At the end of Liturgy today, we will parade around the church carrying our icons in celebration of the Sunday of Orthodoxy, which commemorates the restoration of icons to the church after the period of iconoclasm many centuries ago. We do so because Icons are not mere works of decorative art to us; they are windows to heaven which remind us that the Son of God really has become one of us, with a visible human body, and that we are called to become like the saints whose images are portrayed in them. For we are all icons of God, created in His image and likeness. Jesus Christ is the new Adam Who has restored and healed every dimension of our fallen humanity, and brought us into the very life of the Holy Trinity. It may help us to think of Lent as a time to make ourselves better icons of the Lord.
When we recall the great saints of the Old Testament mentioned in today’s reading from the Epistle to the Hebrews, we are humbled by their faithfulness, obedience, and humility. But even they “did not receive the promise, God provided something better for us that they should not be made perfect apart from us.” As hard as it is to believe, we have been blessed beyond them, for God’s promises in Jesus Christ were not fulfilled in their lifetimes; they hoped for what they did not receive, but their lives were still icons of faithful anticipation of the Messiah.
We live many generations after the New Testament saints Peter, Andrew, and Nathanael encountered Jesus Christ. And the Lord’s promise to Nathanael, “you shall see the heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man,” is the fulfillment of all the hopes and dreams of the Old Testament. In Jesus Christ, humanity and God are united; no longer shut out of paradise, we are raised to the life of the Heavenly Kingdom by our Lord. Our destiny is not for the dust and decay of the tomb, but for life everlasting because of His glorious third-day resurrection.
In Lent, we take small, humble, imperfect steps to open ourselves to this new life in Christ, to become better living icons—living images—of what it means for human beings to share in God’s salvation. The point of Lent is not to punish ourselves or simply to make us feel guilty, miserable, or deprived. Instead, the purpose of our spiritual exercises is to help us share more fully in the promise fulfilled in Jesus Christ. We want His holiness, love, mercy, and blessing to reshape every dimension of our lives, to be evident in how we go through the day, in how we treat others, in what we say, think, and feel.
And the more we grow in His image and likeness, the more we will become our true selves. Icons portray particular human beings whose lives have shown brightly with the holiness of God. The unbelievable truth is that, in Christ Jesus, we may do the same. No matter our age, health, occupation, family circumstances, personality quirks, or anything else, we too may become living, breathing manifestations of our Lord’s salvation when we open ourselves to His healing mercy through prayer, fasting, forgiveness, generosity to the needy, and all the various forms of spiritual nourishment given through the life of the Church.
There could be no greater optimism about us than what we proclaim on the Sunday of Orthodoxy. We not only carry icons, we are icons. We not only venerate icons, we are called to become living proof of what happens to a human being who enters into the eternal blessedness of God, even as we walk around our parish. Let this sink in: What the Old Testament saints hoped for, we possess. This Lent, let’s take Jesus Christ as His word, and prepare—with humility, persistence, and mindfulness- to “see the heaven open and angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.” For that is the good news of our salvation.
Olivier Clément’s book ’The Song of Tears’ begins with this short, powerful chapter that compellingly illustrates how the Great Canon (like the Orthodox Funeral Service) helps awaken us to the reality of our lives. We so often suppress this reality in the busyness of our daily distractions. Awakening to ‘see the reality of our lives in God’ can help us identify these distortions. We are encouraged to embrace the ’mother of virtues’, humility in the Light of this reality. This chapter is full of references to the Great Canon that are italicized and referenced with a parenthesis noting which ode and the specific troparia/verse within that ode. So, the first reference (4:32) is the 4th ode verse 32 of the full version of the Great Canon done in the 5th week of Lent.
Awakening and the Fear of God – Chapter 1 ’The Song of Tears’ by Olivier Clément
Spiritual death, expressed as biological death, secretly eats away at our existence. Yet, by the very intensity of the anguish it provokes, it can set us on the path of awakening. The fickleness of time and the precariousness of an existence in which everything eludes us is something that is repeatedly emphasized by St Andrew of Crete in his Great Canon: The time of my life is short, filled with trouble and evil (4.32); The end draws near, my soul, the end draws near for the days of our life pass swiftly, as a dream,as a flower (4.11); My life is dead, it is petering out and my mind is wounded, my body has grown feeble, my spirit is sick, my speech has lost its power (9.10).
Thus we become aware of a fundamental emptiness and a sense of failure. St Andrew alludes several times to this background of anguish. Feelings of revulsion and yet a melancholic nostalgia take hold of us when we come to realize the hollowness of our preoccupations, the emptiness of the hustle and bustle and the many concerns and preoccupations in which we seek refuge so as to forget our finiteness. My days have vanished as the dream of one awaking (7.20); I speak boastfully, with boldness of heart, yet all to no purpose and in vain (4.33). That is to say, out of a laughable self-importance or, even more tritely, out of the dreary despondency that is so characteristic of our thoroughly nihilistic age. This is argia, the “sloth” or “idleness” spoken of in the prayer that is recited so frequently in Lent, the Prayer of St Ephraim: “O Lord and Master of my life, give me not a spirit of sloth . . .” Argia, say the ascetics of old, begets forgetfulness, one of the “giants” of sin: forgetfulness of God and thus of oneself and of the other in his mystery; forgetfulness of the truth about beings and things—a sort of sleepwalking filled with fantasies in which the soul, as it were, splinters, breaks up, splits into two. It is precisely this dipsychia, this double-mindedness that the Epistle of St James (1.8) describes as the major sin. In fragmenting, the soul falls prey to the demon whose name is Legion (Mk 5.9). The same night that falls perceptibly with the approach of death had long since begun to enshroud our life, rising from the cracks and the chaos: In night have I passed all my life; for the night of sin has covered me with darkness and thick mist (5.1). A layer of filth encrusts the soul, hardening the heart and rendering it heavy and insensitive: I have defiled my body, I have stained my spirit (392). We have a sense of foreboding that maleficent powers are on the look-out, and that in the shadows the Enemy lurks with his perverted intelligence. The Enemy—that deceiver, that beguiler, that separator: 1 Let me not become the possession and food of the enemy, we pray four times in Ode Four (4.32, 34, 35, 36).
Then, a first blessing is given: the “remembrance of death.” St John Climacus advises us — to make the constant thought of death our “spouse.” 2 In the sobering light of this “remembrance,” our conscience begins to awaken, regardless of our conditioning or our instinct for self-preservation. Solzhenitsyn3 has shown how the experience of the camps—where the remembrance of death was inescapable—can indeed awaken the conscience. I am convicted by the verdict of my own conscience, which is more compelling than all else in the world (4.14). For several of the Fathers—Dorotheus of Gaza, for example4—the conscience is like a divine spark. Thus man is judged from within, and with no possibility of appeal, by his own conscience. He then becomes aware not only that he “sits in darkness and the shadow of death” (Lk 1.79), but that in a certain sense he is in hell; for hell, as Origen said, is precisely the burning sensation caused by one’s own conscience. 5
There remains a certain persistent hunger. I am barren of the virtues of holiness; in my hunger I cry out (1.21). There remains a certain desire, though it has been disappointed for so long by the fantasies we have projected onto the wall of our finiteness. And so, the understanding and the heart begin to undergo change. This is the real meaning of metanoia, which is too often translated as “repentance” but which in fact signifies the transformation of our entire grasp of reality. We begin to shake off our torpor, our self-sufficiency, and that habit of perpetually justifying ourselves by condemning others. It is a return to one’s true self, which becomes a return to God and which manifests itself in confession: With boldness tell Christ of thy deeds and thoughts (4.12); Turn back, repent, uncover all that thou hast hidden. Say unto God, to whom all things are known: Thou alone knowest my secrets, O Savior; “have mercy on me,” as David sings, “according to thy mercy” (7.19).
As this awakening becomes more clearly defined, it brings with it a second blessing: the “fear of God.” This is an attitude that has become alien to many Christians today, probably because it happens to have been linked to a terrorist conception of God. Yet it is important to rediscover its deeper meaning, otherwise we risk remaining insensitive to the fundamental tone of the Great Canon. “The holy fathers place fear of God after faith in the order of virtue,” write Kallistos and Ignatius Xanthopoulos. 6 It is not fear that incites faith, as a terrorist approach to the mystery might well imply. Rather, it is faith that elicits fear—fear in the sense of a feeling of metaphysical dread or awe that wrests us from this world. One might mention here Heidegger’s analysis of angst in Being and Time. Angst, he argues, is caused by the awareness of our absorption into this world of futility, banality, and death. A world of “vanity,” says St Paul (Rom 8.20), in a sense that might be described not as ontological but as “non-ontological”: I have wasted the substance of my soul in riotous living (1.21). Angst causes man to distance himself from this world, sensing that “la vraie vie est ailleurs,” as Rimbaud puts it. 7 Yet such anxiety, when provoked simply by an intuition of nothingness, is insupportable; so man attempts to rid himself of it by exchanging it for various cares and fears. Always, adds Heidegger, a fear of something in the world, whereas angst proper is nothing other than our very awareness of being-in-the-world. It is noteworthy, he continues, that once such a feeling has passed, we are only too ready to say, “It was nothing”; for it was precisely this nothing that was causing us anxiety in the first place.
