Introduction
The recent publication on Orthodoxy in Dialogue of an open letter on the topic of homosexuality (dated Nov. 8, 2017) by Dr David Ford of St Tikhon’s Orthodox Theological Seminary has elicited predictably strong-and-polarized emotional reactions from readers: some have expressed relief that the position they understand to be that of univocal Orthodox tradition is being rigorously defended by a person charged with teaching theology in an Orthodox institution; others, exasperation that the letter does not engage with the arguments and testimonies which have been made and given on many public platforms (including Orthodoxy in Dialogue itself) and therefore appears to refuse the genuine dialogue and radical self-critique (repentance) which is necessary for theological integrity.
This response is not an attempt to refute any of Dr Ford’s claims regarding homosexuality per se, because it seems to me that very many combatants in the arena of issues in sex, gender, and sexuality are committed to their declared positions on principle (this includes Dr Ford, whose many publications on this topic make his views quite clear), and so there is little to be gained from raising objections. Yet, the urgent contemporary questions raised in this area continue to challenge all of us in some way, and it seems that the apologies (more on this below) made by church spokespersons for the church’s views continue to fail to satisfy many who are deeply engaged with these issues in a variety of contexts—not least in the pastures of parish life. So, if public discourse on the topic of “same-sex attraction” (and other related matters) among Orthodox thinkers is to move beyond the impasse of an endless cycle of the assertion and re-assertion of mutually exclusive positions (which, all too often, devolves into a most unholy slanging match), I believe that we must enter upon a more difficult examination of the pillars on which the arguments that lead to our theological commitments stand.
Therefore, this short essay will, with one hand, attempt to point out some of the foundational ideas that support the views expressed by Dr Ford in his open letter, and, with the other, gesture towards an understanding of how these differ from the fundamental presuppositions of those who have diverged in their conclusions on matters of sex, gender, and sexuality. (Dr Ford may, of course, reject my analysis of his theological reasoning—in which case, I hope that he will correct my errors.) It will not even attempt to be exhaustive in this regard; in fact, it will be consciously selective in dealing with only three of the fundamental presuppositions that I see at work in this letter. The topics are treated in no particular order and with necessary brevity. And, to underscore the point made above, this essay will certainly disappoint those who hope to see a point-by-point rebuttal of Dr Ford’s letter, since the particulars of the discussion of same-sex attraction are here marginalized in favour of a discussion of more basic issues.
As a final preliminary note: we must be honest that there can be no pretence to “objectivity” in this conversation about theological fundamentals. Those, like myself, who think that the current mainstream approaches in the Orthodox Church to issues of sex, gender, and sexuality (and others) are no longer sustainable on theological grounds and therefore in need of radical re-imagination will seek to build a first-order theological framework from the raw materials of the Orthodox tradition which can then support our second-order arguments and conclusions. In the same way, those, like Dr Ford, who think that there should be (or, perhaps, can be) no change to these approaches will seek to demonstrate (or merely imply) that their first-order theological framework is the Orthodox theological framework and that the second-order arguments and conclusions which derive from it represent the Orthodox answer to the questions being raised (and perhaps, therefore, cannot even be categorized as second-order in the way that I have done here, since they are equally part of a “consistent spiritual tradition,” to quote Dr Ford). We must not shy away from this observation concerning bias in our (theological) hermeneutics, since awareness of the inevitable and necessary operation of bias in all thinking is crucial if we are to understand how arguments work.
Tradition
Dr Ford’s letter foregrounds the role of tradition in his theological methodology. Indeed, one might summarize the entire letter as an apology (in the sense of apologia, a defence) for tradition-al Christianity. Tradition is characterized as “consistent,” “age-old,” “divinely-given,” and “holy.” It is spoken of as active, as being an agent—it teaches and emphasizes points. In many places, it seems to be synonymous with “the church” and “the faith,” and, as such, it is perfect, and we are obliged to trust it, obey it, and “faithfully transmit [it] full and intact.” Dr Ford’s letter gives the impression that the Orthodox tradition is a vast repository of information and experience—an all-encompassing network of ideas, values, practices, and guidelines—which, when humbly accepted in its entirety without change or question, leads one along the “path to holiness and true joy.” Tradition is unambiguous and univocal—at least with regard to issues of sexuality, but presumably others too—and deviation from tradition is, at best, the result of sinful delusion and, at worst, a conscious attempt to distort (and ultimately abolish) Christianity.
The foregrounding of tradition is, indeed, a central and defining feature of Orthodox theology. All Orthodox (theologians) seek to receive and transmit the apostolic teaching. But what does this mean in practice? When one engages the enormous corpus of Orthodox theological writings (and something similar could be said for other traditional media, such as iconography), one very quickly realizes that Orthodox theologizing has not merely entailed the reproduction of fixed, exhaustive content, over and over. If this were the case, there would have been no need to do theology at all! But we can see that the corpus of theological writings has, in fact, grown—theology has been and is creative. Theologians strive to receive the gospel—the apostolic faith—not simply to preserve it but to preach it. And preaching requires that we address the gospel to an audience—we engage the world with the gospel. When we look at the history of theology, this is what we see: the apostolic tradition alive in various figures who work out its meaning in their historical context.
This analysis opens up two contrasting possibilities for how we conceive of tradition: either it is a kind of sum total of all the (Orthodox) Christian theological ideas ever articulated, or it has a somewhat more narrowly delineated content. Let’s call these views, respectively, maximalist and minimalist. Unfortunately, both terms have value connotations which I do not wish to import here. The contrast I want to draw is something like that between a loaf of bread and yeast. For maximalists, tradition is the loaf—fully-formed and delicious, mother’s own recipe; for minimalists, tradition is yeast—a small but absolutely indispensable ingredient in a whole variety of leavened loaves.
