On the Nature of Christian Teaching
Authentic teaching is a vocation; it is a calling. To teach with sincerity means to touch upon what is vital in another person’s being. It means seeking out and engaging in dialogue with the very innermost life of the pupil. There is no occupation more privileged than teaching. For what greater privilege could there be than to awaken in another person powers, abilities and dreams that surpass anything they could ever have imagined; to instil in others a love for what you yourself love; to transform your own inner present into their future? Even at the most modest level, to teach—to teach well—is to share in a transcendent possibility1.
Every educator in the Orthodox Church has an absolutely crucial role to fulfil and, as a Christian teacher and catechist, is, in a very real sense, part of the Church’s spiritual hierarchy. In 1 Corinthians 12:28, Saint Paul places ‘teachers’ (διδάσκαλοι) immediately after ‘apostles and prophets’ and before ‘those who work miracles’2. This seems to suggest that teachers are superior to those who perform miracles or that, at the very least, they occupy a higher position than them in the order of importance.
On the other hand, modern educational theorists often criticise traditional teaching, in which, in their view, the instructor—presumed to be all-knowing—‘deposits’ their knowledge into the empty minds of pupils3. The problem with this criticism is that it completely misrepresents the nature of traditional education. The Hellenistic philosopher Plutarch, a contemporary of Saint Paul the Apostle, explicitly rejects such an idea: ‘The correct analogy for the act of teaching is not to regard the mind as a vessel to be filled, but as wood to be set alight, for only in this way is a person motivated towards originality and is the desire for truth instilled in them. Suppose someone were to go to their neighbours to ask for fire and, finding a strong flame there, were simply to remain where they stood, warming themselves ceaselessly: this is no different from the situation of someone who goes to another person to acquire a share of their intelligence and fails to realise that they ought to have their own fire, their own intelligence’.
Plutarch draws a distinction between derived knowledge, acquired indirectly, and that based on direct, personal experience. We find the same idea in the Church Fathers, including Saint Maximus the Confessor: ‘Knowledge of fire does not warm the body’ (Chapters on Love I.31). We can understand from this that, in the spiritual life, knowledge which is not grounded in concrete experience—such as theory without practice or faith without works (cf. James 2:17)—is, in essence, useless.
To be a good teacher, you must love what you teach, and if you are a Christian teacher, you must also live in accordance with these convictions. You must also love your pupils. What could be worse than a Christian teacher who does not love the Church and who believes that their calling is to dismantle the Church’s traditions? Such ‘teachers’ (so-called teachers) are people who, instead of seeking salvation in the Church, imagine that the Church needs to be saved by them. This brings us to the question of what it means to pass on knowledge, and who is legitimately authorised to do so. This also highlights the boundary between ‘transmitting’ and ‘betraying’—a blurred boundary inherent in language itself (παράδοσις). There is much to be said on this subject, but let us focus on the person and qualities of a good teacher. Without wishing to downplay the importance of content, it seems to me that what we teach is often secondary to how we teach it, because what we do, as teachers, first and foremost – and whether we realise it or not – is to provide a model of behaviour. Studies indicate that pupils retain only 5 per cent of what they hear during a lesson and only about 10 per cent of what they read. However, what they never forget are the attitudes, values and, above all, the behaviour of their teachers, aspects which can have a greater impact on them than that of their parents and which can leave a deeper and more lasting impression than the actual content of the lesson.
What we teach is often secondary to how we teach, because what we do, as teachers, first and foremost—and whether we realise it or not—is to provide a model of behaviour.
In the case of the Christian teacher, the ‘form’ of this modelling is what we might call mimetic, in that it imitates or mirrors a transcendent, indeed divine, act of unveiling—the very revelation of truth. The Greek word for ‘truth’, ‘alētheia’, itself signifies an ‘unveiling’, a disclosure, the revelation of that which has been drawn forth from a state of concealment4. This is why the Holy Apostle Paul says: ‘Be imitators of me, just as I am of Christ’ (1 Corinthians 11:1). What a statement! And who among us can utter it? Yet Saint Paul was able to say this because he can also affirm: ‘It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me’ (Galatians 2:20).
