A Peculiar Feature of Providence

Theological Letters

I write while in Vatopedi Monastery atop Mount Athos.¹ I have recently been meditating on a peculiar feature of divine providence, one I first noticed in the book of Acts many years ago and was reminded of by my recent rereading of the book of Exodus. While on Athos, those reflections have been amplified. The monks held vigil in commemoration of the miracle of the Panagia Paramythia icon, a miracle that once agaian highlighted for me the same peculiarity. So, it seems only appropriate that I take this opportunity to write this reflection.

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In the book of Acts, we find an odd story. Saint Paul is nearing the end of his missionary journey, which drives him steadily toward Jerusalem. During a stay in Caesarea, he lodges in the house of Philip the evangelist, where Paul is visited by a prophet, Agabus. Saint Luke recounts the events as follows:

While we were staying for some days, a prophet named Agabus came down from Judea. And coming to us he took Paul’s girdle and bound his own feet and hands, and said, “Thus says the Holy Spirit, ‘So shall the Jews at Jerusalem bind the man who owns this girdle and deliver him into the hands of the Gentiles.’” When we heard this, we and the people there begged him not to go up to Jerusalem. Then Paul answered, “What are you doing, weeping and breaking my heart? For I am ready not only to be imprisoned but even to die at Jerusalem for the name of the Lord Jesus.” And when he would not be persuaded, we ceased and said, “The will of the Lord be done.” (Acts 21:10-14)

The oddity of the story comes to light with a simple question: In which of the characters is the Holy Spirit active?

The account unflinchingly identifies Agabus as a prophet, commending his words as from God. As for “we and the people,” Luke draws no distinction between those who plead with Paul and Agabus, implying that Agabus recounts the words of God in order to dissuade Paul from going to Jerusalem. And in these pleas, I dare say, we also see the Spirit of God. For the people plead with Paul out of love for him, a love born from their common faith, a love that, in Paul’s words, is God’s own love poured into their hearts by the Holy Spirit (Rom 5:5). In these, too, the Spirit of God is active. Yet, Paul’s zeal that drives him to embrace not only imprisonment but death is plainly a work of the Holy Spirit as well. His love for Christ and his willingness to suffer and die for the gospel is born of the Spirit of God.

And therein lies the oddity: Both those who plead with Paul not to go to Jerusalem and Paul who insists on going are moved by the same Spirit.

A similar oddity emerges in other biblical stories, though not as obviously as in this one. One such example is the story of the golden calf. While Moses is atop Mount Sinai, the people grow impatient, wondering if they have been abandoned by the prophet and their God. So they take gold and make for themselves new gods. Moses hears of their idolatry from the LORD God himself:

And the LORD said to Moses, “Go, go down at once; for your people, which you brought out of the land of Egypt, have corrupted themselves: They have turned aside quickly out of the way which I commanded them: they have made them a molten calf, and have worshipped it, and have sacrificed unto it, and said, ‘This is your god, O Israel, which has brought you up out of the land of Egypt.’” And the LORD said to Moses, “I have seen this people, and, behold, it is a stiffnecked people: Now therefore let me alone, that my wrath may burn hot against them, and that I may consume them: and I will make of you a great nation.”

And Moses pleaded with the LORD his God, and said, “LORD, why does your wrath burn hot against your people, which you have brought forth out of the land of Egypt with great power, and with a mighty hand? Why should the Egyptians talk and say, ‘With evil motives he brought them out, to slay them in the mountains, and to consume them from the face of the earth?’ Turn from your fierce wrath, and repent of this evil against your people. Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, your servants, to whom you swore by your own self, and said to them, ‘I will multiply your seed as the stars of heaven, and all this land that I have spoken of will I give to your seed, and they shall inherit it forever.’” And the LORD repented of the evil which he thought to do to his people. (Ex 32:7-14)