The “fear of God” takes up again this theme of fundamental angst, but now from within the perspective of our spiritual destiny. Thus the fear of identifying ourselves with the mortal way of the world, with the thirst for security whilst all escapes us, with the thirst for happiness whilst death stalks us—this fear now calls into question our spiritual responsibility. It is no longer a matter of simply discovering our closed finiteness, but an awareness of our sin as being a voluntary separation from God and neighbor, as a spiritual torpor, as entailing the risk that we might miss out on our eternal destiny: I have killed my conscience . . . making war upon the soul by my wicked actions (1.7).
It is a fear that implies the existence of a spiritual authority that transcends this world and before which man will be accountable for his destiny, or rather in the light of which his destiny will be judged and which can, from this point on, begin to judge itself. If men were orphans, alone in the world, if they did not have to render an account to anyone for their absorption into the world, their angst would be inexplicable. This outpouring of anguish—Give ear to the groaning of my soul (2.28)—only has meaning if said to Someone. It has no meaning unless it becomes “fear of God.” And whereas a fear of the world debilitates us and causes us to lose our footing more and more, the “fear of God,” born of a spiritual awakening and of faith, fortifies us, enables us to tear ourselves away from being captivated by “idols,” whether they be fears, passions, or cares. We begin to understand that letting ourselves be absorbed into the world results in our overlooking God. We begin to realize that we have stoned [our] body to death with [our] evil deeds, and killed [our] mind with [our] disordered longings (2.31) and that to care only for the outward adornment is to neglect that which is within—the tabernacle fashioned by God (2.19). Thus, between ourselves and the world, a certain distance is introduced. We can no longer bury ourselves in it because we now make sense of our destiny in a light that is not of this world. We understand that our being absorbed by the world risks compromising our eternal destiny, turning us away from God for ever. This fundamental angst that worries us points to a risk with everlasting consequences—the absence of God, hell. That the incarnate God has nevertheless come to seek us out, even in hell—that is something we shall discover later. We must first of all have a sense of what we have been saved from; or simply of the fact that we need to be saved!
I lie as an outcast before thy gate, O Savior. In my old age cast me not down empty into hell (1.13).
I have found myself stripped naked of God, of the eternal Kingdom and its joy, because of my sins (1.3).
Fear of God is the acceptance here and now of that krisis, that judgment by which, says St Symeon the New Theologian, we anticipate the Last Judgment and which enables us to pass beyond it: “In this present life when, through repentance, we enter freely into . . . the divine light, we find ourselves accused and under judgement; but, owing to the divine love and compassion the accusation and judgement is made in secret, in the depths of our soul, to purify us, that we may receive the pardon of our sins. . . . Those who in this life undergo such a judgement will have nothing to fear from another tribunal.” 8
In this way, say the Fathers—and the Great Canon as a whole progresses in this same direction—man passes little by little from impure fear to a fear that is pure. Impure fear is vanquished by humility, trust, and openness to the vastness of divine love. More exactly, it becomes this openness. On the other hand, as St Maximos the Confessor writes, “Fear that is pure . . . is always present even without remembrance of offences committed. Such fear will never cease to exist, because it is somehow rooted by God in creation and makes clear to everyone his awe-inspiring nature, which transcends all kingship and power.” 9
Notes
1Clément is alluding here to the etymology of the New Testament Greek term for the devil: dia-bolos.
2St John Climacus, The Ladder of Divine Ascent 3.15. Translation: Ladder of Divine Ascent, C. Luibheid and N. Russell, trans. (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1982), 87. (Section numbers within the steps appear in the English translation published by Holy Transfiguration Monastery in Brookline, MA; these are found in many Greek and Russian texts, and are provided to allow readers to navigate other versions of the work more easily.—Ed.)
3See Olivier Clément’s 1974 book on Solzhenitsyn: The Spirit of Solzhenitsyn, S. Fawcett and P. Burns, trans. (London & New York: Search Press/ Barnes & Noble, 1976).
4See Dorotheos of Gaza, Discourses and Sayings, E. Wheeler, trans., Cistercian Studies 33 (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 2008).
5See Origen, On First Principles 2.10.4.
6Callistus and Ignatius of Xanthopoulos, Directions to Hesychasts 1
7. Translation in Writings from the Philokalia on the Prayer of the Heart, E. Kadloubovsky and G. E. H. Palmer, trans. (London: Faber & Faber, 1951), 190. 7Though Clément must have been aware that what Rimbaud actually wrote in Une saison en enfer (1873) was “La vraie vie est absente,” the misquotation is so well known and so often used that he naturally preferred not to amend it. Moreover, it is admirably suited to the present context.
8Quoted in Vladimir Lossky, The Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1997), 233–34.
9St Maximos the Confessor, Quaestiones ad Thalassium 10.5. Translation in On Difficulties in Sacred Scripture: The Responses to Thalassios, Maximos Constas, trans. (Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2018), 118.
Olivier Clement has written a wonderful book entitled ’The Song of Tears’ entirely on the Great Canon. In Chapter 6 , he explores how the Great Canon promotes humility that he describes as ’the basis and crown of all virtues’. In the extract below from this chapter , you will find references to the Great Canon denoted with a parenthesis. The first number will indicate the ode or canticle that is involved and the second the specific troparia verse. This book is another reminder of the depth and majesty of this great work.
By Olivier Clement extracted from Chapter 6 Trust & Humility in ‘The Song of Tears’
It is with the good thief and the harlot that those Orthodox preparing to receive communion identify themselves, as the Prayers before Communion emphasize.
By becoming wholly a being of faith, existing only by his relationship with Christ, man frees himself from his various masks and his pride. He learns humility, which is the basis and crown of all virtue: I have passed my life in arrogance: make me humble and save me (4.4). The soul that is humble lives only by God’s mercy. The ladder of virtues is in fact a descent—a descent into humility, but then “he who humbles himself will be exalted” (Lk 18.14). A saint is simply a sinner who has become fully conscious of the fact, and who is thereby open to God’s grace. In the heroic days of desert asceticism, even the monks with the most abrupt of manners ended by recognizing that all that was needed was humility—in a way that heralds the “little way” of St Thérèse or St Silouan. Do not demand from me worthy fruits of repentance, for my strength has failed within me. Give me an ever-contrite heart and poverty of spirit, that I may offer these to thee as an acceptable sacrifice, O only Savior (9.33). In Step 5 of St John Climacus’ Ladder of Divine Ascent, there is the harrowing description of his visit to the separate monastery of serious penitents called “The Prison”—a voluntary gulag, as it were, for God. Yet it is noteworthy and significant that much later in his book (Step 25), he writes as follows: “In Scripture are the words, ‘I humbled myself, and the Lord hastened to rescue me’ (Ps 114.6); and these words are there instead of ‘I have fasted,’ ‘I have kept vigil,’ ‘I lay down on the bare earth.’”
The fact is that humility assimilates us to that of God himself, to his voluntary humiliation, his great kenosis of love: “Learn from me, for I am meek and lowly in heart” (Mt 11.29). The revelation of God’s own humility touches the proud heart of man, breaks it, and transforms it into a “heart of flesh” (Ezek 36.26). “Let us eagerly follow the ways of Jesus the Savior and his humility, if we desire to attain the everlasting tabernacle of joy and to dwell in the land of the living.” For trust and humility help us become poor in spirit, and it is those who possess nothing whom God can pervade with his joy. Take pity on me, as David sings, and restore to me thy joy (7.18).
Last night we had our first encounter of Lent with the Great Canon of St. Andrew. Let’s examine just one of the nine odes we heard in more depth. Specifically, let’s add the Biblical verses (both Old and New Testament) that support the troparia written by St. Andrew. We’ll just examine and reflect on the 2nd ode.
My hope is that this may strengthen the connection between what we’ve heard and its scriptural support in a way that deepens our acceptance and response to his continual call for repentance while also reminding us of God’s acceptance of us … when we approach Him with the truth of how dependent we are upon His mercy and Grace.
Clean Monday Night 2nd Canon – Great Canon of St. Andrew
He is my Helper and Protector, and has become my salvation. This is my God and I will glorify Him. My father’s God and I will exalt Him. For gloriously has He been glorified. (Exodus 15:2,1; Psalm 117:14)
The Lord is my strength and song, and he is become my salvation: he is my God, and I will prepare him an habitation; my father’s God, and I will exalt him
Exodus 15:2 , 1
The Lord is my strength and my song , and He is become my salvation
Psalm 117:14
Attend, O heaven, and I will speak; O earth, give ear to a voice repenting to God and singing praises to Him.
