Irini Pasi - Pax Vobiscum - As-salamu alaykum - 平安与你同在: April 2013

Friday, April 19, 2013

Clark Carlton - Lessons from the Garden, 2010

Clark Carlton - The Limits of Reason

Clark Carlton is the author of The Faith series (The Faith, The Way, The Truth, The Life) published by Regina Orthodox Press. His books have been instrumental in helping many find their way to Orthodoxy. In this podcast, Clark will comment weekly on matters of faith, philosophy and Orthodoxy.

Today’s topic is “The Limits of Reason.”
I’ve received many excellent suggestions over the past few months, and today I would like to address one of those. A listener wrote in wanting to know about the limits of reason in the Orthodox life. In order to try and answer this question, we need to break it down into more fundamental questions.
The first of these questions is: “What is the object of our reason?” In other words, what is it that we are trying to know? Let’s start out with four objects: a rock, a man, an idea, and, finally, God. The second question is: “What do we mean by reason?” The Fathers, for example, distinguish between the discursive reason, or the theoria, and a more intuitive inelection which they called nous.
Let’s start with the first question and then we will combine it with the second. Obviously, there are significant differences between a rock, a man, an idea, and God. A rock is a physical object. It takes up space and has certain properties that can be analyzed using scientific equipment. All of which is to say that a rock can be experienced empirically, using the physical senses, and that the experience can be quantified.
A man is also a physical object in as much as he is also a physical body. The ancient Greeks disagreed, however, about whether there was anything more to man than his body. The Atomists and the Epicureans insisted that the soul was made out of matter, just like the body. The Platonists, on the other hand, believed that the soul was an immaterial and immortal form imprisoned in the body. The difference of opinion has persisted down to our own day, with the majority now firmly in the materialist camp. Many forms of psychology and all of the so-called social sciences presume that human life can be studied empirically and quantified.
I don’t want to get into this today. Perhaps it will make a topic for another episode. But let me state, if only in passing, that one need not embrace a full blown Platonic or Cartesian dualism in order to reject this materialistic reduction of man. We are Christians, not Platonists, and for us the great ontic dividing line is not between spirit and matter, but between creation and Creator.
Now to continue. An idea—let’s say the idea of beauty, for example—is quite different from a rock or a man in that it is not a physical thing. It is a mental concept. Plato, of course, believed that ideas are more real than physical things. Nominalists, on the other hand, believed that ideas are merely names, and that the only things that exist are particular things. Many ancient Greeks believed that beauty could be quantified—the Golden Ratio, for example. But this is because they also believed that numbers were real and that the cosmos was a fundamentally rational place.
Some modern psychologists have also argued that beauty can be quantified, but for different reasons. They argue that certain quantifiable, physical features—facial symmetry, for example—register in the brain as being more pleasing than others. There is, however, a disjunction here between all of these theories about what makes something appear beautiful to us and the phenomenal experience of beauty. Understanding the geometry of a beautiful painting or the mathematical complexity of something like Mozart’s Recordare might enhance my intellectual appreciation for the piece. But I seriously doubt that it adds much of anything to the actual experience. To dissect art is to lose the forest for the trees.
Modern man, by and large, believes that he can study and understand man and beauty the same way he studies a rock. That is, the scientific age is predicated upon one, fundamental assumption—that absolutely everything is quantifiable and therefore subject to the discursive reason.
This, of course, brings us to the problem of knowing God. The Orthodox tradition holds and has always held that God is not like a rock. Just as importantly, however, we also believe that God is not a human being at large, a sort of super-celestial ego. Mormons, by the way, believe that God used to be a human being and has a physical body.
On the contrary, we believe that God is radically unlike anything else that exists. That is the point behind the doctrine of creation ex nihilo. This also means, however, that God is not an idea or like an idea. For Plato, the Good (that’s “good” with a capital “G”) was to the intelligible world what the sun is to our world—the source of all light and knowledge. For him, God is essentially the form of all forms.
But our God revealed himself to Moses, not as an idea, but as the great “I AM”, the God who delivered Israel from the bondage of Egypt and who was in Christ reconciling the world unto himself. If this is the case, then how do we know God? Outside of Orthodoxy, there are four fundamental approaches.
The first is that of the secular materialist who rejects the existence of an independent creator and, instead, interprets religion through psychology or the social sciences. Feuerbach argued that when we talk about God we are really just talking about ourselves, and most materialists would agree with that appraisal.
The second approach is that of the pagan materialist who believes in a Higher Power, but one who is, nonetheless, very much a part of the physical cosmos. Mormonism would be an obvious example.
The third is that of the religious Platonist who believes that, while God is not knowable through the physical senses, he is knowable through the use of human reason. This view is popular among some Catholics and Reformed thinkers.
The fourth is that of the Pietist who believes that God can only be approached via some sort of personal experience which is usually emotionally charged. God is not so much known as felt. Most Charismatics would fall in this category.
The Orthodox approach to this issue is quite different, however, and this is because we not only insist on the absolute difference between creature and Creator, but also because we differentiate between different types of human intellection. The Greek word nous is usually translated as either “mind” or “intellect”. During the Patristic Period, however, the Fathers began to use the term in a specialized way, and they distinguished it from another word—theonia. They used theonia to refer specifically to what we would call the discursive reason. This is pretty much what we mean when we use the word “reason” or the verb “to think”. To put it as simply as possible, whenever we think in language, i.e., sentences, we are using the discursive reason or theonia.
Now some modern philosophers have argued that we cannot think at all except in some kind of language. In other words, all reason is discursive reason. Most of the ancients would not have agreed with that, however, and certainly the Fathers would not agree. They used the word nous to refer to the faculty of intuitive apperception.
In one sense, nous can be thought of as the faculty of attention. But when you are writing a check or reading a book, you are not simply doing the activity, you are aware of yourself doing the activity. Now sometimes we get so wrapped up in what we are doing, so focused, that we tune out everything around us. In those rare cases, our nous is focused completely on the task at hand.
At other times we find ourselves distracted. I have, for example, given an entire lecture while thinking about something else. And I’m sure you have driven somewhere only to arrive and not remember a thing about your journey. This scattering of attention is a product of the Fall. Not only is the nous scattered, however, it is also disjoined from the core of our very self which the Fathers call “the heart”.
I must stress at this point that in biblical anthropology the “heart” is not the seat of the emotions. Those are located in the “bowels”. The “heart”, rather, is the psychosomatic center of man. When moderns talk about heart and head, they usually mean the emotions and the intellect. But when the Fathers talk about the separation of the heart from the mind, they mean that the nous has somehow become stuck in the discursive reason, i.e., the brain.
This is why the Fathers talk about the nous descending into the heart. They do not mean that we need to get in touch with our emotions. They mean that our attention needs to be drawn back inward to the core of our being where Christ dwells through the Holy Spirit.
God is not a rock. We cannot put him in a test tube. Nor is God an idea like an isosceles triangle. We cannot figure him out. God is not like a human being either, and yet God created us in his own image that we might know him. More to the point, he has revealed himself to us most fully as a man, the God-man Jesus Christ.
The discursive reason is all very fine. God gave it to us after all. But it has its limits. The road to Zion is in our hearts, and if we are to find that road, we must cultivate the nous and direct it inward. That is what the ascetical life of the Church is all about. In this regard, by the way, I highly recommend the works of Metropolitan Hierotheos Vlachos.
And now may our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ, through the intercessions of St. Innocent of Alaska and the blessed Elder Sophrony Sakharov, have mercy upon us all and grant us a rich entrance into his eternal kingdom.

