Theological Writings of Archbishop John
http://saintjohnwonderworker.org/serrose.htm
THE ORTHODOX WORD, No. 175-176, 1994, pp. 142-158
The Theological Writings of ARCHBISHOP JOHN
And the Question of "Western Influence" in Orthodox Theology
By FR. SERAPHIM ROSE
This text has been transcribed from a cassette tape of an informal talk given by Fr. Seraphim at the St. Herman of Alaska Monastery, Platina, California, on the Sunday of the Holy Fathers of the Seven Ecumenical Councils in July, 1976, in honor of the tenth anniversary of Archbishop John's repose. Fr. Seraphim later included some ideas from this talk in his article "The Orthodox Theology of Archbishop John Maximovitch, " which was published for the first time in the St. Herman Calendar for 1976, and then as the introduction to The Orthodox Veneration of the Mother of God by Archbishop John. {Recently reprinted under the title The Orthodox Veneration of Mary the Birthgiver of God by St. John Maximovitch}
1. "THEOLOGY ON HIGH"
TODAY we celebrated the feast of the Fathers of the Ecumenical Councils, which occurs at this time every year after the 16th of July. According to the Service to them, these Fathers of the Ecumenical Councils are the seven pillars of wisdom upon which Christ our God has established the Church. It is very important for us on such a day to think about what theology is. First of all we must be fully aware that theology is not just a matter of some people who go to school, become very wise in reading the Scriptures and writings of the Holy Fathers, and then--either by themselves or coming together with others--very nicely, logically think out what they think the Church believes. That is all from the level of human understanding. Theology is something higher.
A very renowned theologian of our Church today--of the older generation which is now passing away, and whose message we have to get if we are to remain Orthodox--is Fr. Michael Pomazansky in Jordanville. Being aware of all the difficulties coming upon Orthodoxy now, of those people who are actually falling into wrong teachings, and of all these temptations which are in front of us, he said, "We have security in one thing that is, the Divine Services." This is because the whole of our theology is contained in the Divine Services, which were put together by such great Fathers as St. John Damascene and many others, already at this very time of the Ecumenical Councils, when the whole dogmatic teaching of the Church was established quite firmly. Thus, Fr. Michael writes to us that the Divine Services are a security for us in case people begin to get the wrong teaching. Also in the same letter, he notes in particular the Kontakion to these very Fathers. This Kontakion, which is repeated at other times of the year when the Holy Fathers are celebrated, is as follows:
The preaching of the Apostles and the doctrines of the Fathers sealed the One Faith of the Church; and wearing the garment of Truth woven from the theology on high, she (the Church) rightly divides and glorifies the great mystery of Godliness (piety).
We see here that theology is something like a garment woven from on high: "A garment of Truth woven from the theology on high." This is obviously an idea of theology quite remote from those simple courses in what is called theology. Theology--the knowledge of God, the science of God--is something which comes from on high by Divine inspiration. When the Holy Fathers come together in the Councils and the Holy Spirit is with them, those things which they decry, define and decree are not simply expressions of human wisdom, but are something which comes from above.
2. THE THEOLOGY OF ARCHBISHOP JOHN
We have in our times, very close to us, someone who is a theologian precisely in this way: Archbishop John Maximovitch, who by God's grace was given to us in these latter times. In him we find many, many things which help us to remain true Orthodox Christians even in the very difficult times ahead. We see in him a very holy man, an ascetic with a rule of prayer and of helping others, and of not even resting. This is extremely high and inspiring; even though we ourselves do not do that, still we see in this a very inspiring example of how a Holy Father lives in our times. We continue to find many new treasures in him, aspects which have not been discussed too much before. And now we have come to the tenth anniversary of his death, which we celebrated less than a month ago. It also happens that this is the fiftieth anniversary of his priesthood and his becoming a monk. So it is very appropriate that we should now find another treasure in him: the treasury of his theological writings, which up to now have been very little known even in Russian. We have managed to gather together some of his writings, in fact quite a few; and we see that, indeed, although he is not openly glorified for being a great theologian, he is in fact a much greater theologian than many people who are glorified as being theologians. But he is a theologian precisely in the sense of the theology from on high, and not just of school lessons or academics, as we call them. From this we can find out something very important about how to be and remain conscious, true Orthodox Christians, and how to hand down the riches of our Orthodox tradition, which is threatening to evaporate from the face of the earth.
As for his theological background, Archbishop John, when he was in Serbia after he finished law school, went to the regular theological academy and got what we would call a doctor's degree in theology; that is, he went through all the courses, and therefore he knows all about theological questions, problems and so forth. In back of this, however, there is something even more important for a true theologian--and by a true theologian we mean someone who truly speaks the words of God and does not just repeat what he sees in books. Namely, he was from a very pious family; he was himself extremely devout in his childhood; he had experience of Holy Russia before the Revolution; he went to monasteries; he venerated the miracle-working icons; he had veneration for the saints and holy men; he read Lives of Saints; and he absorbed the whole atmosphere in Russia, which was then still possible for devout people. That is why later on he became such a great theologian and such a holy man.
Besides this, we see one person who very much inspired him, although not in the sense that we would nowadays say "influenced" him (that is, we cannot say that this person influenced this or that, but rather that he inspired Archbishop John to be entirely in the Church and to be a theologian). This person was Metropolitan Anthony Khrapovitsky. He was the first head of the Russian Church Abroad, a great hierarch in the last days of the old Russia, and a very important historical figure in our days, both then and now. He was noted for his outspokenness, for being very bold, and for not being too polite when it came to important things in the Church. He was a very conscious fighter for all the best Orthodox traditions. He emphasized constantly the need to go "back to the Holy Fathers," which of course Archbishop John absorbed very thoroughly; and he also talked about Orthodox theology as being very closely bound up with spiritual and moral life, as opposed to simply being learned in school and then repeated.
The writings of Metropolitan Anthony, however, are quite different from those of Archbishop John, because Metropolitan Anthony was very much involved with the academic world. He was the head of several theological academies, and he had to be constantly aware of the problems of his time. He had to know what people like the Tolstoyites were thinking--people who were trying to undermine faith in God and the Church--and he was constantly thinking about how to get across the message of Orthodoxy to such people. He was constantly writing arguments back and forth about Orthodox theology, being himself very much bound up with the problems of presenting Orthodoxy to people who were far away from it. Thus, we find that his writings are actually much less inspiring then those of Archbishop John, which we will talk about now.
3. BALANCED BETWEEN EXTREMES
The theological works of Archbishop John are quite a few in number. We have not yet found them all because they are not collected together in any one place. They are contained in old magazines, usually church magazines which had a very small circulation and have now been almost all lost. Some are from the old church magazines of the 1920's and '30's in Yugoslavia; others are from his own little periodicals in China and America. We found one long article just totally by chance--of course, it was by God's grace that we found it--which was printed in Warsaw in 1930, and of which there are probably very few copies left. Many of his writings are very small articles--sermons which are very deep--but he has several longer articles--20, 30, 40 pages-- which are very important. He wrote against the heresy of Bulgakov and Sophiology. He wrote about the Mother of God in a treatise which we are translating for a new Orthodox Word. He also wrote about Holy Russia, the New Martyrs, the Church as the Body of Christ, the meaning of the Russian Diaspora (that is, the Russians in exile), the Orthodox monarchy, and several other such topics.
From his theological writings, we see in Archbishop John someone quite different from Metropolitan Anthony. The chief characteristic we can point out in his theological writings is freedom. He is entirely immersed in the Orthodox tradition, and he is himself a source of true Orthodox theology. He has no kind of foreign influences or any overemphasis on one part of tradition because of some controversy. This makes him especially valuable as an authority on something which is very much discussed today in the English language: the so-called Western influence on Orthodox theology in the last seven hundred years. In an article he wrote on iconography, for example, he emphasizes the true Orthodox iconographic style, but at the same time he is not too upset about Western-style icons as long as they are within certain limits and have been blessed to be in the Church.
