Review: Early Christian Attitudes Towards Images

Steven Bigham, Early Christian Attitudes Towards Images (Rollinsford, NH: Orthodox Research Institute), 2004.

Dr. Steven Bigham has done the theological world a great service with his readable, concise, and well-argued little book. One does not have to go far on the internet, especially if one is associated with the "Reformed Catholicity" movement that sprang out of the defunct "Federal Vision" movement in the Reformed Christian world, to see back-and-forth on the question of early Christian (and therefore normative) attitudes and views towards the use of images liturgically. This seems to be because some (many?) who tred the Mercerburg-Moscow road end up crossing either the Tiber or the Bosphorus, both locations having well-developed iconographic traditions. Responses by the leading theologians of the movement (such as Peter Leithart or James Jordan) often include statements to the effect that early Christians were universally opposed to figurative art being used liturgically, as that would constitute idolatry. If that is what the early Christians believed, this would be a linchpin argument for Reformed scholars over against the Tradition of both Rome and the Orthodox. Bigham, however, puts the lie to this line of argumentation: every Reformed scholar should carefully consider this book and the argument presented.

Bigham's argument is simple enough: determine whether or not early (from AD 33-313) Christians were aniconic and iconophobic; that is, whether they had any images (whether liturgical or not) and, if not, was it because imagery was viewed as essentially idolatrous. He does this by examining two major parts of any iconoclastic argument: the "hostility theory" and a "rigorist" (a favorite word of Bigham's) interpretation of the 2nd Commandment.

The "hostility theory" states "that the early Christians had no images and were hostile to them because their religion forbade figurative art" (1). Most scholars, especially those from Protestant backgrounds (although Bigham notes various Roman Catholic scholars who also hold to this point), hold to some form or other of the "hostility theory." This raises the question: if the early Christians were uniformly and universally anti-image (aniconic), then how did the iconic tradition, codified in the 7th Ecumenical Council, get such a strong and enduring footing in the Church of Jesus Christ? The dominant theory, which one can see in much Reformed scholarship on Church history, is that the conservative clergy (who were more loyal to the Jewish aniconia that they inherited) bowed to popular pressure from the laity, which was unwilling to jettison their pagan ways upon entry into the Church. After time, especially after the linking of Church and Empire with the conversion of Constantine (and its aftereffects), the clergy joined the party and even came to defend and promote the use of liturgical images.

However, Bigham notes, "The strength or weakness of the modern form of the hostility theory, as well as of Byzantine iconoclasm itself, depends on whether an icon is distinguished from an idol, veneration from worship" (9). An icon is honored (or venerated) due to the role of those pictured in redemptive history (in which I include Church history, since Christ is still redeeming the world through His people); God alone is worshipped. Veneration is visual, worship is not (since God the Father is invisible); Christ is venerated and worshipped together, since He is theandros -- this, of course, is one of the more controversial claims of any iconodule, a lover of icons. If an icon is an idol, then the clergy-laity split not only is the only workable theory, but also one of the greatest tragedies of Church history. This raises the question of whether or not the holy Spirit is actually guiding Christ's Church into all truth. Bigham rejects this theory based on the close differentiation between an icon (to be honored because of who is pictured) and an idol (which claims to at least represent a god or God the Father). The early Christians (or, at least, the bishops and lay teachers: the run-of-the-mill lay Christian did not leave writings for us, but they did leave Church art) were implacably opposed to idolatry, which all parties (Protestant, Orthodox, Catholic) agree on. However, and this is the brunt of Bigham's work, they were not opposed to "non-idolatrous figurative art" (as Bigham normally describes it), even in the context of the Church's liturgy. He argues this by going through all relevant early Church sources, both written and non-written (painting, mosaic, sculpture), and determining the attitude towards art being presented. In each case, with the possible exception of one possibly inauthentic letter in Eusebius' corpus, the early Christians either are silent concerning non-idolatrous art or speak positively concerning it. Part of the problem, Bigham argues, is that "hostility theorists" come to the table with a set of errant presuppositions that color their reading of the evidence.

