The Flavor of Modern Orthodoxy: A Brief Hot Take and Rebuttal Of Met. Neophytos

So…Bishop Neophytos of Morphou, a bishop in the Orthodox Church of Cyprus, has recently been making the news for some ill-informed and frankly bizarre remarks on the origins of homosexuality. I’m not going to link to the articles in question, as I don’t feel that His Eminence needs a platform on this blog. Briefly,   the bishop said that when the woman enjoys anal sex, “a desire is created, which is then transmitted to the unborn child,” (this “desire” being homosexual or bisexual orientation*). These remarks make for a good sound bite, and are, quite frankly, baffling. It’s easy to make a whole article (and many news outlets have, most of whom having only a passing knowledge of Orthodoxy) out of the debacle. However, as an Orthodox Christian myself (though not one under the Church of Cyprus), I feel compelled to…I guess contextualize the situation we’re in that leads to remarks like this, to the best of my ability, and ask the more interesting question, “Why do some modern Orthodox hierarchs seem to be stuck in this kind of thinking about contemporary social concerns?”**

Eastern Orthodoxy in the New World is very slowly being forced to grapple with the demands of modernity. A lot of people (particularly non-Orthodox Christians) are just saying “They should change with the times,” and I think that’s certainly true in the sense that we need to consider the effects some of our official doctrinal positions on social issues (prohibition on women’s ordination, same-gender marriage, not much space for trans people) and adjust them so as to better care for all of God’s children, to recognize the unique gifts of everyone to the Church, and to witness a gospel that is truly Good News. But part of Orthodoxy is an emphasis on sacred tradition, and preserving what is valuable and life-giving from the words of holy people who came before and shaped the Church to what it is today. This can be a double-edged sword, of course, but part of the reason pursuing social justice in Orthodoxy is complex is because many Orthodox churches are worried that changing means not only changing their stances on things (which many laity and some clergy are open to doing), but also “reforming” and modernizing in the way that some Protestants have, in a way that cuts them off from their history, their unique “flavor” of spirituality and witness to Christ in the wider Christian Church.

TBC, i’m not saying that being non-affirming is essential to that tradition, but the question for American Orthodoxy in particular seems to be, “Is it possible to improve our approach towards social concerns in a way that is authentic to our identity and makes use of the beauty of holy tradition, rather than making Orthodoxy into a copy of Protestant churches (not that Protestantism is bad, it’s just different)?” The American churches seem to be split between, “Yes, there probably is a way, let’s figure out how” (much of my theological reflection these days is directed towards this question, as someone who has a deep love for what is beautiful about my faith, and who also sees the flaws of its institutions and where it has failed to live out that faith in justice and mercy) and “We shouldn’t have to change, secular/non-Christian society is wrong,” which, given the memory of oppression under the Soviet regime (for Slavic Orthodox communities) the Ottoman Empire (for Greek and Middle Eastern Orthodox) and the Third Reich***, I can understand their reticence, even if I feel it is misplaced and misdirected against communities who are also now vulnerable. This sense of persecution has been ratcheted up by evangelical and fundamentalist converts to Orthodoxy (who share my background but not my experiences and convictions) who basically want to use Orthodoxy as a tool to try and put more weight behind their culture of fear and a God of wrath (not all evangelicals of course, but some). Consider Rod Dreher, or Fr. Josiah Trenham, as prime examples of this phenomenon.


Now, to finally get to the point, the Old World Orthodox churches also have the problem of grappling with modernity, but I get the sense that they are under less pressure to wrestle with these problems (though that may be changing). In Europe and to a lesser extent Asia, Orthodoxy has more cultural clout than in America because it has been a part of the culture for so long. As such, bishops and other leaders tend to be somewhat out of touch with the problems of modernity because their cultural atmosphere doesn’t force them to engage with these issues. And so many leaders, like this bishop in Cyprus, fall back on hokey pseudoscience or unexamined repetition of tradition taken out of context (most of our canon law that deals with anything resembling queerness was written for a very different time, place and context, under an empire that no longer exists), such as the remarks in this article. There are a few bishops in England and elsewhere who are doing innovative work that does wrestle with these questions, but they tend to be bishops who do not actively manage a diocese (cf. for example, Metropolitans Kallistos Ware and John Zizioulas). So…these remarks by the bishop in Cyprus are inane, but the reason why they’re persistent is more complex than just ignorance, and I think that is worth keeping in mind if we’re going to figure out how to bring the entire Christian church through the gender and sexuality debates (and other questions of adaptation to modern concerns) in a way that encourages the dignity of each church and all its people

*Metropolitan Neophytos does not mention bisexuality, nor does he mention lesbian experience, but it is my assumption that in discussing same-sex attraction, he refers to all men who love other men. 

**Note: This post is my informed opinion and conjecture based on my experiences in the church. I am not an expert.

***This is to say nothing of the damage done by other Christian groups, from the Crusades to Protestant “missionary” efforts to convert the Orthodox.

"Giving It Back To God" -- Models of Faith in the Movie "Pilgrimage" -- Pt. VI: The Atoner

Jump to Pt. V.

CW/TW: Mentions of blood and gore

In this last entry of the series, I want to talk about the most enigmatic main character in the film, the traveling companion of the monks known only as “the Mute”. The Mute appears at the beginning of the film as a friend of the monastery, helping the monks with their daily labor but not appearing to be a formal brother himself. When Geraldus escorts the monks upon their journey, he tries to get the Mute to tell about his origins, but the Mute says nothing. Speaking on his behalf, Ciaran tells Geraldus that the Mute does not speak of his past, and that “it is not our place to question him.” Whatever the cause for his silence, the monastic community respects it as something that is the Mute’s own business, and they give him the dignity of discretion. It is made clear at various times that he can hear and understand what is being said to him.

Later, after they meet the Normans, the Mute is seen praying in the forest with his shirt off. On his back, a tattoo of a Latin cross can be seen. In the film’s language and later implications, this connects him to the Crusades, implying that he took part in them. Crusaders and pilgrims often received tattoos as a memento of their time spent in the Holy Land. The Mute, however, is keen to hide this mark of his history from others, as this is the only time he is seen with it until the end of the film when the jig is up, so to speak. Paradoxically, while the tattoo in the context of the film is a mark of potentially shameful history that the Mute wishes to leave behind, these tattoos were also used as marks of solidarity and identity by groups other than the Crusaders. During the persecutions of Coptic Christians (many of whom were likely murdered by Crusading armies), a number of Copts became tattoo artists, and would mark members of their community with a Coptic cross on the inside of the wrist. This could be visible to authorities, but it was a mark of identity and resistance to assimilation, as well as a sort of passcode for getting inside Coptic churches when they were required to hide for their own safety.* Though this may not have been intentional on the part of the filmmakers, it is worth noting that framing the Mute’s tattoo as something to be hidden except in special circumstances puts this symbol more in affinity with the underprivileged Oriental and Eastern Christian communities the Crusades victimized than with the powerful Crusaders. This is not to say that the Mute is one of these groups. He has perpetrated acts of violence against the enemies of the Crusade, and these cannot be undone. But his secrecy around this fact suggests a turn towards repentance, and a choice to undergo metanoia (a change of heart/mind) by refusing to glory in the symbol of his violence.

When the monks are attacked by brigands in the forest, the Mute first shows his unexpected battle prowess, taking out several of the monks’ attackers with swords and other weapons. Geraldus is amazed, but Diarmuid seems wary of Geraldus’ fascination with the Mute’s battle skills. The Mute goes into a kind of berserker rage when fighting, almost choking Diarmuid by accident when Diarmuid surprises him after being separated in the forest. When the Mute realizes the harm he has almost caused, he loosens his grip and bears an expression of guilt.

Raymond de Merville questions the Mute on his history multiple times, but the Mute refuses to answer.

Towards the end of the film, the surviving monks (Geraldus, Diarmuid and Cathal) are escaping the Normans with the Mute to the sea coast in order to finally set sail for Rome. Geraldus, impassioned by his fundamentalist zeal, orders the Mute to fight off the Norman enemies, promising him a place in Heaven if he does so. The Mute draws his sword and stands his ground on the beach, leaving the other monks to escape. He seems to have an awareness that this is his last act. At the same time, the resignation with which he carries himself suggests to me at least that his reason for doing so is not a desire for glory, but for penance. Having spent a long time fighting the “enemies” of God, he spent many more years living in peace with the monks. Perhaps taking a somewhat tragic interpretation of “He who lives by the sword dies by the sword” (from St. Matthew’s Gospel, Matt. 26:52), the Mute decides that he must die by the sword protecting his friends in order to finally free himself from the violence of the world which pursued him since he first took up the sword all those years ago. This leads him to the climactic final battle with Raymond de Merville, the epitome of everything the Mute has up until now renounced. Raymond desires power and glory, while the Mute has desired to live in humility and anonymity, sharing neither his name nor his story. Raymond has fought in the Crusades and wishes to shed more blood, while the Mute had fled that life when he saw the atrocity it brought upon innocents.

