Претражи Живе Речи Утехе

His Grace Bishop John of Glavinitsa of the Bulgarian Orthodox Church reposed in the Lord this morning in a Sofia hospital after a brief battle with cancer, reports Dobrotoliubie. Bp. John served as Vicar Bishop to His Eminence Metropolitan Kiril of Varna and Veliki Preslav and in recent years carried out his ministry at the world-famous St. John of Rila Monastery. He will be remembered as a hierarch who loved the service of God and the liturgical services. His Grace was born Stoyan Kostadinov Stoykov on November 29, 1949 in Sofia. He received his secondary education at the St. John of Rila Sofia Seminary, and on January 11, 1969, he took his monastic vows in the Bachkovo Monastery, and was ordained as a hierodeacon later that year. He was ordained as a hieromonk in 1971, and raised to the rank of archimandrite in 1976. n 1976, he graduated from the St. Clement of Ohrid Theological Academy in Sofia. He served as a priest in the Metropolis of Vidin, as the Deputy Rector of the Sofia Theological Seminary, and as the head of the Synodal Liturgical Department before becoming a bishop. He was consecrated as the Bishop of Glavinitsa on November 30, 2010, serving as a vicar to the Metropolitan of Varna. May his memory be eternal! http://orthochristian.com/119524.html?fbclid=IwAR2HffDPJ3aEpMVHPcsPiX8K9hj_VjinNZ1NjMsXOFgPn_BMvmG6DgS4KWQ

(About G. V. Martini - G. V. Martini works as a senior product manager for a software company and is a subdeacon in the Orthodox Church. He and his family attends St. Innocent Antiochian Orthodox Church in Everson, Washington) October 10, 2017 · G. V. Martini Editor’s Note: This article is part of an October 2017 series of posts on the Reformation and Protestantism written by O&H authors and guest writers marking the 500th anniversary of the nailing of Martin Luther’s 95 theses to the church door at Wittenberg on October 31, 1517. Articles are written by Orthodox Christians and discuss not just the Reformation as a historical event but also the spiritual heritage that descended from it. December, 1524. A French wool carder named Jean Leclerc inconspicuously removes a bull of Pope Clement VII from the doors of the cathedral in Meaux. The bull promised indulgences, but Leclerc would not have it. In its place, he offered a rendering of Clement as the Antichrist. He was soon found out, sentenced to a brutal and public lashing after a short trial in Paris. And in March of 1525 he received his punishment, being thereafter exiled from his home. But this did not deter Leclerc from future trouble making. In the town of Metz, he continued his trade as a wool carder. For a while, he kept his contrary views to himself. But eventually, Jean found an opportunity to make a statement. He decided that on the occasion of the next holy procession to a shrine, he would make a definitive stand. The night before the procession was scheduled to take place, Leclerc took all of the icons and relics at the shrine and destroyed them. The next day, worshipers were obviously in shock. Leclerc was discovered and arrested for his actions, being immediately sentenced to death. On July 22, 1525, tortured alive for all to see, he reportedly spoke in a calm voice: “Their idols are silver and gold, the work of men’s hands.” Leclerc is but one example of the radicalization of Protestant Christians in sixteenth century France. Perhaps most well-known are the Huguenots and the bloody Protestant-Catholic wars that persisted to a climactic St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre in 1572. And while torturing people to death for their religious beliefs is not something any of us would either condone or accept, the high stakes during this period of history make it clear there were passionate, and deeply held beliefs on either side. But where did this anger come from? Why were common folk in France and other parts of Europe so suddenly angry at the very sight of images and relics? Calvin and the French Influence While he was forced to leave France by 1534, humanist and student of the law John Calvin published his first edition of Institutes of the Christian Religion in 1536, dedicating it to the king of France. And in 1539, the first Synod of Paris officially sought to organize the Protestant Church in France as a “Calvinist” one. Absent or not, Calvin and his theology were at the heart of the Protestant movement both in France and elsewhere in the sixteenth century. Throughout his magnum opus, Calvin writes on a number of theological topics. Divided into four books, the eleventh chapter of his first volume deals specifically with the issue of sacred images or icons. Being so influential over Christianity in France, his words carried substantial weight. And while Calvin would later condemn the violent and public acts of iconoclasm (much like Luther), this did not prevent him from holding a pointedly negative view regarding their use both within the Christian church and in the private devotions