On Christianity East & West | Lost in Translation
Theological Letters
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This is the first lecture from The East-West Series, a 25-lecture exploration of the fundamental differences between Eastern and Western Christianity. I’m currently crowdfunding to complete production of the full series, which is scheduled to launch Summer 2026.
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ON CHRISTIANITY EAST & WEST
Lecture 1
The modern religious landscape has recently been host to a rather surprising trend: Westerners, both young and old, have grown increasingly interested in Eastern Orthodox Christianity. Following a notable exodus from religion nearly a decade ago, many are now returning to religion, and Eastern Orthodoxy — an ancient but notably small tradition within the United States — is one of the havens to which religious pilgrims have turned. But despite the allure of the Christian East, many find the differences between Eastern and Western Christianity to be unclear. The uninitiated sense that a great many differences exist, brushing against examples both in print and online, but inquirers often struggle to pinpoint the exact nature of these differences and what it all means.
One might expect that the most natural starting point is to ask a native member of the Orthodox Church. However, those who have known only Eastern Christianity often struggle to explain its doctrines to the Western mind. Why? Simply put, Eastern and Western Christianity share a common vocabulary, born from common Scriptures, and even a common Creed (the Nicene Creed). Yet, how these traditions understand this common vocabulary is worlds apart. Therefore, the Eastern Christian often fails to understand the questions being asked by a Western Christian, and the Western Christian is no better equipped to understand the answers offered by the East. For these Western questions are informed by a very specific history, with very specific concerns, that inform very specific understandings of the Christian faith and its vocabulary.
In short, the two parties often talk past one another. What is needed is a translator, one who not only understands Eastern Orthodoxy but also the Western mind — its history, the presuppositions and concerns born from this history, and the resulting vocabulary. Only by understanding such things, can one translate the Eastern doctrines into terms that make sense to the Western mind. Such translation work is the goal of the present series.
Those familiar with my scholarship and my podcast know that my studies took me down a long, winding road through the history of ideas. Over the course of nearly two decades, I devoted myself to the Western Christian tradition, studying the early Latin fathers, Augustine of Hippo, and both medieval and post-Reformation scholasticism. The result was a firm grasp on the historical development of both Roman Catholic and Protestant theology. In addition, these studies of Western thought carried me beyond the Reformation into the waters of Modern philosophy, where I devoted myself to figures whose ideas have shaped our contemporary culture, including modern Christianity in the West. Yet, as those familiar with my story also know, my studies ultimately led me, not to the halls of Latin Christianity, but to the Eastern Orthodox Church. The very translation work described above is the task to which I have devoted the last eighteen years.
In this series, I hope to offer a guide for the perplexed, serving as the very type of translator described above, one who can help demystify the differences between the Christian East and the Christian West. So, over the course of the next twenty four lectures, I will be your guide as we tour the roads that divide the East from the West.
Before surveying the content of this series, I think it worth commenting on several trends that occasion the creation of this series. The first has already been noted, namely, the growing interest in Orthodox Christianity throughout the Western world. But to this I would add two additional observations about Orthodox inquirers.
The first addition is that Orthodox inquirers often feel torn between Roman Catholicism, on the one hand, and Eastern Orthodoxy, on the other. Such inquirers have already written off Protestant Christianity, and thus find themselves on a quest for the original or true Church — a quest that leads them to his fork in the road. Without any judgment or criticism of those who have felt this inner tension, I admit that I find it peculiar. For, as we will see in this series, Orthodoxy and Catholicism are worlds apart, theologically speaking. I can understand the tension if one’s primary worry is to discern which one is the keeper of the Apostolic faith — very well. But I can’t help but wonder if the tension is indicative of something else.
Often, newcomers to Orthodox Christianity will presume that it has more in common with Catholicism than with Protestantism, since the two have a certain superficial resemblance — vestments, candles, liturgy. But the reality is that Catholicism and Protestantism have far more in common with one another than either has in common with Orthodoxy. The reason is obvious enough from a strictly historical perspective. Protestant Christianity arose as a protest against Roman corruption, and this protest was championed by Roman Catholic theologians. The presumptions of the Reformers are inherently Catholic. The disputes are thus “in house,” as it were — Latin Christians disputing nuances of Latin Christianity.
Hence, when a Latin Christian turns to the Orthodox and asks where he stands on such disputes, the Orthodox Christian can hardly answer. For the dispute is born out of a theology wholly alien to Eastern Christianity. In truth, the Orthodox Christian has no stance on the dispute because he shares none of its premises. His theology is wholly other. For this reason, it’s a fool’s errand to look at Western taxonomies about sin or salvation or baptism or predestination and ask which one is the position of the Orthodox. For these taxonomies are the outgrowth of a uniquely Western discussion, reflective of uniquely Latin presumptions and a uniquely Latin understanding of the Christian faith — an understanding the Orthodox do not share. So, Orthodoxy can no more be placed into one of these Western boxes than a round peg in a square hole. To truly understand the differences between East and West, then, we must dig down to the very foundations, since the root differences are anything but superficial.
A second observation I would add is this. Those drawn to the Orthodox Church come from all backgrounds and for a host of reasons — some due to theology, others history, others liturgy, others art, and others from a search for meaning. Rarely does an inquiry not find something that raises questions, concerns, or confusion. For those from Protestant backgrounds, especially, the list is often predictable — Mary, icons, prayer to Saints. But despite whatever questions might hang in the air, many inquirers find themselves drawn to the Church, despite such questions — as if their heart longs to enter, but their head holds them back. The result can sometimes be a form of unintentional syncretism. What I mean is this.
Often, inquirers are so eager to enter the doors of the Orthodox Church, they focus their questions strictly on those areas that strike them as peculiar or obviously different from their present way of thinking. The tacit presumption is that the other areas of their theology or worldview must be aligned with Orthodox Christianity. But given the vast differences between East and West, this is rarely true. Hence, many converts retain a great deal of Western theology, under the presumption it is perfectly Orthodox, only trading out a few fixtures here and there for an Eastern alternative. The result is a peculiar hybrid of Eastern and Western Christianity — something unintentionally syncretistic, which is neither here nor there.
