As it is the duty of all men and women to fulfil the same commandments of the moral law over and over again, so it is our priestly duty to repeat over and over again the same prayers, beginning with the Lord’s Prayer itself, for it is not by variety of prayers that the soul is strengthened, but by their constant repetition, and so by their being brought into our heart, into our will, and into our whole life.

***

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. (Heb. 13:8)

When you pray with prayers that you have grown accustomed to, from praying them over and over again, remember that the Lord is for all eternity the same. Your heart may change and grow cold, but the same words or the same prayers still have the same power with the Lord, who himself is the same, yesterday, today and for ever.

As is clear from this conclusion, the book has a catechetical feel; it is for the most part didactic rather than dialectic (except in its refutations of the Jews and Gentiles). It is not a technical discussion of the unity of divine and human natures in the Incarnate Word, Jesus Christ (and to seek for that here would be anachronistic). The key for Athanasius is to demonstrate the reality of the divine Word of God, the reality of the flesh he took in becoming incarnate, and the reality of the union of himself and his body. “As Man He was living a human life, and as Word He was sustaining the life of the universe, and as Son He was in constant union with the Father.” He was not changed “nor was He defiled by being in the body. Rather, He sanctified the body by being in it.” (17). Normal bodily functions such as eating, drinking or being born “are rightly said to be His acts, because the body which did them did indeed belong to Him and none other… His body was a real one and not merely an appearance… [and He was] actually present in the body” (18).

To speak of the Incarnation is to speak of Creation. For Athanasius as for Irenaeus, the whole dispensation or economy of God is one, and the incarnation is inseparable from it. In Creation, the Word of God is already intimately linked with the material world: it is “through Him that the good Father gives order to creation, by Him that all things are moved, and through Him that they receive their being” (1). Thus Incarnation constitutes both a continuation and a renewal of Creation – although “no part of creation had ever been without Him”, in the Incarnation, he “entered the world in a new way, stooping to our level” (8). The “first fact” for Athanasius is that “the renewal of creation has been wrought by the Self-same Word Who made it in the beginning” and there is therefore “no inconsistency between creation and salvation” (1). Through the presence of the Word of God, Creation is a means of knowledge of God (12) – though a means secondary to the Image of God itself. Just as in Creation we were intimately, existentially linked with God, in his Creation we also saw him reflected whom we knew, increasing in knowledge of him. Athanasius will show how both these aspects of Creation are reflected in the Incarnation.

When man is created, he is created in the Image of God: from the beginning, man is only truly man in a participation in the life of God. “Upon men… He bestowed a grace which other creatures lacked – namely the impress of His own Image, a share in the reasonable being of the very Word Himself” (3). In the fall – our voluntary separation of ourselves from this participation, in “throwing away [our] birthright of beauty” as Athanasius puts it (3), we lose not only the grace of God, but also what it means to be truly human. In place of all this, we gain only sin and the consequent death and corruption.

Having thrown this away, who can rescue us? Who is able to overcome the gulf between creature and Creator? There is only one who is able to do this: the Word of God incarnate (10)[1]. We cannot ascend to him, so he descended to us: “He, indeed, assumed humanity that we might become God” (54). The fall represented a victory for death over life, and a victory for confusion over being in touch with reality, the knowledge of God (for example, Rom. 1:25ff). In the Incarnation, the overthrow of death and corruption is achieved through the Incorruptible One’s taking a body (Athanasius’s “first cause” of the Incarnation), and the unreality in which we live as a result of our turning away from God is remedied by the renewing in us of the knowledge of God through his revelation in the incarnate Word (Athanasius’s second cause of the Incarnation).

Man apart from God the source of life can achieve only corruption and death and a tendency towards non-existence as our being was called into life and is sustained in life by the Word of God. So the Word of God reunited himself with us in the reality of incarnation: “Nor did He will merely to become embodied or merely to appear… He took it directly from a spotless, stainless virgin… Himself prepared this body in the virgin as a temple for Himself, and took it for His very own, as the instrument through which He was known and in which He dwelt…” (8)

In using the word “instrument” Athanasius is not anticipating what Apollinarius would later say. (It would be anachronistic to seek in Athanasius answers to questions that had not yet been asked.) The Word makes the flesh his own, not only for manifesting himself in but for dying in – all is inextricable: the Word+flesh dies, the Word+flesh rises (31) – in the unity of his person, the Saviour dies (as all flesh must, the Word of God suffering against his nature, as his taking flesh is also kenotic) but equally in the unity of his person, the Saviour rises (since the Life of God will not die). Both death and life are the response to the nature of the fall – it was “…unthinkable that God should go back upon his word” and therefore there is death, but it was “equally monstrous that beings which once had shared the nature of the Word should perish and turn back again into non-existence through corruption” and therefore there must be life (6).