Attend to me, O God my Savior, with Thy merciful eye, and accept my fervent confession. (Proverbs 15:3; Psalm 33:15)
The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.
Proverbs 15:3
The eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous, and His ears are opened unto their supplication.
Psalm 33:15
I have sinned above all men, I alone have sinned against Thee. But as God have compassion, O Savior, on Thy creature. (1 Tim. 1:15)
This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief.
1 Timothy 1:15
Having formed by my pleasure-loving desires the deformity of my passions, I have marred the beauty of my mind.
A storm of passions besets me, O compassionate Lord. But stretch out Thy hand to me too, as to Peter. (Matthew 14:31)
And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?
Matthew 14:31
I have stained the coat of my flesh, and soiled what is in Thy image and likeness, O Savior.
I have darkened the beauty of my soul with passionate pleasures, and my whole mind I have reduced wholly to mud.
I have torn my first garment which the Creator wove for me in the beginning, and therefore I am lying naked. (Genesis 3:21)
Unto Adam also and to his wife did the LordGod make coats of skins, and clothed them
Genesis 3:21
I have put on a torn coat, which the serpent wove for me by argument, and I am ashamed. (Genesis 3:4-5)
And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die. For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.
Genesis 3:4 – 5
The tears of the harlot, O merciful Lord, I too offer to Thee. Be merciful to me, O Savior, in Thy compassion. (Luke 7:38; 18:13)
She stood at his feet behind him weeping, and began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head, and kissed his feet, and anointed them with the ointment.
And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a sinner.
Luke 7:38 and Luke 18:13
I looked at the beauty of the tree, and my mind was seduced; and now I lie naked, and I am ashamed. (Genesis 3:7)
And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.
Genesis 3:7
All the demon-chiefs of the passions have plowed on my back, and long has their tyranny over me lasted. (Psalm 128:3)
The sinners wrought upon my back, they lengthened out their iniquity
What is wrong with humanity, and creation, such that we are in need of anything from God? What is sin?
At its most fundamental level – sin is death. For the wages of sin is death(Romans 6:23). The fact that we die is not a punishment sent to us from God but the result of our having broken fellowship (communion) with God. God is Life and the only source of life. Created things (humanity included) do not have life in themselves, it is not something we have as our possession and power. Rather, life is the gift of God. It is not just our life that is the gift of God – but our very existence and the existence of all that is. God is our Creator. The Scriptures say, “In Him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28).
Genesis offers us the story of Adam and Eve in which we hear described their disobedience from God. He had warned them: “Do not eat of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.”
Many early commentators on Scripture were careful to note that God did not say, “In the day you eat of it I will kill you,” but “in the day you eat of it you shall die.” Rather we are told: “God did not create death, nor does he delight in the death of the living” (Wisdom 1:13).
St. Athanasius explains that when humanity chose to break its relationship with God (through disobedience) we cut ourselves off from the source of life. However God did not take life from us (He does not take back the gifts He gives) but we removed ourselves from it. And so we die. We not only die physically, but we have a process of death at work in us. St. Paul speaks of this process as “corruption.” This movement away from life and towards death and destruction reveals itself in the many broken things in our lives. We hurt and kill each other. We hurt and destroy creation. We are weak and easily enslaved to powerful things such as drugs and alcohol. We are dominated by greed, envy, lust, anger, etc. We cannot help ourselves in this matter because we do not have life within ourselves. Only God can give us the true life that alone can make us well.
The Answer
Above all else we should remember that “God is a good God and He loves mankind” (from the Orthodox dismissal). This we hear clearly in Scripture: “God is love” (1 John 4:8) and “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16).
We hear this echoed in the words of the Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom:
You [God] brought us into being out of nothing, and when we fell, You raised us up again. You did not cease doing everything until You led us to heaven and granted us Your kingdom to come.
This good God who loves mankind is not an angry God. He is not a vengeful God. He does not will us harm or punish us for our destruction. Though the Scriptures use these images, the Fathers of the Church have been consistent in understanding that this language is figurative and should not be understood literally. For instance, St. Anthony says:
God is good and is not controlled by passions. He does not change. Now someone who thinks it reasonable and true to affirm that God does not change, may well ask how, in that case, it is possible to speak of God as rejoicing over those who are good and showing mercy to those who honor Him, and as turning away from the wicked and being angry with sinners. To this it must be answered that God neither rejoices nor grows angry, for to rejoice and to be offended are passions; nor is He won over by the gifts of those who honor Him, for that would mean He is swayed by pleasure. It is not right that the Divinity feel pleasure or displeasure from human conditions. He is good, and He only bestows blessings and never does harm, remaining always the same. We men, on the other hand, if we remain good through resembling God, are united to Him, but if we become evil through not resembling God, we are separated from Him. By living in holiness we cleave to God; but by becoming wicked we make Him our enemy. It is not that He grows angry with us in an arbitrary way, but it is our own sins that prevent God from shining within us and expose us to demons who torture us. And if through prayer and acts of compassion we gain release from our sins, this does not mean that we have won God over and made Him to change, but that through our actions and our turning to the Divinity, we have cured our wickedness and so once more have enjoyment of God’s goodness. Thus to say that God turns away from the wicked is like saying that the sun hides itself from the blind.
There are many Christians who would handle Scriptures in a different manner – but I think they do not listen to the fathers of the Church and interpret Scripture according to their own opinions. In this, I think they are in error and should not be listened to.
This good God, the only Lord and giver of Life, had compassion on us when we fell away and became subject to death and corruption. In His compassion He sent His only Son who became one of us – taking our human nature upon Himself. Uniting us to Himself, He lived a life without sin (for He is Life), and taught us by word and deed the goodness and kindness of God and to become like God by loving even our enemies.
His love was so great, that He extended that love beyond the grave. He accepted death on the Cross, suffering the hatred and evil doings of those around Him.
And here, as we approach Christ’s death on the Cross, it is appropriate to ask, “Why death?”
There are many meditations on the death of Christ. Meditations that see Him as the Paschal Lamb sacrificed for us, as the “Serpent lifted in the wilderness,” and others. Here, temptation sets in and Christians seek to explain Christ’s death by comparing it to their own faulty understandings of lesser things. For it is not the shadow of things to come (Old Testament) that interprets the things to come – but rather the reality (New Testament) that interprets the shadow. It is Christ’s death that gives meaning to every type and foreshadowing and image of that death to be found in the Old Testament.
Thus it is more accurate to say that the Paschal Lamb in the time of Moses is like Christ’s sacrifice, rather than to say His sacrifice is like that which came before. As Christ said of Moses and the Prophets, “These are they which testify of me” (John 5:30).
One of the most common and helpful images in Scripture and the fathers of the Church is the image of Christ’s union with humanity. Christ became incarnate, taking to Himself our human nature. He became what we were, yet without sin. This union should be understood in more than a metaphorical manner. For Christ literally and truly became man. His humanity was not a new creation, but he took flesh “of the Virgin Mary.” He became a partaker of our humanity.
In becoming a partaker of our humanity, Christ opened the way for us to become partakers in His divinity. “For as He is, so are we in this world” (1 John 4:17). St. Paul uses this language as well in his explanation of Baptism:
Do you not know that as many of us as were baptized into Jesus Christ were baptized into His death? Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death: that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life. For if we have been planted together in the likeness of His death, we shall also be raised together in the likeness of His resurrection. Knowing this, that our old man is crucified with Him, that the body of sin might be destroyed, that we should no longer be the slaves of sin (Romans 6:3-6).
This imagery is common in St. Paul:
I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me. And the life that I now live in the flesh, I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me (Galatians 2:20).
If you are risen with Christ, seek those things that are above, where Christ sits on the right hand of God. Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth. For you are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God. When Christ, who is our life, shall appear, then you shall also appear with Him in glory (Colossians 3:1-4).
These things only make sense because Christ has united Himself to us, and us to Him. We are united to His death and resurrection in our faith and in our Baptism. We become one flesh with Christ. We truly become a part of the Body of Christ.
And this goes to the heart of the answer to the question posed: why did Christ die? Christ died because we were dead. We were trapped in the lifeless death that is sin (which yields corruption and physical death as well). Christ is God who has come to rescue us from our prison of sin and death. He became what we are that we might have a share in what He is. We were created in the image and likeness of God – but our sin had marred us.
We did not inherit guilt and a legal penalty from Adam and Eve. We inherited a world dominated by death. In such a world we behaved as the slaves of sin and sought to live our lives apart from God Who alone is Life. God alone could rescue us from the place where we had confined ourselves. Christ enters death. Christ enters Hades and makes a way for us to follow Him into true life.
In our present life, this true lifeis made present within us in many ways. First, it is made present in our knowledge of God. “This is eternal life, that they might know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ Whom Thou hast sent” (John 17:3). We know God and have a true relationship and communion with Him. We also have within us the power to overcome sin. This is sometimes manifest as obedience to Christ’s commandments, and, as God pleases, it is sometimes manifest as physical healing in our bodies (and miracles in creation – Romans 8:21).