What is needed is for the convert to continue to turn over the soil of his worldview, cultivating a fully Orthodox mind. But as noted, the syncretism here described is unintentional. Most converts have no idea they retain Western ideas that are alien to their newfound Orthodox faith. Hence, to turn over the soil thoroughly, they require a guide to help reveal the remnants of their Latin Christianity and to see how these remnants are incompatible with their commitment to Eastern Orthodox Christianity.
Such is the purpose of this series: To offer a guide to those curious about the differences between the Christian East and the Christian West, to offer a deeper sense of the differences between Catholicism and Orthodoxy, and to help the Eastern convert continue his efforts to more fully appropriate an Orthodox mind.
When considering the numerous differences between the Christian East and the Christian West, I think it fair to identify these core differences as traceable to four main areas: The doctrine of God, the understanding of God-world interaction (or what is called “providence”), anthropology or the nature of man, and salvation or the Christian gospel.
The idea that the Christian East and the Christian West differ on the doctrine of God may come as a surprise, since they share a common Creed — the Nicene Creed. But as we will see, these two traditions harbor significant and often irreconcilable differences on the matter. Within the Latin West, a particular brand of “divine simplicity” is first planted by Augustine of Hippo and then grows into full bloom in Anselm of Canterbury and the medieval scholastics after him. This doctrine affects how Augustine and Latin writers after him use the word “God” (deus), how they understand the Trinity, how they interpret the divine attributes, and a host of other things. Truthfully, the cascading effect can hardly be overstated. And yet, as we will see, the doctrine of simplicity that proves fateful for the Latin West — along with its reverberations throughout the doctrine of God — is wholly alien to the Eastern Church fathers. As a result, a great chasm emerges between how the East and the West understand divine simplicity, the divine attributes, and even the Trinity itself. So, despite a common Creed and an overlapping vocabulary that gives the impression of common doctrines, the resulting teachings about God are vastly different.
These differences in the doctrine of God naturally unfurl into differences about God-world interaction — or what is called “providence.” The understanding of God that follows from the Latin view of simplicity naturally raises a host of questions about divine knowledge, divine freedom, and divine causality: How is it that a God of this sort can create, know, and care for our world? Perhaps the best way to understand medieval scholasticism is as a manifold wrestling with these very questions. The various answers explored by the Latin scholastics would go on to shape not only Catholic thought, but also Protestant thought and even the philosophical thought of the Enlightenment — a shape that still lingers in the minds of most Westerners today, whether knowingly or unknowingly. Yet, once again, the Western presumptions that underwrite this discussion are wholly alien to the thought of the Eastern Church fathers. And for this reason, we find in the Christian East a very different perspective on divine knowledge and divine freedom, on how God both cares for and interacts with the world, on his immanence and relationship to creatures, and even his relationship to time itself.
The contrast between how the East and West see man is no less stark than the contrast in the doctrine of God. Within the Latin West, the Pelagian dispute marks a defining moment in how Augustine of Hippo and Latin writers after him come to see the nature of man, of sin, and of grace. From this point onward, Pelagianism becomes a redline that none might cross without charge of heresy. The result definitively shapes Western thinking about the natural world, about the nature and effects of the Fall, and the nature of the grace required to remedy these effects. And the results, in turn, shape Latin thinking about man’s relationship to God and God’s dealings with man. Once again, however, this uniquely Latin discussion is alien to Eastern Christianity. The Eastern Church fathers harbor a very different perspective on the nature of man, which, in turn, leads to a very different perspective on the natural world, on the nature of the Fall and its effects, on the nature of grace, and all of this offers a very different picture of man’s relationship to God and God’s dealings with man than what we find in the Latin West.
To no surprise, the Latin convictions about the nature of man definitively color the Western understanding of the Christian gospel. The human condition is marked primarily by moral guilt and impending future judgment, with the redemptive work of God in Christ offering to humanity absolution and grace, defined either as supernatural aid to enable man to perform deeds that have merit before God (Roman Catholic) or unmerited favor that places one in favorable standing with God despite his moral guilt (Protestant). But in either case, the human condition, the nature of divine grace, and the redlines first defined by the Pelagian dispute are common across Western Christianity, both Catholic and Protestant. Yet, much like the Latin understanding of man, the Latin view of the gospel is entirely alien to the Christian East. The root of the human condition, the remedy offered by the gospel, and the nature of divine grace are entirely different within Eastern Christianity — so much so that the disputes of the West make little sense to the Eastern mind.
Within this series, we will explore not only these four central differences, but how these roots differences concerning the nature of God, of providence, of man, and salvation play out in related doctrines of atonement, predestination, even ecclesiology and liturgy. The format for this series is simple. Each topic will be divided into two lectures, one on the Christian West, providing the framework with which most listeners are familiar, and then a second lecture that contrasts the Latin view with the lesser-known position of the Christian East. The topics we cover will unfold as follows. We will begin with anthropology, looking at two perspectives on the nature of man. We will then turn to the doctrine of God, with emphasis on the doctrine of the Trinity. From here, we will turn to providence, exploring how these two traditions understand God and world to relate to one another. With this, we will turn to a trio of topics concerning the gospel, namely, the Incarnation, the nature of atonement, and the understanding of salvation. Following this trio, we will look at the respective understandings of Mary, of predestination, of ecclesiology or the nature of the Church, of divine revelation, of iconography, and of liturgy. The result will be twenty four lectures, covering these twelve topics.
