Christianity - The First Three Thousand Years Part 7

This constant exposition of the Pa.s.sion had an unfortunate side effect. To dwell on Christ's sufferings was liable to make worshippers turn their attention to those whom the Bible narrative princ.i.p.ally blamed for causing the pain: the Jews. Franciscans were not slow to make the connection explicit, and in doing so, they complicated and darkened the already tense relationships between Jews and Christians. Augustine of Hippo had declared that G.o.d had allowed the Jews to survive all the disasters in their history to act as a sign and a warning to Christians. They should therefore be allowed to continue their community life within the Christian world, although without the full privileges of citizenship which Christians enjoyed: G.o.d only intended them to be converted en ma.s.se when he chose to bring the world to an end. So Jews continued to be the only non-Christian community formally tolerated in the Christian West, but their position was always fragile, and they were excluded from positions of power or mainstream wealth-creating activities. One result was that a significant number turned to moneylending at interest (usury), an activity which, thanks to half-understood prohibitions in the Tanakh, the Church prohibited to Christians. That trade could bring wealth to Jews, but certainly not popularity.36 It is true that the Franciscans had not pioneered or single-handedly invented the link between Jews and the Pa.s.sion. The Western liturgy of Holy Week had been elaborating and intensifying the drama of Good Friday, the day of Jesus's death, for at least a century before their first appearance, and others had drawn their conclusions from the emotion of that liturgical experience.37 Yet the tragedy remains: the heirs of the apostle of love, Francis, were among the chief sustainers of the growing hatred of Jews in medieval Western Europe. It was in this atmosphere that England pioneered Western Europe's first ma.s.s expulsion of Jews when, in 1289, Edward I's Parliament refused to help the King out of his war debts unless he rid the realm of all Jews; other rulers followed suit later. Such anti-Semitic ill-will continued to be balanced, in the untidy fashion of human affairs and with Augustine's lukewarm encouragement, by perfectly cordial or straightforward relations between Jews and Christians, but the impulse to hara.s.s or persecute Jews became a persistent feature of Western Christianity which it has only now properly confronted in the wake of terrible events in the twentieth century. Yet the tragedy remains: the heirs of the apostle of love, Francis, were among the chief sustainers of the growing hatred of Jews in medieval Western Europe. It was in this atmosphere that England pioneered Western Europe's first ma.s.s expulsion of Jews when, in 1289, Edward I's Parliament refused to help the King out of his war debts unless he rid the realm of all Jews; other rulers followed suit later. Such anti-Semitic ill-will continued to be balanced, in the untidy fashion of human affairs and with Augustine's lukewarm encouragement, by perfectly cordial or straightforward relations between Jews and Christians, but the impulse to hara.s.s or persecute Jews became a persistent feature of Western Christianity which it has only now properly confronted in the wake of terrible events in the twentieth century.38 Jews were not the only group to be scapegoated: we have already noted (see pp. 400-401) the way that in bad times, lepers and h.o.m.os.e.xuals could also be seen as conspiring against Christian society. Jews were not the only group to be scapegoated: we have already noted (see pp. 400-401) the way that in bad times, lepers and h.o.m.os.e.xuals could also be seen as conspiring against Christian society.

