elder Zosima, an old monk, is described as having the ex-
traordinary ability to read people. From their faces, gestures, he can
see their character, their thoughts, even their future:
Many said of the elder Zosima that, having for so many years
received all those who came to him to open their hearts, thirst-
ing for advice and for a healing word, having taken into his
soul so many confessions, sorrows, confidences, he acquired in
the end such fine discernment that he could tell, from the first
glance at a visiting stranger’s face, what was in his mind, what
he needed, and even what kind of suffering tormented his con-
science; and he sometimes astonished, perplexed and almost
frightened the visitor by this knowledge of his secret even be-
fore he had spoken a word. 7
A striking example is Elder Zosima’s encounter with Fyodor
Karamazov, the father of the family. He is described as an insolent,
selfish, lustful, irresponsible and bad tempered character. When he
meets the Elder, he cannot help playing the fool, and making ridic-
ulous scenes to get everyone’s attention. He throws himself on his
knees in front of the Elder. He addresses the Elder in various quo-
tations: while on his knees he cries, ‘Teacher! What should I do to
inherit eternal life?’, quoting the young man asking the same ques-
tion of Christ in the Gospel according to Mark. Later on, he quotes
Schiller’s Robbers, by calling himself Graf von Moor and his sons
Ivan and Dmitry Karl and Franz Moor.
6Charles H. Arndt III argues this in his ‘Material in the Spiritual

World: Dostoevsky’s Use of Everyday Objects in His Descriptions of the
Supernatural’ Arndt draws attention to Dostoevsky’s description of this
youth as innocent, sleeping a ‘sinless sleep’ (p. 12), which is arguably why
he can behold as Elder Zosima does.
7 BK. p. 29.
TEA JANKOVIC 503
In this manner, Fyodor hides behind various quotations, never

speaking openly, perhaps out of fear to reveal his true self. Howev-
er, Zosima sees through Fyodor’s grand gestures as mere poses.
Furthermore, he sees Fyodor’s fundamental flaw, his insincerity,
which roots in his constant self-deception. It is precisely untruth-
fulness towards himself, that he believes his own lies, that is the
deepest cause of Fyodor’s immoral life. When the Elder gently tells
him that, Fyodor is at first touched and admits to lying. But even
this admittance is theatrical: ‘[…] and I’ve lied, I’ve lied decidedly
all my life, every day and every hour. Verily, I am a lie, and the fa-
ther of a lie!’ Thus quoting one of the biblical names of the devil.
He corrects himself, unintentionally admitting his insincerity: ‘Or
maybe not the father of a lie, I always get my texts mixed up; lets say
the son of a lie.’ 8 [my italics] By referring to ‘his texts’, which he
always gets ‘mixed up’, he reveals, though jokingly, that his words
are ‘texts’ of others and not his own, that he is lying to himself
even in his supposed admittance that he is lying.
In conclusion, Dostoevsky’s art depicts the monastic striving
for holiness as a dynamic and quite practical struggle for a more
truthful relationship to the world. In Zosima’s example, Dostoev-
sky shows a life devoted to the practice of actively loving others,
which changed the character’s perception of the world and others.
Zosima transforms from a youth blinded by his passions into
somebody acutely sensitive to the world and other people, some-
body who can see others more clearly than they see themselves.
8 BK. p. 44, in Russian: „это я всё в текстах сбиваюсь’

THE CENTRALITY OF ST. ISAAC THE
SYRIAN’S ASCETICAL THEOLOGY IN
DOSTOEVSKY’S T H E B ROTH ERS
KARAMAZOV
RICO MONGE
Although Friedrich Nietzsche was, without doubt, one of the most
openly hostile philosophers towards Christianity, he was also an
outspoken admirer of the Russian Orthodox novelist Fyodor Dos-
toevsky, calling him the ‘only psychologist from whom I have any-
thing to learn.’ 1 Does Nietzsche’s affinity for Dostoevsky lend cre-
dence to the view of certain scholars, notably Sergei Hackel and
Steven Cassedy, that Dostoevsky’s ideas, especially as presented
through the Elder Zosima’s teachings in The Brothers Karamazov,
have little to do with Eastern Orthodoxy and its ascetic tradition at
all? Are they correct to argue instead that Zosima is advocating a
form of ‘nature’ or ‘earth’ worship foreign to Orthodox Christiani-
ty? 2 The ideological underpinnings of the asceticism and monasti-
1 Nietzsche, The Twilight of the Idols, in The Twilight of the Idols/The An-
ti-Christ, trans. R.J. Hollingdale (London: Penguin, 1990), ‘Expeditions of
an Untimely Man’ §45, p. 110.
2 Holding a view that still finds supporters, Sergei Hackel argues that
Zosima’s religious vision is about earth-worship and has nothing to do

with Orthodox Christianity. Such a view would make Dostoevsky quite
‘Nietzschean,’ but seemingly un-Orthodox. See Hackel, ‘The Religious
Dimension: Vision or Evasion? Zosima’s Discourse in The Brothers Kara-
mazov,’ in New Essays on Dostoevsky, ed. Malcolm Jones and Garth M. Terry
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 139–68. Following
505
506 ST. ISAAC THE SYRIAN IN THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV
cism that constitute the Elder Zosima’s theological vision in Dos-

toevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov have indeed been long debated.
Some scholars have attempted to place Zosima firmly within Rus-
sian Orthodox traditions of monasticism by arguing that he is a
composite figure blending Tikhon of Zadonsk and Ambrose of
Optina. 3 However, the presence of Tikhon’s actual ideas in Zosi-
ma’s thought is rather minimal, and the teachings of Ambrose are
virtually non-existent. 4 This absence has been taken as evidence
that the Elder Zosima is indeed a ‘corruption’ of Orthodoxy –
Dostoevsky’s attempt to imagine an alternative to traditional Or-
thodox monasticism.
Contra Hackel and Cassedy, the work of other contemporary
scholars, most notably the Italian Dostoevsky scholar Simonetta
Salvestroni, has uncovered the significant role that the ascetical
theology of Isaac the Syrian plays in Zosima’s teachings. 5 My
argument develops her groundbreaking work by exploring the
pivotal role that Isaac’s theological vision plays within the novel –
both for the characters who follow Isaac and for those who do not.
Isaac’s teachings are internalized and embodied by Zosima (and his
disciple Alyosha). At the same time, Isaac’s thought remains both
literally and symbolically external to Ivan Karamazov, his disciple
Smerdyakov, and the Karamazov family’s servant, Grigory – i.e. for
Hackel closely is Cassedy’s Dostoevsky’s Religion (Stanford: Stanford Univer-

sity Press, 2005), 160.
3 One such ambitious example is John B. Dunlop, Staretz Amvrosy:
Model for Dostoevsky’s Staretz Zossima (Belmont, MA: Nordland Publishing

Co., 1972).
4 Cf. Hackel, ‘Zosima’s Discourse,’ 142, for a discussion of the tenu-
ous, at best, relationship of Ambrose of Optina’s teachings to those of

Dostoevsky’s Zosima. Cassedy points out that Dostoevsky is reported to
have violently argued with and contradicted Ambrose in his visits to the
Optina monastery, Dostoevsky’s Religion, 87.
5 Cassedy nowhere examines Isaac’s significance to Dostoevsky.
Hackel, on the other hand, admits Dostoevsky may have been familiar
with Isaac, but maintains that Isaac’s thought is not thoroughly present in
Zosima’s teachings, especially inasmuch as Zosima espouses love of the
natural world. See Hackel, ‘Zosima’s Discourse,’ 153–155.
RICO MONGE 507
all three characters Isaac remains something to be, at best, ‘thought

about,’ but this thinking is never converted into actual praxis.
Elucidating this pivotal place Isaac plays in the novel sheds
light on Dostoevsky’s well-known statement that the passages on
the life and teachings of the Elder Zosima are his response to
Ivan’s tale of ‘The Grand Inquisitor.’ That is, my interpretation is
that, for Dostoevsky, mere cognitive engagement with the ideas of
Isaac is inadequate; rather, only through ascetic internalization and
embodiment of his teachings does one become the answer to Ivan
and Smerdyakov’s nihilism. Zosima the person and Zosima’s way
of life were constructed by Dostoevsky by forging an amalgam of
disparate persons and texts in Eastern Orthodoxy. The life and
works of St. Tikhon of Zadonsk are indeed woven into the text, as
they were in earlier novels, including Demons. 6 Perhaps more
distinctive in The Brothers Karamazov is that Dostoevsky not only had
a historical and hagiographical figure to work with in Tikhon, but,
in his grief over the death of his three-year-old son, he began to
visit Elder Ambrose of the Optina monastery (now canonized as
St. Ambrose). Events from Zosima’s life are also taken from The
Life of the Elder Leonid, a text Dostoevsky found in the Optina
library. But much of Zosima’s teaching derives primarily from Isaac
of Niniveh. Indeed, as Salvestroni points out, Dostoevsky owned
and read a copy of Isaac’s Ascetic Homilies (1858 edition), and he
quotes from Isaac in order to articulate what he understands to be
central to ‘the Orthodox Conception.’ 7 This ‘Orthodox
Conception’ is a theme pervasive in Dostoevsky’s writings: it is the
belief that affliction, temptation and suffering are the path to
experiencing the kingdom of Heaven in this present earthly
existence. Salvestroni notes several deep resonances between
6 See Rowan Williams, Dostoevsky: Language, Faith, and Fiction, 202.

7 The most important study uncovering this relationship between
Zosima and Isaac is Simonetta Salvestroni’s ‘Isaaco il siro e l’opera di
Dostoevskii,’ Studia monastica 44 (2002): 45–56. The impact of her study
has led to Isaac’s influence being documented in recent critical editions of
The Brothers Karamazov, including The Brothers Karamazov: A Norton Critical
Edition, trans. Constance Garnett (New York: W.W. Norton & Company,
2011).
Zosima and Isaac, three of which are worth briefly summarizing

here.
First, one of Zosima’s (and Isaac’s) pervasive teachings is that
one can access the kingdom of Heaven, or paradise, in this life by
embracing suffering in a manner that transfigures one’s experience
of existence itself. Zosima frequently speaks of this transfigured
existence, but perhaps nowhere more poignantly than in his recol-
lections of his 17 year-old brother Markel’s process of dying from
tuberculosis. Rather than descending into nihilism due to his fate,
which given his circumstances would be understandable, rather
Markel embraces his suffering and makes peace with himself and
with life in a way that leads him to proclaim that ‘life is paradise.’ 8
While St. Isaac does not use the phrase, ‘life is paradise,’ he does
argue in his second homily that dealing with one’s passions through
the embrace of suffering transfigures existence and allows one to
experience the kingdom of Heaven in the here and now. 9 Along
these same lines, for both Zosima and Isaac, avoiding nihilism and
transfiguring life necessarily involves cultivating love for all of crea-
tion. Zosima, for example, teaches that one must love not only eve-
ry human being, but also every element of the created world, in-
cluding ‘every leaf, every ray of light.’ 10 Isaac, likewise, argues that
one must come to have a heart burning with mercy for everything
in the created order, including the demons. 11 Finally, for both
8 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, trans. Richard Pevear and La-

rissa Volokhonsky (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2002), 288–290.
9 Isaac the Syrian, The Ascetical Homilies of Saint Isaac the Syrian, tr. D
Miller. (Holy Transfiguration Monastery, Boston, MA: Holy Transfigura-

tion Press, 2011), Hom. 2, p. 11. Here Isaac advises, ‘Be peaceful within
yourself, and heaven and earth will be at peace with you. Be diligent to
enter into the treasury that is within you, and you will see the treasury of
Heaven: for these are one and the same, and with one entry you will be-
hold them both. The ladder of the Kingdom is within you, hidden in your
soul. Plunge deeply within yourself, away from sin, and there you will find
steps by which you will be able to ascend.’
10 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 319.
11 Isaac the Syrian, Ascetical Homilies, Hom. 71, p.344. Isaac answers
the question, ‘what is a merciful heart?’ thus: ‘It is the heart’s burning for
RICO MONGE 509
Zosima and Isaac, it is the failure to love in this way that itself
causes one to experience the torments of hell or Gehenna. Zosima
succinctly defines hell as, ‘the suffering of being no longer able to
love.’ 12 For Isaac, the torments of Gehenna result from the
‘scourge of love’ and the bitter regret that the failure to love pro-
duces. 13 For both Zosima and Isaac, like paradise, these torments
begin in this present life. In Zosima’s teaching, the result of this
inability to ascetically cultivate such love is that ‘you become indif-
ferent to life, and even come to hate it.’ 14
The centrality that Isaac’s ascetical theology holds for the en-
tire novel is emphasized by the fact that, despite all of these clear
resonances and influences in Zosima’s teachings, Isaac’s writings
make only two explicit (and indeed physical) appearances in the
novel. Of some significance is the fact that, paradoxically, neither
of them occurs in the passages to do with the Elder Zosima, nor
do they show up even with Alyosha. This enigmatic presence and
absence, I suggest, symbolically relates to the types of asceticism
(or lack thereof) displayed throughout the novel. In the case of
Zosima and Alyosha, Isaac’s text never appears, nor is his name
even mentioned, because his teachings and way of life have been
internalized and inscribed on Zosima and Alyosha themselves
through their asceticism. Where Isaac’s writings do appear, the ap-
pearance is symbolically tied to the degree to which the way of life
the sake of the entire creation, for men, for birds, for animals, for de-
mons, and for every created thing; and by the recollection and sight of
them the eyes of a merciful man pour forth abundant tears. From the
strong and vehement mercy which grips his heart and from his great
compassion his heart is humbled and he cannot bear to hear or to see any
injury or slight sorrow in creation. For this reason he offers up tearful
prayer continually even for irrational beasts, for the enemies of the truth,
and for those who harm him, that they be protected and receive mercy.
And in like manner he even prays for the family of reptiles because of the
great compassion that burns without measure in his heart in the likeness
of God.’
13 Isaac the Syrian, Ascetical Homilies, Hom. 28, p. 141.
he advocates remains external to the individual in question. 15 The

first appearance of the text occurs when we are told that the Kara-
mazov family’s servant Grigory had ‘somewhere obtained a copy of
the homilies and sermons of ‘Our Godbearing Father, Isaac the
Syrian,’ which he read persistently over many years, understanding
almost nothing at all of it.’ 16 The second appearance of the text
occurs late in the novel during the fateful encounter between Ivan
Karamazov and Smerdyakov, the encounter in which Smerdyakov
not only confesses to the murder of Fyodor Karamazov, but insists
that it was Ivan’s nihilistic desires and philosophy that convinced
him to carry out the murder. In contrast to Grigory’s persistent,
but uncomprehending, reading of the text, we are told, ‘Smerdya-
kov was not reading it, he seemed to be sitting and doing noth-
ing.’ 17 When the book’s title enters Ivan’s view, the narrator relates
that ‘Ivan Fyodorovich read it mechanically.’ 18 Also significant is
that when Smerdyakov reveals the money to Ivan, which proves
that he, not Dmitri, is Fyodor’s murderer, he uses the physical text
to conceal the money from the servants when they enter the room.
The narrator relates that after the servants left the room, ‘Smerdya-
kov removed Isaac the Syrian from the money and set it aside.’ 19
As Dianne Thompson has noted, however, this translation misses
the force of Dostoevsky’s language, which should actually read,
‘Smerdyakov removed Isaac the Syrian from the money and set him
aside.’ 20
15 For contrasting readings of the significance of these scenes see,

Diane Oenning Thompson, ‘Problems of the Biblical Word in Dostoev-
sky’s Poetics,’ in Dostoevsky and the Christian Tradition, ed. George Pattinson
and Diane Oenning Thompson, 69–99; and Ivan A. Esaulov, ‘The Cate-
gories of Law and Grace in Dostoevsky’s Poetics,’ in the same volume,
116–134.
18 Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 625, emphasis mine.
20 See Thompson, ‘Problems of the Biblical Word in Dostoevsky’s
Poetics,’ 133 n.23.

RICO MONGE 511
In these brief symbolic moments, one can see that Orthodox

ascetical theology, specifically Isaac’s ascetical theology, is themati-
cally embedded throughout the novel and is not a curious after-
thought. Grigory, we are told, is good-hearted, but often severe and
cruel. He raises the Karamazov boys as a surrogate father due to
the negligence of their actual father, Fyodor, but he also represents
a form of Christianity typical of resentment, and that contrasts with
the teachings of Isaac/Zosima. 21 He is cruel to Smerdyakov due to
the latter’s skepticism of Christianity (in contrast to Zosima’s and
Alyosha’s generous treatment of Ivan’s skepticism), 22 and this cru-
elty and abuse play a role in forming Smerdyakov into the villain he
becomes. In short, Grigory is one who is drawn to Isaac’s writings,
but he does not understand them and has not inscribed them into
himself and his way of life. Smerdyakov, on the other hand, does
not read Isaac at all, and in his total rejection the saint’s way of life
becomes the novel’s consummate nihilist – full of cold hatred he
commits both murder and suicide. The description of Ivan reading
the book’s title ‘mechanically’ calls to mind his deep familiarity with
the Christian message, but also his deconstruction of it by subject-
ing it to the rigors of Euclidean logic, rather than putting it into
practice through asceticism. Accordingly, he remains paralyzed and
unable to apprehend the truth of Christianity because he desires to
first make logical sense of it, rather than discover its truth by em-
bodying it through praxis. In stark contrast, Dostoevsky never de-
picts Zosima or his disciple Alyosha interacting with the physical
text of Isaac, nor do they explicitly quote him, because both of
these characters ascetically embody Isaac’s teachings in their words,
actions, and way of being-in-the-world. Hence, the physical pres-
ence of Isaac’s writings with Grigory, Smerdyakov, and Ivan, to-
gether with their physical absence with Zosima and Alyosha, high-
lights the manner in which Isaac’s theology is efficacious in Dosto-
evsky’s final novel only when ascetically embodied.
21 Moreover, Zosima’s teachings are not foreign to Orthodoxy, nor

are they mere ‘nature worship,’ but stand in line with Isaac’s theology.
22 Cf. Zosima’s statement to Ivan, ‘May God grant that your heart’s
decision overtake you still on earth, and may God bless your path!’ Dos-
toesvsky, The Brothers Karamazov, 70.
ENGAGED MONASTICISM: MOTHER
MARIA SKOBTSOVA AND TWENTY-
FIRST CENTURY AMERICAN
ORTHODOX MONASTICISM
FR. PETER M. PREBLE

In 1932, when Maria Skobtsova made her monastic profession, she
was in a very different place than most monastics. She was alone, in
Paris, surrounded by Russian immigrants who had fled the upheav-
al in Russia and were facing starvation and poverty. She found her-
self ‘not behind strong monastic walls … but on all the roads and
crossroads of the world.’ 1 It was this experience that would shape
her vision of what she called ‘engaged monasticism.’ What Mother
Maria needed was a new vision of the monastic life, as all the pre-
conceived notions of ‘traditional’ monasticism were gone. Ortho-
dox monasticism did not exist on the streets of 1930s Paris, and
there were no other Orthodox monastics to form a community
with her. What she discovered was that a new way of thinking
about monasticism was needed. She did not reject the past, but she
would not cling to the letter of the laws of traditional monasticism,
and she felt she needed to adapt her idea of monasticism to fit her
situation and the circumstances surrounding her.
For Mother Maria, monasticism was ‘determined not by a way
of life, not by the monastery, not by the desert; monasticism is de-
1Jim Forest, Mother Maria Skobtsova: Essential Writings (Maryknoll,

