Christian Philosophy? III

If one wants to determine whether there is such a thing as “Christian philosophy,” one must be clear on what one means by both “Christian” and by “philosophy.” In the previous post, we noted the difficulty with the term “Christian” and its resistance to a generally agreed reduction. We will have to come back to this question, because while we delimit the term “Christian,” we will at the same time have to perform a similar operation for “philosophy.” And here we are in almost the same quandary, for there is no simple agreed definition of the term either.

It all depends upon which end of the historical spectrum with which one wishes to start. If one wishes to start with “modern” philosophy, say from the time of Kant, or even edging a bit further back to Descartes, it is not clear, upon reflection, that one is discussing the same enterprise as one might if one started with Pythagoras, or Socrates, or Plato and Aristotle. There are, of course, similarities, but the differences run much deeper.

Kant, for example, might journey no further than his Koenigsberg and lay out his architectonic of reason. Aristotle, on the other hand, or his followers in any case, must personally observe and investigate. Descartes may meditate by his stove. Marcus Aurelius, however, must philosophize while running an empire. I am intentionally exaggerating, but not by much I do not think, these distinctions. Modern philosophy might exercise itself with the life of the mind, but classical philosophy could not but exercise itself with a way of living. Marxist activists may argue the pragmatic application of their philosophy, but it is inherently a deconstructive one, which does not build a way of life so much as demolish another. One is otherwise hard pressed to find such Kantian activists or Cartesian lobbyists, and the latter even have the benefit of positing the existence of the soul, however glandular.

No, the ancient philosophers were of a different breed. Here I am unabashedly in the camp of one Pierre Hadot. However heuristic may be his device, it certainly manifests the evidence far better than any other version I’ve seen. The six classical schools of philosophy had their own set of core convictions, their own correlative discourses, their fundamental texts, and their particular disciplines for shaping the lives (we would do well to say, the souls) of their adherents. They distinguished themselves not alone for their respective lives of the mind, but also by their diet (Pythagoreans were vegetarians) and their dress (witness, for example, St Justin the Philosopher’s “philosopher’s cloak” which he wore even after his conversion to Christianity), as well as in other ways. It is no coincidence that Marcus Aurelius wrote down his meditations. This was a practice by which he sought to bring his Stoical convictions into his thoughts and actions while he administered the Roman Empire. He was not, for goodness’ sake, writing a diary.

Whether or not there are any other ways of “doing philosophy” is for others to say. I, however, do not see any possible spectrum between these two possibilities. One may allow for variations and gradations, but not intercommunication it does not appear. That said, whether or not one may reconcile a life of the mind with a way of living, seems to me quite possible. For the life of the mind is only lacking flesh and bone to make it a way of living. Some lives of the mind may be nothing but stillborn babies, incapable of living, but theoretically the possibility remains.

This being so (and not all will admit it is so), then, it seems to me that nothing Christian can align itself essentially with any other philosophy than that which can be called a way of living. The life of the mind has a logic all its own which ultimately distorts and deforms the experience of God which is the way of life that is Christian. Christianity is, inescapably, a way of living.

That said, then, not all things Christian can be called a philosophy, a way of living. To this I will turn next.

Reflections on St. Gregory’s Dialogue IX

[Previous reflections, including a brief historical context, are to be found here.]

As will be noted below, this is the last in this series of reflections.

On Participation in God

XLIV. O[rthodox]. Hence, when we know His activity but not His essence, we do not commit an outrage to the supernatural character of His simplicity. And when we participate in His activity but not in His essence, do we make the undivided divisible? You heard him [St. Basil the Great] also say: “The activities of God are manifold, but His essence is simple.” [Letters 234] Just as he who is manifold according to His activities is not manifold and divided according to His essence, so in the same way, He will not be participable according to His essence although He is participated according to His activities. And since we participate in Him differently—we will therefore participate in Him according to His activities, according to which He is also manifold. But we shall not participate in Him according to His essence; for according to His essence He is the least manifold in whatever way you look at it. No, but we kn ow His goodness and power and wisdom. How much can we know of each of them? For how can a limited knowledge grasp that infinity, or rather the infinities of that wisdom, that power, that goodness? But he says: “God also reveals Himself to people on the mountain itself, on the one hand by coming down from His proper watchtower, (and) on the other hand, by leading us up from our humble state here on earth in order that the Incomprehensible (“uncontainable”) is contained by a created nature in at least a moderate and most safe way.” [Gregory Nazianzus Orationes 45,11]
XLV. How then is He participated in and contained wholly when He is contained in a moderate way? And how is He not divided, when He is contained in a moderate way and remains altogether Incomprehensible (“uncontainable”)? . . . The great Basil stated well that “the activities of God are manifold but His essence is simple.” [Letters 234] And again: “The holy Spirit is simple according to His essence but manifold according to His activities.” [On the Holy Spirit 9,22] For all those things belong to the activities of God. And according to them we participate in God in a moderate way and, according to them, we see and think of Him dimly, one person more, the other less, one by his intelligence, the other by a godlike power; each of us participates in them in agreement with his own purity and reflects on them and on the basis of them draws his conclusions about Him who is altogether imparticipable and unthinkable according to His essence. Nevertheless, one could well state that God as a whole is participate in and though of on the basis of those activities according to a pious insight; for the divine is divided in an undivided way and not as bodies. But His goodness and His wisdom are not a part of Him and the greatness or the foresight are not other parts. But He is wholly goodness and wholly wisdom and wholly foresight and wholly greatness. For because He is one, He is not cut up in agreement with each of those activities, but in relation to each of them He is properly whole; through each of them He is known as one and simple and undivided, as being everywhere present and active as a whole.