He wrote also about one question: "For What Did Christ Pray in the Garden of Gethsemane?" Here we see how he was very expert in handling a subject that at that time was quite controversial. It had become controversial because his teacher Metropolitan Anthony had, in opposing what he called the scholastic interpretation of the "payment made to an angry God," gone himself a little too far in the opposite direction, and therefore had placed an overemphasis on the meaning of the prayer of Jesus Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, as though this were the most important part of our redemption; and the Cross was somehow underemphasized. This often happens when one is involved in polemics, that is, with arguments with other theologians. Some go overboard on one side a little bit too much, and in counteracting that sometimes one goes a little too far on the other side. Archbishop John, however, had a very nice balance in this, which shows how sound his outlook was and how he did not go to any kind of extremes. He took the best part of Metropolitan Anthony's teaching on this subject--about the compassionate love of Jesus Christ for all mankind--and at the same time he corrected some of the mistakes which Metropolitan Anthony had put into his article. For example, Metropolitan Anthony said that it was unworthy of us to think that Jesus Christ should be afraid of His coming sufferings, whereas as a matter of fact most of the Holy Fathers talk about precisely this point: that this proves the human nature of Jesus Christ, that He was afraid of the coming sufferings. So Archbishop John corrected this and also gave the best part of Metropolitan Anthony's teaching on compassionate love. People were talking back and forth, some defending one point of view, some defending the other--and Archbishop John discussed it without making any controversy out of it at all. In fact, from reading his article you could never guess that there was any kind of controversy. This shows how very well balanced he was.
4. "WESTERN INFLUENCE"
Likewise there was this question of "Western influence," which Metropolitan Anthony also talked about a great deal. It is very important for us to understand exactly what this means, because it is true that, for several hundred years in the Orthodox Church, there were borrowings from the West, from Roman Catholics, in theological writings. Some people talk a little too much about Western influence; they go overboard and want to throw out everything from the last seven hundred years. Of course this is wrong. But in Archbishop John we notice that, just as he was very balanced towards Metropolitan Anthony when some people were protesting against his teaching, he was also very balanced with regard to the question of Western influence.
Once we ourselves asked Archbishop John about the question of Metropolitan Anthony's teaching, and he had a way of moving his hand and saying, "It's unimportant." That is, this teaching has very important parts and if there are mistakes in it, that's secondary, that's unimportant.
Archbishop John had the same attitude with regard to someone else who is a great figure in Orthodox theology: Metropolitan Peter Mogila, who lived in the 17th century, the same time as St. Job of Pochaev, in the west of Russia. Metropolitan Peter has been accused of being under great Western influence; and some people even want to throw him out completely, saying that he is not Orthodox. Archbishop John, however, had very great reverence towards him; and we can see in this attitude something very important about the whole question of Western influence.
The question of Western influence entered into the Church after the Council of Florence in 1439. That was the time when, for political reasons, the Byzantine theologians went to the West and they capitulated; that is, they gave in to the teaching of the Roman Catholics and accepted certain things which were not Orthodox. They all signed the Union with Rome--all except for the great champion of Orthodoxy, St. Mark of Ephesus. After this there was a very difficult time in the Church.
We are now studying these events from five hundred years later. We can see that of course this false union was rejected, and that the Orthodox Church did not accept it. But at that time, and for quite a while afterwards--over a hundred years--the question of the Union of Florence was a very difficult one in the Church. In Russia, as soon as Metropolitan Isidore came back and said, "I signed the Union," they kicked him out. He came to church and the Tsar himself was there. "You did what?!" the Tsar said. "You signed the Union with Rome?"--and they put him in prison and refused the Union absolutely. He had to go back to the West, escaping through Poland, and finally he became a cardinal in the Roman Catholic Church, an apostate from Orthodoxy.
St. Mark of Ephesus, on the other hand, rejected the Union, first in the West and then in Greece; and when he came back he gathered around him people who were also against the Union. Then, only fifteen years after the Council of Florence, by God's judgment--very likely for the very reason that the Union had been accepted--Constantinople fell. After that there was a Patriarch Gennadius, a disciple of St. Mark of Ephesus, who rejected the Union; but there was still a great deal of confusion in the Greek Church for some time. There is a whole book on the subject by Timothy Ware (Fr. Kallistos), called Eustratios Argenti (Oxford, 1964), which discusses the attitude of the Greeks towards Rome in these very centuries after 1450. We see that there was a great deal of confusion in Greece as to whether the Catholics were part of the Church or not. Many times the Orthodox bishops would call in Franciscans and Jesuits to teach in their churches. Roman Catholics and Orthodox even had services in the same churches, although, in many places in Greece, they did have the altar in a separate place. Evidently they did not quite know whether or not they had accepted the Union. There were many who were fervently against it, but others said, "Well, we signed the papers; everybody signed, the Patriarch signed, the Emperor signed. Aren't we obliged?
"In Greece this problem was a lot worse than in Russia, but the same kind of thing happened in Russia also. In the western part of Russia the Latin missionaries came in and tried to seduce the people into becoming Roman Catholics. This was where the problem of the Western influence started in Russia.
This had already been going on for a hundred years or more, when, at the end of the 16th century, the Latins made another union, this time in the western pare of Russia: the Brest-Litovsk Union, which St. Job of Pochaev was fighting against. Clearly, they were proceeding to take over the whole East. They were using the confusion of the people in Greece as to whether they were in union or not--they were using this as a chance to install their own missionaries, to settle their own bishops in the Greek cities, and then to actually take over the whole East, beginning with Greece and going to Russia.
This was a very critical time for Orthodoxy. The great Fathers knew that the Catholics had gone off in their doctrine and had fallen away from the Church, and yet there was this propaganda to be part of the Latin Church, as though the Pope were still the chief among the bishops. At the same time in the West there was occurring what we today call the "Renaissance": a whole movement of learning which of course to a large extent was a revival of ancient pagan ideas. The whole meaning of Renaissance can probably be summed up as a continuation of the Scholastic movement earlier in the West. That is, it was characterized by an increase of worldly wisdom, of something which is not necessary for the salvation of the soul. This was when science--learning about nature--began to have the importance it has today, when language was first studied, when translations were made, and when ancient Greek and Latin classics were revived from oblivion, having been very little studied in the earlier centuries after the fall of Greece and Rome. The level of learning increased: people became more aware of world history, of science, and of worldly wisdom in general.
In itself this worldly wisdom is of no importance; but once one enters into it, one acquires a certain attitude of mind. This attitude is not in itself hostile to salvation, but one has to understand it properly in order to find out how one can save one's soul if one has it. As a matter of fact, in the 20th century this movement of Western learning has now invaded the entire world. Everyone who comes to Orthodoxy today, with the possible exception of some tribes of Africans in Uganda and Kenya and so forth, is involved with this very question of knowing how to save your soul once you have become worldly-wise and sophisticated, knowing about world history, science, etc.
5. GIVING ANSWER FOR OUR FAITH
In both Russia and Greece in the 17th century, Orthodox education was on a very simple level. At that time there were people like Metropolitan Peter Mogila who saw that, in this so-called wisdom--this knowledge, this "college level education"--coming from the West, there was a very great danger for Orthodoxy' because the ordinary Orthodox people were very simple.
St. Peter the Apostle tells us in his Epistle that we must be ready to have an answer for those who ask us about the Faith. It so happens, however, that the simple person who believes Orthodoxy the way it has been handed down to him is not very able to have an answer when he has a very sly and sophisticated person coming to him and asking him all kinds of questions about the Faith--and not necessarily with bad intentions, either.
We even had an example in our little talk yesterday. We read in the Lives of Saints that a dragon came and began tempting the Saint, like St. Marina and St. John the Much-Suffering. What are we to think of this? You read this text to people who live here in Platina or San Francisco or anywhere in the modern world, who are not totally raised in the spirit of Orthodox piety, and they will tend to laugh at you. You try to give an explanation: "Well, there really were dragons," and they say, "Oh, don't fool us, you're making up things. This is superstition. You mean you really still believe that?" What do you answer them? Or if any of your children read at home the life of a saint and then go to school and talk about it, the people there will laugh them to death. "You mean you read these silly stories?" they will say. "Dragons occurring with big smoke?" In the Lives of Saints, the hair of St. Marina and the beard of St. John the Much-Suffering are actually singed by the dragon with fire coming out of his mouth. How are you to understand that? St. Marina was in prison; how did the dragon get by the guard, how did he get through the locked door? What's going on? Is there such a thing as a dragon in the first place? If you are very simple in your faith, you will say, Well, I believe it because that's what the Holy Fathers handed down to me." And they will say, "Oh yes, but you have to gather the writings of the Holy Fathers and correct them and throw out things like that." And in fact, if you look at the Roman Catholic Church today, you see that they do exactly that. They think that St. Nicholas or St. George do not even exist; they throw them out because they say this is superstition.