NY: Orbis, 2003), p. 90.
513
514 MOTHER MARIA SKOBTSOVA AND AMERICAN MONASTICISM
termined by the vows made during the rite of tonsuring.’ 2 One of

the mainstays of the Orthodox Church worldwide is her ability to
adapt to her surroundings and situations. Of course Scripture re-
minds us that the Church of Jesus Christ will ever prevail, but it is
the simple idea of adaption that has allowed the Church to survive
in some of the worst conditions. The Church has survived the
Turks and Communism, and today we are struggling to survive
modernity’s relativisms here in America. An American Orthodox
parish looks very different from an Orthodox parish in Romania,
for example.
As the local parish needs to adapt her ministry to the present
situation – and by adaption I do not in any way mean we need to
compromise on matter of faith – Orthodox monasticism itself
needs to adapt to the American ethos if it is not only going to sur-
vive but also to be of any help to the Orthodox Church here in
America. The Orthodox Church is at her best when monastics are
present and working in concert with the local church to bring
about the mission of Orthodoxy. What I hope to present here, is a
system of monasticism that is not foreign to the Orthodox Church
but certainly has not been practiced to its fullest extent in genera-
tions. Can the typical, historical monastery of monks or nuns, iso-
lated from the world, survive here in twenty-first-century Ameri-
can, and is the Church willing to support such an endeavor? Let me
say, right from the start, that I believe there is a place for traditional
Orthodox monasticism here in America, but we need a new phi-
losophy for it.
Mother Maria was insistent on the fact that the monastic vo-
cation is not that of escape from life or from the world. No one
can run to a monastery to get away from something, because that
something will follow him or her to the monastery. The monastic
vocation, rather, is one of service and of solidarity – solidarity with
others in the monastery and also solidarity with the suffering of
those around the monastery and in the world.
Let me begin by offering the very briefest of biographies to
set the stage for the larger argument to follow. Maria Skobtsova
was born into a noble family in 1891 in Riga, Latvia, which was
2 Ibid. p. 97.
FR. PETER M. PREBLE 515
then part of the Russian Empire. After her father died when she
was a teenager, she turned to atheism. She and her mother moved
to St. Petersburg, where she was involved with radical intellectuals.
In 1910 she married, but that marriage soon ended. As she began
to understand the humanity of Christ – ‘He also died. He sweated
blood. They struck his face’ – she was drawn back toward Christi-
anity. She moved – now with her daughter – to the south of Russia,
where her religious devotion increased.
Maria became involved in politics and was elected deputy
mayor of the town she lived in. When the anticommunist White
Army took control of the city, the mayor fled, and thus became
mayor by default. She married again, but the political tide was turn-
ing. Fearing for her life and the life of her family, they fled the
country and arrived in Paris in 1923. There she was introduced to
Orthodoxy and was converted. With her marriage on the rocks,
one of her children deceased and the other two grown, her bishop
encouraged her to take vows as a monastic. She agreed on the con-
dition that she would not have to live in a monastery, secluded
from the world. In 1932, with the permission of her second hus-
band, Daniel, she was granted an ecclesiastical divorce and took
vows as a nun. Mother Maria made a rented house in Paris her
‘convent.’ Its door was open to refugees, the needy, drug addicts,
and the lonely. It also soon became a center for intellectual and
theological discussion. In Mother Maria these two elements – ser-
vice to the poor and theology – went hand in hand. What she did
was very similar to what Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin were do-
ing in 1932 in New York City, with the Catholic Worker Move-
ment.
In an essay titled, ‘Towards a New Monasticism,’ Mother Ma-
ria wrote, ‘Today there is only one monastery for a monk – the
whole world.’ 3 The theme here is very much that the monastery has
to be the entire world; monastics need to come down from the
mountain and engage people where they are. Perhaps the monks
and nuns will lead them back up that mountain, but they first need
to come down the mountain. We do not enter the monastic life to
run away from the world – at least, that is not why I became a mo-
3 Ibid. p. 94.
nastic. The primary goal of monastics is to work out our own salva-
tion. How do we do that if we cut ourselves off from our neigh-
bors and not assist them when they need us? How do we live the
gospel command of feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and
visiting the sick and those in prison if we isolate ourselves from all
but a few? The monastery needs to be the entire world. One of the
more famous sayings of Mother Maria, and the first saying of hers I
ever read, lays out her philosophy of not only the life of the Chris-
tian but, I believe, the life of the monastic:
At the last Judgment I shall not be asked whether I was suc-
cessful in my ascetic exercises, how many bows and prostra-
tions I made [in the course of prayer]. I shall be asked, did I
feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and the prison-
ers. That is all I shall be asked.
This philosophy of monasticism, if you will, drove Mother Maria to
do what she did and is the inspiration for all my argument which
follows.
Before we move forward in defining what might be a new way
of thinking about monasticism here in America, we must first look
at monasticism from an historical perspective. I am trained as an
historian as well as a theologian, so I always look at things in a
backward way, through history. The search for why we do some-
thing can be answered only by looking at the question through the
lens of history. In the year 369, St. Basil the Great was a newly or-
dained priest ministering in and around the area of Caesarea. That
year a great drought hit, followed by famine, as the crops had all
dried up. He delivered four homilies that have been collated in the
book On Social Justice, 4 which spoke to the heart of how people act
in times of dire physical suffering. Many of the themes from these
homilies are repeating themselves today, just as they have through-
out history. St. Basil had a vision of a new social order based on
simplicity of life and sharing rather than on competition and pri-
vate ownership. He had a vision for what would be called ‘the New
City.’ Part of this new city involved an engaged monasticism, a
4 C. Paul Schroeder, St. Basil the Great, On Social Justice (Crestwood,

NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2009).
monastic vision that was more urban than rural, a monasticism that
has at its very heart service to the needy. He had a vision for what
was later called the Basiliad, a complex of buildings where the poor
and needy would come and find support and rest. Food and cloth-
ing would be provided as well as medical care by skilled physicians.
But it would also be a worship center with church services and a
chapel – a place to truly live out the gospel message of love of
neighbor in line with monastic concepts.
The monks would practice the practical trades, such as car-
pentry and blacksmithing, and the money generated from those
trades would be used to support the work of the Basiliad. In his
sermon, ‘In Time of Famine and Drought,’ St. Basil speaks of this
new community not as a new kind of charitable institution but as a
place where a new set of relationships would be formed. A new
social order would both anticipate and participate in the creation of
‘a new heaven and a new earth where justice dwells.’ St. Basil used
his vision of the first church at Jerusalem as an example: ‘Let us
zealously imitate the early Christian community, where everything
was held in common – life, soul, concord, a common table, indi-
vidual kinship – while unfeigned love constituted many bodies as
one and joined by many souls into a single harmonious whole.’ 5
The vision of the Basiliad laid the groundwork for what
Mother Maria was trying to create in Paris. She opened the doors
of her home to Russian refugees in the Paris of the 1930s. She pro-
vided them with food and clothing, much of it given to her by the
French government, just as in the time of St. Basil, imperial donors
aided him. But she did much more than just feed and clothe them;
she listened to them, cared for them, prayed for them, and showed
a genuine concern for what they were going through. She would
give all she had, sometimes her own food and clothing, to help
those that came to her – or should I say, that God sent to her. The
most remarkable part of it all was that she did this only with faith.
She had no income, no way to pay rent or to purchase food; she
took enormous leaps of faith to do what she did, and because of
her reliance on God, it was blessed. How many of us are willing to
do such a thing?
5 Ibid. p. 38.
But it was not all work; there was prayer as well, as she be-
lieved that balance was needed. In the first house she rented in Par-
is were stables that she transformed into a church, a beautiful space
for prayer and worship. Reflecting on this transformation, I think
of how Christ Himself was born in a poor stable surrounded by
animals. Mother Maria transformed a stable, once again, into a
church.
Balance will always be necessary in this engaged monasticism,
if the monastics are to survive. The mainstay of the monastic life is
prayer but also work. St. Benedict, the father of Western monasti-
cism, borrowed many ideas from St. Basil when he wrote his Rule
for monastics. In it, he lay out the course of each day with a bal-
ance between prayer and work, ora et labora was his motto [Work
and Pray!]. There needs to be a balance in the monastery between
the work of prayer and the work of our hands. Monastics come to
the monastery for many reasons, and the salvation of our own
souls is chief among them, but Benedict believed that we must give
as well as receive, and he taught all his monks to receive all their
guests as if they were Christ Himself. ‘Prefer nothing to Christ,’ St.
Benedict instructed his monks. If we see each other as Christ, if we
see the poor and needy as Christ, service to them must become our
preferential option. If we are living icons, service to each other be-
comes service to what the icons represent – and that is Christ. A
balance between prayer and work will be necessary in the life of the
monk in this engaged monasticism. So, taking a page from St. Basil,
from St. Benedict, and from Mother Maria, what would this mod-
ern Basiliad look like?
All the work of the Church needs to be built around the local
parish. I will use my parish in Southbridge, Massachusetts, as an
example. It was founded ninety years ago by Romanians who came
to the New World to find a better life. They were not fleeing war
like the refugees that came to Mother Maria’s doorstep, but eco-
nomic hardship, and they were seeking the promise of a new life.
They came, found work and housing, and established churches.
The same story can be said about most Orthodox parishes here in
America. But today my parish is no longer an immigrant parish. At
ninety years old, it has entered the fourth generation of parishion-
ers. And the neighborhood around the Church has also trans-
formed. We are literally in the middle of a neighborhood that used
to be all Romanian, Albanian, and Greek and is now anything but
that. Our neighbors are mostly Latino; the new immigrants have
come to make Southbridge their home. They are facing some of
the same issues that the founders of St. Michael once had. They do
not speak the native language, it is hard to find work, and it is hard
to find acceptance from the local population. Southbridge has a
12% unemployment rate and more than 15% of the people live at
or below the federal poverty line. Half of that population is either
above sixty-five or under eighteen, the two most vulnerable seg-
ments of society. Although they are certainly not as desperate as
those in the time of St. Basil, they are desperate nonetheless. These
living icons are suffering almost daily, and they are only one small
part of the population here in America.
Mother Maria believed that if monasticism was going to flour-
ish in the New World, innovation would be needed in monastic
life. She did not have a traditional monastery with strong walls. She
lived in a rented apartment that became her monastery. There were
no defined traditions that she could draw on when building her
monastery. Russian monasticism was becoming extinct, and any
documents relating to monasticism were just not available. She
wrote, ‘The result of this absence of normal monastic life is a cer-
tain impression of archaism, of unattachment, almost of untimeli-
ness of contemporary monasticism in the world.’ And she added,
‘Today’s monasticism must fight for its very core, for its very soul,
disregarding all external forms, creating new forms.’ 6 She was not
saying the past needs to be forgotten, but rather a new future has
to be discovered.
Mother Maria would surely agree that monasticism is perenni-
ally needed, just as it was needed in the Paris of her day, and she
would say too that monasticism is needed: ‘on the roads of life, in
the very thick of it. Today there is only one monastery for a monk:
the whole world.’ 7 Monastics need to be engaged with the commu-
nity and the Church and to assist those that need them, the poor,
the marginalized, the voiceless in society. This work fulfills the
gospel command to love our neighbor as ourselves.
6 Jim Forest, Mother Maria Skobtsova: Essential Writings (Orbis:

Maryknoll, NY, 2003), p. 94.
7 Ibid.
What I am suggesting as a useful pattern, then, is a regional

monastery, a ‘Mother House’ if you will, perhaps in a large city, and
smaller ‘houses of ministry’ scattered around the region. One or
two monks might live together in a rented apartment in Harlem, or
perhaps they would occupy a rectory of a small Orthodox parish
that can’t afford to pay a priest full time. Maybe they would have
secular jobs, or if they are handy, they could use their talents to
earn a living. But they would also assist the poor in that area. They
would create a small community where they are, but would come
back to the Mother House for a time of rest and retreat, perhaps
twice a year. They could bring the Sacraments to a community that
might not otherwise have them, and they could set up services to
the poor in the area. They would not be isolated on the mountain-
top but down in the thick of it with those they have been called to
serve, rolling up our sleeves and making a difference in people’s
lives.
As an example of this concept, in 1967 Roman Catholic Fran-
ciscan Fr. Benedict Groeschel founded what became known as St.
Francis House in the heart of Brooklyn, New York. The mission of
St. Francis House is to provide a safe haven and highly structured
home environment designed to meet the needs of young men who,
having run out of alternatives, are looking for a new start in life.
These are the ones who fall through the cracks. This can be ac-
complished by establishing a caring environment, nurturing spiritu-
al growth, building a Christian work ethic, and preparing these men
for the future. St. Francis House is similar in scope and mission to
the early Catholic Worker houses, started by Dorothy Day. St.
Francis House exists in the darkest part of the city and is on a mis-
sion to bring light into that darkened world. It is a beacon of hope
in a neighborhood that has fallen into despair and gang violence.
The daily witness of the monks in Brooklyn has saved countless
numbers of young men who might be dead today if it were not for
their work.
There are also examples within the Orthodox Church right
here in America. In 1977, what is now called St. Herman’s House
of Hospitality, opened in a neighborhood in Cleveland, Ohio. It
was a monastery that opened its doors to the poor and needy
around them. It no longer functions as a monastery, but the minis-
try continues today with help from FOCUS North America. Fur-
nishing meals, clothing, housing, and spiritual help and guidance,
St. Herman’s House is doing what Mother Maria and St. Basil were
doing, living the gospel message in a very clear way. For this to
happen on a large scale, we need men and women from all walks of
life. We need doctors, nurses, lawyers, carpenters, teachers, social
workers, counselors, and priests. These might be single monastics
as well as families and couples who are drawn to dedicate their lives
to the work of the Church in a very concrete way and to teaching
others to do the same.
I see such houses of hospitality springing up all over America.
As I have already mentioned, we need monastics living on that hill,
who have dedicated their lives to prayer, and we need monastics
who have dedicated their lives to the relief of suffering in a very
physical way. We need both. We need the balance that St. Maria
and St. Benedict wrote about. The monastic, traditionally free of
family obligations, can take the love of Christ to places where oth-
ers cannot. What is needed are monks and nuns that are not run-
ning away from the world but running to the monastery to help
make the world a better place. As Mother Maria wrote: ‘It should
be remembered that all its forms – social work, charity, spiritual aid
– are the result of an intense desire to give one’s strength to the
activity of Christ, to the humanity of Christ, not to possess but to
spend it for the glory of God.’ 8
8 Ibid. p. 103.
PSYCHIC CRISIS IN MONASTIC
COMMUNITIES: THE ASCETICAL
WRITINGS OF EVAGRIUS OF PONTUS IN
THE LIGHT OF MODERN
UNDERSTANDINGS
JOHN L. GRILLO
In the very early hours of June 11, 2012 a 27-year-old former monk
by the name of Scott Nevins drove to the gates of the St. Antho-
ny’s Greek Orthodox monastery in Florence, Arizona, had an en-
counter with the night watchman on duty, then drove a short dis-
tance away from the monastery and shot himself in his car. Nevins
was airlifted to an area hospital, where he later died of his wounds.
His death was determined to have been a suicide by the Maricopa
County Medical Examiner’s Office. 1
Nevins had been a novice at the St. Anthony’s Monastery for
six years before departing precipitously and under strange circum-
stances about fifteen months prior to his suicide in 2012. 2 The
strangeness around Nevins’s death and the controversial reporting
1 Greek Orthodox Metropolis of San Fransisco. ‘Update on the

Death of Scott Nevins.’ Last modified September 29, 2012. Accessed No-
vember 11, 2013. http://sanfran.goarch.org/news/update-on-the-death-
of-scott-nevins/
2 Theodore Kalmoukos, ‘Troubled Monk Apparently Commits Sui-
cide in Arizona,’ The National Herald (USA), 21 June 2012.
523
524 THE ASCETICAL WRITINGS OF EVAGRIUS OF PONTUS
done on it 3 has only continued since the incident itself, and serious
and troubling questions have been raised in the aftermath: Was
Scott Nevins subjected to abusive treatment during his tenure at St.
Anthony’s Monastery, as has been insinuated in some of the jour-
nalism? 4 Do Elder Ephraim, the leader of St. Anthony’s Monastery,
or the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America bear any respon-
sibility for Nevins’s tragic death? And is Elder Ephraim a living
saint or just a charismatically persuasive cult leader? 5
Whether or not Scott Nevins’s experience at the St. Anthony’s
Monastery was in any way abnormal – i.e., whether he was subject-
ed to coercion or abuse when he resided there – and whether that
abnormal experience led to his tragic suicide has been impossible
to determine with any certainty from the available material. A ques-
tion that can be addressed in this paper, however, is whether there
is something inherent in the monastic way of life that poses certain
but real dangers to the psychic wellbeing of those who undertake it
(suicide, of course, being one of the graver signs of deep psychic
distress). The answer to that question is an emphatic yes; it is an
3 One of the main reporters on Nevins’s death, Theodore Kal-

moukos, has been seriously criticized by others within the Orthodox
churches for his reporting, e.g., blogger Fr. Peter Preble (‘Kalmoukos on
Monasteries.’ Last modified August 20, 2012. Accessed November 11,
2013. http://www.frpeterpreble.com/2012/07/kalmoukos-on-monaste
ries.html). Another instance of online strangeness is the disappearance of
pokrov.org, a website devoted to the investigations of clergy abuse within
the Orthodox churches in North America. When writing the first draft of
this paper, it was one of the main online repositories of journalism about
Scott Nevins’s suicide that I utilized; it now only exists as screen shots and
dead links.
4 Theodore Kalmoukos. ‘Parents of Suicide Monk Might Sue Mon-
astery and Archdiocese of America.’ Last modified February 14, 2013.