Epistemologically, the Incarnation is a continuation of the revelation of God in history from Creation. Creation was followed by the law and the prophets (not only for the benefit of the Jews, though given to them) as a “sacred school of the knowledge of God and the conduct of the spiritual life for the whole world” (12). This revelation was fulfilled in the revelation of God in his incarnate presence (33-40). Athanasius uses the analogy of a stained canvas being repainted with the same image by the same painter. Who else could teach about God but the very Image of God: “You cannot put straight in others what is warped in yourself” (14). The incarnate Word’s miracles and signs are retelling the same story of Creation – the giving of Life in abundance.

The key to understanding the Incarnation is the restoration of life and the overthrow of death and corruption. As C.S. Lewis put it, “The whole book, indeed, is a picture of the Tree of Life”.[2] And while life is not restored over death without cost, paradoxically the power of God to achieve this is manifested in total weakness and in death itself: “by what seems His utter poverty and weakness on the cross He overturns the pomp and parade of idols, and quietly… wins over the mockers and unbelievers to recognise Him as God… for the salvation of us men.” His divinity is made clear in his weakness (1). Athanasius argues that, though for the Greeks at first this appears foolishness (1 Cor. 1:23), even they should be able to accept this kenotic act for the Logos: since he is always present in Creation they should accept the possibility of his coming in flesh without its being degrading (41-42) and his coming in humility (42-43), quoting Plato (43).

Just as the first Tree of Life was at the centre of the garden (Gen. 2:9), the incarnation is at the centre of everything – Creation, Scripture, history – both existentially and epistemologically. All creation is recapitulated in the incarnation (Eph 1:10-11), so all can be re-created through the Image to which we are conformed in salvation. Sin works against this through disruption, dissolution, corruption and ultimately annihilation, total non-existence. The Incarnation makes possible the reversal of this fall from grace. When Christ the incarnate Word of God dies on the recapitulated Tree of Life, he destroys the power of death, offering to all people the grace of being included in his death and thence brought through death to life.

The centrality of the Cross (the new Tree of Life) is reflected even in Athanasius’s scheme for his book, his sections on Cross and Resurrection serving both as the culmination of his theological discussion of the Incarnation, and as the middle chapters of the whole work. Of the Lord’s body he writes: “Mortal and offered to death on behalf of all as it was, it could not but die; indeed, it was for that very purpose that the Saviour had prepared it for Himself. But on the other hand it could not remain dead, because it had become the very temple of Life. It therefore died, as mortal, but lived again because of the Life within it; and its resurrection is made known through its works.” (31).

The way in which this ultimate act of voluntary self-sacrifice effects the healing and salvation of mankind is portrayed by Athanasius, as in the New Testament, through a variety of images and metaphors. It is achieved through the Word of God’s taking flesh and offering “it to the Father… so that in His death all might die, and the Law of death thereby be abolished” (8). It is “a sufficient exchange for all” (9), “an offering and sacrifice” (9), “a substitute, [fulfilling] all that was required” (9). Because “there was a debt owing which must needs be paid”, it is to “settle man’s account with death” (20). It is because “… the death of the Lord is the ransom of all” (25). It is that “through this union of the immortal Son of God with our human nature, all men were clothed with incorruption” (9) and that “through His union with [His body, He] might bring to nought him that had the power of death, that is, the devil, and might deliver them… enslaved by the fear of death” (20). Why so many images of the work of Christ? Athanasius explains this is necessary because when speaking of God “it is better to put the same thing in several ways than to run the risk of leaving something out” (20).

The Cross is clearly a stumbling block and apparent folly to those “outside the Church” (25), and Athanasius lays out some of their objections (21-24) and explains again how our salvation is obtained through it: “He did not lay aside His body by an individual act of dying… but He accepted death… thereby completely to destroy it in His own body” (22) in “the solidarity of mankind” (9). It is in our shared human nature (what Chalcedon would later refer to as the way in which we are ‘homoousios’ with Him) that death is defeated, since “He had come to bear the curse that lay on us; and how could He ‘become a curse’ (Gal 3:13) otherwise than by accepting the accursed death?” (25). As in Psalm 24:7: “lift up your heads, O ye gates”, so now he who calls himself the Gate (John 10:7) and the Way (John 14:6), the incarnate Word of God is lifted up in “that body which He first offered to death on behalf of all, and then made through it a path to heaven” (25).