If the same Spirit which raised Christ from the dead dwell in you, He will make alive your mortal bodies (Romans 8:11).
The true life of humanity is a common life. It is common in the modern world to think of ourselves only in terms of discreet individuals. But the Scriptures and teaching of the Church bear witness to a common life in which we all partake. Thus, what happens to one of us effects all of us. This commonality is also an important part of our spiritual life and our salvation. The Church in particular is the place where Christians live their common life.
This common life is also the place where we come to understand the references to “Christ’s blood” (since this was part of the question posed). His blood carries a number of meanings. It is His death, His “life poured out for us.” It is also His life given to us in the sacrament of His Body and Blood. His blood cleanses us – just as Baptism cleanses us – for His death destroys death and makes the whole creation new. There are many links between the image of blood in the Old Testament and Christ’s blood in the New. However, it is easy to become overly detailed about his connection and miss the larger point of Christ’s death – by which He destroyed death and gave us eternal life.
There are many voices across the Christian world. Taken together – they are a madhouse of confusion. Confusion and contradiction is the only result of those who listen first to one teacher and then to another. No one will arrive at the truth by such a route.
Instead, I counsel anyone to take up the life of the Church. Be Baptized (or otherwise received into the Church) and stay put. Listen to a godly pastor who lives the Scriptures and respects the fathers of the Church. Those who have built private empires and practice ministries that are in submission to “no one except God” are frauds and live in delusion. They are scandals waiting to happen.
No Church, including the Orthodox Church, ever exists without scandal. But that scandal can be disciplined. True teaching can be found and life in union with the resurrected Lord can be lived.
St. Silouan is important Orthodox Saint of the 20th century canonized in 1987. His life was chronicled by his disciple Sophrony who himself was also recently canonized on November 27th 2019. Saint’s Sophrony’s book, “Wisdom From Mt. Athos; The Writings of St. Silouan 1866-1938’ contains a very powerful poem entitled ’Adam’s Lament’. This poem mystically captures the heart of both of this Sunday’s themes of the clarity and realism of ’Adam’s Exile from Paradise’ as well as the essential of reconciliation for repentance in ’Forgiveness Sunday’. It also poignantly relates Adam’s plight to our own. The hymns we’ve been singing in Pre-Lent of our exile in a foreign land (Psalm 137) and our desperate need for the “open doors of repentance’ really come alive in the context of this poem. The poem is further amplified by the fact that St. Silouan was barely literate and yet empowered by the Holy Spirit became such a prolific and inspiring writer.
Arvo Pärt is a world renown composer from Estonia who has found ways to incorporate his deep spiritual journey in Orthodoxy into his incredibly creative accomplishments in choral and symphonic composition. He was so impacted by St. Silouan’s poem ’Adam’s Lament’ that he made it into a composition that has been well received critically in the 21st century. You can hear it performed by the Canadian performing artists Soundstream below.
Here is what Avro said about this poem in the liner notes of the recording of ‘Adam’s Lament’. You can read a review of this here.
For the holy man Silouan of Mount Athos, the name Adam is like a collective term which comprises humankind in its entirety and each individual person alike, irrespective of time, epochs, social strata and confession. But who is this banished Adam? We could say that he is all of us who bear his legacy. And this “Total Adam” has been suffering and lamenting for thousands of years on earth. Adam himself, our primal father, foresaw the human tragedy and experienced it as his personal guilt. He has suffered all human cataclysms, unto the depths of despair.
Holy Silouan’s writings have great poetic, expressive power; their central message is Love – Love and Humility. All of his texts, everything he wanted to accomplish with his life was concerned with the issue of humility. Yet the true meaning of the term is difficult to apprehend – like marble, its beauty radiates from its depths.
Avro Pärt – ECM Recording Liner Notes
Adam’s Lament composed by Avro Pärt performed by Soundstreams in 2009
Adam’s Lament By St. Silouan the Athonite
Adam, father of all mankind, in paradise knew the sweetness of the love of God; and so when for his sin he was driven forth from the garden of Eden, and was widowed of the love of God, he suffered grievously and lamented with a great moan. And the whole desert rang with his lamentations, for his soul was racked as he thought, ‘I have distressed my beloved God’. He sorrowed less after paradise and the beauty thereof; for he sorrowed that he was bereft of the love of God, which insatiably, at every instant, draws the soul to Him.
In the same way the soul which has known God through the Holy Spirit, but has afterwards lost grace experiences the torment that Adam suffered. There is an aching and a deep regret in the soul that has grieved the beloved Lord.
Adam pined on earth, and wept bitterly, and the earth was not pleasing to him. He was heartsick for God, and this was his cry:
My soul wearies for the Lord, and I seek Him in tears.
How should I not seek Him?
When I was with Him my soul was glad and at rest, and the enemy could not come nigh me;
But now the spirit of evil has gained power over me, harassing and oppressing my soul,
So that I weary for the Lord even unto death,
And my spirit strains to God, and there is naught on earth can make me glad,
Nor can my soul take comfort in any thing, but longs once more to see the Lord, that her hunger may be appeased.
I cannot forget Him for a single moment, and my soul languishes after Him,
and from the multitude of my afflictions I lift up my voice and cry:
‘Have mercy upon me, O God. Have mercy on Thy fallen creature.’
Thus did Adam lament, and the tears steamed down his face on to his beard, on to the ground beneath his feet, and the whole desert heard the sound of his moaning. The beasts and the birds were hushed in grief; while Adam wept because peace and love were lost to all men on account of his sin.
Adam knew great grief when he was banished from paradise, but when he saw his son Abel slain by Cain his brother, Adam’s grief was even heavier. His soul was heavy, and he lamented and thought:
Peoples and nations will descend from me, and multiply, and suffering will be their lot, and they will live in enmity and seek to slay one another.
And his sorrow stretched wide as the sea, and only the soul that has come to know the Lord and the magnitude of His love for us can understand.
I, too, have lost grace and call with Adam:
Be merciful unto me, O Lord! Bestow on me the spirit of humility and love.
O love of the Lord! He who has known Thee seeks Thee, tireless, day and night, crying with a loud voice:
“I pine for Thee, O Lord, and seek Thee in tears.
How should I not seek Thee?
Thou didst give me to know Thee by the Holy Spirit,
And in her knowing of God my soul is drawn to seek Thee in tears.”
Adam wept:
The desert cannot pleasure me; nor the high mountains, nor meadow nor forest, nor the singing of birds.
I have no pleasure in any thing.
My soul sorrows with a great sorrow:
I have grieved God.
And were the Lord to set me down in paradise again,
There, too, would I sorrow and weep – ‘O why did I grieve my beloved God?’
The soul of Adam fell sick when he was exiled from paradise, and many were the tears he shed in his distress. Likewise every soul that has known the Lord yearns for Him, and cries:
Where art Thou, O Lord? Where art Thou, my Light?
Why hast Thou hidden Thy face from me?
Long is it since my soul beheld Thee,
And she wearies after Thee and seeks Thee in tears.
Where is my Lord?
Why is it that my soul sees Him not?
What hinders Him from dwelling in me?
This hinders Him: Christ-like humility and love for my enemies art not in me.
God is love insaturable, love impossible to describe.
Adam walked the earth, weeping from his heart’s manifold ills, while the thoughts of his mind were on God; and when his body grew faint, and he could no longer shed tears, still his spirit burned with longing for God, for he could not forget paradise and the beauty thereof; but even more was it the power of His love which caused the soul of Adam to reach out towards God.
I write of thee, O Adam:
But thou art witness, my feeble understanding cannot fathom thy longing after God,
Nor how thou didst carry the burden of repentance.
O Adam, thou dost see how I, thy child, suffer here on earth.
Small is the fire within me, and the flame of my love flickers low.
O Adam, sing unto us the song of the Lord,
That my soul may rejoice in the Lord
And be moved to praise and glorify Him as the Cherubim and Seraphim praise Him in the heavens
And all the hosts of heavenly angels sing to Him the thrice-holy hymn.
O Adam, our father, sing unto us the Lord’s song,
That the whole earth may hear
And all thy sons may lift their minds to God and delight in the strains of the heavenly anthem,
And forget their sorrows on earth.
The Holy Spirit is love and sweetness for the soul, mind and body. And those who have come to know God by the Holy Spirit stretch upward day and night, insatiable, to the living God, for the love of God is very sweet. But when the soul loses grace her tears flow as she seeks the Holy Spirit anew.
But the man who has not known God through the Holy Spirit cannot seek Him with tears, and his soul is ever harrowed by the passions; his mind is on earthly things. Contemplation is not for him, and he cannot come to know Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ is made known through the Holy Spirit.
Adam knew God in paradise, and after his fall sought Him in tears.
