In defense of icon veneration

    In my some of my recent posts, I’ve written about some of the considerations that drew me to Eastern Orthodoxy – the weakness of sola scriptura, the history of the liturgy, and apostolic succession. [1] I’ve also been writing about the theology and Christology of the first six ecumenical councils, since the rich theological tradition of the Church Fathers is incredibly compelling to me. [2] In this post, I’ll bring these themes together by discussing a topic that both drew me to Orthodoxy and was the subject of the seventh ecumenical council: iconography and icon veneration. Based on the common refrain of the Fathers that “the honor rendered to the image passes to the prototype,” icon veneration can be broadly defined as acts of honor done toward a material representation in order to reverence the heavenly reality represented.

    Here, I’ll be drawing on sources from the Iconoclasm – the 8th and 9th-century Byzantine controversy over icon veneration – and earlier, to try and answer three questions: Is icon veneration biblical? Is icon veneration consistent with orthodoxy? And is icon veneration apostolic (i.e., can be traced back to the earliest days of the Church)? The main iconophile sources that I’m drawing upon are pope Adrian I of Rome’s letter to the Roman emperors Irene and Constantinople VI (JE 2448); the acts of the council of Nicaea II (especially sessions 4–6) [3]; St John of Damascus’ Treatises on the Divine Images; and St Theodore the Studite’s On the Holy Icons.

Scripture

    “You shall not make for yourself an idol or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or on the earth below, or in the waters under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or serve them, for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God” (Exod 20:4-5; Deut 5:8-9). This commandment was one of the favorite prooftexts of the iconoclasts, and in response, the iconophiles pointed out that it was part of the Old Covenant and meant for a specific context (Divine Images I.4-8; II.7-8; III.4-8; Holy Icons I.5-6). The Israelites were very prone to idolatry (e.g., Exod 32:1-6), and even turned legitimate images into idols (cf. 2 Kgs 18:4). Furthermore, because the Lord had no visible form that the Israelites saw, Moses told them not to make “an idol for yourselves in the form of any figure” (Deut 4:15-19).

    In fact, later on, God commands the Israelites to make two golden cherubim alongside the ark of the covenant, and to weave images of cherubim into the curtains of the tabernacle (Exod 25:18-22; 26:1, 31; 36:8, 35; 37:7-9). Presumably, this was meant to represent the fact that God in heaven is “enthroned upon the cherubim” (1 Sam 4:4; 2 Sam 6:2; cf. 22:11; 2 Kgs 19:15; 1 Chron 13:6; Ps 18:10; 80:1; 99:1; Isa 37:16; Ezek 10; Sir 49:8). Solomon’s temple also had gold cherubim and cherubim carved into the walls, along with palm trees, flowers, lions, and oxen (1 Kgs 6:23-36; 7:23-37; 2 Chron 3:5-14; 4:3-4). Ezekiel’s temple would also have carved cherubim and palm trees (Ezek 41:17-26). Clearly these were icons (material representations of heavenly reality) prominently featured in the temple, but there’s no indication that they were venerated. [4]

    When the Israelites were beset by a plague of serpents, God commanded Moses to make a bronze serpent on a pole; anyone who was bitten and looked at this serpent would live (Num 21:4-9). This has been seen as an example of icon veneration, which might seem odd at first. Yes, there is an act (looking) done toward a material object (the serpent) which mediates divine grace (healing), but how could the serpent represent a heavenly reality? The iconophiles are interpreting this passage through the lens of John 3:14 and the patristic tradition, which views the bronze serpent as a representation of Christ on the cross. [5] In this light, the Israelites were venerating an icon of Christ and receiving grace through him! Several centuries later, Israel began to see the serpent as a deity in itself (“Nehushtan”) and offered sacrifices to it, and it was rightly destroyed by Hezekiah (2 Kgs 18:4). This shows a distinction between icon veneration (acceptable, even commanded) and idolatry (detestable).

    The psalmist says, “I will bow down [proskynēsō] toward your holy temple” (Ps 5:7; 138:2). Likewise, Joshua and the idol of the Philistine deity Dagan bow down toward the ark of the covenant (Josh 7:6; 1 Sam 5:3-4; cf. Ps 99:5; 132:7-8). Since the ark represents God’s heavenly throne (e.g., 1 Chron 28:2), and the temple also represents his presence, they serve as icons (broadly construed) – material representations of heavenly realities. Thus, bowing down towards them is an acceptable form of icon veneration within the old covenant (Divine Images I.14, 27; II.22). (Dagan’s idol bowing toward the ark is a particularly interesting case: the false image venerates the true image!)

    Icons and their (licit) veneration were therefore present in Israelite religion under the old covenant, although not prominent. What about the New Testament? Scriptural data about the liturgical practice of the apostolic era is very scanty, and I’m not aware of any explicit evidence for icon veneration as such. However, as later iconophiles argued, the basis for icon veneration is certainly present in the Christology of the New Testament. St Paul refers to Jesus Christ as “the image of the invisible God” (Col 1:15; cf. 2 Cor 4:4-6). St John affirms that “no one has ever seen God; the only-begotten Son, who is in the bosom of the Father, has revealed him” (John 1:18); he who has seen Jesus has seen the Father (12:45; 14:9).

    It’s no surprise, then, that the honor (and dishonor) shown to Jesus passes to God who sent him (Matt 10:40; Mark 9:37; Luke 9:48; 10:16; John 5:23; 12:44; 13:20; 15:23; 1 John 2:23). Indeed, Paul says that “every knee will bow... and every tongue confess that Jesus is Lord, to the glory of God the Father” (Phil 2:10-11). Bowing is a bodily action, and Jesus’ body, insofar as it is Jesus himself, is actually a material icon of God the Father. Furthermore, the saints are icons of Christ in that honor (and dishonor) shown to them passes to Jesus, and through him, to the Father (Matt 10:40; 18:5; 25:40; Mark 9:37; Luke 9:48; 10:16; John 13:20). In an eschatological context, Jesus declares that the saints will be venerated (Rev 3:9; cf. Isa 60:14).

Christology

    The iconoclasts argued against venerating icons of Christ on the basis that divinity cannot be visibly depicted (e.g., Deut 4:12; John 1:18; 5:37). They also rejected venerating icons in general on the basis that this directs our attention toward matter rather than the intellectual veneration that’s proper to God (e.g., John 4:24). [6] St John of Damascus saw this as an implicit denial of the Incarnation:

I do not venerate the creation instead of the creator [cf. Rom 1:25], but I venerate the Creator, created for my sake, who came down to his creation without being lowered or weakened, that he might glorify my nature and bring about communion with the divine nature... Therefore I am emboldened to depict the invisible God, not as invisible, but as he became visible for our sake, by participation in flesh and blood. I do not depict the invisible divinity, but I depict God made visible in the flesh. (Divine Images I.4)

I do not venerate matter, I venerate the fashioner of matter, who became matter for my sake and accepted to dwell in matter and through matter worked my salvation, and I will not cease from reverencing matter, through which my salvation was worked. (I.16; cf. II.13-14) 

For if we were to make an image of the invisible God, we would really sin; for it is impossible to depict one who is incorporeal and formless, invisible and uncircumscribable. And again: if we were to make images of human beings and regard them and venerate them as gods, we would be truly sacrilegious. But we do none of these things. For if we make an image of God who in his ineffable goodness became incarnate and was seen upon earth in the flesh, and lived among humans, and assumed the nature and density and form and color of flesh, we do not go astray. (II.5; cf. III.2)

The same response was made by St Theodore the Studite – it isn’t wrong to materially depict Christ, since he became visible and material for our sake (Holy Icons I.7; III.1-14).

    Of course, the iconoclasts didn’t intend to deny the Incarnation, and they refined their argument to answer the iconophiles. At the iconoclast council of Hieria (754), they claimed that anyone who depicts Christ and venerates his icon must fall into either monophysitism (confusing his divinity and humanity) or Nestorianism (dividing him into two persons):

For he has made an image which he calls Christ, and the name ‘Christ’ signifies both God and man. This makes it an image of God and man. And so he has either, according to his futile conception, made the infinite Godhead share the finitude of the created flesh, or confused that unconfused union, falling into the folly of fusion, committing in consequence two blasphemies against the Godhead through making finite and through fusion. The one who has worshipped it has succumbed to the same blasphemies, and woe to both of them equally, because they have fallen into the same error as Arius, Dioscorus and Eutyches and the heresy of the Acephali [i.e., monophysitism]!

Condemned by those with sense for attempting to paint the incomprehensible and innite divine nature of Christ, they will assuredly have recourse to another ill-contrived defence, that ‘it is the image of the flesh alone, which we have seen and touched and consorted with, that we depict’ – which is impious and an invention of the Nestorian devilry. On this point it is necessary to consider that, if according to the orthodox fathers there was simultaneously flesh and the flesh of God the Word, never admitting any thought of partition, but assumed wholly and as a whole by the divine nature and totally deified, how can it be divided or made an individual on its own by those who impiously try to do this?...

In consequence those who intend to paint an image of Christ are left with either a divinity that is finite and fused with the flesh or a body of Christ that is separated and deprived of Godhead, the flesh possessing a personhood with its own hypostasis, which makes them like the Nestorians in their battle against God. Those who fall into such blasphemy and impiety should be ashamed, repent, and cease – both those who make and those who love and worship the ‘image of Christ’ that they falsely make and falsely so call. Let us escape in equal measure the division of Nestorius and the fusion of Arius, Dioscorus, Eutyches and Severos – evils diametrically opposed to each other but equal in impiety. (Acts of Nicaea II, VI.656-666) [7]

It seems like the iconoclasts are treating “Christ” (his hypostasis) as just a composite of his divine and human natures. In this light, their dichotomy makes sense: either the iconophiles are trying to depict only Christ’s humanity, in which case they’re making his humanity its own person, or they’re trying to depict Christ himself (i.e., both divinity and humanity), in which case they’re making his divinity finite.

    However, the iconoclasts didn’t fully realize the implications of neo-Chalcedonian Christology, which makes a complete distinction between hypostasis and nature. [8] “Christ,” along with his other names, doesn’t refer to a natural reality at all (even a composite one), but a hypostatic reality – the person who is anointed. He is the underlying subject, who bears both divinity and humanity, but remains one and the same both before and after the Incarnation. Christ is both truly circumscribed (i.e., able to be depicted) as human and uncircumscribed as divine (Holy Icons III.1-58; cf. I.2-4, 7; II.1-9, 41-47). Nicaea II rightly accused the iconoclasts of confusing the logics of nature and hypostasis, like the monophysites (Acts, VI.668). [9] Images don’t depict natures, but concrete realities (i.e., hypostases), and who they depict – shown by the “name” on the image – is an entirely different question than what they depict, that is, the essence (VI.658, 664, 670, 680). Otherwise, we wouldn’t even be able to depict regular humans, since the human soul isn’t visible either!