Raymond stabs the Mute with the torture device, leaving it embedded in the Mute’s stomach. The Mute continues fighting. Raymond, in frustration, yells out, “Tell me where you come from!” There is a long moment of silence, and then the Mute responds with his only line in the entire film: “Hell.” The Mute then bites Raymond, severing his jugular and kills him. Thus both warriors die of their wounds on the beach, and the film concludes by cutting back to the monks.

Though in some ways this exchange and scene serve the needs of Hollywood drama, I do feel that there are theological possibilities to be pondered. In the first place, it is worth noting that while violence on the whole is rightly condemned by this film, the Mute serves as an instance of the one possible exception. The Mute is the one who displays in some way the “greater love” which “has no one than this: that he lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). I don’t feel that this is an example of the film unequivocally condoning violence. After all, the Mute is forced into this tragic situation in part due to the violence of others. It does suggest, however, that the one avenue in which the use of force may be acceptable is in the defense of the innocent from an immediate, real threat. This is different from a holy war, and even different from “preemptive self-defense”. The monks flee until they cannot flee any longer, and the one member of their community with skill on the battlefield consents to buy them some time to escape with his own blood shed. The self-sacrificial element, though muddied in some ways by the context of war, is still present and valuable.

Finally, it’s worth noting the Mute’s final line. Again, it may have been written for the sake of drama, but it does leave interesting questions. Is the Mute a demon or an avenging angel in disguise? Does he feel forsaken to the point where he calls himself a prisoner of Hell? Is he perhaps warning Raymond of the future of Raymond’s soul as he continues down this dark path of subjugation and bloodshed? Any and all of these are possible, or perhaps another meaning entirely. Taking the last possibility as a point of inquiry though, the Mute’s clear-sightedness speaks to a facet of eschatology and soteriology which is often forgotten in more reactionary or fundamentalist Christian circles. Throughout church history (especially but not exclusively in the Christian East), divine judgment upon humanity has been seen less as a “verdict” pronounced by God arbitrarily, but more as a revelation of the state of one’s relationship to God as it already stands. In Orthodox monastic theology in particular, there is a belief that after the death of the physical body, all souls go to be in the presence of God. God is light, warmth, etc, and to those who have sought unity with God and are transfigured into divinity, this is experienced as Heaven and the communion of love with the Triune God. To those, however, who have intentionally separated themselves from God, being eternally close to God is experienced as fire, burning, and pain. Even in the Gospels, there is precedent for this, particularly in Matthew 25 and the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats. Here, what determines one’s experience is not an abstract belief in God, but one’s relationship to God as expressed through one’s actions. In the Mute, Raymond sees a mirror of himself, and the Mute uses his last words perhaps to warn Raymond that to be as he is and act as he does can only lead to an experience of Hell, not Heaven.

The Mute’s word also reminded me of another word, however, that of St. Silouan the Athonite. Silouan was an Orthodox monk in the 20th century who lived on the monastic peninsula of Mt. Athos in Greece. He was known for the advice to his students to, “Keep your mind in Hell, and despair not.” Much has been made of this quote, but to me it speaks to the breathtaking power of humility in the life of faith. For to “keep one’s mind in Hell” is to participate as fully as possible in the suffering of not only those on Earth, but also those who separate themselves from God after death. It is to identify with them, inasmuch as by keeping the mind in Hell, the faithful one does not exempt themselves from judgment or see themselves as “better” than their fellow humanity. Rather, they see themselves as equally in need of God’s mercy, and are moved to pray for the salvation of all, on both sides of the grave.** Speaking several centuries before St. Silouan’s time, perhaps the Mute prophetically envisions this kind of solidarity with all souls, including the soul of the man in front of him, whom he has now been forced to harm. Perhaps in this word, he is also seeking forgiveness.