This means that the teacher is, in turn, a pupil, a disciple of an even greater Master, in the sense of being a ‘listener’ and a herald of what has been learnt and heard—that is, of the revealed Logos, of ‘the Word that was in the beginning’, according to Saint John the Theologian, ‘And the Life was made manifest, and we have seen it, and bear witness to it, and proclaim to you the eternal Life, which was with the Father and was made manifest to us’ (1 John 1:2), and this, and this alone, is the model that validates the one who strives to preach the Gospel. Therefore, in the Christian tradition, the sole basis, the sole foundation, the sole justification for teaching—for holding the authority of a teacher—lies in the power of example.
The teacher must himself master the subject matter, having thoroughly internalised it, making it part of himself. They must be able to carry out the very chemical experiment they are teaching, solve the equation written on the blackboard, sketch or draw the model, or interpret the piece of music set for their pupil. St Basil the Great states that the community leader must himself be a living embodiment of the community’s rule, teaching others by his own example.
To do this, you must be deeply rooted in the life of the Church; you must think and speak from within the bosom of the Church. However, if you do not have such roots, if you do not lead such a life, or if your roots and your life lie elsewhere, then there is a strong likelihood that what you convey to others is nothing other than your own self, your own ego. And, as Elder Emilianos of Simonopetra used to say: ‘What is “I” [that is, the ego], if not the absence of God?’
It is easy to lose sight of these values, as Christian education today naturally (or, perhaps, inevitably) draws on secular educational models, which are, at the same time, Western models, which means they are doubly removed from traditional Eastern Christian education. I believe everyone is aware that terms such as ‘education’, ‘theology’, ‘theologian’ and even ‘knowledge’ are understood within the Church differently from how they are in secular discourse.
Theology is not merely an intellectual activity. It is a way of life, a life of sanctification and communion, characterised by freedom from passions and from the allure or seduction of the senses. That is why Saint Gregory the Theologian says: ‘If you truly wish to be a theologian, to make yourself worthy of God, then walk in the way of God’s commandments’ (Homily 20.12). To become a theologian, you must make yourself worthy of theology, worthy of God. This is why Saint Gregory’s disciple, Evagrius Ponticus, said: ‘You are a theologian when you pray, and when you pray, you are a theologian’ (On Prayer 60). And that is also why Saint Gregory states: “Theology is not for everyone, but only for those advanced in contemplation who have purified themselves in body and soul, or who, at the very least, are in the process of purification, for to touch what is pure whilst in a state of impurity is, we may say without fear of error, not without danger’ (Homily 20.3).
Theology is closer to prayer than to academic study. It is not enough merely to ‘know’ the commandments; one must live them out, put them into practice; one must be purified and, ultimately, transformed by them.
Theology and theological study are a means by which we can rise spiritually towards God. Authentic theology is an authentic search for God. It is an activity that reveals God in His relationship with the Church and with the world. That is why theology is closer to prayer than to academic study. It is not enough merely to ‘know’ the commandments; one must live them out, put them into practice; one must be purified and, ultimately, transformed by them. And this is nothing other than the teaching of our Saviour Christ, Who said: ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God’ (Matthew 5:8). And this brings me to the main theme of my talk: learning to unlearn.
Learning to unlearn
The idea that true learning involves ‘unlearning’ is found in the writings of Saint Basil the Great: ‘We must be ready to receive divine teaching; we must prepare our hearts by unlearning the teachings that have taken hold of them, for it is not possible to write on wax without first erasing the letters previously written upon it, just as it is not possible to sow divine teachings in the soul without first removing the prejudices born of habit’5.