Therefore, with the coming of Western learning, there is a danger that Orthodoxy will be so simple and primitive that it will not know how to answer for itself. It will thus be only a small island of people who simply say, "I believe because that's the way it has been handed down"; and people who have had a Western education will not be able to believe. We see, then, that there is a need to understand whet this question of Western learning is all about, so that we can answer them on their own arguments and tell them exactly what is going on.
As a matter of fact, we do have arguments. There are those who have read the Lives of the Saints and believe them because the Holy Fathers have handed them down, and who at the same time have gone through college and understand what goes on in the Western mind. Actually, as we have said, everyone who is Orthodox today has a Western mind. It is obvious that there is no one left, except maybe a few simple villagers somewhere, who has a simple mentality. Most Orthodox people today--whether in Greece, in the Soviet Union, in all those countries behind the Iron Curtain, or in the Near East--have now been infected by this Western learning, and therefore we must have an answer on this level.
This is precisely what happened in Russia. There were very far-sighted people like Metropolitan Peter Mogila who saw that we cannot answer them unless we first learn what they know. When he became Metropolitan of Kiev, he saw that in Kiev there were very simple schools--Slavonic Greek schools-- which were teaching simply the tradition as it had been handed down, without being able to answer the questions of people who were learned in the Western sciences. Therefore he said that we must have a Latin school. People suddenly became horrified and said, "This is foreign, this is outside of our tradition." And his answer was: "No, we must learn what they know so we can answer them." Thus he deliberately installed a Latin school, and for a century or more theological learning in Russia was largely in the Latin language, with all the books in Latin. Of course there are dangers here. You have to be able to distinguish what is real Orthodoxy and where the Latins have stuck in their own teaching. At that time it was not quite as bad as it is today, because today the Latins have gone completely off, whereas then they still preserved quite a bit of what was before the Schism. Therefore a person who has prudence and discernment can read these texts and find out where they are right or they are wrong and use them properly.
There were some cases in which Metropolitan Peter used phrases which came straight from the Latins and were not in the earlier Fathers. In cases like this, however, one does not have to become too upset. It so happens that the Orthodox tradition is the Tradition of Truth, and therefore this Tradition itself corrects error whenever a statement becomes a little too much, a little off the mark. The Catechism of Metropolitan Peter Mogila, for example, was later corrected by a Greek theologian. After that it was corrected even more in Russia by Metropolitan Platon, and finally by Metropolitan Philaret of Moscow, the great hierarch who was actually the leading one who abolished the teaching of theology in Latin. Metropolitan Philaret lived at the beginning of the 19th century, already two centuries later. By that time, Western learning had already been assimilated, and thus it was no longer necessary to have everything in Latin. The Russians had their own Russian books, the level of education had risen very much, and people who were going to the Orthodox seminaries and theological academies knew just as must about all this Western learning as did people in the West. Therefore the time had come when Orthodox Christians in Russia could stop learning things in Latin and begin to learn them in Russian.
This, then, was the great function of Metropolitan Philaret of Moscow: to say, "The time has passed for us to depend so much upon Western learning in Western language. Let us now have it all in our language, and make sure we purify it of anything that is not quite right." In this process, certain words-- which in themselves were not particularly bad but which were not precise according to the Patristic vocabulary--were thrown out.
Today, we have a situation in which Orthodoxy, having gone through this Western learning, is able to answer people from the West on their own grounds. That is, we are just as sophisticated as they are; we are just as aware of modern science and modern learning; and we will not be in the position of the simple villager who simply does not know what to say when someone starts criticizing dragons.
On the contrary, now a person who reads stories about dragons will be very good about finding out the Patristic teaching on this: how it is that a devil who is immaterial can singe a beard. We know that, according to St. Macarius the Great and other Fathers, the devil is not entirely immaterial. Only God is immaterial; and the devils and angels have actual bodies, although they are much more refined than our bodies. That, of course, was the case with those dragons which tortured St. Marina and St. John the Much-Suffering. They were not beasts, but were demons who took forms in order to frighten ascetics. We know this for various reasons, especially because when the Saint made the sign of the Cross or prayed, the dragon disappeared. It is obvious that this was an apparition of the demons.
There are other cases, such as the dragon of St. George, in which it looks like a real dragon was involved, some kind of real beast. Such beasts have existed; in fact there are records of them. Even recently--thirty years ago in Monterey--one was dragged up on the beach: a very unusual beast resembling what we would call a "sea monster." This, then, is a different matter, when there are actual beasts which do not disappear when you make the sign of the Cross and when you actually drag their bodies through the streets as St. George did.
Of course, there are many other respects in which we must know how to interpret what has been handed down by the Holy Fathers. By knowing what is thought by sophisticated people in the West, we can do this. This was the actual position of Metropolitan Peter Mogila, who, in spite of some expressions which later on were corrected and not accepted, is on the whole a very great Father. He handed Orthodoxy down to us, and helped Orthodoxy to defend itself against heretics who were trying to take away our Orthodoxy from us and place it entirely under the influence of the Latin West and worldly wisdom. It is owing to someone like Metropolitan Peter Mogila that we are today able to fight against these Westerners on their own grounds.
6. FOREIGN SOURCES FOR THE SALVATION OF SOULS
Likewise, we see this question of so-called Western influence in a number of books which were adapted by Eastern Fathers, Greek and Russian, from Western sources. For example, already 150 years after Peter Mogila, we have in Greece the great Father, St. Nikodemos of the Holy Mountain, who took several books straight from the West, especially one called Unseen Warfare. Some people still criticize this and say, "Why do you have to take books from the West when we have our own books from the East?" We have to understand, then, the meaning of this. It is a little bit different from the question of Peter Mogila, because St. Nikodemos was taking something directly for spiritual purposes. The reason for this was that St. Nikodemos was mostly concerned with how to present the Orthodox tradition and Orthodox spirituality to people who had already gone away from the ancient tradition of piety. They were already losing the savor of Orthodoxy. To a person who is not very aware of Orthodox spiritual language or spiritual life, you cannot simply give The Ladder of St. John. We know people who pick it up, read it and say, "Oh, that's for monks. That's too advanced. I can't understand that." Therefore, there must be for them something more on their level, more "ABC." They have already been corrupted by Western learning, and so you have to give them something a little more primitive. Thus, St. Nikodemos took from the West precisely such a book as Unseen Warfare, which on the whole is not a bad book, and he corrected it further, throwing out anything that was Latin and introducing things which were Orthodox. Later on, Bishop Theophan the Recluse in Russia did even more to present this book as an excellent book of spiritual guidance, especially on the more primitive level. This kind of book did not appear in ancient times because the people of ancient times were not corrupted like we are today. A book like Unseen Warfare is a book for us today who are corrupted. We have to get back to our sources, and this book helps us precisely to get back to them. This, then, helps to give a more balanced picture to the whole question of Western influences.
A similar case occurred when St. Macarius of Corinth, a friend of St. Nikodemos, wrote a book on frequent Communion. At that time, both in Greece and in Russia, the custom had been introduced through carelessness in spiritual life of receiving Communion very infrequently, that is, once a year or some other such minimum. Of course, this was not very good; it was a minimum of spiritual life. We know that all our Holy Fathers at all times have encouraged the reception of Holy Communion more frequently than that. This does not necessarily mean all the time or every day, but more frequently than once a year. In fact, although it depends upon each spiritual father how often one is blessed to receive Holy Communion, it is certainly true that any Driest nowadays who is concerned about encouraging spiritual life will encourage people to receive Communion on all the Great Feasts and several times during the fasts, that is, quite frequently.
It so happened that this whole idea of frequent Communion arose in the West. In 1640 or so, a man in France named Ardenon wrote a book called On Frequent communion, which sets forth the writings of Holy Fathers on the subject. On the whole it is not a bad book. Perhaps there are some things in it which are purely Catholic spirituality, but there are quite a few chapters which are purely quotes from Holy Fathers about receiving Holy Communion.
At about the same time in Spain, someone named Miguel De Molinos also wrote about frequent Communion. It is very likely, although we cannot prove it right now, that St. Macarius read one or both of these books, and that he even translated whole chapters from them for his own book. We do not need to get upset that he may have been taking a Western spiritual practice, however, if we realize that St. Macarius was adapting from the West something which can be important for us in our corrupted state; therefore there is nothing wrong with it at all. In fact, this is what we may call a true theological wisdom: when one is not afraid of something foreign just because it is foreign. One can take something foreign, having a higher wisdom which the Church gives, and adapt for one's own what is useful and throw out what is not useful.