    Some iconoclasts argued that because Christ didn’t assume “a particular human, but rather humanity in general,” his humanity is “without distinguishing characteristics” and can’t be “portrayed in various colors” (Holy Icons III.15). However, universal natures only exist in particular, concrete subjects (hypostases), which have certain properties that distinguish them from other hypostases of the same nature. If Christ only had “humanity in general,” then he wouldn’t have a real, concrete existence as human, and he wouldn’t be distinguished from other humans (III.15-21). But his individual humanity isn’t a separate person, because it’s made individual (“enhypostatized”) in none other than the hypostasis of God the Word (III.22-23). Therefore, this objection also reveals the iconoclasts’ failure to understand standard neo-Chalcedonian Christology.

    Another Christological principle that the iconoclasts (implicitly or explicitly) denied is that “the honor rendered to the image passes to the prototype,” which might be called the iconic principle. This was emphasized by the fourth-century Fathers in their polemic against Arianism: just as the emperor’s image and the emperor don’t make two emperors, the Son and the Father don’t make two Gods; and just as there is one honor shown to the emperor and his image, there is one worship of the Father and the Son. [10] Although the iconic principle was primarily used to explain the relationship between God and his Son, it also clearly applies to material depictions (like the emperor’s image). Thus, the iconophiles made a distinction between natural images (like a parent and child) and artificial images (like a person and their photo), for both of which the iconic principle applies (cf. Divine Images III.18-23). [11]

    These principles of Christology – the distinction between nature and hypostasis and the iconic principle – lead to the full-fledged icon theology of Nicaea II. If Christ is really divine and really human (hence circumscribed), and he is venerable, and the honor rendered to an image passes to its prototype, then icons of Christ certainly can (and arguably should) be made and venerated. Furthermore, dishonoring icons of Christ, as the iconoclasts did, dishonors Christ himself. It’s a small step from this to venerating icons of the Mother of God and the saints, since they’re certainly both human and venerable (although, equally certainly, not worthy of worship in themselves), due to their close association and real union with Christ and God (Divine Images I.19-21; III.33-41; Holy Icons I.17-19). [12]

History

    One of the main arguments of the Byzantine iconoclasts was that icon veneration was an innovation that didn’t exist in the apostolic era. This wasn’t entirely wrong: the fully-fledged, officially-sanctioned cult of icons didn’t arise until the sixth and seventh centuries. [13] However, written evidence for various types of icon veneration goes back to the fourth century and earlier, and material evidence appears as early as the second century! As I hope to show, even though the full-fledged cult of icons appeared much later, it’s not at all unreasonable to believe that limited veneration of icons does go back to the apostles, in line with the claims of Nicaea II.

6th and 7th centuries

    As I said, there was a rise in the cult of icons during the sixth and seventh centuries, and it’s in this period that private veneration of holy images seems to have increased dramatically. [14] The earliest surviving panel portrait icons date back to the second half of the sixth century, including the famous Christ Pantocrator, which were brought by pilgrims to St Catherine’s Monastery in the Sinai and preserved there until today. [15] Several late sixth- and seventh-century hagiographies describe miracles attributed to icons. [16] Leontios of Neapolis wrote the first defense of icon veneration in the early seventh century, which St John of Damascus later drew upon. The ecumenical(-ish) Quinisext Council in 692 recommended that images of Christ should depict him as a human rather than a lamb, but that both types of images should be “venerated” (canon 82). All of these texts were cited by Nicaea II as part of their iconophile florilegium.

4th and 5th centuries

    There’s very little evidence of private veneration of panel portrait icons before the sixth century. This practice was discouraged by Eusebius of Caesarea in his letter to the empress Constantia (ca. 320), which was cited by later iconoclasts. Several texts attributed to St Epiphanius of Salamis reject both private and public veneration of images, which are found in iconoclast florilegia, although the authenticity of these texts was (and is) disputed. [17] If they are authentic, then it’s hard to square with the fact that church buildings during this period were filled with religious imagery (see below). That might explain why Epiphanius complained to the emperor Theodosius I (in a disputed letter) that “only a few” people paid attention to his iconoclasm.

    Church buildings and saints’ shrines in the fourth and fifth centuries had images on the walls, usually depicting scenes from the Old and New Testaments, and the apse, usually depicting Christ surrounded by the apostles or other saints. [18] These were referenced by various Church Fathers in their sermons and writings, and Sts Gregory of Nyssa and Augustine even describe praying via these images. [19] St John Chrysostom favorably reports how people depicted the deceased St Meletius, bishop of Antioch, on rings, cups, walls, and elsewhere (On Saint Meletius 3). [20] Eusebius of Caesarea, despite his apparent dislike of religious images (see above), describes a statue of Jesus in Caesarea Philippi which was believed to have miraculous healing properties (Church History 7.18.1-3).

2nd and 3rd centuries

    Although the written evidence dries up before the fourth century, icon veneration (broadly construed) appears in some second- and third-century Christian texts. [21] St Methodius of Olympus (ca. 300) writes that “we make images of God’s angels... to his honor and glory” (On the Resurrection 2). [22] Origen (ca. 250) refers to the practice of decorating the altar and church building (Hom Josh 10.3). Tertullian (ca. 210), despite his general aniconism, accepts certain non-idolatrous images in the Old Testament (Against Marcion 4.22) and refers to the practice of painting Christ the Good Shepherd on the Eucharistic cup (On Modesty 7; 10). [23] Clement of Alexandria (ca. 200) advised that Christian signet rings should have symbols representing Christ, the Holy Spirit, the Cross, or the apostles, rather than idols, swords, drinking cups, or lovers (Paedagogus 3.11). [24] St Irenaeus of Lyons (ca. 175) reports that the Carpocratian gnostics venerated portraits of Christ with those of other philosophers (Against Heresies 1.25.6), whereas the gnostic Acts of John (mid-2nd century) critiques Christian veneration of portraits of saints. [25]

    The material evidence is much more interesting, in my opinion. Once Christians obtained their own spaces of gathering in the second and third centuries, they began to decorate them with religious imagery (see the Roman catacombs, Dura-Europos baptistry, Megiddo church mosaic). [26] This art wasn’t merely for teaching or decoration, but invited ritual participation. For example, the baptistry at Dura-Europos invites the participant to identify with David at their anointing, with Christ in the tomb at their baptism, and with members of the Good Shepherd’s flock as they come out of the water. [27] In the catacombs, orant-figures invite onlookers to imitate them in prayer – perhaps for the intercession of the dead Christian depicted in this way – in more than one case, directed to another image of Christ the Good Shepherd. [28]

1st century

    Can we trace Christian imagery and icon veneration back to the first century? Not by contemporary evidence, since we don’t really have first-century material evidence of Christianity, and our written evidence is basically limited to the New Testament. Eusebius of Caesarea says that portraits of Christ and the apostles were made and honored as early as the first century, although in line with his aniconism, he attributes this to “the gentiles of old” (Church History 7.18.4). The second-century gnostic Acts of John (26–29) retrojects the debate over veneration of saints’ portraits to the first century. Several markings and a signet ring from Pompeii (pre-AD 79) have been interpreted as crosses, which would be a very early form of Christian imagery. [29]

    In summary, there was clearly a development in Christian religious imagery and its function from the first century to the Iconoclasm. The full-fledged cult of icons only developed in the late sixth and seventh centuries. However, religious imagery was a regular aspect of church decoration from the third century (the earliest surviving church buildings) onward. Even the earliest surviving Christian art, in the second and third centuries, wasn’t merely didactic or decorative but actually meant to invite ritual participation. Although we lack virtually any material evidence of Christianity in the first century, based on the fact that veneration of images (broadly construed) is attested throughout the entire Christian material record all the way back to the second century, it doesn’t seem unreasonable to me to believe that certain limited types of icon veneration have always been present in Christianity.

Conclusion

    The motives behind the Byzantine Iconoclasm were complex, as well as those behind Nicaea II. The iconoclast emperors saw their military defeats as a result of the Church’s descent into idolatry, while the iconophiles saw the idea that the Church could fall into idolatry and be rescued by emperors as blasphemous against Christ. The iconoclasts believed that making icons of Christ implied Christological heresy, while the iconophiles turned their accusation back upon them. The iconoclasts thought that icon veneration violated Scripture, while the iconophiles thought that Scripture validated their practice. It would be a mistake to reduce the controversy to just one of these factors. Moreover, the Iconoclasm itself wasn’t very wide-ranging, limited to the core of the Roman Empire which had dwindled to parts of Asia Minor and Greece.

    However, much like the other ecumenical councils which were occasioned by historical circumstances, Nicaea II revealed timeless truths that are still important for us today. Who is it that we worship? Not the divine nature, nor even the divine and human natures of Christ, but the person of Jesus Christ himself, with his Father and his Spirit. And, like the other doctrinal disputes of the first millennium, the Iconoclasm was indirectly about: how can we be truly be united to God? It’s not that, as the iconoclasts believed, only the Eucharistic body of Christ spans the gulf between God and the world. [30] By his Incarnation, Christ sanctified the entire material world, which makes it possible for material icons to act as real channels of God’s grace. Ultimately, the theology of icons is nothing more or less than the theology of the Incarnation experienced in the liturgical life of the Church.

No one could describe the Word of the Father; / but when he took flesh from you, O Theotokos, he accepted to be described, / and restored the fallen image to its former state by uniting it to divine beauty. / We confess and proclaim our salvation in word and images. [31]

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[1] Although my journey was certainly not purely intellectual, as I was also drawn by the beauty of the Eastern Christian tradition and by just experiencing Orthodoxy, these issues made me realize the serious problems with my own Evangelical and restorationist Protestant traditions.

[2] See my recent posts on “The orthodox doctrine of the Trinity” and “The orthodox doctrine of the Incarnation.”

[3] For an English translation, see Richard Price, The Acts of the Second Council of Nicaea (787) (Liverpool University Press, 2018).

[4] The icons of cherubim which filled the tabernacle and temple were viewed as normative by the eighth-century iconophiles. Because these icons represented the cherubim surrounding God’s throne in heaven, they argued, Christians should have icons of Christ and the saints around the altar to represent the heavenly reality in the new covenant. St Tarasius of Constantinople: “If the old [covenant] had cherubim overshadowing the mercy seat, then we shall have images of our Lord Jesus Christ and of the holy Theotokos and his saints overshadowing the altar” (Acts of Nicaea II, IV.288).