St Basil the Great’s analogy draws on the ancient wax tablet, usually a wooden diptych covered with a layer of wax, on which one wrote with a stylus. Once the surface was filled with writing, the words had to be scraped off and smoothed, that is, erased, if anything new was to be added. The expression ‘tabula rasa’ (meaning ‘blank slate’) was popularised by Aristotle and the Stoics. They argued that human beings are born with a mind like a ‘blank page’ on which subsequent sensory impressions leave their mark, much like an unmarked surface ready to be inscribed upon. Variations of the ‘tabula rasa’ theory continue to be used today, both in psychology and in neurobiology6.
Before saying more on this, it would be useful to analyse Saint Basil’s statements in their broader context. The passage quoted above appears in a letter that Saint Basil wrote whilst he was still a layman, leading an ascetic life in a secluded corner of his family’s estate. The letter is addressed to his friend, Saint Gregory of Nazianzus, and Saint Basil’s aim was to persuade Saint Gregory to join his small community and embrace the ascetic life. Subsequent generations regarded this letter as such a comprehensive (yet concise) exposition of the ascetic life that it was often used as a preface, a sort of introductory letter, for the collection of Saint Basil’s ascetic writings (known as the ‘Asceticon’).
Saint Basil the Great begins with a stark admission: ‘I am ashamed to write about what I do, day and night, in this secluded place. For, although I have indeed left the life of the world behind, I have not managed to renounce myself. On the contrary, I am like those who set out to sea and end up suffering and feeling seasick; and then, when they return to dry land, they continue to feel dizzy and unwell, for nausea and bile still accompany them. This is much how things stand in my case too, since we carry our inner passions (τὰ ἔνοικα πάθη) with us and, consequently, are never free from the disturbances they cause; that is why we must do the following…”
Saint Basil goes on to list a series of practices designed to soothe the soul’s inner turmoil and lead it towards a state of tranquillity (hesychia). These include focusing the mind through meditation on Scripture, intense inner prayer, and the struggle to detach the soul from its passionate attachment to the body and material goods, which he illustrates with a series of nine privations: striving to become like one without a city, without a home, without possessions, without love for friends, without property, without means of subsistence, without trade, without social relations and without knowledge derived from human teachings.
It is this last expression—being ‘without knowledge derived from human teachings’—that leads Saint Basil to argue for the necessity of ‘unlearning’, which I quoted a moment ago, once again: ‘We must be prepared to receive divine teaching; we must prepare the heart by unlearning the teachings that have come to possess it, for it is no more possible to write on wax without first erasing the letters previously written upon it, just as it is not possible to impart divine teachings to the soul without first removing the preconceptions derived from habit.”
Unlearning is the process of letting go of concepts, attitudes, practices or behaviours acquired through long-standing habit. Unlearning allows us to make room for new learning and new forms of knowledge, not unlike the way a farmer must clear a field of old crops in order to plant new ones. Note, too, that Saint Basil does not mention the mind or the brain, or ordinary cognitive faculties, but the much deeper level of the heart and the soul. Changing one’s thinking is relatively simple: our opinions, just like our feelings, can change from one day to the next, but these changes are often quite superficial. Change at the level of the heart is much more difficult, takes place much more slowly, but is also much more lasting7. There is no doubt that unlearning can be uncomfortable, in keeping with the idea that there can be no ‘creation without destruction’8. The unlearning described by Saint Basil is not the work of a single afternoon, for it is not easy to unlearn the behaviours, mindsets and practices to which we have become deeply accustomed and which have long influenced our thoughts and actions. That is why Christ the Saviour urges us to ‘take up our cross’, to which the Gospel of Saint Luke adds: ‘every day’ (Luke 9:23: καθ᾽ ἡμέραν). Unlearning is rather like dying, and it takes a long time to die – usually a whole lifetime.