St Paul said, “As in Adam all die, so in Christ shall all be made alive” (1 Cor. 15:22). But in order to be made alive in Christ, we also must recapitulate the death of Adam in Christ: “…as all die in him, the law concerning the corruption of humans might be abolished (since its power was concluded in the dominical body and no longer held ground against humans who are like him), and, secondly, that as humans had turned towards corruption, he might turn them again towards incorruption, and give them life instead of death, by making the body his own…” (8). So in what sense does Christ die ‘as a substitute for all’ (9), and in what sense do we ‘die in him’? Athanasius continually juxtaposes these two images because there is a paradox at the heart of this mystery: “two opposite marvels took place at once: the death of all was consummated in the Lord’s body; yet, because the Word was in it, death and corruption were in the same act utterly abolished”. He takes our place in death, but only in the context of our life in him. But we have life in him only because we share in his death. We are members of his body: as he dies, we die, but as he is raised, we are raised (as in baptism: Rom. 6:4).

For those who wish to argue whether Cross or Incarnation are at the centre of our faith, Athanasius’s answer, more-or-less, is that the Cross is the Incarnation. Cross and Incarnation are inextricably linked as the means of our salvation, which is why a proper understanding of incarnation recurs again and again in history as key to the refutation of heresies which work against God’s grace in granting us the possibility of transcending our creaturehood, and which thereby destroy the possibility of our salvation in union with him.

Thus Athanasius shows how closely integrated are soteriology and christology: if our christology fails, it is our salvation that is at stake. Salvation is not just a transaction but a battle for the full humanity offered to us (and rejected by us) at Creation. Salvation is not just liberation from sin, but the destruction of death and corruption and the renewal or re-creation of our participation in the life of God. As Athanasius puts it, “Nor does repentance recall men from what is according to their nature; all that it does is to make them cease from sinning” (7). Only the Incarnate Word of God can achieve this re-creation: “His part it was, and His alone, both to bring again the corruptible to incorruption and to maintain for the Father His consistency of character with all. For He alone, being Word of the Father and above all, was in consequence both able to recreate all, and worthy to suffer on behalf of all and to be an ambassador for all with the Father.” (7). In order to understand how the Cross effected our salvation, it is necessary to understand who he was who hung on it.

The closeness of our bond with Christ in the Church is taken for granted by Athanasius as he integrates the concept of the Incarnation through the Word of God taking a body on earth, and the Church as the body of Christ after the resurrection: “in death He preserved His body whole and undivided, so that there should be no excuse hereafter for those who would divide the Church” (24). This is so clear that for Athanasius “the resurrection of the body to immortality… [is] more effectively proved by facts than by words” and the facts are the works of Christ alive in his body the Church. When the incarnate Word should “first trample and destroy [death] in His own body… what other issue could there be than the resurrection of His body and its open demonstration as the monument of His victory… Dead men cannot take effective action [but]… The Saviour is working mightily among men… Can anyone… still doubt…?”

He sees Christ in his resurrection body making believers, turning people from sinful lives, overthrowing false gods, driving out evil spirits (30). “Christ alone, using common speech and through the agency of men not clever with their tongues has convinced whole assemblies of people all the world over to despise death, and to take heed to the things that do not die, to look past the things of time and gaze on things eternal, to think nothing of earthly glory and to aspire only to immortality” (47). It is in this context that Athanasius writes the phrase that is probably most famous of all he wrote in this book, “He, indeed, assumed humanity that we might become God” (54) – not in the sense of a person’s individual divinization through his communion with God, but that we as a body, the Church, may through his work be saved and, no longer in thrall to the fear of death, may participate anew in the very life of God (as ‘the body of Christ’). The ability to offer proof of Christ’s resurrection for Athanasius lies less in the bodily appearances of Jesus after he had risen (which Athanasius does not even mention) and more in the reality of his work on earth in his body – the Church.

The two ‘causes’ of the incarnation have already been mentioned, and there are two consequent effects: the primary effect of defeating death and corruption through the union of divinity and humanity, and the secondary effect of renewing us in the knowledge of God. Thus again is everything brought up into the incarnation, being and understanding; the existential and the epistemological. “There were thus two things which the Saviour did for us by becoming Man. He banished death from us and made us anew; and, invisible and imperceptible as in Himself He is, He became visible through His works and revealed Himself as the Word of the Father, the Ruler and King of the whole creation” (16). Through the uniting of Word and flesh, he transformed our humanity by uniting us in his death and resurrection, and he showed us God anew, teaching us thereby what true humanity looks like. If this is a result of the incarnation, it must also be apparent in Christ’s post-resurrection body described above, the Church. So our learning about God, our learning how to be fully human, how to live must take place in the context of our lives being transformed through membership in his body, through our participation in his death and resurrection. Learning how to live can properly take place only in the context of communion with him who is Life.

