by Jim Forest
“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything except to be thrown out and trodden under foot by men.” This verse in Matthew’s Gospel comes immediately after the Beatitudes.
In fact not many people want to be become like salt. We would prefer a more attractive metaphor. How about, “You are the sugar of the earth, but if the sugar should lose its sweetness, it is tossed out the doors and trodden under foot by men”? Living in a sugar-addicted world, surely sugar would be a much more welcome term for modern people. Salt is out-of-date.
Unfortunately we are stuck with the Gospel Christ gave us rather than the one we might write ourselves. Jesus tells his followers that we are intended to be like salt, a bitter substance normally used in relatively small amounts.
Perhaps salt was more valued by our ancestors. In commentaries on this passage, the Church Fathers stress the value of salt as a preservative and thus a life-saving substance. “Salt preserves meat from decaying into stench and worms,” says Origen. “It makes meat edible for a longer period.” [Fragment 91]
St. John Chrysostom comments on the salt metaphor in these words:
“It is a matter of absolute necessity that he commands all this. Why must you be salt? Jesus says in effect: ‘You are accountable not only for your own life but also for that of the entire world. I am sending you not to one or two cities, nor to ten or twenty, not even to one nation, as I sent the prophets. Rather I am sending you to the entire earth, across the seas, to the whole world, to a world fallen into an evil state.’ For by saying, ‘You are the salt of the earth,” Jesus signifies that all human nature has ‘lost its taste,’ having become rotten through sin. For this reason, you see, he requires from his disciples those character traits that are most necessary and useful for the benefit of all.” [On the Gospel of St. Matthew, Homily 15,6; translation published in Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture, Matthew, vol. 1A, p 92.]
There is a great deal of salt in the Gospel, and not much sugar.
In the Sermon on the Mount, Christ identifies peacemakers as God’s own children, but peacemaking is often a bitter, salt-like undertaking. To stand against hatred and killing in time of war — which is usually what time it is — is no sweet task. One is likely to be regarded as naive if not stupid, unpatriotic if not a traitor.
Yet at each and every service Orthodox Christians hear the challenge: “In peace let us pray to the Lord.”
We begin the Liturgy with an appeal to God not just for a private personal peace or the peace of our family or the peace of the parish community or the peace of our neighborhood or the peace of city or the peace of our nation, but “for the peace of the whole world and the union of all.” The Great Litany of Peace draws our attention to the world-embracing mission of the Church that St. John Chrysostom emphasized in the passage I just read to you. We are, he said, “accountable not only for [our] own life but also for that of the entire world.”
Prayer is not a request that God do something or give something that I am unable to do or give. Prayer is a summons to responsibility. What I ask God to do implies a willingness on my part to participate in God’s answer to my prayer. If I am unwilling to help in doing what I ask God to do, can it even be thought of as prayer? Why would God do at my request what I refuse take part in doing? We are talking then not only about what we ask God to do but what we are asking God to equip us to do. If we ask for peace, the peace of the whole world, then we must be willing to become people doing whatever we can that contributes to the peace of the whole world.
Consider three key words: Orthodox, Christian and peace.
The word “orthodox” is frequently used as a synonym for rigidity. Not often is it understood in its real sense: the true way to give praise or true belief. Attach it to the word “Christian” and it becomes term of recognition: an Orthodox Christian is someone trying to live according to the Gospel, someone who regards the word and the example of Christ as all important. The only book we place on the altar contains nothing but the four Gospels. We may have far to go in our efforts to follow Christ, but this is the direction we’re trying to take. “To be an Orthodox Christian,” said Metropolitan Anthony Bloom, “is to attempt to live a Christ-centered life. We should try to live in such a way that if the Gospels were lost, they could be re-written by looking at us.”
To be an Orthodox Christian means belonging to the Orthodox Church. It isn’t possible to follow Christ and remain alone. As a member of the Church, I am part of a huge, time-spanning community of people with a collective memory that goes back as far Adam and Eve. It is a community that includes the Church Fathers, whose words we not only store on our books shelves but are encouraged to read.
It is also a Church of Councils. We hold ourselves accountable to the results of the ecumenical councils even though they took place centuries ago. It means I don’t let my own opinions or those of my neighbors take charge of my faith. This requires guarding myself from the various ideologies that dominate the world I live in.
We are also a Church of saints. Day by day we remember as they take their turns on the church calendar. We bear their names. We call on them for help. We remember what they did and what they said. We have icons of some of them in our churches and homes.
