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At one time the west and the east shared, largely, a common view of the role of ascetic practice. Even after the Reformation, The Church of England retained in her Prayer Book a clear list of days of fasting and abstinence, even if Queen Elizabeth I only added Wednesday to the existing Friday as a day for fish rather than flesh meat in order to help an ailing fishing industry! For all sorts of reasons, however, this inheritance has fallen by the way and is rarely considered within Anglicanism for all intents and purposes. Similarly, the Roman Catholic Church has only two days, now, in its calendar which are obligatory days of fasting and abstinence. I do not intend, of course, by citing these two examples, to suggest some idea of spiritual decline in the western churches; still less to draw odious comparisons with Orthodoxy. Nevertheless, it seems clear to me that their spiritualities have moved in different directions for reasons I do not have space to explore here. I wish, rather, to examine the approach of the Eastern Church to this question of ascetic spirituality and to show how its raison d’etre is firmly rooted in both the Orthodox approach towards Theology, or, more exactly, anthropology: her understanding of the human condition; and, secondly, the Orthodox understanding of Salvation: of how we are restored to lasting communion with our Creator.

There is a danger inherent in any ascetic practice, any form of self-denial in order to achieve a higher, more spiritual goal that we might lapse into Puritanism on the one hand: an instinctive horror of anything natural; or, on the other, into dualistic gnosticism: a world view that sees the spiritual sphere as wholly opposed and unrelated to the material world.

It will not surprise you, perhaps, that I wish to suggest that Orthodox Christianity as, indeed the Apostolic Christianity of the primitive period of the Church, knows nothing of this dichotomy. Sure, there have been strands of Gnosticism and Puritanism nibbling at the edges of Orthodoxy – that may be found in any form of Christianity, but they are aberrations or, more properly, temptations. They are both, paradoxically, of course, types of worldliness, if you consider them carefully; forms of obsession and reaction against the human condition in this world. Neither engages with the world in order to save and transfigure it. They merely run away in opposite directions: one into a spiritual fantasy which sees this life as an illusion; the other seeks protection within repressive walls of Jericho. For both, the world is essentially an evil place from which you either flee or take shelter.

The title of this article is of course a reference to Genesis1:26. The biblical story and proclamation portrays the archetypal Man as a perfection, He, and his counterpart and completion, woman, are hypostases, that is, persons, sharing therein a moral value rooted in the triple-personhood of the Godhead. Adam, in his primal creation, exists in his spiritual body and is part of the good creation, made ex nihilo: out of nothing. And he exists, moreover, in paradise. Yet in his creation he is given freedom of will to be himself. But Man’s self-will is not an accident; it is not inevitable: it is a tragedy. It is from the fall of man that this gross body that we know, and this world as we know it, results. The liturgy of St. Basil, the eucharistic service normally served on the Sundays of Great Lent in Orthodox churches, proclaims in the Anaphora (eucharistic prayer):

There is no fundamentalism in the Orthodox understanding of scripture. The book of Genesis is not a primitive attempt at Palaeontology; it is a theological understanding of the relationship between God and mankind. Man was created in paradise, from which he was banished; he was not made in this world that we experience. The world, as we know it, has been changed by our sin. Man, the person, the conscious being, the only creature both part of, yet alongside this world, who can, by his reason, make sense of the beauty of creation, enters this world afresh with each birth, yet bringing with his own nature, an alienation, for our fall has disfigured the world, so that it has become this realm of nature, ‘red in tooth and claw’ and subject to death, which is not the intention of God. Death was not the intention of God, though now, at least, it sets a limit on the evil men may do upon the earth and under the sun. The beauty and cycles of life that we witness around us now come at a price: change, death and decay, evolution and circumstance, the laws of physics and chaos theory bring to the human person an experience of life which, at its heart, bears an estrangement from what we are meant to be. It is this very dissatisfaction that is the very symptom of our primal felix culpa – the ‘happy fault’ that brought so great a Redeemer.

It is important here, though, to realise that, from the Orthodox perspective, the fall of man, as a biblical concept, is not a tumultuous plummeting into the depths of degradation; this is not the utter depravity of man found in Calvin. This idea is rooted in Augustine of Hippo, the prime mover of Western Theology, who perceived something called ‘Original Sin’ being passed on through the natural reproductive process; something with which we all become tainted in the course of nature. Eastern Theology, on the other hand, sees the Fall as a stumbling, an error, even if bearing tragic results. Yet this state is something that we now possess through being human by nature (essence), rather than a kind of guilt passed on in the course of nature, i.e. by the sexual act of our own progenitors.

How, therefore, is man restored, becomes the theological problem that we face. In the Fall, man has not lost, in Orthodox thinking, the image of God; it has, rather, been covered up by the present human condition in this world. We have, however, certainly lost the second part of the biblical description: the likeness of God. It is precisely because we would become like God, knowing good and evil, that we lost paradise, lest we spoil that too. Banished, as St. Basil says, into this world, the aim of our life is to work out our own salvation in fear and trembling, rediscovering the image, that is the icon of God within ourselves and one another and to restore the primal likeness of God. We are to be like God, not just as the persons – the individual consciousnesses that we are, but also to acquire by grace the nature, the essence of God. As St. Peter says: (II Peter 1:3-4)

This brings us to the very heart of the Orthodox understanding of what it means to be human and what our calling is, in the mind of the philanthropic God. The purpose of our life is not merely the beatific vision of God, but to become God: deification, theosis. As St. Athanasius says:

"He (Christ) assumed a human body, that, having renewed it as its creator, he might deify it in himself…" (Contra Arianos)

And again:

"The Word was made man in order that we might be made divine." (De Incarnatione)

The west has been very reticent in saying this. It is almost as if there has been a retreat here from the original vision. There has been, at the very least, a lowering of the sights. Is it rooted, yet again, in that love affair with Augustine of Hippo and his theology of guilt? Even liturgically, there is a hesitance to call Christ God. Western liturgies refer, rather, to ‘Christ our Lord’ whereas, in the eastern liturgies, there is a frequent and unambiguous reference to ‘Christ our God.’ Why the circumlocution? Is there a lingering Manichean horror at the thought of the divine nature sharing in the utter depravity of man’s fleshly life? (Once again, you might wish to blame Augustine…)

It is for this reason that the Fathers of the Church during the first four centuries had to battle so vehemently to preserve what they perceived as the apostolic vision in considering the nature, or rather, the natures of Christ. If we are to be fully saved the Redeemer had to become fully like us: of one essence with us in his humanity, but at the same time, had to be fully divine: of one essence with the Father, that he might restore our union with God, totally. Anything less, such as the heretical Arian idea of Christ being a creation of the Father, (not one eternally begotten before time,) would not do. How could such a creature enable us to share the divine nature, as in the quotation from St. Peter cited above?

How then, does Orthodoxy deal with the human person, baptised and restored to a relationship to God, yet still bound by time in this world and yet subject to that natural death that comes to all? In other words, passing over the restoration and cleansing of the image of God, brought about by the regeneration of Baptism, how precisely do we achieve this likeness to God.

The corporate, sacramental role of the mysteries we shall deal with in the very last article in this series. But I want to talk now of more personal spirituality, grounded in monastic experience, that has been the foundation of Orthodox asceticism. Here, I shall deal with what exactly is Orthodox ascetic practice; secondly, what problems in the human condition does it deal with; and thirdly, what are its intended effects?

Orthodox spirituality from the outset, rejects Palagianism – the idea that we must strive to save ourselves by our own efforts alone. Similarly, it rejects the opposite extreme, particularly articulated in the ideas of Calvin, that we are utterly dependent upon grace alone for salvation. The relationship is rather that of a co-operation between divine grace and human effort. We call this Synergy (Sunergeia), as St. Paul says: "We are fellow-workers (Sunergoi) with God [I Cor.3:9] So, it seems, God stands at our door, knocking, but does not beat his way in! He waits for us to open, although initiation and vocation come firstly from him. So, from the start, Orthodox spirituality demands great effort and a commitment to a practice that many might find daunting. Yet, we know that human efforts always fall short of the glory of God and all good works require divine grace to bring them to their consummation and perfection.

I do not wish to treat of any specific forms of prayer and almsgiving at this point. In one sense these are obvious components of any spirituality and, in particular, of Lenten practice, in all Christian traditions. There is though, regarding prayer, much that may be said about postures and gestures which, in themselves, are symbolic in a very dynamic sense and add, to the recitation of words and thoughts, a fully sacramental character. Prayer, in other words, can and must be physical as well as mental and spiritual.

Firstly, the Orthodox stand! Yet so did the western Christians before the invention of pews around the Reformation and only the weak ‘went to the wall…’ Yes, there are times in the services when people will sit and we are not talking here about making impossible demands on the elderly and infirm. But to stand is to be risen with Christ. In fact, traditionally in my own Patriarchate of Antioch, it is forbidden to kneel on a Sunday under normal circumstances, as also during the forty days of Pascha, that is Easter. Kneeling is used, but rarely, as in the Kneeling Prayer at Pentecost, at the Prayer of Absolution in Confession in the Russian tradition and at Ordination. But standing is the normal position for prayer and has entered into the spirituality of Orthodox Christians.

Secondly, there is the penitential gesture: the Metanoia, performed on coming into church, when venerating an icon or in various prayers, such as the Trisagion, the Thrice Holy. It is a bow from the waist, properly made with the palm of the right hand turned to face forward and touching the floor. The sign of the cross is made first, in the Orthodox manner, though in my own Antiochian tradition we make the sign of the cross as we rise. Again, though, there is no compulsion and such actions are made at others times according to the inclination of the worshipper. One of the key factors of Orthodox worship is that, although it is rooted in a social milieu and is a corporate act, yet the believers exhibit a relaxed informality within the traditional ritual. They will cross themselves frequently, particularly if wishing to identify with a certain petition in a Litany for example, or if commemorating before God someone for whom they promised to pray. The absence of pews adds greatly to the freedom of movement for any who enter an Orthodox Church building, or temple, as it is quite properly called.