By the end of the book, it is obvious that non-idolatrous art was not a major concern of early Christian writers. Idolatrous art, of course, is and will continue to be till the establishment and conquest of Christendom. To argue that early Christians uniformly were aniconic or iconophobic is a misreading of the evidence based on faulty presuppositions. Where, though, do these faulty presuppositions come from? Bigham argues a falsely "rigorist" interpretation of the 2nd Commandment.

"You shall not make for yourself an idol, or any likeness of what is in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the water under the earth. You shall not worship them or serve them..." Thus speaks the 2nd Commandment, which seems to forbid any figurative art, not just idols ("or any likeness..."). However (and Bigham doesn't argue from the Masoretic or Septuagintal text grammatically here, which would only bolster his case), the Old Testament itself should give pause to any such "rigorist" interpretation: five chapters of Exodus later, God Himself commands golden cherubim ("in heaven above") to be crafted for His glory, cherubim to be woven on the tabernacle linens, a bronze serpent to be made for the healing of His rebellious people, and so on (25-32). For adherents to the Regulative Principle of Worship (RPW), which many Reformed people are, this should give pause. The point of the 2nd Commandment isn't the forbidding of images, whether liturgical or not, but rather the forbidding of idols, that which is worshipped instead of God. God Himself, in the Old Testament at least, is not to be figured artistically, but (and this is the point of St. John of Damascus) since God has appeared in the flesh, giving His own icon (or image, as in, "He is the image of the invisible God" from Colossians 2 and elsewhere), we are now allowed to make liturgical use of it. Bigham does not get into what the proper liturgical use of non-idolatrous art is (a debate that I, at least, consider far from over, at least as far as Protestant-Orthodox dialogue goes), but does set the stage for fruitful dialogue. Early Christians did not have a problem with non-idolatrous figurative art, nor did they interpret the 2nd Commandment in a "rigorist" (RPW-like) way; rather, there are more questions and further research that needs to be done, especially on how such images should be "used" in a liturgical context.

The Importance of Ignorance

The truth is: I don't know.

I've studied theology, and engaged in prayer (which, as Evagrius of Pontus reminds us, shouldn't ever be separated), for a long time now, at least relatively speaking. And this is what I've found out: I don't know.

This used to irritate me. Frustrate me. Anger me. Infuriate me.

Not anymore.

The best place to be is "I don't know," because if I don't know (and I don't), then I can finally submit to God. Instead of trying to lord it over Him with my own knowledge ("but it must be this way"), I can say, like Mary, "I am the servant-at-hand of my Lord, let it be unto me according to Your Word" (do pardon the re-gendering of her prayer -- I continue to not be a woman).

It is a freeing thing since I no longer have to hold up and onto my "faith," which turned out to be little more than a flimsy set of rationalistic propositions. Instead, I can have a Faith, once for all delivered, protected by the Spirit through all ages (even though it is a messy business, Church history) that is not dependent on my rationality, but rather on His free gift of the Life who is Jesus Christ.

So, I read internet debates on points of dogma or praxis and I don't want to engage them. I'd rather listen, preferably to those who have proven themselves to truly bear the Spirit (the Fathers, many of the monastics, etc.), and from there I'd like to take my steps towards "being conformed to the image of the Son."

Ignorance is the only entrance into humility.

The Amen of God

Some things are so obvious that I am often oblivious.

In Genesis 1, God speaks and it comes to be. "Let there be Light...and it was so." While not the same word in Hebrew, we say something similar at the end of our prayers: "Amen" or "So be it/Let is be so." Mary, the mother of our Lord, says something similar, "May it be to me as You have said."

