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25 June 2013

“Like some angel from heaven”: Concerning John the Baptist

Icon, John the Baptist, "Angel of the Desert" (Russia, 17th c.)
Yesterday was the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, or John the Forerunner, as he is known in the East.  Since this is the only feast dedicated to John in the Episcopal Church (the Orthodox have six), I’ve seized the opportunity, however belatedly, to write something concerning John, “the friend of the bridegroom” (Jn. 3:29), Prophet and Forerunner of the coming of Christ.  And I’ve done so in the form of commentary on the iconography of John as “the Angel of the Desert.”

John is often depicted in icons, as in the one shown here, with unkempt hair and shaggy coat, following the biblical description of him as “clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist” (Mk. 1:6 and par.), like the prophet Elijah.  A tree with an ax symbolize his call to repentance:  “Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire” (Mt. 3:10 and par.).  In this icon, John holds a diskos (liturgical vessel) with a figure on it, representing Christ as the “Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” (Jn. 1:29).  The symbolism here comes from Orthodox liturgical practice, specifically from the prothesis (preparation) of the Divine Liturgy, when the priest cuts a cube out of the loaf of bread, and this cube is known as “the Lamb.” (Here is a clear explanation.)  Nearly as often, John is shown holding a platter with his own head on it—and there are icons of his “honorable head.”  And sometimes he has wings.

Why the wings?  Why is John depicted as “the Angel of the Desert”?  As far as I can tell, John is an “angel” in at least two senses: as messenger of God and as exemplar of the ascetic life.  

The first sense derives from the Greek word ἂγγελος (angelos), which means both “messenger” and “angel.”  Mark’s Gospel applies to John the baptizer the words from Malachi and Isaiah: “See, I am sending my messenger (ἂγγελον) ahead of you, who will prepare your way; the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight’” (Mk. 1:2–3).  John is the angelos sent “with the spirit and power of Elijah” before the Lord at his coming, preaching repentance to “turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God” (Lk. 1:16–17).  He is the angelos sent to baptize with water in order that Jesus might be revealed by the descent of the Holy Spirit as the Son of God, the Word become flesh (cf. Jn. 1:29–34).  As John Chrysostom put it, the Forerunner came down from the wilderness into the cities, “like some angel from heaven.”*

(It may be that the iconographic tradition also understands John as an angel in a more literal sense.  Origen at least entertained the speculative idea that John was “an angel who assumed a body for the sake of being a witness to the light,” without denying John’s humanity.†)

John is also “the Angel of the Desert” insofar as he is exemplar of the ascetic life.  In the ascetic tradition of the Christian East it is a commonplace to understand asceticism as an imitation of the life of the angels.  Often the goal of ascetic practice is to recover the angelic state in which Adam was thought to live in Paradise.  In such milieux, it is not surprising to find John the Baptist—living in the wilderness, eating locusts and wild honey—held up as model for the angelic, ascetic life.  

John Chrysostom does just that in a homily on the Gospel of Matthew.  Commenting on John the Baptist’s clothing of camel’s hair, John the Golden-mouthed writes:
[I]t became the forerunner of him who was to put away all the ancient ills, the labor, for example, the curse, the sorrow, the sweat; himself also to have certain tokens of such a gift, and to come at once to be above that condemnation. Thus he neither ploughed land, nor opened furrow, he ate not his bread by the sweat of his face, but his table was hastily supplied, and his clothing more easily furnished than his table, and his lodging yet less troublesome than his clothing. For he needed neither roof, nor bed, nor table, nor any other of these things, but a kind of angel’s life in this our flesh did he exhibit. For this cause his very garment was of hair, that by his dress he might instruct men to separate themselves from all things human, and to have nothing in common with the earth, but to hasten back to their earlier nobleness, wherein Adam was before he wanted garments or robe. Thus that garb bore tokens of nothing less than a kingdom, and of repentance.”‡
Coptic Icon of John the Baptist (Egypt, date?)
For Chrysostom, John’s life exhibits an angelic detachment from the worry for food and clothing that marks fallen human society.  Living as Adam lived in Eden before sin entered the world, the Forerunner embodies the life of the kingdom inaugurated by Christ Jesus.  As such, Chrysostom urges us, his auditors, to emulate John’s “life of restraint,” if not by going into the wilderness (many people did precisely that in Chrysostom’s day), then by showing forth repentance in the cities.  Taking up John the Baptist’s demand, “Bear fruit in keeping with repentance” (Mt. 3:8), Chrysostom exhorts us to turn from the works of sin and to pursue the good deeds that make for peace.  Like the Baptist, Chrysostom unflinchingly preaches that repentance must be manifest in a changed way of life; he cries out, “It is not, it is not possible at once both to do penance and to live in luxury.”§

May we heed the voice of “the Angel of the Desert.”  May the One who sent him, in the words of the collect, “make us so to follow his teaching and holy life, that we may truly repent according to his preaching; and, following his example, constantly speak the truth, boldly rebuke vice, and patiently suffer for the truth's sake.”