Accessed November 11, 2013.http://www.bishopaccountability.org/
news2013/01_02/2013_02_14_Kalmoukos_ParentsOf.htm
5 Richard Cimino. ‘Orthodox Church: monastic movement raising
new controversy in Greek Orthodoxy in America.’ Last modified No-

vember 24, 2011. Accessed November 11, 2013. http://religion.info/
english/articles/article_555.shtml#.UoEYhig5g_s
JOHN L. GRILLO 525
answer that the Orthodox tradition has known for the last 1600
years; and it is an answer that I believe has been corroborated and
confirmed by the findings modern psychiatry.
Our main ancient source for the Orthodox answer to this
question is the writing of Evagrius of Pontus, who, in my mind, is
the most ‘clinical’ of the ancient ascetical writers. At the outset, I
should state clearly one key assumption I am making as I read
Evagrius’ works: I am reading the texts referenced in this paper as
being written in a ‘journalistic’ style, meaning that Evagrius is re-
porting direct observations of the experiences of the monks who
were under his care. Evagrius does, at times, write using a highly
metaphorical style to describe spiritual experience and ascetic labor,
but at those times there are clear signals he is doing so; he makes
use of simile, and some of his favorite comparisons are between
ascetical practice and military or athletic training. But he was also
an experienced director of real monastic disciples, and his writings
also show this direct and unmediated awareness of the psychic
states of his disciples, and his own readiness to advise and guide
them.
The Evagrian text known as the Foundations of the Monastic Life 6
can be taken as a sort of manifesto, or the most basic set of practi-
cal principles one must follow in the pursuit of stillness (hesychia).
The Foundations is a remarkable document both for its slimness and
the severity of its asceticism. The instant pen hits papyrus marriage
is prohibited, backed by the substantial scriptural weight of the
prophet Jeremiah and the Apostle Paul. Evagrius is, on the one
hand, talking about literal marriage, but marriage here is also code
for ‘entanglement’ in any worldly care. Evagrius goes on to detail
further renunciations necessary for the practice of hesychia. He rec-
ommends that the monk adhere to a ‘frugal and meagre diet;’ 7 to
‘fast as much as you are able before the Lord,’ eating only once
daily whenever possible; 8 to ‘bear gladly with sleep deprivation and
6 Evagrius of Pontus, Foundations of the Monastic Life: A Presentation of

the Practice of Stillness, trans. Robert Sinkewicz (New York: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 2003).
7 Ibid., 5.
8 Ibid., 10.
sleeping on the ground;’ 9 to minimize social contacts, even (and

perhaps especially) with one’s family:
Do not let yourself be carried away by worries for your parents
or by affection for your relatives. Rather avoid frequent meet-
ings with them, lest they rob you of the stillness in your cell
and lead you to involvement in their own circumstances. 10
In support of this last piece of advice, Evagrius cites one of the
starker utterances of the Lord himself: ‘Leave the dead to bury
their own dead, but you come follow me.’ 11 Lastly, there are the
counsels against more possessions than are absolutely necessary for
the most austere existence; such as: ‘And nothing good has ever
come to any monk through keeping a serving-boy.’ 12 On top of
these admonitions to heavy ascesis, physical mortifications and
social withdrawal, the monk is urged deliberately to envision the
‘day of your death, and then look at the dying of your body … Call
to mind the present state of things in hell; consider how it is with
the souls who are there…’ 13 And then the monk is to meditate on
the resurrection, the judgment before God and Christ, the punish-
ments and horrors awaiting the wicked, and the rewards of the
righteous. 14
I bring up the Foundations in the context of this discussion in
order to highlight the high level of stress inherent in the practice of
these ascetical principles. Restriction of daily food intake, change of
diet, sleep deprivation, plus an increased demand for manual labor
are all significant physical stressors. Anachoresis entails, by its very
definition, disruption in existing social attachments, which creates
an initial experience of loss and grief – a psychological and emo-
tional stressor. The ongoing social isolation of anachoresis heavily
taxes the monk’s capacity to keep himself affectively regulated
without recourse to the supportive social relationships to which he
9 Ibid., 11.
10 Ibid., 7.
11 Matt. 8:22.
12 Foundations, 6.
13 Ibid., 9.
14 Ibid., 10.
JOHN L. GRILLO 527
may be accustomed. 15 Lastly, the deliberate meditation on eschato-

logical events of a terrifying and absolutist nature can lead the
monk into extremities of both thought and feeling, which further
challenge his ability to manage negative affect and remain moored
to reality.
So what happened to people back then – back in the late
fourth century when Evagrius was writing these instructional works
– under the strain of this self-imposed exile and these ascetic la-
bors? Sometimes they cracked. Evagrius issued warnings about
disturbing experiences that a monk may have in anachoresis. In his
treatise On Prayer he advises monks to ready themselves for the
experience of terrifying perceptions:
Like an experienced fighter, be prepared to avoid being shaken
with confusion, even if you all at once see a fantasy; do not be
troubled, even if you see a sword drawn against you or a light
rushing at your eyes; should you see some unsightly and
bloody figure, at all costs do not let your soul become down-
cast, but take your stand, making the good confession, and you
will look upon your enemies with ease. 16
Elsewhere he describes affective states (in this case, sadness) so
oppressive and painful that the monk may wish for death (perhaps
contemplate suicide?):
But if the demon [of sadness] persists for a longer time, he be-
gets thoughts that counsel the soul to make its escape or force
it to flee far from its place. This is what the saintly Job once
considered and suffered when he was harassed by this demon,
15 For a more in-depth discussion on the theoretical foundations of

attachment (social attachments, emotional self-regulation, and psycho-
pathology throughout the life course), see John Bowlby, ‘Disruption of
Affectional Bonds and its Effects on Behavior.’ Canada’s Mental Health
Supplement 59 (1969); and John Bowlby, Attachment and Loss. Separation:
Anxiety and Anger, vol. 2 (New York: Basic Books, 1973).
16 Evagrius of Pontus, Chapters on Prayer, trans. Robert Sinkewicz

for he said, ‘If only I might lay hands on myself or at least ask
another to do this for me.’ 17
Sometimes monks were able to have these experiences, eventually
recover, and in the end find themselves strengthened and spiritually
fortified by them. In his instructions to a certain Eulogios, Evagrius
relates this anecdote:
While one of the brothers was keeping vigil at night, the de-
mons formed for him terrifying fantasies, not only in his out-
ward eye but also in his inner sight so that during the following
night, struggling with anxiety, he ran the risk of losing his wits,
and for several nights the battle was waged against his soul. 18
This monk got better by calling to mind all his faults, confessing
them to God, and conjuring a healthy fear of judgment (exactly the
tactic Evagrius counsels in the Foundations 19). The monk was there-
by able to trump one fear with another and win that particular bat-
tle for his soul. But sometimes, we learn, they didn’t get better:
We have known of many among the brothers who fell afoul of
this shipwreck, whom the others brought back again to the
17 Evagrius of Pontus, On Thoughts, trans. Robert Sinkewicz (New

York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 161. See also, LXX Job 30:24. The
reading of this passage as referring to suicidal intent depends on the con-
notative meanings one accepts for the Greek word used in the LXX and
reproduced in the Evagrian text, χειρώσασθαι. Other, but not all, attesta-
tions of the verb χειρόω (worst, master, subdue) in Greek literature carry
with them connotations of violence. If the less violent connotations of
χειρόω are accepted, then the passage about the soul making its escape
may refer to akedia, or restlessness (as Sinkewicz reads it). If the more
violent connotations are accepted, then the soul’s wish to «flee far from its
place (i.e., the body)» may be taken as a euphemistic expression of the
monk’s wish for death. See Henry George Liddell and Robert Scott, A
Greek-English Lexicon (1996), s.v. χειρόω.
18 Evagrius of Pontus, To Eulogios. On the Confession of Thoughts and
Counsel in their Regard, trans. Robert Sinkewicz (New York: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 2003), 54.
19 Foundations, 10.
JOHN L. GRILLO 529
humane life with tears and prayer. But some who were caught
in an irreversible forgetfulness no longer had the strength to
lay hold of their first state, and till this day we in our humility
behold the shipwrecks of our brothers. This condition for the
most part occurs as a result of thoughts of pride. When some-
one takes up the anchoretic life in such a state, he first sees the
air of his cell all afire and lightning flashes at night all around
the walls, then there are voices of people pursuing and being
pursued and chariots with horses figured in the air, and the
whole house is filled with Ethiopians 20 and tumult; and from
overwhelming cowardice he then falls victim to folly, becomes
exalted, and out of fear forgets his human state. 21
The importance of this passage lies, first, in the fact that it furnish-
es us with a piece of fourth-century documentation that psychic
disturbances of a florid and irreversible nature – involving mental
functions of perception, thought, and mood – did indeed take
place within monastic communities from the earliest days of Chris-
tian monasticism. The second detail of importance in this passage
is Evagrius’ suggestion that anachoresis may be more dangerous
for certain individuals than it is for others. Here, Evagrius identifies
thoughts of pride (hyperēphania) as the risk factor within the individ-
ual that disposes one to the disorganizing experiences described in
the passage above. In other places, Evagrius identifies thoughts
that can lead, in perhaps counter-intuitive ways, to other thoughts
or affective states. With sadness in particular, Evagrius sees anger
at its root:
Sadness is a dejection of soul and is constituted from thoughts
of anger, for irascibility is a longing for revenge, and the frus-
tration of revenge produces sadness. 22
20 A code word in the desert literature for demonic forces, since the
(real and warlike) Nubian tribes of that era frequently attacked the Egyp-
tian monastic centers, and had killed many ascetics.
21 Thoughts, 169.
22 Evagrius of Pontus, On the Eight Thoughts, trans. Robert Sinkewicz

When Evagrius writes of ‘thoughts’ (logismoi), he infers certain psy-

chic tendencies, or dispositions in the individual monk, which create
risk for the disturbances we have discussed. Despite the decidedly
unsystematic character of most of Evagrius’ writings, he developed
a clear framework – a kind of fourth-century diagnostic manual –
that described eight basic disordered thoughts (or, rather, patterns
of thought) that posed the greatest spiritual and psychic dangers to
the individual monk and the success of the monastic enterprise. If
those risk factors (the thoughts) are not addressed early in a monk’s
career – during the coenobitic stage of his monastic life – then
anachoresis becomes risky indeed. In the Treatise to Eulogios Evagri-
us gives a thoroughly rational piece of advice that anachoresis be
undertaken in stages, and that, if the monk encounters difficulty in
isolation, he return to the communal life to avoid a crisis:
The elders approve highly of an anachoresis that is undertaken
by degrees, if indeed one has come to this after attaining a level
of accomplishment in the virtues in community. If one is able
to make progress in anachoresis, let him prove himself; but if
because of his inability he falls short of virtue, let him return to
the community for fear that, being unable to counter the de-
vices of the thoughts, he lose his wits. 23
What emerges from Evagrius’ writings is the idea that the crises we
have been discussing develop out of an interaction of two sets of
factors. There are the thoughts (logismoi) within the individual,
which constitute an internal vulnerability, a set of cognitive and
affective tendencies, or dispositions, that elevate risk for these cri-
ses. Then there are the stresses inherent in anachoresis that act as
triggers to the kinds of experiences that lead to the ‘irreversible
forgetfulness’ and loss of a ‘human state;’ 24 stresses that are either
totally absent or present only in attenuated form in coenobitic life.
It is on the basis of this idea that our discussion now turns to
modern psychiatry. These formulations that Evagrius came to
through intuition, observation, and borrowing from the philosophy
of his day are remarkably similar to the conceptualizations of psy-
23 Eulogios, 56.
24 Thoughts, 169.
JOHN L. GRILLO 531
chopathology that modern psychiatry has developed about 1500

years later through medical and behavioral research. One of the
most important theoretical constructs developed within the last
fifty years to explain the etiology of mental illness is what has come
to be known as the diathesis-stress model. 25 The model, originally
developed in the field of schizophrenia research, hypothesizes a
latent genetic/biological predisposition or vulnerability (diathesis)
to the development of the illness. Active symptoms are triggered
when the individual carrying the vulnerability encounters a psycho-
social stressor of sufficient intensity to induce a significant disrup-
tion in that individual’s emotional, cognitive, and physiological
equilibrium. 26
The diathesis-stress model has been applied to other areas of
psychiatry, psychology, and psychotherapy research. The field of
cognitive psychology and therapy has hypothesized (and generated)
a considerable body of empirical support 27 – that vulnerabilities to
the development of illness (in this case major depressive disorder)
are not confined to biology alone, but may be constituted from sets
of potentially-pathogenic cognitive tendencies, referred to as
‘schemas.’ Schemas, in this sense, are relatively stable constellations
25 For one of the earliest articulations of the diathesis-stress theory

of mental illness, see David Rosenthal, The Genain Quadruplets: A Case
Study and Theoretical Analysis of Heredity and Environment in Schizophrenia (New
York: Basic Books, 1963).
26 Advancements in medical technology since the first articulations
of the diathesis-stress theory, such as brain imaging technology, have ena-

bled researchers to identify abnormalities in the brain, both on the struc-
tural and cellular levels (e.g., reduction of hippocampal volume and irregu-
lar interconnections between neurons) that support the biological diathe-
sis hypothesis in schizophrenia research. See Elaine F. Walker and Donald
Diforio, ‘Schizophrenia: A Neural Diathesis-Stress Model,’ Psychological
Review 104, no. 4 (1997): 667–685.
27 Christine D. Scher, Zindel V. Segal, and Rick E. Ingram, ‘Beck’s
Theory of Depression: Origins, Empirical Status, and Future Directions

for Cognitive Vulnerability,’ in Contemporary Cognitive Therapy: Theory Re-
search and Practice, ed. Robert L. Leahy (New York: Guilford Press, 2004),
31–36.
of attitudes, negative inferential styles (i.e., the tendency to apply

excessively negative interpretations to neutral or ambiguous senso-
ry data, experiences, and social interactions), and beliefs about self,
other, and the world that become activated in times of stress and
lead to the development of psychopathology. The idea that habitu-
ally maladaptive cognitive tendencies can constitute a diathesis, or
disposition toward certain negative psychiatric outcomes, is espe-
cially intriguing in the context of our discussion of Evagrian logis-
moi.
The main conclusion that we are able to draw from the mate-
rial arranged and interpreted in this way is that, yes, it is indeed
possible that the stresses inherent in the more severe practices of
Christian monasticism (such as anachoresis) can, in themselves, be
enough to precipitate a serious psychic crisis in vulnerable individ-
uals. Furthermore, this conclusion supports the plausibility that
Scott Nevins’s experiences at St. Antony’s monastery may have,
after a lengthy incubation period, contributed to his suicide, even if
those experiences did not include coercion or abuse, as some sus-
pect. Finally, the ancient Evagrian material on this subject reminds
us that these kinds of individual psychic crises are not problems
only of modernity. The tragically sad end of Scott Nevins’ life illus-
trates that this is not a problem only of the secular world. And so,
the question that arises from these conclusions is, how are the Or-
thodox churches and their monastic communities to respond to,
and move on from, events like this? I think one of the most ration-
al and potentially productive ways forward would be for the
churches to support systematic and further research into mental
health issues within monastic communities.
The reflections in this paper amount to a case study. Studies
of single cases yield valuable, but limited information. The very fact
that Nevins fell into a crisis that unfolded (at least in part) during
his residence at the St. Antony’s Monastery suggests that crises of
this nature can happen in monastic communities; and most things
that are found to be at least possible, probably will happen at some
point. The Evagrian material surveyed in this paper further sug-
gests that psychic crises befell members of monastic communities
with some regularity – at least they did in the remote past, and at
least with enough frequency that Evagrius felt compelled to com-
mit some instructions to writing to address the issue. What remains
unknown at this point, however, is just how often these mental
JOHN L. GRILLO 533
health crises actually happen in modern monastic communities.

Without any clear idea of the prevalence of severe psychic crises in
Orthodox monastic communities broadly, it is impossible to inter-
pret the meaning of particular events like this. In other words, it is
impossible for us to know at this point whether Nevins’s experi-
ence was in some way aberrant and isolated, or whether his story is
one of many like it, that point to troubling trends afoot within the
monasteries of the Orthodox churches in the modern era. Devel-
oping a body of data on the prevalence of severe psychic crisis in
monastic communities – and then comparing those statistics with
the general population – will be the next step, should the Orthodox
churches decide to take up this research project and carry it for-
ward. As a psychotherapeutic counselor and a theologian of Chris-
tian antiquity, I recommend it to the hierarchs as something to
weigh carefully.
MARKETS AND MONASTICISM: A SURVEY
& APPRAISAL OF EASTERN CHRISTIAN
MONASTIC ENTERPRISE
DYLAN PAHMAN
In fact the whole history of monasticism is in a certain sense
the history of a continual struggle with the problem of the
secularizing influence of wealth. ~ Max Weber 1
Adolf von Harnack, lecturing in the early twentieth century on the
history of monasticism, gives no indication that monasteries of the
Christian East had any significant interaction with economic mat-
ters: ‘To work they give only just as much attention as is necessary
for a livelihood … still must conscience smite the working hermit
when he sees the brother who neither toils nor spins nor speaks.’ 2
By contrast, ‘in Western monasticism we have to recognise a factor
of the first importance in Church and civilisation.’ 3 His contempo-
rary Max Weber, in The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism,
shared roughly the same out-look: ‘Labour is … an approved ascet-
ic technique, as it always has been in the Western Church, in sharp
contrast … to the Orient.’ 4 Thus to one of the foremost Church
1 Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Tal-
cott Parsons (London; New York: Routledge, 1992 [1930]), 174.
2 Adolf von Harnack, Monasticism in idem, Monasticism: Its Ideals and
History and The Confessions of St Augustine, trans. E. E. Kellet and F. H. Mar-

seille (London; Edinburgh: Williams and Nortgate, 1911), 56.
3 Ibid. p. 65.
4 Weber, 1992 [1930]), 158. It is unclear precisely what he means by
‘Orient’ here, but he clearly contrasts it with the ‘Western Church,’ imply-
ing that the more positive, ascetic attitude toward labor only, or at least
535
536 EASTERN CHRISTIAN MONASTIC ENTERPRISE
historians and one of the foremost sociologists of the late nine-

teenth and early twentieth centuries, monks of the Eastern Chris-
tian world, by and large, apparently have had their heads in the
clouds for most of history, only for a passing moment glancing
down toward the earth, and then only to offer their scorn.
Unlike the history of the economic activity and influence of
Western monasticism, Eastern monasticism has been largely ne-
glected in such studies since Harnack and Weber. 5 As Victor
primarily, applies to Western Christianity. With regard to Eastern asceti-

cism in general (of all religions), he seems to take a slightly more nuanced
view elsewhere, giving credit to the positive influence of Buddhist asceti-
cism in Tibet. See, e.g., idem., General Economic History, trans. Frank H.
Knight (New York, NY; London: Collier Books; Collier-MacMillan Ltd,
1961), 267. Schluchter writes that for Weber, ‘religiously motivated world
mastery … is unique to the Occident.’ Wolfgang Schluchter, Rationalism,
Religion, and Domination: A Weberian Perspective, trans. Neil Solomon
(Berkely; Los Angelas; Oxford: University of California Press, 1989), 273.
See also the chart on 144 where he distinguishes between Western monas-
ticism as an expression of ascetic, salvation religion turning away from the
world with the goal of overcoming the world, the Protestant ethic as an
expression of ascetic, salvation religion turning toward the world with the
goal of world mastery, and Oriental Christianity as a contemplative or
ecstatic salvation religion turning toward the world with the goal of accept-
ing one’s fate in the world. Weber contrasted asceticism and mysticism
but did acknowledge that sometimes they do coexist. See Max Weber,
‘Religious Rejections of the World and Their Directions,’ in H. H. Gerth
and C. Wright Mills, ed. and trans., From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology
(New York, NY: Routelege, 1948), 324–326.
5 See, e.g., R. H. Tawney, Religion and the Rise of Capitalism (London:
John Murray, 1926), 53–54, 114; Henri Pirenne, Economic and Social History
of Medieval Europe (New York, NY: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1937),
68–69, see also 75–77, 83, and 151; Maurice Dobb, Studies in the Develop-
ment of Capitalism (London: Routelege & Kegan Paul Ltd, 1946), 40, 50, 59,
75, 79–80; Robert Lekachman, A History of Economic Ideas (New York, NY;
Evanston; London: Harper & Row Publishers, 1959), 23; Murray Roth-
bard, Economic Thought Before Adam Smith, An Austrian Perspective on the
History of Economic Thought, vol. 1 (Brookfield, VT: Edward Elgar,
1995), 31–64; Rodney Stark, The Victory of Reason: How Christianity Led to
DYLAN PAHMAN 537
Roudometof and Michalis N. Michael write, ‘The analysis of the

economic functions of Orthodox monasteries lags considerably
behind in relation to the state of scholarly knowledge about their
Western counterparts.’ 6 The relationship between Orthodox mo-
nasticism and economic enterprise is typically only studied as part
of broader, historical studies, and these typically only assess eco-
nomic value. There exists no introductory survey of the history of
this interaction in the Christian East.
Yet, contra Harnack and Weber, the interaction between mar-
kets and monasticism in the Orthodox East was extensive, as I will
demonstrate in the first section of this paper. This ought not to be
surprising. As Nathan Smith writes:
How did/do monasteries support themselves? Even nations
are typically not economically self-sufficient, so naturally mon-
asteries are too small to supply all their own needs. From the
Egyptian desert to the present day monks have engaged in
trades and sold goods to lay people in order to purchase neces-
sities. Ancient Egyptian hermits wove baskets; one modern
Russian Orthodox monastery in Washington (state) sells cof-
fee. 7
Even monks need to pay the bills, so to speak. While Weber may
not be correct about the Eastern monastic attitude toward labor, he
is right when he says: ‘In fact the whole history of monasticism is
in a certain sense the history of a continual struggle with the prob-
lem of the secularizing influence of wealth.’ 8 This history shows
Freedom, Capitalism, and Western Success (New York, NY: Randomhouse,