Two features of this passage tend to stand out. The first is that God repented (or changed his mind), a claim that shocks many because it seems out of step with common assumptions about God.² The other, which is more important for our purposes, is the wrath of God. His willingness to wipe out an entire people — his own people — because of their sin of idolatry causes many to shift in their seats, as this unsavory portrait seems out of step with the long-suffering, merciful God of the New Testament. Such dissonance is what gave rise to the early Christian heresy of Marcionism (named for the 2nd-century heretic Marcion of Sinope), which claims that the God of the Old Testament is not the God and Father of Jesus in the New. The former is an inferior, evil deity, while the latter is a superior God of love, preached by Christ. The view has always been rejected by the Church as heretical,³ despite its prominence in certain regions, such as Syria.⁴ The God of the Old and the God of the New are one and the same. But how do we reconcile the apparent dissonance?

The answer emerges from a question similar to the one we asked of Acts: Did Moses sin by intervening on behalf of Israel? Or, more pointedly, Was his impulse to intervene an expression of sin or sanctity?

Neither God nor the Exodus account offers the slightest critique of Moses for his intervention in this story. And far from inciting divine rebuke, Moses dissuades the LORD with his pleas. The reason is clear in a second interaction shortly after (in Exodus 33), which has a very similar result. God warns that he will not go with Israel into the land lest he destroy the people along the way. Moses once again pleads with God, asking that he not send them if he will not go with them, reasoning that the presence of God amongst Israel is the very thing that differentiates this people from the other peoples of the earth. Once again, God changes his mind in response to Moses’ intercession, and God tells him why: “And the LORD said to Moses, ‘This very thing that you have spoken I will do; for you have found favor in my sight, and I know you by name.’” (Ex 33:17)

Such favor, according to the Eastern fathers, can be due to only one thing: Moses’ unique virtue. The Eastern Church fathers often appeal to St. Paul’s words, there is no partiality with God (Rom 2:11; also Acts 10:34), insisting that God never arbitrarily favors or disfavors any. Rather, he favors those who are worthy of favor and disfavors the unworthy.

We can see the point in Cyril of Alexandria’s comments on the Apostle John, the “disciple whom Jesus loved” (Jn 13:23). Cyril writes,

I think no wise man will doubt that the Lord would not have loved John if he had not been specially remarkable for virtue, and apt and perfectly equipped for every good work. For God can never be found to be inclined by any irrational leanings to those unworthy of His love, for such affections are more worthy of men. And He that was wholly proof against every assault and inroad of passion, and trod firmly in the path of every virtue, nay rather, was Virtue itself in all its forms, most assuredly would act in this, too, with judgment, and have His inclination free from all reproach — I mean, the inclination which led Him to deem him to whom this boon was due worthy of His love.⁵

In keeping with this perspective, we can be certain that Moses, like John, found favor with God because of his remarkable virtue. And the effectiveness of his intercessions offers an answer to our question: Moses’ impulse to intercede was an expression of his sanctity, not sin. The prayer of a righteous man avails much (James 5:16).

The relevance to the topic at hand is found in Cyril’s words about Christ, “He that … was Virtue itself.” The Eastern fathers see righteousness, virtue, holiness (or sanctity), and the like as having their origin in God. God is not only Good, as Plato taught,⁶ but is also Virtue and Holiness.⁷ These are processions or energies of God, substantial articulations of the divine nature that issue from it and come down to creation, revealing to us the nature of God.⁸ And though these energies are uniquely divine, creatures can become virtuous or holy by participation in God, by partaking of the divine nature (2 Pet 1:3-4).

Basil of Caesarea makes this point in reference to the holy angels. He writes,

But there is no sanctification without the Spirit. The powers of the heavens are not holy by nature; were it so there would in this respect be no difference between them and the Holy Spirit. It is in proportion to their relative excellence that they have their need of holiness from the Spirit. The branding-iron is conceived together with the fire; and yet the material and the fire are distinct. This too in the case of the heavenly powers; their substance is, peradventure, an aerial spirit, or immaterial fire…. But their sanctification, being external to their substance, superinduces their perfection through the communion of the Spirit.⁹

Basil’s reference to the branding-iron is an analogy common amongst the Eastern fathers for explaining how a creature can partake of the divine nature. Just as the heating and lighting energies of fire are communicable to iron, causing it to glow and burn, so the divine attributes are communicable to creatures, making it possible for a creature to put off sin for (divine) holiness, corruption for (divine) incorruption, mortality for (divine) immortality, and so on.