XLVI. In that way those who participate in the activity of God participate in God as a whole, but not because we also participate in His essence in itself which is imparticipable and simple and undivided, and (we do) that all at the same time, but everyone differently. . . .
XLVII. . . . the things which are only sensible do participate and they participate in God as a whole because He is undivided, but only according to their being. But they do not partake of the vivifying power of God in whatever way, lest, when their own proper being is taken away, heaven itself is done away with together with the foundation of everything under the sky; i.e., the four elements and the beings without soul and perception which come forth from them. And things which have the property to live only according to perception participate through that perception in God as a whole, God who is participated in in every respect in an undivided way, but not also on the level of reason or intellect lest the irrational beings become rational. But because they do not participate on the level of reason, it is not true, therefore, that they do not participate in God as a whole. And the beings which participate in God on the level of reason or intellect do not all participate on the level of spirit as well, lest the wicked continue to be divine and spiritual people although they still abide in their wickedness. In that way, too, divine and spiritual people, participating in the grace of God but not in His essence, also participate in God as a whole. As a whole, because God, being present and active in them as a whole through the proper grace in a unified and simple and undivided way, is also known by them as a whole. But they do not in the least participate in His essence because they do not continue to be gods by their nature.
–St. Gregory Palamas, Dialogue between an Orthodox and a Barlaamite which Invalidates in Detail the Barlaamite Error, XLIV-XLVI, XLVII (Global Publications/CEMERS, n.d.; tr. Rein Ferwerda).

I began this series of meditations back in early 2007, some months before I was received into the Orthodox Church. It is not coincidental that my fulfillment of the plan of these reflections slowed to a halt after my chrismation. And I have struggled with whether or not to continue them at all. My struggle is not based on my (quite obvious) lack of capacity to handle these theological matters and the felicitous use of the technical terminology—though that is true enough—but rather with the obvious contradiction inherent in my penning them at all. That is to say, my struggle has always been my personal dichotomy of intellect and heart. So, for the last three or four of these reflections I’ve debated whether to write them at all, whether then to post them, and the relative usefulness of my continuing. I have, of course, answered those questions in the affirmative, though not without much uncertainty. That said, however, this is both the last of the planned reflections and given my decreasing conviction that I should continue, the last of these reflections in any case. And quite purposefully I have chosen to end on the topic at hand: the experience of God.

Questions for Job

And the Lord prospered Job. And when he prayed also for his friends, He forgave them their sin: and the Lord gave Job twice as much, even double of what he had before. And all his brothers and sisters heard all that had happened to him, and they came to him, and so did all that had known him from the first; and they ate and drank with him, and comforted him, and wondered at all that the Lord had brought upon him: and each one gave him a lamb, and four drachmas of gold, even of unstamped gold. And the Lord blessed the latter end of Job more than the beginning: and his livestock consisted of fourteen thousand sheep, six thousand camels, one thousand yoke of oxen, and one thousand female donkeys of the pastures. And there were born to him seven sons and three daughters. And he called the first Jemimah, and the second Keziah, and the third was Keren-Happuch. And there were not found in comparison with the daughters of Job, fairer women than they in all the world: and their father gave them an inheritance among their brothers.