The early fourteenth century added a new set of conspirators: Satan and his agents on earth, witches. Pope John XXII, a man much exercised by enemies and disruptors of the Church like the Spiritual Franciscans, crystallized a good deal of academic debate about magic and witchcraft which had been building up during the previous half-century. In 1320 he commissioned a team of theological experts to consider whether certain specific cases of malicious conjuring could be considered heresy, a controversial proposition generally previously denied by theologians, who had tended to treat magic, spells and meetings with the Devil as devilish illusions without substance. In the wake of the Pope's commission, six or seven years later he issued a bull, Super illus specula, Super illus specula, which now proclaimed that any magical practices or contacts with demons were by their nature heretical and therefore came within the competence of inquisitions. This was one of those ideas which bide their time; for the moment witches were not much troubled by the Church's discipline, but more than a century later, with the aid of new publicists fired by their own obsessions, the Western Church and its Protestant successors were to initiate more than two centuries of active witch persecution (see pp. 686-8). which now proclaimed that any magical practices or contacts with demons were by their nature heretical and therefore came within the competence of inquisitions. This was one of those ideas which bide their time; for the moment witches were not much troubled by the Church's discipline, but more than a century later, with the aid of new publicists fired by their own obsessions, the Western Church and its Protestant successors were to initiate more than two centuries of active witch persecution (see pp. 686-8).39 It is pleasant to turn back from this aspect of medieval Western devotion to something very different: an intensification of personal mysticism, particularly among women recluses and religious. As with the emergence of a more personalized view of the Christian story among Western Christians generally, there were previous precedents. The most famous twelfth-century female mystic was Hildegard of Bingen, Abbess of Rupertsberg, who a generation before Joachim of Fiore recorded her visions and prophesied about the end of time, and whose writings cover a range of interests unusual at the time in male scholars let alone abbesses: cosmology, medicine, musical composition as well as theology. Hildegard was speaking and writing at the end of the age when women in monasteries were likely to have as good an access to scholarship as men. In her lifetime, the first universities were taking shape, all-male inst.i.tutions which were to gather to them most of the intellectual activity of Western Latin culture. Perhaps that is why women were now so attracted to a mode of spirituality which was independent of formal intellectual training, but in which mind and imagination sought out the hiddenness of G.o.d, beyond doctrinal propositions or the argumentative clashes of scholasticism. Such mystics reversed the normal priorities of Western spirituality, which privileges the positive knowledge of G.o.d and affirms what Christian teaching positively says about him, to join Easterners in privileging silence and otherness. One of the best-known works to emerge from this tradition, an anonymous English fourteenth-century meditation probably by a country priest and called The Cloud of Unknowing The Cloud of Unknowing, goes beyond Aquinas in quoting that mysterious and subversive fount of Eastern spirituality, Dionysius the Areopagite, when he says that 'the most G.o.dlike knowledge of G.o.d is that which is known by unknowing'.40 Other dimensions of mysticism freed the mystic from the centralizing impulse of the Church. Much of the writings which conveyed mystical experience was in various European vernaculars - the Cloud of Unknowing Cloud of Unknowing being one example - and so was directed towards those whose command of Latin, the international language of culture, was shaky or non-existent. Perhaps that was why mystics. .h.i.t on themes which were familiar in Orthodox spirituality, but which had not been given nearly as much official encouragement by the Western Church. The mystic met G.o.d beyond the mediation of the male Church hierarchy, and in ways which can be remarkable metaphorical or imaginative appropriations of physical contact with the divine. Characteristic in mystical writings of the period are expressions which emphasize the human vulnerability, frailty, virginity of the subject, but which also celebrate the capacity of this frailty to unite with the divine. Not only women were attracted to these themes. One of the most remarkable mystical writings of the period is a Latin text by a Franciscan friar who was a spiritual adviser and scribe to a probably illiterate woman beguine in Vienna, Agnes Blannbekin (d. 1315); the work may be regarded as a joint venture in spiritual conversation between the two. The two hundred or so visions of Agnes which the friar recorded during the early 1290s make a good deal of use of the metaphor of clothing and unclothing to signify her contact with G.o.d (there are naked dancing nuns and friars in her Heaven). Her relish in the Feast of the Circ.u.mcision, which led her to imagine swallowing the foreskin of Christ, was one of the issues which raised a good deal of worry when the ma.n.u.script was first put into print in the eighteenth century. Agnes's visions were infused with everyday perceptions transformed into symbol; in one of them, Christ appeared to her in quick succession as a bishop, a chef, a pharmacist and the keeper of a general store. being one example - and so was directed towards those whose command of Latin, the international language of culture, was shaky or non-existent. Perhaps that was why mystics. .h.i.t on themes which were familiar in Orthodox spirituality, but which had not been given nearly as much official encouragement by the Western Church. The mystic met G.o.d beyond the mediation of the male Church hierarchy, and in ways which can be remarkable metaphorical or imaginative appropriations of physical contact with the divine. Characteristic in mystical writings of the period are expressions which emphasize the human vulnerability, frailty, virginity of the subject, but which also celebrate the capacity of this frailty to unite with the divine. Not only women were attracted to these themes. One of the most remarkable mystical writings of the period is a Latin text by a Franciscan friar who was a spiritual adviser and scribe to a probably illiterate woman beguine in Vienna, Agnes Blannbekin (d. 1315); the work may be regarded as a joint venture in spiritual conversation between the two. The two hundred or so visions of Agnes which the friar recorded during the early 1290s make a good deal of use of the metaphor of clothing and unclothing to signify her contact with G.o.d (there are naked dancing nuns and friars in her Heaven). Her relish in the Feast of the Circ.u.mcision, which led her to imagine swallowing the foreskin of Christ, was one of the issues which raised a good deal of worry when the ma.n.u.script was first put into print in the eighteenth century. Agnes's visions were infused with everyday perceptions transformed into symbol; in one of them, Christ appeared to her in quick succession as a bishop, a chef, a pharmacist and the keeper of a general store.41 It is not surprising that in the age when official Christianity clashed with the Spiritual Franciscans, such mysticism, springing from free choices by individuals which might owe little to the priorities of the Church authorities, attracted hostile attention from inquisitors. One of the most well-known beguine mystics, Marguerite Porete, who wrote of her experiences in a work in French ent.i.tled The Mirror of Simple Souls, The Mirror of Simple Souls, was burned in France as a 'Free Spirit' heretic in 1310: there was a fine line between such a fate and eventual honour in the Church. The German Dominican Meister Eckhart, an a.s.sociate of Marguerite during his years in France, was similarly accused of heresy and died while inquisition proceedings against him were proceeding; yet because his works eventually escaped full condemnation, they remained widely influential. Eckhart, writing in vigorous and multi-layered German, introduced the idea that after abstracting the particular 'this' or 'that' and achieving 'detachment', was burned in France as a 'Free Spirit' heretic in 1310: there was a fine line between such a fate and eventual honour in the Church. The German Dominican Meister Eckhart, an a.s.sociate of Marguerite during his years in France, was similarly accused of heresy and died while inquisition proceedings against him were proceeding; yet because his works eventually escaped full condemnation, they remained widely influential. Eckhart, writing in vigorous and multi-layered German, introduced the idea that after abstracting the particular 'this' or 'that' and achieving 'detachment', Gela.s.senheit, Gela.s.senheit, the soul can meet G.o.d in the 'ground', the soul can meet G.o.d in the 'ground', Grunt Grunt, of all reality. There she can achieve an inseparable union with the divine, 'the unplumbed depth of G.o.d [which] has no name': 'Life can never be perfected till it returns to its productive source where life is one being that the soul receives when she dies right down to the "ground", that we may live in that life where there is one being.' It could be said (and Eckhart did say) that 'G.o.d begets His only begotten Son in the highest part of the soul.'42 At the other end of the scale of acceptance from Porete was Bridget of Sweden, a fourteenth-century Swedish n.o.blewoman, who founded the monastic order for women and attendant priests which came to take her name; she derived the considerable detail of her foundation from a single vision of Christ, who had considerately spoken to her in Swedish. The Bridgettine Order became much favoured by Bridget's fellow n.o.bility and monarchs all over northern Europe and came to represent late medieval piety at its most lavishly funded, intense and sophisticated. It is nevertheless noticeable that despite all this rich flowering of female spirituality, hardly any women were canonized (officially declared to be saints) in the two centuries after 1300. One of them was indeed Bridget, and the other her Italian contemporary and fellow visionary Catherine of Siena. Both canonizations were deeply controversial - in fact in the case of Bridget, the process had to be repeated three times.

One compelling motive for Catherine and Bridget achieving such exceptional promotion was that it suited the Vicar of Christ in the generations after their deaths. Prominent among the prophecies of both women was their insistence that the popes who had relocated from Rome to Avignon in the early fourteenth century (see pp. 558-9) were destined to return to the city of St Peter: predictions whose fulfilment did not harm their chances of long-term favour from the papacy.43 There was good reason for the popes who had returned to Rome to be grateful for such affirmations. Their claims in the Church were seriously challenged in this period, and were to be given more serious challenges still in the sixteenth-century Reformation. The consequences were profound for all Christianity, and take the story of the Western Church into new territory. Before exploring it, there is another story to tell. We will return to the East: to the Orthodox Churches, which never experienced any reformations like the two which convulsed the Western Church in the twelfth and sixteenth centuries, and which, in contrast to the project of papal monarchy, preserved and promoted the Roman imperial ideal in new forms, in new settings. There was good reason for the popes who had returned to Rome to be grateful for such affirmations. Their claims in the Church were seriously challenged in this period, and were to be given more serious challenges still in the sixteenth-century Reformation. The consequences were profound for all Christianity, and take the story of the Western Church into new territory. Before exploring it, there is another story to tell. We will return to the East: to the Orthodox Churches, which never experienced any reformations like the two which convulsed the Western Church in the twelfth and sixteenth centuries, and which, in contrast to the project of papal monarchy, preserved and promoted the Roman imperial ideal in new forms, in new settings.

PART V.

Orthodoxy: The Imperial Faith (451-1800)

13.