Concerning the tone of this series, I have already mentioned that I’m an Eastern Orthodox Christian, this being the result of my journey through the history of ideas. This series, however, is not an Eastern Orthodox apologetic. My training and scholarship is in the history of ideas and historical theology. While my scholarly conclusions are in keeping with the Orthodox Church, I speak neither as a representative of Orthodoxy (I am not) nor as an Orthodox polemicist or apologist. I speak as both a philosopher and historical theologian, who strives to speak fairly and accurately about the history of ideas. My aim is to accurately represent both East and West, without telling you, dear listener, which tradition you should side with.
Now, on this point, a word should be said about the central claim of this series, namely, that there is a theological divide between East and West. The point was common amongst the generation of Russian scholars whose ranks include Vladimir Lossky, Georges Florovsky, and Alexander Schmemann. These figures, and others of their ilk, were part of the generation expelled from Russia after the 1917 Revolution. Their movement to the West awakened them to (what they considered to be) a theological crisis that had been building for centuries within the Russian and Greek theological academies. In a word, they witnessed a crisis of syncretism, where Orthodox scholars were toying with Western ideas from Latin scholasticism, the Enlightenment, and both Roman Catholic and Protestant theology — the results being a “Western captivity” of the Orthodox Church. Lossky, Florovsky, and others saw these theologies as notably divergent from the pure Orthodox faith and thus took great pains to purge Orthodoxy of Western innovations, which required them to articulate in no uncertain terms the differences between the Christian East and the Christian West.
In recent years, however, this claim has become unfashionable in some academic and ecumenical circles. A number of scholars have grown critical of the view as unduly dichotomous, and the presumption about advocates of the divide is that their view is the product of outdated scholarship. However, such is not the source of my convictions.
Roughly the first two decades of my scholarship on the history of ideas was devoted to the history of Western thought. My research program began with Augustine of Hippo, recognizing him as the fountainhead of both Catholic and Protestant theology, and then spidered out from his work backwards into his pagan antecedents and forwards into his medieval, post-Reformation, and Modern recipients. My goals were purely historical, striving to understand the developments of Western thought generally and of Christianity specifically. Only at the twilight of this program did I stumble upon the Eastern Church fathers.
What first captured my attention about these thinkers was how alien their thought was to all of Latin theology. I knew I didn’t fully grasp what I was reading, but what I could see quite plainly was that Eastern patristic thought stood entirely outside of every Western system I had studied. This fact is what led me to delve deeply into these fathers with one simple goal — to understand. But the more I understood, the more I saw the vast differences between East and West. In short, my conviction that there is a great chasm between Eastern Christianity and Western Christianity was born from my study of the primary sources. I would only later discover writers like Lossky and others who concurred with my findings. But neither these scholars nor any contemporary Orthodox literature played a role in shaping my conviction about the East-West divide. For this reason, I simply cannot entertain the suggestion that the view is based on dated scholarship. For my own conviction was born, not from secondary literature, but from decades of studying the primary sources.
The natural question, of course, is why, if the divide is real, do some scholars oppose the claim? In reply, I see several factors at play, each of which takes aim at the same essential feature of the East-West dichotomy. That feature is this. All recognize that Western theology proliferates into a host of opposing theological systems, beginning in the medieval period and expanding exponentially with the Reformation — systems that ultimately give rise to opposing churches and denominations. But advocates of the East-West dichotomy see theological cohesion in the Christian East. In other words, the Christian West shares a handful of basic commitments about the nature of God, man, sin, and salvation, but they are divided on the theological specifics of their ramifications. In the Christian East, by contrast, there is both agreement on the commitments of Christianity and on the specifics of its doctrine, offering a cohesive theology and practice. The belief that the Eastern Church fathers stand in agreement, speaking with a single mind about a common faith is the claim that many oppose. Now, the natural question is why? Why would one oppose the claim that the Eastern fathers are in general agreement on matters of Christian doctrine?
The first explanation concerns the nature of contemporary scholarship. The modern academy thrives on specialization. Very few scholars today are what are pejoratively termed “generalists,” one who looks at the whole of the history of ideas. Instead, scholars are encouraged to specialize on a specific figure and even a specific aspect of that figure’s thought. The natural result is hyper-specialization with focus on minutia. Such granular work tends to amplify differences, even where no substantive difference exists. For example, a patrologist (one who specializes in the Church fathers) may spy a difference between Gregory of Nyssa and Gregory of Nazianzus on the ὑπόστασις doctrine — this being the Greek word translated “person” in reference to the Trinity. Why? Because Gregory of Nazianzus continues to use the word πρόσωπον (a word used by the Sabellians) when speaking about the Trinity, while Gregory of Nyssa abandons the term. Now, the observation is true — one of the Gregories rejects the word πρόσωπον with prejudice, while the other does not. But equally important is that Gregory of Nazianzus only ever uses πρόσωπον in conjunction with ὑπόστασις, so that his meaning is clear: He is not using the word in the Sabellian sense. The difference is one of linguistic caution, but it hardly constitutes a substantive difference in doctrine. Yet, such pedantry is the very thing that academic articles are made of — granular scholarship that amplifies subtlety and minutia that is often lost in larger surveys of ideas.
On this scholarly trend, I would say two things. The first is that it naturally leads scholars to prefer less cohesive perspectives. When one has devoted his life to memorizing every contour of every word uttered by a certain figure, the idiosyncrasies of that figure are naturally amplified in his mind, making it much easier to see that figure’s idiosyncrasies relative to the rest of the history of ideas. But the amplification is often a distortive myopia, producing greater difference in the mind of the specialist than really exists.