This is the essence-energies distinction that is so central to Eastern patristic thought.¹⁰ The divine nature or essence transcends creation, but the divine energies that issue from it come down to us, making it possible for the creation to partake of God’s own Immortality, Virtue, Holiness, and more. Such participation is central to the Christian gospel, as understood by the Eastern fathers, which offers to our corrupt and dying species a share of divine incorruption and immortality.¹¹

I offer this lengthy aside because it is critical to unraveling the tension of Exodus. Bringing the point to bear on Moses, to say he is virtuous or righteous or holy is to say, by Eastern patristic lights, that he is energized by the Holy Spirit. As Basil states, there is no sanctity without the the Spirit. Hence, if Moses is favored by God because of his unique virtue, this virtue is a product of participation in God, of partaking of the divine nature. His holiness, his virtue, and his righteousness are a share of divine Holiness, Virtue, and Righteousness. In a word, Moses is energized by God.

Taking this into account, we find in the Exodus story the very same peculiarity that we find in Acts. God expresses himself in the proclamation of wrath, an expression of his holiness in the face of idolatry. And yet, God no less expresses himself in Moses’ intervention on behalf of Israel. Moses’ concern for Israel, his impulse to intervene, his virtue and righteousness that turns aside wrath are all born of the Spirit of God. These are no less acts of God than the proclomation of wrath, for they are the fruit of divine energy at work within Moses. Both expressions — the proclamation of wrath and the intercession for the people — are expressions of the divine nature. For God is active in both.

The danger here is to read the point in too soft a manner, as if I am merely suggesting that Moses’ character has been shaped by God and thus his actions reflect something of divine handiwork. No. The point I am making is much stronger.

Synergy, in Eastern patristic literature, does not simply mean that God commands and the subject obeys, the subject being fully distinct and insolated from God, operating as an autonomous actor. Quite the contrary, synergy means that God and the creature are both operative in a single act, two energies operative in one agent and one action — synergos.

In a prior letter on providence, I explain this very point, suggesting that the normative mode of divine providence is not monergy — God acting unilaterally without any instrument between him and the world — but synergy — God acting in and through creatures who carry within themselves and mediate to the world God’s own energy. To avoid redundancy, I will quote that letter at length:

… [T]he normative mode of divine providence is that God acts in and through his creatures. Very rarely in Scripture does God (the Father) act in an unmediated fashion. Only two instances come to mind, his declaration at Theophany that Jesus is his Son and the same at the Transfiguration. Most of God’s acts are mediated, be it through the Son and the Spirit or, more often, through an angel, a Saint, an otherwise natural element, or a holy place or artifact. …

Admittedly, the suggestion that God rarely acts in unmediated fashion could conjure the wrong image …. The risk is imagining an aloof lord who has no time for his subjects. Rather than tending to their needs directly, he sends servants to them. Such a picture may feel more like neglect than providence. … Hence, it’s important that I clarify my meaning ….

As you well know, we Orthodox have a doctrine of divine energies. That is to say, there is a distinction between the nature of God — what he is in himself — and the energies that express that nature, much like the way there is a distinction between the nature of fire as such and the operations of heating and lighting that express that nature or between the nature of mind as such and the articulation of that nature in speaking or reasoning. Just as we come to know fire through its heat and light or learn the mind of a person through his rational articulations, so we come to know God by his energies ….