[5] For example, see Ep Barn 12.6-7; Justin Martyr, Dialogue 91; Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.2.8; Tertullian, Adv Jud 10; Basil the Great, On the Holy Spirit 14.31; John Chrysostom, Hom John 27.1-2.

[6] On the common features of iconoclastic argument, which run from the beginning to the end of the Byzantine Iconoclasm, and include these verses, see Vladimir Baranov, “The Theology of Early Iconoclasm as Found in St. John of Damascus’ Apologies,” Khristianskij Vostok 4 (2002): 23-55.

[7] Translation from Richard Price, Acts of the Second Council of Nicaea, 468-474.

[8] On the topic of neo-Chalcedonian Christology, see my recent post “The orthodox doctrine of the Incarnation (part 3 of 3)”.

[9] In the words of the council, “those nurtured by the catholic church know [hypostasis and nature] to be two different things, for we say that a hypostasis is an essence with individualizing characteristics, in addition to existing, while a nature is something that is self-subsistent and does not need anything else for its composition, apart from being brought into existence” (VI.668)

[10] For example, see Athanasius, Discourses Against the Arians III.5; Basil the Great, On the Holy Spirit 18.45; Contra Sabellianos, PG 31:605D–608A; cf. Gregory the Theologian, Oration 4.80-81; John Chrysostom, Hom Stat 3.18; Hom Col 12; Hom 1 Thess 10; Clement of Alexandria, Paedagogus 3.11; Origen, Homily 3 on Psalm 73 6; Epiphanius, Panarion 65.8.10. The veneration of imperial portraits was a regular feature of Roman civil life, which perhaps surprisingly wasn’t rejected by Christians (especially once there was a Christian emperor), and served as a helpful analogy for Christ and God, as well as humanity (as the image of God) and God.

[11] The iconophiles (because of their implicit confusion of nature and hypostasis) claimed that any true image must be consubstantial with its prototype, and so the Eucharist is the only true icon of Christ (Acts of Nicaea II, VI.670-672). This was ridiculous to Nicaea II, which insisted that the Eucharist is Christ himself and not an icon (VI.672-676).

[12] Some Protestants might view this as an unjustified leap, but during the Iconoclasm, this was accepted by both parties. The iconoclasts also saw the acceptance or rejection of icons of the saints as a simple corollary of the acceptance or rejection of icons of Christ (Acts, VI.680-682). But for a more detailed argument, see St John of Damascus, Divine Images I.19-21; III.33-41; On the orthodox faith IV.15-16.

[13] Richard Price (Acts of the Second Council of Nicaea, 43) notes that “the iconoclast claim that reverence towards images did not go back to the golden age of the fathers, still less to the apostles, would be judged by impartial historians today to be simply correct.”

[14] Benjamin Anderson, “Images in Byzantine Thought and Practice, ca. 500–700,” in A Companion to Byzantine Iconoclasm, ed. Mike Humphreys (Brill, 2021), 144-187.

[15] Beat Brenk, “Apses, icons and ‘image propaganda’ before iconoclasm,” AnTard 19 (2011): 113-118.

[16] Beat Brenk, “Apses, icons and ‘image propaganda’,” 113-114; Richard Price, Acts of the Second Council of Nicaea, 42-43.

[17] For an argument against the authenticity of these texts, from an admittedly not unbiased source, see Steven Bigham, Epiphanius of Salamis: Doctor of Iconoclasm? Deconstruction of a Myth (Orthodox Research Institute).

[18] Sean V. Leatherbury, “Christian Wall Mosaics and the Creation of Sacred Space,” in The Routledge Handbook of Early Christian Art, ed. Robin M. Jensen and Mark D. Ellison (Routledge, 2018), 86-103; Robin Jensen, “Figural Images in Christian Thought and Practice before ca. 500,” in A Companion to Byzantine Iconoclasm, 128-134. The disputed letter of St Nilus of Ancyra to Olympiodorus (ca. 415), which was cited at Nicaea II, describes how a church building should be decorated with scenes from the Old and New Testaments to spur illiterate churchgoers to emulate the saints’ virtues.

[19] For example, see Basil the Great, Homily 19 on the Forty Martyrs 2; Homily 17 (“On the martyr Barlaam,” possibly by John Chrysostom instead); Gregory of Nyssa, De deitate filii et spiritus sancti; Asterius of Amasia, Sermon 11; Cyril of Alexandria, Letter 41.21-23; all of which were cited at Nicaea II. As for prayers through the images, see Gregory of Nyssa, In Praise of Blessed Theodore, PG 46:737C–740B; Augustine, Sermon 316.5.

[20] Note that St Gregory of Nyssa taught around the same time that St Meletius was in heaven interceding for the people (Funeral Oration for Meletius). “Thus, the portraits described by Chrysostom could have functioned not only in the commemoration of Meletius, but also as visual foci for prayer to him”: Katherine Marsengill, “Panel Paintings and Early Christian Icons,” in The Routledge Handbook of Early Christian Art, 201.

[21] Note that the passages in the second- and third-century apologists which are often interpreted as aniconist (e.g., Justin Martyr, 1 Apol 9–10; Clement of Alexandria, Strom 5.5-6; Origen, Contra Celsum 7.62-65; Minucius Felix, Octavius 10) should rather be taken as anti-pagan polemic, against the practice of treating material objects as deities, rather than against Christian religious images which undoubtedly existed at that time: Robin Jensen, “Figural Images in Christian Thought,” 114-128.

[22] The full passage, as preserved by St John of Damascus (Divine Images III.138), reads: “For instance, then, the images of our kings here, even though they be not formed of the more precious materials – gold or silver – are honored by all. For men do not, while they treat with respect those of the far more precious material, slight those of a less valuable, but honor every image in the world, even though it be of chalk or bronze. And one who speaks against either of them, is not acquitted as if he had only spoken against clay, nor condemned for having despised gold, but for having been disrespectful towards the king and lord himself. The images of God’s angels, which are fashioned of gold, the principalities and powers, we make to his honor and glory.”

[23] Tertullian (in his rigorist-Montanist phase) critiques the Church for its moral laxity, which he attributes to the Shepherd of Hermas (a second-century text that allowed repentance after post-baptismal sin). Therefore, he says that the shepherd they depict on their chalice isn’t actually the Good Shepherd, but the false shepherd of Hermas (On Modesty 10). The unspoken premise is that they honor whomever they depict on the chalice; since they honor the Shepherd of Hermas over Christ, it must be the former whom they depict. This does serve as an example of icon veneration – honoring a prototype through his material representation.

[24] “And let our seals be either a dove [i.e., the Holy Spirit], or a fish [i.e., ichthys, Christ], or a ship scudding before the wind, or a musical lyre, which Polycrates used, or a ship’s anchor [i.e., shapes like the Cross], which Seleucus got engraved as a device; and if there be one fishing, he will remember the apostle, and the children drawn out of the water. For we are not to delineate the faces of idols, we who are prohibited to cleave to them; nor a sword, nor a bow, following as we do, peace; nor drinking-cups, being temperate. Many of the licentious have their lovers engraved, or their mistresses, as if they wished to make it impossible ever to forget their amatory indulgences, by being constantly reminded of their licentiousness.”

The implication is that what is symbolized in the depiction is honored (see also n. 23); we honor Christ, the Holy Spirit, the Cross, and the apostles, but not idols, war, drinking, or sex. In the third century, Christian seals began to move away from this symbolism and explicitly depict the Good Shepherd and other biblical figures: Jeffrey Spier, “Engraved Gems and Amulets,” in The Routledge Handbook of Early Christian Art, 141-146. These amulets could be apotropaic (e.g., BM Inv. T 1986, 5-1,1), which means supplication for protection was implicitly directed toward the one depicted.

[25] Acts of John 26–29 describes how the disciple Lycomedes, who had been resurrected by God through John, commissioned a portrait of John, took it to his bedroom, crowned it with garlands, and lit lamps before it. John, the mouthpiece of the gnostic author, confronts him for “still living in heathen fashion.” Lycomedes answers that he has only one God, but “next to that God, it is right that the men who have benefitted us [i.e., saints] should be called gods.” John retorts that the portrait captures only his “fleshly image,” being “a dead likeness of the dead,” and Lycomedes should instead ‘paint’ with the virtues. This episode implies that debate over private veneration of panel-portrait icons of saints was already underway in the second century: Katherine Marsengill, “Panel Paintings and Early Christian Icons,” 202.

[26] Norbert Zimmerman, “Catacomb Painting and the Rise of Christian Iconography in Funerary Art,” in The Routledge Handbook of Early Christian Art, 21-28; Rina Talgam, “Christian Floor Mosaics: Modes of Study and Potential Meanings,” in ibid., 106; Robin Jensen, “Figural Images in Christian Thought,” 123-128.

[27] Michael Peppard, “Early Christian Art and Ritual,” in The Routledge Handbook of Early Christian Art, 281-284; Robin Jensen, “Ritual and Early Christian Art,” in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Ritual (Oxford, 2018), 598-601.

[28] Norbert Zimmerman, “Catacomb Painting,” 26-28; Robin Jensen, “Ritual and Early Christian Art,” 589-592.

[29] Bruce W. Longenecker, The Cross before Constantine: The Early Life of a Christian Symbol (Fortress Press, 2015), 121-148; The Crosses of Pompeii: Jesus-Devotion in a Vesuvian Town (Fortress Press, 2016); but for a contrasting perspective, see John Granger Cook, “Alleged Christian Crosses in Herculaneum and Pompeii,” Vigiliae Christianae 72, no. 1 (2018): 1-20.

[30] On the contrasting perspectives between iconoclasts and iconophiles about the relationship between God and the material world, see Ambrosios Giakalis, Images of the Divine: The Theology of Icons at the Seventh Ecumenical Council (Brill, 2005).

[31] Sunday of Orthodoxy, Kontakion (Tone 8).

What "church" looked like in the early Church: First century

Some background

    In the last post, we started to examine what church gatherings looked like in the early Church by studying the Lord’s supper and ritual meals in the Greco-Roman world. Now that we have this background information, we can look at the details of the first-century Christian gathering. The main first-century texts that I will use here are the accounts of Jesus’ last supper (Matt 26:17-30; Mark 14:12-26; Luke 22:7-38); Acts 2:42-47; Acts 20:7-11; 1 Corinthians 10–14; and Didache 9–10, 14.

Where?