2006), 57–67; Dierdre N. McCloskey, The Bourgeois Virtues: Ethics for an Age
of Commerce (Chicago; London: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 461.
6 Victor Roudometof and Michalis N. Michael, ‘Economic Func-
tions of Monasticism in Cyprus: The Case of the Kykkos Monastery,’

Religions 1, no. 1 (2010): 55. (henceforth Roudometof Kykkos).
7 Nathan Smith, ‘The Economics of Monasticism,’ ASREC Working
Paper Series (2009): 14, see also 3–4 where he also briefly mentions the
importance of Russian monastic enterprise, though his study focuses oth-
erwise on the West.
8 Weber, 1992 [1930]), 174.
that monks still need the world to survive, which historically has
led to a tension between the monastic ideal of poverty and ‘the
secularizing influence of wealth.’ This is the basis of the interaction
between markets and monasticism, just as much in the East as in
the West.
In light of this gap in scholarship, this paper consists of two
sections: the first offers an introductory, if incomplete, survey to
the history of markets and monasticism in the Christian East; the
second offers a brief appraisal of this history and how it may con-
dition the context of monastic teaching on wealth, work, business,
and enterprise in the Orthodox Church. Ultimately, I demonstrate
that the historical record reveals a positive view of enterprise as a
means to serve others, supply one’s needs, and build a surplus for
charitable activity, as well as serving as a warning about the dangers
of avarice and the exploitation of positions of privilege and power
in the accumulation of wealth.
FROM ANCIENT EGYPT TO THE UNITED STATES

In the Sayings of the Desert Fathers, there is an illustrative story of the
economic relationship between the earliest Christian monks and
the world they fled. One monk overhears another worrying: ‘The
trader is soon coming, and I have no handles to put on my bas-
kets.’ The first monk then removes the handles from his own bas-
kets and gives them to the other. 9 In order to provide for their own
needs, have something to give as alms, and work to stave off the
noonday demon of acedia, 10 the desert fathers and mothers would
often make handicrafts and other products to sell. In the figure of
the trader, the world they fled journeyed to the desert to find them
for the sake of economic exchange.
9 Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 17.16 in Owen Chadwick, trans., Western

Asceticism (Philadelphia, PA: The Westminster Press, 1958), 184.
10 See, for example, St. John Cassian, On the Eight Vices 6 in St. Nic-
odemos of the Holy Mountain and St. Makarios of Corinth, The Philokalia,
vol. 1, ed. and trans. G.E.H. Palmer, Philip Sherrard, Kallistos Timothy
Ware (London: Faber & Faber, 1979), 113: ‘by persevering in work the
monks dispel listlessness [acedia].’
DYLAN PAHMAN 539
Yet their economic activity cannot be restricted to a minimal

production of crafts. According to James A. Goehring:
Abba Esias appears to have been involved in a sharecropping
arrangement. John the Dwarf wove ropes and baskets and had
an agreement with a camel driver who picked up the merchan-
dise from his cell. He also apparently left Scetis during the har-
vest season to work for wages. Isidore the Priest went to the
market to sell his goods. Lucius plaited ropes to earn the mon-
ey with which he purchased his food. In the collection of say-
ings associated with Abba Poemen, one reads of meetings with
the village magistrate, of the plaiting and selling of ropes, of
monks who went to the city, took baths, and were careless in
their behavior, of a monk who worked a field, and of one who
took his produce to the market. 11
Goehring notes as well the many monks who did not participate in
the anchoritic or coenobitic life but rather lived on the outskirts of
villages. 12 In fact, the first known use of the term monachos to de-
scribe an ascetic comes from a petition dating to 324 that records
how a monk named Isaac ‘intervened in a village dispute over a
cow.’ 13
11 James E. Goehring, Ascetics, Society, and the Desert: Studies in Early

Egyptian Monasticism (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1999),
45–46.
12 See also Goehring, 1999, 89–90: ‘While isolated monasteries flour-
ished in Egypt as a result of the discovery of the desert, Egyptian monas-

ticism was neither in its origins a product of that discovery nor in its sub-
sequent expansion a result of an ensuing flight from the inhabited world
… to the newly found isolation of the desert … The growth of monasti-
cism in Egypt did not follow a simple linear path from an ill-defined ur-
ban ascetic movement in the later third and early fourth centuries to the
withdrawn desert monks of the fourth-century classical period, to the
large well-defined urban and suburban monasteries of the later Byzantine
era … While it expanded into the desert in the fourth century, it contin-
ued to grow and develop as well within the inhabited regions of the Nile
valley where it first began.’
13 Goehring, 1999, 45.
He continues to examine coenobitic monasteries, who met

their needs ‘by frequent forays outside the monastery wall to gather
the materials needed for their livelihood,’ including gathering mate-
rials for making ropes and baskets as well as agricultural produc-
tion, sheep herding, and goat shearing. 14 As time went on,
Goehring notes, the scope of Egyptian monastic enterprise contin-
ued to grow from mats, baskets, and plaited ropes to sandals and
other goods. ‘As the community obtained its own boats,’ he writes,
‘the products were shipped down the Nile as far as Alexandria.’ 15
These ‘[c]ommercial dealings required careful control,’ he contin-
ues, detailing the record keeping of each monastery’s ‘great stew-
ard,’ the financial manager of the Pachomian communities. 16 In
addition, St. Shenoute’s White Monastery also ‘had considerable
commercial exchange with the outside world.’ It functioned as a
sort of work cooperative, serving as ‘a source of relief to the poor
Coptic farmers by offering them at reduced prices such necessities
as cloth, mats, and baskets.’ 17
Perhaps surprisingly, Goehring writes, ‘Ownership and trans-
fer of property by monks was relatively common’ in Egypt. 18 Pri-
vate property apparently did not conflict with the ideal of poverty
and communal ownership of resources for some. 19 This is noted by
14 Ibid. 47.
15 Ibid. 48.
16 Ibid. 48. Goehring also notes the proximity of these monasteries
to civilization: ‘The Pachomian monasteries were not located in the dis-

tant desert or even on the marginal land where the desert begins, but in or
in close proximity to the towns or villages whose names they bore’ (108).
17 Goehring, 1999, 48–49.
18 Ibid. 50.
19 Ibid. 61–62, where Goehring notes that in Pachomian and
Shenoutean communities eventually it was required that monks donate all

personal property to the monastery, thus ensuring literal renunciation of
all property. Nevertheless, he notes, ‘The Pachomian innovation of donat-
ing personal property to the monastery was not universal among commu-
nal ascetics in fourth-century Egypt’ (64). He goes on to detail, ‘In the
case of the monastery of Apollos at Bawit, where the documentary evi-
dence indicates private-property ownership in the ninth century, it is just
DYLAN PAHMAN 541
Rhee as well, who additionally comments, ‘[W]hether one was an

anchorite, semi-anchorite, or cenobite, a monk did not necessarily
live in destitution with ‘total’ renunciation of private property …
The monastic poverty in reality was more patterned after economic
self-sufficiency than destitution.’ 20 Most monks did not follow the
standard of St. Paul the Hermit, who according to St. Jerome
stitched together palm leaves to wear so as not to even own a
cloak. 21
Furthermore, though to an extent Rhee is right that ‘monastic
poverty in reality was … patterned after economic self-
sufficiency,’ 22 Goehring summarizes the economic interdependence
of Egyptian monasticism with the secular world, arguing that: ‘Such
interaction was part of the monastic self-understanding in Egypt
from the beginning … [Monasticism’s] significance and success in
Egypt lay not only in its religious import to the surrounding com-
munities, but also in its social and economic interdependence with
them. It enlivened dying villages, increased agricultural production
and trade, and produced various necessities … for the peasants. Its
leaders were also among the new purveyors of social and economic
as likely that the monks of this monastery had always been able to own
property as it is that their original rule shifted in later years to allow it’
(Goehring, 68).
20 Helen Rhee, Loving the Poor, Saving the Rich: Wealth, Poverty, and Early
Christian Formation (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2012), 184. She additionally
notes, ‘While these monks individually renounced all worldly attachments,
including possessions, many, if not most, cenobitic monastics could count
on sufficient shelter, clothing, regular meals, and ‘excellent’ health care for
the rest of their lives due to the economic stability of monastic communi-
ties’ (183). The major exceptions were certain Syrian monks who lived
entirely off of begging (184).
21 See St. Jerome, The Life of Paulus the First Hermit in NPNF2 6:301.
22 Rhee, 2012, 184. She additionally notes, ‘While these monks indi-
vidually renounced all worldly attachments, including possessions, many,

if not most, cenobitic monastics could count on sufficient shelter, cloth-
ing, regular meals, and ‘excellent’ health care for the rest of their lives due
to the economic stability of monastic communities’ (183). The major ex-
ceptions were certain Syrian monks who lived entirely from begging (184).
power in the hinterland. Its success in Egypt was dependent upon

both elements.’ 23 Egyptian monks were self-sufficient in the sense
of providing for their own needs with their own work, but they
depended on others inasmuch as such work could not provide for
their needs apart from economic exchange.
BYZANTINE PALESTINE
Doron Bar’s study of the Christianization of rural, Byzantine Pales-
tine, western Galilee and the Negev in particular, includes further
insight into this history. He writes: ‘Many of the monasteries in-
cluded such devices as oil and wine presses, indicating that agricul-
ture was central to the monastery’s daily routine,’ 24 noting that
‘more than 170 such establishments’ were ‘in Palestine’s country-
side.’ 25 The founding of monasteries at the edges of rural villages
was common. 26 Following St. Basil, these monasteries engaged in
social welfare activities. 27 Unlike Egypt and Syria, however, these
monasteries did not arise out of local piety but were part of the
advancing Christianization process of the region. As the monks,
then, commonly spoke Greek rather than Aramaic, interaction with
the people and customs of the villages in Palestine was a challenge.
‘There was a complicated give-and-take between the monks and
villagers,’ Bar writes. ‘The local villagers enjoyed the protection,
religious patronage, and various religious services that the monks
offered them, elements that previously were lacking in these re-
mote areas.’ 28 He continues, ‘The monks themselves sought the
presence of the villagers … In those rural areas, the monks became
well-known figures and fulfilled a major sociological role. The
monks helped the farmers to confront problems typical in those
23 Goehring, 1999, 51–52.

24 Doron Bar, ‘Rural Monasticism as a Key Element in the Christian-
ization of Byzantine Palestine,’ The Harvard Theological Review, 98, no. 1
(Jan., 2005): 51.
25 Ibid. 51, see also the map on 52.
26 Ibid. 55–56.
27 Ibid. 57.
28 Ibid. 59.
DYLAN PAHMAN 543
regions, and in return the farmers made handsome donations to the

monks and their monasteries.’ 29
According to Bar, the monasteries of the region cannot be
easily classified in purely religious or economic terms: ‘Many of the
monasteries were built not in isolated areas but close to a village,
sometimes integrated into its fringes, and most frequently connect-
ed to the village by a short path. This phenomenon can be ob-
served not only in Palestine but also in some other regions of the
Byzantine world, and suggests that in such cases, both the monks
and the villagers were interested in being neighbors.’ 30 This interac-
tion shows that not only did the monasteries need contact with the
villages for survival, but the villages also needed the monasteries.
The result was a higher economic, religious, and cultural standard
of living for both the villagers and the monks. 31
THE KYKKOS MONASTERY ON CYPRUS

Founded at the end of the eleventh century by Emperor Alexios
Komnenos, the economic history of the Kykkos monastery up to
the present day is one of widespread and expansive enterprise. Vic-
tor Roudometof and Michalis N. Michael offer extensive detail of
the monastery’s property holdings and business ventures. Along
with several other monasteries on the island, Kykkos significantly
increased its land holdings from the fifteenth century onward. In
1554, ‘there were 30 monks and a few employees – a shepherd, two
vineyard guards and six other employees in the monastery…’ 32
Kykkos continued to expand its holdings under Ottoman rule. ‘The
monastery did not simply manage land that was within the wakf
framework. It also used land for which it had only the right of usu-
fruct (tassaruf). Additionally, for a large number of lands located
nearby or far away from its main complex, it had the right of com-
29 Ibid. 60.
30 Ibid. 63.
31 Rhee’s summary (Loving the Poor. 2012, 183–184) of the lifestyle of
early Christian monks applies here as well.

32 Roudometof Kykkos. 58.
plete ownership (mülk).’ 33 The monastery obtained land and other

property in a variety of ways, such as purchasing public land, acqui-
sition of land for which they previously only had the right of usu-
fruct, purchase from private owners, donations received from the
Orthodox faithful, and property inherited from private owners. 34
Most land acquired was cultivatable, but the monastery also
‘bought houses with yards, shops, building plots in the cities, vine-
yards and gardens.’ 35
After 1850, the monastery hired more workers, operated mar-
kets, increased its land holdings, annexes, estate holdings, pastures,
and mills. 36 Mills represented the most important enterprise in the
local economy, and Kykkos owned more than 16. 37 Roudometof
and Michael write that ‘the monastery was probably one of the
most important producers on the island.’ 38 Mills required a large
amount of capital to purchase, equip, and operate. More broadly,
these holdings were cultivated either directly by the monks, by
renting, or by the tenant farmer system. 39 The monastery also
owned many trees, which under Ottoman law were separate pos-
sessions than the land on which they stood. 40
In the case of the Kykkos monastery on Cyprus, one cannot
study the market apart from studying the monastery, because in
many cases the monastery itself was the market. It operated shops
and markets for oil and leather vending and held the title deeds for
59 shops and laboratories by the second half of the nineteenth cen-
tury, including wine, grocery, and coffee shops. 41 By the end of the
Ottoman era, the monastery owned 72 shops, 13 annexes, 10
churches, 15,148 acres of land, 8,797 olive trees, 1,402 other trees,
Ibid. 59. A wakf, under Islamic law, is an inalienable religious en-

33
dowment.
34 Ibid. 62–63.
35 Ibid. 62.
36 Ibid. 64.
37 Ibid. 66.
39 Ibid.64–65.
40 Ibid. 65.
41 Ibid. 67.
DYLAN PAHMAN 545
429 vineyards, 11 water mills, and 11 olive mills; it had its own
goldsmiths, its own commissioners for exportation, and even
owned part of a ship. 42 Its major products in the nineteenth centu-
ry included ‘silk, grain, wine, cotton, oil, sesame and various other
products of stockbreeding, like wool and leather.’ 43 Additionally, as
there were no banks on Cyprus, Kykkos itself acted as a bank,
loaning money to be repaid with interest and borrowing money as
well. 44
In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, however,
British rule eliminated political privilege for the monastery and
brought government antagonism toward the Church. The British
seized land from the monastery. The monastery, for its part, re-
fused to comply with the new regulations on property and payment
of taxes and supported the anti-British nationalist rebels in the
1950s. 45 Since 1950, and especially since the establishment of the
Republic of Cyprus in 1960, the monastery sold land in the boom-
ing real estate market. Since the 1970s urban expansion on Cyprus
brought a newfound economic prosperity. Annual income for the
monastery increased tenfold from 1983 to 2003 (approximately
from 770,000 to 7.7 million Euros). 46 ‘This income has been used
to fund several actions,’ they write, including charity work, renova-
tions, and ‘the creation of the Byzantine Ecclesiastical Museum’ as
well as ‘the Archangel Cultural Foundation of the Kykkos Monas-
tery.’ 47
Writing in 2010, Roudometof and Michael write that the
‘Kykkos Monastery is, today, one of the most financially powerful
monasteries in Cyprus.’ The monastery owns one factory for wine
and another for bottling water and rents out many buildings. ‘At
the same time,’ they write, ‘it remains the owner of extensive real
estate property holdings. The monastery is also one of the main
42 Ibid. 67–68.
43 Ibid. 67.
44 Ibid. 67.
45 Ibid. 68–71.
47 Ibid. 71.
stakeholders in the Hellenic Bank of Cyprus.’ 48 Far from idealizing

‘solitary contemplation and mortification,’ waiting idly ‘for the holy
light of God to shine at last on [them],’ 49 the monks of Kykkos
have a long history of successful enterprise and charitable activity.
RUSSIA
Russian monasticism, too, has a long history of economic enter-
prise. ‘Monasteries in Muscovite Russia served a variety of func-
tions, ranging from prayer and meditation to banking and com-
merce,’ writes Isaiah Gruber. 50 In some cases, unfortunately, the
charitable activity and other contributions to broader socioeco-
nomic well-being did not match up to the example of Kykkos. No
doubt this is not unique to Russia but likely represents the spec-
trum of success and failure among Eastern monasticism in general
in this regard. In my research, nevertheless, by far the worst exam-
ples of monasteries that, by all appearances, failed in the ‘continual
struggle with … the secularizing influence of wealth’ 51 come from
Russia.
During the fourteenth century in Russia, Gilbert Rozman
writes, ‘Ownership of votchiny [inherited landed properties] was
divided between clerical authorities representing churches and
monasteries, nobles … and the prince himself.’ 52 Monasteries were
some of the few property owners in medieval Russia, and among
some of the most enduring. He writes: ‘In … conditions of grow-
ing commercial involvement, many estate owners fell into debt,
while others, including certain monasteries, adapted to the changed
48 Ibid. 71.
49 Adolf von Harnack, Monasticism in idem, Monasticism: Its Ideals and
History and The Confessions of St Augustine, trans. E. E. Kellet and F. H. Mar-
seille (London; Edinburgh: Williams and Nortgate, 1911), 56.
50 Isaiah Gruber, ‘Black Monks and White Gold: The Solovetskii
Monastery’s Prosperous Salt Trade during the Time of Troubles of the

Early Seventeenth Century,’ Russian History 37 (2010): 238.
51 Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans.
Talcott Parsons (London; New York: Routledge, 1992 [1930]), 174.