Source and thanks:

http://ancientfaith.com/podcasts/carlton/the_limits_of_reason

Clark Carlton - Palamism Explained in Twelve Minutes or Less

Clark Carlton is the author of The Faith series (The Faith, The Way, The Truth, The Life) published by Regina Orthodox Press. His books have been instrumental in helping many find their way to Orthodoxy. In this podcast, Clark will comment weekly on matters of faith, philosophy and Orthodoxy.

which is a disingenuous way of saying that it violates human rationality—God must be either/or, not both/and. But the Divine nature is not, and cannot be, the object of human cognition. A God that can be comprehended by human reason is no God at all. Or to put it another way, God is not subject to the principles of non-contradiction, or the excluded middle.

Enthusiast heresies & rationalist heresies...

Yet both of these scenarios, to employ a phrase I used earlier, make a lie out of the Church’s experience. The saints knew they were experiencing God, Himself, not some created intermediary, but they also knew, at the very same time, just how inexhaustible and unapproachable this God is, in His innermost self.

Hello, and welcome once again to Faith and Philosophy. Today’s topic is Palamism Explained In Twelve Minutes Or Less.
A few days ago, a friend of mine sent me a blog entry from some armchair theologian who thought he had refuted the teachings of St. Gregory Palamas, by posting a quotation from St. Basil the Great that had been taken completely out of context. You know, there is a reason why the internet is called the world’s biggest vanity press.
Well, with the commemoration of St. Gregory coming up, I thought this would be a good time to take a look at St. Gregory’s theology. The first thing we must understand about Palamism, is that there is absolutely no such thing. Palamism is the invention of Roman Catholic thinkers—I will not call them theologians—who wanted to justify their own heresy by giving what is the undoubted and traditional teaching of the Orthodox Church an exotic label, turning it into an historically conditioned “ism.” All St. Gregory did was to express the age-old teaching of the Church within the framework of the contemporary controversy over the nature of Hesychast methods of prayer. Behind all of the talk about naval-gazing and seeing lights lay a fundamental distinction that Orthodox theologians have been making since at least the time of St. Athanasius.
In a nutshell, the teaching is this: From the very beginning, humans have had two very different experiences of God. On the one hand, God is perceived as being so radically different, so wholly other from ourselves, that we cannot even refer to Him using words like being and existence in an unequivocal and direct manner. “My thoughts are not your thoughts, and My ways are not your ways,” says the Lord. The technical term for this sense of God’s distance from us, is transcendence.
On the other hand, we humans, at least some of us, have also experienced God as someone closer to us than our very selves. Christianity is the religion of Emanuel, which means, “God with us.” St. Peter tells us that we are to become, “partakers of the Divine nature.” The technical term for the closeness of God is “imminence.”
Orthodoxy is the religion of both/and, not either/or. By this, I mean that Orthodoxy has always affirmed both the absolute and unbridgeable transcendence of God, and His immediate presence and communion with man, even to the point of making us partakers of His very life.
Heresy, on the other hand, is almost always the religion of either/or. I have stated before that there are two kinds of heresy. Enthusiast heresies are connected to some charismatic figure who decides that he or she has a special relationship with God and decides to play the self-annointed prophet. Montanus was one such figure. His followers were said to have baptized converts in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Lord Montanus. Joseph Smith, and most modern charismatics, would fall into this category, as well.
The second type of heresies, and these are far more common, are the rationalist heresies. Most of the major “isms” that have afflicted the Church over the centuries, from Sabelianism to Calvinism, have been of this type.
What all of these heresies have in common is the determination on the part of their heresiarchs to make the experience of God conform to some rational structure. In other words, they all assume that God is supposed to make sense to us.
Let me illustrate with the history of the doctrine of the Trinity. We know that from the beginning, the Church confessed her faith in, and baptized, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. We also know that the Church, being the new Israel, believed that there was, and could be, only one God, not three. So the Church confessed that we know the Divine, both as three distinct persons, and as one eternal and all-powerful being.
But this both/and did not compute with the Roman presbyter, Sabelius. 1 + 1 + 1 does not equal 1. You see, he was expecting God to conform to human reason and mathematical logic. So he solved this logical dilemma by treating the persons as mere modes of the one God, rather like God playing different roles at different times, but always the same God behind the mask.
A little later on Arias had the exact same problem, but since Sabelianism had been vanquished, he had to find a different solution. So he demoted the Son and the Spirit to created beings. This left the mathematically simple unity of the Divine being intact. But, this made a lie out of the Church’s experience. For she had always worshipped Christ as God. Thus, Arianism was eventually rejected.
All the famous homoousios clause of the Nicene creed does is to affirm that Christ is both a distinct person from the person of the Father, and is at the same time, of one being, essence or nature, as the Father. In other words, the Trinity is both three, and one.
Now the distinction between the essence and energies of God, which Roman Catholics like to call Palamism, but actually runs throughout the history of Orthodox thought, is nothing more than linguistic convention for affirming that God is both transcendent, and imminent. The teaching concerning the uncreated light, which is a corollary of this distinction, simply affirms that when the saints experience the glory of God, they are experiencing nothing less than God, Himself, though He still remains utterly hidden and unapproachable in His innermost nature.
God’s glory, indeed His grace, are not created intermediaries, but God, Himself. When man partakes of this grace, he is quite literally deified, but never, ever, neither in this life, nor the age to come, does man become transformed into the nature of God. God is both participable (if that is a word) according to His activities or energies, but wholly transcendent by nature. Man, in turn, becomes deified by grace, yet remains forever a creature. This is what St. Basil meant when he said that man was a creature with orders to become God.
Those who deny this distinction, however, do so on the basis that it violates the Divine simplicity, which is a disingenuous way of saying that it violates human rationality—God must be either/or, not both/and. But the Divine nature is not, and cannot be, the object of human cognition. A God that can be comprehended by human reason is no God at all. Or to put it another way, God is not subject to the principles of non-contradiction, or the excluded middle.
In his treatises, St. Gregory follows a method of argument that St. Mark the Monk and others had used for centuries. He asked rhetorically, “What if the either/or crowd is right?” If the Divine energies or activities are not God, Himself, but created things, then man can have no real communion with God. Our relationship with him remains purely extrinsic. This, of course, is the position of the Muslims, and also of some forms of Protestantism. We can never become Gods by grace, or partakers of the Divine nature, or really joint heirs with Christ. We remain merely servants.
On the other hand, if the Divine energies or activities are identical to the Divine nature, then to participate in them is to somehow participate in the Divine nature itself. The only conceivable end of this line of thinking is pantheism. Indeed, Western Christianity has vacillated between both conclusions over the course of the last thousand years.
Yet both of these scenarios, to employ a phrase I used earlier, make a lie out of the Church’s experience. The saints knew they were experiencing God, Himself, not some created intermediary, but they also knew, at the very same time, just how inexhaustible and unapproachable this God is, in His innermost self.
Thus, we have two choices. We can accept the both/and, and the paradoxes and logical contradictions that come from it, or we can sacrifice the living experience of the Church on the altar of our fallen reason, making God conform to our standards of rationality.
The real problem here, as I have stated before, comes from the fact that people insist on doing theology with books, rather than with a prayer rope. There is nothing esoteric, or even mystical, about the Church’s teaching on the essence and energies of God. It is simply the Church’s way of preserving the both/and, and thereby preserving the possibility that we may discover this truth for ourselves by following the ecclesial path of repentance, obedience and prayer.
And now may our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ, through the intercessions of St. Innocent of Alaska, of the blessed Elder Sophrony Sakharov, and of St. Gregory Palamas, have mercy upon us all, and grant us a rich entrance into His eternal kingdom.