The second point I would add is this. While such minutia may appear to indicate a deeper grasp on the history of ideas, the opposite often occurs. Here’s why. Consider, for example, Epistle 38 in Basil of Caesarea’s corpus. This letter, which is the first to expound in detail the ὑπόστασις doctrine, is often attributed to Basil’s brother, Gregory of Nyssa. Most any article that cites the letter today likely notes the Gregorian attribution, and cites an article by Reinhold Hübner. Now, Hübner’s case is based on the presumption that Gregory of Nyssa has an Aristotelian view of substance, while his brother, Basil, has a Stoic view of substance. Since Epistle 38 presumes an Aristotelian view, the letter must belong to Gregory, not Basil. For my part, I disagree with Hübner’s assessment, but that’s neither here nor there. The more important point is this. You can find scholarly articles that attack an Aristelian reading of Epistle 38 but begin by citing Hübner for Gregorian authorship. The result is a contradiction. Now, why would a scholar make such a mistake? Simply put, the author probably has not read Hübner. He has simply conceded the majority opinion on Gregorian authorship. While this may appear to be laziness, it’s really a practicality. Hyper-specialization hinders a scholar’s ability to master things outside his specialization — there are, after all, only so many hours in the day. Shortcuts are inevitable and reliance on the state of scholarship in other areas is necessary. But what this means is that the specialists are not necessarily moving in a cohesive direction. Their work is compartmentalized, and their conclusions may well contradict one another. So, rather than specialization moving us toward a clearer picture of the history of ideas, the result is often the opposite: The broader understanding of the history of ideas is lost behind a cloud of fragmented and disjointed scholarly pedantry.
This trend in modern scholarship, I believe, is one explanation for why some scholars resist the type of East-West divide discussed by Lossky, Florovsky, Schmemann, and others. Specialists see it as too simplistic. Why? Because their hyper-specialization and granular focus leads them to deny any sense of cohesion across the Eastern Church fathers, seeing only idiosyncrasies and thus fragmentation. Yet, the claim of Lossky and other advocates of the East-West divide is quite the opposite: Despite idiosyncrasies and varied nuances, there is cohesion to Eastern patristic thought throughout the first millennium. Yes, we can find idiosyncrasies in these fathers. Yes, we find varied theological opinions on topics tangential to the Apostolic Faith. But in the essentials of the faith, we find cohesion across Eastern patristic thought.
To be sure, this is not to say that we do not find developments in Eastern patristic language — we certainly do. As we will see in the lectures on the Trinity, the language surrounding three persons and one essence develops over time. Such as the reason we find artifacts of the development of language like the aforementioned difference between the Gregories about whether to retain or wholly abandon a word tainted by the heretics. But the conviction of scholars like myself is that these developments are not changes in doctrine but linguistic refinements to help clarify the substance that is already present.
Now, as I said, my own study of the primary sources is what opened my eyes to the East-West divide, and it’s also what convinced me of the cohesion of thought in the Eastern Church fathers. But rather than appealing to my own assessment, allow me to appeal to another’s — to John of Damascus. John is an eighth-century Church father, who played a critical role within the iconoclast controversy that led to the Seventh Ecumenical Council. John produced two works worth noting in the present context. The first is The Fount of Knowledge, or his philosophical chapters. The second is On the Orthodox Faith — or An Exact Exposition of the Orthodox Faith. What is particularly notable about these works is that, in them, John records the consensus of the Eastern fathers before him, seeking to add nothing of his own thought. The Fount of Knowledge is essentially a patristic encyclopedia, explaining the meaning of terms as used by the fathers before him. On the Orthodox Faith moves systematically through the doctrines of the Christian faith, offering the consensus of the Eastern fathers on each topic. Such works indicate that John, himself a Church father, believes the Eastern fathers of the first eight centuries share consensus on terms, concepts, and doctrines of the Christian faith. — And to be sure, John is aware of varied opinions on specific questions, noting where opinions are several, but sees none of these as indicative of a substantive difference. — I point this out for one simple reason. The opinion of Lossky and others, like myself, that the Eastern Church fathers are of one mind on the essentials of the Christian faith is an opinion shared by one of the most important Church fathers of the eighth century. The consensus we see he sees as well — while standing much closer to the events, texts, and figures in question. So, for my part, I gladly cast my lot with John of Damascus over any contemporary scholar who might say otherwise.
A second explanation for the resistance, I believe, is its implications for other traditions. I trust it’s no secret that the Orthodox Church claims to be the True Church, established by Christ and his Apostles, and the keeper of the Apostolic Faith. Part of this claim is that the understanding of the Christian faith found in the Eastern Church fathers is present in the first century, indicating its Apostolic nature, and that this understanding was, in turn, handed down from one generation to the next, faithfully preserved by the Eastern fathers and the Ecumenical Councils. If the claim is true that these fathers and the Councils with them harbor a cohesive view of the Christian faith throughout the first millennium, then the claim that this understanding of Christianity is the Apostolic Faith becomes immediately plausible, if not likely.
For the Protestant, who harbors a very different picture of the Christian faith, the ramifications are unsettling. For this would seem to indicate that their view of Christianity is a later development, divergent from the faith of the Apostles and their Scriptures. Likewise, the ramifications are no less unsettling for the Roman Catholic. For if the development of Western theology is not only fragmented but developmental and at odds with the faith we find in the Eastern fathers, then the claim that Rome is the keeper of the Apostolic Faith, likewise, becomes suspect. Hence, there is good reason why Protestant and Catholic apologists attack the cohesion of Eastern patristic theology.
To catalogue and rebut the Protestant and Catholic polemics against Eastern Orthodoxy is beyond both the nature and scope of this series. But allow me a word about some general contours of these polemics.
Protestant attempts to chip away at the East-West dichotomy tend to search the Eastern fathers in an effort to find proof-texts for Protestant doctrines. For example, Protestant theology often harbors a very specific understanding of the atonement, which we will discuss in later lectures. Protestant apologists will, thus, search Eastern patristic texts in an effort to find passages that appear resonant with this doctrine, disputing the Eastern Orthodox reading of her own fathers. As will become evident in the lectures on atonement, however, such efforts display a superficial understanding of patristic literature. The Protestant takes for granted his definition of words like “sin” or “wrath” or “mediator” and imposes these meanings on the Eastern fathers, oblivious to the fact that these fathers have a very different lexicon. In addition, the Protestant is typically ignorant of other aspects of Eastern patristic thought, such as its view of providence, which make the proposed reading of these fathers impossible. In other words, the passages are stripped from the broader context of patristic theology. While rebutting such readings is not the concern of this series, the lectures to follow invariably shed light on why such polemics are problematic.