Attention to the Church Fathers and the saints can be bewildering experience. For example we discover one Church Father showers the highest praise on marriage while another regards marriage as a barely tolerable compromise for those unable to embrace the real Christian calling: celibate monastic life. It can be disconcerting to discover that on various questions different Church Fathers may have different ideas or different emphases or just plain disagree.
Or we look at the saints and find one who was martyred for refusing to be a soldier, then the next day discover a saint who was a hero on the battlefield. Or we read about a saint who wore the rich clothing of a prince and then find another saint whose only clothing was his uncut beard. Here is a saint who was a great scholar while there is a saint who was a holy fool. Here is a saint who raced to the desert, someone like St. Anthony, while over there is a saint who refused to leave the city and was critical of those who did — for example St. Maria Skobtsova of Paris. Each saint poses a challenge and each saint raises certain questions and even certain problems. The puzzle pieces don’t always fit. We discover that neither the Church Fathers nor the saints on the calendar are a marching band, all in step and playing in perfect harmony.
It isn’t always clear what in a particular saint’s life placed him or her on the Church’s calendar. Do we have icons of St Alexander Nevsky because he defeated the Teutonic Knights, or was it because, preferring negotiations and compromise to war, he negotiated with the Golden Horde and made compromises with them? Or was it because, later in his life, he set aside military and political duties and instead embraced a repentant monastic life?
Devotion to the saints solves some problems and raises others. In the details of their lives, they march in a thousand different directions. They also made mistakes. They were not saints every minute of every day. They too were sinners. Like us, they confessed their sins, seeking God’s forgiveness for serious faults. But their virtues overwhelmed their shortcomings. In different ways, each saint gives us a window for seeing Christ and his Gospel more clearly.
A final comment about the word “Orthodox”: It means, as St. Paul insists, that we are no longer Greek nor Jew. Nationality is secondary. It is not the national flag that is placed on the altar but the Gospel. For us, even though we find ourselves in an Orthodox Church divided on national or jurisdictional lines, it means, in our primary identity, we are no longer American or Russian or Egyptian or Serbian. Rather we are one people united in baptism and faith whose identity and responsibility includes but goes beyond the land where we were born or the culture and mother tongue that shaped us. The main thing, the banner headline, is that I am trying to follow Christ, to live according to the Gospel, and participate in the sacramental mysteries.
On to the next word: “peace.” Let us admit right away that this is a damaged word. It’s like an icon I once encountered in Moscow, at the parish of Saints Cosmas and Damian, that had been so blackened by candle smoke that the image was completely hidden. I spent an afternoon watching two restorers at work. Little by little, using alcohol and little balls of cotton, they cleaned the icon until finally we could see it bore the image of St. Nicholas. Long hidden, beautiful colors began to shine. There he was, a saint who is, in the Orthodox memory, the model of the perfect pastor. I realized I was watching a tiny resurrection.
“Peace” is a word that has been covered with a lots of smoke from the fires of propaganda, politics, ideologies, war and nationalism. In Soviet Russia there were those omnipresent slogans proclaiming peace while the Church was often obliged to take part in state-organized and state-scripted “peace” events. And in American, as a boy growing up in New Jersey, it was almost the same. “Peace is our profession” was the slogan of the Strategic Air Command, the wing of the military whose apocalyptic work was work was their readiness to kill millions of people with nuclear weapons.
Such abuse of words is what George Orwell called Newspeak. But “peace” is a word that has also been at times abused by peace movements. Anti-war groups often reveal less about peace than about anger, alienation and even hatred. It’s always a surprise to find a peace group that regards unborn children as among those whose lives need to be protected.
In wartime talk of peace can put you on very thin ice. I recently heard a story that dates back to the first Gulf War. Three clergymen were being interviewed on television. Two of them insisted that the war was a good and just war and had God’s blessing. The third opened his Bible and read aloud the words of Jesus: “Blessed are the peacemakers… Love your enemies…” But he was cut short by a shout from the angry pastor next to him: “That’s not relevant now! We’re at war!”
War does this to us. Parts of the Gospel are simply abandoned. They are seen as temporarily irrelevant, an embarrassment to the patriotic Christian. “Peace” is put in the deep freeze, a word to be thawed out after the war is over. Thus the salt loses it savor and sugar takes its place.
Part of our job is to clean words like “peace.” It’s a work similar to icon restoration. Otherwise it will be hard to understand the Gospel or the Liturgy and impossible to translate the Gospel and the Liturgy into daily life.
Consider how often and in what significant ways Christ uses the word “peace” in the Gospel:
“And if the house is worthy, let your peace come upon it.” “And he awoke and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, ‘Peace! Be still!’” “And he said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.’” “And he said to the woman, ‘Your faith has saved you; go in peace.’” “Whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace be to this house!’” “Would that even today you knew the things that make for peace!” “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” His greeting after the resurrection is, “Peace be with you.” Once again we come upon the metaphor of salt: “Have salt in yourselves, and be at peace with one another.” (Mark 9:50)
Peace is one of the essential characteristics of the Kingdom of God.
In the Slavic liturgical tradition, the custom is to sing the Beatitudes at almost every Liturgy, doing so while the book of the Four Gospels is carried in procession through the church. Why? Because the Beatitudes are a short summary of the Gospel. These few verses describe a kind of ladder to heaven, starting with poverty of spirit and ascending to readiness to suffer for Christ and at last participation in the Paschal joy of Christ. Very near the top of the ladder we come to the words, “Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called children of God.”
Christ’s peace is not passive nor has it anything to do with the behavior of a coward or of the person who is polite rather than truthful. Christ says, in Matthew’s Gospel: “Do not think that I have come to bring peace on earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.” He means the sword metaphorically, as Luke makes clear in his version of the same passage: “Do you think that I have come to give peace on earth? No, I tell you, but rather division.” To live truthfully rather than flow with the tide means most of time to swim against the tide and to risk penalties if not punishment for doing so. Christ had, and still has, opponents. Christ’s words and actions often brought his opponents’ blood to a boil. Think of his words of protest about the teachings of the Pharisees who laid burdens of others they would not carry themselves. Think of him chasing the money changers from the Temple. No one was killed or injured but God’s lightning flashed in the Temple courtyard.
Jesus speaks the truth, no matter how dangerous a task that may be. He gives us an example of spiritual and verbal combat. Yet his hands are innocent of bloodshed. Think about the simple but not unimportant fact that Christ never killed anyone. Neither did he bless any of his followers to kill anyone. There are many ways in which Christ is unique. This is one of them. His final healing miracle before his crucifixion was to heal the injury of a temple guard whom Peter had wounded. He who preached the love of enemies took a moment to heal an enemy when he was on his way to the Cross.
In the early centuries, Christians got into a lot of trouble for their attitude toward the state. You get a sense of what that was like in this passage from Second Century hieromartyr, St. Justin:
“From Jerusalem there went out into the world, men, twelve in number, and these illiterate, of no ability in speaking: but by the power of God they proclaimed to every race of men that they were sent by Christ to teach to all the word of God; and we who formerly used to murder one another do not only now refrain from making war upon our enemies, but also, that we may not lie nor deceive our examiners, willingly die confessing Christ.” [First Apology, Chapter 39]
The main problem for early Christians, the problem that so often got them into trouble, was their refusal of to regard any ruler as a god. This doesn’t mean simply a ruler who claims to be a god but the persistent tendency of rulers down to the present day to behave as gods and expect to be treated as gods. The Christians were obedient members of society in every way they could be without disobeying God, but they were prepared to suffer even the most cruel death rather than place obedience to Caesar before obedience to God. (Another hallmark of Christians in the Roman age was their staunch opposition to abortion as well as to the abandoning of newborn infants to die of exposure. Christians often saved the lives of abandoned children.)
While eventually the baptismal requirements of the Church were relaxed, it was once the case that those who did not renounce killing, whether as a soldier or judge, could not be baptized. It is still the case that those who have killed another human being, even in self defense or by accident, are not permitted to serve at the altar. The reason is that one who serves at the altar is supposed to be a person without blood-stained hands. Presumably this canon also excludes a person whose words incite others to shed blood. In fact ideally every person would approach the chalice without blood on his hands, but the Church is a channel of Christ’s mercy and receives for communion those who have repented of their sins, even the sin of murder.
What’s the problem? Killing in war is often awarded with medals. Aren’t soldiers only doing their duty, however horrible it may be? Is there not virtue in their deeds, however bloody? I am reminded of an interview with an American soldier in Iraq that I happened to hear on television: “A part of your soul is destroyed in killing someone else.” The Church looks for ways to heal such wounds.
Christ is not simply an advocate of peace or an example of peace. He is peace. To be a student of Christ, to want to live a Christ-like life, means to want to participate in the peace of Christ. Yes, we may fail, as we fail in so many things, turning to Christ for forgiveness, but we are never permitted to give up trying.
How do we give a witness to Christ’s peace, especially in time of war? There are at least seven aspects of doing this.
The first is loving our enemies. But here we have to repair a damaged word. Love has been sentimentalized. It has come to mean a nice feeling we have toward a person whom we especially enjoy seeing and being with. But the biblical meaning of the word is quite different. Christ calls on his followers to love their enemies. If you understand love as a euphoric feeling or pleasant sentiment, fulfilling this commandment is impossible. But if you understand love as doing what you can to protect the life and seek the salvation of a person or group whom we fear and hate, that’s very different.
Jesus links love of enemies with prayer for them. This is an essential aspect of loving enemies. Without prayer, love of enemies is impossible. One of the saints who gave special emphasis to this theme was the 20th century monk St. Silouan of the Holy Mountain, who became a monk after nearly killing another young man in his village — in fact for some minutes he thought he had become a murderer. Not long afterward, he went to Mount Athos. Much of his teaching later in life centered on love of enemies. “He who does not love his enemies,” he insisted, “does not have God’s grace.”
The second aspect is doing good to enemies. Jesus teaches his followers, “Do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you.” (Luke 6:28)
Jesus’ teaching about a compassionate response to enemies was not new doctrine. We find in the Mosaic Law: “If you meet your enemy’s ox or his donkey going astray, you shall bring it back to him. If you see the donkey of one who hates you lying under a burden, you shall refrain from leaving him with it.” (Exodus 23:4-5)
St. Paul goes further: “Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; never be conceited. Repay no one evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all. If possible, so far as it depends upon you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God; for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’ No, if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him drink; for by doing so you will reap burning coals upon his head. Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Rom. 12:20-21)
Christ’s teaching to do good to enemies is generally viewed has unrealistic. In fact, it is a teaching full of common sense. Unless we want to pave the way to a tragic future, we must search for opportunities through which we can demonstrate to an opponent our longing for an entirely different kind of relationship. An adversary’s moment of need or crisis can provide that opening.
The third aspect is turning the other cheek. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says, “If someone strikes you on the cheek, offer him the other also.” (Mt.5:39; Luke 6:29)
Contrast this with the advice provided in the average film or novel, where the standard message might be described as “The Gospel According to John Wayne.” How many films replay the same grim message: the job of the good people is to kill the bad people. This pseudo-gospel’s basic message is: If you are hit, hit back. Let your blow be harder than the one you received. In fact, as we saw in the US attack on Iraq in 2003, you needn’t be hit at all in order to strike others. Provocation, irritation, or the fear of attack is warrant enough.
“Turning the other cheek” is often seen as an especially suspect Christian teaching. Many say it is Jesus at his most unrealistic: “Human beings just aren’t made that way.” For a great many people the problem can be put even more simply: “Turning the other cheek isn’t manly. Only cowards turn the other cheek.” But what cowards actually do is run and hide. Standing in front of a violent man, refusing to get out of his way, takes enormous courage. It is manly and often proves to be the more sensible response. It’s also a way of giving witness to confidence in the reality and power of the resurrection.
The fourth aspect is forgiveness. Nothing is more fundamental to Jesus’ teaching than his call to forgiveness: giving up debts, letting go of grievances, pardoning those who have harmed us, not despairing of the other. Every time we say the Lord’s Prayer, we are telling God that we ask to be forgiven only insofar as we ourselves have extended forgiveness to others: “And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.” (Mt.6:12; Luke 11:2-4)
Who doesn’t know how much easier it is to ask God to forgive us rather than to extend forgiveness to others? For we are wounded and the wounds often last a lifetime; they even spill across generations. As children, as parents, as husbands or wives, as families, as workers, as jobless people, as church members, as members of certain classes or races, as voters, as citizens of particular states, we have been violated, made a target, lied to, used, abandoned. Sins, often quite serious sins, have been committed against us. We may feel damaged, scarred for life, stunted. Others we love may even have died of evil done to them.
But we are not only victims. In various ways we are linked to injuries others have suffered and are suffering. If I allow myself to see how far the ripples extend from my small life, I will discover that not only in my own home but on the far side of the planet there are people whose sorrows in life are partly due to me. Through what I have done or failed to do, through what my community has done or failed to do, there are others whose lives are more wretched than they might have been. There are those dying while we feast.
We are moved to condemn the evils we see in others and to excuse, even justify the evils we practice ourselves. We fail to realize that those who threaten us feel threatened by us, and often have good reasons for their fears. The problem is not simply a personal issue, for the greatest sins of enmity are committed en masse, with very few people feeling any personal responsibility for the destruction they share in doing or preparing. The words of Holocaust administrator Adolph Eichmann, “I was only following orders,” are among humanity’s most frequently repeated justifications for murder, heard as often from those who profess religious convictions as from those who deny them.
The fifth aspect is breaking down the dividing wall of enmity. In Christ enmity is destroyed, Saint Paul wrote, “for he is our peace, who has made us both one, and has broken down the dividing wall of enmity… that he might create in himself one new person in place of two, so making peace, and might reconcile us both to God in one body through the cross, thereby bringing enmity to an end.” (Eph. 2:14-16)
Walls would have been on Paul’s mind at the time; in the same letter he mentions that he is “a prisoner for the Lord.” His words of guidance were sent from within the stone walls of a prison.
As an example consider Christ’s response to the centurion who asked him to heal a sick servant. It must have been hard for his more zealot-minded disciples to see Jesus responding positively to the appeal of an officer in an army of occupation and galling to hear him commenting afterward, “I tell you, not even in Israel have I found such faith.” In this brief encounter, the dividing wall of enmity collapsed.
We live in a world of walls. Competition, contempt, repression, racism, nationalism, violence and domination: all these are seen as normal and sane. Enmity is ordinary. Self and self-interest form the centering point in many lives. We tend to be a fear-driven people. Love and the refusal to center one’s life in enmity are dismissed as naive, idealistic, even unpatriotic, especially if one reaches out constructively to hated minorities or national enemies.
Many wars are in the progress at the moment, with many thousands of Americans involved in combat operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. The cost in money, homes destroyed, damaged sanity, in lives and injuries is phenomenal. Children and their mother dead, parents and grandparents. All sorts of people. Countless hideous wounds, visible and hidden. There are also less tangible costs, spiritually, psychologically, for we have become a people who make war and preparations for war a major part of our lives. We hear of many people who expect to die in a violent death and who live in a constant state of “low grade” depression. Fear and despair are widespread. Various stress-relieving pills, which already sold well before September 11, are selling better than ever in today’s world.
The sixth aspect is nonviolent resistance to evil. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus teaches, “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, do not resist the one who is evil.” (Mt. 5:38-39) When Peter used violence to defend Jesus, he was instantly admonished, “Put away your sword, for whoever lives by the sword will perish by the sword.” (Mt 26:52)
For several hundred years following the resurrection, the followers of Jesus were renowned for their refusal to perform military service. But since the state became a patron of Christianity, Christians have been as likely as any other people to take up the sword and use it in appalling ways.
The refusal to kill others can be a powerful witness, yet Christian life is far more than the avoidance of evil. It is searching for ways to combat evil without using methods that inevitably result in the death of the innocent.
Responding to evil with its own weapons, even with the best of motives, often results in actions which mimic those of the enemy, or even outdo the enemy’s use of abhorrent methods. When Nazi forces bombed cities, there was profound revulsion in Britain and the United States, but in the end the greatest acts of city destruction were done by Britain and the United States.
Yet what is one to do? Christians cannot be passive about those events and structures that cause innocent suffering and death.
For centuries men and women have been searching for effective ways of both protecting life and combating evil. It is only in the past hundred years, because of movements associated with such people as Gandhi, Martin Luther King and Dorothy Day, that nonviolent struggle has become a recognized alternative to passivity, on the one hand, and violence on the other.
Yet such acts of nonviolent protest are far from unknown in the Orthodox Church. One powerful example occurred in Constantinople in the year 842 when, opposing the iconoclast Emperor Leo V, a thousand monks took part in an icon-bearing procession in the capital city. They were exhibiting in public images of Christ and the saints which, had they obeyed the emperor, should have long before been destroyed. Their act of civil disobedience risked severe punishment. Iconographers had been tortured, mutilated and sent into exile. Thousands of icons had been destroyed. The death of the emperor later that year was widely seen as heaven’s judgment. In 843 his widow Theodora convened a Church Council which reaffirmed the place of the icon in Christian life. In the Orthodox Church, the first Sunday of Great Lent was set aside henceforth to celebrate the Triumph of Orthodoxy.
There is one last element of peacemaking: It is aspiring to a life of recognizing Jesus. At his teaching about the Last Judgment, Christ tells us, “Truly, I say to you, what you did it to one of the least of these, you did to me.” (Mt. 25:31-46) It’s a scene represented in icons and relief carvings in many ancient churches.
Looking at such images, occasionally the question is raised: “Why are we judged together and not one by one when we die?” It is because each person’s life is far from over when he dies. Our acts of love and failures to love continue to have consequences until the end of history. What Adam and Eve did, what Moses did, what Herod did, what Pilate did, what the Apostles did, what Caesar did, what Hitler did, what Martin Luther King did, what Dorothy Day did, what you and I have done — all these lives, with their life-saving or murderous content, continue to have consequences every single day for the rest of history. What you and I do, and what we fail to do, will matter forever.
It weighs heavily on many people that Jesus preached not only heaven but hell. There are quite a lot of references to hell in the gospels, many in the Sermon on the Mount. How can a loving God allow a place devoid of love?
The only response to that question which makes sense to me was a sermon I heard in Prague in 1964. The preacher was a particularly courageous man who has seen a great deal of prison from the inside. He reminded us that God allows us to go wherever we are going. We are not forced to love. Communion is not forced on us. We are not forced to recognize God’s presence. It is all an invitation. We can choose. We can choose life or death. Perhaps, in God’s mercy, we can even make the choice of heaven while in hell. In his book, The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis imagines a tour bus leaving daily from hell to heaven. But the bus is never full and tends to return with as many passengers as it took on the trip out of hell. The brightness of heaven is too painful, the light too intense, the edges too sharp, for those who have acclimated themselves to the smog of hell. In fact the older we are, the more we live by old choices, and defend those choices, and makes ideologies, philosophies, even theologies out of our choices. We canonize our choices by repetition. We can say, not just once but forever, as Peter once said of Jesus, “I do not know the man.” There are so many people about whom we can say, to our eternal peril, “I do not know the man,” to which we can add he is worthless, has no one to blame for his troubles but himself, that his problems aren’t our business, that he is an enemy, that he deserves to die whether of hunger, frostbite or violence matters little.
As St. John Chrysostom said, “If you cannot find Christ in the beggar at the church door, you will not find Him in the chalice.” If I cannot find the face of Jesus in the face of those who are my enemies, if I cannot find him in the unbeautiful, if I cannot find him in those who have the wrong ideas, if I cannot find him in the poor and the defeated, how will I find him in bread and wine, or in the life after death? If I do not reach out in this world to those with whom he has identified himself, why do I imagine that I will want to be with him, and them, in heaven? Why would I want to be for all eternity in the company of those whom I hated and avoided every day of my life?
Christ’s Kingdom would be hell for those who avoided peace and devoted their lives to division. But heaven is right in front of us. At the heart of what Jesus says in every act and parable is this: Now, this minute, we can enter the Kingdom of God. This very day we can sing the Paschal hymn: “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and to those in the tomb he has given life!”
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Jim Forest is international secretary of the Orthodox Peace Fellowship (incommunion.org) and author of numerous books, including Loving Our Enemies: Reflections on the Hardest Commandment, Ladder of the Beatitudes, Praying With Icons, Confession: Doorway to Forgiveness, The Road to Emmaus: Pilgrimage as a Way of Life, and The Root of War is Fear: Thomas Merton’s Advice to Peacemakers. Web site: www.jimandnancyforest.com. The text is based on a lecture given at St. Vladimir’s Seminary, Crestwood, New York.
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Honorius, who inherited the empire of Europe, put a stop to the gladiatorial combats which had long been held at Rome. The occasion of his doing so arose from the following circumstance. A certain man of the name of Telemachus had embraced the ascetic life. He had set out from the East and for this reason had repaired to Rome. There, when the abominable spectacle was being exhibited, he went himself into the stadium, and stepping down into the arena, endeavored to stop the men who were wielding their weapons against one another. The spectators of the slaughter were indignant, and inspired by the mad fury of the demon who delights in those bloody deeds, stoned the peacemaker to death. When the admirable emperor [Honorius] was informed of this, he recognized Telemachus as a victorious martyr, and put an end to that impious spectacle.
— Theodoret of Cyrus (393-457)
The Ecclesiastical History, book 5, chapter 26
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Fall 2009 issue of In Communion / IC 54