Thus, we have two choices. We can accept the both/and, and the paradoxes and logical contradictions that come from it, or we can sacrifice the living experience of the Church on the altar of our fallen reason, making God conform to our standards of rationality.

Source and thanks:
http://ancientfaith.com/podcasts/carlton/palamism_explained_in_twelve_minutes_or_less

Clark Carlton - Glad Tidings for Philosophers

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Clark Carlton - My Two Cents on Capitalism

Clark Carlton is the author of The Faith series (The Faith, The Way, The Truth, The Life) published by Regina Orthodox Press. His books have been instrumental in helping many find their way to Orthodoxy. In this podcast, Clark will comment weekly on matters of faith, philosophy and Orthodoxy.

Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord. Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. If you be willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land.
Hello, and welcome once again to Faith and Philosophy. Today’s topic is “My Two Cents on Capitalism.” I’m going to return to the topic of theological language in future podcasts, and when I do, I want to focus specifically on the Scriptures and how we are to read them.
But today I want to take a little detour. I’ve been catching up on various podcasts, here on AFR, recently. And I was intrigued by a series of podcasts on capitalism. So while the topic is fresh in my mind, I wanted to throw in my two cents.
What follows is not intended to be a refutation of any one thing, said by any one person. Rather my comments are aimed more at clarifying the terms and issues that have been raised. The one criticism I will make of the previous discussions is that there was a lack of historical context. Trying to define terms abstractly, without reference to their historical development, will inevitably lead to distortions.
Basically, I want to explode two myths surrounding capitalism, hence my two cents. The first myth is that capitalism depends on private property and free markets. The second is that progressivism and socialism are real alternatives to capitalism.
Let’s start with the first myth, and this is sure to raise a few hackles. Historically capitalism has proven to be the enemy of private property, not its champion. Yes, yes I know. We have all heard people define capitalism as the private ownership of property, over against socialism which is the public ownership of capital.
But that definition is both misleading and misserving. People owner private property for millennia prior to the onset of capitalism. The Roman recognized private ownership, as did the Greeks and the Jews. Private property is not a modern invention. Indeed, classical republicanism depended on the private ownership of property and, therefore, on the virtues of the property holding citizen class.
Karl Marx welcomed and praised capitalism. I bet you didn’t hear that in government schools. But you say, Marx wanted to eliminate all private property. And so he did. But he saw capitalism as a necessary stage in the socioeconomic development of mankind—a development which he believed was leading inexorably toward a communist utopia.
In other words, capitalism is essential to the concentration of property in the hands of a few. This does two things from the communist perspective. It accentuates socioeconomic inequalities to the point where the proletariat will rise up in revolution, and it makes the transition to communism easier because so few have property in the first place.
Moreover, capitalism thrives only in controlled markets, not free markets. Some of the previous discussion focused on laissez-faire capitalism. Let’s get one thing clear. There is no such thing. Never has been. Never will. Laissez-faire capitalism is a libertarian fantasy, and libertarians have been correctly describes as utopians of the right.
Capitalism, as it developed historically, is not rooted in the exchange of the free market, but in the manipulation of the market by governments for the benefits of capitalists—or at least, some capitalists.
First of all, capitalism can only exist where the economy has been monetized. It would be impossible in a barter economy. Now a monetized economy necessitates a monetary system of some sort, which will eventually require a banking system and, just as important, some sort of political or governmental backing for the money.
From the very beginning, capitalists relied on governments to benefit them through monetary tax and trade policies. Capitalism and mercantilism go hand in hand. The robber barons of the gilded age did not get filthy rich by manipulating free markets. They got rich thanks to federal monetary policy, tax policy, public spending on things like railroads, and high tariffs that protected them from free competition.
Frankly, it is impossible to get as rich as the Vanderbilts or Rockefellers or even the Bill Gates or Warren Buffetts of the world without massive government manipulation of the markets—especially through monetary and tax policy. Some people get rich because of these manipulations. Others suffer loss. It has nothing to do with survival of the fittest. It has to do with who you know and how well you can manipulate the system in your own favor.
This brings me to the second myth—namely that progressivism and socialism offer genuine alternatives to capitalism. If capitalism really were concerned with private property and free markets, they would be an alternative. But as capitalism actually promotes the concentration of wealth and the socialization of the riskier aspects of the economy, progressivism and socialism turn out to be just a different side of the same corrupt economic system.
I’ve often said that evangelicals constitute the single dumbest voting block in the U.S., because they can almost always be counted on to vote against their own long-term interest—just as long as a politician says something nice about Jesus and pretends to oppose abortion. Second to evangelicals, however, I would have to rate self-professed progressives, who really believe that because they support things like government regulation and universal health care insurance that they are standing up to the corporate elites in the name of the little man. Utter and complete horse manure.
Let me give you one example. This year the Congress gave the FDA the ability to regulate tobacco—a victory for consumers and health advocates over big, bad tobacco companies, right? Well, not quite. What turned the tide is when the big companies dropped their opposition to the bill. They reasoned that the new regulations would give them a competitive advantage over smaller tobacco companies, since the inevitable FDA regulations would be more onerous for small producers.
Indeed, in most cases, government regulation of industry tends to benefit large corporations and place greater burdens on small companies. All of this can be seen if we look at the history of the United States. Contrary to our school book mythology, the first settlers were not all religious minorities looking for freedom.
Both the Massachusetts Bay Company and the Virginia Company were for-profit corporations with stockholders back in England, who were expecting a handsome return on their investments. From the very beginning, however, they were tensions between the colonists and their corporate overlords. What most people don’t realize is that a good deal of the parliamentary legislation, of which the colonists complained so bitterly, was passed at the behest of and for the explicit benefit of the East India Company.
By the end of the 18th century, the East India Company had become so rich and powerful—it had its own army and navy at one point—it pretty much had Parliament and the Crown bought and paid for. Thus when the colonists complained of tyranny, it was really corporate tyranny, though manifest through the acts of a puppet Parliament.
When the colonists achieved independence, two distinct paths lay before them. Jefferson wanted a complete break with the old mercantilist, capitalist system. He envisioned a republic of smaller republics, based on widespread ownership of farm property and small businesses. He warned of dire consequences if the stockjobbers and bankers ever got the upper hand. He believed that for property rights and freedom to be preserved, political power must be as decentralized as possible.
On the other side of the debate was Alexander Hamilton. He wanted to reproduce English mercantilism on this side of the Atlantic and to beat the English at their own game. He envisioned the United States as an economic and military juggernaut. To accomplish this however, both political power and financial capital would have to be concentrated.
For the first half of the 19th century, the Jeffersonians held the Hamiltonians at bay, for the most part. But in 1860, all of that changed. The election of Abraham Lincoln placed the U.S. firmly on the path toward becoming a mercantilist empire, and we’ve been paying the price for this ever since.
Let me explode one more myth here. The Republican Party is not now and has never been a conservative party. It was founded in the 1850s and remains to this day a coalition of corporate elites and social progressives. The Republican program of a national bank, publicly funded internal improvements, and high protective tariffs created not only unprecedented wealth in this country; it also created unprecedented corruption—both private and governmental.
The progressive reforms of the first part of the 20th century were not a repudiation of mercantilist capitalism, merely a retrenchment along different lines. Government regulation became the price for government largesse. Let’s not forget that Republican Teddy Roosevelt was one of the founders of the Progressive Party.
Up until 1932, the Democratic Party was still the more conservative of the two parties, but that changed with the election of F.D.R., whose family, let us not forget, had been Republican. Take a look at the Democratic platform of 1932. It is almost the mirror opposite of what F.D.R. actually did in office. The election of 1932 was one of the great swindles of all time.
All of this explains, by the way, why President Obama’s actual policies differ little from those of George Bush. Obama supported the bailout plan before taking office, and his administration has continued the same disastrous policies of bailing out the banks and debasing the dollars in the bank accounts of people who actually have to work for a living. Nothing has changed.
To return to a question raised by earlier podcasts, is capitalism compatible with Orthodox Christianity? Well, the answer is no. But progressivism does not offer a real alternative. Capitalism is a modernist economic system and progressivism is a modernist palliative—not an alternative.
The only real alternative to capitalism is something along the lines of what Jefferson envisioned. This is similar to the vision of the Catholic distributivists, such as Belloc and Chesterton, and to the third way of the Protestant economist Wilhelm Röpke. The foundation of such a system is widespread property ownership and decentralized government.
I should point out here that the Greek word economia means household management. Wall Street is not the economy. The economy is how you provide for yourself and your family and how you treat your neighbors in the process. It’s becoming increasingly difficult, however, to provide for ourselves when our savings are devalued by government policies and our small farms and businesses are regulated within an inch of their lives to the advantage of big corporations.
I’d like to conclude with some comments concerning the Protestant, Wilhelm Röpke. These are made by Ralph Ansel in a very good article he wrote:

For a Protestant who holds the situation created by the Reformation to be one of the greatest calamities in history, he must have difficulty finding his religious home either in contemporary Protestantism, which in its disruption and lack of orientation is worse than ever before, or in contemporary post-Reformation Catholicism. All he can do is to reassemble, in himself, the essential elements of pre-Reformation, undivided Christianity. And in this, I think I am one of a company of men whose goodwill, at least, is beyond dispute.

We know of course that undivided Christianity does not need to be, indeed cannot be, reassembled because it already exists within the Orthodox Church. But this passage is a reminder that the solution to modern man’s economic dilemmas lie not in modernism, but in the faith and life once delivered to the Saints.
Orthodoxy, alone, is capable of offering not only a critique of modernity, but of pointing us to real solutions. We cannot bear the witness to the truth that the world needs, however, as long as we continue to try to make peace with political and economic systems that, by their very nature, undermine the faith we hold and the life we endeavor to lead.
And now may our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ, through the intercessions of St. Innocent of Alaska and of the Blessed Elder Sophrony Sakharov, have mercy upon us all and grant us a rich entrance into His eternal Kingdom.

Source and thanks to:

http://ancientfaith.com/podcasts/carlton/my_two_cents_on_capitalism

Clark Carlton - Theological Language, Ecumenical Dialogue, and Evangelism: Part III

Clark Carlton is the author of The Faith series (The Faith, The Way, The Truth, The Life) published by Regina Orthodox Press. His books have been instrumental in helping many find their way to Orthodoxy. In this podcast, Clark will comment weekly on matters of faith, philosophy and Orthodoxy.

We must not think of the union of the divinity and humanity in Christ to be confused, or changeable, or divisible, or separable. That’s it. The fathers did not provide any explanatory hypotheses about how the incarnation works, and while they did employ certain technical phrases that had already gained acceptance in the Eastern dioceses as well as in Egypt, such as referring to Christ as “one and the same person,” the fathers did not see the need to use other technical phrases, such as hypostatic union or the problematic, “one incarnate nature of God the Word.”

You see, those who rejected Chalcedon did so, in part, because they wanted the council to endorse a particular theory, what they believed to be Cyril’s theory of the incarnation. In other words, they wanted the council to do more than just refute heresy. They wanted Cyril’s specific formulas enshrined as the necessary and only criterion of Orthodoxy. The irony here is that Cyril himself never insisted on any such thing during his own life.

The council did exactly what it should have done. It refuted the heresies under consideration as simply and as parsimoniously as possible, without venturing to explain the unexplainable or committing the Church to unnecessary formulas that would be open to endless interpretation and re-interpretation.