This kind of theological wisdom is precisely what we find in Archbishop John. Archbishop John did not have any great prejudice against Western sources. He was in the full tradition of Orthodoxy, and in the full tradition of those who adapted from wherever they could find sources for spiritual profit. Therefore, he equally venerated Metropolitan Peter Mogila and Metropolitan Anthony Khrapovitsky. If these two hierarchs seem to contradict each other on some points, higher theological wisdom can find out where they are actually in a deeper agreement; and one does not need to be upset by these lesser differences, about whether one is pro-West or anti-West. In the end, one becomes in some respects pro-West. Archbishop John, in fact, in his article on iconography says that, during those centuries when the Western influence was coming to the East, there were many respects in which it was bad, but many respects in which it was a good thing. This, of course, comes from the idea of learning in order to know what is going on in the West, in order to combat Western ideas on their own level, and even of adapting some spiritual books for the use of Orthodoxy. Let us remember once more that we today are in a situation where everyone who is Orthodox is totally immersed in this Western world, this Western understanding; and therefore we had better know how to take wisdom from it, what to accept and what to reject.
The gesture that Archbishop John made with his hands--as if to say "it's unimportant"--may be applied, for example, to Metropolitan Peter Mogila's use of the word "transubstantiation." It so happens that this word is bound up with Thomas Aquinas' theology about substance and accidents and so forth. We do not accept that teaching, it is too philosophical for us; and therefore we do not need to use that word. You can use the word without having to accept the whole philosophy of Thomas Aquinas; but it is better to use other words, maybe words such as transformation or transelementation, etc. Nevertheless, we do not have to get upset over the use of that word: we can use whatever promotes piety in these Western sources, and not get upset about it.
7. ABOVE THE LEVEL OF FIGHTING
The important thing we learn from the writings of Archbishop John is: stand above the level of fighting in theology. If you take up any writing of Archbishop John, whether a sermon or a long article, you see that there is absolutely no controversy. Even when he is "fighting" someone like Bulgakov, and has to show where he is quoting the Fathers wrongly and where his teaching is not Orthodox--even there you do not get the impression that he is fighting, like our academic theologians. On the contrary, he is very calm. There is a certain teaching of the Fathers--he presents it; and where Bulgakov goes off, he shows it: "This is not right, here he quoted wrong."
Bulgakov was noted as being the most Patristic of all these actual heretics of the Paris school, as one who was constantly quoting the Fathers. Most people do not know the Fathers too well, and therefore they are very impressed when, for example, Bulgakov quotes a doctrine on the Mother of God. Bulgakov does not quite say what the Latins say--that there is an immaculate conception--but he says that the Mother of God is without sin. According to Orthodox tradition, we do not say the Mother of God is without sin. We say that she did not fall into sin, but that she had original sin, ancestral sin, and also that she had sinfulness in her mind. There is no doubt she was subject to the same sins in general that all flesh is subject to, except for our Lord Jesus Christ; but she did not fall into sin. Bulgakov, however, did not understand such a distinction when he talked about the sinlessness of the Mother of God; and he quoted Fifty texts from the Divine Services and from the writings of Holy Fathers about this question of the sinlessness of the Mother of God.
Archbishop John, being a very competent theologian, examined all these fifty texts, and he showed that not a single one of them says what Bulgakov claims it says. Either Bulgakov was taking a text out of context and the rest of the passage from the Holy Father says exactly the opposite, or else he was making it say more than it was supposed to say. In general, Bulgakov simply did not understand how to read the Holy Fathers, and he was trying to force them to say what he wanted them to say. Archbishop John had to show that in every case it was not true-that these Holy Fathers did not say what Bulgakov thought they were saying.
Here we see the great freedom of Archbishop John's theological works: how he was above petty fighting. Some people who go to academic schools are very fond of "proving" that someone else is way off and thus "triumphing." It's like undergraduate fighting. Archbishop John was above that, showing calmly and clearly what is the true teaching of the Church, and not getting excited over small points. This freedom of his theological spirit is very important for us.
There is an interesting story, which we heard from a priest in San Francisco, which shows how free Archbishop John was in his theological spirit, how he was above small details; how, even when it came to small details which in themselves were very good, still he was above them.
The story occurred one year in Shanghai, when the Russian school and catechism was finished for the year. In such Orthodox Russian schools, they had the custom of oral examinations. Instead of just writing down the answers to questions, the students had to stand up and give an oral reply, which showed the teacher how well they were able to express themselves, how polite they were, how proper, and so forth. Also, the examiner--who is usually the head of the school (in this case Archbishop John)--would see how well the teacher had been teaching the students. At this particular oral examination, one girl got up and was reciting the part about the Old Testament from the catechism. There was a part where it said, "Recite the major prophets and the minor prophets of the Old Testament." We know, of course, that for practical purposes in these modern catechisms the prophets are divided up into those who wrote lone books with important prophecies in them, and those who wrote very small books in which the prophecies are not quite so striking. It is an obvious distinction, and it is an aid to learning. You can memorize the names better if you learn that there are twelve minor prophets, and so forth. With God, though, this is obviously not so important. Thus, as the girl began reciting the names of the twelve minor prophets, quite properly just as she had memorized them, all of a sudden Archbishop John says, "There's no such thing as a minor prophet!" Of course the poor girl was excited and the teacher was insulted because he had taught them all about the minor prophets and the major prophets.
Why did Archbishop John say such a thing, why did he deny what everyone had been learning? It was because he was thinking first of all how it is with God. With God, of course there are no minor prophets. Anyone who is a prophet sees the future; he is obviously a divine person, a saint. It is true that there are some who prophesied less and some who prophesied more, but with God they are all great, they are all major.
This story shows that Vladika John was above putting things into categories--although of course he accepted the fact that you learn who are minor and who are major. And it again shows his balance, his sobriety, and his freedom--and the fact that for him the teaching of the Church was first of all what we read in the Kontakion to the Holy Fathers: something "woven from the theology on high." It comes from God; there is a different flavor to it; it is not simply what you read in books. What you read in books helps you; it is good to learn it. But we must remember that above that is theology which comes from on high, from God.
This is what makes Archbishop John so inspiring for us today, and actually an example for us not to get involved with small points, with small controversies, but to remember that theology is something which comes from above, from God. He himself, being present every day at the Divine Services, used above all this source when giving theology. Probably more than any other theologian of modern times, he quotes the services of the Church, because for him theology was not a matter of just reading books and writing things out, but was first of all a matter of absorbing the teaching of the Church in the services. And that is why the attitude of controversy, of polemics, is absent in his works, even when he is proving what is right and what is wrong.
also see:
Subhumanity
Subhumanity:
The Philosophy of the Absurd
Fr. Seraphim Rose, Orthodox Word magazine #106 Sept-Oct 1982
Source:
Joanna's private library. Email me, ask for OW #106 joannahigginbotham@runbox.com
This study was written by Eugene Rose as a sub-chapter in his book The Kingdom of God and the Kingdom of Man, on which he was working in the early 1960s.
The present age is, in a profound sense, an age of absurdity. Poets and dramatists, painters and sculptors proclaim and depict the world as a disjointed chaos, and man as a dehumanized fragment of that chaos. Politics, whether of the right, the left, or the center, can no longer be viewed as anything but an expedient whereby universal disorder is given, for the moment, a faint semblance of order; pacifists and militant crusaders are united in an absurd faith in the feeble powers of man to remedy an intolerable situation by means which can only make it worse. Philosophers and other supposedly responsible men in governmental, academic, and ecclesiastical circles, when they do not retreat behind the impersonal and irresponsible facade of specialization or bureaucracy, usually do no more than rationalize the incoherent state of contemporary man and his world, and counsel a futile "commitment" to a discredited humanist optimism, to a hopeless stoicism, to blind experimentation and irrationalism, or to "commitment" itself, a suicidal faith in "faith."