52 Gilbert Rozman, Urban Networks in Russia, 1750–1800, and Premod-
ern Periodization (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), 51.

DYLAN PAHMAN 547
circumstances by securing grants of land in still unsettled areas or

through rights of inheritance from private owners seeking salva-
tion, by engaging in usury, or by taking advantage of monopoly
trading rights in such goods as salt and fish.’ 53
Lawrence N. Langer notes that in medieval Russia, unlike in
the West, there were no guilds. 54 Thus, monasteries claimed a sig-
nificant share of the market by taking advantage of their tax-
exempt status. 55 Langer speaks of ‘brotherhoods (bratchina) which
existed in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries [that] were primari-
ly organizations of monastic servitors and certainly did not repre-
sent separate crafts [unlike guilds].’ 56 Additionally, Maurice Dobb
notes, ‘It was precisely wealthy monasteries like the Troitsa Sergei-
evsky near Moscow or that of St. Cyril on the White Sea, among
the most enterprising and successful traders of the period, that
were the earliest to impose labour services (instead of dues in mon-
ey or kind) upon peasantry on their estates.’ 57
Rozman compares the acquisition of property by the Church
and Orthodox monasteries to the Church in the West in the ninth
and tenth centuries, writing: ‘Christian religious rural areas were
increasingly active in accumulating resources in rural areas during
this phase of decentralization. Eventually, efforts to reorganize the
movement of local resources together with various improvements
in rural conditions would result in the widespread emergence of

54 Lawrence N. Langer, ‘The Medieval Russian Town’ , in Michael F.
Hamm, (ed). The City in Russian History (Lexington, KY: The University
Press of Kentucky, 1976), 24–27, see also 12. For a simple and straight-
forward account of the importance and function of guilds, see Robert
Lekachman, A History of Economic Ideas (New York, NY; Evanston; Lon-
don: Harper & Row Publishers, 1959), 18–19, and for some of the com-
mon problems 22.
55 See Lawrence N. Langer, ‘The Medieval Russian Town’, 25.
56 Ibid. 25.
57 Maurice Dobb, Studies in the Development of Capitalism (London:
Routelege & Kegan Paul Ltd, 1946), 40.

periodic markets.’ 58 Thus, in Russia, as in France and England cen-

turies before, the accumulation of capital by the Church did help to
bring political stability and economic development. ‘Actually many
of the early markets’ in mid-fifteenth-century Russia, writes Roz-
man, ‘were not located in typical villages, but were found outside
the walls of monasteries, which as owners of large estates had long
served as gathering points for craftsmen and as accumulation
points for goods.’ 59 Langer goes on to detail the monasteries’
sometimes questionable economic activities:
The monasteries … accumulated the greatest amounts of
capital and during the second half of the fourteenth and the fif-
teenth century expanded their economic activities, for example re-
sorting increasingly to hiring free labor (naimiti). In smaller towns
like Beloozero, monasteries nearly monopolized the entire market;
consequently Ivan II had to restrict somewhat their privileges in
trade. Nevertheless, the monasteries controlled some of the largest
salt works and served to fulfill an important economic function, the
movement of foodstuffs in large bulk from one market to anoth-
er. 60
The largest and most financially successful of such monastic
salt works can be found in the case of the Solovetskii monastery,
which in purely economic terms, by far represents the most suc-
cessful Eastern monastic enterprise. The salt mines, along with
many other enterprises of the Solovetskii monastery, were original-
ly founded by St. Philip II, who served as its abbot in the mid-
sixteenth century before becoming Metropolitan of Moscow. 61
Solovetskii’s salt works in particular were extremely lucrative, salt
being ‘a vital necessity and hence a highly profitable cash crop.’ 62

59 Ibid. 61.
60 See Langer, ‘The Medieval Russian Town’. 25.
61 See, e.g. Victoria Clarck, Why Angels Fall: A Journey Through Ortho-
dox Europe from Byzantium to Kosovo (New York, NY: MacMillan, 2008).
62 Isaiah Gruber, ‘Black Monks and White Gold: The Solovetskii
Monastery’s Prosperous Salt Trade during the Time of Troubles of the

Early Seventeenth Century,’ Russian History 37 (2010): 239.
DYLAN PAHMAN 549
Isaiah Gruber writes:

Major institutions such as the ‘state within a state’ centered at
Solovki commanded impressive revenues and, as Queen Eliza-
beth’s ambassador Giles Fletcher put it, ‘deal[t] for all manner
of commodities.’ These were the mega-corporations of a socie-
ty continually professing spiritual motives in all realms of life –
whether political or social, intellectual or economic, sexual or
military. In fact, the vast majority of ecclesiastic documents
that have survived for the perusal of historians are simply
business records of income and expense. 63
Gruber examines the financial success of Solovetskii in the Time of
Troubles (1599–1615). Gruber compares the medieval salt industry
to the modern oil industry, and Solovetskii had the largest market
share in medieval Russia. 64 ‘The first two-thirds of the Smuta [Time
of Troubles],’ he writes, ‘actually profited the Solovetskii monasterial
business, which had the good fortune to control large supplies of a
high-demand natural resource.’ 65 How were they able to do this,
given the severe hardship in Russia during this time? Gruber ex-
plains:
I speculate that the situation with regard to salt – the ‘white
gold’ of its day – was similar to the situation with regard to oil
today. Demand was always high, even regardless of cost, but it
could vary somewhat – especially in crisis situations. Mean-
while, the volume of the commodity that could be supplied
remained almost constant … However, suppliers were able to
manipulate prices to a more or less significant degree by re-
stricting or opening supply as they saw fit. The Solovki monks
– not to mention other businessmen in Russia – may well have
exploited these realities for their own advantage during the
Time of Troubles. 66
63 Ibid. 238–239.
64 Ibid. 242.
65 Ibid. 244, see also 247.
66 Ibid. 245.
He notes, furthermore, that the monastery functioned as a whole-

saler. Thus it did not sell directly to those who needed salt but to
merchants who may also have raised the price of this scarce and
needed the commodity even more. 67 The comparison to oil cartels
and mega-corporations is quite apt when it comes to the amount of
income and capital that Solovetskii enjoyed. Gruber details their
spending habits as follows:
Typically, the elders in Vologda would spend the majority of
their proceeds from salt sales on purchases of grain and other
supplies for the monastery. In the year 7120 (1611–1612), they
had enough money to spend more than 9,000 rubles for such
purposes – an amount well above average annual expenditure.
Such figures prove that this enormous monasterial corporation
had considerable sums of money available to be spent all
throughout the Troubles, even during years of horrible famine
and war. In fact, in the sixteen years 7108–7123 (1599–1615),
the Vologda office of the Solovetskii Monastery recorded pur-
chases totaling 116,517.095 rubles.
‘Using my rough approximation,’ he writes, ‘this would correspond
to perhaps a quarter billion U.S. dollars today. Remarkably, most if
not all of this money came from income, not savings.’ 68
Despite such huge expenditures, profits, and the surrounding
destitution of the time, very little funds were dedicated to almsgiv-
ing. ‘[T]he prosperity enjoyed by the monastery during Smutnoe
vremia [the Time of Troubles] stands out against a background of
great suffering among the common population.’ 69 Examining the
year 1605 alone, Gruber notes:
In addition to these large expenses, a laconic entry at the end
of the document read, ‘nishchim rozoshlosia [to the poor was
expended] 5 altyn, 2 dengi [0.16 rubles].’ This minimal almsgiv-
ing – scrupulously recorded by the business-like monks – con-
trasts starkly with the tens of thousands of rubles brought in
67 Ibid. 246.
68 Gruber, (2010): 246–247.
69 Ibid. 248.
DYLAN PAHMAN 551
by their commercial activity. Of course, after three years of

famine and one of war, it was as likely as not a dearth of poor
people that kept charity expenses so low. 70
In sharp contrast to the sanctity of its founder, who was martyred
for his resistance to Ivan the Terrible in defense of the Russian
people, Solovetskii seemed to all but forego its spiritual calling dur-
ing the Time of Troubles. Gruber concludes:
What have we learned from the black monks and their trade in
white gold? First, the Time of Troubles was not an unmitigated
disaster for all segments of Muscovite society. For some, the
country’s misfortune was to a certain degree their windfall, at
least during the first two stages of the period. Second, the goal
of an ostensibly spiritual institution remained to a very signifi-
cant extent economic profit, not (for example) relieving wide-
spread poverty or resisting supposedly illegitimate tsars. 71
While on the one hand Gruber is right that Russian monastic oper-
ations have historically displayed certain failings regarding their
raison d’être, Rozman and Langer show how the reality was more
mixed – Solovetskii cannot be taken as a microcosm of the whole
of Russian monasticism. Another mixed picture can be found in
eighteenth century Kiev. At this time as Kiev grew in population
from the 1720s to the 1750s, ‘[g]reat monasteries, particularly the
Monastery of the Caves,’ as well as a fortress, ‘dominated the city
and its economy.’ 72 Michael F. Hamm records that in Kiev:
Monasteries were … prominent in the two most important lo-
cal trades, milling and distilling. Monks from the Monastery at
the Caves had fourteen taverns in Pechersk District in the
1750s, one on each street. In 1766 it seemed to one observer
that ‘the making of vodka and other drinks was the main, if
not the only, form of production in Kiev.’ For all of the city’s
70 Ibid. 247.
71 Ibid. 248.
72 Michael F. Hamm, ‘Continuity and Change in Late Imperial Kiev’
in Michael F. Hamm, ed., The City in Late Imperial Russia (Bloomington,

IN: Indiana University Press, 1986), 81.
‘miracle-working icons,’ went an eighteenth century lyric, ‘its

men, though charitable to the poor, are in the end destroyed
by its taverns. They become stingy: good men become bad.’ 73
It would be uncharitable to assume that corrupting good men was
the aim of this enterprise of the Monastery of the Caves, but their
taverns certainly could not have helped. Kiev, at least, was known
for its ‘miracle-working icons,’ and we can hope that the men of
Kiev were ‘charitable to the poor’ in part due to the teaching and
example of local monks. In any case, the enterprise of the monas-
teries of Kiev, including the Monastery of the Caves, was instru-
mental in improving the quality of education in Russia as whole,
printing books and participating in an international exchange of
ideas. ‘Kiev’s importance as a center of learning should not be
overlooked,’ writes Hamm, ‘for its monasteries helped introduce
Western ideas into seventeenth and eighteenth-century Russia.
From 1616 the Monastery at the Caves operated a press which con-
tributed greatly to the development of book-printing in the Em-
pire.’ 74
Lastly, while he does not cite the sources of the funding used,
it is worth mentioning here Scott M. Kenworthy’s account of the
social engagement of the Trinity-Sergius Lavra in the nineteenth
century. ‘Trinity-Sergius actively engaged in a wide array of philan-
thropic activities,’ he writes, ‘providing services such as an alms-
house for the elderly poor both of Sergiev Posad and other regions
as well as a hospital for both local residents and pilgrims, a hostel
for pilgrims, and educational institutions for both orphans who
lived in the monastery and poor children of the surrounding re-
gion.’ 75 He continues to write about monasticism more broadly:
‘Moreover, in 1840 private individuals or societies supported half
73 Ibid. 81.
74 Ibid. 82.
75 Scott M. Kenworthy, ‘Russian Monasticism and Social Engage-
ment: The Case of the Trinity-Sergius Lavra in the Nineteenth Century’

in M.J. Pereira, ed., Philanthropy and Social Compassion in Eastern Orthodox
Tradition, The Sophia Institute: Studies in Orthodox Theology, Vol. 2
(New York, NY: Theotokos Press; The Sophia Institute, 2010), 178–179.
DYLAN PAHMAN 553
of the hospitals and almshouses located on monastery property; by

1914, these non-monastic sources accounted for a mere 6.9 percent
of the funding.’ 76 In addition, he notes the bottom-up nature of
these reforms, arising from individual monasteries more than from
hierarchical mandates.
THE UNITED STATES IN THE PRESENT DAY

In December of 1997, Our Merciful Saviour Russian Orthodox
Monastery in Washington State found itself facing potential litiga-
tion from Starbucks. The monastery operated a small business sell-
ing coffee over the internet, and Starbucks charged it with violating
its trademark of the label ‘Christmas Blend.’ 77 While two other
businesses responded by changing the names of their blends, Our
Merciful Saviour refused. A year later, embarrassed over the nega-
tive publicity that threatening a monastery with a lawsuit engen-
dered, Starbucks dropped the charges. 78 Today Our Merciful Sav-
iour uses the story as a marketing point for its ‘Christmas Blend’
coffee on its website: ‘Made famous by our battle with Starbucks
some years ago … this wonderful seasonal blend of Arabica beans
is perfect for drinking around the hearth.’ 79 Due to their persis-
tence, many other coffee makers still use the label as well.
Our Merciful Saviour is not the only modern monastery bene-
fitting from globalization, conducting business over the internet
and benefiting from high speed shipping. 80 I offer here a sample of
76 Ibid. 179.
77 William Patalon III, ‘Starbucks’ ‘Christmas Blend’ Stirs Brouhaha:
Local Firm, Monastery Warned on Trademark,’ The Baltimore Sun, Decem-
ber 25, 1997, accessed October 8, 2013, http://articles.baltimoresun.
com/1997–12–25/news/1997359001_1_christmas-blend-starbucks-reg
istered-trademarks.
78 Lee Moriwaki, ‘Starbucks Ends Fight Over Name,’ The Seattle
Times, February 3, 1998, http://community.seattletimes.nwsource.com/

archive/?date=19980203&slug=2732309.
79 ‘Coffee,’ All Merciful Saviour Orthodox Monastery, October 8,
2013, http://vashonmonks.com/coffee.htm.
80 I use the term globalization in its standard, neutral sense, meaning
the deterritorialization, the growth of interconnectedness, and the in-

only a few American Orthodox monasteries and the products they

produce and sell. St. Paisius Monastery, a Serbian convent in Ari-
zona, specializes in prayer ropes but also sells books, music, icons,
crosses, and rings. 81 The Hermitage of the Holy Cross, a Russian
monastery in House Springs, Missouri, features pumpkin spice bar
soap and also sells other bath and body products, books, incense,
food, greeting cards, icons, jewelry, and various Orthodox CDs and
DVDs. 82 Holy Transfiguration Monastery, part of the un-canonical
‘Holy Orthodox Church in North America’, is well-known for its
icons and books. In addition, they also sell prayer ropes, crosses,
oils, incense, lamps, CDs and DVDs, and prosphora seals. 83 St.
John Chrysostomos Greek Orthodox Monastery in Pleasant Prai-
rie, Wisconsin sells icons, candles, jewelry, and other devotional
items. The monastery’s website entirely consists of its online
store. 84 The Monastery of St. John of San Francisco, part of the
Orthodox Church in America and located in Manton, California,
has a bookstore that also sells candles, soaps, icons, crosses,
scarves, honey, prayer ropes, and greeting cards. 85 St. John the
Forerunner, a Greek convent in San Francisco, sells various baked
goods as well as prayer corner items, icon cards, natural soaps and
lotions, honey and jams, fresh roasted coffee, and sterling silver
creased velocity of social activity that has come as a result of technological

advancement over approximately the last 200 years. See William Scheuer-
man, ‘Globalization,’ The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N.
Zalta (Summer 2010 Edition), accessed October 17, 2013,
http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2010/entries/globalization/.
81 ‘St. Paisius Monastery Gift Shop,’ St. Paisius Monastery, accessed
October 8, 2013, http://www.stpaisiusgiftshop.com/.

82 ‘Hermitage of the Holy Cross,’ Hermitage of the Holy Cross, ac-
cessed October 8, 2013, https://store.holycross-hermitage.com/.

83 ‘Holy Transfiguration Monastery Store,’ Holy Transfiguration
Monastery, accessed October 8, 2013, http://www.bostonmonks.com/.

84 ‘Home Page,’ St. John Chrysostomos Greek Orthodox Monastery,
accessed October 8, 2013, http://www.stchrysostomoscrafts.com/.

85 ‘St. John’s Bookstore,’ Monastery of St. John, accessed October 8,
2013, http://www.stjohnsbookstore.com/.
DYLAN PAHMAN 555
Jesus Prayer rings. 86 Paracletos, a Greek monastery in Antreville,

South Carolina, has its own, separate website for its store where it
sells icons, neck crosses and gifts, censers, incense, oil lamps, and
prayer ropes. 87 Dormition of the Mother of God Romanian Or-
thodox Monastery, a convent in Rives Junction, Michigan, sells
books, prayer ropes, vestments, and specialty items, including
handcrafted monk and nun dolls. 88 This brief survey gives no indi-
cation that the Orthodox tradition of monastic enterprise shows
any signs of diminishing or, for that matter, has any uneasiness
about participating in the global markets of the twenty-first centu-
ry.
APPRAISAL
On the structural side, I would argue that though he claims his ac-
count is ‘unduly focused on Christian and Western monasticism,’
Nathan Smith’s basic economic analysis fits Eastern Christian mo-
nasticism as well. 89 To simplify, he notes the following seven
points: (1) monasticism began eremitically and only later became
coenobitic; (2) there existed competition between monastic orders
and practices; (3) internally, monasteries resemble the structure of
socialist communes (though contra Smith I would say only generally
and not ‘precisely’ 90); (4) monasticism is a lifelong commitment; (5)
86 ‘St. John’s Monastery Bakery,’ St. John the Forerunner, accessed

October 8, 2013, http://www.stjohnmonastery.org/.
87 ‘Orthodox Byzantine Icons, Censers, Incense, Vigil Lams, Prayer
Ropes, Neck Crosses and Gifts,’ Paracletos Monastery, accessed October

8, 2013, http://www.orthodoxmonasteryicons.com/.
88 ‘Dormition Monastery » Welcome to Our Gift Shop,’ Dormition
of the Mother of God Orthodox Monastery, accessed October 8, 2013,

http://www.dormitionmonastery.org/?page_id=4.
89 Nathan Smith, ‘The Economics of Monasticism,’ ASREC Work-
ing Paper Series (2009): 17.