Unlearning is the process of letting go of concepts, attitudes, practices or behaviours acquired through long-standing habit. Unlearning allows us to make room for new learning and new forms of knowledge (…) Changing one’s thinking is relatively simple (…) Change at the level of the heart is much more difficult; it happens much more slowly, but it is also much more lasting.
To adapt the metaphor, it is as if God wanted to give you something, but you are unable to receive it because ‘the inner chamber of your heart’ (cf. Matthew 6:6) is already full, like an attic crammed with useless junk. If I want to give you something and your hands are full, you cannot receive it: you must empty your hands, let go of what you are holding, in order to receive something new.
Saint Maximus the Confessor formulates this idea, drawing on Saint Paul the Apostle’s concept of the voluntary self-emptying of the Son of God, or kenosis, as mentioned in Philippians 2:6.
Saint Maximus says that the gift of Grace, which is at the same time the gift of adoption and deification, can be received and maintained by us only through the right disposition of our will and by keeping the commandments, to which he adds the following formula: to the extent that we have emptied ourselves of passions, we take hold of the divine to the same extent that the Logos emptied Himself and became man9.
Let us analyse this point. Saint Maximus employs his characteristic formula of equivalence or reciprocity, which scholars refer to as ‘tantum-quantum’ (in Latin, τοσοῦτον-ὅσον). Grammatically speaking, ‘tantum-quantum’ is a comparative clause expressing quantity or degree, in which ‘tantum’ (or τοσοῦτον) indicates that the action of the main clause occurs to the same degree or in the same proportion as the action of the quantifying or subordinate clause (ὅσον). In theological terms, Saint Maximus the Confessor typically uses this formula to highlight the intrinsic relationship between deification and the Incarnation, such that, ‘to the extent that God became man, to the same extent man becomes God’ (cf. the familiar phrase: ‘God became man so that man might become God’). In this passage, however, Saint Maximus the Confessor reverses the formula, so that the human self-emptying of the passions (a form of ‘unlearning’) enables human beings to ‘attain divinity’, to the same extent that the Logos became human.
It should be evident by now that the things we must ‘unlearn’ are different from the new things we subsequently learn, and that we are speaking not merely of two different types of learning, but of two different forms of knowledge.
Natural and spiritual knowledge
In this concluding section, therefore, I would like to address these two forms of knowledge, which the Church Fathers generally refer to as ‘natural’ knowledge and ‘spiritual’ knowledge.
These terms are derived from the First Epistle of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians, a Christian community in which the members of the congregation believed that human wisdom in itself was sufficient to attain knowledge of God.
In response to this mistaken belief, Saint Paul argued that the cross, as a paradoxical manifestation of God in history, creates a series of polarities between those who ‘are saved’ and those who ‘perish’ (1 Corinthians 1:18); between ‘the mind of Christ’ (1 Corinthians 2:16) and ‘the mind of the flesh’ (Romans 8:5–6); between ‘divine wisdom’ and ‘human folly’ (1 Corinthians 1:2); and between ‘the wisdom of the world’ and ‘the wisdom of God’ (1 Corinthians 1:20–21).
From the perspective of human wisdom, the message of the Gospel can only appear as folly. But in God’s eyes, human wisdom is folly, for it is the ‘folly’ of those ‘who claim to be wise, but who are in fact perishing’ (Romans 1:22).
The distinction made by Saint Paul the Apostle between human and divine wisdom was taken up by Saint Gregory Palamas, who was responding to a situation not very different from that faced by Saint Paul the Apostle in Corinth. Saint Gregory Palamas found Saint Paul’s distinction useful and developed it into a doctrine of what he calls ‘double knowledge’, emphasising the fundamental inability of mere human knowledge to know God.