O Adam, our father, tell us, thy sons, of the Lord.
Thy soul didst know God on earth,
Knew paradise too, and the sweetness and gladness thereof,
And now thou livest in heaven and dost behold the glory of the Lord.
Tell of how our Lord is glorified for His sufferings.
Speak to us of the songs that are sung in heaven, how sweet they are,
For they are sung in the Holy Spirit.
Tell us of the glory of the Lord, of His great mercy and how He loveth His creature.
Tell us of the Most Holy Mother of God, how she is magnified in the heavens,
And the hymns that call her blessed.
Tell us how the Saints rejoice there, radiant with grace.
Tell us how they love the Lord, and in what humility they stand before God.
O Adam, comfort and cheer our troubled souls.
Speak to us of the things thou dost behold in heaven.
Why art thou silent?
Lo, the whole earth is in travail.
Art thou so filled with the love of God that thou canst not think of us?
Or thou beholdest the Mother of God in glory, and canst not tear thyself from the sight,
And wouldst not bestow a word of tenderness on us who sorrow,
That we might forget the affliction there on earth?
O Adam, our father, thou dost see the wretchedness of thy sons on earth. Why then art thou silent?
And Adam speaks:
My children, leave me in peace.
I cannot wrench myself from the love of God to speak with you.
My soul is wounded with love of the Lord and rejoices in His beauty.
How should I remember the earth?
Those who live before the Face of the Most High cannot think on earthly things.
O Adam, our father, thou hast forsaken us, thine orphans, though misery is our portion here on earth.
Tell us what we may do to be pleasing to God?
Look upon thy children scattered over the face of the earth, our minds scattered too.
Many have forgotten God.
They live in darkness and journey to the abysses of hell.
Trouble me not. I see the Mother of God in glory –
How can I tear myself away to speak with you?
I see the holy Prophets and Apostles, and all they are in the likeness of our Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God.
I walk in the gardens of paradise, and everywhere behold the glory of the Lord.
For the Lord is in me and hath made me like unto Himself.
O Adam, yet we are they children!
Tell us in our tribulation how we may inherit paradise,
That we too, like thee, may behold the glory of the Lord.
Our souls long for the Lord, while thou dost live in heaven and rejoice in the glory of the Lord.
We beseech thee – comfort us.
Why cry ye out to me, my children?
The Lord loveth you and hath given you commandments.
Be faithful to them, love one another, and ye shall find rest in God.
Let not an hour pass without ye repent of your transgressions,
That ye may be ready to meet the Lord.
The Lord said: ‘I love them that love me, and glorify them that glorify me.’
O Adam, pray for us, thy children. Our souls are sad from many sorrows.
O Adam, our father, thou dwellest in heaven and dost behold the Lord seated in glory
On the right hand of God the Father.
Thou dost see the Cherubim and Seraphim and all the Saints
And thou dost hear celestial songs whose sweetness maketh thy soul forgetful of the earth.
But we here on earth are sad, and e weary greatly after God.
There is little fire within us with which to love the Lord ardently.
Inspire us, what must we do to gain paradise?
Adam makes answer:
Leave me in peace, my children, for from sweetness of the love of God I cannot think about the earth.
O Adam, our souls are weary, and we are heavy-laden with sorrow.
Speak a word of comfort to us.
Sing to us from the songs thou hearest in heaven,
That the whole earth may hear and men forget their afflictions.
O Adam, we are very sad.
Leave me in peace. The time of my tribulation is past.
From the beauty of paradise and the sweetness of the Holy Spirit I can no longer be mindful of the earth.
But this I tell you:
The Lord loveth you, and do you live in love and be obedient to those in authority over you.
Humble your hearts, and the Spirit of God will live in you.
He cometh softly into the soul and giveth her peace,
And bearth wordless witness to salvation.
Sing to God in love and lowliness of Spirit, for the Lord rejoiceth therein.
O Adam, our father, what are we to do?
We sing but love and humility are not in us.
Repent before the Lord, and entreat of Him.
He loveth man and will give all things.
I too repented deeply and sorrowed much that I had grieved God,
And that peace and love were lost on earth because of my sin.
My tears ran down my face. My breast was wet with my tears, and the earth under my feet;
And the desert heard the sound of my moaning.
You cannot apprehend my sorrow, nor how I lamented for God and for paradise.
In paradise was I joyful and glad: the Spirit of God rejoiced me, and suffering was a strange to me.
But when I was driven forth from paradise cold and hunger began to torment me;
The beasts and the birds that were gentle and had loved me turned into wild things
And were afraid and ran from me.
Evil thoughts goaded me.
The sun and the wind scorched me.
The rain fell on me.
I was plagued by sickness and all the afflictions of the earth.
But I endured all things, trusting steadfastly in God.
Do ye, then, bear the travail of repentance.
Greet tribulation. Wear down your bodies. Humble yourselves
And love your enemies,
That the Holy Spirit may take up His abode in you,
And then shall ye know and attain the kingdom of heaven.
But come not nigh me:
Now from love of God have I forgotten the earth and all that therein is.
Forgotten even is the paradise I lost, for I behold the glory of the Lord
And the glory of the Saints whom the light of God’s countenance maketh radiant as the Lord Himself.
O Adam, sing unto us a heavenly song,
That the whole earth may hearken and delight in the peace of love towards God.
We would hear those songs:
Sweet are they for they are sung in the Holy Spirit.
Adam lost the earthly paradise and sought it weeping. But the Lord through His love on the Cross gave Adam another paradise, fairer than the old – a paradise in heave where shines the Light of the Holy Trinity.
What shall we render unto the Lord for His love to us?
In the Orthodox Church, the last Sunday before Great Lent – the day on which, at Vespers, Lent is liturgically announced and inaugurated – is called Forgiveness Sunday.
On the morning of that Sunday, at the Divine Liturgy, we hear the words of Christ:
“If you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you, but if you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses…”
Mark 6: 14-15
Then, after Vespers – after hearing the announcement of Lent in the Great Prokeimenon: “Turn not away Thy face from Thy child for I am afflicted! Hear me speedily! Draw near unto my soul and deliver it!” [and] after making our entrance into Lenten worship, with its special memories, with the prayer of St. Ephraim the Syrian, with its prostrations – we ask forgiveness from each other, we perform the rite of forgiveness and reconciliation. And as we approach each other with words of reconciliation, the choir intones the Paschal hymns, filling the church with the anticipation of Paschal joy.
What is the meaning of this rite? Why is it that the Church wants us to begin Lenten season with forgiveness and reconciliation? These questions are in order because for too many people, Lent means primarily, and almost exclusively, a change of diet, the compliance with ecclesiastical regulations concerning fasting. They understand fasting as an end in itself, as a “good deed” required by God and carrying in itself its merit and its reward. But, the Church spares no effort in revealing to us that fasting is but a means, one among many, towards a higher goal: the spiritual renewal of man, his return to God, true repentance and, therefore, true reconciliation. The Church spares no effort in warning us against a hypocritical and pharisaic fasting, against the reduction of religion to mere external obligations. As a Lenten hymn says: “In vain do you rejoice in no eating, O soul! For you abstain from food, but from passions you are not purified. If you persevere in sin, you will perform a useless fast.”
Now, forgiveness stands at the very center of Christian faith and of Christian life because Christianity itself is, above all, the religion of forgiveness. God forgives us, and His forgiveness is in Christ, His Son, Whom He sends to us, so that by sharing in His humanity we may share in His love and be truly reconciled with God.Indeed, Christianity has no other content but love. And it is primarily the renewal of that love, a return to it, a growth in it, that we seek in Great Lent, in fasting and prayer, in the entire spirit and the entire effort of that season. Thus, truly forgiveness is both the beginning of, and the proper condition for the Lenten season.
One may ask, however: Why should I perform this rite when I have no “enemies”? Why should I ask forgiveness from people who have done nothing to me, and whom I hardly know? To ask these questions is to misunderstand the Orthodox teaching concerning forgiveness. It is true, that open enmity, personal hatred, real animosity may be absent from our life, though if we experience them, it may be easier for us to repent, for these feelings openly contradict Divine commandments. But, the Church reveals to us that there are much subtler ways of offending Divine Love. These are indifference, selfishness, lack of interest in other people, of any real concern for them—in short, that wall which we usually erect around ourselves, thinking that by being “polite” and “friendly” we fulfill God’s commandments. The rite of forgiveness is so important precisely because it makes us realize – be it only for one minute – that our entire relationship to other men is wrong, makes us experience that encounter of one child of God with another, of one person created by God with another, makes us feel that mutual “recognition” which is so terribly lacking in our cold and dehumanized world.
On that unique day, listening to the joyful Paschal hymns, we are called to make a spiritual discovery: to taste of another mode of life and relationship with people, of life whose essence is love. We can discover that always and everywhere Christ, the Divine Love Himself, stands in the midst of us, transforming our mutual alienation into brotherhood. As l advance towards the other, as the other comes to me – we begin to realize that it is Christ Who brings us together by His love for both of us.