90 Ibid. 11. Some class division existed between novices and monks,
abbots and others, clergy and non-clergy and, as we have seen, ownership
of private property was not in actual fact completely abolished. We may
add as well the division between monks and lay brothers among the Cis-
tercians. See Ludo J.R. Milis, Angelic Monks and Earthly Men: Monasticism
unlike secular communes, monasteries are incredibly resilient insti-

tutions (he notes the average lifespan being about 450 years); (6)
‘monasteries made great contributions to civilization and often ac-
quired great wealth’; and (7) there is ‘a monastic reform cycle, with
repeated decay and renewal.’ 91
Smith then notes how, among those disaffected by any partic-
ular society, there will always be some who embrace an eremitic
lifestyle. When this is done for spiritual purposes, the individual
cultivates spiritual capital (or, we might say, heavenly treasure),
which, in turn, attracts others to follow the hermit’s example. After
a while, enough monastics group together and form coenobitic
communities. Monasteries are more stable than secular communes
because (nearly) everyone there joins voluntarily, for life, embraces
celibacy (thus having no children who do not choose to join the
community), and a life focused on worship is self-reinforcing. That
is, the more people develop spiritual capital the more attracted they
are to the sorts of activities that develop spiritual capital, 92 and the
more attractive monastic life will be to others. Reinforced by strict
obedience and a strong work ethic, monasteries accumulate capital
and contribute to civilization. As they grow in wealth, however,
they naturally attract more people for purely economic reasons ra-
ther than for the sake of spiritual development, diminishing the
spiritual vitality of the community, making it less attractive, and
and its Meaning to Medieval Society (Woodbridge, UK: The Boydell Press),
39–40. Thus, the idea that internally they were ‘precisely’ socialist seems to
overstate the reality. They certainly strove for communal ownership and
classlessness, but they did not perfectly achieve this. Furthermore, while
Smith discounts the idea that monasteries can be classified under the
model of the firm, we have seen at least in the case of Solovetskii that a
comparison to business institutions may be quite apt. Indeed, one can say
about a business that the property is owned corporately, though, of
course, not always in the sense of the sort of shareholder model in which
everyone owns a portion of the company that fits better with socialism.
91 For this list in greater detail, see Nathan Smith, ‘The Economics
of Monasticism,’ ASREC Working Paper Series (2009): 17.

92 In this context Smith (2009) cites the Russian spiritual classic The
Way of a Pilgrim. Ibid. p. 31.

DYLAN PAHMAN 557
leading eventually to a decrease in membership. At the same time,

this motivates the more zealous to embrace the eremitic life in ef-
fort to return to the initial spiritual purity, starting the cycle over
again.
Sergey Bulgakov cites the Russian historian Vasily Osipovich
Klyuchevsky, who records precisely this phenomenon with regards
to Russian monasticism. He additionally notes how many Russian
villages formed around monasteries, confirming the role of monas-
ticism on the development of Eastern civilization, Klyuchevsky
writes:
Three quarters of fourteenth and fifteenth century monasteries
in depopulated areas were such [agrarian] colonies; they were
established by monks who left other monasteries, from similar
depopulated areas. A desert monastery would nurture in its
brotherhood, at least among the most susceptible brothers, a
very special mood: a specific concept of monastic objectives
was formed; the founder has left for the woodlands in order to
attain salvation in a quiet solitude, convinced that would not
have been possible in the secular world, among peoples’
squabble. He would attract similar searchers of voicelessness
and they would build a desert home. The rigid way of life, [and
the] glory of the deeds attracted from afar not only prayers and
contributors but also peasants who would settle around a
prospering cell on which they could rely as both religious and
economic support; peasant[s] would cut the forest around,
build villages, clear up fields, ‘alter the desert,’ as the hagiog-
raphy of Rev. Sergey Radonezhski tells us. In such cases mo-
nastic colonization meets peasants’ … and serves it as unin-
tended guide. Thus, from a hermit’s cell in solitude grew a
populated, rich, and noisy monastery. Often, however, there
would be a disciple of the founder among the brothers, dis-
turbed by this non-monk noise and wealth; following the spirit
and the word of the teacher, with his blessing the disciple
would leave for another untouched desert and there in the
same order would emerge another forest cell. Sometimes, even
often, the founder himself would undertake the venture to re-

peat the experience. 93
One notable element of this analysis is that in order for monaster-
ies to have maximum, positive social effect, the desire for spiritual
purity needs to persist. That is, monasteries tend to do their best
work for the common good when monastics continue to toil pri-
marily for the kingdom of God and do not lose sight of their spir-
itual vocation. While the Orthodox are caricatured by Harnack and
Weber as being too far to the spiritual extreme, the most egregious
historical example of a poor attitude toward wealth, Solovetskii,
appears to have had precisely the opposite problem. We may note
again, as well, those Russian monasteries that took advantage of
their tax-exempt privilege to monopolize the market on various
goods. This raises an important question: how did Eastern monas-
tics view wealth and enterprise? What appears to be the case, in
fact, is that in general they actually did live according to their own
teachings on the subject: wealth is neither inherently good nor bad,
but only good or bad depending upon its use. St John Cassian rec-
ords the following teaching of Abba Theodore, one of the desert
fathers:
Altogether there are three kinds of things in the world; viz.,
good, bad, and indifferent. And so we ought to know what is
93 V.O. Klyuchevsky, ‘Lecture 24,’ The Course of Russian History (Chi-

cago: Quadrangle Books, 1968), quoted in Sergey Bulgakov, ‘The National
Economy and the Religious Personality (1909),’ Journal of Markets & Mo-
rality 11, no. 1 (Spring 2008): 165. Notably, Bulgakov’s essay may be the
earliest Orthodox response to the Weber thesis. Importantly, and contra
Harnack as well, he notes the high value Eastern monastics placed on
physical labor. For a summary of Bulgakov’s economic philosophy in
general, see Daniel P. Payne and Christopher Marsh, ‘Sergei Bulgakov’s
‘Sophic’ Economy: An Eastern Orthodox Perspective on Christian Eco-
nomics,’ Faith & Economics 53 (Spring 2009): 35–51. For a contemporary
Orthodox response to Weber, see Irinej Dobrijevic, ‘‘The Orthodox Spirit
and the Ethic of Capitalism’: A Case Study on Serbia and Montenegro and
the Serbian Orthodox Church,’ Serbian Studies: Journal of the North American
Society for Serbian Studies 20, no. 1 (2006): 1–13.
DYLAN PAHMAN 559
properly good, and what is bad, and what is indifferent … We

must then believe that in things which are merely human there
is no real good except virtue of soul alone … And on the other
hand we ought not to call anything bad, except sin alone …
But those things are indifferent which can be appropriated to
either side according to the fancy or wish of their owner, as for
instance riches, power, honour, bodily strength, good health,
beauty, life itself, and death, poverty, bodily infirmities, inju-
ries, and other things of the same sort, which can contribute
either to good or to evil as the character and fancy of their
owner directs. For riches are often serviceable for our good, as
the Apostle says, who charges ‘the rich of this world to be
ready to give, to distribute to the needy, to lay up in store for
themselves a good foundation against the time to come, that’
by this means ‘they may lay hold on the true life’ [1 Timothy
6:18–19]. 94
While, certainly, St. John Cassian also taught about the dangers of
avarice, 95 here wealth itself is understood as indifferent and ‘often
serviceable for our good.’ In the light of the history of Eastern
monastic enterprise, we can see how the monastic vow of poverty
did not preclude monasteries from owning and using wealth not
only for their own good, but for others, through industry, trade,
and charity, the best example in this brief survey perhaps being
Kykkos. A similar attitude toward globalization seems to be at
work in American monasteries today. While we ought to be wary of
94 St. John Cassian, Conferences, 6.3 in NPNF2 11:352–353. This same

teaching in particular can also be found in St. John Chrysostom (‘Homily
Against Publishing the Errors of the Brethren,’ 2 in NPNF1 9:236) and in
general in St. Basil the Great (Epistle 233 in NPNF2 8:273). The
good/evil/indifferent distinction among Greek philosophical schools is
originally Stoic and may have found its way into Christian ethics as early
as the New Testament. See, e.g., Niko Huttenson, ‘Stoic Law in Paul?’ in
Tuomo Rasimus, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, and Ismo Dunderberg, ed.,
Stoicism in Early Christianity (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2010), 39–58,
esp. 44–46.
95 See St. John Cassian, Institutes, 7 in NPNF2 11:248–257.
its potentially destructive use, just as we ought to be wary of avarice

in general, nevertheless this increase in interconnectedness, deterri-
torialization, and velocity of communication is also ‘often servicea-
ble for our good’ and the good of others. 96 It has allowed Ortho-
dox monasteries with access to the internet to make and sell prod-
ucts to a much broader customer base than they would otherwise
have, serving the needs of those purchasing devotional items and
other products while allowing monasteries to pay their bills and
continue their ministry of prayer on behalf of all the world. If ever
there was a mutually beneficial exchange, monastic market activity,
where it has not succumbed to ‘the secularizing influence of
wealth,’ 97 would be it.
CONCLUSION
The history of Eastern monastic enterprise reveals a broadly posi-
tive interaction between monasteries and markets. Trade can be
(and often is) a very positive social good. An ascetic attitude toward
enterprise can help to put in check the corrupting tendency of
wealth when those who labor work primarily for the heavenly
treasures of holiness and virtue, i.e. spiritual capital. Business and
banks ought not to be viewed as per se bad, since often monasteries
in fact were businesses, banks, and even markets, with great spiritual
and social benefit for all. Even today, many monasteries depend on
the networks of trade and communication provided by globaliza-
tion to survive. The question, it seems, is one of virtue and self-
discipline; not simply being pro- or anti-market or business. In the
context of faith and asceticism, the history of Eastern monasticism
shows that the market and enterprise can be a powerful means to
love one’s neighbor and serve the common good, even while labor-
ing for God alone. Ultimately, the many positive examples from
96 For a basic introduction to globalization, see William Scheuerman,

‘Globalization,’ The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2010 Edi-
tion), ed. Edward N. Zalta, http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/
sum2010/entries/globalization/.
97 Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans.
Talcott Parsons (London; New York: Routledge, 1992 [1930]), 174.

DYLAN PAHMAN 561
the history of Eastern monastic enterprise recommend saturating

one’s economic activity, whether one lives in the desert or in the
world, with the spirit of Orthodox asceticism as a means for com-
bating social injustice and serving the common good in the face of
the passionate forces of secularism, consumerism, envy, and greed.
SPIRITUAL WARFARE AND THE STRUGGLE
FOR APATHEIA
THEODORE GREY DEDON
When the devils see that you are really fervent in our prayer
they suggest certain matters to your mind, giving you the
impression there are pressing concerns demanding attention.
In a little while they stir up your memory of these matters
and move your mind to search into them. Stand resolute,
fully intent on your prayer. Pay no heed to the concerns and
thoughts that might arise the while. They do nothing better
than disturb and upset you so as to dissolve the fixity of
your purpose. (Evagrius of Pontus, Praktikos 9–10)
WE TOO HAVE A WAR TO WAGE

The problem of apathy and indifference is one which plagues mod-
ern society quite unlike any other. ‘We have become used to the
suffering of others. It doesn’t affect us. It doesn’t interest us. It’s
not our business,’ so Pope Francis lamented recently. Hearing
about this or that issue is so commonplace in our everyday dis-
course. We are confronted with an almost apocalyptic sense of the
world we live in. Because of the multiplicity and diversity of the
world’s problems, it becomes too easy to meet them with the re-
sponse of apathy. Apathy is defined, in English, as a ‘lack of con-
cern or interest.’ Its synonym is indifference. If one is to take seri-
ously the problems of the world and indeed take them as a person-
al concern, one might well be overwhelmed. But, as Pope Francis
says, we have become so accustomed to suffering as an omnipres-
ent reality that we are rendered numb and try to remove it from
our own realm of effect. Pope Francis has argued that this phe-
nomenon has been so embedded in our public consciousness that
563
564 SPIRITUAL WARFARE AND THE STRUGGLE FOR APATHEIA
it has taken on a character he aptly names, ‘the globalization of in-

difference.’ 1
This is reminiscent of similar problems described in Antiquity.
But there are differences. The current phenomenon of apathy is
usually charted by external measurements – the suffering of others
and, in general, our lack of personal relation to this. In ancient
times, while suffering was sharply appreciated as an ever-present
reality, spiritual practices were often applied to combat it. As the
Christian tradition reminds us, we are all sinners. Whatever our
characters, natures, or even our habits, we stand under constant
temptation towards sinful behavior. Theological anthropologies in
the Christian tradition suggest that, because of our fallen nature, we
must strive to overcome this tendency through the grace of God.
Varying Christian traditions argue this is accomplished by faith, or
works, or a combination of both. The early ascetic tradition of
Eastern Orthodoxy has made it clear that this problem of the ten-
dency towards sin can be solved by intense labor undertaken in
what is often described as ‘spiritual warfare’. Spiritual warfare, in
Eastern Orthodoxy, is a unique set of practices and beliefs. Ortho-
doxy has a rich and vibrant history of understanding spiritual war-
fare in a distinctive style. Above all, the spiritual labor it involves
(Ponos, podvig) is inspired by God, and directed not against the
world, but against an individual’s selfishness. That is to say, it is a
war against the narcissistic Ego and the forces of temptation.
INCEPTIVE PRAYER AND THE NAME OF JESUS

This tradition of spiritual warfare in the Orthodox Church, is close-
ly related today to the monastic Hesychastic movement. It is rooted
in the words of scripture, the teachings of Jesus, and the practices
of monastic life. Fr. John Meyendorff reminds us that the Christian
monastic movement was not part of the ancient Church of the ear-
liest centuries. As he says, ‘the primitive Christian community had
1J. Hooper. “Pope Francis Condemns Global Indifference Towards

Suffering.” http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/jul/08/pope-fran
cis-condemns-indifference-suffering. Accessed: July 13th, 2014.
THEODORE GREY DEDON 565
no permanent monastic institutions.’ 2 Rather it derives from a spe-

cies of desert spirituality representing what we mistakenly call to-
day, ‘flight from the world.’ Meyendorff says further: ‘to the people
of the Middle East … all nature is hostile to man, subject to Satan,
God’s enemy.’ 3 The ancient Jewish ritual of the ‘scapegoat’ driven
out to the desert to die is an ‘expiatory victim for the evil spirit
Azazel.’ (Lev. 16.8ff). The Jews (and ancient Egyptians along with
them) conceived the desert as the dwelling place of the demons
and, in turn, the New Testament adopted this basic concept: ‘When
the unclean spirit goes out of a man, it wanders in dry places seek-
ing rest.’ (Mt. 12.43). The Name of God so regularly invoked in the
New Testament exorcisms is a central construct necessary to un-
derstand the relationship between this ancient ‘desert spirituality’
and the theology later developed in the Hesychastic movement.
Meyendorff quoting Von Allmen, explains how, ‘God leads His
people, and His Son, and later anchorites and hermits [into the de-
sert] … not to cause them to flee from the world, but on the con-
trary to be bring them to its heart so that there, in the hardest place
of all, they may manifest His victory and His rights.’ 4 This is pre-
cisely what the early Fathers believed Jesus did when he faced the
Evil One in the desert during his Temptation. It becomes a para-
digm of monastic ascesis, and the core of the monastic ‘spiritual
warfare.’
The method is called by the monks, talking back to demons
(antirrhesis), and is one of the most basic principles of desert spiritu-
ality modeling the example of Jesus in trying to drive out evil from
this world, especially symbolized in the casting out of demons. As
Irénée Hausherr says, ‘The Lord Jesus, son of Mary, has many
names.’ 5 In his famed study on ‘The Name of Jesus’ he argues that
the invocation of the holy name is one of the core elements behind
2 J. Meyendorff. St. Gregory Palamas and Orthodox Spirituality. (St. Vla-

dimir’s Seminary Press. Crestwood, NY. 1974.). p. 5.
3 Ibid.
4 Ibid. p. 6.
5 I.Hausherr. The Name of Jesus. Kalamazoo. 1978. p. 4.
the rise of Hesychastic theology in the ancient world. 6 ‘A name,’

says Origen of Alexandria, ‘is a term which summarizes and ex-
presses the specific quality of the thing named.’ (De Oratione, 24.
PG 11:494B). In the Gospels, Jesus is called ‘Jesus of Nazareth’
(Mk. 1:24; Lk. 4:34), ‘Jesus, Son of God most high’ (Mk. 5:7; Lk.
8:28), and ‘Son of David’ (Mk. 10:47; Lk. 18:38), among other ti-
tles. These evocations of his presence and energy were taken up by
generations of post-New Testament Christians, especially the de-
sert ascetics, as the focus of their ‘prayer of the heart’.
Such short invocatory phrases are found throughout scripture.
It is what Joseph Maréchal calls ‘inchoative prayer,’ or inceptive
communion with the Divine Name. 7 It means to invoke something
primal by using a proper name in a simple form of chant. As the
tradition of the prayer of the name of Jesus was taken and shaped
by the desert ascetics, the short prayer tradition developed out of
examples taken from Jesus in the Gospels, to the version which
today stands as the customary Prayer of the Heart: ‘Lord Jesus
Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.’ The goal of the prayer is
purity of heart, and as Hausherr says, ‘Purity of Heart has another
name, Love.’ 8 Its telos is the Kingdom of God to which Jesus points
throughout his life and ministry. The prayer is the method used to
stabilize the means of perfection, it is not necessarily perfection
itself, because the one who practices inchoative prayer moves to-
ward the ultimate end, who is named as Love. Here ‘Love’ stands
for two things: first, the highest possible human response, or
heart’s attentiveness, in prayer; and second, a synonym for God’s
own self.
There are many examples of this inchoative prayer in the
Gospels, such as, ‘Jesus, master (epistata or rabbi), have mercy on us’
(Lk. 17:13) which provides almost the second half of the Jesus
6 As with the definition of Hesychasm provided by Bp. Kallistos

Ware, the Jesus Prayer itself is a crucial tenet in the practice of Hesychasm
itself. Therefore, it is common to associate the rise of the Jesus Prayer
with Hesychasm in general.
7 J. Maréchal. The Psychology of the Mystics. pp. 160–161; 164–165; 168–
186.
8 I. Hausherr. The Name of Jesus. Kalamazoo. 1978. p. 193.
Prayer as practiced through the ages. Another is, ‘Lord, if you wish,
you can make me clean.’ (Mt. 8:2). St. Peter offers two which are
highly significant: first, ‘Lord, if it is really you, tell me to come to
you over the water,’ and secondly, ‘Lord, save me!’ (Mt. 14:28; 30).
In the Western catholic tradition this style of prayer was designated
as ‘ejaculative.’ 9 This implied it was a form of prayer which was
quite spontaneous; meant to come directly from the heart. From
this it follows that inchoative prayer is inceptive, rather than recep-
tive or conceptive. It is as if it were already planted in the soul just
waiting to be shouted out. Here, we begin to see the imperative of
the Divine Name and specifically the Name of Jesus. To those who
cry out the Divine Name, it is not insignificant how Jesus is ad-
dressed. The tradition regards the use of the name as critical: since
power is bestowed in the Name of Jesus.
The wooden repetition of the Divine Name alone, then, can-
not save. The ascetics knew rather that it takes a serious praxis that
moves beyond the crying out of short prayers and into the realm of
what we may call ‘hesychastic combat.’ George Maloney described
the desert monks as ‘God’s athletes,’ or ‘athletes of Christ.’ 10 These
men and women were God’s heroes on Earth. They had devoted
their lives to more than just a hermetic existence, sealed away from
the world, in so far as they had undertaken asceticism for the goal
of instantiating the Kingdom on earth, committing themselves fully
to the combat necessary for God’s Word to reign on Earth in ‘the
age to come.’
EVAGRIAN SPIRITUAL COMBAT AND UNSEEN WARFARE