Faith in a New Rome (451-900)

A CHURCH TO SHAPE ORTHODOXY: HAGIA SOPHIA.

The charisma of the Bishops of Rome is twofold, springing from the tomb of St Peter and from Europe's equally long-standing fascination with Roman power and civilization. Gradually, in the series of accidents which we have followed from the first century to the thirteenth, Peter's successors revived the aspirations of Roman emperors to rule the world, and they managed to prevent the successors of the Emperor Charlemagne from gaining a monopoly on this monarchical role in the Christianity of the West. In Constantinople the balance was different. The newly promoted bishop of the city took advantage of a favourable conjunction of politics at the first Council of Constantinople in 381 (see pp. 218-20) to get himself 'the primacy of honour after the Bishop of Rome, because Constantinople is the new Rome',1 while his Church did its best to trump Rome in apostolicity by declaring that it had been founded by the first-recruited among Christ's Apostles, Andrew. Even by early Christian standards, this was an implausible shot, and Andrew never really achieved much for his putative episcopal successors, the Patriarchs of Constantinople. Instead, the Byzantine emperors and the ideal of Christian governance which they represented became the vital distinguishing force in the Churches later known as Orthodox, long after the last emperor had died defending Constantinople in 1453. while his Church did its best to trump Rome in apostolicity by declaring that it had been founded by the first-recruited among Christ's Apostles, Andrew. Even by early Christian standards, this was an implausible shot, and Andrew never really achieved much for his putative episcopal successors, the Patriarchs of Constantinople. Instead, the Byzantine emperors and the ideal of Christian governance which they represented became the vital distinguishing force in the Churches later known as Orthodox, long after the last emperor had died defending Constantinople in 1453.

Orthodox Christianity prides itself on its faithfulness to tradition: its majestic round of worship, woven into a texture of ancient music, sustained with carefully considered gesture and ch.o.r.eography amid a setting of painting following prescribed artistic convention, can be seen as reflecting the timelessness of Heaven. Its history has customarily been written with that self-image in mind, and in telling the Orthodox story there is a real problem in recovering the reality of personalities or events which at particular moments provided alternative routes to the future, and who have accordingly won a negative presentation from later Orthodox historians. It is a peculiarity of the Orthodox tradition of public worship that it contains hymns of hate, directed towards named individuals who are defined as heretical, all the way from Arius through Miaphysites, Dyophysites and Iconoclasts.2 Take, for instance, these lines from the fifth sticheron (hymn) for Great Vespers on the Sunday after the Feast of the Ascension. In celebration of the first Council of Nicaea, the liturgy describes with relish (and one malevolent theological pun) the wretched end of Nicaea's arch-villain in fatal diarrhoea on the privy: Take, for instance, these lines from the fifth sticheron (hymn) for Great Vespers on the Sunday after the Feast of the Ascension. In celebration of the first Council of Nicaea, the liturgy describes with relish (and one malevolent theological pun) the wretched end of Nicaea's arch-villain in fatal diarrhoea on the privy: Arius fell into the precipice of sin, Having shut his eyes so as not to see the light, And he was ripped asunder by a divine hook so that along with his entrails he forcibly emptied out all his essence [ousia!] and his soul, and was named another Judas both for his ideas and the manner of his death.

Such liturgical performance of hatred is embarra.s.sing for modern ec.u.menical discussions among Eastern Christians when it is directed at cherished saints of one of the Churches partic.i.p.ating, but it is probably to be preferred to the Western practice of burning heretics. There were very few burnings in the Byzantine Empire and they ceased soon after the West resumed burnings in the eleventh century, although in later centuries burnings resumed in Orthodox Muscovy - apparently first thanks to prompting from envoys of the Holy Roman Emperor in 1490.3 In fact there was a long tradition in the Orthodox Church of leading churchmen criticizing burnings at the stake, which has little or no parallel in medieval Western Catholicism. In fact there was a long tradition in the Orthodox Church of leading churchmen criticizing burnings at the stake, which has little or no parallel in medieval Western Catholicism.4 Once the Orthodox Churches of the East and the Balkans were in the hands of the Ottoman Turks, persecuting Christian heretics was in any case no longer a practical proposition for Orthodox Christians - but the hymns of hate remained, liturgical affirmations that there was one truth in Orthodoxy which had fought its way past a series of satanic temptations to error. Once the Orthodox Churches of the East and the Balkans were in the hands of the Ottoman Turks, persecuting Christian heretics was in any case no longer a practical proposition for Orthodox Christians - but the hymns of hate remained, liturgical affirmations that there was one truth in Orthodoxy which had fought its way past a series of satanic temptations to error.

Continuity is not the same as changelessness. The Church of Constantinople and the Churches which sprang from it were wedded to imperial politics and the politics of the empire's successor-states: their spirituality has moved in rhythms set by these chances of history. The destruction of the empire in 1453 did not merely encourage the Church to cling fiercely to its evolved theological ident.i.ty, denying that any other could be or had been possible; it also led Churches which escaped the catastrophe to reaffirm the role of sacred monarchy in the mould of Byzantium, and it was only at the end of the twentieth century that the last monarch of an Orthodox country was sent packing from his throne - the King of Greece, who happened to bear the name of both the first 'Orthodox' monarch and the last Byzantine monarch, Constantine. In post-Communist Orthodox cultures there are still rulers who aspire to something of the same role.

Orthodoxy has to a remarkable extent been moulded round one single church building, far more influential than even those crucial Western sacred places, the Basilica of St Peter in Rome and the Abbey Church of Cluny. This is the Cathedral of the Holy Wisdom (Hagia Sophia) in Constantinople, whose fabric has fared better than Cluny's, but whose fate as a church converted to a mosque encapsulates the traumas of Orthodox history (see Plate 5). It owes its present form to the partnership of a Latin-speaking boy from the Balkans and a former circus artist of dauntingly gymnastic s.e.xual prowess: the Emperor Justinian I and his consort, Theodora.5 We have already encountered this heroic if unlikely imperial couple as we have visited the stories both of the Western Church and of the Churches which rejected the Christological formula of Chalcedon after 451. Even before Justinian succeeded his Balkan-born soldier-uncle Justin in 527, they were contemplating the reuniting of the old empire through a twofold strategy of theological negotiation with Miaphysite enemies of Chalcedon and military conquests in East and West. We have already encountered this heroic if unlikely imperial couple as we have visited the stories both of the Western Church and of the Churches which rejected the Christological formula of Chalcedon after 451. Even before Justinian succeeded his Balkan-born soldier-uncle Justin in 527, they were contemplating the reuniting of the old empire through a twofold strategy of theological negotiation with Miaphysite enemies of Chalcedon and military conquests in East and West.