Importantly, these same energies are communicable to creatures, capable of taking up residence in angels, men, objects, and places. Such is central to the concept of Saints (divinely energized people), relics (divinely energized objects), and holy places (divinely energized locations). I’m sure you know … the favored analogy of the Eastern fathers to illustrate such deification, namely, the analogy of fire and metal. The heating and lighting energies of fire, which articulate its nature, can be communicated to metal such that, though the metal remains metal, it displays the energies of fire, emitting heat and light. So, in the same way, God communicates his energies to creatures, producing deified people, places, and things — creatures who display in their person divine attributes.

Such a vision of the relationship between God and world is exceedingly relevant to how one envisions providence. Our world is comprised of a hierarchy of beings, stretching from the least godlike to the most godlike, from rocks to man and on into the hierarchy of angels.

Within this hierarchy, the higher, more godlike beings are made to minister to the lower, drinking deeply of God in order to carry their greater portion to more humble beings, lower in the chain. Pseudo-Dionysius, for example, points out that angels … are named for divine attributes precisely because they are made to serve as conduits, carrying that particular energy into the world. Likewise, man is often referred to as a microcosm because, as Genesis so aptly illustrates, our peculiar nature joins the mortal things of creation — organic, earthly things — with the higher, celestial things of creation — the spiritual and intelligent realm. And this merger has a purpose, namely, to minister energies accessible to only icons of God to the irrational things of nature that lack this image.

Once glimpsed, the beauty of such a vision is breathtaking. The Holy Trinity radiating divine life and light, which flows into spiritual creatures in order that such energies may create Saints and cascade through them to the lower things of creation, raising up lesser parts of nature from their lowly estate to partake of their Maker in a degree that exceeds their innate limitations. …

This cosmic vision informs the concept of spiritual mediation within the Eastern fathers. While we often think of a mediator as one who separates, standing in between two parties — Talk to my attorney, not to me — the fathers speak of spiritual mediators as those who bring near, bridging the gap between two things. … To draw on the fire-metal analogy, a branding iron mediates fire to the beast that it brands, bringing the fire near, carrying its energies within it, and I am sure the fire feels anything but distant to the beast.

When saying that the normative mode of providence is that God acts in and through his creatures, I do not mean that he “sends” someone to us while remaining aloof. Quite the contrary, I mean that God is present in his creatures, just as the fire is present in the metal. The branded beast truly experiences the energies of fire in the metal that carries them near. …

I find this aspect of divine providence to be largely underappreciated. By design, divine providence is not meant to be extrinsic to creatures, God acting outside of us and in between the bodies that populate our world. Rather, by design, providence is intrinsic, God entering the creature and energizing him, operating cooperatively (in the strongest sense) within the world to accomplish his purposes. And this design means that God embraces the fact that the creature will color his operations. Just as a musician may compose melodies in the abstract, but their concrete instantiation is colored by the particular instrument that plays and the musician who plays it, so God operates within creatures, each of whom is different and colors his synergistic deeds. And in the case of free creatures, the instrument freely contributes to the act, making choices about how to carry out the will of God.

On this point, notice that Paul says we will judge the angels (1 Cor 6:3). He does not say we will judge the demons; rather, this statement is about the holy angels, the sinless servants of God. What is there to judge if they are faithful servants, void of sin? The answer is that they, too, freely contribute to the will of God. Even when not sinning, the angels are not automatons; they are free agents, freely choosing how to carry out the will of God, coloring and shaping the way God’s energies (which are truly God) manifest within the world.

The same is true of the Saints. No two Saints look alike. Even when attaining Sainthood, escaping corruption for incorruption and shedding all sin, the result is unique for each. Each is idiosyncratic. Some become teachers, others healers, others servants to the poor. Each one, by design, is a unique instrument, coloring how God articulates himself within the world. By choosing to operate in and through creatures (synergy) rather than bypassing them (monergy), God chooses to embrace the fact that the idiosyncratic instrument will color his operations in ways that they would not be colored had he acted unilaterally, void of an instrument.

Such dynamism is clear in Acts. We see in the story numerous creatures who are energized by God. And how that energy manifests and moves within them appears, on first blush, to be contradictory. The one prophesies and pleads for Paul not to go, the love of God for Paul bursts forth in a desire to see him safe, unharmed by wicked men. The other, Paul, resists, insisting on journey forth out of love for Christ and willingness to be imprisoned and even martyred for the gospel. And these two disparate energies finally converge when the former resigns to accept the will of God and send Paul on his way.

In this dynamic, we see the synergistic manifestation of what John of Damascus calls the antecedent and consequent will of God.¹² The concept predates Damascene, being found in Chrysostom’s homilies on Ephesians, for example,¹³ but the formal title is found in John’s writings on providence. John of Damascus points out that God, being Good, wills every good and repels every evil. We need not wonder about the divine disposition on such matters. If something is good, such as a person’s salvation, then God wills it. And if something is evil, such as murder or rape or theft, then God repels it. Such is the antecedent will of God. But our world is complex, and often, certain goods that God wills attach to evils he repels, and certain evils he repels attach to certain goods that he wills. Hence, God must often choose whether to forego a good because of an evil that accompanies it or permit an evil because of a good that accompanies it. Such is how the Eastern fathers understand God’s permissive will.

The story of Acts displays this dynamic in the dynamism of the characters, all of whom are moved by God. In those who foresee Paul’s fate and repel it, wishing to see Paul safe and unharmed by evil men, we see the antecedent will of God manifest. Yet, in Paul, we see the consequent will of God. Knowing these evils, Paul nonetheless is impelled forward by his love for mankind and his zeal to preach the gospel, pouring out himself for the salvation of his fellow man, despite whatever evils may come.

The mistake is to think of the will of God in a singular and static, like a blueprint, which is there for creatures to robotically carry out. Quite the contrary, the will of God is dynamic, and its dynamism is manifest in both those who plead and the one impelled, and this tension of will finally resolves in both (energized) parties accepting Paul’s departure to Jerusalem, embracing the good of his mission despite the evils that will befall the Apostle.

The point is no less true in the Exodus tale. The LORD God’s resolve to wipe out Israel in response to their idolatry is an expression of the divine nature, of God’s Holiness. As an aside, the Eastern fathers are resistant to the anthropomorphic reading of divine wrath, as if God is driven by passions of anger.¹⁴ They see divine wrath as more akin to physics. Just as sun scorches earth that is unfit to bear crops, so the divine presence scorches the wicked. Simply put, God’s Holiness is dangerous to the unholy.¹⁵ And we see this in the story shortly after the godlen calf (Ex 33). When God tells Moses that he will not go with Israel lest he destroy them on the way, God proves with these words his desire to not destroy Israel. But God knows that such destruction may be inevitable if he is present amidst a stubborn and stiff-necked people. It is for their sake that God refuses to go with them.

This same dynamism — of wrath and mercy — we see in Moses’ intervention. God’s declaration to Moses that his wrath burns hot against Israel is the very thing that prompts Moses, a good and holy man, to intercedes on their behalf. Such intercession is no less an expression of the divine nature than wrath. Moses, moved by divine energy, intercedes out of love for Israel and zeal for God’s name amongst the nations. And God honors the prayer of this righteous man, which is also in keeping with the divine nature.

In other words, if we limit our gaze to divine wrath, then we miss the full spectrum of God’s activities within the story. We miss that God is not only active in the declaration of wrath that burns hot against idolatry but also in the Saint who wishes to turn aside wrath and secure mercy for a sinful people. Moses does not violate the will of God in this plea but executes it by his intercessions, being moved and energized by God himself. Just as in Acts, we see God in both sides of the equation. The dynamic will of God is manifest in wrath, in love-induced intercession, and in relenting at the pleas of a righteous man, which avails much (James 5:16).

This peculiar feature of divine providence recaptured my imagination while on Athos. As I mentioned, the monks were holding vigil in honor of the miracle of the Panagia Paramythia icon. The story is extraordinary. 