Perhaps surprisingly, I find something similar at work in Roman Catholic polemics. For example, when discussing the filioque — that is, whether the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father (the Orthodox view) or from the Father and the Son (the Catholic view) — Catholic apologists will often catalogue passages from the Eastern fathers that speak about the Holy Spirit proceeding from the Father through the Son as proof of the Catholic position. But such polemics fail to recognize the more fundamental disagreements about the doctrine of God and the Trinity that precede this question. Without acknowledging these more basic differences, the very same passage that requires dual procession from the Roman Catholic view is utterly irrelevant to the question for the Eastern Orthodox reader. Once again, while rebutting such readings is not the concern of these lectures, the sorts of fundamental differences to which I here refer will become evident throughout this series.
A second thing I would point out about Roman Catholic polemics is this. I often see within Catholic apologetics two claims that are at odds with one another. The first, as mentioned, is the insistence that there is no consensus in the Eastern Church fathers on the Apostolic Faith. Hence, the Orthodox claim to be the keepers of this faith is false. The second claim that is no less prominent is this: The Eastern Church fathers are in consensus on all of the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church. I raise this, not to voice cynicism (though I am cynical about such polemics), but to point out a scholarly trend that I find problematic, namely, the effort of some to Latinize the Eastern fathers. Such trends are sometimes subtle, such as misleading translations of Eastern patristic works, and sometimes not so subtle, such as scholarly works aimed at rereading Eastern fathers through a Latin lens. Suffice it to say that while I understand the impulse of such work, I think it a distortion of what we, in point of fact, find in the writings of the Eastern Church fathers.
Now, before we dive into the meat of this series, I want to first define some terms and concepts that will appear frequently throughout. Let’s begin with the terms East and West. If you know your Roman history you know there came a point when Rome had spread across the known world, and worries emerged about destabilization due to its vast span. So, in 293 A.D., Diocletian established the tetrarchy, which functionally divided the empire in half, East and West, each with its own rulers. Each half would later come to have two distinct capitals, Constantinople, established by Constantine (in the East), and Rome (the traditional, though not always functional, capital in the West). The regional and political divide also corresponded to a linguistic divide. The West largely spoke Latin, while the East spoke Greek — along with other languages, such as Syriac and Coptic. So, when we speak about Eastern and Western Christianity, we are referring to this regional and linguistic divine within the Roman Empire: That is to say, Christianity as it developed in the Latin West as contrasted with Christianity as developed in the East. This is why some speak about the Latin Church fathers (in the West) and the Greek Church fathers (in the East). The problem, of course, is that the East spoke more than just Greek — hence, my preference for the term “Eastern Church fathers.”
Now, this brushes against another term: What is meant by the term “Church father”? The way I’ll be using the term in this series is specifically for those writers of the first millennium who are significant to the formulation of the theology of the Church. The most obvious representatives are those figures (later deemed Saints) who played a part in putting down an ecumenical heresy. For example, the first major ecumenical heresy was Arianism, named for Arius of Alexandria, which argued that the Son of God is not divine but a creature. The position was opposed by Athanasius (amongst others), whose stance was vindicated at the Council of Nicea, leading to the first draft of the Nicene Creed. Athanasius and other defenders of the Apostolic faith — such as the Cappadocians, Cyril of Alexandria, Maximus the Confessor, and John of Damascus — are obvious examples of Church fathers.
However, the early Church also includes amongst its fathers Saints who played no part in quelling a heresy but nonetheless were beacons of lived Christianity. The Desert Fathers are the most obvious example. These fathers are so named because they retreated to the desert in order to put to death the passions, embodying renunciation of the world, the mortification of the passions, and complete devotion to God in ceaseless prayer. Yes, such monastics would, from time to time, find themselves pulled from their caves to aid in putting to death a heresy, but such was not required for these to be deemed fathers of the Church. Hence, the annals of the Church fathers is not limited to those apologists and theologians who championed orthodoxy over heresy, but includes those Saints who championed orthodoxy by way of their Saintly example.
Two brief asides on the Church fathers are worth noting before we continue. The first is that the Orthodox Church does not limit the fathers of the Church to the first millennium. However, as an academic convention of those who study the fathers, such a cutoff is often used — hence the use of the term in this series. A second aside concerns a string of words you might periodically hear in this series, namely, “patrology,” “patristics,” or “patristic thought.” Patrology, and its cognates, refers to the formal study of the Church fathers — derived from the Latin for father, pater, which mirrors the Greek, pateros (πατέρος).
Now, outside of these Church fathers, we have authors who occupy a middle space, figures we might label early Christian “writers” instead of fathers. Clement of Alexandria is a good example. Clement is neither a heretic nor is he a canonized Saint, typically counted amongst the Church fathers. Yet, he’s a figure of great significance. Why? Because his writings preserve a great deal of early Christian thought and practice. Hence, his writings offer an important and reliable testimony to early Christianity, even if his own thoughts are not treated with the same level of authority as the fathers of the Church. Other anonymous works could also be placed in this category, such as the Protoevangelium of James or the Gospel of Nicodemus, works that are neither authoritative nor heretical, but are examples of early Christian literature, which preserve early Christian traditions.
One figure within this middle space that merits a word all his own is Origen of Alexandria. Origen was a brilliant Christian writer and apologist, whose influence is significant. Yet, even his admirers admit that Origen toyed with ideas that were heterodox, at best, and heretical, at worst. Hence, his legacy is mixed. The great fathers, Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nazianzus, assembled the Philokalia of Origen, a collection of approved passages from his writings, because of their value. Yet, Origen’s teachings also bore bad fruit, yielding a host of “Origenists” who espoused doctrines that the Church would condemn as heretical at Constantinople II. To be sure, Origen himself was not a heretic, since the poisonous fruit that grew out of his works would not be condemned until long after his repose. Nonetheless, his writings occupy a peculiar middle ground of being undeniably important, while also requiring a great deal of discernment, given the mixed bag of his legacy.