    First of all, where did the earliest Christians come together? Our earliest sources unanimously tell us that they met in houses. The book of Acts says that breaking bread, corporate prayer, and teaching all took place kat’ oikon (“by house”: 2:46; 12:12; 20:20). St Paul’s letters refer to “the church in their/her/your house” (Rom 16:5; 1 Cor 16:19; Col 4:15; Phlm 1:2), and St John instructs a certain local church not to receive those who deny Christ’s manifestation in the flesh “into your house” (2 John 1:10).

    What would the meeting area have looked like? The gathering took place in the dining room, which in most houses would have been upstairs (Mark 14:15; Luke 22:12; Acts 1:13; 20:8, 11). It likely was arranged according to the standard pattern, with three tables arranged in a U-shape seating about a dozen people at most, which testifies to the small number of Christians at this time. As the local church grew, the participants would spill out into other rooms of the house, eventually requiring a change in location altogether. Insofar as gatherings continued into the night (see below), the room was lit by oil lamps (cf. Acts 20:8).

    The posture of those at the gathering is indicated by Paul as “sitting” (1 Cor 14:30) rather than reclining, although this might have been a necessity to fit a larger number of people around the tables. [9] The ideal in the gospel accounts is still reclining at the table (Matt 8:11; 26:7, 20; Mark 2:15; 14:3, 18; Luke 13:29; 14:7-11; 24:30; John 13:12; 21:20). The same passage indicates that those prophesying at the table would stand, since Paul distinguishes “someone sitting” from the prophets who are speaking (1 Cor 14:29-30). The ideal posture for praying was also standing, with hands outstretched (Matt 6:5; Mark 11:25; 1 Tim 2:8; cf. Ps 63:4; 134:2; 141:2; Philo, Vit Cont 66, 80, 83). [10] The Christian practice of praying toward the East can be traced back at least to the mid-2nd century, with some scholars arguing for a first century origin. [11] Philo reports that the Jewish Therapeutae sect also prayed toward the East during their communal meals (Vit Cont 89).

    How were the meeting rooms decorated, if at all? We know that as soon as Christians obtained their own designated spaces for prayer in the 2nd and 3rd centuries, they were decorated with religious imagery, as shown by the Roman catacombs and Dura Europos church. [12] The gnostic Acts of John shows that the creation and veneration of portrait icons of saints was already known among Christians in the 2nd century. [13] But there is no contemporary evidence for Christian art in the first century, and it seems unlikely that first-century believers would have entirely painted or redecorated their dining rooms with no obvious rationale. At most, there was likely a cross inscribed on the wall of some house churches, as seen in a pre-AD 79 houses at Pompeii. [14]

When?

    Now that we’ve seen where the early Christians gathered, and how this space was used for worship, let’s investigate when they gathered. Acts 2:46 tells us that the very first Christians in Jerusalem were breaking bread together “every day.” However, from very early on, “the first day of the week” (i.e., Sunday) was marked out for gathering and breaking bread (Acts 20:7; 1 Cor 16:2). St John states that the first appearance of the risen Jesus to the assembled disciples was at “evening on that day, the first day of the week,” and his subsequent appearance “a week later [when] his disciples were again in the house” (John 20:19, 26). The Didache, a first-century church order, says that believers gather “on the Lord’s own day” (kata kyriakēn... kyriou) to break bread and give thanks (eucharistēsate).

    The gathering took place in the evening, according to our earliest sources, as expected for a supper. This is implied in Acts 20:7-11, where the believers in Troas meet to break bread “on the first day,” and Paul holds discourse with them at length “until midnight,” after which they actually broke bread and continued to converse “until dawn.” Jesus’ last supper began in the evening (Matt 26:20; Mark 14:17), he broke bread on the evening after his resurrection (Luke 24:29-30), and his first appearance to the assembled disciples was “evening on... the first day of the week” (John 20:19), according to the gospel accounts. The evening of the first day may have been Saturday evening (since Jewish practice reckoned days from evening to evening) or Sunday evening, with more recent scholarship arguing for Sunday evening. [15]

    In the early second century, the hostile witness of Pliny the Younger (who persecuted Christians) shows the beginning stage of the Sunday morning gathering. Pliny writes to the emperor Trajan, reporting the testimony of apostate believers about Christian practices:

They maintained, however, that all that their guilt or error involved was that they were accustomed to assemble at dawn on a fixed day, to sing a hymn antiphonally to Christ as God, and to bind themselves by an oath, not for the commission of some crime, but to avoid acts of theft, brigandage, and adultery, not to break their word, and not to withhold money deposited with them when asked for it. When these rites were completed, it was their custom to depart, and then to assemble again to take food, which was however common and harmless. (Letters 10.96.7)

This report is clearly skewed by the apostates’ attempt to appear harmless to Pliny – for example, their insistence that their “oath” is about civil obedience and that the eucharistic meal is “common and harmless.” However, we can see that in early 2nd century Asia Minor, Christians were accustomed to meet twice on Sundays, first in the morning for prayer and hymnody, then again in the evening for the communal meal. Over time (in the 2nd and 3rd centuries), the meal would also gradually migrate to Sunday morning.

Who?

    Keeping in mind when and where the first-century Christian gathering took place, who was present and involved? In the typical Greco-Roman banquet, women were not invited and slaves waited on the men who dined. In the Christian gathering, on the other hand, women were included as full participants who could pray and prophesy alongside the men (1 Cor 11:4-5). Likewise, gentiles were included as full participants alongside Jews, even though de facto there was some segregation, which St Paul condemned (Gal 2:11-14). The table was not served by slaves, but by voluntary attendants (diakonoi, deacons: Acts 6:1-6; cf. Philo, Vit Cont 68, 70-72). This was central to the self-understanding of the earliest believers as a community: “There is neither Jew nor gentile, slave nor free, male and female, for indeed you all are one in Christ Jesus” (Gal 3:28).

    However, the inclusivity of the early Christian banquet wasn’t unlimited. The Didache insists that only those “baptized into the name of the Lord” can “eat or drink of this Eucharist,” citing Jesus’ statement, “Do not give the holy things to the dogs” (9.5). The Didache later refers to the necessity of confessing sins before breaking bread, “that your sacrifice may be pure,” and says that no one with an unreconciled disagreement should join, “that your sacrifice may not be defiled” (14.1-3).

    St Paul likewise writes to the believers at Corinth that they should examine themselves before partaking, since “all who eat and drink without discerning the body eat and drink judgment against themselves” (1 Cor 11:27-32). He said this in reference to their tendency to divide themselves at the gathering, eating their own food which they brought rather than sharing communally (11:18-22). This was a local manifestation of the earliest believers’ tendency to fall back into discriminating according to social status at their banquets, which was condemned (Luke 14:7-11; 22:24-27; James 2:1-6). At the first-century Christian gathering, therefore, only baptized believers were invited. But all baptized believers could participate equally, except those in public, harmful, and unrepentant sin (cf. 1 Cor 5:1-2), including those who discriminated against others at the meal.

    What about those who served at the meal? The New Testament texts distinguish two offices (Acts 6:1-6; 20:17-35; Phil 1:1; 1 Tim 3:1-13; 5:17-20; Titus 1:5-9; 1 Pet 5:1-2): the overseer (episkopos, bishop) or elder (presbyteros, priest) and the attendant (diakonos, deacon). Other first-century texts refer to the same two offices (Didache 15; 1 Clem 42.4-5; 44.1-5). [16] The deacons would attend the table (Acts 6:1-6), while the bishops/priests would “offer the gifts,” i.e., the bread and cup, themselves (1 Clem 44.3). In the first century, these functions could also be carried out by itinerant apostles, teachers, and prophets (Didache 15.2). [17]

What?

    Then what exactly took place at these first-century Christian gatherings? The main event, so to speak, was the meal itself, the bread and the cup. St Paul writes that when the Corinthian believers “come together,” it is “to eat the Lord’s banquet” (1 Cor 11:17-18, 20, 33-34; cf. Didache 14). Before eating, a blessing (eulogia) or thanksgiving (eucharistia) was pronounced over both the bread and the cup. Fixed prayers of thanksgiving over the cup and the bread, separately, are provided in the first-century Didache, along with a prayer of thanksgiving for after the meal, although these were not always precisely followed: “prophets” could extemporize their own prayers (Didache 9-10). The assembled believers would respond to each thanksgiving with “Amen” (1 Cor 14:16).

    Most first-century texts describe the blessing of the cup followed by the bread (Luke 22:17-19; 1 Cor 10:16; Didache 9-10; Papias in Irenaeus, Against Heresies 5.33.3-4). However, the accounts of Jesus’ last supper describe the blessing of the bread followed by the cup (Matt 26:26-29; Mark 14:22-25; Luke 22:19-20; 1 Cor 11:23-25). [18] This implies that there was no universally accepted, fixed order of prayers of thanksgiving in the first-century church.

    Paul lists a few other activities that might take place at the Christian gathering: “a hymn, a teaching, a revelation, a tongue, or an interpretation” (1 Cor 14:26). Elsewhere he advises believers not to get drunk (presumably during the symposion), but rather “to sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves” (Eph 5:18-19; cf. Col 3:16). Some examples of hymns are found in the late 1st/early 2nd century Odes of Solomon. Acts 2:42 refers to “the apostles’ teaching and fellowship” and “the prayers” alongside breaking bread. The letters of apostles and other authoritative writings would be publicly read at these gatherings (Acts 15:22-30; Col 4:16; 1 Thess 5:27; 1 Tim 4:13; Phlm 1:1-2; Rev 1:3). The apostles exhorted believers to greet one another with a “holy kiss” or “kiss of love” (Rom 16:16; 1 Cor 16:20; 2 Cor 13:12; 1 Thess 5:26; 1 Pet 5:14). The Didache (14.1) also prescribes confession of sins before breaking bread together.

    Was there an order to these activities? The Didache (9–10; 14) presents a basic structure for the deipnon of the meal: confession of sins → blessing of the cup and bread → eating → prayer(s) of thanksgiving. St Paul addresses issues at Corinth throughout the whole meal, and the structure of his critique implies that the meal was (like the typical Greco-Roman supper) a deipnon followed by a symposion involving various spiritual activities (1 Cor 10–14). They had no fixed order for the varied activities during their symposion, which led to some practical issues that Paul confronts (14:26-33). Acts 2:42 suggests an order for the earliest Jerusalem churches: teaching and fellowship → breaking bread → prayers, while Acts 20:7-11 gives a description of a particular communal meal which involved (at least) discourse → breaking bread → further discourse.

Why?

