The second Sunday of Sarakostí, called the second triumph of Orthodoxy because it celebrates the victory of
Gregory Palamás over the arch-fiend
Barlaam of Calabria, who called the monks of Mount Athos "navel gazers." Gregory was rewarded by being made archbishop of Thessaloniki in AD 1347. Barlaam said that the monks' lives of prayer were a waste of time that could never bring them close to God. Palamás defended the monks, asserting that we can best know God through the work of Jesus Christ, and that through intense prayer it is possible to "see the uncreated Light of Mount Tabor." So, chalk another one up for Orthodoxy and the "imperial church." In retrospect, one has to wonder how important all these monastic squabbles were and are for the average followers of Jesus Christ, who don't have to define and defend, who just "follow the Lamb wherever He goes" (Revelation 14:4) because they "know His voice" (John 10:27).
There's something about monasticism that just has to be said. Within Orthodox Christianity we have this wild institution—monasticism—that seems to be at the rudder of the Church, has always provided a corrective when things seemed to go wrong. Like any human construct, it cannot be considered infallible, but must be subject to the same critical evaluation that any institution is, even more so, since it mans the rudder of the Church—we're not just talking about earthly propositions here, but the "ark of salvation."
The modern Orthodox Christian is taught that it is indispensable to have a spiritual father, to confess one's sins to, to get guidance and instructions from, to be obedient to, with an obedience that can (sometimes) subvert reason. At their best, these elder/disciple relationships can, in fact, bring a person closer to God (though they can add nothing to one's salvation). At their worst, these relationships can almost unhinge one's salvation and certainly can cause an unspiritual co-dependence that creates more bondage than it relieves. Now, here's the rub. Though we're taught that we must have a spiritual father and go to confession regularly, few do, relatively speaking; and if they did, there wouldn't be enough time for the priests to hear them all.
Now here's where the Sunday sermon comes into play. Father Paul, the appointed epistle (
Hebrews 1:10-2:3) and gospel (
Mark 2:1-12) notwithstanding, preached his usual wild take-off, but today it was enlightening. He started by giving us the illustration of people using "temporary fixes" to solve problems that deserve more serious effort—for example, "temporarily" fixing a farm gate with some
baling wire. The fix really is temporary, though we forget to fix it right until it breaks again. Father Paul applied this to the Church's handling of confession.
The early Church didn't have the "sacrament" of confession as we know it today. The Church was still a tight group of people working out their salvation together. Sins were confessed among them
publicly, and the group forgave the repenting sinner, together, and
publicly restored him.
After
Constantine, the Church grew too quickly, because it was "in" to be a "Christian." The leaders of the Church set up a temporary fix—they designated the bishops and presbyters to be the "forgivers" in the name of the community, and sinners would confess
privately, be absolved, and
quietly restored to fellowship.
Unfortunately,
rigor mortis set in, or at least a profound but respectable laziness, and the Church found itself unwilling or unable to return to the earlier state of affairs. It was easier to just say, "times have changed" or "the Holy Spirit has evolved our understanding, and it's better this way." But even within Orthodox Christianity, the voice of the
real Holy Spirit was still heard and followed by some. Father Paul gave three examples.
Symeon the New Theologian taught that a follower of Christ could confess to any other Christian (not just clergy) and even be forgiven. He was, of course, practically stoned for his teaching by some of his contemporaries, yet the Orthodox Church considers him on a par with holy apostle and evangelist John the Theologian, calling him the
New Theologian, that is, the
new apostle John.
John of Kronstadt, a Russian priest of modern times, had so many people coming to him for confession, that he had them all just speak their confessions aloud
publicly while standing in the church service, and he forgave them all
publicly and absolved them—and this was considered by all to be perfectly acceptable as a "sacrament."
Finally, even closer to home, Father Elías Stephanópoulos of Holy Trinity, Portland, Oregon, who pastored this community for 19 years before losing a battle with terminal cancer, used to periodically read the prayers of absolution over the entire congregation. What's implied by this action is that those who had repented of their sins and confessed, if only to one another or even to God alone, received the blessing of forgiveness at the hands of the priest and in the name of the Church.
And I want to add one more witness of my own. Aretí Vlahákis, a lifelong member of Holy Trinity who was an evangelical spirit and whom I knew only in her old age, passed on many things to us "younger" disciples. She also said, that confession to a priest was not the only way to confess your sins. She also said what the Word of God teaches, "confess your sins to one another" (James 5:16). Aretí really knew her Bible. May her memory be eternal.
So, back to where Father Paul left us. After giving us his three examples of how "confession" could be administered, he left it with us, to decide "to go or not to go," though this is
not the way he put it. What he said was something that implied that the time has come, at last, to discover what the Lord wants us to do as persons and as a community, to make "forgiveness of sins" a reality, and not keep trying to fix the gates of our souls with mere "baling wire."
Father Paul, if you read this, you spoke a true word today. Let's hope we're listening,
all of us.
Everything, except true love, is an illusion.