* John Chrysostom, Homilies on the Gospel of Saint Matthew, 10.4.
† Origen, Commentary on the Gospel of John, 2.25.  Origen has some lovely and perceptive passages in which he contrasts John as the “voice” to Jesus as the Word.  “John’s voice points to the Word and demonstrates it,” he writes.  Origen’s distinction appears to have influenced Ephraim the Syrian whose Hymns for the Feast of the Epiphany contain the lines:
     “John cried, ‘Who comes after me, he is before me:
      I am the voice but not the Word;
      I am the torch but not the Light;
      the star that rises before the Sun of Righteousness’.”
‡ Chrysostom, op. cit., 10.4, emphasis added.
§ Ibid., 10.6.

17 June 2013

"Do not be like horse or mule": On yesterday's lections

Pen drawings illustrating Psalm 31 (32), "Harley Psalter" (England, 11th c.)
“Do not be like horse or mule, which have no understanding;
who must be fitted with bit and bridle,
or else they will not stay near you.”
— Psalm 32:10

Confession, in the double sense of confessing your finitude and sins and praising your Creator, is your proper act, living as God’s creature wounded by sin.  To confess to God is to draw near to God; it is to do what you are made to do, what is good for you in the deepest sense.  For, as the psalmist says, “It is good for me to be near God” (Ps. 73:28).  Through confession, you will be happy, you will stay near God.

Confession of your sins is necessary because, to the extent you are not yet wholly healed, you will not stay near God (although you can never go where God is not)—you will stray from him.  Like the psalmist’s horse or mule, you will wander off on your own, led to and fro by your disordered desires.  When you do this—and you will not stop needing to pray “forgive us our sins” until that Day when all things are renewed—you will be turning away from the One who is your life and turning toward the nihil, nothingness.  You will hate life and love death.  As Augustine puts it, to the extent your desires remain disordered, “you will not be content with being like God by his gift, but you will want to be what he is by your own right, so you will turn away from him and slither and slide down into less and less which is imagined to be more and more.”*

Yet your Lord who loves you will not let you wander off into nothingness without calling you back to himself, without gently checking you and drawing you near by means of some “bit and bridle.”  So when you feel the tug of his reigns, do not resist, but turn your face toward him.  When you hear his voice, do not harden your heart, but humble yourself and draw near him in confession.


When the Lord draws you up short with the truth of your sin, be quick to confess, like David, “I have sinned against the Lord” (2 Sam. 11:13).  You will not like to hear the Lord say to you, as he said to David through the prophet Nathan, “You have despised me” (11:10).  Nor will you like hearing that by your sin “you have utterly scorned the Lord” (11:14).  When the light of truth exposes the sordid secrets of your heart, you will be tempted to hate the truth.  (After all, David could have silenced the prophet as easily as he had disposed of Urriah.)  But God will enable you to bear the truth if you, by his gift, turn toward him and allow his light to shatter your darkness.  When you stand in the light of truth by confession, you will be near the Lord who “is in the light” (1 Jn. 1:7).


You have been redeemed in order that you might freely stay near God.  On your own, you were enslaved by sin and strayed from God, but through Christ you have been set free so that you might “live to God” (Gal. 2:19b).  Now, living to God is what Christ does, for “the death he died, he died to sin once for all, but the life he lives, he lives to God” (Rom. 6:10).  By God’s gift, you can say with Paul, “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Gal. 2:20).  Christ lives in you because “God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying ‘Abba! Father!’” (Gal. 4:6).  By the gift of the Spirit, you share in the life of the Son, who is "in the bosom of the Father" (Jn. 1:18, Gk).

Therefore, “live by the Spirit” (Gal. 5:16), so that, like Christ, you will be “obedient from the heart” (Rom. 6:17).  To the extent “Christ is formed in you” (Gal. 4:19), you will seek only “to behold the fair beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple” (Ps. 27:6).  Living by the Spirit, you will stay near to God out of love.