    Finally, why did Christians in the first century gather together for a communal meal? The clearest statement about this, once again, comes from St Paul’s letter to the Corinth church:

The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a sharing in the blood of Christ? The bread that we break, is it not a sharing in the body of Christ? Because there is one bread, we who are many are one body, for we all partake of the one bread. Consider the people of Israel: Are not those who eat the sacrifices partners in the altar?

What do I imply, then? That food sacrificed to idols is anything or that an idol is anything? No, I imply that what they sacrifice, they sacrifice to demons and not to God. I do not want you to be partners with demons. You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons. You cannot partake of the table of the Lord and the table of demons. Or are we provoking the Lord to jealousy? Are we stronger than he? (1 Cor 10:16-22)

The communal meal for first-century Christians is a sharing, or communion (koinōnia), in the body and blood of Christ which constitutes the believers as themselves the one body of Christ. This is the uniquely Christian form of sacrifice, analogous to Israelite and pagan sacrifices – for what is Christ’s body if not the sacrifice par excellence?

    The earliest fixed eucharistic prayers (Didache 9–10) don’t include what later came to be known as the words of institution (“This is my body... This is my blood”). However, their inclusion in all of the New Testament accounts of the Lord’s banquet shows that this was very much in the background of the earliest Christians’ celebration of the communal meal (Matt 26:26-28; Mark 14:22-24; Luke 22:19-20; 1 Cor 11:23-25). [19] The prayer over the bread asks God to gather his Church to become one just as the bread has become one (Didache 9.4; cf. 1 Cor 10:17), and the author refers to the meal as “sacrifice” (14.1-3; citing Mal 1:11). Clement of Rome also references bishops in the first century serving “the offerings” (ta dōra; 1 Clem 44:4).

    The activities during the symposion of the meal also had a function. Paul expands on his statement about believers becoming “one body.” They are “the body of Christ” and, like any human body, there are many members with different functions, in order to collectively build each other up in love (1 Cor 12–14; esp. 12:12-27). If the purpose of the banquet is to constitute all the believers in one communion of the body of Christ, then the symposium with its various activities – prayer, hymnody, teaching, prophecy – strengthens this reality and makes it visible. Thus, the Lord’s supper visibly manifests Christ himself within the world in and as the communion of the faithful.

Reconstruction

    Now that we’ve examined these first-century sources for details about the earliest Christian Eucharist, we can try to reconstruct what an ideal gathering of believers would have looked like at that time. Keep in mind that this is necessarily speculative, since we can’t be sure it looked the same everywhere and these texts come from different contexts.

• On the evening of the first day of the week, you head to the house of the overseer (one of them, at least) of your local church. Only those who have been baptized into the Way are invited, but everyone baptized is invited, regardless of social status.
• When you arrive, you go upstairs to the lamp-lit dining room. You take notice of the cross carved into the wall and remember what Jesus, the Messiah, endured for your sake.
• You greet the other believers there with a kiss. If there’s anything left unresolved between you and others, you make sure to confess and reconcile with them. You know that this is a serious matter, and there can be no divisions as you will all be united by this meal. Some have been prevented from joining before, because they were unrepentant about their harm toward others.
• You take your seat at the table as the deacons bring out the food and drink, which was brought by other members of the community. The overseer takes his cup and prays: “We give you thanks, our Father, for the holy vine of your child David, which you made known to us through your Son Jesus. Yours is the glory unto ages of ages.” With the rest of the believers, you say “Amen.”
• The overseer takes bread and breaks it. “We give you thanks, our Father, for the life and knowledge which you made known to us through your Son Jesus. Yours is the glory unto ages of ages. As this broken bread was scattered upon the mountains, so may your Church be gathered together from the ends of the earth into your kingdom. For yours is the glory and the power through Jesus Christ unto ages of ages.” “Amen.”
• Now that the food and drink has been blessed, the deacons share the food between everyone there. You all eat joyously, knowing that in this meal you are sharing in Christ’s own body and blood, and partaking in his sacrifice. You are all being united into one body of Christ.
• After the meal, the overseer prays again:
• “We give you thanks, holy Father, for your holy name, which you have made to dwell in our hearts, and for the knowledge and faith and immortality, which you have made known unto us through your Son Jesus. Yours is the glory unto ages of ages.
• “You, Almighty Master, created all things for your name’s sake, and gave food and drink to men for their enjoyment, that they might give you thanks. And you have given us spiritual food and drink and eternal life through your Son. Most of all, we give you thanks that you are powerful. Yours is the glory unto ages of ages.
• “Remember, Lord, your Church, and deliver it from all evil and perfect it in your love. Gather it – the sanctified one – together from the four winds into your kingdom which you have prepared for it. For yours is the power and the glory unto ages of ages.
• “May grace come and may this world pass away. Hosanna to the God of David. If any man is holy, let him come; if any man is not, let him repent. O Lord, come!”
• You, and the rest of the body, agree: “Amen.” A prophet who is passing through your city stands and offers his own prayer, along with some others in the body.
• A letter that you all previously received from the apostle Paul is read aloud. Someone who is known as a teacher in your community offers an exhortation based on this letter. Another also offers a word of advice. You stand and lead the gathered body in a hymn that you all know, and the overseer and a few others do the same after you.
• You and the believing members of your household return home well after dark. There is a renewed understanding that you all are part of something truly holy, that you are united to Christ himself, and you and your household will do your best to manifest this reality as shining lights in a dark world.

Second Century

______________________________

[9] Smith, From Symposium to Eucharist, 178.

[10] This is borne out by second- and third-century Christian art in the Roman catacombs, which depicts this posture also at the eucharistic table (Catacomb of St Callixtus, Room A2).

[11] Uwe Michael Lang, Turning Towards the Lord: Orientation in Liturgical Prayer (Ignatius Press, 2009), 35-61.

[12] Robin M. Jensen and Mark D. Ellison, The Routledge Handbook of Early Christian Art (Routledge, 2018), see especially chaps. 2, 12, and 17 on the catacombs, panel portraits, and Dura-Europos baptistry.

[13] Acts of John 26–29 describes how the disciple Lycomedes, who had been resurrected by God through John, commissioned a portrait of John, took it to his bedroom, crowned it with garlands, and lit lamps before it. John, the mouthpiece of the gnostic author, confronts him for “still living in heathen fashion.” Lycomedes answers that he has only one God, but “next to that God, it is right that the men who have benefitted us should be called gods.” John retorts that the portrait captures only his “fleshly image,” being “a dead likeness of the dead,” and Lycomedes should instead ‘paint’ with the virtues. This episode implies that debate over venerating panel-portrait icons was already underway in the second century (cf. Clement of Alexandria, Stromata 4.13).

[14] Bruce W. Longenecker, The Cross before Constantine: The Early Life of a Christian Symbol (Fortress Press, 2015), 121-148; The Crosses of Pompeii: Jesus-Devotion in a Vesuvian Town (Fortress Press, 2016); but for a contrasting perspective, see John Granger Cook, “Alleged Christian Crosses in Herculaneum and Pompeii,” Vigiliae Christianae 72, no. 1 (2018): 1-20.

[15] Aliykin, The Earliest History of the Christian Gathering, 40-49.

[16] The terms episkopos and presbyteros are clearly used interchangeably in first-century texts. However, this doesn’t mean that monepiscopacy is a later development, if by this we refer to the fact that only one person actually offers the Eucharist, which is the original and most important meaning of “one bishop” found in St Ignatius’ writings (Smyrn 9). The designation of one person as the host, or symposiarch, or president, was a common feature of banquets in the Greco-Roman world. In light of this, we can’t really speak about the post-apostolic development of the episcopate as an office, but rather the development of the presbytery as a separate office between bishop and deacon. Even the reference to multiple “bishops” in one city (Phil 1:1) is unsurprising, given the fact that the dining rooms in which first-century Christians held their gatherings likely couldn’t accommodate all the believers in some cities, whereas other cities did have only one gathering (e.g., Rom 16:23).

[17] Aliykin, Earliest History, 69-73.

[18] St Luke’s account describes the blessing of the cup followed by the bread, then another cup after the banquet. This reworking suggests that he was trying to reconcile the existing accounts of the last supper (bread-then-cup) with his own community’s practice (cup-then-bread before meal): Aliykin, Earliest History, 233-234.

[19] St John’s gospel doesn’t include these words in his account, which lacks any description of the supper itself, giving a lengthy account of the symposium discourse instead. However, the pericope about chewing Jesus’ flesh and drinking his blood (John 6:51-58) would hardly have been understood as referring to anything other than the Eucharist: Aliykin, Earliest History, 130-132.

Final response to Concordant critics

    Some of the Concordant brethren who responded to my original post about Scripture, the Church, and Christ have offered further rebuttals. I do want to respond again, but since I don’t want to get bogged down in this debate, this will be my last word on the topic. I will move on to other related topics in the future, such as the orthodox doctrine of the Trinity.

Drew Costen

    Drew expanded his blog post, “Some thoughts on Catholic and Orthodox views of Scripture,” to answer my earlier response. I’ll respond to what I think are his most important points, and pass over the parts where I think we just have no common ground for me to even answer (such as his response to my citation of Irenaeus about the unity of faith in the early Church).

As far as apparent contradictions in the Bible go when we read it as an inerrant whole, there have been lots of books and articles written over the years providing potential resolutions to basically all of them, and as long as we have even one possible resolution to any seeming contradiction that doesn’t contradict any other parts of Scripture in doing so, that’s enough to prove that the Bible at least probably doesn’t actually contradict itself (in its original languages in the original manuscripts, anyway). And since, again, if the Bible does have any actual contradictions, it can’t be the word of God or the authoritative basis of any theological claims, which once again means that nothing in it can be used to defend the authority of any of the so-called “orthodox” denominations of the Christian religion, and which again means that the authority of any of these denominations can only be assumed, with no foundational basis outside of that assumption itself.

    I want to clarify my position, since I’m not sure I was clear about this before: I do not believe that the Scriptures have contradictions. My point in the other posts was that, apart from imposing a unifying framework upon the texts, there are certainly tensions / apparent contradictions between the texts. This should be self-evident if we look at how non-believers interpret the Scriptures – the “books and articles” that Drew mentions were all written by people who do presuppose a unifying framework, which is already the case when we consider the texts as Scripture.

The problem is, we need a basis for trusting this “church” you’re referring to (aka the Christian “church” in some form, which I don’t consider to be the church called the body of Christ, or even the church called the Israel of God, since its doctrines contradict both of these churches’ doctrines as taught in the Bible when it’s read consistently all the way through as the inerrant word of God) before we can trust that its so-called “canon of truth” is actually true, and if your claims about the Bible (that it does have errors in the form of contradictions in it when read consistently as an inerrant whole) are true, we can’t use the Bible as a basis for this “church’s” authority anyway, so all we can do is take their word for it that they’re an authoritative church created by God, and I see no reason whatsoever to believe their claim that it is has any truth to it at all...