The ancient worldview was one of an earthly plane inhabited by a
variety of spiritual forces, not only angelic beings, but also demons
and other negative spiritual forces. Perhaps no one explains better
9 G. Maloney. The Prayer of the Heart: The Contemplative Tradition of the

Christian East. (Ave Maria Press. Notre Dame, IN. 2008. Originally pub-
lished in 1981). Kindle Location, L67; 274; 648; 654; 665; 756; 1389; 1432;
1492; 1568; 1676.
10 Ibid. L56; 186; 591; 776; 853; 1117; 1170; 1228; 1349; 1493; 1692;
1942. Also referred to as ‘athletes of God’ or ‘desert athletes.’

than Evagrius of Pontos what was going on in the minds of the

early ascetics who saw their lives lived out against this backdrop of
a spiritual-cosmological battlefield. For Evagrius, the good life be-
gins with a strong ascetic Praktikos or focused practical discipline.
This is how one maps the quest for God. The spiritual laborer
must have a strong external disposition so that the internal life and
its particular struggles will develop positively in the life of the
monk. Evagrius lists the eight evil thoughts that tempt monks.
They are not exactly sins in themselves, but logismoi or mental idea-
tions that can lead a spiritual seeker astray. The thought is not sin-
ful of itself, to give in to it is the sin. Evagrius in Praktikos 75 says,
‘A sin for a monk is the [free] consent [of the will] to the forbidden
pleasures of the thought.’ 11 In the same book he says, ‘Whether or
not all these thoughts disturb the soul does not depend upon us.
However, whether they linger or do not linger, arouse our passions
or not, that does depends on us.’ As does Origen, Evagrius follows
the line of thinking that the so-called ‘first suggestion’ is not in our
control. By knowing the ways in which demons attack, an ascetic
can increase his awareness of the occasions of sin.
For Evagrius, the root cause is that, ‘The first thought of all is
that of love of self; and after this, the eight thoughts.’ 12 The Love
of Self, as Evagrius understands it, is the root of all human evils.
Through our self-referential gaze, we miss the reality of God
around us. For the monk in the desert, this was named as the de-
mon of akedia. This demon set out to attack the monk’s very way
of being. In the very first story of the Apophthegmata Patrum, it is
said, ‘The holy Abba Antony, when he lived in the desert, fell prey
to akedia and a great gloom of thoughts.’ 13 For Evagrius, this is
especially manifested in a sort of spiritual slackness, an inner rest-
lessness, a sense of despondency, or (using a modern term) ‘bore-
dom.’
11 Ibid.
12 Evagrius’ Skemmata, transl. by W. Harmless in Theological Studies
62 (2001). pp. 498–529.
13 Bunge, Gabriel. Quoting the Apophthegmata in his book, Desponden-
cy: The Spiritual Teaching of Evagrius of Pontus. SVS Press. NY. 2009.
This word ‘boredom’ is what William Harmless, a Jesuit

scholar who specializes in Evagrius, suggests is the most accurate
modern term for translating akedia. This is what Evagrius talks
about when he describes how the monks fantasize about visits
from their brothers, how they become sick and tired of the work
they do, and want to dissipate their time and energy; seeking the
pretence of conversations with women while ‘wishing to do evil
things to their bodies.’ This sense of spiritual boredom and aim-
lessness is something Evagrius sees as prior to every other thought.
It is a dissatisfaction with reality inducing an inability to move for-
ward in the right direction. This is the demon that gives the spiritu-
al seeker the most trouble because it is a two-pronged attack. As
Evagrius says, akedia is, ‘an entangled struggle of hate and desire,
for the listless one hates indiscriminately.’ 14
The ascetic practice of prayer persevered in, drives away ake-
dia. Ascetic praxis leads towards mystical knowledge or, to phrase it
better, mystical theology. As Evagrius says, ‘If you are a theologian,
you pray truly: if you pray truly, you are a theologian.’ 15 Praying
engenders, in a real sense, sacred knowledge. It is the Holy Trinity
that the mind seeks when it is engaged in true prayer, and whom it
ultimately encounters. This is what, in the Skemmata, Evagrius calls,
‘the Sapphire Light of the Mind,’ or the ‘Blue Flame.’ 16 The monk
who knows this, not merely as a thought, but an established fact of
experience, must turn to approach his demons face-to-face in a way
that Špidlík says, retains in the Church the old the Stoic ideal. And
what is that ideal which Orthodox spirituality refurbishes from the
Stoics? It is expressed in the phrase: ‘nobis quoque militandum est…’
(we too have a war to wage). Apatheia is the disposition by which
the monk, should approach demons, as Evagrius teaches. It is not
an apathy which is indifferent, rather it is apatheia which is passion-
less. The translators of the Philokalia called it a ‘dispassionate’ holi-
14 Harmless, William. Desert Christians: An Introduction to the Literature

of Early Monasticism. (Oxford University Press. New York, NY. 2004). p.
326.
15 Evagrius, De Oratione 60 (PG 79:1180; trans. Harmless).
16 Harmless, William. ‘The Sapphire Light of the Mind: The Skemma-
ta of Evagrius Ponticus.’ Theological Studies 62 (2001). pp. 498–529.

ness. Evagrius calls apatheia ‘the flower of the ascetic life’ and sees
that form this flower comes the fruit of charity (agape). For Evagri-
us, the goal of ascetic life is charity. This is not a war that ends in
destruction or results in hatred, but rather finds its resolution in
Love itself.
LORENZO SCUPOLI’S SPIRITUAL COMBAT

While the Hesychasts have been the primary inheritors of this great
spiritual tradition of warfare of the soul, they are not the only ones
who took a serious interest. The idea of the spiritual combat was
brought westwards and highly popularized by Lorenzo Scupoli, a
16th Century Venetian priest. It was he who wrote the very influen-
tial text, Unseen Warfare: The Spiritual Combat and the Path to Paradise.
It was a book that St. Nicodemus the Hagiorite, and St. Theophan
the Recluse, in turn disseminated throughout their Orthodox
worlds in the 18th Century. The book, while today nearly forgotten,
reignited, in its time, the spiritual traditions of Evagrius and Mac-
arius. It centers on the pursuit of Christian perfection, achieved by
waging war ceaselessly and courageously. 17
Scupoli says, ‘A true warrior of Christ, filled with a whole-
hearted desire to achieve the fullness of perfection, must set no
limits to gain success in all things.’ 18 Warfare is the word which
describes the general thrust of how one attains to perfection, but
what are the methods or exact pieces which allow us to actually
achieve this? Scupoli says there are four. First, a lack of reliance on
the self; second, trust in God; third, constant efforts in this strug-
gle; and fourthly and most importantly, attentive prayer. Prayer is,
according to him, ‘the putting of the battle-axe into God’s hand,
that He should fight your enemies and overcome them.’ 19 The ac-
tual battleground for this war is, as it was for Antony, Macarius and
Evagrius, one’s own heart. The final goal, when perfection of this
17 Lorenzo Scupoli. Unseen Warfare. Ed. Theophan the Recluse.

Transl. Kadloubovsky, E.; Palmer, G.E.H. (St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press:
Crestwood, NY. 1987.) p. 110.
18 Ibid., p. 179.
19 Ibid., p. 200.
kind is achieved, is a state Scupoli calls ‘Spiritual peace of Heart.’ 20

Of this, he writes, ‘your heart, beloved, is made by God for the sole
purpose of loving Him alone and of serving as a dwelling for Him.
So He calls to you to give Him your heart, saying: ‘My son, give me
thy heart’ (Prov. 23:26).’ 21 Before one is able to do this, one must
acquire more perfect virtue and guard one’s heart.
Like the Hesychasts, and also influenced deeply by Macarius
and Evagrius, Scupoli believes it is in prayer above all else that we
can guard our heart and purify it. He describes it as follows, ‘Men-
tal or inner prayer is when a man at prayer collects his mind in the
heart, and from there sends out his prayer to God, not aloud but in
silent word, praising and thanking Him, confessing to Him his sins
with contrition and begging for his needs in spiritual and bodily
blessings.’ 22 Eventually, when one acquires the ability to pray in
silence in such a way, one will realize the spiritual nature of the
Heart as the dwelling place of God’s Self. Scupoli describes this as
follows, ‘There also exists, through the grace of God, prayer of the
heart only, and this is spiritual prayer, which the Holy Spirit moves
in the heart. The man who prays is conscious of it, but does not do
it; rather it acts by itself. This prayer belongs to the perfect.’ 23 He
goes on to suggest that praying short prayers or even ‘short prayer-
ful sighings’ is the best way to attain some level of mastery in this
style. For the Orthodox tradition, of course, the Jesus prayer is un-
doubtedly the most effective form of all this style of inchoate pray-
er. While Hesychasm may be something broader in conception
than the Jesus Prayer alone, the Prayer is unquestionably the core
and heart of the hesychastic movement.
ON SPIRITUAL PEACE & THE STRUGGLE FOR APATHEIA

But how can one actually attain spiritual peace of heart? For
Evagrius it is precisely apatheia which is the goal of the purified
heart. This is not apathy in the sense against which Pope Francis
20 Ibid. p. 257.
21 Ibid.
22 Ibid. p. 205.
23 Ibid.
warned the modern world. It is a seeking after a state of spiritual

peacefulness that allows a spiritual striver to gain a clear vision, and
a sense of stability when the guarded heart has won out against the
demons, regardless of what they are, and has set itself in such a way
to remain strong and pure and, most importantly, a worthy offering
to God and His glory. In Scupoli’s words, ‘human life is nothing
but unceasing warfare and endless temptation. Temptation pro-
vokes struggle, and so warfare ensues. Because of this warfare you
should always keep awake and do your utmost to guard your heart
and watch over it, to keep it peaceful and quiet.’ 24 This is a holy
war worth waging. It is concerned with the guarding of the heart
and with its purification from many temptations and assaults. It is a
war that leads to peace, however, as Scupoli can tell us in conclu-
sion:
Your heart, beloved, is made by God for the sole purpose of
loving Him alone and of serving as a dwelling for Him. So He
calls to you to give Him your heart, saying: ‘My son, give me
thy heart (Prov. 23:26). But since God is peace passing all un-
derstanding, it is quite indispensable for the heart, which wish-
es to receive Him, to be peaceful and free of all turmoil. For
only in peace is His place, as David says. So strive above all
things to establish and make firm the peaceful state of your
heart. All your virtues, all actions and endeavors should be di-
rected towards achieving this peace, and especially your valiant
feats of struggling against the enemies of your salvation; as the
great practicer of silence, Arsenius says: ‘Make it your whole
care that your inner state should be in accordance with God,
and you will vanquish your outer passions’ … So, when pas-
sionate turmoil steals into the heart, do not jump to attack the
passion in an effort to overcome it, but descend speedily into
your heart and strive to restore quiet there. As soon as the
heart is quietened, the struggle is over. 25
24 Ibid. p. 227.
25 Ibid. p. 257.
THE CONCEPTS OF TIME AS APPLIED TO
MONASTICISM & ASCETICISM
NICHOLAS SAMARAS
The only subject of writing is Time. The only subject of Time is
death. Therefore, writing, time, and death are inextricably bound
with the subjects of faith and monasticism – because monasticism,
asceticism, and faith equally practice time, writing, and death. It is
all we are concerned about.
Writing, then, is a race against Time and Death. Writing, in
the forms of hymnography and worship, and even of silence, is a
fundamental practice of monasticism, both in theme and in con-
tent. We think alone. We write alone. We are essentially monastic in
this practice. The monk gives his time to prayer. The writer gives
his time to writing, which is the commemoration of prayer. All
writing is a prayer to the God of survival.
Both human history and Divine history require us to consider
the concept of Time as a reality of multiple concepts: for example,
there is one of my favourite phrases: ‘The Kingdom of Ordinary
Time.’ There is Absolute time, relative time, spatial time, even the
situational-ethics of time.
My ongoing work in expressing Orthodox concepts through
contemporary literature requires me to investigate the various na-
tures and concepts of Time, from multidisciplinary readings,
throughout Humanist sub-genres, and write new, varied poetry on
the subject, positing that possibly the only subject of all poetry is
Death, as the only subject of Monasticism is union with God: es-
sentially, the same end.
In this study, I have found a new appreciation of time that has
been changing me as a person, changing the core of the way I think
and write, and changing even the way I read and understand litera-
573
574 TIME AS APPLIED TO MONASTICISM & ASCETICISM
ture; and certainly, the way I consider prayer and spirituality. It is

true that Time is perception, just as the presence of God is a per-
ception.
The Journal of Experimental Psychology states:
There is a reason why days seem so much longer when you are
a child: new experiences have an effect on how we perceive
time. When we encounter new experiences in life, time seems
to pass more slowly. Routine behavior then makes time seem
like it goes much faster. Routine time can be thought of as a
straight line; new experiences can be thought of as jagged lines
– and they include new perceptions. That is why, as we age,
time seems to go faster and we click over to autopilot, which
also affects memory. That’s why new and unusual experiences
also seem to embed in our memories much more strongly.
Routine is a form of inaction, explains Dinah Avni-Babad, a psy-
chologist at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. So, as we get old-
er, time flies and we remember less of what we do because we do
fewer and fewer new things. Relatively, we may appreciate the the-
ories of the Russian Formalist, Viktor Shklovsky, who notes in his
essay, Art as Technique, that:
If we start to examine the general laws of perception, we see
that as perception becomes habitual, it becomes automatic.
Thus, for example, all of our habits retreat into the area of the
unconsciously automatic; if one remembers the sensation of
holding a pen or of speaking in a foreign language for the first
time and compares that with his feeling at performing the ac-
tion for the ten thousandth time, he will agree with us. Such
habituation explains the principles by which, in ordinary
speech, we leave phrases unfinished and words half-expressed.
Habitualization devours works, clothes, furniture, one’s wife,
and the fear of war. Art exists that one may recover the sensa-
tion of life; it exists to make one feel things, to make the stone
stony. The purpose of art is to impart the sensation of things
as they are perceived and not as they are known. The tech-
nique of art is to make objects ‘unfamiliar,’ to make forms dif-
NICHOLAS SAMARAS 575
ficult, to increase the difficulty and length of perception be-

cause the process of perception is an aesthetic end in itself and
must be prolonged. 1
Shklovsky advocates ‘defamiliarization,’ a process Tolstoy used
repeatedly, to keep the mind and the writing fresh and removed
from habitualized ‘blindness.’ On a personal note, I would suggest
that prayer helps us ‘recover the sensation of life.’ The monastic is
one who ‘defamiliarizes’ himself from the bog of time. The monas-
tic is one who focuses on the present, and slots away thought of
the past and the future. Therefore, the monastic’s concept of Time
shifts. It is disciplined and focused.
Like many, I have, from childhood, been fascinated with the
science- fiction notion of time travel. In adulthood, I believe I have
discovered perhaps the one spot on this earth where time seriously
does not exit – at least, not in the normal sense of ‘societal time,’ as
dictated by American society. Frequently, in my adult life, I have
journeyed to what is now the ‘second home’ in my heart: ‘The Holy
Mountain,’ Mount Athos, Greece, which incorporated its first insti-
tutionalized monastery in the year 981. With some of these monas-
teries still having their original plumbing, I literally spent parts of
my life there hurled back in time. There was no electricity, no tele-
phones. Light was provided by lamp-oil. The bell-tower clocks
were set to Byzantine time (five hours ahead of secular time). I was
cautioned to be inside the monastery gates by eight p.m. when the
medieval doors closed; if I were caught outside after that time, my
chances for survival would decrease – as the area was populated
with wild wolves and wild boar. I was summoned from bed by bells
at 3 a.m. to attend Matins services. I heard wolves howling in the
distance. In the monastery library I read manuscripts in Ancient,
Hellenistic, and Modern Greek, dating back to the Great Schism of
the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic Churches: original,
handwritten documents.
Of great significance to me, I recall accompanying a monk to
help bring dinner to an old monk in his hut secluded in the forest.
1 Shklovsky, Art as Technique, in Russian Formalism, Mouton & Co. pp.

3–24.
When I met the old monk, I learned he was 102 years old (at the
time of my visit) and had entered the monastery on Mount Athos
in 1912, coming from his home in Russia. Since that day in 1912,
he had never left the seclusion of Mount Athos. I looked at this
man and realized that, for him, Czar Nicholas was still Emperor.
The Russian Revolution had never happened. The World Wars
never happened. As he spent his life on Mount Athos, traveling
short distances by foot or donkey, automobiles never happened.
He told me he had never known electricity or telephones, but
knows about them. This monk had never been off the mountain
for eighty-eight years. I was looking at a man historically stopped in
time. Mount Athos is, in part, a functioning time capsule.
Because of my family duties, it took me years to be able to re-
turn to Mount Athos – but again, for only a week this time. I
learned from this trip that there is such a thing as time in relation-
ship to emotional maturity and observation. I saw things I never
considered before. It was like reading a book twenty years apart,
and gaining a completely transformed insight from the same mate-
rial.
I consider how the concept and practice of monastic time may
benefit and focus how we live through this secular world. For me,
the monastery, if functioning correctly, holds time like a crucible.
With the recent ‘importation’ of monasteries from Mount Athos to
America, it is easy for me to be able to spiritually discern how the
new monasteries function by how they interact with and treat time
here. I ask two simple questions: firstly, who do they commemo-
rate? If they commemorate the local hierarch, along with the
Yeronda, then they are recognizing the element of time within ge-
ography. And secondly, what time do they hold the Divine Liturgy?
If their Holy Services remain at 3:00 a.m. and conclude at approx-
imately dawn, then they are holding to the discipline of true monas-
tic time. If they hold the Divine Liturgy at 9:00 a.m. on Sundays,
for the ‘benefit’ of pilgrims, then they clearly have abandoned mo-
nastic time and, instead, are functioning only as parishes. From my
living the monastic hours and inspirations of Mount Athos, it has
become important for me to experience that sense of monastic
time in its purity and development.
Everything I read now revolves around the concept of time,
and my interpretation of it. I write differently now. I read and pray
differently. In my reconsideration of form, I note that Marianne
Shapiro in her book Hieroglyph of Time: The Petrarchan Sestina, argues

convincingly that Petrarch in his sestinas found a new way to rep-
resent time so that, within the poem, time could simultaneously
exist in both the linear present and also in a spiraling eternity of
past, present, and future. This point alone radically changes the way
I approach my craft of writing, how I write, even in choosing what
form to write in.
It’s funny that I ran out of time on Mount Athos. I had to re-
turn to my life in America, and job-responsibilities. But from that
brief time, I was able to return with multiple pages of notes and
images and lines to fuel new vision and new work. My next poetry
book, American Psalm, World Psalm, is forthcoming in March 2014,
at which time I’ll resume lecturing and reading.
Here, overleaf, is one sample of a poem from that work, cen-
tered upon the concept of monastic time: an Orthodox considera-
tion of time with which I shall end. When reading, it is important
‘to read out’ the numbering system also. It is part of the point of
the poem.
THE CONCEPT OF TIME LIVING ON THE HOLY

MOUNTAIN 2
Nicholas Samaras
1.
The sun rises
Eastern, and I look that way.
1.
Yesterday, the channel sky was Alexandrite blue.
Today, I sat on a broad stone at dawn
and watched the channel sky blend
into an Alexandrite blue.
Gradually, I learn the changing sea and its constancy –

the aquamarine, the green to gold,
the many folds of water.
1.
I paced to ocean glitter.
I walked to sky.
I gazed into the dusty path rising, turning
out of sight into the green
crease of the forest.
I looked back to ocean
and night had covered us both together.
1.
At the summit of darkness, I woke in my bed
and whispered to the black air,
‘What time is it?’
I heard the distant wolves in the ravine.
I laid my head back down
and pulled the musty blanket up to my throat.
A few more hours of sleep.