And because we make this discovery – and because this discovery is that of the Kingdom of God itself: the Kingdom of Peace and Love, of reconciliation with God and, in Him, with all that exists – we hear the hymns of that Feast, which once a year, “opens to us the doors of Paradise.”
We know why we shall fast and pray, what we shall seek during the long Lenten pilgrimage. Forgiveness Sunday: the day on which we acquire the power to make our fasting – true fasting; our effort – true effort; our reconciliation with God – true reconciliation.
Below is powerful excerpt from Chapter 8 of Archimandrite Aimilianos’s book ’The Way of the Spirit’. As we prepare ourselves for Lent on the upcoming Sunday of Expulsion of Adam from Paradise, we have the essential of our need to become more conscious of our dependance on God’s Mercy.
On Spiritual Rebirth – Excerpts from Chapter 8 – The Way of the Spirit
“The Lord died for the sake of all, and now He calls all to life. And this life is a heavenly, spiritual rebirth, without which no soul can live, as the Lord Himself said: Unless a man is born from above, he cannot see the kingdom of God (Jn 3.3)”
St. Makarios the Egyptian , Homily 30.3
We have been reading from the Spiritual Homilies of St. Makarios the Egyptian, and reflecting on his doctrine of spiritual rebirth. 1 In one place, we read that Christ is like a painter, who “depicts the image of the heavenly man in the hearts of those who look to him in faith.” In another place, we saw how this heavenly image is illumined by the divine energies, and we spoke about how the ineffable light of the Holy Spirit dwells within us, making God a tangible reality in our souls. We heard how “the body receives life from the soul, and the soul receives life from the Spirit, so that the body lives through the soul, and the soul lives in God through the Spirit. “A person who is complete in this way is a “bearer” of the divine image, indeed a bearer of God Himself.
Thus a person “acting under the influence of the heavenly fire”—by which he means the Holy Spirit (cf. Mt 3.11; Lk 3.16; Acts 2.3)—“ ceases to be led about by his passions and the demons.” In the same way that “iron takes on all the qualities of fire, once it’s been placed in a furnace, so too does man, under the power of the Holy Spirit, take on the qualities of God.” 2 Whenever the Holy Spirit takes “man upon his wings, and elevates him above all things, nothing evil can lay hold of him; no demon, or evil thought, or temptation, or anything else at all, can draw near to him or touch him.”
In this way, the “new Israel,” consisting of these God-bearing souls, is “far above the old Israel, whose footsteps were confined to the bottom of the sea and the river (cf. Ex 14.22; Josh 3.14-17).But being freed from the brine and brackishness of life, the true children of God walk above the sea of bitterness, through which glide evil powers. “And they are able to do this because “both their souls and their bodies have become the dwelling place of the Holy Spirit,” and these three together make a complete human being.
Let us now continue with our reading of the text:
“On the day that Adam fell, God appeared, walking in paradise (Gen 3.8), and when He saw Adam, He wept, and said: ‘What is this that I see? I created you in My image, placed you in paradise, and gave you every blessing; what, then, is this evil thing you have chosen?’” The fall of Adam, the first human being, causes God to weep. Of course we know that God does not weep: this is a human, anthropomorphic way of expressing God’s concern for fallen man, the creation of His hands. The same is true concerning God’s initial surprise and subsequent question: “What is this strange thing I see? What is this evil thing you have chosen?” As if to say: “Where on earth did you find such a thing, and why did you choose to make it your own? I placed you in paradise (Gen 2.8), where evil did not exist. Everything was exceedingly good (Gen 1.31). How then, could this have happened? It seems impossible, absurd. It’s as if I said to you: ‘Here are pure, angelic souls: choose one for a companion,’ and you stretch forth your hand and select a foul demon’.” And so God weeps. He is at a loss to understand what happened. With tears in His eyes, He looks upon Adam and wonders aloud: “From what glory have you fallen, and with what shame have you clothed yourself? The leaves that cover you now, and the coats of skin you’ll put on later (cf. Gen 3.7, 21), are these not the symbols of your shame?” Indeed, they represent the fall itself, and the garment of sin in which Adam clothed himself. 3
“I raised you up to great glory, I made you a son of God, I made you the king of creation, I made you a perfect creature in order for you to become a perfect god. How was it, then, that you were able to turn away from the gift of glory, choosing instead to purchase disgrace? How were you able to clothe yourself in the vile garments of shame? I created you as a being of pure light, and now you are all darkness! I, God, your creator, am Light; My essence is light, My energy is light, and in My light I bathed and clothed you, what, then, is this darkness that now enshrouds you?”
What a terrible thing sin is! How unspeakably tragic is the fall of man! And the same thing happens to us when we quench the fire of the Holy Spirit (cf. 1 Thess 5.19); when we cease being bearers of the Spirit and are overtaken by the darkness of our passions, stumbling into the mud of corruption, and much else besides.
“When Adam fell into sin, he fell away from God and died spiritually. “Do you understand what he’s saying? The life of God is the life of the Holy Spirit within us. When Adam fell, he separated himself from the Spirit, and thereby lost God, and died a spiritual death. 4 The light drained from his body, and he was filled with darkness. He was suddenly deformed, disfigured, ugly, and vile. And thus God said to him: Adam, where are you? (Gen 3.9).
We can say that God’s lament, His tears, and His anxiety over the fate of His missing son, are all things which, in a sense, happened before he put this question to Adam. They are events in the life of God that occur during God’s search for fallen man. With the glorious light of His countenance, God searches the house of paradise for the lost coin, which bears His sovereign image (cf. Lk 15.8), and as He does so He cries out in hope: Adam, where are you? The response God was longing to hear was this: “Here I am, Father, waiting for You, because I have sinned; but I know that You are still my Maker and my God.” But what did Adam say? I heard the sound of You in the garden, and I was afraid, and so I hidmyself. The woman whom You gave to be with me, she deceived me (Gen 3.10, 12).
Do you understand what Adam is saying? “I am no longer looking for God, but only to justify myself.” Instead of hearkening to God, Who had called out to him, Adam has turned inward, so that God becomes a frightening, external force: I heard the sound of You, and I was afraid. And what is he afraid of? He is afraid of the truth about himself, afraid that God will not accept his self-justifying explanation of what happened. And what explanation was this? That God Himself was to blame for what happened! Because that is what Adam meant when he said, “the woman whom You gave me, she deceived me, and thus this is all Your fault, God.” 5
And this is the appalling sin that we commit every day: we seek to justify ourselves before God and those around us. We are ready to blame God in order to save our own life, to preserve ourselves in our state of sin (Mt 16.25). But when David sinned, he said: Against You only have I sinned, and done this evil before You, so that You may be justified in Your words, and prevail when You are judged (Ps 50.6). But we do not care to see God, or anyone else, justified: only ourselves. Indeed nearly all that we say, think, and do, including our seemingly selfless “good deeds,” are essentially attempts to justify ourselves, and thereby sustain our egos in their fallen condition. That’s what Adam did, and that’s what we do, as true children of our fallen father.
But once Adam had spoken in this way, there was no longer any possibility for communion between him and God. And that is also what has happened to us. Cut off from God, severed from the light, we are but miserable little creatures, crawling around on the earth like ants, stealing into the dark holes of our passions and petty self-interest, which are more suffocating than any ant-hole, which for the ants are palaces. And all of this has happened because, like Adam, we are infatuated with our selves and have no interest in looking to God.
And this happens every day. Suppose you have words with another nun, and after a few minutes, you learn that the elder wants to see you. Right away you think: “Hmm. She’s told him we’ve had words. But I’ll tell him what really happened!” At that moment, you fall away from God. You’re thinking only about your self; you’re concerned only to justify your actions, to preserve yourself in your state of sin. For you, God becomes whatever it is you’re thinking about at that moment.
Suppose a farmer sees hail falling on his fields. Where will his thoughts be? On his fields. Or suppose a man who loves his wife sees a beautiful dress. Where will his thoughts go? To his wife, to give her a present. Every one thinks about that which is dear to him. In such moments, your true love is revealed, your treasure, your God (cf. Mt 6.21).
And so it was with Adam: “I’m over here, hiding, because I was afraid to see you, because I’ve sinned. I’m afraid that you wouldn’t accept my excuses; that You’d say it was all my fault. I was afraid that you would no longer acknowledge me as Your child.” To be sure, Adam’s desire to justify himself, the various excuses he contemplated, were the signs of certain death. And this is why St. Makarios says: “When Adam fell away from God, he died spiritually.” Seeking to justify himself, Adam condemned himself to life without God.