Now, since the word “heretic” has now emerged, it seems suitable to address the term. Some tend to use words like “orthodoxy” and “heresy” to mean “I strongly agree” and “I strongly disagree” or “I think that’s biblical” and “I think that’s unbiblical.” In this series, however, I’ll be using these words in a more technical sense. The word “heresy” comes from the Greek word for choice, hairesis (αἵρεσις). The word choice is important. The term does not merely indicate an incorrect idea, but rather a false teaching that the Church has identified as contrary to the faith of the Apostles and yet is chosen nonetheless. This is why I say Origen is not a heretic. He toyed with ideas that would be deemed contrary to the faith and condemned as heresy — a warning to any who might choose such doctrines. But Origen himself never faced such a choice; only his later followers did.
As for the term “orthodoxy,” the word indicates right belief or judgment. Hence, the contrast between heresy and orthodoxy is the contrast between right belief and the choice to embrace falsehood. My use of these terms within this series will be strictly historical. Arianism, for example, claims that the Son of God is not divine but a creature. The teaching was condemned as heresy at Nicea, the First Ecumenical Council — and Arius was thus condemned as a heretic. The position of Athanasius, which the council upheld, is thus the orthodox position — which is to say, the position Nicea determines and proclaims to be the faith of the Apostles. Such statements are historical facts, regardless of what one personally believes. This historical sense of these terms will be the sense used throughout this series.
Of course, “Orthodoxy” can also be used in reference to Eastern Orthodox Christianity or the Eastern Orthodox Church. However, I will rarely speak about the teachings of the Orthodox Church. In this series, my Eastward focus will be on the teachings of the Eastern fathers. Yes, such teachings are advocated by the Orthodox Church, but my discussion of Eastern Christianity is patristic in orientation. To avoid confusion, then, I will avoid the term Orthodoxy, in this ecclesial sense, referring instead to Eastern Orthodoxy or Eastern Christianity or the Eastern Orthodox Church.
Before moving on, a word should be said about what the Christian East refers to as theologoumenon (θεολογούμενον). This term refers to ideas that are neither orthodox nor heretical, representing instead a permissible theological opinion. Important to recognize is that the Church fathers are not always uniform in their thinking. By way of example, can fallen angels repent? Restricting the question to the Eastern fathers, the clear majority think No. But we do find exceptions. Nemesius of Emesa believes they could have repented for a season, but that window is now closed. Pseudo-Dionysius thinks corruption can never be permanent, since it is a divergence from proper formation; as such, it has no end at which it aims and in which it might rest. And St. Isaac the Syrian not only believes fallen angels can repent but will one day repent. Now, there are boundaries established by the Ecumenical Councils that restrict what one might say on this topic. But within these boundaries, we find a spectrum of positions, all permissible. Hence, not every teaching falls to either orthodoxy or heresy; some fall in a middle space of permissible opinion — which is to say, an opinion that avoids heresy and is compatible with but not required by the Apostolic faith. Such is theologoumenon.
Now, my mention of the Ecumenical Councils brings us to a further term in need of explanation. Throughout the history of the Church, gatherings of deacons, presbyters (or priests), and episcopates (or bishops) were common. We see this as early as the book of Acts with the Apostolic council in Jerusalem, which adjudicates whether gentile converts should abide by Jewish Law. Such an assembly was common in the early Church — regional clergy gathering to adjudicate a theological issue or provide spiritual guidance. But the Ecumenical Councils were unique. These gatherings were so named because they concern the “whole house” (οἰκουμενικός) — that is, the members of the worldwide Church.
These Ecumenical Councils were occasioned by controversies about the Apostolic faith that grew to such influence that they required a gathering of the entire Church — clergy from East and West — to adjudicate the matter. The first of these was occasioned by the Arian dispute, previously mentioned, which led to the Council of Nicea (in 325 A.D.). Despite the decision of the council, the controversy did not die and new versions of Arianism continued to arise in its wake, leading to the next Ecumenical Council, the Council of Constantinople (in 381 A.D.). Seven such gatherings occurred within the first millennium of the Church, prior to the Great Schism between East and West. Hence, when speaking about the Ecumenical Councils in this series, I’ll be referring to these seven gatherings.
Now, I mentioned the Great Schism, which we’ll return to momentarily. But first, three points of note are worth mentioning about these seven assemblies. The first concerns the unique authority of these councils. Local and regional councils were not deemed binding for the entire Church. Some local councils would be ratified and accepted by the Ecumenical Councils, but often, local or regional decisions would be overturned. In other words, local judgments were subordinate to the judgment of the whole house.
A second point concerns how the Ecumenical Councils themselves were understood. Councils were never treated as a formula for infallible judgment, as if a certain number of clergy gathered in one place yields unimpeachable truth. As Georges Florovsky points out, the Ecumenical Councils were seen as charismatic events, having to do with moments in which God led his Church in all truth, as Christ promised to do, preserving the Apostolic faith. And truth be told, looking at the history of the Councils, you can see why: Often, the colluding political and clerical powers look as if they might win the day against the Apostolic faith, only to see the faith of the fathers prove victorious by what can only be deemed a work of providence.
A third point concerns the Apostolic faith itself. Neither the Church fathers nor the Ecumenical Councils see themselves as theological inventors or innovators. The controversies that occasion the Councils are never treated as new questions in need of fresh theological insights. Instead, the question of the Councils is always, What did we receive? When considering, for example, the dispute between Arius and Athanasius over whether the Son of God is divine or created, the question concerns the Apostolic faith: Who accurately represents the faith we received, Arius or Athanasius? And this is why the proclamation of the Councils is always: This is the faith of the Apostles; this is the faith of the fathers. The concern is “tradition” in the true sense of the Greek word παράδοσις, meaning something handed down from one generation to the next — in this case, the faith once given over to the Saints, to quote St. Jude.