But art, politics, and philosophy today are only reflections of life, and if they have become absurd it is because, in large measure, life has become so. The most striking example of absurdity in life in recent times was, of course, Hitler's "new order," wherein a supposedly normal, civilized man could be atone and the same time an accomplished and moving interpreter of Bach (as was Himmler) and a skilled murderer of millions, or who might arrange a tour of an extermination camp to coincide with a concert series or an exhibition of art. Hitler himself, indeed, was the absurd man par excellence, passing from nothingness to world rule and back to nothingness in the space of a dozen years, leaving as his monument nothing but a shattered world, owing his meaningless success to the fact that he, the emptiest of men, personified the emptiness of the men of his time.
Hitler's surrealist world is now a thing of the past; but the world has by no means passed out of the age of absurdity, but rather into a more advanced-though temporarily quieter-stage of the same disease. Men have invented a weapon to express, better than Hitler's gospel of destruction, their own incoherence and nihilism; and in its shadow men stand paralyzed, between the extremes of an external power and an internal powerlessness equally without precedent. At the same time, the poor and "underprivileged" of the world have awakened to conscious life, and seek abundance and privilege; those who already possess them waste their lives in the pursuit of vain things, or become disillusioned and die of boredom and despair, or commit senseless crimes. The whole world, it almost seems, is divided into those who lead meaningless, futile lives without being aware of it, and those who, being aware of it, are driven to madness and suicide.
It is unnecessary to multiply examples of a phenomenon of which everyone is aware. Suffice it to say that these examples are typical, and even the most extreme of them are but advanced forms of the disorder which surrounds everyone of us today and which, if we know not how to combat it, takes up residence in our hearts. Ours is an age of absurdity, in which the totally irreconcilable exists side by side, even in the same soul; where nothing seems to any purpose; where things fall apart because they have no center to hold them together. It is true, of course, that the business of daily life seems to proceed as usual – though at a suspiciously feverish pace, – men manage to "get along," to live from day to day. But that is because they do not, or will not, think; and one can hardly blame them for that, for the realities of the present day are not pleasant ones. Still, it is only the person who does think, who does ask what, beneath the distractions of daily life, is really happening in the world – it is only such a person who can feel even remotely "at home" in the strange world we live in today, or can feel that this age is, after all, "normal."
It is not a "normal" age in which we live; whatever their exaggerations and errors, however false their explanations, however contrived their world-view, the "advanced" poets, artists, and thinkers of the age are at least right in one respect: there is something frightfully wrong with the contemporary world. This is the first lesson we may learn from absurdism.
For absurdism is a profound symptom of the spiritual state of contemporary man, and if we know how to read it correctly we may learn much of that state. But this brings us to the most important of the initial difficulties to be disposed of before we can speak of the absurd. Can it be understood at all? The absurd is, by its very nature, a subject that lends itself to careless or sophistical treatment; and such treatment has indeed been given it, not only by the artists who are carried away by it, but by the supposedly serious thinkers and critics who attempt to explain or justify it. In most of the works on contemporary "existentialism," and in the apologies for modern art and drama, it would seem that intelligence has been totally abandoned, and critical standards are replaced by a vague "sympathy" or "involvement," and by extra-logical if not illogical arguments that cite the "spirit of the age" or some vague "creative" impulse or an indeterminate "awareness"; but these are not arguments, they are at best rationalizations, at worst mere jargon. If we follow that path we may end with a greater "appreciation!' of' absurdist art, but hardly with any profounder understanding of it. Absurdism, indeed, may not be understood at all in its own terms; for understanding is coherence, and that is the very opposite of absurdity. If we are to understand the absurd at all, it must be from a stand-point outside absurdity, a standpoint from which a word like "understanding" has a meaning; only thus may we cut through the intellectual fog within which absurdism conceals itself, discouraging coherent and rational attack by its own assault on reason and coherence. We must, in short, take a stand within a faith opposed to the absurdist faith and attack it in the name of a truth of which it denies the existence. In the end we shall find that absurdism, quite against its will, offers its own testimony to this faith and this truth which are – let us state at the outset – Christian.
The philosophy of the absurd is, indeed, nothing original in itself; it is entirely negation, and its character is determined, absolutely and entirely, by that which it attempts to negate. The absurd could not even be conceived except in relation to something considered not to be absurd; the fact that the world fails to make sense could occur only to men who have once believed, and have good reason to believe, that it does make sense. Absurdism cannot be understood apart from its Christian origins.
Christianity is, supremely, coherence, for the Christian God has ordered everything in the universe, both with regard to everything else and with regard to Himself, Who is the beginning and end of all creation; and the Christian whose faith is genuine finds this divine coherence in every aspect of his life and thought. For the absurdist, everything falls apart, including his own philosophy, which can only be a short-lived phenomenon; for the Christian, everything holds together and is coherent, including those things which in themselves are incoherent. The incoherence of the absurd is, in the end, part of a larger coherence; if it were not, there would be little point in speaking of it at all.
The second of the initial difficulties in approaching the absurd concerns the precise manner of approach. It will not do – if we wish to understand it – to dismiss absurdism as mere error and self-contradiction; it is these, to be sure, but it is also much more. No competent thinker, surely, can be tempted to take seriously any absurdist claim to truth; no matter from which side one approaches it, absurdist philosophy is nothing but self-contradiction. To proclaim ultimate meaninglessness, one must believe that this phrase has a meaning, and thus one denies it in affirming it; to assert that "there is no truth," one must believe in the truth of this statement, and so again affirm what one denies. Absurdist philosophy, it is clear, is not to be taken seriously as philosophy; all its objective statements must be reinterpreted imaginatively, and often subjectively. Absurdism, in fact-as we shall see – is not a product of the intellect at all, but of the will.
The philosophy of the absurd, while implicit in a large number of contemporary works of art, is fortunately quite explicit – if we know how to interpret it – in the writings of Nietzsche; for his nihilism is precisely the root from which the tree of absurdity has grown. In Nietzsche we may read the philosophy of the absurd; in his older contemporary Dostoevsky we may see described the sinister implications which Nietzsche, blind to the Christian truth which is the only remedy for the absurd view of life, failed to see. In these two writers, living at the dividing point between two worlds, when the world of coherence based on Christian truth was being shattered and the world of the absurd based on its denial was coming into being, we may find almost everything there is of importance to know about the absurd.
The absurdist revelation, after a long period of underground germination, bursts into the open in the two striking phrases of Nietzsche so often quoted: "God is dead" means, simply, that faith in God is dead in the hearts of modern men; and "there is no truth" means that men have abandoned the truth revealed by God upon which all European thought and institutions once were based, they have abandoned it because they no longer find it credible. Both statements are indeed true of what has, since Nietzsche's time, become the vast majority of those who were once Christian. It is true of the atheists and satanists who profess to be content or ecstatic at their own lack of faith and rejection of truth; it is equally true of the less pretentious multitudes in whom the sense of spiritual reality has simply evaporated, whether this event be expressed in indifference to spiritual reality, in that spiritual confusion and unrest so widespread today, or in any of the many forms of pseudo-religion that are but masks for indifference and confusion. And even over that ever-decreasing minority who still believe inwardly as well as outwardly, for whom the other world is more real than this world – even over these the shadow of the "death of God" has fallen and made the world a different and a strange place.
Nietzsche, in the Will to Power, comments very succinctly on the meaning of nihilism:
What does nihilism mean? – That the highest values are losing their value. There is no goal. There is no answer to the question: "why?
Everything, in short. has become questionable. The magnificent certainty we see in the Fathers and Saints of the Church. and in all true believers, that refers everything, whether in thought or life, back to God, seeing everything as beginning and ending in Him. everything as His will-this certainty and faith that once held society and the world and man himself together are now gone and the questions for which men once had learned to find the answers in God now have – for most men – no answers.
There have been, of course, other forms of coherence than Christianity and forms of incoherence other than modern nihilism and absurdity. In them human life makes sense, or fails to make sense, but only to a limited degree. Men who believe and follow, for example, the traditional Hindu or Chinese view of things, possess a measure of truth and of the peace that comes from truth – but no absolute truth, and not the "peace that passes all understanding" that proceeds only from absolute truth; and those who all away from this relative truth and peace have lost something real, but they have not lost everything. as has the apostate Christian. Never has such disorder reigned in the heart of man and in the world today; but this is precisely because man has fallen away from a truth and a coherence that have been revealed in their fullness only in Christ. Only the Christian God is at the same time all power and all love; only the Christian God, through His love, has promised men immortality and, through His power to fulfill that promise, has prepared a Kingdom in which men will live in God as gods, having been raised from the dead. This is a God and His promise so incredible to the ordinary human understanding that, once having believed it, men who reject it can never believe anything else to be of any great value. A world from which such a God has been removed, a man in whom such a hope has been extinguished are, indeed, in the eyes of those who have undergone such a disillusionment "absurd."
"God is dead," "there is no truth": the two phrases have precisely the same meaning; they are alike a revelation of the absolute absurdity of a world whose center is no longer God, but – nothing. But just here at the. very heart of absurdism, its dependence upon the Christianity it rejects is most apparent. One of the most difficult of Christian doctrines for the non-Christian and anti-Christian to understand and accept is that of the creatio ex nihilo: God's creation of the world not out of Himself, not out of some pre-existent matter, but out of nothing. Yet, without understanding it, the absurdist testifies to its reality by inverting and parodying it, by attempting in effect, a nihilization of creation, a return of the world to that very nothingness out of which God first called it. This may be seen in the absurdist affirmation of a void at the center of things, and in the implication present in all absurdists to a greater or lesser degree, that it would be better if man and his world did not exist at all. But this attempt at nihilization, this affirmation of the Abyss, that lies at the very heart of absurdism, takes it most concrete form in the atmosphere that pervades absurdist works of art. In the art of those whom one might call commonplace atheists – men like Hemingway, Camus, and the vast numbers of artists whose insight does not go beyond the futility of the human situation as men imagine it today, and whose aspiration does not look beyond a kind of stoicism, a facing of the inevitable – in the art of such men the atmosphere of the void is communicated by boredom, by a despair that is yet tolerable, and in general by the feeling that "nothing ever happens." But there is a second, and more revealing, kind of absurdist art, which unites to the mood of futility an element of the unknown, a kind of eerie expectancy, the feeling that in an absurd world where, generally, "nothing ever happens," it is also true that "anything is possible." In this art, reality becomes a nightmare and the world becomes an alien planet wherein men wander not so much in hopelessness as in perplexity, uncertain of where they are, of what they may find, of their own identity – of everything except the absence of God. This is the strange world of Kafka, of the plays of Ionesco and – less strikingly – of Beckett, of a few avant-garde films like "Last Year at Marienbad," of electronic and other "experimental" music, of surrealism in all the arts, and of the most recent painting and sculpture – and particularly that with a supposedly "religious" content – in which man is depicted as a subhuman or demonic creature emerging from some unknown depths. It was the world, too, of Hitler, whose reign was the most perfect political incarnation we have yet seen of the philosophy of the absurd.
This strange atmosphere is the "death of God" made tangible. It is significant that Nietzsche, in the very passage (in the Joyful Wisdom) where he first proclaims the "death of God" – a message he puts in the mouth of a madman – describes the very atmosphere of this absurdist art.
"We have killed him (God), you and I! We are all his murderers! But how have we done it? How were we able to drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the whole horizon? What did we do when we loosened this earth from its sun? Whither does it now move? Whither do we move? Away from all suns? Do we not dash on unceasingly? Backwards, sideways, forwards, in all directions? Is there still an above and below? Do we not stray, as through infinite nothingness? Does not empty space breathe upon us? Has it not become colder? Does not night come on continually, darker and darker?"
Such, in fact, is the landscape of the absurd, a landscape in which there is neither up nor down, right nor wrong, true nor false, because there is no longer any commonly accepted point of orientation.
Another, more immediately personal, expression of the absurdist revelation is contained in the despairing cry of Ivan Karamazov: "If there is no immortality, everything is permitted." This, to some, may sound like a cry of liberation; but anyone who has thought deeply about death, or who has encountered, in his own experience, a concrete awareness of his own impending death, knows better than that. The absurdist, though he denies human immortality, at least recognizes that the question is a central one-something most humanists, with their endless evasions and rationalizations, fail to do. It is possible to be indifferent to this question only if one has no love for truth, or if one's love for truth has been obscured by more deceptive and immediate things, whether pleasure, business, culture, worldly knowledge, or any of the other things the world is content to accept in place of truth. The whole meaning of human life depends on the truth or falsity – of the doctrine of human immortality.
To the absurdist, the doctrine is false. And that is one of the reasons why his universe is so strange: there is no hope in it, death is its highest god. Apologists for the absurd, like apologists for humanist stoicism, see nothing but "courage" in this view, the "courage" of men willing to live without the ultimate "consolation" of eternal life; and they look down on those who require the "reward" of Heaven to justify their conduct on earth. It is not necessary, so they think, to believe in Heaven and Hell in order to lead a "good life" in this world, and their argument is a persuasive one even to many who call themselves Christians and are yet quite ready to renounce eternal life for an "existential" view that believes only in the present moment.
Such an argument is the worst of self-deceptions, it is but another of the myriad masks behind which men hide the face of death; for if death were truly the end of men, no man could face the full terror of it. Dostoevsky was quite right in giving to human immortality such central importance in his own Christian world-view. If man is after all to end in nothingness, then in the deepest sense it does not matter what he does in this life, for then nothing he may do is of any ultimate consequence, and all talk of "living this life to the full" is empty and vain. It is absolutely true that if "there is no immortality," the world is absurd and "everything is permitted" which is to say, nothing is worth doing, the dust of death smothers every joy and prevents even tears, which would be futile; it would indeed be better if such a world did not exist. Nothing in the world – not love, not goodness, not sanctity, – is of any value, or indeed even has any meaning, if man does not survive death. He who thinks to lead a "good life" that ends in death does not know the meaning of his words, they but caricature Christian goodness, which finds its fulfillment in eternity. Only if man is immortal, and only if the next world is as God as revealed it to His chosen people, Christians, is there any value or meaning to what man does in this life; for then every act of man is a seed of good or evil that sprouts, to be sure, in this life, but which is not reaped until the future life. Men who, on the other hand, believe that virtue begins and ends in this life are but one step from those who believe that there is no virtue at all; and this step a fact of which our century bears eloquent witness – is all too easily taken, for it is, after all, a logical step.
Disillusionment, in a sense, is preferable to self-deception. It may, if taken as an end in itself, lead to suicide or madness; but it may also lead to an awakening. Europe for five centuries and more has been deceiving itself, trying to establish a reign of humanism, liberalism, and supposedly Christian values on the basis of an increasingly skeptical attitude toward Christian truth. Absurdism is the end of that road; it is the logical conclusion of the humanist attempt to soften and compromise Christian truth so as to accommodate new, modern, that is to say, worldly, values. Absurdism is the last proof that Christian truth is absolute and uncompromising, or else it is the same as no truth at all; and if there is no truth, if Christian truth if not to be understood literally and absolutely, if God is dead, if there is no immortality – then this world is all there is, and this world is absurd, this world is Hell.
The absurd view of life, then, does express a partial insight: it draws the conclusions of humanist and liberal thought to which well-meaning humanists themselves have been blind. Absurdism is no merely arbitrary irrationalism, but a part of the harvest European man has been sowing for centuries, by his compromise and betrayal of Christian truth.
It would be unwise, however, to exaggerate in this direction, as apologists for the absurd to, and see in absurdism and its parent nihilism signs of a turn or a return to hitherto neglected truths or to a more profound world-view. The absurdist, to be sure, is more realistic about the negative and evil side of life, as manifest both in the world and in man's nature; but this is after all very little truth in comparison with the great errors absurdism shares with humanism. Both are equally far from the God in Whom alone the world makes sense; neither consequently has any notion of spiritual life or experience, which are nourished by God alone; both therefore are totally ignorant of the full dimensions of reality and of human experience; and both have thus a radically oversimplified view of the world and especially of human nature. Humanism and absurdism, in fact, are not as far apart as one might have supposed; absurdism, in the end, is simply disillusioned but unrepentant humanism. It is, one might say, the last stage in the dialectical procession of humanism away from Christian truth, the stage in which humanism, merely by following its internal logic and drawing out the full implications of its original betrayal of Christian truth, arrives at its own negation and ends in a kind of humanist nightmare, a subhumanism. The subhuman world of the absurdist, though it may at times the humanist knows, only rendered "mysterious" by various tricks and self-deceptions; it is a parody of the true world, the world the Christian knows, the world that is truly mysterious because it contains heights and depths of which no absurdist, and surely no humanist, even dreams.