Until then, the damage wasn’t fully done; the blow could have been blunted, the tragedy averted. This was the critical moment, which we all must face, when it becomes clear whether we’ll choose God or our self. As a general rule, we choose our self. Every day we repeat the sin of Adam. He fell when he opened his soul to the poison of the serpent, but there was still hope that he might turn and embrace God. He could have raised his arms to God and cried: “God, I am your voice, your self-expression; I am your creation, your child, and I have sinned. Bend down and hold me; save me before I perish completely!” Instead, he said, in effect: “What do You want, God? Have you come here to judge me?”
St. Makarios says that “Adam fell away from God” to indicate that Adam himself chose sin; of his own volition he departed from God, the source of life. And when he did, death covered him like a shroud. At this, “God wept, the angels wept, all the heavenly powers wept, and the earth and all its creatures lamented the death of Adam. “And as they wept, they said to him: “Adam, why were you thinking only of yourself, and not your Father? Why did you try to justify yourself? Why did you answer in the way that you did, instead of turning to God?”
After this, St. Makarios tells us that “all creatures saw the king who had been given to them.” The sky, the earth, the animals, and all the angels and heavenly powers, had been placed under a king. Who? Man. Yes, man was made king even of the angelic powers, because whereas they are ministering spirits, sent forth to serve (Heb 1.14), man was created a king, according to the image of God (Gen 1.26).
“They saw the king who had been given to them become a slave of evil powers.” He who had been given authority over all the angels, and was exalted over all heaven and earth, became the slave of a fallen angel. “Then his soul was cloaked in darkness, bitter and evil, for he was now the slave of darkness. He was the man who ‘fell among robbers’ and was ‘left for dead’ on the road ‘from Jerusalem to Jericho’ (Lk 10.30-37).” The man in the parable was Adam, although all of us, in our own way, retrace his steps, and fall victim to the same spiritual robbers. 6
“And Lazarus, whom the Lord raised from the dead, is also a symbol of Adam, for he was so rank with stench that no one could approach his tomb (cf. Jn 11.39). So when you hear of Lazarus, and of the man who fell among thieves, don’t let your mind wander off to the mountains. “That is, don’t let your mind wander off to the hill country of Bethany, where Lazarus lived, or to the hills of Judea, or to paradise with Adam, for that would be a mistake. Instead, “enter into your soul”—enter into your true self—“ because you too bear these same wounds, and this stench, and this darkness. That which befell Adam has befallen all of us, for we are all his children.”
The sin of Adam has affected all mankind, and is beyond any human cure. This is why St. Makarios at this point quotes from the prophet Isaiah: There is no soundness in them; but bruises and festering sores, which cannot be healed; it is not possible to apply a plaster, nor oil, nor bandages (Is 1.6). And this is why David says: There is no healing in my flesh (Ps 37.4). “I look at my flesh,” he says, “at my hands, my feet, my entire body, and all of it is sick; not a single part of me is healthy. And when I look at my soul, I see that it, too, is sick; black and blue with the bruises of sin. Then I look even deeper, to try and see the Holy Spirit, but my soul is empty, isolated, and dead.”
Isaiah says: There is no soundness in them, but bruises. Not just a bruise here and there; not just a little black and blue; not merely one festering sore, but an endless sore, because the whole of me is a bruise, the whole of me is festering: I am a massive, bleeding wound. It is not possible to apply plaster. Of course not: if I were to apply something soothing, such as a bit of plaster, or some ointment, or a strip of bandage, where would I put it? Here? There? But I’m inflamed all over, festering through and through. In any case, no amount of oil would be sufficient, nor could I obtain the necessary number of bandages, for we have been stricken with an incurable wound. 7
And let us ask ourselves this: how often do we realize that we’re in such a wretched state? Do we understand that our wound is fatal, and that there is no remedy for it, no cure? Do we realize this? Do we think about this? How often? When? And even if we don’t realize that there is no healing in our flesh, no soundness, at least we should know that, somewhere in our soul, there is a tiny wound, an imperfection. But we don’t even believe that. And even if, from time to time, we shed a little tear, and say “forgive me, Lord, I’m a sinner,” it’s a lie, an out and out lie. Why? Because when we say such things, it’s usually out of self-regard, or because our pride has been hurt, or our self-will frustrated, or because of some memory we’re clinging to, or something we’re after, or because of some failure we’ve experienced, or because of someone else’s success. That’s why we say we’re sinners and shed a tear or two, and not because we’re really thinking of God.
That’s the kind of liars and hypocrites we are when we supposedly repent. And when we set out to mourn over our sins, or commit ourselves to some other such practice, it’s nothing more than an effort to show God—as if He didn’t know!—that we are mighty, spiritual warriors. “See, God, I even shed tears.” And then a bit of squeezing around the eyes to get the tears rolling, just to be sure that God can see them.
For we have been stricken with an incurable wound of such proportions that only the Lord is able to heal it. With these words, St. Makarios is telling us that we, on our own, can do nothing (cf. Jn 15.5). God does everything. Your father, your mother, the abbess, they’ll all give you a little money, tell you to go shopping, and prepare dinner. But God doesn’t even ask you to do that much. He brings you the food, perfectly prepared, and says: “Keep the money.” And not only that, but He’ll even place it in your stomach, so you won’t tire from chewing! That’s how good God is!
Why, then, are you lacking in virtue? Why are you in the darkness, and not in the light? Why do you worry, and get sad and despair? Why do you care so much about your sin, your failure? What does it matter if you’ve got your health or not? What does it matter how people treat you? What does it matter if you’re rich or poor? What significance do those things have? Why should you worry about any of them, when, right now, at this very moment, God Himself is standing before you?
“And this is why He Himself came: because none of the ancients, not the Law itself nor any of the prophets, were able to bring healing. He alone, in virtue of becoming man, cured this incurable wound of the soul.” If you think you can do anything about this wound, you’re wrong. If you want to see what frauds we are, what hypocrites we are before God, examine yourself carefully when you fast, pray, keep vigil, and read your books; or when you perform some act of kindness, especially when you say “yes” to something which you really wanted to say “no” to. You feel as if you’ve achieved something, haven’t you? And you expect something in return for it, don’t you?
That’s the way we are. Our aim is always to prove that we’re somebody, or that we’ve achieved something which makes us better than everybody else. Do you see how sick we are? How deep the wound goes? “None of the ancients, not the Law itself, nor any of the prophets” could do a thing about it: but you, in your pride, are going to triumph, all by yourself. The truth, however, is that your heart, your mind, your wisdom, and all your virtue don’t amount to the husks that a pig eats (cf. Lk 15.16). But if you could be free of all that—free from your self!—and allow God into your life just once, that would be something! “
Let us then welcome God the Lord, the true healer, Who alone is able to heal our souls, having labored greatly for us.” He did all that was necessary in order to heal us, tiring Himself out (cf. Jn 4.6) as he descended into the grave, so that we might be freed from death and corruption. He suffered in order to free us from suffering; He died so that we might live; He redeemed us from our slavery so that He Himself could enter into our soul, and make it His dwelling.
How many of us think we’re better than some others? Honestly, how many of us have judged someone else, thinking that we’re not like them because we’re better? We condemn others, while we praise ourselves before God!
Let’s take a moment and really think about why and how we judge others?
Is it because we think others have done something morally wrong that we judge them? Socially wrong? Or maybe because we question their competence in something?
Is it because when we highlight someone else’s weaknesses or failures, we hope that this will make us feel better about ourselves? Or by seeing how others fail, it justifies our own actions and makes us feel OK that we do the same thing?
Or is it simply because we don’t like them! We are much more inclined to judge and condemn someone we don’t like than someone who is a friend, or someone like ourselves
Think about how often we make a mistake, make a poor decision, or consciously sin and turn away from what we know is right, and then justify our behavior – maybe because we’re tired, or maybe because something happened that put us in a bad mood and that’s why we made a poor decision, or simply maybe because we think “we’re human” and everyone does this once in a while. We may act rudely or hurt someone or do something that is clearly against what we believe as Christians, and yet we justify our own actions, while at the same time judging others in a harsh manner for doing exactly the same thing.
Christ is so clear in his famous Sermon on the Mount: “Do not judge others so that you yourself will not be judged. For with the judgment you judge, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you.”(Mt 7:1-2)
Think about all the times we judge others, and then apply a different standard of judgment on ourselves.
Our Lord Jesus goes on to say, “Why do you look at the speck in your brother’s eye, but do not see the plank in your own eye… You hypocrite. First remove the plank from your own eye!”(Mt 7:3,5) We all have planks we need to focus on, in our own hearts and in our minds.
In the Gospel of John, Christ stated, “Do not judge according to appearances, but judge with righteous judgment” (John 7:24). Yet, who among us dares to believe that we are righteous enough in the eyes of God to judge another?
Of course, maybe some of us, deep down, do think we are good enough or righteous enough to judge others. This is precisely where the Pharisee, in today’s Gospel story, failed before God! Think about how the Gospel described this “righteous” religious leader. He dedicated his life to following God’s law in a very strict manner. He prayed every day. He fasted twice a week. He gave 10% of his wealth to the Temple. He was careful not to fall into the temptation of greed, of adultery, and of injustice. He surely sounds like a very good man. In fact, his life was probably a lot more righteous and religious, in the best sense of the word, than most of us!!!