It seems to me that Dr Ford’s letter rests upon a maximalist view of tradition. By this, I do not mean to say simply that he understands tradition to be “all the Christian theological ideas ever articulated” in the sense that a survey course of the history of Christianity might indiscriminately say that “the broad Christian tradition” includes the whole gamut of ideas and practices which in any way (however weakly) have something to do with Jesus Christ—he certainly does not! Rather, I think his concept of tradition is of a very large, entirely cohesive, and ultimately static system. It is a baked loaf. The job of theologians is essentially to mark, learn, and inwardly digest the tradition (the Tradition) and then repeat what has been said before. There is, after all, nothing new to say; all the questions have been answered. The tradition is complete; the loaf is baked. This kind of view of tradition is often coupled with an assertion of the “objective truth” of Christian theology and an explicit rejection of any suggestion of newness and change as the product of “relativism.”
By contrast, many of us who find room for a reconsideration of issues to do with same-sex attraction (and other topics) think in terms of a minimalist view of tradition—tradition as yeast. I cannot over-emphasize the fact that this does not mean that we minimalize the role of tradition in our theology or that we wish to reduce the content of Christianity to some kind of “lowest common denominator.” No! We say in all sincerity, “as our fathers have taught us, so we believe….” But we do not conceive of tradition as a vast and complete system. Rather, we think of it as a highly concentrated, potent, and essential ingredient. What is handed on (“traditioned”) and guaranteed in the church is this apostolic faith, which is then preached afresh in every generation. The result is that theology looks different in different places and at different times—the yeast sometimes yields a wholegrain loaf, other times white sandwich bread. But the effect of the apostolic teaching is unmistakable: it would be incorrect to compare a cheesecake and a baguette and conclude that, since they both came out of the same oven, they must both contain yeast!
The maximalist vision of tradition is appealing and impressive: it’s all true! Great confidence is generated by the idea that there is an unbroken, immaculate, inviolable chain of knowledge and praxis embodied by the saints, stretching back to the very beginning of Christianity. One can take any two books out of the Orthodox Library and find the very same truth, in the very same terms, in both. This impresses upon us the need to accept without question what is taught as the apostolic faith: after all, “the Church’s traditional teachings…[are] the experience and teaching of every single Saint who has ever lived!” as Dr Ford writes. The problem, of course, is that when one wanders from the “Introduction to Theology” shelf of the Orthodox Library’s reading room into the cavernous stacks below, one discovers a hugely diverse body of literature (and other media), which is full of beautiful disagreement and irreducible difference. Whereas the maximalist, at this point, may despair and return to a comfortable synthesis, or more narrowly define Orthodoxy to exclude challenging thought, the minimalist is able to rejoice at the fact that the same yeast yields not only Wonder Bread, but artisanal San Francisco sourdough, and some cakes as well!
Somewhat paradoxically, it is the minimalist approach to tradition that preserves the whole of the tradition from obscurity and irrelevance—even as it demands that we think theologically for ourselves today and preach the gospel to our generation. It does not require us to explain away all disagreement, resolve all difference, and smooth out every wrinkle. It allows us to marvel at divine providence and see how mindblowingly potent the gospel really is.
Theology & NaturAL SCIence
Dr Ford’s letter also displays strong convictions about the relationship between science, theology, and nature. He expresses the view that natural science, when free to conduct “objective” research, is able to reach conclusions about human nature which corroborate Orthodox ethical teachings—at least insofar as the scientific community judged historically that “the homosexual lifestyle” had “deleterious emotional, psychological, and physical consequences.” In other words, when we ask questions about the world (or, at least, about sex, gender, and sexuality), natural science and theology will yield compatible answers when they are both operating freely. It is only when science (or theology, one might suppose) is diverted from its rational, objective course by external factors, that it reaches erroneous conclusions which diverge from the teachings of the church. Dr Ford therefore narrates a history of science in which the judgment of the scientific community regarding homosexuality could once be trusted, but now, under the “tyranny of political correctness” and as a result of “aggressive homosexual activists using Marxist tactics of infiltration and intimidation,” is to be absolutely disregarded: “the contemporary science involved with the whole realm of sexuality cannot be trusted. With its being held hostage by political correctness, it has lost its objectivity” (emphases original).
I agree with Dr Ford that there is no necessary incompatibility between the disciplines of natural science and theology. In fact, time and again the influence of contemporary understandings of the natural world (albeit those derived through pre-modern scientific methodologies) has been detected by scholars in patristic texts—whether, for example, in theories of sight or understandings of the causes of biological differentiation between males and females—demonstrating that theologians of past generations did not necessarily shun the conclusions reached through investigation of the natural world. But to observe that theology and natural science are not incompatible (in the way that Young Earth creationists do, for example) is not equivalent to saying that they are capable (when operating freely and “objectively”) of reaching identical conclusions about the same questions. Quite simply: theology and natural science do not deal with the same subject matter, even when they appear to do so (concerning the nature of the human being or the origins of the universe, for example). They have different objects of study and—crucially—different methodologies, which lead to irreducibly and incomparably different results, and they cannot, therefore, be compared with one another and used to shore-up or critique one another’s arguments.
Once again in the interest of avoiding misunderstanding, I want to be very clear that this does not mean that the church (especially in the person of her theologians and pastors) can ignore or disparage developments of human understanding in natural science (or any other non-theological field)! Indeed, to do so in our contemporary world, with all its technology—electronic, engineering, medical, etc.—would be pastorally irresponsible at best. Developments in natural science impact our lives every day and the church must be vigilant in assessing them and contemplating how they relate to spiritual matters. We are called to bless whatever is found to be good and true (cf. Phil. 4.8). Furthermore, the church is wise to seek humbly the counsel of scientific professionals and to cultivate those who are able to acquire both scientific and theological learning. But the church must also understand and refuse to overstep the limits of its competency—not least, as a corollary to requesting that natural science respect the territory of theology and not disparage it per se as a pre-modern attempt to answer its own questions.