We follow God, we image Him, when we take His Amen, which is His Word, His Son, His will, and direct it back to Him. It is as He has said, so may it be as we have said. "Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

God's Word, then, by which He made the world, is Amen -- no wonder Jesus describes Himself in the book of Revelation as the "Amen of God." All the world was created in this Amen, who has taken on the creation into Himself, so that it might be all gathered up into Himself, as St. Paul tells us in Ephesians. The world, then, is a dialogue: the Word makes it so, and with great thankfulness, the Word enfleshed -- as Christ and as His Church -- responds with Amen, may it be unto us as You have said.

Amen.

A Simple Syllogism

If Jesus Christ is the Life of the world (John 1:4), then that means when he was crucified, the world itself died, for its Life lay in the grave. The old mode of existence, the one brought on by Adam, is gone: death has been trampled down by death. The power of sin is broken. That means, if the Life is resurrected, and we are joined to that Life, we no longer need to live by the modes and ways of the dead world -- crucified once for all -- but rather can live in newness of life. This means eschatology that looks exclusively to the future, whether that future is AD 70 or AD 3000 (or whenever) is missing the point: the eschaton was fulfilled on the Cross. The Resurrection started on Resurrection Day, an unceasing Day of the Lord that brings all things into God's Light ("the Life was the Light of men"). Certainly, we are awaiting the fulness of this Day to dawn, but St. Paul says that "If anyone is in Christ, behold, a new creation is!" (2 Corinthians 5:17): it is here, we must live it. There is no reason to be an optimist: the world was died. There is no reason to be a pessimist: the world has been made alive. Rather, Jesus Christ is raised from the dead -- that is the ground of our whole existence. Hallelujah!

The Real Presence of the Christ

This post is somewhat a response to Mr. Robert Arakaki on Orthodox Bridge, a usually delightful site of Reformed-Evangelical and (Eastern) Orthodox dialogue (with, naturally, an emphasis on some prosyletism towards Orthodoxy). Since seminary at Trinity School for Ministry I have developed an interest in the possible connections between the Reformed tradition and Orthodoxy. I realize, after having many conversations both on the internet and off, that there are some unbridgeable parts between the two. Yet, hope springs eternal. I continue my quest to "rethink it all," albeit with a twist. I have changed -- dramatically -- since I started working on this train of thought. The problems that started it still remain (people my age leaving the Church -- this weighs always heavily on my heart and my mind), but my view towards many issues has, hopefully, matured. Part of that (possibly the majority of that) comes from a relatively recent rejection of cynicism. My own words from another journal aptly capture this:

I do not wish to be cynical any more. There is nothing more blinding than to believe that we see clearly when we assume that all operate only under the terms of power, sex, and wealth, or that all but we are ignorant. It is we who are blind and mad for the passions -- Christ is the Other under whom we must submit and learn, whether that Other manifests himself as poor, or woman, or black, or sexual sinner. "He came in the likeness of sinful flesh" to make our bodies like unto his glorious Body...

In other words, when I am cynical, I am enslaved to a point of view that blocks off the world: I can only see what my eyes see, believe only what my rationality leads me to, and so on. It was a logical outcome of my original hyper-Biblicism: I could only believe what I could see in the Bible. In other words, I could only believe at the level of my (paltry) rationality, which given the Reformed emphasis on the noetic effects of sin, led me to despair and cynicism. I remember one day (I shall never forget it), when I shouted out to my wife in despair, "Either God has abandoned His Church since the Apostles died or He has abandoned me!" Turns out, thank God, there were more paths than the dialectic rut I had carved (as I've related elsewhere).