All in all, the Mute’s role as one seeking atonement solidifies the film’s views on humility, violence and faith. The only character who earnestly seeks God while still committing lethal violence is complex, and seeks to divest himself from it as much as possible. He sees violence not as a tool of God’s will or power, but as something to be avoided wherever possible and something he wishes to save his friends from. In fighting his last battle, the Mute maintains a striking humility and ascetic self-denial, proclaiming that despite the worthiness of his cause in his final moment, he still laments the blood he must shed and sees himself (and potentially Raymond) as a sinner in need of healing.

*Note: This tradition, though decreased in size, is still maintained today in Jerusalem by a Coptic Christian family. To learn more, go to http://razzouktattoo.com/

**Note: The spirituality of St. Silouan and of this precept has been expounded upon in detail elsewhere. As a disclaimer, I will say that this is not a way of thinking that works for everyone, and that’s ok.

"Giving It Back To God" -- Models of Faith in the Movie "Pilgrimage" -- Pt. V: The Anti-Christ

Jump to Pt. IV

For this penultimate entry in the series, I want to take a look at the film’s primary antagonist/villain, Sir Raymond de Merville. It’s difficult in some ways to discuss this character, as he both explicitly and implicitly is rather devoid of personal faith. Nevertheless, due to his proximity to the monastic characters and the themes he represents, I think he warrants discussion.

We are first introduced to Raymond and the Normans when the monks are traveling discreetly through the forest. Raymond intercepts the party and insists that they accept his protection and hospitality. The monks, caught in an imbalance of power and prodded by the encouragements of Geraldus, are in no position to dispute.

If Raymond’s father the Baron desires to use the trappings of faith to bless empire, Raymond himself is even less scrupulous. It is implied that he fought in the Crusades, but he almost never invokes the name of God or any principles of faith as motivating him to do so. Instead, he speaks frequently of the glory of conquest, the riches of the far off realms they plundered, etc.

When the Normans are granted a viewing of the relic, Raymond makes a possessive remark about the power of the relic, to which the Baron asks the monks’ forgiveness.

Later in the film, it is revealed that Raymond has made an alliance with the brigands to take the relic for himself and use it as a bargaining tool to legitimize his conquest of the Irish lands and other places. He orders the captured Brother Ciaran to tell him of the relic’s location. Ciaran refuses. Raymond brings out an instrument of torture. He rather gleefully tells Ciaran that this instrument was used in Constantinople by the Crusaders to extract information from the Greek Orthodox clergy about where their hidden wealth lay. Raymond has no qualms about murdering his fellow Christians for the sake of wealth and power. Through this anecdote, it is implied that he either participated in or was at least present for the Sack of Constantinople, when the Crusaders decided to pillage, loot and murder their way through the primarily Christian capital of the Byzantine Empire*.

In all this, Raymond positions himself as an enemy of God, by making himself an enemy of God’s people. Clergy are, of course, imperfect representations of God’s will on earth, as are all humans. We are sinful and flawed. However, the majority of the spiritual guides Raymond encounters over the course of the film have good intentions, and are trying to bring about peace and the safety of their communities. By strong-arming, torturing, and killing, Raymond opposes the people of God (both clergy and devout laity) and thus becomes an “anti-Christ.”

A brief tangent on this term: “Anti-Christ” (αντιχριστος) first appears in the Catholic Epistles of St. John (1 and 2 John), and generally refers to any essence or person opposed to the teaching and will of Christ. This idea was later wrapped up into the personage of certain apocalyptic figures in the Book of Revelation. On the whole, however, it seems that in St. John’s writings, “antichrist” is not necessarily one figure but anyone who stands against God and God’s people. This is illustrated well in 1 John 2:18: “Children, it is the last hour! As you have heard that antichrist is coming, so now many antichrists have come. From this we know that it is the last hour.” In his own time and place, Raymond opposes Christ and the workings of all around him who desire the peace and love of Christ to flourish. Mysteriously, he meets his death at the hands of the Mute, an implied former Crusader who has spent the remainder of his life seeking penance for his deeds. The Mute serves as a unique foil for Raymond de Merville, and he will be the final character we discuss in this series. 

*To say nothing of the many Muslims killed in the Middle East, as well as the Oriental Orthodox Christians who died alongside the Muslims.