Allow me two additional terms before turning to the Great Schism. Often, theologians will speak about “Nicene Trinitarianism” and “Chalcedonian Christology.” These terms are shorthand for the orthodox understanding of the Trinity and of Christology. We’ll delve into the specifics of these doctrines in later lectures, but for now, let it suffice that Nicea and Chalcedon are two of the Ecumenical Councils. The Council of Nicea, already mentioned, affirms that the Son of God is divine, being of the same nature as God the Father. This council also occasioned the first draft of the Nicene Creed. The Creed would later be expanded into the form said today (minus the filioque) at the Council of Constantinople, which not only affirmed the divinity of Christ but also codified the Trinitarian formula of three persons of one essence. Hence, “Nicene Trinitarianism” is shorthand for the orthodox understanding of the Trinity, memorialized in the Nicene Creed.
Chalcedonian Christology is named for the fourth ecumenical council, Chalcedon, which offers the most complete formulation of the Incarnation. Put simply, Christ is fully God and fully human, and these two natures are unconfused in one person. To be sure, the doctrines of Trinity and Christology are addressed in all Seven Councils: Nicene Trinitarianism is not limited to the declarations of Nicea, nor is Chalcedonian Christology restricted to the proclamations of Chalcedon. Rather, as I said, these terms are shorthand for the orthodox understanding of the Trinity and Christology, which are fleshed out in all Seven Councils, along with the writings of the fathers.
Now, I mentioned the Great Schism. This term refers to the rift between the Eastern and the Western Churches, when the regional and linguistic divide became a formal break in communion between the two. This schism is typically dated to 1054 A.D., marking the end of the unity of the Church in the first millennium. The labels “Eastern Orthodoxy” and “Roman Catholicism” thus signify this divide: Eastern Orthodoxy being the churches of the East, while Roman Catholicism is the church of West.
Worth noting is that the 1054 schism was not immediately viewed as definitive; both East and West harbored hope for reconciliation. The solidifying blow came later with the Sack of Constantinople in 1204 A.D. The Eastern Roman Empire had requested military aid from the West against the invading Ottomans, but instead of receiving help, the Western forces of the Fourth Crusade invaded and sacked the Eastern capital. This betrayal effectively destroyed any remaining optimism for mending the relationship between the two churches.
While there were both political and theological favors in the divide, our concern in this series is the theological side. The most famous theological point of contention is the filioque — mentioned earlier. This Latin term translates to “and the Son,” a clause the Western Church added to the Nicene Creed in reference to the Holy Spirit’s procession. In other words, the Western Church now proclaimed that the Holy Spirit “proceeds from the Father [and the Son] (filioque),” while the East maintained the original text — “who proceeds from the Father.”
The problem with the addition was twofold. First, the Eastern Church rejected the claim, believing dual procession to be theologically false. But the second problem was no less important. The Pope of Rome did not have unilateral authority to alter the Creed of the Church. Historically, the five great papal seats (sometimes called “the Pentarchy”) were considered equals, and the authority for defining universal doctrine resided in the Ecumenical Councils, not in any single bishop, such as the Pope of Rome. The Roman Pope’s act of changing the Creed signified an assertion of supremacy over the other patriarchates, an assertion the Eastern Churches rejected as contrary to the established tradition and structure of the Church. Hence, even if the filioque were true (which the East denied), its unilateral addition by a single pontiff would be no less theologically problematic.
The above discussion requires a word about the terms “papal” or “pontiff” or “pope.” The term papal derives from the Latin papa, which means “tutor” in classical Latin. Within medieval Latin, however, the word comes to signify a bishop, and specifically the bishop of Rome. For this reason, most who hear the word today think of Roman Catholicism and the bishop or “Pope” of Rome. What far fewer realize, however, is that the Pope of Rome was one of five Popes within the early Church. These five Popes or Patriarchates (as called in the East) formed the Pentarchy, the five primary seats of episcopal authority within the ancient Christian Church. The Roman Patriarchate was the sole Patriarchate in the Western half of the Empire, while the other four Patriarchates resided in the East.
These five seats of episcopal authority were first established by the Apostles themselves in Rome, Alexandria, Antioch, Jerusalem, and Constantinople. The significance of these places is obvious. Rome was the traditional capital of the Western Empire, while Constantinople would later be established as the capital in the East. Jerusalem had obvious spiritual significance. Antioch was the first place where Christ’s followers were called Christians. And Alexandria was the intellectual heart of the Hellenistic world for both philosophy and theology. But more important than all of this was the fact that the Apostles themselves established these seats of episcopal authority. According to tradition, both Rome and Antioch were established by Peter. Constantinople was established by Andrew. Jerusalem was established by James, and Alexandria by Mark. Hence, the Pentarchy refers to these five Apostolic seats of episcopal authority. And amongst these five, the respective capitals of East and West — Rome and Constantinople — came to be held in highest esteem.
Now, as noted, the Pope of Rome was the sole Apostolic seat in the West. Hence, when the Great Schism between East and West occurs, the West proceeds with only a single Patriarchate with claim to Apostolic succession, which is why Westerners think solely of Rome when calling to mind the succession of Apostolic authority. Yet, the Patriarchate of Rome is only one of many ancient seats, all of which continue to this day.
The point brings us to the concept of Apostolic Succession. The concept, in short, is that Christ gave to his Apostles unique authority to build his Church, not only preaching the gospel and administering the sacraments, but also establishing the authorities of the visible Church — ordaining bishops, priests, and deacons. The aforementioned five seats were seen as representative of this Apostolic authority. Hence, those bishops chosen to occupy these seats were seen as successors to the Apostles, occupying a unique position of authority over the Church — hence, Apostolic Succession. The doctrine is an ancient one. We see, for example, that Irenaeus of Lyons (the disciple of Polycarp who was the disciple of the Apostle John) recounts the unbroken chain of episcopal authority from the Apostles to those bishops who occupy their seat in his own day.