When the scales fell off my eyes and I was allowed to read the Church Fathers sympathetically, I started to notice that many of the things I read in them were, yes, the same that I was finding in Scripture. There was (and is), as it were, a regula fidei, a [T]radition, behind the text that spoke volumes in these few recorded words. However, this has made me an ill-fit as a representative of the "Reformed tradition" (whatever, exactly, that may entail). As much as I long for institutional continuity and support, I am both a Protestant and an academic, which means that where I see the Reformed tradition as being in error, I must take exception (this strikes me as eerily familiar to the position I had previously concerning an over-rationalism: this gives me some food for thought). So, when Mr. Arakaki connected me to the Reformed tradition, and the possibility of Platonism lurking in the background of it, I was taken aback a bit. The branch of Reformed theology that I am most closely allied to, the Amsterdam School of Kuyper, Bavinck, and Dooyeweerd, views Platonism as the ultimate insult to any thinker. This has caused me, as all criticism (hopefully) should, to rethink and return to my own thoughts. Everything posted here at Withdrawals should be understood to not be a hard-and-fast dogmatic ruling (for I have no such authority), but rather meditations that I pray God will forgive me for -- they are meant for His glory, but are presented in decidedly earthen vessels.

Allow me to go through my own train of thought:

If, as Paul seems to say (and I've argued in my Chalcedon series) and Irenaeus definitely asserts, "Christ became what we are, so that we might become what He is," then we must ask what He is. While it took me years to come to and understand, I must confess that he is both man (that is, he has a full human nature, including a will, passions, a mind, a body, etc.) and God (everything that belongs to the essence and nature of divinity He has). However, we cannot stop there, because we would miss what he has become because of his sojourn among us. It is obvious from John's Gospel that the humanity which Christ assumed at the beginning of the Incarnation is transformed (or, better yet, transfigured) via the Resurrection: he can pass through walls, he has no need of eating, he can appear and disappear at will, etc. This is not "normal" humanity. It has gone "beyond" in some way, even if how is hard to conceive or describe. Paul, I think, sums it up nicely in his discussion of the "heavenly body" (I Cor. 15): certainly still a body, still corporeal, but suffused with the Glory and Life of God to such an extent that it breaks up our normal categories (just as the Kingdom itself does). It is a fully saved humanity. This assumes, though, that salvation is more than having sins forgiven (although that certainly is a part of it, thank God); rather salvation is a conquering of death, of misguided passions, and a sharing or participation (and I realize that is a Platonic term -- the use of a term or many terms does not equate with an endorsement of a system, one only has to sympathetically read the Cappadocians or Athanasius to understand that) in the Life that is Jesus Christ the Word of God (John 1 -- "in him was Life and that Life was the Light of the world). The body that Jesus has is the body that we shall get at our own Resurrection (Come quickly, Lord Jesus). But how do we share in this Life now and into the future?

Certainly here is where Paul's doctrine of justification of faith comes in. We enter Christ's Life by swearing our allegiance to him. However, there is more. To share in his body we must share in his Body. We must contextualize that allegiance in the life of his community, the Church (Cyprian and Calvin were right to say that there is no salvation outside of the Church, although I would qualify that a bit to allow for the mysterious and altogether merciful movements of the Spirit). We enter the Church, get ingrafted into the Body (Romans 11), through baptism, and once we are in, we can partake fully of Christ through the Eucharist. The Eucharist is the height of Christian sanctification, then, since we are sharing in the sacrifice of the Son, once for all completed, but always effectual and on offer for us. But there is more. This too easily can be seen as a social club (and, alas, in all parts of Christianity this often seems to be the ruling assumption) that magically guarantees us a "Get out of Hell free" card. How can we start living the Resurrection Life of Christ now? We partake of his Life through his Body, that is, through the Bread and Wine. We must eat Christ if we are to be his Body the Church and if we are to live in the "newness of life" that Paul talks about. For this to happen, it is a necessity that the Bread and Wine be more than mere symbol or "mystical feeding," but rather the Bread and Wine must be the actual, real resurrected and glorified Body and Blood of Jesus Christ himself. "What is not assumed by God is not healed," one of the Gregorys said, yet what is not partaken of cannot heal us. "Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no Life in yourselves" (John 6).