Athanasius displays great confidence in telling of Christ’s post-resurrection life: “A very strong proof of this destruction of death and its conquest by the cross is [that] all the disciples of Christ despise death; they take the offensive against it and, instead of fearing it, by the sign of the cross and by faith in Christ trample on it as on something dead.” They “prefer to die rather than to deny their faith in Christ, knowing full well that when they die they do not perish, but live indeed, and become incorruptible through the resurrection” (27). Not only men, but women and children mock death in this way. Death is a conquered tyrant (1 Cor. 15:55). The experience of God in Christ is rooted in the life of the Church whose members never tire of proclaiming the resurrection because they are living it. The martyrs are indeed true witnesses to the life of the risen Christ, participating in both his cross and resurrection.

The deconstructed world after post-modernism is searching for holistic meaning: here it is. The incarnation takes up everything we are and invests it with both existential and epistemological meaning. In Christ we are not faced with just a prophet or a teacher or a hero, though we are faced with all these, but more than this, we meet who we actually need – the incarnate Word of God who makes everything new: “In short, such and so many are the Saviour’s achievements that follow from His Incarnation, that to try to number them is like gazing at the open sea and trying to count the waves” (54).

[1] In (10) Athanasius quotes Heb 2:9ff and 1 Cor 15:21ff to show how rescue belonged only to the incarnate Word.

[2] His foreword to the CSMV edition of On the Incarnation, p9. (St Athanasius: On the Incarnation, 1953: Mowbray, England)

It is clear that Basil’s pastoral concern is a large part of the reason for his entering the debate raging about the place of the Holy Spirit. Basil says that those who refuse the preposition ‘with’, thereby saying the Son is subordinate to the Father and the Holy Spirit to the Son, “will not allow anyone else to remain ignorant of these matters, and so by their meddlesomeness have forfeited any pleas that the ignorant might have” (13). He would rather “pass by such blasphemy in silence. But I love the brethren, and our opponents’ stubbornness knows no bounds – so how can I possibly keep quiet?” (41).

Basil had himself been criticised for the doxologies used in his church – “Lately… we sometimes finish the doxology to God the Father with the form ‘Glory to the Father with the Son, together with the Holy Spirit,’ and at other times we use ‘Glory to the Father through the Son in the Holy Spirit’” (3). Since “both doxologies are used by the faithful, and so we use both; we believe that either one ascribes perfect glory to the Spirit” (59), he sees it necessary to give “… clear teaching concerning the force underlying these prepositions” (3) in order to explain why both are correct though different, and the importance of maintaining both concepts in the Church and her worship.

In dealing with such confusion, it is vital that we have a proper understanding of what authority we should seek and how we should express ourselves, and Basil is clear about this: “Concerning the teachings of the Church, whether publically proclaimed (kerygma) or reserved to members of the household of faith (dogmata), we have received some from written sources, while others have been given to us secretly, though apostolic tradition. Both sources have equal force in true religion… If we attacked unwritten customs, claiming them to be of little importance, we would fatally mutilate the Gospel, no matter what our intentions” (66). He lists some of the many signs of the Church’s common life that would be lost if she were to abandon the unwritten traditions: the sign of the cross, facing East, the Eucharistic prayer, and so on. He also explains why some of our tradition is written and available to all, whereas other is passed on only within the Church. He writes, “reverence for the mysteries is best encouraged by silence. The uninitiated were not even allowed to be present at the mysteries; how could you expect these teachings to be paraded about in public documents?” (66). As we still say in the prayer as we approach communion, “I will not speak of the mystery to thy enemies.” Basil adds, “We have unwritten tradition so that the knowledge of dogma might not become neglected and scorned through familiarity” (66).

Basil’s reliance on the Scriptural kerygma is amply evidenced by his extensive use of Scriptural references throughout this work. Even when it comes to explaining his use of “the blessed men of old” (71) to support his teaching, he quotes 1 Cor 11:2 where Paul praises the Corinthians that they “maintain the traditions even as I have delivered them to you” and 2 Thess 2:15 where he instructs the Thessalonians to “hold to the traditions which you were taught by us, either by word of mouth or by letter” (71). Those who are not convinced by his florilegium as support for his argument would fall into the category of the ones who “clamour for written proofs and reject the unwritten testimony of the Fathers as worthless, proving themselves worse than debtors who refuse to pay what they owe when there is no written evidence of the loan” (25).