When you confess to God, you will know his forgiveness and you will manifest your joy in “great love” (Lk. 7:47).  You will anoint the Lord Jesus with the ointment of the works of love and praise from a true heart, and you will bathe his feet with the tears of confession.  You will not stop kissing his feet or asking him for “the kisses of his mouth” (Song. 1:2).


* Augustine, De Trinitate 10.5.7.  I have altered the quotation to the second person.

05 June 2013

Notes on The Ladder of Divine Ascent

Icon, The Ladder of Divine Ascent, Monastery of St. Catherine
(Sinai, Egypt, 12th c.)
Recently I encountered The Ladder of Divine Ascent by John Climacus—John “of The Ladder” (579–649).  John, who lived in the desert of Sinai, wrote as a monk for monks, drawing on the accumulated wisdom of the Desert Fathers (and Mothers), those earnest Christian men and women who, from the third century of our era, set out into the deserts of Syria, Palestine, and Egypt in pursuit of a life totally dedicated to God.  “The undisputed masterpiece of Byzantine spiritual guidance,”* The Ladder continues to be read yearly during Lent in the Orthodox churches.  Given its importance among the Orthodox—and that reading it led me far afield from myself (to borrow a phrase from Foucault)—I thought it worthwhile to share some reflections on it here.

I won’t attempt a summary of The Ladder—there is an excellent Introduction by Kallistos Ware in the Paulist Press translation—but I will say at least that it is structured around the image of a ladder of thirty steps, which serves as a metaphor for the spiritual life.  The first three steps are concerned with the break with the “world”; the next twenty or so with the “active life” (praxis), with the practice of the virtues and the struggle against the passions; and the last four with the “contemplative life” (theoria), with stillness, prayer, dispassion (apatheia) and love.†

What follows are some idiosyncratic notes on The Ladder.  (A warning: “notes” is a somewhat misleading appellation for 3,000 words!)  I would like them to entice you to allow yourself to be faced with John’s demanding wisdom.

Renunciation & Resemblance to God

“A Christian is an imitator of Christ in thought, word and deed, as far as this is humanly possible, and he believes rightly and blamelessly in the Holy Trinity.” (1, p. 74)  For John, all Christians are called to imitate the Lord Jesus (and to confess the faith of the church), but the monk is the Christian par excellence because his complete and thoroughgoing renunciation of the world frees him for the unhindered pursuit of Christlikeness.  “If you truly love God and long to reach the kingdom that is to come,” John writes, “…then it will not be possible to have an attachment, or anxiety, or concern for money, for possessions, for family relationships, for worldly glory, for love and brotherhood, indeed for anything of earth.  All worry about one’s condition, even for one’s body, will be pushed aside as hateful.  Stripped of all thought of these, caring nothing about them, one will turn freely to Christ” (2, p. 81).  Compared with “the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus,” everything else is “rubbish” (Phil. 3:8).  The monk’s implacable denial of the world makes sense because its objective is love—“a resemblance to God, insofar as this is humanly possible” (30, p. 286).

Not that it is easy to become like Christ; quite the opposite:
Violence and unending pain are the lot of those who aim to ascend to heaven with the body, and this especially at the early stages of the enterprise, when our pleasure-loving disposition and our unfeeling hearts must travel through overwhelming grief toward the love of God and holiness. It is hard, truly hard. There has to be an abundance of invisible bitterness, especially for the careless, until our mind, that cur sniffing around the meat market and revelling in the uproar, is brought through simplicity, deep freedom from anger and diligence to a love of holiness and guidance.” (1, p. 75)
The journey toward the love of God is intensely difficult precisely because we are not inclined to love God.  Instead, everything about us—body, mind and heart—is deeply attached to the things of this life; this side of Eden, we are profoundly self-centered, buffeted by passions and the promptings of demons, numbly seeking satisfaction apart from God.  Leaving such a state is an agōn, a contest, a painful struggle, a rending.  

Despite the wrenching difficulty, John is confident that we can grow in love, for Christ himself helps us to grow in resemblance to God:
“Yet full of passion and weakness as we are, let us take heart and let us in total confidence carry to Christ in our right hand and confess to Him our helplessness and our fragility. We will carry away more help than we deserve, if only we constantly push ourselves down into the depths of humility.” (1, p. 75)
Remembering this, especially that the end of renunciation is resemblance to God, is essential to a charitable reading of The Ladder.

* Peter Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (Columbia, 1988), p. 237.
† Kallistos Ware, Introduction, The Ladder of Divine Ascent, trans. C. Luibheid and N. Russell (Paulist Press, 1982), pp. 11–12.  All quotations are from this translation.