I don't, at this point, find anything particularly un-Reformed about this: certainly most Reformed (probably a large majority) have viewed the supper as either entirely symbolic or as entirely spiritual, whence comes "mystical feeding." The problem often seems to be "how can Christ's humanity be present in more than one place at a time?" However, this is only if we understand heaven as a "place" and not as a state of existence (and I am guilty of this confusion -- I have difficulty thinking outside of my own creaturely constraints): Christ, in his theoanthropic unity, "fills all things" (Eph. 1) so it is very possible for him to transform (how this happens, I do not care to know) bread and wine into Bread and Wine, Body and Blood. His humanity, while still being created by God, is a different sort of humanity not constrained by time and space. However, we are. That is why, in the reality of worship, we are transported to the heavenly state, which does transcend creaturely limitations without obliterating them (for which I am thankful). Our worship, then, is a mirroring of, and I would argue a participation in, what Christ is, the union of Creator and creature, while still maintaining the proper distinctions. There is, in my mind, nothing particularly Platonic about this: rather it respects the Creator-creature distinction while leaving room for true unity: the principles of that unity are the holy Spirit (Christ's Life) and the glorified flesh (Christ's Body and Blood).

This may sound different than what I posted in the comments section over at the OB. Certainly, it is. I've had time to think and read the Scriptures and see why it is so necessary for us to partake of the actual humanity of Christ (the question has been piqued because of recent sermons I've heard about how to live the Christian life -- I don't think it is possible without having Christ's Life regularly in us, which happens during worship -- although the Spirit, His Life, is always with us -- a mystery I cannot explain, but I also cannot avoid it). Reformed folks who don't think like me, though, aren't necessarily in danger of Nestorianism, as I (and, by extension, the whole Reformed community) was accused of. If we are in heaven, in the state of existence where Christ theoanthropically dwells, the question of "localized presence" becomes a non-issue. Even if Christ's humanity cannot leave heaven (which I'm not arguing for -- God forbid), our presence there in worship means that we feed on that humanity "whenever we do this".

This has not been a point-by-point response to Mr. Arakaki. I do apologize for that, but I thought it would be more helpful to just lay all the cards out on the table. It is not particularly scholarly either, even though that was what Mr. Arakaki presented for me. Again, I apologize, but the constraints of creaturely existence (time and space) necessitate a more personal and stream-of-consciousness approach.

The World as Sacrament

In that day 'Holiness to the Lord' shall be engraved on the bells of the horses. The pots in the Lord's house shall be like the bowls before the altars. Yes, every pot in Jerusalem and Judah shall be holiness to the Lord of hosts. Everyone who sacrifices shall come and take them and cook in them. In that day there shall no longer be a Canaanite in the house of the Lord. -- Zechariah 14:20-21

Years ago, when I was an undergrad, this passage captivated me. I remember giving a "devotional" in an airport, stuck between the United States and Europe, about how God wanted the whole world to be holy, not the whole world to be "secular." This passage still captivates me, and for the same reasons. It took a long road, but I finally returned to this passage via the Incarnation. God has made the world holy, has made the world a sacrament of communion with Him for us, through the assumption of fleshly existence by the Son.

Virginity is holy; for his mother was a virgin.
Married life is holy; for his mother was betrothed when she was chosen to bear God.
Singleness is holy; for he practiced celibacy.
The womb is holy; for this is how the Son of God is presented to the world.
Water, all waters, is holy; for he was baptized in the Jordan.
Air is holy; for he breathed upon his disciples and apostles and gave them the holy Spirit.
Trees are holy; for he was hanged on a tree for our justification.
Graves are holy; for he was laid in a virgin tomb and was raised to Life.

The Incarnation continues to be a stumbling to Gnosticism, whatever form it takes. This does not mean, though, that everything is self-evidently holy. The Spirit must open our eyes and we must guard them -- through being connected to that Spirit, that Son, that Father in prayer and adoration. As soon as we lose that very real connection, as soon as we make the Eucharist (what is the proper response to God making all things a sacrament but thankfulness?) merely symbolic, as soon as we show beauty the door, as soon as music becomes about emotion, as soon as worship becomes about fear of making a misstep, our eyes cloud over. We reenter, or attempt to reenter, that Death from which we were delivered in faith and baptism.