In addition to the Scriptural witness and the witness of the Fathers is the common experience of the churches, so Basil also explores “what kinds of ideas about the Spirit we hold in common, as well as those which we have gathered from the Scriptures, or received from the unwritten tradition of the Fathers” (22).

In the expression of all these ideas, whether in treatises or in worship, precision in language is paramount. “None of the words used to describe God should be passed over without exact examination” (1) and only “those who are idle in the pursuit of righteousness count theological terminology as secondary” (2); indeed, Jesus himself indicated just how significant is every jot and tittle (Mt 5:18). On the other hand, the contemporary “pestilence of a heresy” progressed by way of those who were “quibbling over prepositions” (4), showing how fine the line is between a careful study of the tradition and an over-definition of every little word to justify an argument. Basil himself is not happy about being drawn in to the quibbling over prepositions, but sees the necessity to clarify the errors in interpretation his opponents are making, for ‘love of the brethren’.

In addition to his careful use of language in demonstrating these things, Basil also shows why he is remembered as a liturgist in the almost poetic beauty of his description of the Holy Spirit’s coming to us as we are cleansed of passions, his comforting and sanctifying us and showing us the true Image (22-23), and in the depth and clarity of his description of baptism (35-36) where “through the Holy Spirit comes our restoration to Paradise” (36).

In his theological explication of the Trinity, Basil rebukes those who forget the need to approach discussions about the very nature of God in appropriate humility: “They insult the dogmas pertaining to the divine nature by confining them within human categories” (51). In fact, the very clear demarcation between the life of God, divinity, on the one hand and all creation on the other is an essential assumption at the root of much of Basil’s argumentation.

First, he establishes the relation between the Father and the Son. “No interval could possibly divide the natural union of Father and Son” (14) – as has been clearly established since the defeat of the Arians, the begetting of the Son does not imply that ‘there was when he was not’. In other words, referring to Jn 1:1, he writes that “thought cannot reach beyond was, or the imagination beginning”.

Next he demonstrates that the Holy Spirit is clearly on the divine side of this distinction. A strong support for this is found in the baptismal formula (24) which clearly associates the Holy Spirit together with the Father and Son in the very act of bringing a person into the life of the Church. The fact that the Scripture occasionally mentions baptism ‘in Christ’ without mentioning the formula (e.g. Gal 3:27) is irrelevant, as there are also mentions of baptism in the Holy Spirit without mentioning even Christ (e.g. 1 Cor 12:13). Salvation, therefore, which comes through baptism, is from Father, Son and Holy Spirit together (26). He identifies many Scriptural texts implicitly identifying the Holy Spirit with God (37). That the carnal cannot perceive either the Father (Jn 17:25) or the Son (Jn 14:19) or the Holy Spirit (Jn 14:17) is a further demonstration of the Holy Spirit’s divinity (53). The Holy Spirit’s role in everything from the creation of the angels and in their relating to God (38), through the whole dispensation (39), and to the eschaton and judgement (40) shows that the Holy Spirit is not circumscribed (Ps 139:7 – “Where shall I go from Thy Spirit or where shall I flee from Thy presence?”) and is “present everywhere”, unlike other bodiless powers (54). In the face of all this evidence, who could not conclude that “the Spirit is described to be of God, not in the sense that all things are of God, but because he proceeds from the mouth of the Father” (46). So, although he is described as of God in a parallel way to the Son being Son of God, he “is not begotten like the Son”. “As the Paraclete He reflects the godness of the Paraclete (the Father) who sent Him, and His own dignity reveals the majesty of Him from Whom He proceeded.”

In fact, the divinity of the Holy Spirit is essential to the doctrine of the Trinity, since to deny any one of the Trinity is to lose all. One can not even say ‘Jesus is Lord’ except in the Holy Spirit (1 Cor. 12:3 quoted in 27).

Having demonstrated that the Holy Spirit is divine and proceeds from the Father in a way parallel to the begetting of the Son rather than in an act of creation, Basil looks more closely at the relation of Father and Son in the life of the Trinity (44-47) in order to see where the Holy Spirit fits in:

“If we count, we do not add, increasing from one to many. We do not say, ‘one, two, three,’ or ‘first, second, and third.’ God says, ‘I am the first and I am the last.’ (Is 44:6) We have never to this present day heard of a second God. We worship God from God, confessing the unity of the persons, while maintaining the unity of the Monarchy… The Son is in the Father and the Father in the Son; what the Father is, the Son is likewise and vice-versa – such is the unity. As unique Persons they are one and one; as sharing a common nature, both are one. How does one and one not equal two Gods? Because we speak of the emperor, and the emperor’s image – but not two emperors… We do not send up glories to God, but glory; the honour given the image passes to the prototype. The image of the emperor is an image by imitation, but the Son is a natural image… since the divine nature is not composed of parts, union of the persons is accomplished by partaking of the whole. The Holy Spirit is one, and we speak of Him as unique, since through the one Son He is joined to the Father. He completes the all-praised and blessed Trinity. He is not ranked with the plurality of creation, but is described in the singular; this is sufficient evidence of His intimacy with the Father and the Son. He is not one of many but one only…” (45)

Since the Arian heresy has been put down, it has already been made quite clear there is no second God. It is clear that for Basil, the one God is the Father (as has been clear from the beginning – “we sometimes finish the doxology to God the Father with the form ‘Glory to the Father with the Son, together with the Holy Spirit’”[1] (3) – for Basil, to speak of God is not to speak of some conceptual form of divinity or shared substance in the Trinity). The monarchy of God the Father does not in any way relativise the divinity of the Son: the Son is God because he is Son of God, but there is One God. Lossky casts doubt even on the usual reduction of Basil’s theology of the Trinity to ‘three hypostases, one essence’ by pointing out that the hypostases, “strictly speaking, are not ‘three’ but ‘Tri-Unity’“[2]. There is One God the Father, One only-begotten, One Holy Spirit. The Scriptures, after all, do not count ‘members’ of the Trinity for us, but only ever use names. Lossky points out the impossibility of a definition for ‘hypostasis’ – since it refers only to what is distinct, the only common definition for ‘hypostasis’, he says, is the impossibility of a common definition.

The Father is always Father to the Son. The begetting is eternal and describes the relationship so that to contemplate the Son is to contemplate the Father – in fact, it is only through the Son that we can know the Father. We can truly know the Father this way because of the identity of “what the Father is” and what “the Son is” (45, cf. Jn. 14:10). The monarchy of God is preserved in the hypostases, and thus in worship too, “the honour given the Image passes to the prototype” (45) so one God the Father is worshipped properly in the Son and the Holy Spirit who are properly worshipped with him.

Thus Basil has shown how firmly established is the Holy Spirit as divinity in the Trinity, just as is the Son. Without ever saying that the Holy Spirit is ‘God’, Basil makes it clear he cannot be anything else.

In fact, given this exposition of the Trinity, it is clear why the Holy Spirit’s role is essential for us to know Christ, just as Christ’s role is essential in making the Father known to us (cf. Mt. 11:27 and 1 Cor. 12:3). “The way to divine knowledge ascends from one Spirit through the one Son to the one Father. Likewise, natural goodness, inherent holiness and royal dignity reaches from the Father through the Only-Begotten to the Spirit. Thus, we do not lose the true doctrine of one God by confessing the persons” (47). On the contrary, it is not a confession of the Son or the Holy Spirit as equal in the Trinity that leads to polytheism, but rather subordinationism, which would introduce lesser ‘gods’.

Thus there are two perspectives in considering the Trinity – a discussion of the internal relationship of the persons, and a discussion about how it appears to us. That is, it is only in the Holy Spirit that we can see Christ, and only through Christ that we can know the Father, but there is only ‘one’ glory to be given to the one God. As Basil puts it, “the best phrase when giving [the Son] glory is with whom and the most appropriate for giving thanks is through whom” –his majesty we see as shared with God the Father, but his works for us reunite us to God the Father (16). We can see that this is true also of the Holy Spirit: “Truly precise co-existence can only be predicated of things which are mutually inseparable. For example, we would say that heat exists in red-hot iron, but co-exists with fire” (63) and so when we refer to ‘rank’, we say with, whereas when we speak of his working of grace on recipients, we say in. “The preposition in expresses the relationship between ourselves and the Spirit, while with proclaims the communion of the Spirit with God” (68).

And hence Basil confirms his insistence that he will go on to use both the doxologies that are “used by the faithful” for “either one ascribes perfect glory to the Spirit” (59). That is the conclusion of a truly great theologian and teacher of the Church. Though a broadly-educated and learned man, his life did not bear much resemblance to the modern concept of an ‘academic’. As a bishop, his approach to this topic arose from a pastoral concern for his people. His clarity of mind in his doctrinal study inextricably integrated with the liturgical and experiential life of the Church, writing with a heavy reliance particularly on Scripture but also with support throughout the Tradition, he is able to say: “It is fitting that when we see Christ, the Brightness of God’s glory, it is always through the illumination of the Spirit. Through Christ the Image, may we be led to the Father, for He bears the seal of the Father’s very likeness” (64).