The acknowledgment of the incommensurability of natural science and theology relieves the latter from a burden of proof which it simply cannot bear and frees it to speak on its own terms and with its own logic (even as these must always, necessarily, be rendered intelligible in our historical context). This requires that we consider very carefully what the subject-matter of theology is and how we do theology. In short, I suggest that many of us who find room for a reconsideration of issues to do with same-sex attraction (and other topics) understand theology to have a relatively closely-defined field of operation and a distinctive set of methodological presuppositions, which means that theology cannot (and should not strive to) articulate a Theory of Everything, even if its conclusions do impact every area of our life and determine our sense of what is finally, perfectly (i.e., teleologically) significant about our existence in the world.
So contemporary scientific understandings of sex, sexuality, and gender (whether we agree with them or not—and most of us lack the specialist knowledge to adjudicate) can only take the theologian so far—in fact, they can only take the theologian to answers which meet the criteria of scientific methodology! If contemporary science is asked about human nature and the role of sex, sexuality, and gender within that, it may be able to say “homosexuality is a natural phenomenon insofar as we understand human nature,” but that does not answer any theological question about the human being and how sex, sexuality, and gender fit into the plan of God. To suggest that the natural scientific conclusion answers the theological question is actually to deny the validity of theological reasoning and circumscribe theology within the horizon of the world—nature as it is intelligible to us apart from Christ. In theological terms, it is to suggest that the economy of God in Christ does little more than to tidy up and slightly improve this world and our experience of it; whereas, I would suggest, the plan of God is more profound and more challenging than this.
Thus, if we wish to answer theological questions about how sex, sexuality, and gender (or, in the case of Dr Ford’s letter, specifically homosexuality) relate to human being, then we need to examine how human nature is defined by and in Jesus Christ (rather than by and in any other definition of human being). Furthermore, I would add that the understanding and meaning of human existence as sexed, gendered, and sexual has shifted so radically in Modernity (i.e., in the ambient cultural context in which Orthodox Christianity has long drawn breath, however much it protests that fact) that we cannot make assumptions in this area—even when we reason theologically from familiar texts (and other resources) within our tradition, using established language. It is essential, for example, that we recognize the relatively recent genesis of the term “homosexuality” and understand that Greek itself has no native term for “sexuality” (Modern Greek uses the partial calque, σεξουαλικότητα [sexoualikotēta].) The “so-called Sexual Revolution of the 1960s” is only one phase in a (moral) revolution that has been going on in the Western world for centuries and has raised many subtle, complex, and genuinely-new questions for theology. If we really want to ground our contemporary responses in what our ancestors in the faith thought about these overwhelmingly significant topics, then we are going to be obliged to suspend our familiar definitions and conceptual matrices—even for terms we think of as being stable, such as “virginity”—and enter deeply into their historical context, lest we simply read our own conclusions onto their arguments.
Apologia and Theologia
Finally, Dr Ford’s letter appears to be an example of the genre of apologia: it is a defence of the discipline and pastoral practice of the Orthodox Church in light of the accusation that its teachings on homosexual attraction, emotional intimacy, and sex are erroneous and have serious negative consequences. There is a very long tradition of apologetic writing in the church, stretching back at least to Tertullian’s Apologeticus (late second century), which sought to defend Christians against unjust treatment at the hands of the Roman civic authorities by answering the charges brought against the church. Famously, this included the claim that Christians eat babies. Dr Ford’s letter begins by briefly summarizing his understanding of the church’s teaching (“[the church] has always condoned sexual activity only within traditional marriage [one man and one woman], the one and only place of life-long commitment and self-sacrificial love that safely protects and channels this very powerful aspect of our humanity”) and proceeds to a very lengthy explanation of why this teaching should be upheld, how it does not lead to the terrible consequences that are attributed to it, and how, in fact, rejection of the church’s teaching on homosexuality leads to all manner of wickedness.
Christians must be able to give a good account of the hope that is within us (cf. 1 Peter 3.15). Primarily, this requires that we be able to articulate and explain the apostolic teaching—what I referred to above as “first-order” theology—and, only secondarily, that we be able to articulate and explain what is derived from this—“second-order” theology. So, for example, before discoursing at length on the history and merits of rigorous asceticism during the Great Fast, we must be able to explain that we believe that Jesus Christ is the image of the invisible God, who laid down his life in an act of self-sacrifice, and, entering voluntarily into a death which he did not need to die, “trampled down death by death,” and revealed that death has no power over true life. Every aspect of the church’s life—its entire theology, liturgy, disciplines—proceeds from and leads back to this Paschal Mystery.
It is the Paschal Mystery that constitutes the content of the apostolic preaching and provides the methodological first principles of theology. Every other theological word is derivative of this—whether in the field of Christology, Trinitarian theology, hermeneutics, eschatology, anthropology, moral theology, or any other. Therefore, in rendering our “good account,” we should be able to show how it is that our second-order theological deductions proceed from our first-order premises. Now, it must be admitted that this is neither easy nor always necessary! Much second-order theology passes by unnoticed as such, because it is easily accepted. For example, monasticism as a path of Christian living is not challenged in most parts of the Christian world, because it has been accepted culturally for centuries now as a feature of church life. But under pressure—whether consciously constructed by Reformers or at first encounter (e.g., by Evangelical protestants)—monasticism has to be explained and re-grounded in first-order theology. I would venture that it is very hard to deny that Orthodox Christian teaching on anthropology, specifically in regard to matters of sex, gender, and sexuality, is under pressure today!