Justinian and Theodora were the last Christian monarchs before the nineteenth-century British Queen Victoria to wield an influence throughout all sections of the Christian world in their age, and their influence was far more personal and less purely symbolic than hers. It was Justinian who presided over the fifth Council of Constantinople in 553 when it condemned the theological tradition of Origen, sought to intensify the Church's rejection of the Dyophysites and in the process humiliated Pope Vigilius (see pp. 209-10 and 326-7); it was Theodora who provided patronage for those who secretly built up a Miaphysite Church hierarchy to challenge the Chalcedonians (see pp. 235-6). One would not realize how colourful their lives had been from the mosaic portraits of the pair as majestic and universal rulers, breaking iconographical convention to stand in pious harmony with their clergy and attendants in the very sanctuary of the imperial church of San Vitale in Ravenna (see Plate 27). The colour is revealed through the unusually triangulated writings of the Court historian Procopius (or Procopios). To balance his eloquent celebration of the Emperor's public achievements and buildings, Procopius vented his frustrations at his own courtliness by furtively penning a poisonous denunciation of Justinian and Theodora in a gossipy account of the same events, The Secret History The Secret History, whose rediscovery by the pope's Vatican librarian in the seventeenth century much enhanced historical enjoyment of the period.6 Justinian's rebuilding of Hagia Sophia resulted from a political upheaval which nearly ended his rule only five years after his accession. His lavish expenditure and his vigorous pursuit of frontier wars, and the attendant taxation to pay for them, had united the active citizens of Constantinople in fury against him. In 532 the sporting factions of Greens and Blues, who played a leading part in city politics because they organized public entertainment in the capital's stadium, the Hippodrome, suspended their normal rivalry in an effort to overthrow Justinian, pushing one of his nephews into claiming imperial power. The crowds' shouts of 'Victory' (Nika) filled the city as they set fire to major buildings. Procopius maintained that, amid the blaze and panic, it was only Theodora's steely declaration to her husband that 'Royalty is a fine burial shroud' that steadied his nerve, pulled him back from flight and dispatched troops to slaughter the Nika rebels and hack their way to the submission of the city.7 Around the shaken Emperor, much of the city lay in ruins, not least the two-centuries-old basilica of Hagia Sophia next to the Hippodrome and the palace. Around the shaken Emperor, much of the city lay in ruins, not least the two-centuries-old basilica of Hagia Sophia next to the Hippodrome and the palace.

Justinian now revealed his pa.s.sion for building. With extraordinary speed he commissioned his architect to obliterate the remains of the old church. Its replacement would serve as cathedral of the city and symbol of unity in his empire, as well as a perpetual warning to future unruly crowds as it loomed over the Hippodrome. The overall design, completed and dedicated after only five years, outdid all previous precedents. It abandoned the basilican plan of its predecessor church and showcased a feature of imperial architecture which previously had rarely been more than a subsidiary theme in Christian building: the dome, a recreation of the canopy of Heaven. From the time of Constantine, domes had been used to roof circular or centrally planned Christian buildings which spoke primarily of the route to Heaven in death - mausoleum-churches for the burial of prominent people or baptisteries which witnessed Christians' death to sin (see p. 293). Here, the aim was different, creating a congregational s.p.a.ce for emperor, patriarch and people which felt as if it encompa.s.sed the long east-west axis of a conventional basilica. This was achieved by building a dome of breathtaking width and height, pierced around its base by a row of windows through which shafts of light transfixed the church interior below; the dome seemed to float on two half-domes to east and west. They climaxed at the east in the altar, housed beyond them in a central semicircular (apsidal) sanctuary; that apse was topped by yet another half-dome. One sixth-century poet, Paul the Silentiary, tried to capture the effect: it 'is a great helmet, bending over on every side, like the radiant heavens . . . like the firmament that rests upon air'.8 Paul's verse was actually commemorating an early restoration of Hagia Sophia after earthquake damage; the dome partially collapsed again in 1346. Few churches could risk trying to match its daring and complicated architectural form; none of Justinian's many foundations or rebuildings of other churches followed its model in full. What Hagia Sophia did do was decisively to promote the central dome as the leading motif of architecture in the imperial Church of the East and in those Churches which later sought to identify with that tradition. Moreover, following the precedent of Hagia Sophia, the dome became a major Islamic feature in mosques, once mosques became covered s.p.a.ces rather than open courtyards. When the dome was used in other Eastern church buildings, it generally once more appeared as in earlier Christian buildings in the midst of a central plan, and now most commonly it rode over the centre of a cross with equal arms - a Greek cross. This plan could be adapted to the use of quite small communities like rural parishes or minor monasteries and still convey the impression of celestial splendour. In a much later development, a screen called an iconostasis iconostasis customarily shut off the altar (see pp. 484-5), but this was not how such church interiors were originally conceived for five centuries or more after Justinian's time. customarily shut off the altar (see pp. 484-5), but this was not how such church interiors were originally conceived for five centuries or more after Justinian's time.

Nowhere was the Orthodox combination of architecture, art and liturgy seen more splendidly than in Hagia Sophia, often simply known as the 'Great Church', although its present rather dismal internal state does credit neither to its original incarnation nor to the care lavished on it in its subsequent life as a mosque. There was a moment in 612 when Patriarch Sergios decreed a reduction in what he regarded as an excessive staff and ceremony in the cathedral: the trimmed establishment which he allowed amounted to eighty priests, 150 deacons, forty deaconesses, seventy subdeacons, 160 readers, twenty-five cantors and a hundred doorkeepers.9 Worshippers beyond this monstrous array of sacred courtiers could see Heaven above them in the dome and semi-domes. The images, still relatively simple in the original decoration of Hagia Sophia, became more and more elaborate. Those who looked up into the dome above a congregation would normally see the image of Christ the Ruler of All (the 'Pantocrator'), in glory and in judgement. They could also gaze east, to the table where bread and wine were made holy, normally presided over by the images of Christ's Mother, usually with her baby son, G.o.d made flesh. All around these representations of divinity enthroned and incarnate was more figural representation in mosaic or wall painting, in schemes which grew fixed throughout Orthodoxy not merely in arrangement but in content, all conceived as reflecting their archetypes, just as a particular object might reflect its Platonic form. The tiers representing rulers, saints, clergy, all in hierarchical but intimate relationship to G.o.d and Mary the Worshippers beyond this monstrous array of sacred courtiers could see Heaven above them in the dome and semi-domes. The images, still relatively simple in the original decoration of Hagia Sophia, became more and more elaborate. Those who looked up into the dome above a congregation would normally see the image of Christ the Ruler of All (the 'Pantocrator'), in glory and in judgement. They could also gaze east, to the table where bread and wine were made holy, normally presided over by the images of Christ's Mother, usually with her baby son, G.o.d made flesh. All around these representations of divinity enthroned and incarnate was more figural representation in mosaic or wall painting, in schemes which grew fixed throughout Orthodoxy not merely in arrangement but in content, all conceived as reflecting their archetypes, just as a particular object might reflect its Platonic form. The tiers representing rulers, saints, clergy, all in hierarchical but intimate relationship to G.o.d and Mary the Theotokos Theotokos, were a constant a.s.surance to the congregations who viewed them that G.o.d in his mercy allowed such intimacy to human beings.