Then, the walk to chanting.
2The Reader needs to read out the numbers also, in order for the
point to be made.
1.
Azure. What colour is azure?
1.
There is no time, but seasons.
There is no time, but the white tissues of clouds.
I sat rickety on my hermitage’s balcony

and remembered a phrase from my childhood French: ‘le temps,’
signifying either ‘weather’ or ‘time.’
Truly then, what is time but weather?
1.
In a late day, when the lowered sun
was the width of three fingers above the horizon,
I asked my windowsill,
‘What time is it?’
It is misty, on the edge of a turning season.
I asked the threshold of my hut,

‘No, I mean, what time is it?’
It is when the green leaves glisten with prismatic rain.
1.
Every daybreak and twilight now, I smile.
All my life, I have pined for a landscape of perpetual mist.
The days, finishing and unfinishing me.
1.
During one daily morning
on the dirt trail above Ksenofontos Monastery,
the wisps of clouds touched the earth
where I walked too swift with purpose.
On the rise and slope of my journey, I looked

into the weather-shrouded valley
and saw myself walking down into a low cloud below.
The cloud touched me

and it was like silver tingling all over.
It touched my face, my hands
and I lifted my arms to embrace its vapour.
The cloud touched my whole body,
lifted me out of my body

and I’ve never been the same.
1.
Oh, Panayia,
I walked and breathed in
the soul of the air.
1.
I was hungry, so I ate crusty bread.
I was hungry, so I tilled and planted for the next hunger.
1.
At dawn, I drew water from the cistern and sprinkled my garden.
When I felt five minutes go by, I looked
up and blinked to see
the bright stars in the black sky.
1.
It snowed today.
I woke, and there was a world of snow.
1.
In a heathered cusp of spring,
I saw an old monk walking by my trees.
He spoke to me from the depth of his grey beard
and I was happy.
What moves: the shadows of clouds quilting the earth.

I’ve seen no one else these weeks
and I am happy.
1.
Every day, the world resumes.
I take my place in it.
The clarity of distant bells again.
1.
What do I do with this same day?
I prayed yesterday, and last night.
Perhaps, this morning, I can try praying.
1.
What is time but my beard and its colour?
1.
The only enemy is thought.
The only friend is thought before thought.
1.
I breathe the name and do not say the name.
1.
In the autumn-russet slumber of the field, an olive grove shivers.
All as one, their branches show me the silver wind.
By this, I am home.
The world telescopes.

This turning acreage.
This hut and plot.
My tiny, endless Heaven.

NOTES ON THE CONTRIBUTORS
Dr. Eirini Artemi is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute, hold-

ing a Masters degree and a Doctorate in the History of Orthodox
Doctrine, Patrologia and Patristic Theology. She is an independent
scholar in Athens. The focus of her doctoral dissertation was the
triadology of St. Isidore of Pelusium and its relation to the teach-
ings of St. Cyril of Alexandria.
Revd. Hierodeacon Antonios the Shenoudian, (A. Bibawy) is a
monastic of the Coptic community of St. Shenoude in New Jersey,
USA. He is a graduate of Union Theological Seminary where he
studied for the STM degree, and is currently a doctoral candidate in
Early Church History at General Theological Seminary in the City
of New York.
V. Revd. Prof. Teodor Damian is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia
Institute. An Archpriest of the Romanian church, he is internation-
ally known as a poet, sociologist, publisher and theologian. He has
written extensively in all fields. He currently teaches graduate level
students in sociology in New York City.
Theodore Grey Dedon is an independent scholar, who gained his
MA majoring in Early Christian Studies at UTS New York. He was
the Co-Editor of the Sophia Institute’s 2013 publication: Love Mar-
riage and Family in Eastern Orthodox Tradition.
His Grace + The Rt. Revd. Dr. Macarie (Dragoi) is the Roma-
nian Bishop of Northern Europe based in Scandinavia. Alongside
his pastoral responsibilities he is a published scholar in modern
Church History, author of a monograph on Archbishop Soderblum
and his pioneering ecumenical efforts which made significant out-
reaches to the Orthodox churches. Preasfintul Macarie is a Senior
Fellow of the Sophia Institute.
583
584 NOTES ON THE CONTRIBUTORS
Atsede Maryam Elegba is a theologian of the Ethiopian Ortho-

dox (Tewahedo) Church. She gained her MDiv and STM theology
degrees at Union Theological Seminary, in the city of New York,
and is presently pursuing higher research studies. She has served a
chaplain’s ministry to the sick and dying, and is a noted profession-
al photographer.
Anthony J. Elia is Director of Library and Educational Technolo-
gy at Christian Theological Seminary; a scholar with a specialization
in Armenian cultural and religious history. In addition he is a gifted
composer, and has had several performances of his musical works
in cities across the USA.
Dr. Jill Gather, a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute, studied for
her doctorate at Union Theological Seminary in the city of New
York, and is now a freelance scholar in Cambridge, England. Her
monograph: The Prayer of the Heart in the Syrian and Byzantine Fathers
was published by Gorgias Press in 2010.
John L. Grillo MA, MSW, is a graduate of Union Theological
Seminary in New York, where he majored in Early Church History
focusing on the Byzantine church and the early Christian ascetical
tradition. He currently resides in Boston, where he practises as a
social worker and psychotherapist.
Dr Hannah Hunt is Reader in Eastern Christianity, and Associate
Principal Lecturer in Theology at Leeds Trinity University, Eng-
land. She is widely published in the fields of spirituality and reli-
gious anthropology in both the Late Antique and Middle Byzantine
periods. She is currently researching the works of Sts. Isaac of Ni-
neveh and Symeon the New Theologian.
V. Revd. Fr. Zivojin Jakovljevic PhD, is an Orthodox Archpriest
serving in the Serbian Cathedral in Ohio. He is the lecturer in
Serbian language and culture at Cleveland state University. Fr
Zivojin is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute, specializing in
Serbian literature and theology.
Tea Jankovic is an advanced graduate researcher at the General
Literature Department at the University of Fribourg, in
Switzerland. She has previously studied Philosophy and English
Literature at the Universities of Basel, Fribourg and Harvard.
ORTHODOX MONASTICISM PAST AND PRESENT 585
The Revd. Mary Julia Jett is an Episcopal priest and doctoral

student at Union Theological Seminary. She is a graduate of Gen-
eral Theological Seminary (M.Div./S.T.M.) and presently continues
advanced work in Church History and Biblical interpretation, with
special focus on the use of Old Testament in Late Antiquity. She
serves as an associate priest at the Church of Transfiguration and
St. Ignatius of Antioch, both in New York City.
Dr. Christopher D. L. Johnson is Assistant Professor of
Religious Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Fond du Lac. He
has previously taught in Religious Studies and Global Christianity
at the University of North Dakota, the College of the Bahamas,
and the University of Alabama. His monograph, The Globalization of
Hesychasm and the Jesus Prayer: Contesting Contemplation, was published
by Continuum in 2010 and this year shall see the issue of several of
his articles in the Journal for the American Academy of Religion and
Studies in Religion / Sciences Religieuses.
Robert Najdek is currently pursuing advanced theological studies
in the period of Late Antiquity, at Union Theological Seminary in
New York, prior to his doctoral level studies in the field of Classi-
cal Antiquity.
His Beatitude + Metropolitan Jonah (Paffhausen) was, until
July 2012, the presiding hierarch of the Orthodox Church in Amer-
ica. Before his episcopal election (and since) he spent many years in
the monastic life, and was founder and higumen of a thriving mo-
nastic community in California. His book on the spiritual life: Reflec-
tions on a Spiritual Journey, was published by SVS Press in 2011. Met-
ropolitan Jonah is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute.
Julia Khan is currently finalizing her Masters of Divinity degree at
Union Theological Seminary in the City of New York. Her
scholarly interests include theological aesthetics, Christian
monasticism, intentional communities and embodied theology.
Mary McCarthy is currently pursuing Masters level researches in
theology at UTS in the City of New York. She is specializing in the
varieties of cultures of the monastic experience in the eastern and
western churches.
V.K. McCarty is Acquisitions Librarian of the C. Keller Jr. Library
of General Theological Seminary, in New York. She is also an in-
dependent scholar focusing on the life and ministry of women in

antiquity and the present. She is an Ecumenical Fellow of the So-
phia Institute.
Kate McCray is currently a doctoral student in Early Christian
studies at Toronto. She gained her Master’s degree in theology
from St. Vladimir’s Theological Seminary in 2014. Her speciality is
the culture and thought of the Early Christian world.
V. Revd. Dr. John A. McGuckin is an Archpriest of the Romani-
an Orthodox Church. He is the President of the Sophia Institute,
and currently serves as Rector of St. Gregory’s parish, in New
York. He is the Nielsen Professor of Early Church History at Un-
ion Theological Seminary; and Professor of Byzantine Christian
Studies at Columbia University. He has published widely in Early
Christian studies.
Kevin Patrick McKeown, specialized for his MA degree in New
Testament and Church History, writing his research thesis on the
Shepherd of Hermas and the issue of social accommodation in post-
Apostolic age Christianity. He currently resides in Astoria, New
York, as an independent scholar focusing on translations of Early
Christian texts from Greek and Latin.
Revd. Dr. Rico Monge, a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute, is
an Orthodox deacon who is the Asst. Professor of theology and
Religious Studies at the University of San Diego. He gained his
Ph.D in Religious Studies, from the University of California-Santa
Barbara in 2013, and is a graduate of St. Vladimir’s where he took
his MDiv in 2008. He is currently heading up a large scale research
project on hagiography.
Dr. Vasily Novikov is a Russian theologian who specializes in
patristic theology, with particular focus on the theology of St. Cyril
of Alexandria. He has an active taken part in several of the Russian
Orthodox Church’s international theological Conferences arranged
by the Moscow Patriarchate.
Dr. Joshua Packwood is a Senior Fellow of the Sophia Institute,
and Asst. Professor at U.A, Fort Smith. He holds a doctorate in
Philosophy from Arkansas, and specializes, in his teaching and re-
search, in the thought of Plotinus and the late Antique religious
ORTHODOX MONASTICISM PAST AND PRESENT 587
thinkers who had such a deep influence on the early Christian fa-
thers.
Dylan Pahman, MTS, is a Fellow of the Sophia Institute, who
works as a Researcher at the Acton Foundation, specializing in
economic programs. His areas of special interest and research are
the Early Church’s social teaching, and the interface of faith and
economics.
Vicki Petrakis, a mother of two, holds degrees in several disci-
plines, and formerly practised commercial law. She is currently pur-
suing doctoral studies in Early Christian thought at Macquarie Uni-
versity in Sydney, with a focus on spirituality and anthropology in
the patristic period (with special reference to the theology of St.
Gregory of Nazianzus). She is a Fellow of the Sophia Institute.
Professor Jeff Pettis gained his doctorate in the world of Early
Christian origins at UTS in the City of New York. His latest book:
Religion (Gorgias Press. 2013) emerged from a summer colloquium

Seeing the God: Ways of Envisaging the Divine in Ancient Mediterranean
arranged by the Sophia Institute. He currently teaches in New

York.
The V. Revd. Dr. Peter M Preble is a Protos and Hieromonk of
the Romanian Orthodox Church in America. He has served in the
past as Chaplain at Harvard University and currently teaches
(alongside his pastoral responsibilities) at Nichols College, Mass., in
the fields of Psychology and Religion. Fr Peter is a Senior Fellow of
the Sophia Institute.
Dr. Ilaria Ramelli is Professor of Theology and Bishop Kevin
Britt Endowed Chair in Dogmatics at the Graduate School of The-
ology at Sacred Heart Seminary of the Aquinas University, the ‘An-
gelicum’ (Rome and Detroit). Prof. Ramelli is also Director of in-
ternational research projects, Senior Visiting Professor of Greek
Thought, and Senior Fellow in Religion at Erfurt University and in
Ancient Philosophy at Sacred Heart University, Milan. She has
been Senior Research Fellow in Classics and Patristics at Durham
University. She is a distinguished and internationally renowned
scholar of Christian Antiquity, who has authored many important
books and essays on patristics, ancient philosophy, the New Tes-
tament, and the relationship between Christianity and Classical Cul-

ture.
Luis Joshua Salès is a graduate of Holy Cross College, and Bos-
ton College where he pursued masters level work in Patristics. He
is currently researching Ancient Christian thought, towards his doc-
toral degree at Fordham University, New York. His areas of spe-
cialization are the Cappadocian Fathers, and St. Maximus the Con-
fessor. He brings to his work in Late Antiquity insights from con-
temporary neurological science.
Nicholas Samaras is a published poet whose work has appeared
in numerous prestigious magazines (The New Yorker, The New York
Times, The Paris Review, Poetry, The New Republic, Kenyon Review). His
first book of poems Hands of the Saddlemaker won the Yale Series
Award for younger poets. His latest collection, American Psalm:
World Psalm, appeared from Ashland Poetry Press in 2014. He
earned his MFA from Columbia University and his doctorate from
Denver. He is the son of the renowned Orthodox bishop + Kallis-
tos Samaras.
Revd. Fr. Sujit T. Thomas is a priest of the Indian Orthodox
Church. He is currently serving as a parish rector, while preparing
his doctoral researches in Early Syriac Christianity. He recently
completed his STM degree in Patristics at UTS, New York.
Gregory Tucker graduated from the University of Oxford with a
first class BA in theology, and then an MSt., and recently graduated
from St Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary with the MA
degree. He is currently working towards his doctorate in Early
Christian studies at Fordham University, New York.
Zachary Ugolnik is currently pursuing doctoral level researches in
Columbia University’s Religion Department, focusing on Early
Christian and Byzantine theology and culture. He received his Mas-
ter of Theological Studies from Harvard Divinity School in 2009,
where his interest was sparked in Arabic Christianity and the rela-
tions between Byzantium and Islam.
Karri Whipple is a doctoral research scholar at Drew University,
specializing in the interpretation of New Testament literature. She
received her Master’s degree in New Testament Origins from Un-
ion Theological Seminary in the City of New York.

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Orthodox Monasticism Past and

George Anton Kiraz

Gorgias Eastern Christian Studies brings to the scholarly world the

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

Orthodox monasticism past and present / edited

Table of Contents ..................................................................................... v

Part One: Ancient Christian Ascetical Theology..................... 1

The Pure ‘Eye of her Soul’: The Asceticism of the Deaconess

Ibn al-Muqaffa’ (d. c. 987) .........................................................395

What is the ‘Breath of God’? – Bibliographic Theology in

Part Two: Monastic Reflection and Modernity ................... 445

The Concepts of Time As Applied to Monasticism &

This collection of scholarly papers emanates from the fifth annual

has been recently designated. Karri Whipple’s reflective paper be-

turies after him. In these studies of the ancients, completed by the

come cheaply) conspires to produce a profound and remarkable

Fr. John A. McGuckin

Ascetic performance traverses time, grounding itself in the memory

bridge: CUP. 2004), 2.

2 Vincent Wimbush, “Introduction” in Ascetic Behavior in Greco-Roman

Antiquity: A Sourcebook, ed. Vincent Wimbush (Minneapolis: Fortress

3 Richard Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceti-

cism,” in Asceticism, eds. Vincent L. Wimbush and Richard Valantasis

New Testament texts but to see how placing them in dialogue

DISCOVERING NEW LIFE THROUGH JESUS’ MISSION

20). Jesus publicly names the disciples as members of his family,

5 Anthony J. Saldarini. “Asceticism and the Gospel of Matthew,” in

family structures (Matt 12:46–50), conventions such as marriage remain

At this point it is important to reflect on Valantasis’ view of

9 Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceticism,” 547.

to life, and present your members to God as instruments of

Saldarini, “Asceticism and the Gospel of Matthew,”19.

ence must be afforded the pneumatic subjectivity in order to bring

12 It should be noted that with such interpretations, we should take

care to not presume supercessionist readings of the passage are default,

14 Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceticism,” 548.

lizations of power take place and how the established conventions

15 Antoinette Clark Wire. The Corinthian Women Prophets: A Reconstruc-

17 For example, see Margaret Y. MacDonald’s “Citizens of Heaven

and Earth: Asceticism and Social Integration in Colossians and Ephe-

THE KINGDOM OF GOD

18 See, e.g., W. Carter. Matthew and Empire: Initial Explorations. Harris-

burg, PA. 2001.

are perceived as threats to the power of the dominant culture and

Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceticism,” 549.

22 Walter O. Kaelber, “Asceticism,” in The Encyclopedia of Religion, ed.

Mircea Eliade (New York: MacMillan, 1987), vol. 1, 442.

worldly structures or pleasures but would focus on internal or spir-

27 Gail Corrinton Streete, “Askesis in the Pastoral Letters” in Asceti-

LOCATING NEW TESTAMENT ASCETICISM(S)

28 Richard Valantasis, “Constructions of Power in Asceticism,” Jour-

nal of American Academy of Religion 63.4 (1995), 803.

Interpretation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2006), 94–8. Mar-

whose contemplative life focused on ideals of temperance, solitary

Greco-Roman asceticism, particularly in the philosophical schools, cannot

31 James A. Francis, Subversive Virtue: Asceticism and Authority in the Sec-

ond Century Pagan World (University Park, Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania

of asceticism also highlights the difference in the followers that

33 Kallistos Ware, “The Way of the Ascetics: Negative or Affirma-

tive?” in Asceticism, eds. Wimbush and Valantasis, 13.

cism? Also, how do conversations concerning the élitism, privilege,

create spaces for further examining the multiple motivations, vi-