    One must have certain canon(s) of faith in order to interpret the Scriptures, and reconcile their apparent contradictions. Drew is taking the second part of my original post in isolation and wondering what reason I have to trust the early Church’s canon of faith, rather than the canons of faith of the Concordant sect (although he wouldn’t phrase it like that). But the second part of the argument can’t be isolated from the first part: the reason that the early Church’s canon of truth is the correct one for interpreting the Scriptures is because this is the Church that gave us the Scriptures (on which, see my response below to Aaron). If we reject the early Church’s canon of faith, and their very plausible claim that this canon is apostolic, then we lose our basis for accepting the New Testament Scriptures and the similar claim (made by the early Church) that they are apostolic.

    By the way, like I said above, I don’t believe that the Bible has “contradictions in it when read consistently as an inerrant whole”. On the contrary, it’s precisely when we read the Scriptures “consistently as an inerrant whole” that we can see past the surface-level apparent contradictions, and discern the intent of the divine author.

ALLNGLKNV

    Concordant Discord user “ALLNGLKNV” asks me the following question:

Andrew Simple question: even if one be not a Christian - if one treat the Bible as a compilation of fictional, fantastical stories - could one still coherently interpret it in a way that resolves all the contradictions contained therein?

Like, taking the view that the Bible is not the Word of God, merely a fictional but well-made and internally concordant text?

    You could, since any apparent contradiction can be interpreted away. But you wouldn’t have a reason to do so unless you presupposed some unifying framework (like you said, “taking the view that the Bible is... [a] well-made and internally concordant text”). Then you would have to make some decisions about which ‘side’ of the tension / apparent contradiction is prioritized in your interpretation. (Everyone who reads the Scriptures as a unified whole does this, whether they realize it or not.) That is the role played by the “canon of faith” when interpreting Scripture.

Aaron Welch

    Aaron also gave a further response on the Discord server, which I reproduce in part below. Once again, I’ll respond to the points that I think are more important, and ignore the parts that are mostly repetitive.

It seems to be Andrew’s belief that, in order for the Christian leaders of the late 4th century to have recognized and officially accepted the correct books that constitute the Greek Scriptures, they needed to be believers, and to have belonged to what Paul referred to as “the ecclesia of the living God, the pillar and base of the truth” (1 Tim. 3:15). According to this assumption, if the Christian leaders of the 4th century hadn’t been members of the “true Church,” we wouldn’t have gotten the canon-affirming outcome reflected in Athanasius’ list, and no one today could be justified in believing that we have a Bible with all the correct, inspired books.

However, I don’t think there’s any good reason to accept the validity of this assumption. We need not believe that Athanasius and other Christian leaders of the late 4th century were members of the same ecclesia referred to in 1 Tim. 3:15 in order to believe that these men were able to correctly identify all of the inspired books of Scripture, and accept as “canon” the books that Athanasius listed in his letter. It’s my understanding that the “canon-affirming” state of affairs reflected in Athanasius’ letter was historically determined by, and only happened because of, the apostolically-influenced circumstances of the 1st century (such that what took place in the late 4th century was inevitable given what took place in the 1st century).

What I think Andrew needs to demonstrate (but what I don’t think he has demonstrated) is that, if people didn’t belong to the “true Church” (due to not believing the most fundamental, essential truths that should characterize all who do belong to the “true Church”), they would’ve been unable to correctly identify which books are Scripture (and which aren’t), and that what took place near the end of the 4th century (i.e., a complete listing of the books of Scripture) couldn’t have happened if the kind of doctrinal apostasy that I believe happened during the post-apostolic era did happen. If he can’t demonstrate this, I don’t see why anyone should agree with him that what (to him) “seems arbitrary and inconsistent to accept” is, in fact, arbitrary and inconsistent.

    The argument that I’m making is epistemological, like I said in my original post. The only reason that we have our present list of the books of Scripture is because the Church officially recognized these texts (and not others) as Scripture in the late 4th century, and passed them down across the centuries, which I think Aaron concedes. Unless we trust the discernment of the Church from the 2nd to 4th century and beyond, we have no reason to trust that those texts are actually Scripture. Even though the Scriptures are ontologically prior to the 4th-century (and modern) Church, that Church is epistemologically prior to the Scriptures, since we wouldn’t trust the Scriptures without her. As an analogy, Jesus Christ is the visible icon of the invisible Father: God the Father is ontologically prior to the Son, but the Son is epistemologically prior to the Father, since we could not know God apart from him.

    Aaron tries to avoid this conclusion by claiming that the present list of Scriptural books was a foregone conclusion by the end of the 1st century. The 4th-century ‘apostate’ Church only recognized those texts (and not others) as Scripture because the 1st-century ‘apostolic’ Church recognized them (and not others). I don’t know how else to respond, other than to say that this is historically false. As I pointed out before (and see below), there were books that some in the pre-4th-century Church recognized as inspired which we now don’t, and there are some books that we recognize as inspired for which we have no evidence that anyone before the 3rd century recognized as inspired. (That’s not to say that no one did, but again, this argument is epistemological: we only rely on what we can know now.)

    In fact, we have no evidence that anyone in the 1st century recognized any of the New Testament texts as inspired, rather than the authoritative (but not inspired) writings of the apostles. How do we know that the Corinthian community, or even Paul himself, believed that Paul’s letters to them were inspired by God in the same way that they believed the Hebrew Bible was inspired? Simply put, we don’t, so Aaron’s rebuttal fails on historical grounds.

Andrew’s appeal to certain non-canonical books does not support the claim with which he begins the above paragraph. The Shepherd of Hermas and the Apocalypse of Peter aren’t in the New Testament because, during the apostolic era of the 1st century, these 2nd century books were completely unknown to believers. Thus, unlike the writings of the apostles and their associates that were being read, copied and circulated both during and after the 1st century, neither the Shepherd of Hermas nor the Apocalypse of Peter were accepted as inspired/authoritative by believers during that time. And any works that weren’t known to be inspired/authoritative during the apostolic era of the 1st century were doomed to be rejected later. Conversely, I believe it was inevitable that those works that were recognized as inspired and authoritative during the apostolic era of the 1st century would be recognized by Athanasius and other Christian leaders of the 4th century as such (not because Athanasius and other Christian leaders of the 4th century were believers, but because of the historical circumstances themselves).

The fact that there was some debate/controversy regarding the status of the Shepherd of Hermas and the Apocalypse of Peter in the first few centuries following the apostolic era is perfectly consistent with the fact that it was due to their non-existence (and thus non-acceptance by believers) during the apostolic era that ultimately resulted in them not being listed by Athanasius and represented in the New Testament today. Athanasius’ list reflects a state of affairs that ultimately existed because of what was the case during the apostolic era.

    Once again, my response will be epistemological: how do you know that, for example, the Apocalypse of Peter was unknown to 1st-century believers? After all, non-believing scholars today would make the same claim about 2 Peter on historical grounds! The only reason you believe that 2 Peter and not the Apocalypse of Peter is apostolic is because the Church ultimately accepted it as apostolic. (You can point to scholars who argue for 2 Peter’s apostolicity, but the only scholars who make this claim are those who are already committed to its apostolicity because they are Christian.) If the Church had accepted the Apocalypse of Peter instead (or in addition), then you would believe on the same grounds that it is apostolic. Hence, your beliefs about apostolicity still rest on the discernment of the Church, and the late 4th-century Church is still the standard by which you retroactively judge claims about Scripture from preceding centuries.

It seems to be Andrew’s understanding that, when I referred to “streams,” I had in mind “the true Church.” But that’s not what I had in mind. I was simply referring to people/communities who recognized/accepted as inspired/authoritative the books that are inspired/authoritative. While I do think that the earliest “streams” consisted exclusively of believers, I see no reason to think that the majority of people/communities who continued to recognize/accept as inspired/authoritative the books that are inspired/authoritative were also believers (or generally doctrinally sound).

    Thanks for clarifying. I definitely was misunderstanding you about that. I still want to clarify that I don’t believe the late-4th-century Church pulled its list of Scriptural texts out of nowhere. This was definitely the result of a historical process which began in the 1st century and culminated (for the most part) in the late 4th century. The end of this process, however, definitely wasn’t a foregone conclusion in the late 1st century, and our acceptance of the Scriptures rests on the discernment of the 2nd to 4th century Church.

I think it’s interesting that we have far more historical evidence (and thus reason to believe) that the Christians of the 2nd century were premillennialists who believed that Christ’s second coming will follow (and put an end to) the reign of a man who will fulfill the scriptural prophecies concerning the Antichrist than we have historical evidence that these same 2nd century Christians held to some of the main doctrines promulgated by the Seven Ecumenical Councils.

    I agree with that characterization and I don’t have a problem with it. Much like their list of Scriptural books, the pre-4th-century Church was quite vague and diverse about their doctrinal commitments (at least compared to the later Church). The Church’s understanding of true Scripture and true doctrine both began to crystallize around the same time, in the 4th century, when Roman persecution ended and the Church had strong (often state-enforced) unity for several centuries. Although I may not like the way in which this unity was sometimes enforced, I can’t deny that this Church is the only reason I believe in the Scriptures, and it would be inconsistent for me to also reject her doctrine.

Responding to Concordant critics

    Since I published my post about the Scriptures, the Church, and Christ last week, some of my Concordant former brethren have offered rebuttals on their Discord server. In this post, I’ll try to answer them to the best of my ability. In summary of the conclusions from my earlier post, my position is that the Scriptures cannot be properly interpreted apart from (1) the community of faith, which is the modern Church in communion with the 2nd through 4th century Church that traditioned the Scriptures; (2) the canon of truth, which is the early creed that developed into the Nicene Creed and governs the interpretation of the Scriptures, what is central vs. peripheral; and (3) the person of the crucified and risen Christ, who is the hypothesis of the Christian faith, prior to any Scriptures.