Like Saint Paul the Apostle, Saint Gregory Palamas rejected the claim that Christian perfection could be attained through the study of philosophy, a view which, he maintains, is confirmed by the Lord Himself, Who did not say: ‘If you wish to be perfect, pursue a secular education’, but rather ‘deny yourself, give to the poor and take up your cross’ (cf. Matthew 19:21, 16:24). If this were not the case, Saint Gregory asks: ‘Why, then, did Christ not teach geometry, arithmetic, astronomy and the natural sciences, if such things truly had the power to dispel the darkness of ignorance from the soul?’10 Saint Gregory Palamas answers this question, drawing largely on the first chapter of 1 Corinthians: ‘Why did Christ call as His disciples men who were illiterate, fishermen and peasants, but not the wise? Was it not so that He might ‘put the wise to shame’, as Saint Paul says? (1 Corinthians 1:27). Why did God ‘make their wisdom foolish’? (1 Corinthians 1:20). Why did God ‘choose to save the believers’ through the ‘foolishness’ of Saint Paul’s preaching? (cf. 1 Corinthians 1:21). Was it not because ‘the world did not come to know God through wisdom’? (1 Corinthians 1:21). And what did those so-called wise men do when the Word of God, ‘who has become our Wisdom’ (1 Corinthians 1:30) and who is ‘the Light of the world’ (John 1:9), revealed Himself in the flesh to the world? They have replaced the Light of the world with their own little lamp and now encourage others to abandon the path of inner purification and take up secular studies11.
For both Saint Paul the Apostle and Saint Gregory Palamas, the mystery of God radically transcends all natural human knowledge, and no amount of human learning or philosophy can help us to know God.
For both Saint Paul the Apostle and Saint Gregory Palamas, the mystery of God radically transcends all natural human knowledge, and no amount of human teaching or philosophy can help us to know God.
Following Saint Paul the Apostle, Saint Gregory Palamas asserted that ‘the two kinds of wisdom’ are profoundly distinct: one is a matter of natural reasoning, and the other the result of supernatural wisdom, Grace and divine illumination.
In the same epistle to the Corinthians, Saint Paul introduces the distinction between the natural and the spiritual, saying that: ‘The natural man (ψυχικός) is not able to receive the gifts of the Spirit of God, for ‘they are folly to him, and he is unable to understand them, because they ‘can only be discerned spiritually. The spiritual man (πνευματικός) judges all things, ‘but he himself is judged by no one’ (1 Corinthians 2:14).
The word translated here as ‘natural’ presents some complications. The Greek word is ψυχικός, which Saint Paul contrasts with ‘spiritual’, πνευματικός, which is why the word ψυχικός is sometimes translated as ‘carnal’ or ‘sensual’ or ‘unspiritual’ or ‘worldly’, as it refers to the human person in their fallen, corrupt state. Why? Because the ‘psychic’, by definition, is linked to the lower aspects of the body and to bodily sensations, and is subject to the passions (which is why Jerome translated it as ‘animal life’). The Epistle of James uses the term in the same way: ‘But if you harbour bitter jealousy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not boast about it or deny the truth. This wisdom does not come from above, but is earthly, fleshly and demonic. Therefore, where there is envy and jealousy, there is disorder and every kind of evil. But the wisdom that comes from above is first of all pure, then peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere.’ (James 3:14–17).
I shall use the word ‘natural’, even though the fallen mind no longer exists in a state or condition in accordance with nature. (This is how the word is rendered in most English translations of the New Testament and in the works of many Church Fathers. It is far from perfect, but what matters is that we understand its meaning.)
These terms are central to the theological anthropology of Saint Isaac the Syrian, who also draws a clear distinction between natural knowledge and spiritual knowledge.
Natural knowledge is human, cerebral, intellectual, rationalist, discursive, cumulative, quantitative, linked to cause and effect, and limited to what can be observed by the senses. Of course, such knowledge has its own practical purposes and value, especially when associated with an ethical framework, a life of virtue and the practice of the commandments.
Spiritual knowledge, on the other hand, cannot be acquired through learning, or from a book, or by taking a course or obtaining a qualification. Instead, it comes from experience and from the struggle to see beyond the limits of natural knowledge, although it is not easy to see beyond the dazzling lights of the digital age and the astonishing achievements of science.