Perhaps it is thought to be so obvious how the Orthodox Church’s stance on homosexuality proceeds from its first-order theology that it simply does not need to be explained. (Dr Ford’s letter makes no effort in this regard and neither do many other reflections on this topic.) But I will humbly report that it is not at all clear how this is the case to very many of us who continue to wrestle with these ideas and practices. For that reason alone, it is imperative that the discourse shift from a defensive to a constructive mode—from apologia to theologia. If we are to embrace these teachings, which stand in such stark contrast with the prevailing attitudes in our Western cultural contexts, then we must understand why we do so, from the starting point of the Paschal Mystery. Moreover, it is essential from a missiological perspective (since many of us today seek to proclaim the gospel in contexts of sophisticated learning and complex reflection on the self) that we learn to articulate the theological basis for our anthropology rather that simply asserting the unquestionable value of submission to a system of thought and praxis which we do not understand.
Conclusion
As stated in the introduction, this essay is not an attempt to challenge Dr Ford’s presentation of the Orthodox Church’s teachings on homosexuality at the level of those teachings themselves. It is, rather, a reflection on prior theological methodology, highlighting the presuppositions I judge to be at work in his (and many other) reflections on this topic and contrasting them with those which I see operating in the theology of those who find room for the Orthodox Church to reconsider its stances—in a way which would be consistent with its own tradition. No doubt, some representatives of both sides of the debate over homosexual attraction, relationships, and sex will disagree with my analysis and struggle to locate their views within the taxonomy I propose. But I hope, at least, to have suggested some questions which may help us to break out of the ideological deadlock in which we find ourselves.
The Spring/Summer 2018 double issue of The Wheel (guest edited by Andrew Louth) will explore the theme of embodiment and expand upon many of the topics treated here.
If tradition has "somewhat more narrowly delineated content" than the all-encompassing view of Dr. Ford and others, than how does one decide whether a given practice or belief is "Tradition" or simply "tradition"? I’m reminded of the story of St. Paisios not even moving a nail that had been put up by a previous monk for fear of missing the reason why it was there. The "sum total"view of Orthodox tradition seems the norm, especially in the monasteries, at least when it comes to what we have received from living tradition (as opposed to looking back on traditions that have died out, e.g., early liturgical practices). Is it really possible for one local church among many, one bishop among many, one priest among many, one monastic, theologian, or layperson in Orthodoxy to simply stop a given practice or belief they conclude is merely "tradition" rather than "Tradition", or to teach or imply there is room for "development"? Your "narrower" approach is attractive (and I don’t think it’s wrong), but I’m not sure what it looks like practically in the Church; I’m not sure the narrower view of Tradition has been a part of that Tradition for a long time, or whether it has been a broadly held view within the Church.
Thank you for your thoughtful comments and questions. I’ll attempt to address all your points, but in a different order.
First, I would agree that there is a difference between the way we must approach the contents of what you call "living tradition" and distinguish from "traditions that have died out" (which we learn about through historical inquiry). We enter through baptism into the body of the living Christ-not that of an embalmed corpse; we enter the stream of "living tradition" at a certain moment (and cannot do otherwise!) and experience this as the life of the church in our own day. There is a certain "givenness" to our lived experience of the church; we have no choice about the contemporary life of the church when we enter it. Furthermore, our ability to excavate ancient customs does not in itself justify our restoration of them to contemporary use. Life in the church is true life, not because it is an ancient way of life per se, but because it is life united to the death and resurrection of Christ and sealed by the Spirit.
But, I suggest that the knowledge that leads to our differentiation between "living tradition" and "traditions that have died out"-or, as I would prefer, between "current customs" and "past customs," since I don’t think we are really discussing (apostolic) tradition here-requires, at the very least, that we admit the fact of change in the historical experience of the church in time and space. Unless we are willing to condemn as unorthodox whatever has died-out in practice, then we need to acknowledge that many defunct customs were once a normal and perfectly orthodox part of the "living tradition." Furthermore, contrary to common popular conception, some shifts in custom and experience in the church have been real and large-in the areas of liturgy, canonical discipline, ascetic practice, for example. And not all of these changes occurred slowly or organically; there has been deliberate reform in the Orthodox Church.
So, on the one hand, we experience the church’s life as "given," and on the other, we know that the church’s lived experience has changed (sometimes dramatically). I would think that any adequate theological hermeneutic of tradition would need to be able to hold in tension (at the very least): a truthfulness to the (theological) claim to continuity of tradition; the "givenness" of our contemporary experience; and the fact of change learned from exploration of the past. To me, then, the question is not whether the "sum total" view-encompassing what I have here called "customs" (but, in the language of the post above, would perhaps call "the historical actualization of second-order theology")-is common or uncommon, but whether it is sustainable and (ultimately) evangelical, in light of the tensions I have identified. In short, if we employ a theological rhetoric of maximalist tradition, how will we respond when the latter is confronted with difference and, often, contradiction, within the church’s lived experience in space and time (whether in the past or present)?
That being said, I do think we need to be sensitive to the possibility that divine providence is at work extinguishing certain practices and kindling others in the stream of "living tradition," and this confers a certain value on our present experience of the "living tradition"-what I have called its "givenness." But I would argue that this operation of providence is not only a key to understanding how past developments lead to today’s "living tradition." It also implies a corresponding openness to the possibility of the descent of some (long-practiced and much-loved) customs and the ascent of new ones, today and in the future. Providence not only delivers the apostolic tradition embodied in the church’s customs to us, but also places us in the world, here and now, with its own questions and challenges.