Drew Costen

    The first response to look at is Drew Costen’s, which he later posted on his blog as “Some thoughts on Catholic and Orthodox views of Scripture”:

To put it simply, if the Bible actually contradicts itself at all in its actual meaning (not referring to types of “contradictions” that can be resolved by understanding the difference between the two Gospels, of course), we can’t trust any of it to be true since we can’t know which parts are true and which aren’t. And if the Bible as a whole is true, there’s no way that the majority of the Christian (especially Orthodox and Catholic) doctrines can be true, as I believe my own eBook proves quite definitively (which is why I do think Andrew should re-read the whole book carefully). And if someone is going to say that we need to interpret the Bible based on the interpretations of the Catholic magisterium (or whatever the Orthodox equivalent of that is), since taking the context of the Bible as a whole into consideration completely contradicts their supposed interpretations — which I would argue aren’t actually interpretations at all, but are really just eisegesis, since there’s no actual way to get pretty much any of their doctrines out of the Bible if we’re assuming the Bible is inerrant, which means they have to be reading their doctrines into it instead — they might as well just throw the Bible out altogether and simply say their doctrines are simply based on some supposed apostolic chain of tradition (which is basically what they’re claiming anyway), because they have absolutely zero scriptural authority to base their doctrines on (which they don’t need anyway, as they claim to be the authority), especially since Scripture is really not only just superfluous to their authority and doctrines, but is actually a hindrance to them when it’s taken seriously.

To put it simply, they can’t refer us to Scripture as a basis for their authority (or, really, for any of their doctrines), since if Scripture is true, then Scripture as a whole contradicts basically everything they teach, and if Scripture as a whole isn’t true, we can’t trust any of it, and we then would have no reason to believe the parts they’re “interpreting” as the basis of their authority and doctrines are even true to begin with. So as logical as their bibliological — and even their epistemological — claims might seem to be at first glance, these claims have irreconcilable problems, at least as far as I can tell.

    Drew presents us with a dilemma: either the Bible contradicts itself, or it doesn’t and “the Bible as a whole is true”. If the Bible contradicts itself, then there is no standard to tell us which parts are true and which aren’t, and any faith which claims to be based on Scripture (such as Catholicism and Orthodoxy) is baseless. If the Bible doesn’t contradict itself, then it does contradict orthodox Christian belief (such as the Trinity and Incarnation) and supports Concordant doctrine instead.

    I believe that the view outlined in my post is able to thread the horns of this dilemma. First, it’s clear that apart from any framework of unity and inspiration laid upon the texts, the Scriptures do contain contradictions. This is the value of historical criticism: it allows us to view the texts as texts in themselves, apart from our frameworks of belief. Historical criticism shows us that the texts, considered merely as such, do have contradictions between themselves – and not just minor ones, like the number of fighting men in Israel (2 Sam 24:9; 1 Chron 21:5), but major developments, such as between polytheism and monotheism in ancient Israelite religion.

    However, I do not concede that there are contradictions within the Scriptures. When we consider the texts not merely as texts, but as Scripture, we’re already imposing a unifying framework upon them. Drew does this in his response (probably unconsciously) when he refers to “the Bible as a whole”. This unifying framework cannot come from within Scripture itself, but must be imposed from outside. As Drew hints at in his post, the framework which one chooses tells us, not so much “which parts are true and which aren’t”, but which parts are central and which are peripheral. For example, should the Hebrew Bible texts which (in their original context and considered in themselves) support polytheism be made central and be used to interpret the texts which support monotheism, or vice versa?

    This issue is precisely what I was talking about in my original post when I argued for the need for a “canon of truth,” the term that the early Church used to refer to its unifying framework. The canon provides a standard which isn’t foreign to the Scriptures (because its language and associations are drawn entirely from Scripture), but is imposed upon them and determines their center and periphery. For example, the canon opens with a declaration of faith in “one God, the Father Almighty,” which tells us that the monotheistic texts of Scripture are central and must be used to interpret the other texts.

    Finally, Drew seems to assume in his argument that if the Bible were irreconcilably contradictory, there would be no basis for Christian faith. This isn’t correct. As Irenaeus pointed out in the 2nd century, even the regions of the Church which had no Scripture (because they were illiterate) shared the same faith. This is because the foundation of Christian faith is not a text or collection of texts, but the person of the crucified and risen Lord Jesus Christ, faith in whom has been passed down by his apostles and their successors, as it would have been even if they left no writings at all (Adv Haer 3.4.1-2).

Aquadude

    Another response was offered by “Aquadude” on the Concordant Discord server. He writes,

Never made sense to me how the church would need to be the final authority of scripture, especially considering Ezra was entrusted with compiling the OT, it doesn’t seem right that scripture would be canonized by an authority who are given no direct orders from God unlike the prophets. There was a RevaGo video that said that Paul was the final authority in compiling the Old and [N]ew [T]estament together, which makes the most sense to me.

https://youtu.be/627LWhattTM?si=3fToZ5BsrOE5SFoH

Also since you mentioned there no evidence being a New Testament until the late fourth century, how heavily are we supposed to rely on what was documented historically? Some people throw out half of Paul’s letters and even the Gospel of John because they are not dated early enough, just as an example.

    I appreciate these good-faith concerns. First, in the video that “Aquadude” shares, Colossians 1:25 (“to complete the word of God”) and 2 Timothy 4:11-13 (“bring the scrolls, especially the parchments”) are taken as evidence that Paul compiled the entire Bible in the first century. Unfortunately, while this is a nice story, it doesn’t match the historical evidence at all which shows that the list of New Testament books remained fluid until it crystallized into its present form in the 4th century (see my previous post). Therefore, even if Paul compiled the modern Bible in the first century, it was immediately lost and independently recovered by a gradual process in the 2nd to 4th century Church.

    [As an aside: the two verses to which “RevaGo” appeals don’t support the idea that Paul compiled the Bible in its present form. Paul tells us exactly what he means by “the word of God” in Colossians, and it isn’t the physical text of the Bible, but “the mystery… Christ in you, the hope of glory” (1:25-27). The reference to “scrolls” in 2 Tim 4:13 hardly indicates every one of the books of Scripture in their present order.]

    The concern that the early Church wasn’t “given… direct orders from God” to compile the Scriptures is a legitimate one. However, the example of Ezra “compiling the OT” doesn’t support this concern, in fact, it helps to alleviate it. Ezra himself was given no “direct orders from God” that are recorded in Scripture; rather, we read that “the hand of the Lord was upon” him (Ezra 7:6, 28), which rather suggests indirect guidance. Likewise, Jesus promised that the Holy Spirit would “guide you [collectively] into all truth” (John 16:13). If we believe that the present list of Scriptural books is correct, then the discernment of Scripture must have been such guidance.

    As for the fact that “some people throw out half of Paul’s letters and even the Gospel of John because they are not dated early enough,” this proves my point exactly. Apart from the discernment of the 2nd through 4th century Church, there are some books of Scripture that wouldn’t even be considered authentic. We would have very little reason to believe, for example, that 1 and 2 Timothy were really written by Paul. If you do believe that they were written by Paul, this is only because the Church throughout history has recognized those texts as authentic and inspired.

Aaron Welch

    Concordant blogger Aaron Welch – who, let me reiterate, has been a great influence on me and my journey of faith, and to whom I dedicated my original post – also offered some responses on the Discord server. I think it’s worth reproducing his latest response in full, in which he explains his view of the historical reception of Scripture:

I believe that every inspired document that comprises the Greek Scriptures was recognized as inspired and authoritative by believers wherever these documents were available/known to believers. To be clear, I’m not saying that, in the first century, every believer or ecclesia was aware of/had in their possession every inspired document. What I’m saying is that any inspired book or collection of inspired books (regardless of how complete or incomplete the collection was) that was known to/available to any believers during the apostolic era would’ve been recognized as inspired/authoritative, and that, from the time that an inspired document was written (and began to be read and copied/circulated among believers) until the time of Athanasius, there was an unbroken chain (or rather various “unbroken chains”) of believers and professing believers who, collectively, recognized the inspiration and authority of every work that comprises the Greek Scriptures. And it is ultimately because of this state of affairs that we have in possession today translations of copies of the full collection of inspired writings that we now have. The very fact that a complete list of inspired documents was able to be recognized in the 4th century is due to the fact that all of these inspired books had, since the apostolic era, been recognized as inspired/authoritative by unbroken chains of believers/professing believers.

Think of it like various “streams” of believers and professing believers who were aware of (and thus recognized as inspired/authoritative) incomplete collections of inspired books of Scripture. At first, all of the “streams” were relatively small, but they all gradually grew bigger (with some being larger than others, depending on the location and number of believers). These “streams” continued to grow and combine until the majority of believers/professing believers had become aware of the full collection of inspired books (and this “stream” continues today). But the “stream” that was comprised of Scripture-affirming Christians in the 4th century only existed because of the streams that existed before them. It’s not like there was ever a time when all the “streams” disappeared, and then “the Church” of the 4th century “saved the day” so that we can now have the complete collection. No; the believers and/or professing believers of the 4th century were simply a continuation of the streams that began during the apostolic era.

To continue my “streams” analogy, we could say that, after the apostolic era ended, the “streams” became increasingly more contaminated and polluted by erroneous beliefs and practices (including beliefs that contradict the truth of the evangel). However, this “contamination” did not, for the most part, involve a rejection of Scripture, or a denial of its authenticity and inspiration. Those who began to hold to beliefs and interpretations of scripture that contradict the evangel (and other scriptural truth) did not realize they were doing so. They continued to affirm the inspiration of Scripture, and continued to profess faith in the evangel (as they understood it). Thus, there is no inconsistency in believing that, while we wouldn’t have the Bible we have today if it weren’t for those who came before us (including the Christians of the 4th century) - for it was necessary that they, and those before them, affirm the authenticity and inspiration of all Scripture - we need not (and should not) assume that the majority of Christians and Christian leaders of any post-apostolic era were actually members of the body of Christ, or that their doctrine was generally sound.

    Aaron’s analogy of “streams” is helpful, but he oversimplifies the picture. It’s not the case that all the books that are now in the New Testament, and no others, were recognized as inspired from the beginning, and that as communities of believers came into contact with one another they recognized the inspiration of each others’ texts and built the present New Testament. There were non-canonical books, such as the Shepherd of Hermas and the Apocalypse of Peter, which were recognized as inspired by some but ultimately rejected, and canonical books, such as 2 Peter and Revelation, which were known and rejected by some but ultimately accepted.

    It is only by appealing to the standard that crystallized in the late 4th century that we can retroactively see which Scriptural streams were legitimate and which were not. There were some streams that died out, some that got larger or smaller over time, and many streams gradually came together from the 2nd century onward until they formed the “river” of the New Testament in the 4th century. I don’t see how Aaron’s claim that the streams became “contaminated and polluted” before that point, to the extent that they failed to be true streams at all (“not… actually members of the body of Christ”), does anything but reduce the credibility of the New Testament to nothing. It seems arbitrary and inconsistent to believe that the early Church was guided by God in its reception of Scripture, but not in its reception of doctrine.