Did you believe it at first, that the Lord had decided again to bless you? Were you fearful in those early days of renewal that it would all be taken away again? How long was it before you got up in the morning and the tears of your night’s sorrow over your first children did not greet you? How long was it before you no longer had to wrestle your doubts of God’s goodness? Did you ever lose that doubt? How long before your prayers did not tear your heart out for grief? When did you know that it was God’s goodness blessing you and not some sort of diabolical delusion, a trick of the mind to ease the darkness tinging your soul? When did you begin to love God without the weight of your grief? When did you trust God again as a friend? How long was it before you once again felt the warmth of God’s presence in your heart when you prayed? Did hope ever become a torment? Did you have to learn again how to hope, like learning again to walk? When did the song of the bird outside your window sound again like a hymn? How long before you could again bless in the Lord’s name, the rabbit and the fox and creation around you? When did the rising sun again feel like God’s embrace?

Your Prayers

I ask your prayers. Starting on Monday, I will be traveling to Missouri to give a presentation on the Orthodox Church to a missions class at my alma mater.

I am, of course, excited about the opportunity to speak for a couple of hours about the Orthodox Church. I have never before had such an invitation. And it came about through a bit of serendipity, unique friendships and timing. I am quite thankful for it all. It certainly feels a bit daunting. But what a blessing.

This will also be a trip where I will get to see certain of my former mentors and professors, some former classmates, and catch up on all that’s happened in our lives in the past twenty years. (Yes, I have the daddy pictures ready to go!) To say that I will have some time for the indulgence of nostalgia probably doesn’t cover it. My undergraduate college was a strongly formative influence in my life.

Of course, because of the personal connections, I’m probably experiencing a bit more nervousness for this presentation than I do while teaching. Actually, I never have any anxieties about teaching (you either know your stuff or you don’t; if you do, there’s nothing to be nervous about; if you don’t, you won’t hide your ignorance and lack of prep). None of the students will know me, of course, but the professor is one of my friends from back in the day. One wants to do well with that particular audience.

Then, too, I hear tell there’s a certain video still floating around that was made while all of us roomed on Williamson first (during the year of exile from Seth third). It’s grainy and shaky. The Spanish guitar music filters out some voices. But there’s probably still some usable leverage there. One can never be too careful.

The Great Reversal

The Syrian army flees in the middle of the night from the besieged Samaria and its starving inhabitants. Job’s life, family and fortunes are restored. Lazarus is loosed from the tomb. On Holy Saturday, hell is plundered by our Lord. We are never so blind as when we lose hope in the great reversal.

There is, perhaps, no more desperate state than the one of hopelessness. And more bitter still when that hopelessness is built on doubt of the mercy and goodness of God. Those who sustain life in the face of such existential emptiness are truly the walking dead.

Such hopelessness however may have some chance of healing if it derives from simple blindness upon which it both feeds and gives. We are given a plurality of examples of such blindness and its resolution, but two recollections may suffice. Elisha’s servant is struck with fear at the sight of the approaching Syrian army. But Elisha assures him of a far greater army on the side of God’s people. And the prayer of enlightenment opened the servant’s eyes to chariots and horsemen of fire. The greater, example, however, is the Eucharistic journey to Emmaus, and the third Man who converses with the disciples and opens their eyes at the breaking of the bread.

Hypernikomen we are called, and such we are. Because of the one who loves us. The one who showers on us blessings and joy in the midst of suffering and pain. Who takes our questions of hopelessness and despair and answers them with his presence, the gentle warmth in the pained heart, the whisper for which we cover our face.

We may experience that great reversal of our days and sustenance, when our enemies suddenly flee and leave us the surfeit, when health and children and blessings are renewed. Our hearts may find again the peace and fellowship long sought. New days and new circumstances will dawn. That darkness in which sun and moon are extinguished will give way to the light in our hearts.

In our dark thoughts and moments, we may not see this. Our blindness may remain. We may not see those fiery messengers, the nail-scarred hands. But we may still trust. Others, too, have heard that whisper, felt the ache of the warmed heart. We can take courage in that. For we are more than conquerors. Because of the One Who loves us.

Christian Philosophy? II

If one is going to talk of a “Christian philosophy” and if one is going to define such along the lines of which B N Tatakis has done, then one is going to have to offer definitions, or to at least delimit, one’s terms: Christian, philosophy, truth, faith, even, perhaps, reason. One is also going to have to speak to the sort of paradigm of dialectical opposition which antithesizes faith and reason/philosophy/truth.