Imagine if we had such a person in our church today – one who we knew prayed daily, gave generously, fasted each Wednesday and Friday, and avoided the sins of greed, lust and injustice. Wouldn’t we hold this person up as a model Christian?!? I think we would!!!
Yet it’s precisely here that our “model” Christian fails. And it’s a dangerous precipice we all can fall into! This “righteous and religious” man became judgmental. He looks at someone else – someone who many would consider a scoundrel – and he judges him. The other man is a tax-collector, and we know that tax-collectors worked for the enemy collecting taxes, profited by collecting extra money so that they themselves could become rich. They were often greedy and selfish.
Contrast these two people for a moment – a faithful, generous, prayerful, devout, religious man versus a greedy, rich, and selfish scoundrel. How many of us would honestly think it’s OK for the religious man to judge, and basically reject the scoundrel?!?
This is what happens in the Gospel of today. Yet, Jesus rejects the religious man, and welcomes the scoundrel! Imagine that!!! God rejects the religious man because he allowed his good and faithful actions to get to his head. He became proud. He knew all the good he did, and he came to believe that he was good! And from this proud attitude, he began to judge and despise the other. He undermined all his good intentions and deeds by allowing his pride to lead him astray.
Meanwhile, the scoundrel falls on his face and humbly cries out, “God, have mercy on me a sinner.” A simple, yet sincere prayer saves the scoundrel, while the good deeds of the religious man are ruined by his pride.
I’m not sure if it can get any clearer for all of us, how we should never put ourselves in a position to judge and condemn another.
If we want to walk with another, and repent together, challenging our friends to see their own faults and turn from their stray ways as we also acknowledge our own wayward actions, confess our own sins, and repent from them, then this is not an arrogant judgment of the other, but a humble path walking together on a path of healing. Not judging the other but journeying with the other.
Humility and love are the wings that lead to paradise, St. Kosmas Aitolos proclaimed. We must have love for the other, even for those who have made bad choices and fallen away from God. A humble spirit reminds us that we are the ones who need to repent and turn back towards God. We never judge others, but we judge ourselves. No matter how many good things we have done, we realize we are only fulfilling the potential that God has given us. All good is from God, not us. And all glory goes to His Name! This is what keeps us humble.
This Gospel story of the Pharisee and the Tax-Collector marks the beginning of the Triodion Period, the three-week preparation leading up to Clean Monday, the beginning of Great Lent. The Church consciously chose this Gospel story to highlight the spirit with which we should begin Great Lent on March 2nd. In fact, this Gospel shows us the only spirit that will allow us to journey closer towards God – only with a spirit of humility and love can we go forward. We must cast aside any arrogant spirit within us, reject any temptation to judge and despise others, and not deceive ourselves into trusting our own goodness. “God, have mercy on me a sinner.” This is the spiritual battle we embark on as we begin Great Lent.
And Jesus concluded this story by saying, “For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and everyone who humbles himself will be exalted.” (Luke 18:14)
Our Pre-Lenten journey now brings us face to face with something that many of may find uncomfortable: Christ’s parable of the Last Judgment. Our temptation may be to elevate our own judgment(s) above the starkness and clarity that Christ presents to us in this powerful parable.
Certainly, one possibility of why the Church Fathers have placed this in our path at this point is to wake us up to the seriousness and sobriety we need for the journey ahead. It may also be true that this sobriety, this wakefulness, needs to apply itself to our tendencies to dismiss those judgments from our Lord and Savior that we may find difficult to understand or accept.
We are not alone. I think of the Apostle Peter’s response to what he perceived as the unacceptable truth of what would happen to Christ.
From that time forth began Jesus to shew unto his disciples, how that he must go unto Jerusalem, and suffer many things of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and be raised again the third day. Then Peter took him, and began to rebuke him, saying, Be it far from thee, Lord: this shall not be unto thee. But he turned, and said unto Peter, Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an offence unto me: for thou savourest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men.
Matthew 16: 21 – 23
When we think about the first two weeks of our Pre-Lenten preparation, it is clear what the examples of the Publican and Prodigal have to teach us about repentance. But what do the examples of the Pharisee and the elder son have to teach us about what prevents us from repenting? Are there some common barriers to repentance that these examples illumine and illustrate?
Certainly, most of us would point to the pride of the Pharisee as a barrier that prevented him from the experience of ongoing repentance so essential to our spiritual journeys.
Isn’t an important aspect of this pride the inflation we place on our own judgements of ourselves and of our knowledge of what ’God’s will’ should be in our circumstances? The Pharisee’s judgement that I am not like these others men … these sinners? The elder son’s belief that his judgement of what is just and fair about what should happen to his brother should be the way his Father sees this?
And isn’t it clear that these judgements of the Pharisee and elder son are completely lacking in a fidelity to what Christ has given us as our Great Commandment?
Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.
Matthew 22: 36 – 40
Isn’t a way of thinking about the sin and separation between the elder son and his Father, this allegiance we have to our distorted judgements that are devoid of an experience and expression of love? The possibility that our judgements are separating us from the most basic and foundational experience of a communion of Love with our Father and the expression of that Love to our neighbor.
I find this quote very compelling:
“Repentance is the beginning, middle and end of the Christian way of life.”
St. Gregory Palamas
Perhaps, our Church Fathers have prepared us for the Sunday of the Last Judgement by reminding us of how far our own judgements are from those that are inspired by Him. With this in mind, let’s look now at what Father Schemman has to say.
Father Alexander Schemman on the Last Judgement
Christianity is the religion of love. Christ left with his disciples not a doctrine of individual salvation but a new commandment “that you love one another”, and He added: ”By this shall all know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” Love is thus the foundation, the very life of the Church which is, in the words of St. Ignatius of Antioch, the ”unity of faith and love.” Sin is always absence of love, and therefore separation, isolation, war of all against all. The new life given by Christ and conveyed to us by the Church is, first of all, a life of reconciliation, of ”gathering into oneness of those who were dispersed,” the restoration of love broken by sin. But how can we even begin our return to God and our reconciliation with Him if in ourselves we do not return to the unique new commandment of love?
When Christ comes to judge us, what will be the criterion of His judgment? The parable answers: love – not a mere humanitarian concern for abstract justice and the anonymous ”poor,” but concrete and personal love for the human person, any human person, that God makes me encounter in my life.
Christian love is the ”possible impossibility” to see Christ in another man, whoever he is, and who God, in his eternal and mysterious plan, has decided to introduce into my life. .. For indeed, what is love if not the mysterious power which transcends the accidental and the external in the ”other” – his physical appearance, social rank, ethnic origin, intellectual capacity – and reaches the soul, the unique and uniquely personal ”root” of a human being, truly the part of God in him? If God loves every man it is because He alone knows the priceless and absolutely unique treasure, the “soul” or ”person” He gave every man. Christian love then is the participation in that divine knowledge and the gift of that divine love. There is no ”impersonal” love because love is the wonderful discovery of the ”person” in ”man,” of the personal and unique in the common and general. It is the discovery in each man of that which is ”lovable” in him, of that which is from God.
In this respect, Christian love is sometimes the opposite of ”social activism” with which one so often identifies Christianity today. To a “social activist” the object of love is not ”person” but man, an abstract unit of a not less abstract ”humanity.” But for Christianity, man is ”lovable” because he is person. There person is reduce to man; here man is seen only as person. The ”social activist” has no interest for the personal, and easily sacrifices it to the ”common interest.” Christianity may seem to be, and in some way actually is, rather skeptical about that abstract ”humanity,” but it commits a mortal sin against itself each time it gives up its concern and love for the person. Social activism is always ”futuristic” in its approach, it always acts in the name of justice, order, happiness to come, to be achieved. Christianity cares little about that problematic future but puts the whole emphasis on the now – the only decisive time for love. The two attitudes are not mutually exclusive, but they must not be confused. Christian love aims beyond “this world”. It is itself a ray, a manifestation of the Kingdom of God; it transcends and overcomes limitations, all “conditions” of this world because its motivation as well as its goals and consummation is in God.
The parable of the Last Judgment is about Christian love. Not all of us are called to work for ”humanity,” yet each one of us has received the gift and grace of Christ’s love. We know that all men ultimately need this personal love – the recognition in them of their unique soul in which the beauty of the whole creation is reflected in a unique way. We also know that men are in prison and are sick and thirsty and hungry because that personal love has been denied them. And, finally, we know that however narrow and limited the framework of our personal existence, each one of us has been made responsible for a tiny part of the Kingdom of God, made responsible by the very gift of Christ’s love. Thus, on whether or not we have accepted this responsibility , on whether we have loved or refused to love, shall we be judged. For ”inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, you have done it unto Me … ”
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