Interestingly, the ordering of saints in Byzantine church interiors does not much reflect the pa.s.sing of the seasons of Christian worship; they tend instead to be grouped in categories, such as martyrs or virgins.10 The Church's year - Christmas, Easter, Ascension - tells a story which progresses in linear fashion through the months, centring on the life of Christ, and it is also punctuated by days commemorating particular historic events in the lives of saints. The Eucharist, by contrast, is timeless, reflecting the eternity of Heaven. It is that timelessness that the artistic schemes of the Orthodox Churches characteristically invoke - the only moment to which they point above the altar is the end of time, when Christ reigns in glory, the moment in which every Eucharist partic.i.p.ates. Eastern congregations did not develop the att.i.tude of the Carolingian West that the Eucharist was something to privatize, directing its power to particular ends and intentions, and therefore capable of being shortened into a said form (see pp. 356-7). In the East, the celebration was done because it needed to be done - at the worst times in Orthodox history, it has been just about all that the Church has been able to do. Moreover, from an early date, Eastern Christians seem to have concluded that it was enough for worshippers to be present at the Eucharist without receiving bread and wine. This seems to have been a measure of the awe which attached to the experience of eating the body and blood of Christ, which is how the Eucharist was now perceived. Laypeople's reception of these elements became a very occasional, perhaps once-yearly, experience, much earlier than the same development in the West. Indeed, in the late fourth century, Ambrose of Milan recorded his disapproval of this Eastern custom. The Church's year - Christmas, Easter, Ascension - tells a story which progresses in linear fashion through the months, centring on the life of Christ, and it is also punctuated by days commemorating particular historic events in the lives of saints. The Eucharist, by contrast, is timeless, reflecting the eternity of Heaven. It is that timelessness that the artistic schemes of the Orthodox Churches characteristically invoke - the only moment to which they point above the altar is the end of time, when Christ reigns in glory, the moment in which every Eucharist partic.i.p.ates. Eastern congregations did not develop the att.i.tude of the Carolingian West that the Eucharist was something to privatize, directing its power to particular ends and intentions, and therefore capable of being shortened into a said form (see pp. 356-7). In the East, the celebration was done because it needed to be done - at the worst times in Orthodox history, it has been just about all that the Church has been able to do. Moreover, from an early date, Eastern Christians seem to have concluded that it was enough for worshippers to be present at the Eucharist without receiving bread and wine. This seems to have been a measure of the awe which attached to the experience of eating the body and blood of Christ, which is how the Eucharist was now perceived. Laypeople's reception of these elements became a very occasional, perhaps once-yearly, experience, much earlier than the same development in the West. Indeed, in the late fourth century, Ambrose of Milan recorded his disapproval of this Eastern custom.11 The ordered worship of G.o.d was the means by which holiness could enfold everyone, under the protection of the great helmet of the dome above. The singing of the liturgy imitated the music of Heaven, with angels in the same choir alongside the worshippers, and much of that music was intended for processions, for all to sing. The tradition allowed for voices alone, without instruments, in contrast to the gradual medieval acceptance in the Latin West of musical instruments, as also far away in the Church of Ethiopia. The singing congregations were travelling towards holiness, protected in the fixed shape of the liturgy, bound into the processions which dominated not merely the drama of the Church but everyday life in the streets of Constantinople. Moments of entry and reception into the sacred precincts were of especial importance, not least to the emperor himself, and the goal was the drama of the Eucharist at G.o.d's altar. Music which began life in processions might end up having other uses. For instance, that most popular of Eastern musical acclamations the Trisagion Trisagion (see pp. 239-40) was said to have been devised by a boy in the mid-fifth century as a comment on the penitential psalm that he was singing in procession, to pray for deliverance from a sequence of violent earth tremors. The chant's success in stilling the earthquakes embedded it in the liturgy and in the consciousness of Eastern Christians far beyond Byzantium. (see pp. 239-40) was said to have been devised by a boy in the mid-fifth century as a comment on the penitential psalm that he was singing in procession, to pray for deliverance from a sequence of violent earth tremors. The chant's success in stilling the earthquakes embedded it in the liturgy and in the consciousness of Eastern Christians far beyond Byzantium.12 Worship in the Orthodox fashion came to propel first monks, then laypeople beyond the monasteries, towards an idea which over centuries became basic to Christian Orthodox spirituality: union with the divine, or theosis theosis - dizzyingly for humanity, and alarmingly for many Western Christians, the word can be translated as 'deification'. The concept was likely to take the Christian believer in a very different direction from Augustine's Western emphasis on the great gulf between G.o.d and humanity created by original sin. It a.s.serted that human society could be sanctified through the ministry and liturgy of the Church, and by the meditations of those who were prepared to enter such difficult and testing labour. What Justinian was doing in his major programme of building in the capital and the creation of a constant round of sacred ceremony around Hagia Sophia was to make himself and the imperial Court the focus of a society where every public activity which formerly had been part of the non-Christian structure of the empire was now made holy and consecrated to the service of G.o.d. - dizzyingly for humanity, and alarmingly for many Western Christians, the word can be translated as 'deification'. The concept was likely to take the Christian believer in a very different direction from Augustine's Western emphasis on the great gulf between G.o.d and humanity created by original sin. It a.s.serted that human society could be sanctified through the ministry and liturgy of the Church, and by the meditations of those who were prepared to enter such difficult and testing labour. What Justinian was doing in his major programme of building in the capital and the creation of a constant round of sacred ceremony around Hagia Sophia was to make himself and the imperial Court the focus of a society where every public activity which formerly had been part of the non-Christian structure of the empire was now made holy and consecrated to the service of G.o.d.