    One of Aaron’s claims is confusing to me, but maybe I’m misunderstanding him:

It’s not like there was ever a time when all the “streams” disappeared, and then “the Church” of the 4th century “saved the day” so that we can now have the complete collection. No; the believers and/or professing believers of the 4th century were simply a continuation of the streams that began during the apostolic era.

This is precisely the argument that I’m making. Concordantism claims that the true Church almost disappeared, if not completely, before the 4th century, and the day was saved in the 19th century when A. E. Knoch (with his one year of biblical Greek classes) recovered the true faith of the apostles. The claim that the Church of the 4th century was a continuation from the apostolic era is the one I’m making (along with the rest of mainstream Christianity), and this is how we can trust that the Scriptures which were compiled into the 4th century are truly inspired.

    Aaron offered a few other responses on the Discord server, and I’ll respond to some of the points he made, although most of his points were reiterated in his last response (which I pasted above).

Andrew, so does this mean that you’re now a “futurist” with regard to the prophesied “fourth kingdom” of Daniel 7 and its final, saint-persecuting ruler? I know that the Eastern Orthodox Church affirms (in accord with what was the dominant view among of the patristic writers) that, before Christ’s return, there’s going to be a specific, literal human individual who’s going to fulfill the prophecies concerning the “Antichrist”/”Man of Lawlessness.”

Also, something that I find a bit puzzling is why the Eastern Orthodox Church doesn’t affirm the premillennial doctrinal position (according to which Christ will return to earth to establish a literal, physical, one-thousand-year kingdom). For we know that the main eschatological view of early patristic writers (roughly 2nd to early 4th century) was premillennialism. Instead, the EOC affirms the amillennial position (an eschatological view that’s historically associated more with Augustine, and which found its first systematic expression in his work, City of God).

    The only fully dogmatic beliefs in Eastern Orthodoxy are the doctrines promulgated by the Seven Ecumenical Councils. The Scriptures and the “consensus of the Fathers” are also non-negotiable parts of Tradition, which are open to interpretation (hence one can’t point to their own interpretation of Scripture or the Fathers and claim that it’s dogmatic). The rest of Tradition, including local councils, liturgical hymns, and iconography, is important but ultimately open to negotiation.

    I’ve been attending an Orthodox parish for some time now, and I can’t recall hearing a single word about a future individual Antichrist. This view was not promulgated by any ecumenical council, and the early Fathers held diverse views about Antichrist (although most did believe in such a future individual). It is hardly to be found in the liturgical life of the Church. The Creed, which (as the canon of faith) determines the center and periphery of our faith, only declares that “[Jesus Christ] shall come again with glory to judge the living and the dead; whose Kingdom shall have no end.” It’s safe to say that insofar as the belief in a future individual Antichrist is a part of Tradition, it is extremely peripheral. I don’t believe in such a future individual, but because this belief is so peripheral to Christian faith, I could certainly be convinced otherwise.

    Amillennialism is also not a dogmatic position of the Eastern Orthodox Church, but it’s much less ambiguous. The Creed and the hymns relating to the Last Judgment associate Christ’s return with the final judgment and the end of history as such. I think it’s overstating the case to say that the main view of the 2nd to 4th century Fathers was premillennialism (chiliasm). Probably the majority of the 2nd century Fathers were chiliasts (e.g., Epist Barn 15; Justin Martyr, Dial 80-81; Irenaeus, Adv Haer 5.23-35; Hippolytus, Comm Dan 4.23-24), but this was also tied to a chronological framework that’s been disproven since Christ didn’t return after several hundred years. Clement and Origen of Alexandria opposed chiliasm, and by the 4th century most Fathers were amillennialists, which is reflected in the Creed. In his City of God, Augustine just systematized what was already the received wisdom in his day.

Andrew wrote: “In fact, these same texts to which Aaron appeals (1 and 2 Timothy, 1 John, 2 Peter and Jude) show every indication from the outside of having been composed pseudonymously in the second century, after the alleged apostasy took place! Apart from the early Church’s acceptance of these texts as authentic and inspired, there would be no basis to interpret them in the way that Aaron does.”

I believe we have just as little reason to believe that the texts to which I appealed were “composed pseudonymously in the second century” as we have reason to believe that the other writings that comprise the Greek Scriptures were “composed pseudonymously in the second century.”

Here are some articles that I believe demonstrate the authenticity of Paul’s pastoral letters… In support of the authenticity of Peter’s second letter… In support of the authenticity of John’s letters…

It’s also worth noting that Polycarp of Smyrna (c. 69–155 AD) explicitly referenced and quoted both 1 and 2 Timothy in his Letter to the Philippians (specifically, Polycarp quotes 1 Timothy 6:10 and 1 Timothy 6:7 in chapters 3 and 4, connecting these citations to his praise of Paul and thus demonstrating his reliance on them as Pauline and authoritative).

    Aaron later realized, correctly, that I meant in my original post “that we would, today, have no reason to think that they’re authentic and inspired apart from what took place [or better, culminated] in the 4th century”. In fact, this is precisely the case with his response! Every one of the articles that Aaron linked to was written by people with prior commitments to the authenticity and inspiration of those texts. The only reason that they have such prior commitments is because they belong to Christian communities that accept the list of Scripture which developed in the 2nd to 4th century Church! Aaron even appeals to Polycarp’s acceptance of 1 and 2 Timothy, even though he argues that Polycarp fell away from the truth in the very post to which I was responding!

As far as what Andrew referred to as “the alleged apostasy,” I don’t think that even he can deny that, during the first few centuries of “church history,” a progressive change/transition in ecclesiastic organization/governance took place, and that, by the fourth century, the organization of “the church” was quite different than it was during the apostolic era…

While those who belong to the institutional Christian church (whether eastern or western) will undoubtedly say that this development in ecclesiastic organization and governance was a good thing, I see it as just an outward sign of (and as coinciding with) the doctrinal apostasy that I believe did take place.

    This is true, although not quite so drastic. The Church developed from a two-fold structure of presbyter-bishops and deacons in the 1st century, to a three-fold structure of bishops, presbyters, and deacons in the 2nd century, and ultimately crystallized in the 4th century into the structure of patriarchs, archbishops, bishops, priests, deacons, and monastics that’s (more or less) found in the Orthodox Church today. In its ideal form, from which the concrete Church unfortunately departed at times, this structure is not built on power over others but on a process of mutual consensus (e.g., Apostolic Canon 34; I Nicaea 5-6; Antioch 19).

    Merely describing the historical reality in this way doesn’t involve a value judgment (whether this was “a good thing” or “apostasy”). However, it was during this same period (2nd to 4th centuries), and within the same developing ecclesial structure, that the list of Scriptural books was also developed. Like I said earlier about doctrine, it seems arbitrary and inconsistent to accept the present form of Scripture as divinely inspired, while rejecting the structure of the Church that produced it as corrupted to the extent that it wasn’t even the true Church.

Nash

    Another question was posed to me by “Nash” who is curious how an ex-unitarian trinitarian would interpret certain passages.

Curious about Mark 10:18 in particular. The only response I ever really hear is “oh, so you don’t think Jesus is good?” which is pretty easy to refute just by considering other sinless characters, such as the archangels. (Who nobody considers to be God, yet are also clearly “good” in a sense that’s shy of the untemptable moral perfection that God alone possesses per this verse)

    This is easier to answer if we abandon later and Western concepts of what the Trinity means, and enter the mind of the early Church. The Creed dogmatically declares that the “one God” is “the Father Almighty”. We know God as the Father, and as such he cannot be conceived apart from his Son Jesus Christ, who is the perfect image of the Father, sharing in everything that he is except for being Father. Therefore, Jesus Christ is not God simpliciter, but as the Creed says, “Light of [or ‘from’] Light, true God of true God… of one essence with the Father”. In the words of Basil of Caesarea, “There is one God because there is one Father. But the Son is also God, and there are not two gods because the Son has identity with the Father” (Sab 3).

    It’s also true that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are one God. As Gregory of Nyssa argues in his famous Letter to Ablabius, this is because the term “God” (theos) according to its etymology refers to an activity (theasthai, “beholding”), not to the divine nature, which is incomprehensible to us and beyond all naming. The activity of the Trinity is perfectly unified. For example, there are not multiple salvations or judgments, but one salvation and one judgment which is operated from the Father, through the Son, in the Holy Spirit. Jesus and the Holy Spirit are precisely the ones through whom and in whom the will of the Father is enacted. In other words, the Trinity is God and his Word and his Spirit, and this is one God (cf. John of Damascus, De fide orth 1.8).

    Returning to Mark 10:18, Jesus says, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.” In the early Church, “God” in this passage was understood to refer to the Father (Clement of Alexandria, Paed 1.8; Origen, De Princ 2.5.4; Contra Celsum 5.11; CommJohn 1.254; 6.245). Basil of Caesarea shares the same reading, and he adds,

…even in this passage the Son does not speak to the exclusion of himself from the good nature. But since the Father is the first Good, we believe the words “no one” to have been uttered with the understood addition of “first”… Otherwise how can this passage fall in with the rest of the evidence of Scripture, or agree with the common notions of us who believe that the Only-Begotten is the image of the invisible God, and image not of the bodily figure, but of the very Deity and of the mighty qualities attributed to the essence of God, image of power, image of wisdom, as Christ is called “the power of God and the wisdom of God”? (Letter 236.1)

Many people are called “good” in Scripture, so it must be that no one but God is good in some absolute sense. God is the first absolute Good, but not to the exclusion of Jesus Christ who is the perfect image of God the Father, who is therefore also the absolute Good (cf. Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium 11.1).

    It’s also worthwhile to look at the context of the verse. The young ruler who refers to Jesus as “good teacher” (Mk 10:17) certainly doesn’t have absolute divine Goodness in mind. Jesus is the one who introduces the idea of divine Goodness into the conversation, and he doesn’t explicitly deny it for himself: “why do you call me good?” This was taken up by some 4th century and later Fathers, who argue that the merely human term “good teacher” was not proper enough for Jesus, and so he hinted at his own divine Goodness (e.g., Hilary of Poitiers, De Trin 9.15-18; John Chrysostom, Hom Matt 63.1). Indeed, after reiterating the second tablet of the Decalogue (commandments about fidelity to other humans), rather than quoting the first tablet (about fidelity to God) to the young ruler, Jesus exhort him to give away his possessions and “follow me” (Mk 10:19-22).

    These two interpretations of Mark 10:18 are not mutually exclusive. In his question to the rich young ruler, Jesus directs the glory of absolute Goodness to his Father, while not denying (and even hinting at) the same glory for himself. This is perfectly consistent with the properly-understood doctrine of the Trinity.