I admit that discerning between "Tradition" and "tradition," as you put it-or, as I would put it, between "the apostolic tradition" and "customs"-is not often easy and requires careful consideration and learned examination of questions and issues. After all (returning to the metaphor I used in the original post), what we see when we look at the church’s past iconologically is not just a heap of yeast but a whole lot of loaves lined up in the window of history. That is to say, we cannot often (or perhaps, ever) see the pristine apostolic tradition in its original nakedness (if ever it existed as such), but instead we see it embodied in different historical situations, enculturated and "given" to us, insofar as we can discern and understand that past. Of course, some may argue that this very reality of the embodiment of the apostolic tradition in historical customs means that we cannot dispense with the latter. But I would reply that the historically-normative diversity of customs overwhelmingly supports the thesis that first-order theological premises remain consistent (they are "the Tradition") while second-order deductions and customary forms have changed in order to incarnate the gospel in contemporary culture.
Finally, two thoughts in response to your question about the disintegration of the corporate mind of the church through individual discernment between "traditions" and "Tradition." First, the gears of the Orthodox Church grind slowly (for better and worse)! It seems to me highly unlikely at this moment in history that there will be a sudden shift in the customary thought and practice of the church (that is, in the church’s commitment to current actualizations of its first- and second-order theology), which reflects the fact that there appears to be little consensus for change. The culture of the church at present is, undeniably, conservative (for a whole variety of reasons which space does not permit me to explore). But, second, the historical evidence for change which I have been alluding to throughout would seem to suggest that it has often been the actions of "one local church among many, one bishop among many, one priest among many, one monastic, theologian, or layperson" (or, perhaps more often "a few" rather than only "one") that has led to change and renewal for the whole church or large parts of it. Individual discernment is, in fact, part of the lived experience of the church today-we see this relatively uncontroversial in the diversity of interpretations and applications of the canons, variations in the liturgical ordo, different monastic typika, and the various "spiritual characters" of local churches and regions. What I want to suggest is that we need to be able to acknowledge this, account for it within our theological methodology, and articulate it responsibly to the world
Thank you very much for taking the time to answer. I was worried you might have taken my comments and questions as an attempt to bait you into a gotcha moment, so to speak.
I like the distinction between "the apostolic tradition" and "customs" as opposed to the distinction between "Tradition" and "tradition". The latter formulation implicitly grants a level of authority to "tradition" that "custom" does not.
How does this relate to the Orthodox view that it is alone the Church? That is, if "we cannot often (or perhaps, ever) see the pristine apostolic tradition in its original nakedness (if ever it existed as such), but instead we see it embodied in different historical situations, enculturated and ‘given’ to us", then is the enculturation of the Church in various local church bodies as valid and "apostolic" as others? How do we discern whether there is a difference in "apostolicity" between the enculturation of the Church in the local churches of the Middle East, Greece, the Balkans, and Eastern Europe, for example, and the equally local incarnations of the Church in Western Europe (whether Protestant or Catholic), in Africa, the Americas, etc.? If we cannot see "the pristine apostolic tradition [kerygma?] in its original nakedness" – and if it may never have "existed as such" – how do we discern what is simply a difference in custom (even "theological custom") and what is a departure from the apostolic faith? For example, is ecclesiology "apostolic tradition" or "custom"? If clergy are required to promise to follow and maintain the mass of teaching and practices they have received, how is the "custom" distinction even possible within Orthodoxy – and does that say something about the veracity of Orthodoxy’s claims to be the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church if it merges "the apostolic tradition" and "custom"? If we have to confess as sin whenever we purposefully break the fasting rules, how are they simply "custom"? And how are the hymns and prayers of the Church, and the writings of the Fathers to be viewed – historically contingent "custom"? If so, or if it depends, then what standard is used to make that distinction? what happens if "custom" is elevated to "apostolic tradition" and what does that say about the real boundaries of the Church?
This may not be the forum, but I’m not sure what the forum would be to air these sorts of questions about one’s own Orthodox Church. Exactly these kinds of thoughts have been troubling me for some time? Mix the above together with the ethno-nationalism of Orthodoxy, and Orthodoxy looks more and more like a national church with holdover pretensions of Empire (not too dissimilar in this regard from Rome’s pretensions for universality practically – not theologically – based on the Bishop of Rome’s location in the Eternal City of the wistfully remembered, but long gone Roman Empire.)
The Wheel strives to be a forum for precisely this kind of discussion, so we thank you again for your reflections and questions!
I would first like to clarify the status of “custom” (in the sense that I have been using it and which you seem to find useful) and, in so doing, move towards a response to some of your questions. In establishing a distinction between “apostolic tradition” and “custom,” I do not wish to imply that the former has authority and the latter is “merely” or “simply” customary. I realize your response hasn’t reduced my suggestion into such a sharp distinction, but I want to be quite clear on this. In the contemporary West (which includes much of the Orthodox East), in which many cultural customs and traditions have been questioned and reframed or dropped over recent decades (or, rather, centuries), the designation of something as “traditional” or “customary” can be taken to imply that its principal justification is force of habit or antiquity. We either like or dislike a “tradition” (in this sense), and we choose to observe it or dispense with it, but in either case, we know that its power is habitual—we cannot explain our traditions, except by tracing out their history (and frequently discovering that their origins are not what or when we thought!). Think of the opening number of Fiddler on the Roof: “You may ask, how did this tradition start? I’ll tell you—I don’t know. But it’s a tradition…”!