First, let’s begin with some terminological clarifications. One may well assume that Dr. Tatakis’ sense of Christianity in his definition is grounded in and contextualized by specifically Orthodox Christianity. But I have not only already indicated that I am going to use Tatakis more as a jumping off point than a critical examination of his view per se, one might also rightly assume Dr. Tatakis was aware that there are other Christian groups than the Orthodox Church. One can certainly discern a specifically Orthodox content to his “Christian philosophy” but his definition is itself more broad, and our current context is much more pluralistic.

It is precisely because of this that defining a specifically “Christian” philosophy today is perhaps impossible if one takes all claims to the name Christian as on equal footing. One either has to accept as identical two groups with antithetical metaphysics (those who accept the essence/energies distinction and those who accept absolute/definitional divine simplicity), or those who, while accepting the same metaphyics, hold antithetical positions on aspects of it (the Calvinist/Arminian debate on freedom of the will, or those who accept a position of moral guilt being attached to original sin and those who do not).

In this context, then, “Christian philosophy” does not appear to be susceptible to a common enough reduction that all could accept the definition. It appears, at this point, then, that one may have an Orthodox philosophy, or a Calvinist philosophy, or any other label. But given the radical differences between the Christian groups that do not admit of resolution, it does not appear that one can have a generically labeled “Christian” philosophy.

I will return to this question shortly. Because depending upon how one describes or defines “philosophy” it does not appear to me that any of these more specific Christian designations (Orthodox, Calvinist, etc.) can be legitimately combined with “philosophy,” either. That is to say, if one defines philosophy in more of a Hadotan sense, then I could conceive that one might argue one cannot have a Calvinist (Christian) philosophy. I would not be prepared to say that such an argument would be valid let alone persuasive. I’m just saying I could conceive of the point.

But first, and perhaps more importantly for this question, we need to understand what might be best meant by “philosophy.”

Faith and Fear

As near as I can tell, tharseo (take courage) is, in its occurrences in the New Testament, always a dominical imperative. When his disciples are frightened, Jesus exhorts them to courage. When a woman is healed, Christ bids her to courage. When an apostle might be tempted to discouragement, our Lord exhorts him to courage. Where fear enters and siphons off the joy and grace of faith, the Lord bids his friends to be courageous.

The antithesis between faith and fear can be deeply existential, and even paralyzing. The darkness of an imagined future—and for us all futures can only be imagined—impinges itself upon one’s imagination, the imagination gives birth to a multitude of thoughts, and thoughts generate all the variant emotions of fear. That fear then exercises its power over the will, shaping choices and acts, the movement of the soul in response to all these stimuli. And often those choices and actions are a retreat, even a retreat into the paralysis of inaction.

If one looks rationally at this process, which is to say if one were to contemplate this while not under the influence of fear, one can see that there are any number of points along the way in which one may stop this progression. If one consistently exercise his imagination upon the truths of the Gospel and the acts of God, one may well recognize the antithetical object of imagination. Resurrection has a different shape than death. But perhaps the stimulus to the imagination is strong. One may well then apply the opposing thought. The suffering daughter of Israel may say to herself that she is nothing else but an outcast and unclean, but she may also call to her mind that the Suffering Servant will bear all her stripes. And so it goes, in a process of the soul discipline for which I have no expertise to address.

It may be well to note that the longer we entertain the fearful thought, the benighted future, the stifling emotion, the harder is the release from these things obtained. Fear needs nothing more than prolonged attention to root itself most deeply in our heart and mind. The more quickly it is fronted and dealt with, the more easily it may be dismissed.

But while the science of the battle of these thoughts is the expertise of one’s spiritual father, there is, through it all, a very simple act that one may choose, indeed, one must choose, instant by instant. For faith is an act of trust, a personal movement of the will. Contrary to fear, the act of faith responds to this present moment, this now in which is salvation, this God who is here right now with me in this place. One need say or think nothing to oneself but only to reach out to that good God and lover of mankind who is always worthy of our every allegiance. Let the storms rage, let the isolation from our fellow man raise its walls, let our sense of unworthiness and the fear of betrayal wreak all its power on our hearts. We can always, at every moment, reach out to him who walks on the waters and calls to us “Take courage, it is I.”

Christian Philosophy? I

I’m going to conduct an experiment of sorts here: I’m going to think out loud on my blog. I have recently begun reading a book by B. N. Tatakis entitled Christian Philosophy in the Patristic and Byzantine Tradition (tr George Dragas, Orthodox Research Institute 2007), in which, in the first chapter, Tatakis asks the question, “Is there a Christian philosophy?” There is no doubt that this question will be answered more fully as the book proceeds, but I find myself dissatisfied with what I take to be Tatakis’ answer. And yet I cannot get a grasp on my dissatisfaction.