The whole world is holy, the whole world is Spiritual, the whole world is baptized into Christ's death, for his death is the death of the world's Life, and the whole world will be raised as we are raised (Romans 8). Lord, give us eyes to see and hearts to believe.

This Spirituality is not the same thing as the esoteric and nonsensical division between the "sacred" and the "profane." Instead it is the affirmation that all creation -- all corporeality and incorporeality -- is created good by God, yet exists in a state of fallennes and corruption. It cannot be affirmed as it currently stands, but must go through the death of Jesus Christ -- which he willingly undergoes for the sake of the world -- and be raised in newness of his Life. Mankind, though, is the vanguard. Our union with him is the restoration of all things.

Hallelujah.

On Silence

Ages ago I wrote about the spiritual discipline of silence. I have not ceased to think about it since then, but neither has my experience of it deepened (this is connected to my desire for an authentic spirituality, which judging by that last linked post, I have come a long way).

A few things, lately, have focused my attention on silence (or hesychia, for my Orthodox friends) in a concentrated way. One is my use of language in the classroom, especially innuendo (a Bible teacher using innuendo? Alas, it is true.); the other is the fervid disquiet that I have been actively cultivating for as long as I remember.

In regards to the first, I am reminded by my excessively short version of morning prayer that my mouth does not belong to me:

"Open my lips, O Lord, and my mouth shall proclaim your praise. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the holy Spirit; as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen."

My lips, first in the morning (this is the first thing I say everyday), are consecrated to the praise of God -- not to complaining, not to anger or frustration, not even to my own various creaturely needs, but to the praise of God. How quickly, though, I forget it! When I teach, the demands of edutainment often seem to take hold. A student that other day quite nicely said, "Your lecture was very funny today." While she meant it as a compliment, I couldn't help but think of the massive failure on my part that such a statement entailed. I don't want to be funny (this is not technically true, I do want to be funny, I want to be liked -- but teaching isn't about being liked, it is about formation and inviting students into the wonder that is God's world and God's Life in the world), I want to teach with the full gravity and levity necessary in God's good-yet-broken world. Part of it, I think, is the desire to connect with students where they are: I see what popular culture has provided and I often pander to its level. In the end, though, it is not the lowest common denominator that I need to reach for, but rather I am to be a witness to that which is beyond and above this: what calls us to look to our culture and say "come and see," "further up and farther in," and "become what you are meant to be." In this there is great need for silence, as the mystery of God's world confronts us with both the majesty of His every present grace and the desolation of our hatred of the Light. Too often, maybe to break away from the crisis, I turn the whole world into a joke -- and thereby conflate its destruction. Lord, have mercy.

The second part is like it and to my mind is the root cause. I love silence (anyone, I think, who speaks for a living longs for it), but my silence is not true silence. My thoughts, seemingly of necessity, rumble and ramble behind all my speaking and silence. There is no relief. Normally, as well, the thoughts of my heart are anything but what a man in Christ should think. This often leads to what I termed a "fervid disquiet" in which I hack and burn at my fellows, at God, at His creation. Instead, I need an inner silence to complement any outer silence. I need inner silence when I speak audibly, for only then can I exert -- through the power of the holy Spirit -- some control over what I say. With a turbid heart, constantly kicking up muck and mire, there is no possibility of streams of living water following through my words. I must learn to pray, without ceasing, another part of the Psalms:

"Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O LORD, my rock and my redeemer" (Ps. 19:14).

Yes, it is not enough for outward words to be clean, to be free of idleness or idolness. The very meditation -- the muttering -- of my heart must also come under the domain and quiet dominion of the Lord Christ.

I seek, in my overly active life, hesychia: stillness and silence before God. For then, and only then, can I be a witness and a conduit for the Word of God, who has redeemed and cleansed the mouth of man by taking flesh upon himself and speaking the words of eternal life.