The kind of “custom” I am trying to identify in Orthodoxy is rather more robust than this. I have tried to propose a taxonomy in which the apostolic tradition/first-order theology is understood to be the active essence and the unalterable content of Orthodoxy, from which the church reasons to customs/second-order theology. The necessarily derivative and contextual nature of the latter certainly means that it is open to examination and change (there certainly has been a lot of change!) but it doesn’t mean that it is un-authoritative—rather, that its authority is not absolute. A good example of what I mean is the anaphoras (Eucharistic prayers) of Saint John Chrysostom and Saint Basil the Great. Are these texts first-order theology/apostolic tradition by my reckoning? No. They are temporally and geographically bounded witnesses to the apostolic faith, but they are not the faith itself. But are they authoritative? Certainly. They have been prayed for many centuries (although they both have also been changed in that time); they have been judged by generations to express the faith of the church; they are highlighted by their prominence in the services. This means that we can and should turn to these texts as highly authoritative witnesses to the apostolic tradition; but we cannot conflate them with the tradition per se, however much we esteem them and however entrenched their use has become.
You are right to ask, then, “How do we discern what is simply a difference in custom (even ‘theological custom’) and what is a departure from the apostolic faith?” The question is undeniably a difficult one, which is perhaps why you have had to ask me twice (!) and why it is so often nullified today by a refusal of the kind of distinction I have made (thereby elevating custom to apostolic tradition, as you say)—despite the fact that this raises all kinds of additional, serious problems. It has also been a difficult question historically, which is why so many doctrinal debates within the church (which often began with second-order questions) have been so protracted. Our simplified (confessional) church histories tend to present the past as one clear-cut “triumph of Orthodoxy” after another, but this bulldozes the labyrinthine reality of church history. Moreover, I think the difficulty for us of discerning between legitimate difference in custom and departure from the apostolic faith is further compounded by the homogenizing effect that modernity has had upon Orthodoxy. The invention of the printing press, ever more rapid transit and communication networks, and, most recently, the possibility of near-instant global information sharing and observation of one another, has produced a more uniform church life than could have existed in the more distant past, when there was far greater liturgical, disciplinary, and even (second-order) theological diversity than we see today.
But I tentatively suggest a four-fold answer to your question: carefully, resourcefully, communally, and prayerfully. By carefully, I mean that we must not rush headlong into change without reflection. We must take time to reason through the questions that are being asked, to work out what is at stake, and to examine what are first-order and second-order questions (for example, is a question about fasting really about fasting per se, or is it about the binding authority of custom?). By resourcefully, I mean that we must listen to the authoritative voices available to us, from the past and from the present. We must cultivate and honour people of learning (and wisdom, integrity, and prayer), who devote their lives to serious study of the tradition and our customs. We must practice humility, acknowledging the limits of our own (individual and collective) competencies, and calling upon those who are competent to teach us, when it is appropriate to do so. And we must not hide or disparage parts of the church’s past which contradict contemporary consensus and received narratives, since the church’s entire worldly sojourn is given to us as a resource, in divine providence. By communally, I mean that we should strive to work together and reach consensus whenever possible. The church must act synodally—not only in the formal sense that councils are part of the church’s decision-making process and general (ecumenical) councils are its final worldly authority, but in the etymological sense that the church is a company of wayfarers, fellow-travelers; the church must develop the humility to approach obstacles and challenges in its path as a band of pilgrims helping each other to their final destination with the Lord and his gospel as their guide. This does not mean that there is no room for the prophetic dissent of individuals from established consensus—but in the end, they will need to persuade the community of disciples to take the same path through the woods. Finally, by prayerfully, I mean that our conversation must be conducted in a spirit of openness to the infinity of God, whose nature remains (properly speaking) unknown to us and whose ways are not our ways (Isa. 55:8). In prayer, we wait on God, consciously acknowledging our finitude as creatures and the limited horizon imposed on us by our embodiment in time and space. In prayer, we seek stillness (hēsychia), a restful dispassion which allows us to become clay in the hands of the Master and to see the activity of divine providence in all creation. Is this a tall order? Absolutely.
In this light, how would I approach the more specific questions that you pose? Namely, “Is the enculturation of the Church in various local church bodies as valid and ‘apostolic’ as others?” “Is ecclesiology ‘apostolic tradition’ or ‘custom’?” and “How are the hymns and prayers of the Church, and the writings of the Fathers to be viewed?” If we take the variety seen in church history seriously, and couple this with the dominical command to baptize all nations, then I think we have to say that it is possible (theoretically, at least) for Christians to enculturate the apostolic faith in any context—but it does not follow that every community claiming to enculturate the apostolic faith in fact does so. While there have long been voices calling for a uniformity of ecclesiastical custom in order to guarantee orthodoxy, there are equally as many (if not more!) voices that call for or testify to wide diversity. On the one hand, for example, we have the famous canonist Theodore Balsamon who, in his Canonical Questions, expressed reservation about the use of the early anaphora of Saint James, because it was not used in Constantinople. On the other hand, we have the example (often cited by Fr John Behr) of the situation in Rome in the second century, in which some communities kept an annual celebration of Pascha on Nisan 14 while others had no annual Paschal celebration at all, regarding which Saint Irenaeus wrote, “Our diversity in practice confirms our unity in faith” (Letter to Victor, preserved in Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical History 5.24.13). What I’m trying to say is that diversity of custom (which may include a diversity of forms of speech about God—theology) is, in itself, neither an indication of orthodoxy nor heterodoxy: one has to test custom against the apostolic tradition which, paradoxically, is always already enculturated.