Hello, and welcome once again to Faith and Philosophy. Today’s topic is: theological language, ecumenical dialogue, and evangelism, part three. Last time, we finished by talking about the Council of Chalcedon and what it did and did not do. I said that the council specifically refuted the heresies of Nestorius and Eutyches, but no made attempt to replace these theories with an Orthodox theory of the hypostatic union or some such. The definition of Chalcedon states specifically that in as much as certain persons have made void the teaching of the truth through their heresies, the fathers of the council have gathered to quote “exclude every device against the truth” unquote, and to reaffirm that they hold the faith of Nicea inviolate.
After receiving the letters of Cyril of Alexandria and Leo of Rome as being suitable for the quote “refutation of heresies”, the council then proceeded to tell us how not to think of Christ. We must not think of the union of the divinity and humanity in Christ to be confused, or changeable, or divisible, or separable. That’s it. The fathers did not provide any explanatory hypotheses about how the incarnation works, and while they did employ certain technical phrases that had already gained acceptance in the Eastern dioceses as well as in Egypt, such as referring to Christ as “one and the same person,” the fathers did not see the need to use other technical phrases, such as hypostatic union or the problematic, “one incarnate nature of God the Word.”
Well, this brings us to the rejection of Chalcedon by the followers of Dioscorus, a rejection that is led to, what is historically, though somewhat inaccurately, called the Monophysite Schism. Father John Romanides argued that Dioscorus was deposed by the council on canonical grounds rather than for heresy. This is one of the few things about which he and Father John Meyendorff seem to agree. He argued, and I think a lot of historians have come to the same conclusion, that the followers of Dioscorus were not actually monophysites. But if that is the case, then why did they reject Chalcedon and go into schism with the rest of the Church? Well again, a lot of modern historians claim that it was all just a big misunderstanding, or that they were motivated primarily by political rivalry. While not discounting the latter—Alexandria and Constantinople were notorious rivals at this time—there is more to it than simple misunderstanding.
You see, those who rejected Chalcedon did so, in part, because they wanted the council to endorse a particular theory, what they believed to be Cyril’s theory of the incarnation. In other words, they wanted the council to do more than just refute heresy. They wanted Cyril’s specific formulas enshrined as the necessary and only criterion of Orthodoxy. The irony here is that Cyril himself never insisted on any such thing during his own life. After the council of Ephesus, there was a schism between Cyril’s party and the bishops of the Eastern diocese, led by John of Antioch. This schism was healed by the formula of reunion signed by Cyril and John in 433. The formula does not use the phrase “hypostatic union,” and certainly not the phrase “one incarnate nature.”
Now Cyril caught a lot of flack for signing this, and we have letters of his where he defends his decision. In one particular, he makes it very clear that there is more than one way to say the same thing. He notes that the traditional Antiochian way of expressing things makes him a little nervous, but he freely admits that the Alexandrian way of speaking makes the Antiochians nervous. Nevertheless, he and John have found common ground and agreed on a common confession. But Cyril did not insist that all of his pet phraseology be used, and he certainly did not insist that John accept a particular theory of the mechanism of the incarnation. In fact, I doubt whether Cyril had a theory of the hypostatic union at all. We moderns have a bad habit of reading our own pseudo-theologies back into the writings of the fathers.
Now, if the non-Chalcedonians were not heretics in the formal sense, that is, they were not and are not monophysites, nonetheless, their expectation that the Council of Chalcedon enshrine a particular theory of the incarnation is rather unorthodox. I suppose we could say that it is methodologically unorthodox as opposed to be formally unorthodox. The council did exactly what it should have done. It refuted the heresies under consideration as simply and as parsimoniously as possible, without venturing to explain the unexplainable or committing the Church to unnecessary formulas that would be open to endless interpretation and re-interpretation.
Now, I’ve made this historical detour because Orthodox critics of the Ecumenical Movement are often just as critical of Orthodox/non-Chalcedonian dialogue as they are of the WCC. This is certainly true of Athonite criticisms, and frankly, I think it’s a pity. Father John Meyendorff used to refer to the followers of Dioscorus as Cyrillian fundamentalists, and there is something to that description. At the same time, however, those who summarily dismiss discussions with the non-Chalcedonians come off as a kind of latter-day conciliar fundamentalists who have tied themselves to the letter of Chalcedon without really considering its purpose or meaning. In the end, discussions of fifth century Christological controversies are fine for historians, but if we want to have real and meaningful dialogue with the Oriental Orthodox, and I think we should, we have to get beyond this point.
Frankly, I think a more pragmatic and fruitful method would be to convene a conference of seasoned Athonite monks and seasoned Coptic monks. Have them gather, and instead of discussing historical theology and who did what to whom in the fifth century, have them talk about how they pray, and how they fast, and how they try to acquire the virtues. If that happened, I think both sides would be able to gauge accurately just how close or how far apart we really are. I suspect the monks on Athos might come away from such a meeting surprised.
At the same time, however, can you imagine the same group of Athonite monks sitting down and discussing prayer with a lesbian witch doctor or some such from the World Council of Churches? It would become apparent within the first half hour, if not the first five minutes, that the two groups have absolutely nothing to say to one another. In order to have real dialogue, people have to be speaking the same language. Wittgenstein argued that specific patterns of language, which he called language games, arise out of specific life situations or forms of life. Language is a tool, and a specific language game arises on account of what we need it to do. Much in the same way that the need to build something causes us to look for, or even invent, tools to help us do what we’re trying to do. What I’ve been saying all along in these talks is that true theology is a particular kind of language game that arises out of the direct encounter of the human person with the uncreated glory of God. It is manifest in hymns, poetry, moral exhortation, and spiritual advice. It derives from and is inextricably tied to a specific form of life, which is nothing less than life in Christ, which we call by the technical term of Holy Tradition.
What passes for theology these days, however, the kind of stuff that fills bookstores and library shelves, is a different kind of language game all together, one that arises from the need of fallen man to subject everything, including God, to his own reasoning. This language game is manifest in learned treatises, summas, systematic theologies, and big surprise here, ecumenical dialogues. In order for us to have real dialogue, we must speak the same language, and to do that, we have to share, to a significant degree, a concrete form of life. I believe that such dialogue is possible with the Oriental Orthodox, and perhaps, with some, though certainly not all, Roman Catholics because our manner of living the faith is so similar. But by the same token, dialogue with Protestants, certainly the ones that make up the bulk of the WCC, is absolutely impossible. Modern ecumenical dialogue is the language game of pseudo-theology played by pseudo-theologians. In the end, it is just another form of intellectual self-pleasuring made respectable by its religious topics.
Years ago, the OCA’s ecumenical officer told one of our classes at St. Vlad’s that one of the great benefits of our participation in the NCC and WCC was that it prompted Orthodox thinkers to clarify their own positions and take stands on current issues. For him, this was a great benefit. But to me, it is item number one in my bill of particulars against Orthodox participation in the Ecumenical Movement. It has encouraged the Orthodox to engage in and publish pseudo-theology at an accelerated rate. We do not need ecumenical discussions on baptism, Eucharist, and ministry, to take one of the more famous units of the WCC, for us to think about these topics. In fact, we really don’t need to think or write about these topics at all. We need to participate in the sacraments faithfully not talk about them.
Then of course, there is a whole host of other topics that are utterly foreign to our way of life. Whether it’s the role of women in the Church or homosexuality, or any other number of issues, Orthodox participation in the Ecumenical Movement is prompting Orthodox Christians to address issues that simply do not arise from within our tradition or Lebensform. To address these false issues in a manner that is also foreign to our tradition, and then to congratulate ourselves on how morally and spiritually advanced over those historically-conditioned fathers who just didn’t understand about human equality, biochemistry, and DNA.
Well, this is utter madness, and the only antidote for it is for us simply to say our prayers, fast as we are able, go to confession, attend as many services as possible, commune regularly, and try to walk humbly before our God and in peace with our neighbors. That will be of greater blessing to ourselves and a far greater witness to our neighbors than all of the theology books and ecumenical dialogues combined. As far as witness to the world is concerned, in 2000 years, we have not really come up with anything better than “come and see.”
And now may our great God and Savior Jesus Christ through the intercessions of St. Innocent of Alaska and of the blessed Elder Sophrony Sakharov, have mercy upon us all, and grant us a rich entrance into his eternal kingdom. I’m Clark Carlton reminding you that your faithful support for Ancient Faith Radio makes trouble-making podcasts like these possible.

in order to have real dialogue, people have to be speaking the same language.

that true theology is a particular kind of language game that arises out of the direct encounter of the human person with the uncreated glory of God. It is manifest in hymns, poetry, moral exhortation, and spiritual advice. It derives from and is inextricably tied to a specific form of life, which is nothing less than life in Christ, which we call by the technical term of Holy Tradition.

...What passes for theology these days, however, the kind of stuff that fills bookstores and library shelves, is a different kind of language , one that arises from the need of fallen man to subject everything, including God, to his own reasoning.

I believe that such dialogue is possible with the Oriental Orthodox, and perhaps, with some, though certainly not all, Roman Catholics because our manner of living the faith is so similar. But by the same token, dialogue with Protestants, certainly the ones that make up the bulk of the WCC, is absolutely impossible.

Modern ecumenical dialogue is the language game of pseudo-theology played by pseudo-theologians. In the end, it is just another form of intellectual self-pleasuring made respectable by its religious topics.

Source and thanks:

http://ancientfaith.com/podcasts/carlton/theological_language_ecumenical_dialogue_and_evangelism_part_iii

Clark Carlton - Theological Language, Ecumenical Dialogue, and Evangelism: Part II

Clark Carlton is the author of The Faith series (The Faith, The Way, The Truth, The Life) published by Regina Orthodox Press. His books have been instrumental in helping many find their way to Orthodoxy. In this podcast, Clark will comment weekly on matters of faith, philosophy and Orthodoxy.

Theology, then, begins as the story of this encounter.
But almost immediately the theologian’s ability to tell this story begins to let him down, and this has nothing to do with a lack of literary talent. It has to do with the nature of the encounter. It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God, and it is also an indescribable thing.

The Montanists, some Gnostics, and many of today’s Charismatics fall into that category. Most heresy, however, begins not with delusions of grandeur, but with armchair theologizing. You see, when non-theologians begin to muse about theology, it is almost inevitable that they will try to make sense of it. That is, they will begin to apply the logic of the created world. This is exactly what got Sabelius and Arias and Nestorius and Eutyches and all of those folks into trouble.
The Trinity does not make sense. It is, as Vladimir Lossky famously put it, a cross for human ways of thought. It makes much more sense to think of one God playing three different roles, as Sabelius suggested. Or to simply demote the Son and the Spirit to created beings, as Arias did. A crucified God makes no sense, either. It is much more sensible to say, as Nestorius and his followers were wont, that the Word is the Lord of glory, but the man was crucified. Certainly, that does make much more sense. But it also destroys the narrative of the cross, and alters the very nature of the Christian religion.

Today’s topic is Theological Language, Ecumenical Dialogue, and Evangelism, Part 2. Last time we said that a theologian is someone who has beheld the glory of God, not in a metaphorical way, but quite literally, as St. John the Theologian tells us in the beginning of his gospel, “And we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.”
But we also said that not everyone who attains this spiritual vision becomes a theologian. Something else is needed, and that is the particular charism of being able to speak about this vision in a way that is edifying for others, in a way that helps lead others to the same kind of vision.
I suggested that the term, theologian, is more or less identical to the term, prophet. This being the case, then it is obvious that all theology begins as narrative. “I was on Patmos on the Lord’s day,” says St. John. Theology must begin as narrative, because revelation is an event. It is not, as we said last week, the revelation of an idea, or a set of propositions, but an encounter with the living God. Theology, then, begins as the story of this encounter.
But almost immediately the theologian’s ability to tell this story begins to let him down, and this has nothing to do with a lack of literary talent. It has to do with the nature of the encounter. It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God, and it is also an indescribable thing.
It is at the very heart of the Christian faith that in Christ, the transcendent becomes imminent. The uncircumscribable becomes circumscribed. The unknowable becomes known. But this does not mean that the Christ experience can be described simply in the language of ordinary everyday experience.
Perhaps it will help if we consider iconography for a moment. As we know, the iconographer does not try to provide a photorealistic picture of a saint or biblical event. Rather, the goal is to capture something of the spiritual significance of the person or event depicted. To do this, the iconographer has to break many of the rules of classical art, such as those governing perspective.
The difference between theology and ordinary descriptive narrative is precisely that between an icon and a photorealistic portrait. In order to convey the true significance of the event, the theologian first reaches for metaphors and similes. “Like unto” is a phrase that recurs frequently in the Scriptures. The Holy Spirit is not a bird, but in the narrative of the baptism of Christ, He is represented as a dove. Similarly, on Pentecost, the Spirit appears “like tongues of fire.” Next comes symbolism. St. John’s revelation on Patmos is absolutely full of symbolic images, as are the visions of Isaiah and Ezekiel.
Revelation is an event so pregnant with meaning—it is after all the revelation of God, Himself—that normal, photorealistic description, if I may mix my own metaphors here, simply cannot handle the task, so a rich system of symbolism is created. And of course, a corresponding system of visible symbols exists within our iconographic tradition, as well.
In addition to metaphor and symbolism, the theologian eventually has recourse to what we might simply term, “the miraculous.” By this I mean that things that are so out of the ordinary that they appear to violate the very laws of nature. I do not want to get into a discussion of miracles at this point. Perhaps we will do that in a later podcast. But I want to underscore the literary, or rhetorical purpose of the miraculous in a theological narrative. This element is essential, because revelation, by definition, is a breaking into, of this world, by God. “When God so wills, the order of nature is overthrown,” we sing in one of our hymns.
The presence of the miraculous in these narratives—think of the burning bush, or of Christ glowing with an unearthly light on Mt. Tabor—is to remind us that God radically transcends His creation, that God is not the sort of thing that we can classify or put under a microscope. To be sure, theology begins—it must begin—as narrative, as story. But it is not the same kind of narrative that we use to describe a science experiment. This being the case, theology finds its most natural and fruitful expression in poetry and hymnography. It is no accident that of the three persons the Church formally calls theologians, the latter two, Gregory of Nazianzis, and Symeon, were poets. Indeed, many of the Church’s greatest theologians were poets and hymnographers, and this is true, even of 20th century theologians. St. Silouan of Mt. Athos, and St. Nikolai Velimirovich both wrote poetry. And St. Nectarios of Aegina wrote hymns. We all know, of course, the beautiful Agni Parthene. Theology begins as narrative, but it is fulfilled in doxology—hymns of praise and thanksgiving.
If all of this is the case, then how do we account for the sort of things that we call theology today? Our shelves are filled with books on the Trinity, on the work of the Spirit, on soteriology, etc. Where did all of these books come from? The answer is simple. What we typically call theology today, really pseudo-theology, is the product of non-theologians musing about the spiritual experiences of others, and trying to understand those experiences through the use of their own discursive reason, rather than by imitating the theologian’s way of life. You see, it is much easier to sit in one’s armchair and think about what St. John says about Christ, than it is to pray, and fast, and take up one’s cross, so that one may experience His glory for oneself.
In the best of situations, such musings are a colossal waste of time, and a great distraction from the one thing needful. In the time it takes you to read a book on theology, you could have done dozens of ropes, or read the gospels, or helped out at a soup kitchen, or simply worked in your own garden. Oh, I know, we could say the same thing about just about any endeavor, but here is the difference: If you waste time by watching TV, or bowling, or even playing solitaire, at least you aren’t kidding yourself that you are doing theology or something spiritual. When, however, non-theologians read the vain musings of other non-theologians, they get puffed up, to use a biblical expression, and vainly imagine themselves as theologians of a sort. Thus, at best, such armchair theologizing is a waste of time. At worst, it leads to heresy.
Basically, heresy comes in two flavors. There are enthusiast heretics—people who become deluded into thinking they have a special relationship with the Holy Spirit. The Montanists, some Gnostics, and many of today’s Charismatics fall into that category. Most heresy, however, begins not with delusions of grandeur, but with armchair theologizing. You see, when non-theologians begin to muse about theology, it is almost inevitable that they will try to make sense of it. That is, they will begin to apply the logic of the created world. This is exactly what got Sabelius and Arias and Nestorius and Eutyches and all of those folks into trouble.
The Trinity does not make sense. It is, as Vladimir Lossky famously put it, a cross for human ways of thought. It makes much more sense to think of one God playing three different roles, as Sabelius suggested. Or to simply demote the Son and the Spirit to created beings, as Arias did. A crucified God makes no sense, either. It is much more sensible to say, as Nestorius and his followers were wont, that the Word is the Lord of glory, but the man was crucified. Certainly, that does make much more sense. But it also destroys the narrative of the cross, and alters the very nature of the Christian religion.
At this point, the Church’s official response to such heresy is helpful. If we look at the actual conciliar decrees, we find that specific heresies were condemned, but they were not replaced with alternative theories or explanations. The definition of Chalcedon does not present a theology of the hypostastic union. In fact, it doesn’t even use that phrase. All it does is tell us how not to think of the Incarnation. The reason for this is important. The Church does not want us theologizing in the manner of philosophers or heretics, but as our hymns tell us, in the manner of fishermen. That is, as the apostles did.
I am going to pick up right here next time. What Chalcedon did and did not say, is of both historical and ecumenical importance, of course, and that will be a good place to start thinking about the relationship of theology to ecumenical dialogue today.
Until then, may our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ, through the intercession of St. Innocent of Alaska, and of the blessed Elder Sophrony Sakharov, and through the power of His precious and life-giving cross, His exaltation we celebrate this day, have mercy upon us all, and grant us a rich entrance into His eternal kingdom.

thanks to Source:

http://ancientfaith.com/podcasts/carlton/theological_language_ecumenical_dialogue_and_evangelismpart_two

Clark Carlton - Theological Language, Ecumenical Dialogue, and Evangelism: Part I

Clark Carlton is the author of The Faith series (The Faith, The Way, The Truth, The Life) published by Regina Orthodox Press. His books have been instrumental in helping many find their way to Orthodoxy. In this podcast, Clark will comment weekly on matters of faith, philosophy and Orthodoxy.

Theology is not the manipulation of statements about God. In our tradition, no statement about God is considered to be absolutely and unequivocally true, not even the statement, “God exists.” Words are created things, and can never adequately express the uncreated reality that is God. Therefore the idea that one can create a science of theology modeled after the use of geometric theorems, is a delusional fantasy of the most demonic sort. Unfortunately, for the most part, this is what has passed for theology in the West since the Middle Ages.

...our tradition, only three people in the almost 2000-year-old history of the Church have ever been given the formal title, Theologian. St. John The Evangelist, St. Gregory of Nazianzis, and St. Simeon, The New Theologian. This does not mean that these were the only three theologians in history, but it does tell us something about the way the Church conceives of theology proper.

