Chesterton has taken up a tremendous task with this book and spectacularly accomplished his goals. Here, he sets out to explore and explain the nature and history of man in relation to the central event in the history of the species: the Incarnation of God as man in the Person of Jesus Christ. To accomplish this goal, Chesterton begins with the beginning of man in prehistory and proceeds through to the rise of Christianity. His goal along the way is to demonstrate the singular uniqueness of man among the animals coupled with his simultaneously insufficiency in the accomplishment of his own salvation.
The points that he demonstrates along the way include the great difference even the most primitive of man shows when compared with any of even the highest members of the animal world; the preparation for the Gospel that took place in the religious thought of the Jews, the philosophy of the Greeks, and the military and political domination of the Romans over the Mediterranean world; and the essential difference between Christ and all other teachers and religious figures the world has ever seen. And all of this Chesterton argues with his characteristic wit and wisdom, stringing together his paragraphs and chapters out of aphorisms rather than sentences in the dry, academic sense that word has taken on.
This book is a book that will have one of two effects upon the sensitive reader: it will either lead him to a conversion (or to a deepening of faith, should he already be so convinced) or it will lead him to irrevocably harden his heart against ever converting to Christianity. Either way, it is a book that will have a permanent effect on those who read it well. And that is indeed the mark of a great book.
The only really effective apologia for Christianity comes down to two arguments, namely, the saints the Church has produced and the art which has grown in her womb. Better witness is borne to the Lord by the splendor of holiness and art which have arisen in the community of believers than by the clever excuses which apologetics has come up with to justify the dark sides, which, sadly, are so frequent in the Church’s human history. If the Church is to continue to transform and humanize the world, how can she dispense with beauty in her liturgies, that beauty which is so closely linked with love and with the radiance of the Resurrection? No, Christians must not be too easily satisfied. They must make their Church into a place in which beauty — and truth — is at home. Without this the world will become the first circle of hell. . . . A theologian who does not love art, poetry, music and nature can be dangerous. Blindness and deafness toward the beautiful are not incidental: they necessarily are reflected in his theology.
Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger (Pope Benedict XVI)
Owen White, the author of a once-popular once-Orthodox Christian blog The Ochlophobist, has returned to blogging after a long hiatus with a post detailing his reasons for leaving Orthodoxy. He asserts, in addition, that he believes his reasons for leaving Orthodoxy are in concert with those of other apostates with whom he has communicated. Although, of course, his post should be read in full if one desires to most completely understand his reasoning and his articulation of that reasoning in his attempts to create a narrative framework for the fairly frequent movement of Americans into and out of the Orthodox Church, he does offer this succinct summary, upon which my own commentary will focus, in the course of his explanations:
I left because I came to believe that the practices and peculiar beliefs it [the Orthodox Church] espouses simply do not achieve the results it asserts correspond to those right beliefs and practices. I witnessed, and eventually acknowledged, that the vast majority of people I saw attempting to embrace Orthodox asceticism in good faith did not become more holy, more human, better people, etc.
In his recent (and wonderful) book The Cave and the Light, Arthur Herman points out that it was specifically American philosophers who developed the peculiarly American philosophy of pragmatism and that this movement in many ways embodies thought processes already present in the American mindset well before its explication by William James and others. The central assertion of pragmatism is its position on epistemology: in short, that which is useful is that which is true. This is, as Herman correctly identifies, precisely the American mindset, exhibited in the adventurous and innovative American spirit. We are, and long have been, a nation of go-getters with can-do attitudes. If something works, we pick it up; if something doesn’t work, we drop it. What matters is what works. I believe this is a positive character trait incubated within those raised in the context of American culture and society. It allowed us to break free of the stale and decrepit political and economic systems of our European and African homelands long before those European and African homelands were able to do so. It created a nation which leads the world in invention, discovery, and production.
I am myself, as an American, very much a pragmatist. This applies in matters of faith as well. As an American in the pragmatic tradition, I think it very important to understand and examine the stated goals of a particular religious system and whether those goals are attained through the faith and practice therein prescribed. One obvious example might be Transcendental Meditation, which makes the easily verifiable (or, rather, easily dismiss-able) claim that its most advanced practitioners achieve the ability to levitate, an ability they refer to as “Yogic Flying.” American that I am, when I encounter a claim such as this, I investigate. I want to see scientific studies which corroborate such claims. Even more importantly, I want to see this for myself. The result, in the case Yogic Flying, is that one sees (and so the scientists also concluded that it is) little more than jumping with one’s legs crossed. It may be a great way to gain leg muscle, but it is, alas, far from the acquisition of a special spiritual state or miraculous powers.
Before and while coming into Orthodoxy, I, generally unconsciously, applied these same principles to the Orthodox Church. Any philosophy has a certain sort of ideal man in mind, into whose mold it seeks to shape its adherents. Islam has the obvious example of wishing all to become like the perfect man, Muhammad. The Hadith include not only his sayings, but even information about Muhammad’s daily habits from how he talked and walked to how he relieved himself, all to serve as an example for the Muslim to imitate. The first question that must be asked, then, of any philosophy is: what sort of man does this philosophy wish me to become? And, of course, the related question without which the answer to the previous question is incomplete: Why?
Mr. White avers that Orthodoxy wishes us to become “more holy, more human, better people, etc.” Most of his terminology is too vague to work with, and I believe the vagueness in his statements is the result of Mr. White’s own mental vagueness on the point, implied by the unnecessary “etc.” at the close of the sentence. Let us first dismiss the most easily dismissed: Orthodoxy emphatically does not wish us to become “better people.” C.S. Lewis once, with his usual erudition, made the same point about Christianity more generally. The purpose of the Christian life is not to become a “better person.” The purpose of the Boy Scouts is to make you a “better person.” While you may (and hopefully will) become a better person through your practice of Christianity, this is largely incidental.
To be honest, one might wonder just what a “better person” is anyhow. Is a “better person” a nicer person? A person with better manners? A more polite person? While the Enlightenment fixation on politeness and the Victorian preoccupation with etiquette are charming (even when I eat alone I conscientiously avoid putting my elbows on the table, sucker that I am for decorum), they are hardly the sort of thing which leads one to turn to any particular religious system. Enough on this.
Mr. White comes much closer to the truth of Orthodoxy’s claims in his assertion that it desires of us to become “more holy, more human.” These words seem to me to be accurate summaries of the statements of two outstanding Orthodox theologians of the past two centuries. St. Seraphim of Sarov once famously summarized the purpose of the Christian life thus: “The true aim of our Christian life consists in the acquisition of the Holy Spirit of God.” In other words, it is to become, in Mr. White’s words, “more holy.” And Fr. Dumitru Staniloae echoes Mr. White’s contention that the purpose of Orthodoxy is to make us “more human” in his own summary of the purpose of the Christian life: “The glory to which man is called is that he should grow more godlike by growing ever more human.” We have, then, discerned Orthodoxy’s stated purpose for the lives of its adherents. The sort of man into which Orthodoxy would like to mold us is one who is “more holy, more human” — who has acquired the Holy Spirit and who has grown more like God in becoming more human. This goal, in the technical terminology of Orthodox theology, is called theosis, or deification. It is to attain unity with God and to “become partakers of the divine nature” (2 Pet. 1:4).
In the world of professional pragmatists (as opposed to us amateurs-via-American-identity), perhaps the best-known and most important application of the pragmatic epistemological principle to the world of religion is Willliam James’ Varieties of Religous Experience. In that book, James examines the reports of mystical experiences of the divine by adherents of certain faiths. His conclusions are helpful here. If, as most of the major religious traditions of the world claim, the direct experience of God is the highest end of man, the most important experience that any individual can attain and the intended purpose of mankind as a whole, all other considerations are secondary.
In his short article “Why I ditched Buddhism,” John Hogan explains that he abandoned Zen Buddhism because of the wild behavior of so many Zen masters, a tradition which Zen adherents celebrate. Bodhidharma, the founding figure of Zen Buddhism, for example, is famous for having cut off his own eyelids to prevent himself from falling asleep while meditating. Zen literature is rife with stories of masters who behaved in excessively immoral ways, abused their students, and otherwise acted bizarrely and, so to speak, impolitely. Hogan, unable to digest all of this, left the Buddhist practice he had adopted. The proper pragmatist, however, would praise the Zen Buddhists’ nirvana-or-nothin’ attitude, if indeed these practices, in spite of their apparent abrasiveness, do accomplish their stated goal (enlightenment/nirvana) and this goal is what we (should) desire.
So, should we desire the goal of Orthodoxy? Should we desire theosis? I believe so, and the proof seems to be in the human experience itself. Human beings seem to universally desire a connection with the transcendent. One can see this not only in the great mystical traditions of the world, present in nearly every culture of every time period, but also in the production and appreciation of art and poetry. Humans seek the sublime. Even science and mathematics begin with awe at the wonders of the created order, and, therefore, one with a coherent metaphysics might argue, at the wonders of its supreme author. The highest function and end of the human being is mystical experience, unity with the divine.
And Christianity, and Orthodoxy in particular, is the mystical religion par excellence. The other great religious traditions of the world (with, perhaps, the exception of Buddhism) have developed their mystical systems incidentally. Hinduism, for example, began as a set of disparate but related tribal religious systems. Hindu mysticism arose within the context of a widespread dissatisfaction with the established formalities of these religions and the vision of man and the cosmos offered by them. The result was a complex mystical tradition later integrated, often haphazardly and often as a means by which to establish official control over this mystical element, into the framework of the tribal religious systems. Christianity, on the other hand, was a mystical religion from its inception, emphatically asserting as its central truth claim that “God became man that man might become God.”
If theosis, then, is what a human being should desire, the next question that must be answered is do the practices of Orthodox Christianity actually lead to this goal? Mr. White claims they do not. He says that his experience, which he spends some time elucidating in his blog post, is that the practices prescribed for Orthodox Christians to attain their goal do not lead to this goal and even sometimes seem to lead those who practice them further away from this goal. He also exhibits an aversion to many of these practices in themselves, echoing John Hogan in his condemnation of the eccentricities of the Zen masters. The proper pragmatist, however, balks at the statements of Mr. White and Mr. Hogan on this point. The proper pragmatist is not deterred by the strangeness or impoliteness of the method; he is interested only in its ability to attain the desire results. If a friend were to tell you in all seriousness that jumping off of certain cliff will magically make you young again, the rational response is not to immediately scoff at the notion; the rational response is to invite him to demonstrate.
Does the Orthodox Church, then, provide such demonstrations? Does it have examples or case studies which one may investigate to confirm its claims? Indeed, this is precisely what the many saints of the Orthodox Church are. They are the examples, the demonstrations, and the case studies, painted on the walls of every Orthodox temple for each of us to examine and choose to imitate (or not). The saints are those who attained the goal which we all desire to attain. They are those who have experienced theosis. The cases are too numerous and the nuances and intricacies of each case too personal (dare I say peculiar?) to examine at any length here. The short of it, however, is this: many of the saints were not “better people” in the modern sense of the phrase as used by Mr. White as a result of their immersion in the ascetic practices of Orthodoxy. There were saints who were cantankerous, saints who were bizarre, saints who were rude, and, yes, even saints who were sinners (in fact, they all were — and recognizing such of oneself is the first step to sainthood). What each of them experienced, however, is the unsurpassable experience of the presence of the living God. While this might not have made them “better people,” it undoubtedly made them “more holy, more human.” I leave it to the reader to investigate for himself and discover whether this is affirmed in the plethora of accounts of their lives and deeds. In his recent masterpiece of modern philosophical-religious thinking within the context of Orthodox Christianity, David Bentley Hart eloquently articulated an observation I have made, though less eloquently, on many occasions: “In my experience,” he says, “those who make the most theatrical display of demanding ‘proof’ of God are also those least willing to undertake the specific kinds of mental and spiritual discipline that all the great religious traditions say are required to find God.” When pressed by the Holy Inquisition to deny his claims concerning the discovery of hitherto unobserved heavenly bodies and the implications of the motions of these bodies for cosmology more generally, Galileo invited his accusers to take a look through his “perspicillum” (that is, his telescope) and so see for themselves. They refused and condemned him as a liar. Do not be among them. If what you desire is to confirm or deny the claims of the Orthodox Church, observe the models and, like the mad scientist who drinks the vial of his own experimental solution, try them for yourself. The Buddha once told his disciples (as recorded in the Kalama Sutta):
Now, … don’t go by reports, by legends, by traditions, by scripture, by logical conjecture, by inference, by analogies, by agreement through pondering views, by probability, or by the thought, ‘This contemplative is our teacher.’ When you know for yourselves that, ‘These qualities are skillful; these qualities are blameless; these qualities are praised by the wise; these qualities, when adopted and carried out, lead to welfare and to happiness’ — then you should enter and remain in them.
The sentiments of the Buddha in this wise statement are quite similar to those of St. Thomas Aquinas, that monumental figure in the history of European thought. There are two ways (here Aquinas followed an early Christian tradition first evidenced in the Didache and almost certainly borrowed from its Jewish forebears): there is a way that is out of harmony with the divine will and its imprint upon the cosmos (natural law) and there is a way that is in harmony with this divine will and its imprinted in the created order. The means by which one might discern which of these paths one is strolling down is to use the gauge of his own happiness. This is happiness, not in the modern senses of giddiness or delight in bodily well being, but in a more complete and full sense. It is the joy of the many martyrs throughout history who have sung hymns, prayed beautiful prayers, and even danced in the midst of their sufferings. “Taste and see that the Lord is good” (Ps. 34:8).
If the problem, then, is not that the practice of Orthodoxy fails to live up to the theory, why did Mr. White leave the Orthodox Faith? Why did he not experience the joy of the martyrs? Why did he not make headway down the river to theosis? The answer lies in the statement which precedes the statements from his blog post I quoted at the beginning of this post. He says there:
I still have no problem communing in an Orthodox parish, though I also commune in Catholic parishes, on the very rare event that I commune …
I believe that the issues which divide the Eastern Orthodox and Oriental Orthodox communions are insignificant, trivial and easily resolved. I am in the camp, a rather large camp within Orthodoxy, which believes that a union could be accomplished tomorrow between the two sets of churches without the need for either to change its faith or practice. For that matter, I believe the same is true of unity between the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches, with only a few exceptions. With that said, I would never dream of communing in an Oriental Orthodox parish until such a union is accomplished. My bishop, Archbishop Nikon, the locum tenens of the Diocese of the South in the Orthodox Church in America, is not in communion with the bishops of the Oriental Orthodox Church. I am, therefore, not in communion with them. In other words, I have submitted myself to the Church and the hierarch she has placed over me. Mr. White, on the other hand, even having “left” Orthodoxy, and condemning essential elements of its faith and practice, here admits communing at Orthodox parishes as well as at Roman Catholic parishes. Who is his bishop? Who is his spiritual father? To whom has he submitted himself and entrusted the care of his soul? Only to himself. At the heart of Mr. White’s apostasy, as with all apostasy, is self-will.
St. Augustine of Hippo, in his On Christian Doctrine (Bk. II, Ch. 7) explains the movement of a soul from unbelief to unity with God as a seven step process. He begins with this:
First of all, then, it is necessary that we should be led by the fear of God to seek the knowledge of His will, what He commands us to desire and what to avoid. Now this fear will of necessity excite in us the thought of our mortality and of the death that is before us, and crucify all the motions of pride as if our flesh were nailed to the tree. Next it is necessary to have our hearts subdued by piety, and not to run in the face of Holy Scripture, whether when understood it strikes at some of our sins, or, when not understood, we feel as if we could be wiser and give better commands ourselves. We must rather think and believe that whatever is there written, even though it be hidden, is better and truer than anything we could devise by our own wisdom.
The first step, then, according to St. Augustine is precisely what we have identified. It is the existential thirst for meaning, transcendence and fulfillment. The second step is to be “subdued by piety,” to submit oneself and not “feel as if we could be wiser and give better commands ourselves.” Until this preliminary step into the Christian life is accomplished, no further progress is possible. Self-will blocks the entrance deeper in and further up to God because it demands control. Until this control is relinquished, one is unable to cooperate with God. Though he might fast and pray and attend the liturgies of the Church, he does this all out of a sense of his own duty rather than being motivated by authentic submission to the will of God. This is the reason that the Orthodox Church prescribes that those entering upon the spiritual life must seek the guidance of an elder, one who is more experienced than themselves, and must submit themselves to the will of their elder and their bishop.
Before I joined the Army, I had never shot a rifle. During Basic Training, one of the greatest challenges I faced was learning how to shoot properly. I did what seemed right to me, based on my own sense of things, and failed miserably each time. It was only when I finally gave up and began to apply the counterintuitive guidance of my drill sergeant that I finally found myself hitting target after target. For the rest of my eight years in the military, I never qualified anything less than expert (hitting 36 or more out of 40 targets) on rifle marksmanship.
If theosis is what we desire, the way has been demonstrated to us and is open for us to follow. We must, however, be willing to follow.