Ecclesiology is another complex area in which the history of the church again evinces great diversity. It seems to me to be historically questionable, for example, to contrast a dogmatic commitment to conciliarism in the East with a tendency towards individual authority (whether of the Magisterium, or the bishop of Rome, or Scripture alone, or the individual conscience, etc.) in the West—and yet such characterizations are common today. Furthermore, ecclesiology, as a distinctive field of study which has “the nature of the church” as its proper subject, has developed only relatively recently. For the Orthodox, I would suggest, this is perhaps indicative of the fact that the church in time and space is properly understood as but a contextual and contingent image of the eternal one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church. Without historical doubt, the structures, disciplines, processes, etc. of the church have changed throughout history to reflect the pastoral needs of Christian communities in different contexts—i.e., change to serve the ends of the gospel. This is nothing to be afraid of; in fact, it speaks to the vitality of the church as the body of the living Christ. And while the church has always marked entry into and participation in the body of Christ through inclusive/exclusive sacramental rites, it has also often displayed nuance and sensitivity towards those outside its canonical boundaries whose lives seem somewhat touched by the apostolic tradition. We see this, for example, in various approaches to the reception of converts (including clergy); communion, confession, and marriage of non-Orthodox laity; and the conducting of dialogues with whole communities rather than only individuals (thereby acknowledging a corporate identity constituted in ways similar to our own). So while, on the one hand, the identity of the church as the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic body of Christ would, indeed, seem to be part of the apostolic tradition (a first-order theological principle), deductions from this about church order and governance etc. would seem to be customary (second-order theology).
Finally, we arrive at the topic of the written tradition of the church—the liturgical texts and the writings of the fathers. This is obviously of great importance to Orthodox Christians today, since the rebirth of Orthodox theology generally in the early twentieth century is inseparable from the specific rediscovery of the writings of the fathers and the development of the discipline known as liturgical theology—and these are the vehicles through which many of us have come to know Christ. In a certain sense, I think I have already tried to address the concern that I think may be behind your question about whether these are to be regarded as (mere) “custom.” As I have said, the fact that we can identify something as custom/second-order theology does not mean that it lacks authority. Clearly, many patristic writings, and the prayers and hymns of the church, (to which I would add, the church’s ritual/embodied language, its tradition of hagiography, and its architectural and artistic output, at the very least,) have been received as authoritative. But they are also historically contingent; we have no choice but to exist as creatures in time and space! However inspired or transcendent their writings (of whatever kind) are judged to be, our fathers (and a few mothers) had no choice but to express themselves in the language, conceptual frameworks, and media of their own day—even as they cause these forms of expression to stretch and strain as modes of expression for the ineffable Word. In part, this explains why different thinkers use the same terminology in different ways and appear to say contradictory things, and why iconographic and architectural styles have varied temporally and regionally, and why hymns and prayers have been rewritten and translated. There is an unavoidable historical contingency about our existence in the world. This also explains why the goal of theology has often been expressed in terms of following the holy fathers, rather than merely repeating them. As Fr Georges Florovsky famously wrote, “’To follow’ the Fathers does not mean just ‘to quote’ them. ‘To follow’ the Fathers means to acquire their ‘mind,’ their phronēma” (in “St Gregory Palamas and the Tradition of the Fathers”).
Mind here, as Florovsky explains elsewhere, is something like the “consensus patrum”—the “common understanding of the fathers“—or what I have called the “apostolic tradition.“ The writings of the fathers are iconic: like the saints, they are transfigured by Christ, shining with the likeness of his glory. But if we really want to understand them, we are going to have to try to enter their world with its horizons, rather than simply transplanting them into ours (thereby undoing their providential location in time and space). And in the end, our aim—our hope—is not merely to reflect back the vision of the fathers in the past, but to share in their vision now, and then struggle to articulate it today.
To the Readers of The Wheel:
In his "Preliminary Response" to Professor Ford’s "Open Letter on Homosexuality," Mr. Tucker raises (without, I believe, explicitly using the term) the issue of the "development of doctrine." That, to be sure, is a neuralgic term for the Orthodox theologians who regard it as instantiating a fundamental error, even perhaps the seminal heresy, sustaining the other deviations from "The Tradition" which they perceive in Western Christian belief, praxis, and theology. Professor Ford might well concur with the Reverend Professor Andrew Louth who contends that the idea of doctrinal development is not "a valid category for Orthodox theology," an astonishingly ironic assertion given the honoree of the Festschrift wherein Louth’s remark is published [Orthodoxy and Western Culture: A Collection of Essays Honoring Jaroslav Pelikan on His Eightieth Birthday, p. 57].
Here I can only make the bald counter-assertion: too bad for that kind of Orthodox theology. Without employing a valid category of doctrinal development, it is unable to offer a critically reflexive understanding of its own doctrinal history, even though that is a sine qua non for any serious intellectual encounter with secular Modernity and—more importantly, for Orthodoxy’s own mission and integrity—with other Christian churches. Of course, neither encounter may be a desideratum for those faithful, learned or not, who champion an idealized, ahistorical, and self-sufficient Orthodoxy. Nonetheless, let me bolster my contentious assertion by appealing, in good medieval fashion, to the eminent authority whom evidently Prof. Louth and presumably also Prof. Ford and Mr. Tucker each recognize, Professor Jaroslav Pelikan: ". . . the development of Christian doctrine, by its very nature as thought but churchly thought, is bound simultaneously to each of the particular cultural situations within which men have reflected on the Christian message and to the successions within which these men have stood" (Jaroslav Pelikan, Development of Christian Doctrine: Some Historical Prolegomena, New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 1969, p. 46).
Although that programmatic statement was published while he was yet a committed Lutheran, Pelikan did not repudiate the category of "the development of doctrine" after his 1998 reception into the Orthodox Church in America. Five years after his chrismation, in the first chapter of Credo: Historical and Theological Guide to Creeds and Confessions of Faith in the Christian Tradition (New Have and London: Yale University Press, 2003), "Continuity and Change in Creeds and Confessions," pp. 7-34, Pelikan aligned Gregory of Nazianzus’s "highly original theory of doctrinal development" (p. 27) — that is, Gregory’s "interpretation of the progressive history of revelation" (ibid.) — with his own explanation of how the first seven ecumenical councils progressively determined "the historical course that orthodoxy has taken" (p. 22). "Progressive," I hardly need emphasize, is the key word.