of Christians. As Orthodox Christians, we obviously hold icons to be holy and important objects. They are “windows into heaven,” as some have put it, and are a real way for us to be connected in the great communion of the Saints. They bridge the apparent divide between heaven and earth; between the heavenly eternity and the mutable present. And so, on this monumental anniversary of the Reformation, I thought it might be prudent to examine what Calvin himself had to say about icons and then consider what we as Orthodox Christians believe. Public execution and torturing those who disagree with us is not the answer—as I’m sure we can all agree—but if these matters were so serious in the sixteenth century, they are no less serious today. Theology is important, and something as seemingly innocent as the images of Saints deserves a serious examination—and a serious response—when charges of idolatry or heresy are made. All Images Are Idols? Calvin first argues from the standpoint that we are forbidden by scripture to make any depiction or pictorial representation of God (Institutes of the Christian Religion 1.11.1). Following the instructions given to Moses, we should not make “… an idol nor a likeness of anything, whatever is in the heaven above and whatever is in the earth below and whatever is in the waters under the earth.” And before these objects we must not “bow down” or “worship” (Exodus 20:4–5). This seems relatively straightforward, until one considers the implication and the actual intended message. As Orthodox Christians, we wholeheartedly agree that the invisible God, who is immaterial and uncircumscribable, cannot be depicted. Even if we wanted to, we could not accurately or faithfully represent God the Father. But who we have in the Incarnation is the “express image” (Heb. 1:3) of God the Father, the “icon of the invisible God” (Col. 1:15). In Jesus Christ we see God, and in his Incarnation, God reveals himself to us. While the Father and Spirit are both formless and invisible (1 Tim. 1:17; Heb. 11:27; 1 John 4:20), the Person of the Son is revealed to us in the God-Man Jesus Christ: “No one has ever seen God; the only Son, who is in the bosom of the Father, he has made him known” (John 1:18). And so as Calvin laments a straw-man of false idols made from stone and silver (1.1.1), the Orthodox Christian need only reply that we are receiving and venerating the image of God he himself has given to us. If making an image of Jesus Christ is “superstitious” or “falsehood,” the first violation belongs to God himself. Calvin goes on to reinforce his argument by citing the example of Moses hiding in the rock (1.11.2), yet this is obviously a pre-Incarnational example of the immaterial God being hidden from our eyes. In Christ, we need no longer turn away, for God has given us a face to behold. Images and Statues Contrary to Scripture Following on his previous point, Calvin suggests that the very idea of images or forms depicting the invisible God is contrary to scripture. How dare anyone “confer God’s honor upon idols” (1.11.4)? For Calvin, scripture clearly associates superstitions with being the “works of men’s hands,” and not from God. However, every example Calvin provides from the old covenant is an example of God’s people worshiping other gods or demons, not the one, true God. As Orthodox Christians, we must also guard against superstition, and ensure that our veneration of icons and relics is pointed towards the one, true God. We must remember that our hope is in him and not any material thing. But to reject something good and holy just because it has potential for abuse would be, as Martin Luther himself once argued, to abolish the sky, food, and everyone we hold dear. Images Make Bad Teachers Next, Calvin reflects on the words of Pope Gregory the Great, who once wrote to Serenus, Bishop of Marseilles regarding an act of iconoclasm. Apparently, Christians in Marseilles were worshiping images and so the local clergy had them destroyed and removed from their churches. But Gregory rebukes Serenus and his fraternity for this act, explaining that of course they should not be worshiped (“adored”)—which is due to God alone—but are to remain in the churches so those “ignorant of letters may at least read by looking at the walls what they cannot read in books” (Letter 105). But to Calvin, images are not useful for instruction at all, especially when compared with books. Whatever can be learned from images is “futile” and “false” (1.11.5), an opinion he holds to be in line with the Prophets themselves. To this point Calvin returns in several more instances throughout the chapter (e.g. 1.11.7, 1.11.12). But is this really the case? It seems possible Calvin was especially insistent on this point because a good portion of the Roman statuary and images of Saints in his day were influenced by a more Renaissance style (1.11.7). He notes that even some of these images were inappropriate for church, due to how they were dressed