The first major project of Justinian's reign, the codification of half a millennium of imperial legal decisions, might at first seem remote from the agenda of sacralizing Byzantine society, but Justinian's collections and abridgements were a deliberately Christian reshaping of the heritage of law from the empire, much more conscious in that objective than the previous harmonization of Roman law by an earlier Christian emperor of the fourth century, Theodosius II. This codification was one of Justinian's most lasting legacies. In the West it disappeared for centuries along with the empire itself, but its rediscovery in the eleventh century played a significant part both in the Gregorian remoulding of society and the creation of the first Christian universities (see pp. 377-8 and 398), and it provided the basis for most Western legal systems devised thereafter. It also remained the foundation for Eastern imperial justice until the Byzantine Empire disappeared in 1453, but the price of its survival was its rapid translation into Greek.

There was no future for Latin in the empire of Justinian's successors, for in the eastern Mediterranean it had only ever been an interloping language imposed by colonial administrators from the West. The people of Byzantium continued to call themselves 'Romans' (and that is also what the Arabs called them and their homeland of Asia Minor - Rhum Rhum), but they did so in Greek: they were Rhomaioi Rhomaioi. They also lost the inclination to enjoy literature in Latin, until much later, at a time of renewed cultural contacts in the thirteenth century, they found new Greek translations of Latin poetry and philosophy to read.13 The draining of what was Roman or non-Christian from New Rome was one of the irreversible effects of Justinian's reign and its aftermath: in the century and a half from his death in 565, a new ident.i.ty was created for society in the Eastern Empire which can be described as Byzantine. The draining of what was Roman or non-Christian from New Rome was one of the irreversible effects of Justinian's reign and its aftermath: in the century and a half from his death in 565, a new ident.i.ty was created for society in the Eastern Empire which can be described as Byzantine.

It was not merely that Justinian's military campaigns brought ruin to traditional Roman society in his new conquests in Italy and North Africa (see p. 320); he also undermined much of what remained from the past in the East. In 529 the Emperor closed the Academy of Athens, which in the great days of the 'Second Sophistic' at the height of Roman imperial self-confidence (see pp. 140-41) had been a self-conscious refoundation of the ancient Academy of Aristotle, and which still upheld the tradition of Plato. It was also during Justinian's time, in 550-51, that another inst.i.tution of higher education in Berytus (Beirut) was closed after a major earthquake devastated the city; only Alexandria was left as a centre of ancient non-Christian learning until the Islamic conquest. With such losses, education became more and more the property of Christian clergy and reflected their priorities. Books were otherwise scarce, and one new sort of book became increasingly common: florilegia florilegia, which were collections of short extracts from complete works which would act as guides to a subject, particularly in religion. Usually they were gathered with some particular theological agenda in mind. Another sort of new book flourished too: in the model of the life of Antony of Egypt (see pp. 205-6), hagiographies (biographies of saints, their miracles and the wonders a.s.sociated with their shrines) became the staple fare of Byzantine reading.14 This was natural enough. The world felt increasingly out of human control, and the best hope seemed to be found in the hairline cracks between Heaven and earth provided by sacred places and holy people. The later sixth century saw the Byzantine Empire increasingly on the defensive on all fronts, with major losses in the western Mediterranean territories that Justinian had won and the seizure of imperial territory in the Balkans by Slavs and Avars. In 613 a Persian army encamped within sight of the city across the waters of the Bosphorus. In 626 came the greatest crisis yet, when a joint force of Avars, Slavs and Persians besieged the city. In the absence of the Emperor Heraclius on campaign, the Patriarch called together a procession of the whole civilian population bearing icons. During the siege, a woman, identified as the Virgin Mary herself, was reputedly seen leading the defenders: it was a major stimulus for the already lively cult of Mary in the Eastern Church.15 Heraclius, one of the greatest if often maligned heroes of the whole Byzantine story, performed extraordinary feats in outfacing these c.u.mulative military threats, and his accession in 610 marked the beginning of an imperial dynasty which was to last throughout the seventh century. Still there remains his greatest failure: in his preoccupation with defeating his enemies in east and west, Heraclius had missed the importance of the new invaders from the south, the Muslim Arabs. After the defeat of a Byzantine army in 636, all its southern provinces were soon lost, Jerusalem included. There was actually a six-year-period when the Emperor Constans II, desperate to defend his western provinces, abandoned Constantinople and took refuge with his Court in Sicily before being murdered in 668 by courtiers infuriated by his drastic efforts to secure revenue and his apparent intention to make this move permanent; ever afterwards, his name was reviled and made into the belittling 'Constans' rather than his baptismal 'Constantine'.16 The heirs of Heraclius did succeed in preventing the whole empire from being swallowed up. Constantine IV beat off Muslim armies from Constantinople itself in 678, saved by the city's formidable walls and by the innovative use of a terrifying incendiary device known as 'Greek fire' (whose composition was always successfully kept undisclosed, a true Byzantine secret weapon) to destroy Arab ships.17 While in hindsight we can see this Byzantine victory as a decisive move blocking westwards Islamic advance into Europe for centuries, there would have been little reason to feel relief at the time. The miseries of repeated warfare were compounded by a long-drawn-out natural catastrophe: from the 540s a major plague spread westwards through the empire and beyond, and it recurred right through to the eighth century. Population plummeted, including in Constantinople itself, and the general impact can still be seen dramatically in Syria, until then an area of continuing vigorous Cla.s.sical urban civilization, where town after town was sucked dry of life and was never reoccupied, leaving a series of ruins in semi-desert wilderness to the present day. Constantinople itself was a city of ruins, a ghost of its former self. While in hindsight we can see this Byzantine victory as a decisive move blocking westwards Islamic advance into Europe for centuries, there would have been little reason to feel relief at the time. The miseries of repeated warfare were compounded by a long-drawn-out natural catastrophe: from the 540s a major plague spread westwards through the empire and beyond, and it recurred right through to the eighth century. Population plummeted, including in Constantinople itself, and the general impact can still be seen dramatically in Syria, until then an area of continuing vigorous Cla.s.sical urban civilization, where town after town was sucked dry of life and was never reoccupied, leaving a series of ruins in semi-desert wilderness to the present day. Constantinople itself was a city of ruins, a ghost of its former self.18 This weakening of both Byzantine and Sa.s.sanian society by the plague must have been another reason why the Arabs found it so easy to overwhelm such large areas of mighty empires. Archaeologists have noted a remarkable fall in the number of coins recovered from excavations datable to the period from around 650 to around 800: economic activity must have drained away. This weakening of both Byzantine and Sa.s.sanian society by the plague must have been another reason why the Arabs found it so easy to overwhelm such large areas of mighty empires. Archaeologists have noted a remarkable fall in the number of coins recovered from excavations datable to the period from around 650 to around 800: economic activity must have drained away.19 A Mediterranean-wide society faced ruin; no wonder that Byzantium was ready to listen with respect and longing to those who sought to bring it closer to its G.o.d. A Mediterranean-wide society faced ruin; no wonder that Byzantium was ready to listen with respect and longing to those who sought to bring it closer to its G.o.d.