The third noticeable gesture is that of the full prostration, where the sign of the cross is made and the worshipper falls to their knees, then touches the forehead to the ground. This is a marked feature of Great Lent and has a particular place in the Prayer of St. Ephraim. This beautiful act of devotion, frequently recited in Lenten prayers and services, involves a prostration after each of the three petitions of the prayer. Twelve metaneias (see above) are then performed, followed by a repeat of the prayer with one prostration at the end.

The one ascetic practice which is, perhaps, the most difficult feature of Orthodox spirituality (and probably, the one most talked about amongst the orthodox themselves,) is that of fasting. It is interesting to hear western Christian commentators talking about the origin of certain western traditions and, particularly, in mentioning certain practices, to hear them talking in the past tense: Shrove Tuesday was when people used to…; during Lent people used to… Well, Eastern Christians still do… Orthodox Christians observe Lent with a vigour that might horrify many of our western brethren.

From the start here it must be stressed that any rules were made for full-time ascetics and monks; those who had retired from the world and it is fair to say that lay people and even clergy, obliged to earn their livings, will adapt the ideal to suit their individual circumstances when necessary under the guidance of their spiritual father. Nevertheless, the idea of the fast is a living reality among us, connected, as it is, with our most basic needs and confronting, as it does, one of our most stultifying human passions.

All Orthodox spirituality is in part directed as a spiritual warfare, combating the passions: that is, those all too human driving forces which drag the soul back into a world of false comfort and ephemera. The early monastic fathers defined these passions which, if yielded to, lead towards the deadly sins: pride, gluttony, envy, lust, anger etc. This scientific approach to the battle against sin and its careful psychological analysis, so skilfully expounded in that gem of orthodox monastic spirituality, The Philokalia, pins the blame firmly on the still virulent danger, encountered by Adam in the paradisial state; that of Prelest (Rus.) or Planh (Gr.), meaning beguilement resulting in wandering astray. The adamic sin itself was that of breaking the commandment not to eat something: the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The fast, therefore, kept during Great Lent is designed, in one sense, to take us back to the paradise of Eden where Adam and Eve eat a simple, vegan diet before the Fall. The slaying of animals for meat followed upon the expulsion.

In simplified terms, the rule for Great Lent lays down a vegan diet, no animal flesh, not even fish is eaten. This means no milk, eggs, cheese or other dairy products. In practice, though, shellfish are eaten, whilst fish only on the feast of the Annunciation and the Sunday of Palms before Holy and Great Week. Similarly, wine and other kinds of alcohol are not drunk, nor is olive oil used, though other vegetable oils are, in practice. However, on Saturdays and Sundays and certain feast days, olive oil and alcohol are permitted.

The flesh meat fast begins eight weeks before Pascha (Easter), followed by a week called Cheesefare. The fast proper begins on the Monday and lasts then, forty days, to be followed by Holy and Great Week. Fasting on Holy and Great Friday (Good Friday) is particularly severe with a tradition of eating nothing till the stars appear. For some with the strength, especially in monasteries, during Great Lent, food might be taken only once a day.

As well as Great Lent there is a six week fast before Christmas; a two week fast before the Feast of the Dormition of the Virgin Mary (15^th August) and a short fast before the feast of the Apostles S.S. Peter and Paul (29^th June). The Beheading of St. John the Baptist (29^th August) and the Exaltation of the Holy Cross (14^th September), similarly, are days of fasting. Most Wednesdays and Fridays are also regarded as regular days for the observance of a vegan diet. To this list, however, I should add that in my own Antiochian tradition there is no fasting during the forty days after Pascha. Finally, before Holy Communion, Orthodox should observe an absolute fast. In normal practice thus eucharistic fast would begin at midnight if one were receiving communion the following morning.

What are we to make of all this? I must end by way of explanation that no one can keep these rules to perfection, which is just as well. It be observed, quite properly, that anyone who did would be so full of spiritual pride that they would undo in their souls any virtue derived from the fast! The point is, Orthodox spirituality sets for us an impossible goal at which to aim. We aim and we miss, but we do try; we are meant to strive. What is lacking in our own efforts is completed by God’s grace, and step by step, year by year, we chip away at that false self, whilst the image of Christ is sculpted within through the ascetic struggle. Instead of setting a few simple regulations that all must keep, and indeed succeed and be satisfied with that, the wisdom of the Eastern Church has guided us to aim impossibly high so that, although we fail, we are drawn upward beyond the comfortable which challenges no one.

It is the Orthodox contention following, for example, the teaching of St. Serafim of Sarov that the purpose of the Christian life is to acquire the Holy Spirit. He is gained by keeping Christ’s commandments, in loving one another and by ascetic struggle: the daily battle against the self.

‘The way of God is a daily cross,’ said St. Isaac the Syrian. ‘No one has ascended into heaven through an easy life.’

Fr. Chrysostom MacDonell

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