Today’s topic is Theological Language, Ecumenical Dialogue, and Evangelism - Part 1.
There has been renewed discussion of late concerning participation of the various Orthodox Churches in the ecumenical movement. A document highly critical of this participation has recently come out of Greece, and Metropolitan Jonah has announced, in July, that the OCA would cease discussions with the Episcopal Church, USA, though he did indicate that the OCA would open discussions with one or more of the breakaway groups. In response, there have been several attempts to justify, or at least explain the rationale for continued Orthodox participation in the National and World Councils of Churches.
Over the next couple of weeks, I am going to be addressing this issue from a slightly different angle. From a philosophical point of view, I want to ask, “What is the nature of ecumenical dialogue? What are the conditions that make such dialogue possible? Is such dialogue even possible between groups as different at the Orthodox Churches and the mainline Protestant denominations that make up the bulk of the WCC and the NCC?”
Before we get to these questions, however, we must first address the topic of theological language, in general. Literally, theology means, “a word about God.” Of course, any idiot can spout off about God, and most do. But what I want to find out is, what makes some statements about God theology, in the Church’s sense of the term? This is an important question, because most people who participate in ecumenical dialogue think that they are discussing, and in some cases, even doing, theology. They are dead wrong about that, but we will get to that in the next podcast.
Today, let’s focus on the question, “What is theology?” Perhaps the best way to start is to point out some theologians and use them as an example. The problem is that most of the people we are wont to point to as theologians today are nothing of the sort. Neither Fathers Alexander Schmemann nor Georges Florovsky, Christos Yannaras, nor even my own didaskolos of blessed memory, Father John Meyendorff, were theologians in the strict sense of the word—brilliant, certainly; influential, without doubt; pious even, but not theologians.
In our tradition, only three people in the almost 2000-year-old history of the Church have ever been given the formal title, Theologian. St. John The Evangelist, St. Gregory of Nazianzis, and St. Simeon, The New Theologian. This does not mean that these were the only three theologians in history, but it does tell us something about the way the Church conceives of theology proper.
Before I develop this idea further, let me give an example of what theology is not. Theology is not the manipulation of statements about God. In our tradition, no statement about God is considered to be absolutely and unequivocally true, not even the statement, “God exists.” Words are created things, and can never adequately express the uncreated reality that is God. Therefore the idea that one can create a science of theology modeled after the use of geometric theorems, is a delusional fantasy of the most demonic sort. Unfortunately, for the most part, this is what has passed for theology in the West since the Middle Ages.
Revelation is understood to be the revelation of foundational axioms or theorems about God in propositional form, and theology is taken to be the systematic elucidation of those axioms. Are some men predestined to go to hell when they die? Study the text of the Bible exhaustively, arrive at the authentic revelation, and then apply the principles of deductive logic. Question answered.
Now let’s contrast this with the Orthodox view. What does John the Theologian have to tell us about the nature of theology? Well, he begins by telling us, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God” (John 1:1). He did not say, “In the beginning was the proposition,” but, “the Word.” Moreover, this Word is no ordinary human or created word, but the very self-expression of God, Himself—Light of light, very God of very God, to use the language of the Creed.
He goes on to tell us that this Word became flesh and tabernacled among us, and that John, himself, had beheld His glory. Remember that John was one of the three disciples to witness the Transfiguration. In his first epistle, John writes, “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, concerning the Word of life, for the life was manifested, and we have seen it, and bear witness, and show unto you that eternal life, which is with the Father, and was manifested unto us. That which we have seen and heard declare we unto you, that you may also have fellowship with us, and truly, our fellowship is with the Father and with His son, Jesus Christ.”
Now that is the Orthodox definition of theology. St. John was a theologian because he saw with his eyes and heard with his ears and touched with his hands, the Word of life, and declared the same unto us, so that we, too, might share in this Trinitarian fellowship of love.
What I want to suggest today is that theology and prophecy are more or less identical, that in order to be a true theologian, one must, in fact, be a prophet. To grasp this, however, we must disabuse ourselves of some popular notions about prophecy and prophets. First of all, prophecy does not mean foretelling the future. Prophecy simply means to speak forth the words of God. To be sure, making a prediction about the future that fails to come true is a sign of a false prophet, but prophecy itself does not necessarily, or even primarily, involve statements about the future.
Second, prophecy is not some mechanical process akin to channeling a spirit. Many Protestants, consciously or unconsciously, work with what I call the Balaam’s ass model of prophecy. God picks someone out of a crowd, however, unworthy or ass-like, to be His messenger or channel. It is the message that is important, not the messenger.
However, prophecy cannot be separated from the prophet, because the revelation of God is not the revelation of a message or a proposition about God, but the revelation of God, Himself, first and foremost, to the prophet. That is why the prophet must be ready, or prepared, for the revelation. The first time Paul, before his conversion, met the risen Christ, he was blinded by the encounter. Only later was he taken into the third heaven to encounter what eye hath not seen.
Moreover, the very act of revelation, itself, becomes a model or paradigm for the spiritual struggle. Think of the great paradigmatic revelatory moments in the Bible, Moses’ ascent of Mt. Sinai, for example. Jews and Christians have both used this event as a means of describing the process of spiritual ascent toward God. I am thinking here, particularly, of Philo, and Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Moses. Prophecy, or theology, like salvation, itself, is a synergistic event. That is, it is a meeting between God and man, a creative cooperation between the Divine energies and the human nous. It takes a prophet to prophesy, and a theologian to theologize.
True theology, then, is the Trinitarian self-revelation of God, Christ revealing the Father in the Holy Spirit, to a human person, the extent that the nous is purified, and the heart is cleansed, allowing for the vision of the eternal and uncreated glory of God.
One more thing is required, however. Not everyone who has such an experience of God becomes a prophet or a theologian. Prophecy is a particular charism, or gift, of the Holy Spirit. Think of the distinction St. Paul makes between speaking in tongues and prophecy. It is one thing to come to know Christ personally through the activity of grace and the cooperation of the human will. It is another thing to be able to express or proclaim that experience in such a way that it will have an edifying effect on others.
A prophet, or a theologian, as I am using the term, is someone who has not only had the grace-filled experience of Christ, but who has been given the charism of speaking forth, i.e., prophesying that experience with words that are, themselves, grace-filled, and life-changing for others.
I began by listing some folks who are not theologians. Let me conclude by giving an example of someone who was a theologian. I could list several recent examples: St. Silouan of Mt. Athos, St. Nikolai Vilemirovic, St. John Maximovitch, Elder Aimillianos of Simonos Petras. But let me focus on one in particular: Elder Sophrony Sakharov, the disciple of St. Silouan, and the founder of the Monastery of St. John the Baptist in England. I believe that Sophrony was the greatest theologian of the 20th century, precisely because he took the experience he had with his elder, and in his own prayer life, and translated them in such a way that his words speak to contemporary man. His disciple, Archimandrite Zacharias, has spoken and written extensively about the spiritual power of the elder’s words. His words were, and remain, powerful, because they were born out his personal experience with Christ, and because they were imbued with the Holy Spirit, unto the edification of those who need to hear them.
One other comment before I wrap this up for today: Sophrony was a disciple of St. Silouan, and much of what he wrote was either about, or in some sense, a commentary on, St. Silouan’s life and teachings. You see, it takes a saint to truly understand a saint, and it takes a true theologian to understand another theologian, and to take his words and translate them for a new generation and a new people.
Next time we will see how this definition of theology affects our understanding of ecumenical dialogue and evangelism.
And now, may our great God and savior, Jesus Christ, through the intercessions of St. Innocent of Alaska, and of the blessed Elder Sophrony, have mercy upon us all, and grant us a rich entrance into His eternal kingdom.

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http://ancientfaith.com/podcasts/carlton/theological_language_ecumenical_dialogue_and_evangelism_part_i

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