Between biology and ecclesiology: Some thoughts on asceticism

There was recently some rather stimulating discussion at Koinonia on the different place that asceticism has in Orthodox and Catholic life. A guest post by Chrys (see also the follow-up post by Father Gregory) argued that asceticism is a foundational element in Orthodox discipleship and that since “this understanding tends to be absent, forgotten, misunderstood or diminished in the West” it can therefore be difficult for Catholics and Protestants to understand. Ascetical discipline is “an integral part of the path to theosis” and the means by which we come to the self-knowledge that is necessary for “the ever-deepening conversion necessary for theosis.”

While I would like to think that the older monastic traditions in the West have more in common with the Orthodox perspective here, I could not help thinking that Chrys’ analysis was incisive and that it had important implications. This touches on various themes that I keep thinking that I want to come back to, some of which I hope to post more on although this will probably be in a less than entirely systematic way. As I stated in a comment,  while the reasons for this falling apart of the ascetical tradition in the West are complex, they include the loss of the body’s role as bearer of meaning, a juridically orientated understanding of salvation, the divorce between “mysticism” and ecclesial life and an increasingly institutional understanding of the Church, and probably also others. In any case, I have the impression that the penitential practices of the last few centuries had lost their connection with transformation and theosis, leading to a reaction that has made asceticism a dirty word in many Catholic circles. This is obviously wide-ranging terrain that requires further reflection.

For now I thought that it might be worth highlighting the foundational role that asceticism plays in the ontology of personhood that Zizioulas developed in the first chapter of  Being as Communion.  (See here for a detailed summary). This implies a radical denial of the tragic nature of death which must of necessity be rooted in God. While biological offspring can ensure the survival of the species they cannot ensure the continuation of the concrete person. This eternal survival of the person as a unique, unrepeatable ‘hypostasis’ constitutes the quintessence of salvation and theosis means coming to participate in God’s personal existence.

The goal of salvation is that the personal life which is realized in God should also be realized on the level of human existence. (50)

Zizioulas sees Christian life as conditioned by both the biological and the ecclesial hypostasis. The biological hypostasis is constituted by conception and birth. While not unrelated to love, eros and the body have a tragic aspect because they are interwoven with individuality and death and are therefore tied to an ontological necessity implied by natural instinct. To be freed from such necessity means not the destruction of eros and the body, but rather that they should be freed by receiving a new hypostasis, namely, the new birth of baptism. It is precisely this possibility that is offered to us in Christ, namely the realization in history of the very reality of the person.

Christology consequently is the proclamation to man that his nature can be ‘assumed’ and hypostasized in a manner free from the ontological necessity of his biological hypostasis… (56)

While it is precisely this new reality that is brought to birth in the Church and in the new relationships that it implies, the biological hypostasis does not cease to exist but continues to exist in a paradoxical relationship with the ecclesial hypostasis. The ecclesial hypostasis has a certain eschatological nature and this is seen especially in the celebration of the Eucharist “which has as its object man’s transcendence of his biological hypostasis and his becoming an authentic person.” (61)

This ecclesial hypostasis is therefore necessarily ascetical. This means that eros and the body are not to be denied, but rather to be hypostasised in such a way that they become freed from ontological necessity. While taking the tragic aspect of the biological hypostasis seriously, the eucharistic hypostasis is rooted ontologically in the future and receives its pledge from the resurrection of Christ.

In such a perspective asceticism is not simply a matter of spiritual discipline or individual penitential practice, but has a much more foundational role. It is the dynamic link, as it were, between what is and what is yet to come, a necessary ingredient in that which constitutes us as Church. And to disregard it raises questions not only about individual spiritual practice, but more fundamentally about our very understanding of life in Christ.

 

On western Christians and eastern Christianity

Perhaps it was naïve of me, but one of the things that has surprised me about this blog is that it seems to have landed me in generally eastern or Orthodox Christian circles, if I am to judge by the people who link to it. In fact I was quite taken aback, and regarded it as rather a joke, when it got nominated for the Eastern Christian blog awards earlier in the year. When I mentioned this to my abbess a while back she responded by saying: “Well you are reading Zizioulas and Louth, that probably accounts for it.” That’s true of course, but, as I pointed out, Father Louth was still an Anglican when he wrote Discerning the Mystery, and, well, Zizioulas is hardly unknown in western theological circles  (although I do sometimes wonder how seriously his arguments are really taken). Perhaps a more fundamental reason for the convergence is that as a monastic following the Rule of Saint Benedict, I find my roots and the sources that I am most interested in interacting with in the era in which East and West still shared a common tradition. (I’ll bracket the question of where the Cistercians fit into this for now).

But the question of how western Christians interact with eastern Christianity is one that it is worth reflecting on and which has been going through my mind for some years now. There is, at least in some parts of the world, a considerable interest in both “Eastern Christianity” and “Orthodoxy” (the two often being used interchangeably although such an identification is indeed problematic) in a way that is quite superficial and reduces it to being simply one more product in the religious marketplace which we can appropriate selectively and synchretistically, hence the popularity of icons, Byzantine chant and other “eastern” paraphernalia.

While it is understandable that western Christians, traumatised by the sorry state of much western liturgy and Church life, should look to the East for resources, there are clearly dangers involved in this that can lead to rather contradictory situations. For example, a friend of mine once lived in an Eastern Catholic community (made up entirely of westerners) and he commented that when they celebrated the Byzantine liturgy they did so with great reverence and care, but that when they – occasionally – celebrated a Latin-rite Mass they did so in a slap-dash manner with crumbs all over the table, which made him think that their Byzantine celebrations were more play-acting than anything else. If the Eucharistic sacrifice should be treated with the utmost reverence in an “eastern” liturgy, then surely the same should apply in a “western” liturgy. Another, slightly different example, is that of certain new monastic communities which have incorporated large parts of the Byzantine liturgy and Slavonic chant into their liturgical life, but whose prayer life remains centred around adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. They seem to have incorporated the trappings of the East without probing the underlying liturgical theology involved.

Don’t misunderstand me: I’m not suggesting that western Christians shouldn’t learn from the East, and I have certainly had more than my fair share of doing so. But negotiating this process is not always easy and we should avoid appropriating aspects of a tradition in such a way that they lose their voice as part of a broader theological and liturgical tradition, isolating the part from the whole and from the underlying meaning that it conveys. Moreover, it does not make much sense wanting to appropriate eastern traditions into western Church life if we have rejected or neglected the core beliefs, rites and symbols that both East and West share.  Thus instead of being too quick to introduce icons into western liturgy, it might more appropriate to first revisit how we relate to the fundamental liturgical symbolism that is common to both East and West.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that learning from the East should go deeper than simply the trappings, to the deeper levels of life that are embodied in the tradition. And, even more fundamentally, this should not be about “East” or “West” (or anywhere else) but about seeking to encounter the Christian tradition that is common to both, about seeking to understand how we have departed from this tradition, and allowing ourselves – more fundamentally yet – to be evangelised by it.