Public Orthodoxy
On his recent visit to Mt. Athos in October, 2019, Ecumenical
Patriarch Bartholomew announced the imminent inclusion of five Athonite
elders among the saints: Ieronymos of Simonopetra, Daniel of Katounakia,
Joseph the Hesychast, Ephraim of Katounakia, and Sophrony of Essex.
There is a phrase in the Sayings of Abba Macarius with which
I can identify. When asked to address a word of salvation, Macarius
replied: “I have not yet become a monk myself, but I have seen monks.”
While I feel singularly unsuited to write about saints, I can say that I
have been privileged to meet saints who shaped my mind and ministry:
Fr. Sophrony of Essex, Fr. Paisios of Athos, Fr. Porphyrios of Athens,
as well as Fr. Iakovos of Euboea and Fr. Ephraim of Katounakia. My most
treasured gift is a small cross containing the relics of contemporary
saints: Nektarios of Pentapolis, Arsenios of Cappadocia, Silouan the
Athonite, Joseph the Hesychast, and Amphilochios of Patmos.
There is no doubt that the acclamation and proclamation of a new
saint is a refreshing gesture of consolation for the church, an
affectionate expression of solidarity in people’s daily affliction. But
can a gift—whether an act of grace by God or an act of generosity by the
church—ever be manipulated or misused? Is
it possible that we perceive holiness as an objectifiable, calculable,
and demonstrable concept—such as perfection or sinlessness, extreme
self-discipline or excessive piety, miracle-working or prophetic
charisma, even popular recognition or widespread reputation?
Should we be addressing certain uncomfortable questions about our
search for saints, even our attachment to them? Is there a point of
breaching the fine line between admiration and adoration—verging on
idealization and idolatry—of charismatic leaders? I have always regarded
saints as those who somehow manage or at least strive to reconcile
tensions and heal divisions between heaven and earth, male and female,
body and soul, as well as spirit and matter. As the Orthodox liturgy
maintains: “When God wills, the order of nature is overcome” (Dormition
Feast). So when we speak of saints, we are referring to divine holiness
actively shared by all humanity and nature. We believe that God lovingly
shares the abundance of life with all creation and that saints are able
to discern this fullness in the world, on behalf of the world, and “for
the life of the world” (John 6:51). Yet, surely saints possess this
capacity precisely because they are completely and consistently
human—neither super-human nor semi-divine.
Yet, should it concern us that those widely nominated for
canonization are exclusively spiritual fathers in monasteries or
parishes who hear confessions or offer counsel? Are we, I wonder,
restricting the diversity of gifts extraordinarily showered and
exceptionally shared by God on all people whenever we determine, define,
or decide the areas where these manifest or flourish? The canonization
of Elders Paisios, Daniel of Katounakia, and Joseph the Hesychast—all of
whom, like Anthony of Egypt, John Climacus, and more recently Staretz
Silouan, were unordained monks—breaks down at least some of the barriers
that we have erected between clergy and laity. It melts down the
frigidity that has accumulated over centuries in the church between
institution and charisma. There is no hierarchal—and, indeed, no
hieratic (priestly)—requirement for salvation or sanctity.
Should we then also be asking ourselves why there are so few or no
women among those advocated or advanced for inclusion among the saints?
The rejoinder may be that none is excluded from the communion of saints.
But does it say anything about our congregations and councils that we
either nurture or reduce the aura of sanctity to the male gender, the
monastic status, and the ordained clergy? Does it reveal something about
our infatuation with authoritative and charismatic individuals that so
many of those today considered or classified for canonization are father
figures on whom we are often codependent for affirmation or advice? Is
our radar for sanctity so predictable and partial, perhaps even
prejudiced? Why solitaries and not spouses? Why monastics and not
seculars? Where is the cook, the nurse, the teacher, the philosopher?
The official church only promotes what we as the plenitude of the
church present; in accordance with established protocol and traditional
process, members of a synod recognize what we as the conscience of the
church refer to them. The problem lies not in institutional synods that
approve requests for canonization but in our criteria for nominating
individuals for canonization. Why, for instance, are we mesmerized when
miracles and healings are attributed to saints but less enthusiastic
about their plain decency, sensitivity, and empathy? Who ever instructed
or imposed any hierarchy of sanctity that gives priority to monastic
life or unceasing prayer before practical solidarity to the prisoner,
the sick, the hungry, the poor, or indeed even toward nature and
animals? I see no such ranking or grading in the desert fathers and
mothers; and there is certainly none in the Gospel commandments.
This leads to a more fundamental question that we must ask ourselves
in light of conventional hierarchies in our spiritual values. Could the
honor that we reserve for saints harm rather than help us—ultimately
stand in the way, rather than stand beside us—in our struggle for
sanctification? In Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor, Ivan relates a
poetic encounter during the Spanish inquisition, where Christ is
chained and incarcerated for not conceding to people’s need for
emotional security, personal conviction, or spiritual projection, which
they then endeavor to procure through religion “in order to expire
peacefully.” These diabolical seductions echo the “three temptations” of
Christ in the desert (Matthew 4, Mark 1, and Luke 4) and the human
yearning for a tangible, credible, and verifiable panacea when unable to
bear the reality of life or, indeed, of God. The Grand Inquisitor
declares: “There are three powers, and only three powers, that are able
to conquer and capture forever the conscience of an impotent
[humanity]—and those forces are miracle, mystery, and authority.” When
we yearn for or delight in the supernatural powers of a saint, are we
perhaps yielding to their capacity for the miraculous and mysterious, as
well as to our desperate need for authentic validation?
Despite such speculation, the experience of the saints is, in the
end, the experience of the whole church in the light of the kingdom. It
serves to illumine the entire world with the light of Christ. The first
Christian saints were martyrs—a Greek and Latin term signifying
“witnesses” of an event. The saints are witnesses in the same way as the
Apostles, too, were witnesses to the Resurrection of Christ (Acts
4:33). Contemporary saints constitute a continuation of this joyful or
paschal witness, ensuring a spiritual or charismatic “apostolic
succession.” It is true, then, that the joy that surrounds the
canonization of a new saint simulates the spirit of enthusiasm among the
early martyrs. Precisely because—above any distinction in race or
religion, and beyond any discrimination of gender or class—it revives in
all of us “the vocation to be saints” (Romans 1:7).
Rev. Dr. John Chryssavgis is a deacon of the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America.
Public Orthodoxy seeks to promote conversation by providing a
forum for diverse perspectives on contemporary issues related to
Orthodox Christianity. The positions expressed in this essay are solely
the author’s and do not necessarily represent the views of the editors
or the Orthodox Christian Studies Center.