or positioned. Leaving that bit aside, how should Orthodox Christians respond to this historical (and scriptural) example? Orthodox Christians do not approve the adoration or “worship” of icons, which should only be offered to the Holy Trinity. We do not worship icons as idols but rather pay them respect, as we might kiss the precious photograph of a loved one, or as an American citizen might salute the American flag. We are not worshiping the paper of a photograph or the fabric of a flag, but are rather paying respect and affection (“service” or δουλεία) to their prototype. We affirm the words of St. Gregory the Great that any abuse or superstitions related to icons and relics should be condemned. In fact, the Church did this very thing during the deliberations of the Seventh Ecumenical Council. The letter to Serenus is not an opposing, patristic voice to the proper use of icons. St. Gregory stands firmly in the same tradition as Orthodox Christians to this day. Gregory’s belief—contra Calvin—that icons could not only instruct the illiterate, but also lead men of all ages and educations to a proper contemplation of and encounter with the Divine, was a belief shared by many fathers of the Church. St. John of Damascus once wrote that “we are led by perceptible icons to the contemplation of the divine and spiritual” (PG 94:1261a). St. Gregory of Nyssa remarked that he could not see an icon of Abraham with Isaac “without tears” (PG 46:572). And finally, the Seventh Ecumenical Council reflects on Nyssa’s tears: “If to such a Doctor the picture was helpful and drew forth tears, how much more in the case of the ignorant and simple will it bring compunction and benefit?” (NPNF2 Vol. 14, p. 539). Images Reflect a Later Corruption of the Church Calvin also suggests that icons and statues were an abuse not found in the early Church. He claims that “for about five hundred years, during which religion was still flourishing, and a purer doctrine thriving, Christian churches were commonly empty of images” (1.11.13). And while he does not expand on this point to a great extent, the insinuation is commonly held by enough authorities throughout the Reformation that it warrants a brief response. By archaeology alone, we know today that images and pictorial representation were inextricably linked with the worship and piety of the earliest Christians. The catacombs of Italy, for example, make this plain for anyone to see. The relics of martyrs were routinely placed beneath Eucharistic altars, with images of Mary, Saints, and Christ with his disciples on the walls and ceilings around those partaking of the most holy of Christian mysteries. And in Syria, we have the amazing house church of Dura Europos, a place with iconography in the Baptistry and place of worship (not to mention a nearby Jewish synagogue with much of the same). There is also very little to suggest in the writings of the Church fathers that iconography, the veneration of icons and relics, or their placement in churches was any sort of later “corruption” or invention. Instead, we see a continual strain of support and respect for their proper usage, and the ultimate vindication of iconodules in the eighth century’s Second Council of Nicaea. “Childish” Arguments of the Seventh Ecumenical Council Calvin next turns his attention to the Second Council of Nicaea, held near the great city of Constantinople in the year 787. He laments that “a wicked Proserpine named Irene” was responsible for the Council dictating that images in church “should be worshiped” (1.11.14). Much like the Franks before him, Calvin is utterly impaired in his evaluation of this Ecumenical Council due to a poorly (mis-)translated Latin edition. He in fact references the text of Charlemagne in this very section. Instead of an orthodox nuance between veneration and adoration (or “worship”), he sees an assembly of bishops and priests arguing for the worship of icons as if they were God himself. Unfortunately, most of Calvin’s evaluation of this event is based on the misleading fiction of the Carolingians, who had political—not theological—reasons for wishing to overturn and ignore the conclusions of this Council. That said, it is worth pointing out that the Ecumenical Council does not promote the worship of images as God, and goes to great lengths to promote their proper and orthodox use. All scriptural arguments made in their deliberations (e.g. from Gen. 28:18, 47:10,31; Ps. 44:13; 98:5,9 LXX; Heb. 11:21) are ignored by Calvin, being merely dismissed outright as treating Scripture “childishly” and “foully” (1.11.15). And so really, since Calvin fails to present any substantial or meaningful argument outside of a false translation of the Council and ignoring the actual arguments made therein—including from scripture—there is not much more to be said on our part. I do find it ironic that a man so passionate about all theology being based upon the scriptures is so quick to avoid an interaction with them and the