Socrates was initially a student of the ‘natural sciences’, but he soon realised that the wonders of the natural world had ‘blinded him’ to the realities beyond nature. In response to this situation, he says: ‘I have unlearned (ἀπέμαθον) what I thought I knew before’ (Phaedo 96). Socrates expresses a similar concern in the Phaedrus: ‘I have no spare time for such things, and the reason, my friend, is this: I am not yet capable, as Delphi said, as the inscription states, of knowing myself, and that is why it seems ridiculous to me, whilst I do not yet know this, to investigate irrelevant matters” (Phaedrus 229e)12. From the perspective of natural knowledge, which relies exclusively on the senses, spiritual knowledge is irrational, impossible and, ultimately, forbidden: no movement beyond the senses is permitted. In the words of Saint Paul the Apostle: ‘The natural man does not receive the things of the Spirit of God, for they are folly to him, and he is not able to understand them, because they are spiritually discerned’ (1 Corinthians 2:14). We find the same idea in John 14:17: ‘The Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees Him nor knows Him’.
Natural knowledge is human, cerebral, intellectual, rationalist, discursive, cumulative, quantitative, linked to cause and effect, and limited to what can be observed through the senses. Of course, such knowledge has its own purposes and practical value. (…) Spiritual knowledge (…) stems from experience and from the struggle to see beyond the limits of natural knowledge.
Natural knowledge is called ‘natural’ because it deals with the visible and the sensory. Spiritual knowledge is so called because it derives its power of perception from the Holy Spirit and not through the senses. Spiritual knowledge is an immaterial gift of Grace: like the Kingdom of Heaven, it ‘will not come in a way that can be observed’ (Luke 17:20). The former arises from intellectual study and the desire to learn, whilst the latter arises from a way of life and through faith, for the mysteries of faith lie beyond knowledge.
Saint Maximus the Confessor illustrates this distinction in his meditation on Jacob’s Well: Jacob’s Well is Scripture. The water is the knowledge contained within Scripture. The depth of the well is the meaning of the biblical enigmas, which are almost beyond one’s grasp. The ‘bucket’ used to draw up the water is the learning of the Divine Word, acquired through the Scriptures, something which the Lord did not require, since He Himself is the Word and does not bestow this knowledge upon believers through teaching and study, but grants to the worthy a measure of the ever-flowing wisdom of spiritual Grace. For, like a bucket—that is, like ordinary teaching—the soul receives only a small part of knowledge, foregoing the whole, which no mind can comprehend; whereas the knowledge that comes from Grace possesses, without study, the full wisdom that man can comprehend, which springs forth in various ways, according to his needs13.
The transition from natural knowledge to spiritual knowledge of God is not merely a process of purification and enlightenment, but also a process of healing, restoration and the integration of our cognitive faculties, so that our knowledge itself becomes purer and healthier. A pure heart and a pure mind generate pure knowledge (‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God’). The heart and mind that have been purified and healed, when turned towards God, offer a pure and healthy knowledge of God, and when directed towards creation, offer a pure and healthy knowledge of creation.
Spiritual knowledge fills us with the endless light of Christ the Saviour, Who is both God and man, both natural and spiritual, both human and divine.
It is very difficult, if not impossible, to put the nature of spiritual knowledge into words. There is no comprehensive definition that can fully explain it, for the simple reason that the means at our disposal to do so are all entangled in the processes of natural knowledge: language, logic, concepts, arguments, which is probably one of the reasons why the Lord taught in parables, through images and by means of analogies.
In the Church, we do not denigrate ordinary, human knowledge, nor do we idolise or deify it14. Knowledge must be seen within the broader context of human existence as a whole. Its purpose, and our purpose in this life, is not simply the acquisition of information, which, in itself, cannot bring us true or lasting joy and happiness. Our purpose is virtue and holiness, which means sanctification in Christ.