[1] (My italics.)

[2] Lossky: Image and Likeness, p113

Sin becomes sin after completing specified stages in its inner development.

The first stage is when some spiritual influence approaches from without, which may, to begin with, be quite vague and shapeless. The initial stage in formation is the appearance in the field of man’s inner vision of an image — and as this does not depend on one’s will, it is not regarded as a sin. Images in some cases appear to take on visible form, while others are mostly products of the mind, but more often it is a combination of the two. As visible images also generate some thought or other, ascetics label all images ‘intrusive thoughts’.

The man who is not in thrall to the passions can recognise the force of an intrusive thought and yet remain completely free from its power. But if there is some ‘place’ in one — some suitable soil for the development of the intrusive thought — the thought will strive to take possession of one’s psychic being — of the heart, the soul. It achieves this because it prompts a feeling of the delight to be afforded by one or another passion. The delight figures ‘temptation’. But even the fleeting pleasure, though it testifies to man’s imperfection, is not yet to be reckoned as sin. It is only a ‘proposal’ for sin.

The further development of a sinful intrusive thought can be portrayed roughly as follows: the mind is attracted by the delectation to be afforded by the passion, and this is an extremely important and crucial moment because the fusion of mind with tempting ideas provides fertile soil for passion. If the mind does not by an exercise of the will tear itself away from the suggested delights but continues to dwell on them, it will find itself pleasantly attracted, then involved and finally positively acquiescent. After that, the ever-increasing delight in the passion may take possession of — make captive — mind and will. Lastly, the whole strength of the one enslaved by passion is directed to a more or less determined actualization of sin, if there are no outside impediments — or, where there are, to seeking ways of getting round them.

Such captivity may happen once only and never recur if it had come about because of the inexperience of someone engaged in the ascetic struggle But if the enchantment repeats itself, passion becomes second nature, and then all man’s natural forces are at its service.

The only way to overcome this (and the earlier it is overcome the better and easier)?

… to stay the mind in prayer in the heart… Shutting the doors of his heart, stationing his mind on guard like a sentinel, unfettered by imagination and cogitation but armed with prayer and the Name of Jesus Christ…

In a wider and all-comprehensive sense victory over the passions is achieved by keeping Christ’s commandments…

“I am like a man sitting in the shade of a tall tree, who sees wild beasts and snakes coming at him and knows his danger and rushes to climb the tree to safety. I sit in my cell, and see temptations coming at me: and when I cannot stand up to them, I rush to take refuge in God by prayer, and so I find safety from the enemy’s attack.”

– Abba John the Short, commemorated 9 November

Sometimes, perhaps, I don’t see the wild beasts and snakes coming, and that is why I do not seek refuge and get devoured. But it seems to me that usually it is inattention, either accidental or deliberate. I may have some vague awareness of their approach, and yet I really don’t want to have to think about it, and so I get devoured. Sometimes I even have the presumption to think I am ready to stand up to them when I am not, with the same result.

“The Holy Scriptures are the word that ‘holy men of God spake as they were moved by the Holy Ghost’ (II Pet. i:21). But the words of the Saints are not completely unaffected by the intellectual level and spiritual state of those to whom they are directed. They were a lively message addressed to real people, and so scientific (historical, archaeological, philological et al.) interpretation of the Gospel will inevitably be unsound.

“The Holy Scriptures have one definite final object but the Prophets, the Apostles and the Church’s other Teachers adapted themselves to the level and understanding of the people around them.

“St. Paul is an especially glowing example here. He never, of course, retreated from his unique vision of God, from his knowledge of God, yet he made himself ‘all things to all men, that he might save some’ (cf. I Cor. ix:19-22). In other words, Paul spoke differently to different people; and if we approach his epistles analytically only, the essential point of his ‘theological system’ will inevitably remain unintelligible.”

So does this mean that there is not a theological system as such, since the Gospel is in its essence relational: it is about my union with God and yours — there is common content, but the relationship will be unique in each specific case? So in the usual argument in the West about how to read Scripture, both sides are wrong: it is wrong to deny that there is a cultural, time-specific aspect to the Scriptures as if everything is universal, but it is also wrong to approach the cultural component as if it were something extraneous, something that should be removed to find the ‘deeper’ ‘spiritual’ truth — there is no deeper, spiritual truth than the relationship with God of any unique, history-bound, culture-bound human person. Archimandrite Sophrony continues…

“The Staretz believed that the way to apprehend the Word of God lay in the fulfilment of Christ’s commandments. This was the Lord’s own teaching.