First of all, let’s note that this work was published in the early 50s, and that Dr. Tatakis has an extensive ouerve on Hellenistic and Byzantine philosophy. There may well be other insights gained from his other writings.

But it seems to me that he gives the question something of short shrift. In a chapter that numbers only 14 pages in English translation, he spends nearly all of it offering the critical views of those opposed to the notion of a Christian philosophy (as distinguishable as a philosophy), and some oblique criticisms of those criticisms, teases out some Gilson, and then suddenly wraps up the chapter with his conclusion:

Since, therefore, there is a philosophy in the work of Christian philosophers and since Christianity continues to influence, even today and to inspire the thought of many philosophers, the notion of Christian philosophy, in spite of the objections of the rationalists, is not contradictory, but has a meaning which expresses a particular historical fact. As long as a faithful Christian establishes his conviction on the inner persuasion which is offered to him by the faith, he is a pure believer who has not yet entered into the sphere of philosophy, but from the moment when he can distinguish among his convictions truths, which can become the object of science, he becomes a philosopher. These new lights he owes to the Christian religion, and therefore, it is right that he is called a Christian philosopher. (pp 13-14)

And it’s on to Christian metaphysics in the next chapter.

But this seems a sleight of hand to me. While he offers some comments on the uniqueness of Christian convictions, I do not detect a definition of philosophy. He seems to simply accept what the “rationalists” (those who oppose the view that there is a Christian philosophy) understand philosophy is, and moves on. Philosophy, then, is something of a critical science, which elicits truths that are objects of inquiry.

I’m not sure this is even philosophy. And I have a very strong suspicion this is not even the Christian view of truth.

But I’ve still not yet got a handle on this question. At this point, I’m going to use Tatakis as a jumping off point (though I’ll refer back to the paragraph cited above), and worry the matter out from here. More to come as the inclination energizes a motivation for my thinking on the matter.

St Demetrius of Thessalonica

Troparion Tone 3

The world has found you to be a great defense against tribulation
and a vanquisher of heathens, O Passion-bearer.
As you bolstered the courage of Nestor,
who then humbled the arrogance of Lyaios in battle,
Holy Demetrius, entreat Christ God to grant us great mercy.

Kontakion Tone 2

God, who has given you invincible might,
has tinged the Church with streams of your blood, Demetrius!
He pre-serves your city from harm,
for you are its foundation!

From the OCA website:

The Great Martyr Demetrius the Myrrh-gusher of Thessalonica was the son of a Roman proconsul in Thessalonica. Three centuries had elapsed and Roman paganism, spiritually shattered and defeated by the multitude of martyrs and confessors of the Savior, intensified its persecutions. The parents of St Demetrius were secretly Christians, and he was baptized and raised in the Christian Faith in a secret church in his father’s home,

By the time Demetrius had reached maturity and his father had died, the emperor Galerius Maximian had ascended the throne (305). Maximian, confident in Demetrius’ education as well as his administrative and military abilities, appointed him to his father’s position as proconsul of the Thessalonica district. The main tasks of this young commander were to defend the city from barbarians and to eradicate Christianity. The emperor’s policy regarding Christians was expressed simply, “Put to death anyone who calls on the name of Christ.” The emperor did not suspect that by appointing Demetrius he had provided a way for him to lead many people to Christ.

“I’m Okay, You’re Okay–In Small Doses”

Every Myers-Briggs I take there’s one unvarying result: I score strong in introvert. So when @celticwanderer and @anglobaptist both posted the link to this somewhat tongue-in-cheek article I felt validated after all these years. Introverts of the world, stay home!

From here:

Extroverts are energized by people, and wilt or fade when alone. They often seem bored by themselves, in both senses of the expression. Leave an extrovert alone for two minutes and he will reach for his cell phone. In contrast, after an hour or two of being socially “on,” we introverts need to turn off and recharge. My own formula is roughly two hours alone for every hour of socializing. This isn’t antisocial. It isn’t a sign of depression. It does not call for medication. For introverts, to be alone with our thoughts is as restorative as sleeping, as nourishing as eating. Our motto: “I’m okay, you’re okay—in small doses.”

So what does one do in caring for an introvert?

How can I let the introvert in my life know that I support him and respect his choice? First, recognize that it’s not a choice. It’s not a lifestyle. It’s an orientation.

Second, when you see an introvert lost in thought, don’t say “What’s the matter?” or “Are you all right?”

Third, don’t say anything else, either.