Pelikan, who was always looking over his shoulder at Harnack, was arguably the better practitioner of Dogmengeschicte because he attempted to attend not only to "the history of erudite theology" (Development of Christian Doctrine, p. 47) but also to "the common life of the Church" (p. 44). In fact, Pelikan primarily focused on the doctrine that the Church "believed, taught, and confessed" (p. 46) in any given historical period, attempting to contextualize that doctrine without homogenizing the differences or ignoring the continuities between and within the periods under consideration.
It was, certainly, developing "churchly thought," deconstructed in its heterogeneous detail, rather than the "very nature" of thought that preoccupied Pelikan. Consistent with that project, he tried to eschew any explicit "theological or philosophical apriorism" (p.48). Yet, Pelikan forthrightly acknowledged that historical research, no matter how detailed or comprehensive, cannot answer the "tough questions in the development of Christian doctrine" (p. 53). Therein lies the crux of Pelikan’s multi-volume History and the exchange between Mr. Tucker and Prof. Ford. Pelikan’s encyclopedic consideration of authoritatively promulgated or creedal churchly thought provides numerous and indubitable examples of "the development of doctrine." But it does not and cannot by itself adequately justify (through simple induction from particular cases) the legitimacy, much less ground the intellectual necessity, of that category. To do that, one needs (in the famous phrase of the Jesuit theologian, and philosopher, Bernard Lonergan) "thoroughly to understand what it is to understand."
To understand thoroughly the valid category of “doctrinal change” one needs to think a lot about the “very nature” of thought. In other words, the theologian needs a rationally articulated cognitional theory that explains how doctrinal development, one allowing for continuity within change, is not only de facto historically possible but intellectually necessary. This is a philosophical task that few Orthodox theologians recognize and, even fewer, attempt or believe should be attempted. SED CONTRA: Just acknowledging the latter would be salutary for current and future Orthodox theology. One can find in the history of church doctrine as much “development” as one is intellectually prepared to look for and allow.
De facto, is there doctrinal development in the history of the Orthodox Church? Certainly, there is if one finds at all persuasive the five volumes of Pelikan’s The Christian Tradition: A History of the Development of Christian Doctrine. As Pelikan makes clear in the preface to his first volume, all five volumes are about doctrinal developments. Supposing that, unlike Prof. Lough, one is persuaded. There still remains the requirement to explain the what and how of doctrinal development. Metaphors, however, can never do the heavy lifting required by theory. Theory requires differentiating the various objective strata in the data and the rational subject’s intellectual operations whereby the data is so differentiated. For a reflexive intelligence that cannot remain satisfied by any culture’s commonsensical metaphors, whether archaic or current, ineluctable second and third order reflexive questions arise.
On the one hand, can the historical doctrinal development that came to be accepted as normative in the Orthodox Church be subsumed under some permanent set of ecclesiastically fixed criteria of legitimacy? If so, do these ecclesiastically fixed criteria coherently allow for the kind of development that Mr. Tucker seems inclined to propose? Or do they show that Mr. Tucker is advocating, as his critics would surely insist, a “revolution” not a “development?” On the other hand, are these allegedly fixed historical criteria, if they themselves subjected to historical-critical examination, in urgent need of "development?" If so, on what basis will they be developed?
Those are some of the very tough modern questions that are prompted, albeit in quite different ways, by both Prof. Ford’s "Open Letter" and Mr. Tucker’s "Preliminary Response." The two documents do not fit into the same genre; the two authors are talking at cross-purposes. Prof. Ford’s "Open Letter," in tone more like a classical diatribe than an apologia, is an impassioned but rationally underwhelming moral admonition. While I do not want to disparage or dismiss Prof. Ford’s personal or ecclesial concerns, his “Open Letter” is marred by an unfortunate "agitatio" on not below its surface. To Mr. Tucker’s credit, his "Preliminary Response" does not mount a moralistic counterattack on Prof. Ford, to whom he does not attribute any phobias. Rather, he attempts to delineate the underlying conceptual issues, and does so with the admirably energetic verve typical of a younger scholar still learning his craft. But Mr. Tucker’s Response is a miscellany not a systematic counter-position. Essaying the latter, I admit, is an onus that few senior academics, myself included, would eagerly undertake or could competently complete. Let me, nonetheless, impersonate a putatively benign, retired professor who, while mercifully out of the ecclesiastical and academic fray, continues to dispense unasked for advice.
In that persona, I would here caution Mr. Tucker that in dealing with so centrally important and complex a topic as "doctrinal development," his own reliance on a commonsensical metaphor (apostolic tradition as "yeast" and theology as "bread") is more obfuscatory and misleading than it is explanatory. Even Newman’s now classic and initially more plausible metaphor of "organic growth," as Pelikan was wont to point out, is quite unsatisfactory. It does not accurately describe but rather obscures the manifold and often conflicting historical causes of doctrinal development, usually a willfully human and fitful process which rarely if ever unfolds in the homogeneous fashion of a budding plant. Conciliar history makes that an implausible metaphor. I would add to Pelikan’s observation that the organic metaphor does not illumine the actual intellectual processes motivating the rational subjects propounding such changes. However devoutly one attributes doctrinal change to divine grace and guidance, it should never be conceived as merely objective, external, or somehow occurring “out there” in the Church. To the extent that a doctrine has an intelligible content, it can only occur—not despite but in correlation with the historian’s catena of external prompts—in the thinking minds of believers trying to articulate better what it is they should believe. That subjective side of doctrinal development is what contemporary Orthodox theology needs to ponder with greater assiduity.
Archpriest Denis J. M. Bradley
Professor Emeritus
Department of Philosophy
Georgetown University