Natural knowledge brings intellectual light to the mind, but it is not the uncreated light of God. Spiritual knowledge, on the other hand, fills us with the infinite light of Christ the Saviour, Who is both God and man, both natural and spiritual, both human and divine. Only this light can dispel the darkness from our hearts and, through us, from the world around us; and darkness can never overcome it (cf. 1 John 5). True teaching, true enlightenment, is achieved through a holy life lived in accordance with the Gospel; and therefore, the most accomplished teachers are the saints, for the holier a person’s life is, the more capable they are of educating and enlightening those around them.
*Lecture delivered at the Conference on Christian Education, Antiochian Village, 7 June 2024.
- 1
George Steiner, Lessons from the Masters, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003.
- 2
“In the Church, God has appointed: first, apostles; second, prophets; third, teachers; then those who work miracles, those who have gifts of healing, of helping, of leadership and of speaking in various tongues” (1 Corinthians 12:28); cf. St John Chrysostom, Homily on 1 Corinthians 12: ‘Teachers come after prophets, for the one who prophesies speaks all things through the Spirit, whereas the one who teaches sometimes speaks from his own mind as well; thus, prophecy is entirely a gift, whilst teaching is also the fruit of human endeavour, for teachers speak much from their own minds, whilst remaining in harmony with the Holy Scriptures”.
- 3
See Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1967), a Marxist interpretation of education which condemns traditional pedagogy as a system of oppression and manipulation, characterised by the ‘banking model’, in which the pupil is an empty vessel to be filled with knowledge, like a ‘piggy bank’.
- 4
From the privative alpha + λανθάνειν (‘to escape notice’); cf. λήθη (‘oblivion’).
- 5
St Basil the Great, Letter 2 (LCL I:10–11).
- 6
See, for example, Stephen Pinker, The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature, New York: Penguin, 2003.
- 7
As Saint Isaac the Syrian says in his Third Homily: ‘Purity of mind is one thing, and purity of heart is another. The mind is one of the senses of the soul, but the heart encompasses them all; it is their root. The mind, with a little diligence in reading Scripture, in fasting, vigil and stillness, will forget its former activity and be purified. However, its purity will not be lasting, for just as quickly as it is purified, so too is it defiled. The heart, on the other hand, is purified only through much suffering, deprivation and separation from fellowship with the world. Once purified, however, its purity is no longer defiled by trivial matters. Any purity acquired quickly, with little time and little effort, is lost and defiled just as quickly. But purity that comes through much suffering and is acquired over a long period of time is not endangered by any ordinary trial.”
- 8
An expression said to have been coined by Picasso.
- 9
On the Lord’s Prayer (CCSG 69, pp. 32–33, lines 102–106).
- 10
Triad 1.1.5 (ed. Meyendorff, 1:18–19).
- 11
Triad 1.1.5 (ed. Meyendorff, 1:19).
- 12
It is not surprising, and is, rather, significant, that Socrates’ famous exhortation to ‘know thyself’ was rejected by the Enlightenment thinkers of the 18th century, who believed that self-knowledge is acquired exclusively through the study of the external world; cf. Jeremy Adler, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, London: Reaktion Books, 2020, 12.
- 13
Replies to Thalasie, commentary on Question 42.
- 14
Saint Gregory Palamas: ‘We do not prevent those who have not chosen the monastic life from pursuing secular studies, but neither do we advise them to do so for their entire lives. For we utterly reject the idea that, through such studies, anyone might hope to gain precise knowledge of divine matters, since it is not possible to learn anything certain about God from them, for ‘God has made’ such studies ‘foolishness’ (1 Corinthians 1:20)... The Lord has not categorically forbidden secular studies, just as He has not forbidden marriage or the eating of meat; however, in your view, since the Lord has not forbidden these things, we ought to indulge in them without any restraint” (Triads 1.1.5 and 1.1.12).