holy fathers of this Council. Misquoting and Misrepresenting Augustine The final area we’ll cover is Calvin’s citations of Augustine as a supporter of his aniconic position. Here again Calvin assumes that the earlier, more pure Christians would’ve obviously rejected images as impious and idolatrous. They certainly saw in images “no usefulness” (1.11.13). He then cites Augustine as an agreeable authority. Calvin writes: However, if these letters of Augustine are read in context, it becomes immediately clear that the Bishop of Hippo has in mind the false idols of other religions. For example: In other words, idols and the veneration of false gods or “demons” are of course to be rejected, because these other religions are parroting the true worship and liturgy of Christianity. They are using our forms for the worship of a false deity. And for Augustine, the offerings and prayers of our Christian liturgy—including images—are “true religion,” when done according to the traditions of the Church (and when offered to the one, true God). Later, Augustine emphasizes: Far from “the work of men’s hands,” Augustine speaks of “divine authority” in contrast to “human presumption.” Calvin’s appeals to Augustine on the subject of icons and relics is much like his appeal to the minutes of the Second Council of Nicaea: they are appeals based on both fiction and misrepresentation. Concluding Thoughts So what can Orthodox Christians take away from all of this? First, it must be noted that there is much we hold in common with our Reformation brothers and sisters. Not everything that took place during the Reformation, and especially during the Magisterial Reformation, was in vain or without justification. The Western church of that era was certainly one in need of reform and correction, and we must remember that figures such as Martin Luther were not necessarily setting out to create a new church in their own image, but rather reform the church from within. In some cases, the latter meant appeals to the worship, theology, and practices of the “Greek Christians,” as with both Luther and the later Tübingen theologians. Second, it may be possible that some of Calvin’s arguments or positions on the issue of images and relics was excessively influenced by both bad translations and the abuses of the Western church in his day. For the former, we may give him the benefit of the doubt to some degree—though this is more difficult in the case of his use of Augustine’s letters. For the latter, we likely agree to a certain extent on the impropriety of superstition and misuse when it comes to both images and relics. However, Eastern Christians are not entirely without blame in terms of abuses, as (for instance) the Patriarchate of Constantinople was known to (in the eighteenth century) offer indulgences—though this was isolated and not a widespread or accepted practice elsewhere in the Church. Finally, we must also stand firm in our own beliefs related to iconography, as this is not some optional or secondary aspect of our beliefs as Orthodox Christians. This was made plain both during the first wave of Byzantine iconoclasm at the Seventh Ecumenical Council and in the ninth century by authorities such as Theodore the Studite. For example, the Studite writes: “If anyone should say that, when the image of Christ is displayed, it is sufficient neither to honor nor to dishonor it, thus refusing it the honor of relative veneration, he is a heretic.” As Orthodox Christians, it is not enough to take a fence-sitting stance on this issue, as we believe the very doctrine of the Incarnation is at stake. And so on this we depart, willfully, from our Reformed friends (and from the counter-arguments of the Carolingian Libri Carolini). It is also worth noting that the defense of icons and their proper veneration was not entirely a Byzantine affair. No, the Church was rather united on this point, even outside the confines of the Second Council of Nicaea or the ninth century in Constantinople. For a more Western or Roman Catholic perspective, one need only reference the Councils of Rome in 727 and 731, the Council of Gentilly in 767, and the Council of the Lateran in 769. In the veneration of icons, Orthodox Christians see an importance that transcends even our best or most elaborate written arguments. In the Incarnation, God has made himself known to us. He could be seen, felt, and heard. And through his friends, our Saints and Fathers, we see what it means to act, live, and love like Christ. We are provided examples of how to mold our own lives to be patterned after him. We pay honor to them, because they have imaged Christ to us. We follow in their footsteps because they have sought to follow in the footsteps of our God and Savior. And so we chant on every Sunday of Orthodoxy a refrain that has deep meaning and significance for every Orthodox Christian—a staunch reminder that the veneration of icons is no mere secondary concern or the imaginations of human presumption: