What kind of person does that?
This is a simple question – one that goes to the heart of Orthodox moral thought. For some, “morality” is a question of what is right and what is wrong. The Orthodox insight is much deeper: knowing right from wrong is of little use unless you’re the kind of person who wants and is able to do right. Morality turns out to be a matter of character rather than a legal construct (surprise!). This points to the deeper problem of catechesis: knowing what to do is not the same as becoming the kind of person who can do it.
If you read through the Catechetical Lectures of St. Cyril of Jerusalem (mid-4th century), you discover that they have a strongly moral character. The “theology” is quite simple and straight-forward. The extended period of catechesis (often three years in length) was about turning Roman pagans into believing Christians. The habits of the heart (another word for “character”) take time to change or be formed. They are, indeed, the product of a lifetime.
Now in my seventies, I can take a look back at the formation of my character over the course of the decades. It is not always a pleasant excursion, nor is it a process that has reached anything like completion. Much that seems clear to me now, only began to come into focus in my sixties.
Those who follow my writings know that I often speak about “wounds” of the soul. My experience of such things is rooted in experience. Our childhood-through-teen years are seminal in the formation of character. Quite often they are riddled with painful episodes. My book on shame (Face to Face: Knowing God Beyond Our Shame), is something of an exploration of those wounds and the mechanisms beneath them. The concept of “toxic shame” is precisely an experience of shame that is strong enough to create personality disorders – expressions of the self that are created by the wound (sort of a self-protection).
Shame is a universal experience, though toxic shame is less so (thank God). But it is part of an array of wounds that tend to drive what are classically called “besetting sins,” the habits of the personality that create “moral” problems (on whatever level). Such wounds serve to establish a “character” that we would love to ditch (or reform).
When we speak of “theosis” I well-imagine that this is the sort of thing most people have in mind. We want to be “a better version of myself.” My own experience (particularly as a confessor) has been that, by and large, our struggles are persistent through the years. Quite often, their origins are unidentified, and, apart from regularly confessing the same sins repeatedly, remain unhealed.
Character runs deep.
I also suspect that we do not know what we’re supposed to “look like” when “theosis” is complete. For one, I do not think it is some version of ourselves without the wounds (which, experience tells me, is one of our fondest fantasies).
There is a character (the Greek word means the impression in soft wax left by a seal) that is being impressed upon us that does not destroy the experience of a lifetime, but transforms it. Even sin itself (which wounds us so deeply) is transformed. I came across an echo of these thoughts recently in reading the medieval Western mystic, Julian of Norwich:
By this medicine [confession and penance] every sinful soul needs to be healed, especially of sins that are in themselves mortal. Although a man has the scars of healed wounds, when he appears before God they do not deface but ennoble him….
The reward we are going to receive there will not be a small one, but great, splendid and glorious. And so all shame will be turned into glory and into greater joy.
The story of a saint is not complete when the story forgets their sins and their failings. St. Peter is not at all the same without his bragging and impetuosity, his denial of Christ, his shameful argument with Paul, and his final acceptance of his martyrdom. Two thousand years later, we still remember and recite such stories even as we hymn his glorification.
Nothing is wasted in the glory of God.
We modern people have been nurtured in the heart of a great project and the character of “project managers” has been deeply stamped on us. We expect our own salvation to be something of a project and that we should be its managers. How frustrating it is to be told that “it does not yet appear what we shall be.” How can we manage the project of our salvation if we do not know what it is we are working towards? How can we tell if we are any closer? Our modern character is formed to expect upward movement – improvement. But St. Sophrony taught that “the way up is the way down.”
There are two thoughts that come to mind in this non-modern path of salvation. The first is that our instincts resist the “way down.” St. Sophrony is referencing the path of humility, described as “bearing a little shame.” Our instincts resist shame. I suspect that looking ahead to a path of going from a little shame to a little shame would be unbearable (it is for me). In His mercy (this is the second thought), Christ tells us to “take no thought for tomorrow,” adding that “each day has enough trouble” (Matt. 6:34).
In my writings, I have suggested that we “do the next good thing.” This is a positive way of staying focused on the small and the immediate. By the same token, we should resist the temptation to make Christ into a distant goal or endpoint. Christ is the next point, the Good in the next good thing.
All is well.
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