“‘And the Jews marvelled, saying, How knoweth this man letters, having never learned? Jesus answered them, and said, My doctrine is not mine, but his that sent me. If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself’ (John vii:15-17). The Lord summed up the whole of the Holy Scripture in one short saying: ‘Love God and thy neighbour’ (cf. Matt. xxii:40). Yet the meaning of Christ’s word love will remain a mystery for the philologist to the end of time. The word love is the very name of God Himself, and its true sense is only revealed by the action of God Himself.”

“‘Our brother is our life,’ the Staretz often said.

Through Christ’s love all men become an inseparable part of our own individual, eternal existence. The Staretz began to understand the commandment, ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself’ as something more than an ethical imperative. In the word as he saw an indication, not of a required degree of love but of an ontological community of being.

‘The Father judgeth no man, but hath committed all judgment unto the Son… because he is the Son of man.’ This Son of man, Great Judge of the world, will say at the Last Judgment that ‘one of the least of these’ is His very Self. In other words, He assimilates every man’s existence and includes it in His own personal existence. The Son of man has taken into Himself all mankind — He has accepted the ‘whole Adam’ and suffered for him. St Paul said that we, too, ought to think and feel like Christ — having ‘the same mind which was in Christ’.”

Definitions of what it means to be a ‘keeper of the commandments’ (Clement p.139-40), the basis of praxis, the first of the three stages of the spiritual way (the others being contemplation of nature, and personal union with God):

First definition: faith. A thought about God free of idolatry.

Second definition: hope. A loving pilgrimage of the spirit towards what is hoped for.

Third definition: patience. Ceaseless perseverance in seeing with the inner eye the Invisible as if it were visible.

Fourth definition: absence of avarice. To be as eager not to possess as people usually are to possess.

Fifth definition: knowledge. To disregard oneself in the effort to ascend to God.

Sixth definition: humility. Never thinking about what one deserves.

Seventh definition: absence of irascibility. The ability to avoid anger.

Eighth definition: integrity (or interior chastity). The inward sense constantly united to God.

Ninth definition: love. As increased friendliness towards those who insult us.

Tenth definition: total transformation. In the enjoyment of God the anguish of death becomes joy.

Diadochus of Photike Gnostic Chapters, Preamble (Sources Chretiennes 5 bis, 84-5)

John Chrysostom writes that the aim of a priest is ‘the glory of God and the edification of the Church’[1] but speaks also of spiritual dangers for the priest and those he serves. Christian ministry is a life full of temptations with a constant danger of the sin of presumption. Therefore there is an intense need for self-examination, a priest’s understanding of his own weaknesses (for the ministry both lays bare and hardens his own sins), wise spiritual counsel and also, perhaps, good friends and close spiritual brothers, because of the danger of being crushed by worldly cares.

A priest’s glory is in the Liturgy and sacraments, ‘bringing down … the Holy Spirit’[2]. John connects the centrality of teaching to the lack of wonders and miracles in his age. It is not surprising that the ‘passion for oratory’[3] he mentions was rediscovered in the Enlightenment/Reformation in the West and the intensity of this ‘passion’ varies between cultures today. Teaching also combats heresies, many of which are still around, and is a part of administering the ‘spiritual medicine’ of the soul, along with perception and the appropriate use of discipline (not too hard, not too lenient). The priest is also responsible for intercessory prayer as an ‘ambassador for … not just a city [but] the whole world – and begs God to be merciful to the sins of all men, not only the living, but the departed too’[4].

The required list of qualifications for a priest includes everything from love, wisdom and purity to the willingness to sacrifice even his own salvation. The candidate for priesthood also needs to be ready to sacrifice his privacy and endure many sufferings – and not only the priest but his family too, who must, therefore, all be committed to the priestly ministry and ready for the sacrifice – perhaps a harder task in today’s more individualistic society.

The thread throughout St John’s writing is the strength of feeling he exhibits in justifying his flight from the priestly office. He feels himself completely unworthy – ‘I … could not bear the very thought of so horrible a thing’ as for the Bride of Christ to be ‘handed over to me, the most worthless of men’ – and considers it a necessary condition that a potential priest/bishop should ‘purify his soul entirely of ambition for the office’[5] In a society that encourages self-esteem and career-oriented thinking, it is vital to emphasize the importance of this humility, and the priest can only achieve this through constant awareness of his great responsibility for many souls and of the unrelenting but invisible battle in the midst of which ministry takes place. In this context of urgency and humility the priest must try to perform the pastoral and teaching tasks that St John describes. Knowledge of his incapability for this task, and the consequent reduction of the self to nothingness should lead him to total dependence on God, as necessary now as it always has been.