If, intellectually, humanism and absurdism are distinguished as principle and consequence, they are united in a deeper sense, for they share a single will, and that will is the annihilation of the Christian God and the order He has established in the world. These words will seem strange to anyone disposed to take a sympathetic view of the "plight" of contemporary man, and especially to those who listen to the arguments of absurdist apologetics which cite supposed scientific "discoveries" and the all-too-natural disillusionment that has come out of our century of war and revolution: arguments, in short, that rely on the "spirit of the age," which seem to make any but a philosophy of absurdity next to impossible. The universe, so this apology runs, has become meaningless, God has died, one knows not quite how or why, and all we can do now is to accept the fact and resign ourselves to it. But the more perceptive absurdists themselves know better, God has not merely died, said Nietzsche, rather men have murdered Him; and Ionesco, in an essay on Kafka, recognizes that "if man no longer has a guiding thread (i.e., in the labyrinth of life), it is because he no longer wanted to have one. Hence his feeling of guilt, of anxiety, of the absurdity of. history." A vague feeling of guilt is, indeed, in many cases, the only remaining sign of man's involvement in bringing about the condition in which he now finds himself. But man is involved, and all fatalism is only rationalization. Modern science is quite innocent in this respect, for in itself it must be, not merely neutral, but actively hostile to any idea of ultimate absurdity, and those who exploit it for irrationalist ends are not thinking clearly. And as to the fatalism of those who believe that man must be a slave to the "spirit of the age," it is disproved by the experience of every Christian worthy of the name – for the Christian life is nothing if it is not a struggle against the spirit of every age for the sake of eternity. Absurdist fatalism is in the end the product, not of knowledge nor of any necessity, but of blind faith. The absurdist, of course, would rather not face too squarely the fact that his disillusionment is an act of faith, for faith is a factor that testifies against determinism. But there is something even deeper than faith which the absurdist has even more reason to avoid, and that is the will; for the direction of a man's will is what chiefly determines his faith and the whole personal world-view built upon that faith. The Christian, who possesses a coherent doctrine of the nature of man and should have thereby a deep insight into human motives, can see the ultimate responsibility the absurdist prefers to deny in his disillusioned view of the world. The absurdist is not the passive "victim" of his age or its thought, but rather an active – though often confused – collaborator in the great undertaking of the enemies of God. Absurdism is not primarily a phenomenon of the God-these are its disguises and rationalizations; it is rather something of the will, an anti-theism (a term applied by Proudhon to his own program, and seen by de Lubac, in The Drama of Atheist Humanism, as a key to understanding other revolutionaries), a fight against God and the Divine order of things. No absurdist, to be sure, can be fully aware of this; he cannot and will not think clearly, he lives on self-delusion. No one (unless it be Satan himself, the first absurdist) can deny God and refuse his own truest happiness in full consciousness of the fact; but somewhere deep within every absurdist, far deeper than he himself usually wishes to look, lies the primordial refusal of God which has been responsible for all the phenomena of absurdism as well as for the incoherence that indeed lies at the very heart of this age.
If it is impossible not to sympathize with some at least of the artists of the absurd, seeing in them an agonized awareness and sincere depiction of a world that is trying to live without God, let us not for all that forget how thoroughly at one these artists are with the world they depict; let us not lose sight of the fact that their art is so successful in striking a responsive chord in many precisely because they share the errors, the blindness and ignorance, and the perverted will of the age whose emptiness they depict. To transcend the absurdity of the contemporary world requires, unfortunately, a great deal more than even the best intentions, the most agonized suffering, and the greatest artistic "genius." The way beyond the absurd lies in truth alone; and this is precisely what is lacking as much in the contemporary artist as in his world, it is what is actively rejected as definitely by the self-conscious absurdist as it is by those who live the absurd life without being aware of it.
To sum up, then, our diagnosis of absurdism: it is the life lived, and the view of life expressed, by whose who can or will no longer see God as the beginning and end, and the ultimate meaning, of life; those who therefore do not believe His Revelation of Himself in Jesus Christ and do not accept the eternal Kingdom He has prepared for those who do believe and who live this faith; those who, ultimately, can hold no one responsible for their unbelief but themselves. But what is the cause of this disease? What, beyond all historical and psychological causes – which can never be more than relative and contributory – what is its real motivation, its spiritual cause? If absurdism is indeed a great evil, as we believe it to be, it cannot be chosen for its own sake; for evil has no positive existence, and it can only be chosen in the guise of a seeming good. If up to this point we have described the negative side of the philosophy of the absurd, its description of the disordered, disoriented world in which men find themselves today, it is time to turn to its positive side and discover in what it is that absurdists place their faith and hope.
IN WHAT ABSURDISTS PLACE THEIR FAITH AND HOPE
For it is quite clear that absurdists are not happy about the absurdity of the universe; they believe in it, but they cannot reconcile themselves to it, and their art and thought are attempts, after all, to transcend it. As Ionesco has said (and here he speaks, probably, for all absurdists): "to attack absurdity is a way of stating the possibility of non-absurdity," and he sees himself as engaged in "the constant search for an opening, a revelation." Thus we return to the sense of expectancy we have already noted in certain absurdist works of art; it is but a reflection of the situation of our times, wherein men, disillusioned and desolate, yet hope in something unknown, uncertain. yet to be revealed, which will somehow restore meaning and purpose to life. Men cannot live without hope, even in the midst of despair, even when all cause for hope has been, supposedly, "disproved."
But this is only to say that nothingness, the apparent center of the absurdist universe, is not the real heart of the disease, but only its most striking symptom. The real faith of absurdism is in something hoped for but not yet fully manifest, a "Godot' that is the always implicit but not yet defined subject of absurdist art, a mysterious something that, if understood, would give life some kind of meaning once more.
All this, if it seems vague in contemporary absurdist art, is quite clear in the works of the original "prophets" of the age of absurdity, Nietzsche and Dostoevsky. In them the revelation of absurdity has a corollary. "Dead are all the gods," says Nietzsche's Zarathustra: "now do we desire the Superman to live." And Nietzsche's madman says, of the murder of God: "Is not the magnitude of this deed too great for us? Shall we not ourselves have to become gods, merely to seem worthy of it?" Kirillov, in Dostoevsky's Possessed, knows that "if there is no God, then I am God."
Man's first sin, and the ultimate cause of the miserable condition of man in all ages, was in following the temptation of the serpent in Paradise: "Ye shall be as gods." What Nietzsche calls the Superman, and Dostoevsky the Mangod, is in fact the same god of self with which the Devil then and always, has tempted man; it is the only god, once the true God has been rejected, whom men can worship. Man's freedom has been given him to choose between the true God and himself. between the true path to deification whereon the self is humbled and crucified in this life to be resurrected and exalted in God in eternity, and the false path of self-deification which promises exaltation in this life but ends in the Abyss. These are the only two choices, ultimately, open to the freedom of man; and upon them have been founded the two Kingdoms, the Kingdom of God and the Kingdom of Man, which may be discriminated only by the eye of faith in this life, but which shall be separated in the future life as Heaven and Hell. It is clear to which of them modern civilization belongs, with its Promethean effort to build a Kingdom of earth in defiance of God; but what should be clear enough in earlier modern thinkers becomes absolutely explicit in Nietzsche. The old commandment of "Thou shalt," says Zarathustra, has become outmoded; the new commandment is "I will." And in Kirillov's satanic logic, "the attribute of my godhead is self-will." The new religion, the religion not yet fully revealed that will succeed the old religion of Christianity to which modern man thinks by now to have delivered the final blow is supremely the religion of self-worship.
This is what absurdism and all the vain experimentation of our day is seeking. Absurdism is the stage at which the modern Promethean effort hesitates. entertains doubts, and has a faint foretaste of the satanic incoherence in which it cannot but end. But if the absurdist is less confident and more fearful than the humanist, he nonetheless shares the humanist faith that the modern path is the right path, and in spite of his doubt he retains the humanist hope – hope not in God and His Kingdom, but in man's own Tower of Babel.
The modern attempt to establish a kingdom of self-worship reached one extreme in Hitler, who believed in a racial Superman; it reaches another extreme in Communism, whose Superman is the collectivity and whose self-love is disguised as altruism. But both Nazism and Communism are extreme forms – their phenomenal success proves it – of what everyone else today actually believes: everyone; that is, who does not stand explicitly and absolutely with Christ and His Truth. For what is the meaning of the gigantic effort in which all nations have today joined to transform the face of the earth and conquer the universe, to bring about an entirely new order of things wherein man's condition since his creation will be radically transformed and this earth, which since man's fall has been and can be nothing but a place of sorrow and tears, is to become, supposedly a place of happiness and joy, a veritable heaven on earth with the advent of a "new age"? What does this mean but that man, freed of the burden of a God in Whom he does not believe even when he professes Him with his lips, imagines himself to be God, master of his own destiny and creator of a "new earth," expressing his faith in a "new religion" of his own devising wherein humility gives way to pride, prayer to worldly knowledge, mastery of the passions to mastery of the world, fasting to abundance and satiety, tears of repentance to worldly joy.