BYZANTINE SPIRITUALITY: MAXIMUS AND THE MYSTICAL TRADITION.

Under the circ.u.mstances, the preservation of Byzantine culture in the empire was increasingly the business of the one vigorous and expanding inst.i.tution outside the Court. Just as in the fragmented kingdoms of the West, monasteries became the safe-deposits and factories of learning, and also strongholds of interference in imperial policy. Increasingly, the imperial Church chose monks to be bishops: there were no Christian equivalents of the vanished Academy of Athens, and no schools of theology like those which the Emperor Zeno had expelled from Edessa in 489 (see pp. 245-6). So there was nowhere else but a monastery to learn how to defend the faith, or discuss with spiritual men how to exercise pastoral care. A series of major Church historians in the fifth century produced pen-portraits of some of the great champions of Nicene and Chalcedonian orthodoxy. Prominent among these figures were monks such as Basil of Caesarea, or even the Westerner Martin of Tours, who had bridged that gap which in the beginnings of monasticism might have seemed impossibly wide, combining monastic and episcopal vocations. As a result, by the eleventh century, it was overwhelmingly the convention in the East that bishops should always be monks, and so it has remained in Orthodoxy.20 The convention has led to a two-track career for Orthodox clergy, for in complete contrast to the medieval West, clergy with no intention of hearing a call to either monasticism or the episcopate have customarily continued to follow the practice of the early Church; they have been married men with families, and minister to the laity in their local churches. The convention has led to a two-track career for Orthodox clergy, for in complete contrast to the medieval West, clergy with no intention of hearing a call to either monasticism or the episcopate have customarily continued to follow the practice of the early Church; they have been married men with families, and minister to the laity in their local churches.

By Justinian's time, certain key monasteries were celebrated throughout the imperial East. The first Christian emperors had discouraged the foundation of monasteries in the capital itself, but the convention was breached in the mid-fifth century by Stoudios, a wealthy senator, who paid for a monastery on his own estate within the city walls. Bolstered by its possession of the head of John the Baptist, this Stoudite community was to prove a major force in the life of Constantinople for nearly a thousand years.21 On the frontiers of the empire too, in lands soon lost to the Muslim Arabs, two of the most important early foundations have managed to survive all the disasters of later history to the present day. The monastery of St Sabas near Jerusalem was from its inception in the 480s a large community (the 'Great Lavra') with a fleet of subsidiary houses. The founder Sabas, a monk from Cappadocia, died in his nineties in Justinian's reign. More remote and older was the community of St Catherine on Mount Sinai, a far-flung beneficiary of Justinian's enthusiasm for church-building. Besides the ma.s.sive granite walls of the monastery, the dry conditions have preserved extraordinary woodwork; there are monumental doors in the church from Justinian's time, and behind later panelling there lurk roof timbers preserved in their original setting, inscribed with memorials to the generosity of the Emperor and his covertly Miaphysite empress, Theodora, in refounding and fortifying this key Orthodox monastery. On the frontiers of the empire too, in lands soon lost to the Muslim Arabs, two of the most important early foundations have managed to survive all the disasters of later history to the present day. The monastery of St Sabas near Jerusalem was from its inception in the 480s a large community (the 'Great Lavra') with a fleet of subsidiary houses. The founder Sabas, a monk from Cappadocia, died in his nineties in Justinian's reign. More remote and older was the community of St Catherine on Mount Sinai, a far-flung beneficiary of Justinian's enthusiasm for church-building. Besides the ma.s.sive granite walls of the monastery, the dry conditions have preserved extraordinary woodwork; there are monumental doors in the church from Justinian's time, and behind later panelling there lurk roof timbers preserved in their original setting, inscribed with memorials to the generosity of the Emperor and his covertly Miaphysite empress, Theodora, in refounding and fortifying this key Orthodox monastery.

In the wretchedly anxious era which followed Justinian, certain key monastic writers not greatly known or appreciated in the West until modern times created a spirituality distinctive to the Orthodox world. St Catherine's was home to one of the most important shapers of Byzantine monasticism: its abbot John of the Ladder (tis Klimakos, Climacus), so called from the work of spirituality which he created, the Ladder of Divine Ascent Ladder of Divine Ascent. Climacus is as shadowy a figure as the Western St Benedict, who (since so little is certain about either of them) may have been a near-contemporary of his in the sixth century. Likewise Climacus is known only through his written work, which is not a monastic rule like Benedict's, but a collection of sayings conceived as a guide for monks. Its metaphor of progress in the ascetic life through the steps of a ladder is a characteristic feature of Christian mysticism in both East and West. Many mystics through the centuries have spoken and written about the impulse to move towards a goal, to travel onwards, even though frequently to the worldly eye they are people steeped in stillness and immobility. Stillness may be the goal; on the way, there is much labour.

The Ladder distils much from the past. That is another feature of mystical writing, which repeatedly sets up echoes of past works, many of which the author is most unlikely to have known directly (while on occasion, the same mystical themes emerge quite independently in very varied settings). Climacus's texts resonate with p.r.o.nouncements of Egyptian ascetics, including Evagrius of Pontus (see pp. 209-10), at that stage not yet condemned as heretical, from whom Climacus takes the concept of distils much from the past. That is another feature of mystical writing, which repeatedly sets up echoes of past works, many of which the author is most unlikely to have known directly (while on occasion, the same mystical themes emerge quite independently in very varied settings). Climacus's texts resonate with p.r.o.nouncements of Egyptian ascetics, including Evagrius of Pontus (see pp. 209-10), at that stage not yet condemned as heretical, from whom Climacus takes the concept of apatheia apatheia, pa.s.sionlessness or serenity, as one of the main ladder steps into the union with the divine in theosis theosis. There is a sharp perceptiveness and even humour in Climacus's writings which is very personal. One of the most original of his themes, much repeated later, is his paradoxical insistence that mourning is the beginning of a Christian's divine joy: 'I am amazed at how that which is called penthos penthos [mourning] and grief should contain joy and gladness interwoven within it, like honey in the comb'. [mourning] and grief should contain joy and gladness interwoven within it, like honey in the comb'.22 Orthodox monasteries still customarily have the Orthodox monasteries still customarily have the Ladder Ladder read through during their meals in Lent. read through during their meals in Lent.