Important to understand is that Apostolic Succession was never understood in a strictly administrative sense. Rather, the doctrine was inherently Incarnational. We will explore the point at greater length in our lectures on ecclesiology. But suffice it to say here that the early Christian understood the work of Christ as ontological in nature. The Son of God took on flesh for the purpose of healing our nature by placing it in communion with his divinity. The purpose of the Church is to spread that healing throughout the world. Such healing is not disembodied, as if it were a mere idea. Rather, much like the way Christ heals our nature by union with it, or heals the leper by touching his flesh, so the Church is an organism, spread by union with Christ. Christ does not simply declare his Apostles to be administrative representatives. Instead, he breathes on them, giving them a share of his power, his grace, and his Spirit. And these unite others to Christ by burying them in baptism, by eating and drinking of his life-giving flesh and blood. And likewise, ordination — the establishment of clergy empowered to administer these incarnate realities — are ordained by the laying on of hands, giving to them a share of this same authority and grace. Apostolic Succession, then, was not seen as a mere matter of governance, but as a spiritual reality: The authority and grace of Christ being transferred to his Apostles and from his Apostles to others, as his Church spreads like a living organism throughout space and time. Unless one understands this incarnate understanding of the Church, he can’t understand the doctrine.
Now, since we’ve touched on the concept of an episcopate (or bishop), let’s briefly discuss the structure of the Christian Church in the first millennium. We see there a common structure, characterized by three clerical ranks: bishops (or episcopates), priests (or presbyters), and deacons. Within this structure, Christ is the head of the Church, and the bishop is the earthly representative of Christ upon the earth. The bishop ordains priests and deacons, who are extensions of the bishop — these being his hands, as it were, ministering to the people. The priest tends to the sacramental, theological, and pastoral needs of the people, while the deacons assist the priest in the liturgy and the bishop in tending to the administrative and charitable needs of the people. Such are the basics of the bishop-priest-deacon structure of the Church.
This structure is still visible today in Eastern Orthodoxy, Roman Catholicism, and Anglicanism. But the question, of course, is when this structure emerged? Was this structure present during the Apostolic era? Or was it a later invention? While this basic structure is present from the start, there are developments in both terminology and logistics of governance over time. Let’s begin with the terminological developments.
Early on, in both the New Testament and in the Apostolic fathers (which is to say, those fathers who knew the Apostles), we find that the Greek term for “priest” (πρεσβύτερος) is applied to both priests and bishops. We can see this, for example, in the writings of Paul as well as in Ignatius of Antioch. The fact has led some to suggest that there was no difference between bishops and priests in the early Church. But the conclusion is fallacious. Yes, both bishops and priests were presbyters, but not all presbyters were bishops, or episcopates (ἐπίσκοποι). The reason is that bishops had the power to ordain, elevating a person to the status of priest or deacon. This unique authority thus differentiated non-ordaining presbyters from ordaining presbyters — which is to say, priests from bishops — while also creating a natural hierarchy.
Later, for the sake of clarity, the terms would become more rigid in their application. But important to understand is that this development in language was not a shift in theology. The language of the early Church changes often in an effort to clarify some aspect of its lived faith. We’ll see this when discussing the Trinity, for example. Prior to the Council of Constantinople, the Greek terms translated “persons” and “essence” did not carry the meaning assigned by the Church fathers. But because of confusion in the wake of the Council of Nicea, the Church fathers saw a need to differentiate two Greek words that were previously synonyms for the sole purpose of clarifying this doctrine. And this is far from the only example from the first millennium. So it is with the terms bishop and priest. The linguistic refinement is meant to more plainly differentiate those who could ordain from those who could not, along with the hierarchy this difference signifies. But this difference was already present in the Church.
Now, where we do find development is in the matter of episcopal jurisdictions. From the start, ordaining bishops had care over the clergy they ordained and thus over the communities in their care. But we must remember that the earliest days of Christianity were lived in hiding, which meant that episcopal jurisdictions were often small, overseeing a cloistered and persecuted community. As Christianity grew and became more public, we find commensurate growth of episcopal jurisdictions with more formalized governance.
The natural structure of the Church is that Christ is its head, with the Patriarchates serving as successors to his Apostles — these overseeing the largest jurisdictions. And within these jurisdictions, we find bishops, ordained by the Patriarchates and are subordinate to them, each one overseeing his own smaller jurisdiction. These sub-jurisdictions were typically over a major town or “mother city” (μητρόπολις). Hence, these bishops were Metropolitans (μητροπολίτης), or citizens of a metropolis. These Metropolitan bishops were overseers of the clergy and churches in that specific city, and the scope of their authority was generally determined by the civil borders of the day. Notice that within this structure, there is no single head over the Church other than Christ. Each episcopate is entrusted with a jurisdiction — the Patriarchtes holding care over the broadest regions, which contain various cities whose care is entrusted to a Metropolitan, under whom are various priests and deacons.
Before we close this introductory lecture, a final word is in order about the confession in the Nicene Creed that we believe in one holy, catholic, and apostolic Church. We have already touched on the early Christian understanding of the Apostolic nature of the Church. But a word should be said about the word “catholic” (καθολικός). For most today, the term Catholic calls to mind the Roman Catholic Church. But such is not the meaning in the Creed. The word καθολικός comes from the Greek words κατά and ὅλος — that is, concerning the whole. The term indicates both that the Church is one, but also that the faith that the Church received and preserves is whole and complete, lacking nothing. Such is the conviction, already discussed, of the Ecumenical Councils, whose sole question is “What did we receive?” For the faith they received lacks nothing. The question, of course, is what is this faith? And as we will see in the lectures to follow, the Christian East and Christian West offer very different answers.
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