To this religion of the self absurdism points the way. This is not, to be sure, always its explicit intention, but it is its distinct implication. Absurdist art depicts a man imprisoned in his own self, unable to communicate with his fellow man or enter into any relationship with him that is not inhuman; there is no love in absurdist art, there is only hatred, violence, terror, and boredom – because in cutting himself off from God, absurdist man has cut himself off from his own humanity, the image of God. If such a man is awaiting a revelation that will put an end to absurdity, it is surely not the revelation that Christians know; if there is one point on which all absurdists would agree, it is the absolute rejection of the Christian answer. Any revelation the absurdist, as absurdist, can accept must be "new." About Godot, in Beckett's play, one character says, "I'm anxious to hear what he has to offer. Then we'll take it or leave it." In the Christian life everything is referred to Christ, the old self with its constant "I will" must be done away with and a new self, centered in Christ and His will, be born; but in the spiritual universe of "Godot," everything revolves precisely about the old self, and even a new god must present himself as a kind of spiritual merchandise to be accepted or rejected by a self that will tolerate nothing that is not oriented to itself. Men today "wait for Godot" – who is, perhaps, on one level, Antichrist – in the hope that he will bring appeasement of conscience and restore meaning and joy to self-worship, in the hope that is, that he will permit what God has forbidden and provide the ultimate apology for it. Nietzsche's Superman is absurdist, modern man with his sense of guilt obliterated in a frenzy of enthusiasm generated by a false mysticism of the earth, a worship of this world.
Where will it all end? Nietzsche and the optimists of our day see the dawn of a new age, the beginning of "a higher history than any history hitherto." Communist doctrine affirms this; but the Communist reorganization of the world will, in the end, prove to be no more than the systematized absurdity of a perfectly efficient machine that has no ultimate purpose. Dostoevsky; who knew the true God, was more realistic. Kirillov, the maniacal counterpart of Zarathustra, had to kill himself to prove that he was God; Ivan Karamazov, who was tormented by the same ideas, ended in madness, as did Nietzsche himself; Shigalev (in The Possessed), who devised the first perfect social organization of mankind, found it necessary to deliver nine-tenths of mankind to absolute slavery so that one-tenth might enjoy absolute liberty – a plan that Nazi and Communist Supermen have put into practice. Madness, suicide, slavery, murder, and destruction are the ends of the presumptuous philosophy of the death of God and the advent of the Superman; and these are, indeed, prominent themes of absurdist art.
Many feel – with Ionesco – that only out of thorough exploration of the absurd condition in which man now finds himself, and of the new possibilities this has opened up for him, may a way be found beyond absurdity and nihilism into some new realm of coherence: this is the hope of absurdism and humanism, and it will become the hope of Communism when (and if) it enters its period of disillusionment. It is a false hope, but it is a hope that may, for all that, be fulfilled. For Satan is the ape of God, and once divine coherence has been shattered and men no longer hope for the absolute coherence God alone can give to human life, the counterfeit coherence that Satan is able to fabricate may come to seem quite attractive. It is no accident that in our own day serious attention is being given once more by responsible and sober Christians dissatisfied alike with facile optimism and facile pessimism, to a doctrine that, in Western Europe at least, was almost forgotten for centuries under the influence of the philosophy of enlightenment and progress. (Cf. Josef Pieper, The End of Time; Heinrich Schlier, Principalities and Powers in the New Testament; and before them, Cardinal Newman.) This is the doctrine, universally held by the Churches of the and West, of Antichrist, that strange figure who appears at the end of time as a humanitarian world-ruler and seems to turn creation upside-down by making darkness seem light, evil good, slavery freedom, chaos order; he is the. ultimate protagonist of the philosophy of the absurd, and the perfect embodiment of the mangod: for he will worship only himself, and will call himself God. This is no place, however, to do more than point out the existence of that doctrine, and to note its intimate connection with the Satanic incoherence of the philosophy of the absurd.
But more important even than the historical culmination of absurdism, whether it be the actual reign of Antichrist or merely another of his predecessors, is its supra-historical end: and that is Hell. For absurdism is, most profoundly, an irruption of Hell into our world; it is thus a warning of a reality men are all too anxious to avoid. But those who avoid it only bind themselves the closer to it; our age, the first in Christian times to disbelieve entirely in Hell, itself more thoroughly than any other embodies the spirit of Hell.
Why do men disbelieve in Hell? It is because they do not believe in Heaven, because they do not believe in life, and in the God of life, because they find God's creation absurd and wish that it did not exist. The Staretz Zossima, in The Brothers Karamazov, speaks of one kind of such men.
There are some who remain proud and fierce even in hell... They have cursed themselves, cursing God and life ....They cannot behold the living God without hatred, and they cry out that the God of life should be annihilated, that God should destroy Himself and His own creation. And they will burn in the fire of their own wrath for ever and yearn for death and annihilation. But they will not attain to death ...
Such men, of course, are extreme nihilists, but they differ in degree only, and not in kind, from those less violent souls who faintly curse this life and find it to be absurd, and even from those who call themselves Christians and do not desire the Kingdom of Heaven with all their hearts, but picture Heaven, if at all, as a shadowy realm of repose or sleep. Hell is the answer and the end of all who believe in death rather than life, in this world rather than in the next world, in themselves rather than in God: all those, in short, who in their deepest heart accept the philosophy of the absurd. For it is the great truth of Christianity – which Dostoevsky saw and Nietzsche did not see – that there is no annihilation, and there is no incoherence, all nihilism and absurdism are in vain. The flames of Hell are the last and awful proof of this: every creature testifies, with or against his will, to the ultimate coherence of things. For this coherence is the love of God, and this love is found even in the flames of Hell; it is in fact the love of God itself which torments those who refuse it.
So it is too with absurdism; it is the negative side of a positive reality. There is, of course, an element of incoherence in our world, for in his fall from Paradise man brought the world with him; the philosophy of the absurd is not, therefore, founded upon a total lie, but upon a deceptive half-truth. But when Camus defines absurdity as the confrontation of man's need for reason with the irrationality of the world, when he believes that man is an innocent victim and the world the guilty party, he, like all absurdists, has magnified a very partial insight into a totally distorted view of things; and in his blindness has arrived at the exact inversion of the truth. Absurdism, in the end, is an internal and not an external question; it is not the world that is irrational and incoherent, but man.
If, however, the absurdist is responsible for not seeing things as they are, and not even wishing to see things as they are, the Christian is yet more responsible for failing to give the example of a fully coherent life, a life in Christ. Christian compromise in thought and word and negligence in deed have opened the way to the triumph of the forces of the absurd, of Satan, of Antichrist. The present age of absurdity is the just reward of Christians who have failed to be Christians.
And the only remedy for absurdism lies at this, its source: we must again be Christians. Camus was quite right when he said, "We must choose between miracles and the absurd." For in this respect Christianity and absurdism are equally opposed to Enlightenment rationalism and humanism, to the view that reality can be reduced to purely rational and human terms. We must indeed choose between the miraculous, the Christian view of things, whose center is God and whose end is the eternal Kingdom of Heaven, and the absurd, the Satanic view of things, whose center is the fallen self and whose end is Hell, in this life and in the life to come.
We must again be Christians. It is futile, in fact it is precisely absurd, to speak of reforming society, of changing the path of history, of emerging into an age beyond absurdity, if we have not Christ in our hearts; and if we do have Christ in our hearts, nothing else matters.
It is of course possible that there may be an age beyond absurdity; it is more likely, perhaps – and Christians must always be prepared for this eventuality – that there will not be, and that the age of absurdity is indeed the last age. It may be that the final testimony Christians may be able to give in this age will be the ultimate testimony, the blood of their martyrdom.
But this is cause for rejoicing and not for despair. For the hope of Christians is not in this world or in any of its kingdoms – that hope, indeed, is the ultimate absurdity; the hope of Christians is in the Kingdom of God which is not of this world.
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