In the next generation, another monk gave further lasting shape to Orthodox spirituality, and is indeed often regarded as the greatest theologian in the Byzantine tradition: Maximus or Maximos (c. 580-662), known as 'the Confessor' from the sufferings he endured at the end of his long life in defence of Chalcedonian Orthodoxy.23 His writings could guide a monk in almost every aspect of his life - doctrine, ascetic practice, worship and the understanding of scripture - and all is suffused with Maximus's constant return to the theme of union with the divine. Like Climacus, Maximus did not seek to be original: he restated and enriched the message of the past, but his choices set directions for the future. One of his sources was Cyril of Alexandria - whom he chose to see as a firm defender of the theology on the natures of Christ which the Council of Chalcedon had later affirmed - and, once more, Origen and Evagrius rather more discreetly than was necessary in a previous generation. But Maximus also looked to a writer who went under the name of one of the few converts whom Paul of Tarsus is said to have made in Athens, Dionysius the Areopagite. His writings could guide a monk in almost every aspect of his life - doctrine, ascetic practice, worship and the understanding of scripture - and all is suffused with Maximus's constant return to the theme of union with the divine. Like Climacus, Maximus did not seek to be original: he restated and enriched the message of the past, but his choices set directions for the future. One of his sources was Cyril of Alexandria - whom he chose to see as a firm defender of the theology on the natures of Christ which the Council of Chalcedon had later affirmed - and, once more, Origen and Evagrius rather more discreetly than was necessary in a previous generation. But Maximus also looked to a writer who went under the name of one of the few converts whom Paul of Tarsus is said to have made in Athens, Dionysius the Areopagite.24 The books of this 'Pseudo-Dionysius' were in fact probably compiled in Syria around eighty years before Maximus's time, by a Christian steeped in Neoplatonist philosophy, and moreover a sympathizer with the Miaphysites - an irony in view of Maximus's strong Chalcedonianism. The books of this 'Pseudo-Dionysius' were in fact probably compiled in Syria around eighty years before Maximus's time, by a Christian steeped in Neoplatonist philosophy, and moreover a sympathizer with the Miaphysites - an irony in view of Maximus's strong Chalcedonianism.25 In fact the career of Pseudo-Dionysius is remarkable: he is a constant presence behind the mystical writings of Orthodox Christianity, and from the ninth century, when his writings were translated into Latin by the Irish philosopher John Scotus Erigena, he became a powerful voice in a Western Latin mystical tradition as well. In fact the career of Pseudo-Dionysius is remarkable: he is a constant presence behind the mystical writings of Orthodox Christianity, and from the ninth century, when his writings were translated into Latin by the Irish philosopher John Scotus Erigena, he became a powerful voice in a Western Latin mystical tradition as well.

Dionysius the Areopagite drew on the thought of Neoplatonists (see pp. 169-70) in his exploration of how divinity could intimately combine with humanity through a progress in purging, illumination and union. These stages are to be found in many subsequent treatments of mystical Christianity long after Maximus, and their origins in such a dubiously provenanced work are a testimony to the way in which Christian mysticism reaches beyond the careful boundaries drawn by the councils of the Church.26 Dionysian theology was also Neoplatonic in its view of the cosmos as a series of hierarchies; it viewed these hierarchies not as an obstacle to G.o.d, but as the means of uniting the remoteness and unknowableness of G.o.d with the knowable particularity of lower creation, just as courtiers might be intermediaries for humble people to approach a monarch. G.o.d could be known in precisely opposite ways: by what could not be said about him (the 'apophatic' view of G.o.d) and what could be affirmed about him (the 'kataphatic' view). Pseudo-Dionysius, like so many writers in mystical traditions, loved expressing in terms of light the relationship between unknowable transcendence and the tiers of being which represented knowable divinity: Dionysian theology was also Neoplatonic in its view of the cosmos as a series of hierarchies; it viewed these hierarchies not as an obstacle to G.o.d, but as the means of uniting the remoteness and unknowableness of G.o.d with the knowable particularity of lower creation, just as courtiers might be intermediaries for humble people to approach a monarch. G.o.d could be known in precisely opposite ways: by what could not be said about him (the 'apophatic' view of G.o.d) and what could be affirmed about him (the 'kataphatic' view). Pseudo-Dionysius, like so many writers in mystical traditions, loved expressing in terms of light the relationship between unknowable transcendence and the tiers of being which represented knowable divinity: Hierarchy causes its members to be images of G.o.d in all respects, to be clear and spotless mirrors reflecting the glow of primordial light and indeed of G.o.d himself. It ensures that when its members have received this full and divine splendour, they can then pa.s.s on this light generously.27 Maximus eagerly absorbed these themes and applied them in much greater detail to many different aspects of spirituality and worship. For him, theosis theosis or deification was the destination for human salvation, whose attainment Adam's sin in Eden had imperilled but not rendered impossible; in fact all the cosmos was created to arrive at deification. A ground-ba.s.s of Maximus's meditation on or deification was the destination for human salvation, whose attainment Adam's sin in Eden had imperilled but not rendered impossible; in fact all the cosmos was created to arrive at deification. A ground-ba.s.s of Maximus's meditation on theosis theosis is is Logos Logos, the word that is Word and echoes through so much ancient philosophy to re-echo in John's Gospel prologue and the writings of the first Apologists (see pp. 1 and 142-3). For Maximus, the central moment in the whole story of the cosmos was the coming of the Word in Flesh, a union of uncreated and created, and that was why the latter half of his career was devoted to a bitter public struggle to a.s.sert his own Chalcedonian understanding of what that meant. But there were so many depths to the meaning of Logos Logos beyond this event of incarnation. G.o.d's creation contained multiple 'words', beyond this event of incarnation. G.o.d's creation contained multiple 'words', logoi logoi, which were G.o.d's intentions for his creation, and the source of differentiation behind all created things: G.o.d the One and Simple designed his creation in multiplicity and complexity, so 'it is said that G.o.d knows all beings according to these logoi logoi before their creation, since they are in him and with him; they are in G.o.d who is the truth of all'. Rational created beings were destined and commanded to move back to meet their G.o.d through their before their creation, since they are in him and with him; they are in G.o.d who is the truth of all'. Rational created beings were destined and commanded to move back to meet their G.o.d through their logoi logoi.28 The Logos Logos was thus to be met both in Jesus and in all creation; it was also to be met in scripture. In a remarkably physical picture of the 'Word', Maximus said, 'The Word is said to become "thick". . . because he for our sakes, who are coa.r.s.e in respect to our mentality, accepted to become incarnate and to be expressed in letters, syllables and words, so that from all these he might draw us to himself.' was thus to be met both in Jesus and in all creation; it was also to be met in scripture. In a remarkably physical picture of the 'Word', Maximus said, 'The Word is said to become "thick". . . because he for our sakes, who are coa.r.s.e in respect to our mentality, accepted to become incarnate and to be expressed in letters, syllables and words, so that from all these he might draw us to himself.'29 Maximus reli