Pirates had landed on the shores of Athos outside the gates of Vatopedi, unbeknownst to the monks. That morning, while the Abbot was lighting the lamps outside the temple, he lit the lamp before the icon of the Theotokos and Christ, and he heard a voice warning him not to open the gates of the monastery but to instead gather the monks to defend it against the pirates. He looked to see the icon of the Theotokos speaking these words. He then saw the Christ child reach up and cover her mouth, telling his mother that the monks are sinful and should pay for those sins by falling to the sword. The Theotokos pulled his hand away from her mouth and again repeated the instruction to defend the monastery. The icon froze in this position, and the Abbot summoned the monks, some to pray and others to defend the monastery. They succeeded in saving Vatopedi. To commemorate the miracle, the monks cut the fresco out of the wall and framed it as a wonder-working icon. They then repainted the wall in its original position. 

Below are photos of the repainted wall (shown to me by Father Evstathios) and the miraculously changed icon, now framed and decorated with silver.

The story naturally raises a question: Why is Christ the voice of wrath while the Theotokos is the voice of mercy? The story seems out of step with the usual portrayal of Christ as one who embraced sinners and poured himself out even unto death on a cross for our salvation.

The answer, I believe, is found in the very same dynamic we see in the Exodus story. Recall that the Church fathers understand the Old Testament theophanies (appearances of God) in the form of one like the Son of Man to be pre-Incarnational appearances of Christ.¹⁶ Thus, the very same Christ who, in the flesh, embraced sinners is also the God who tells Moses to stand aside that his wrath might burn hot against Israel. The latter is no less true of Christ than the former.

So, here, we face the same question we asked of Moses: Did the Theotokos sin by interceding on behalf of the monks?

The answer is the same. The Theotokos’ impulse to turn aside wrath is an impulse born of holiness — extreme holiness (Panagia = Most Holy or All Holy) — and thus of the Spirit of God. The love and compassion in her for the monks is God’s own. Like Moses, her impulse to seek mercy and to preserve the people is born of God. And her intercession, born of the divine energies within her, is no less a deed of God than the proclamation of wrath. Her intercessions are synergistic. Hence, like in Acts, where the impulse to restrain and the impulse to go forth are both of God, or like Sinai where the impulse to burn with wrath and the impulse to turn aside wrath are both of God, so here, the words of Christ express something true of God — divine justice toward sin — and the fervent intercessions of the Theotokos, even pulling away the hand of Christ that would silence her, is no less an articulation and act of God — divine love and compassion for the sinners, not wishing any to perish.

In short, only when we see God in the words of wrath and in the words of intercession do we see God clearly. For he is present and active in both.

1. In the interest of full disclosure, I began this post atop Mount Athos. It remained incomplete upon my departure, so I now finish it back home.

2. Many contemporary scholars find classical Western assumptions about God to be incompatible with things like divine repentance, reported in Scripture. In brief, they believe that divine foreknowledge and the notion that God meticulously plans all of history on the basis of such foreknowledge makes things like divine repentance impossible. Hence, these scholars part ways with the classical divine attributes, believing this to be necessary in order to account for such statements in Scripture. The result has been Process Philosophy and Open Theism. For my part, I am sympathetic to the critiques of these movements, but I believe their solutions run contrary to holy tradition, wading into heretical waters, and are unnecessary if one accepts the essence-energies distinction of the Eastern Church fathers. The standard work on Process Philosophy is Alfred North Whitehead, Process and Reality: Corrected Edition, eds. David Ray Griffin and Donald W. Sherburne (New York: The Free Press, 1979). Second in prominence to Whitehead is Charles Hartshorne. For an introduction to process thought, see John Cobb, Jr. and David Ray Griffin, Process Theology: An Introductory Exposition (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1976). On Open Theism, see The Openness of God, eds. Clark Pinnock, et al. (IVP, 1998); and Gregory A. Boyd, The God of the Possible (Baker, 2000). For a piece that looks at the contemporary debate in the light of the essence-energies distinction, see David Bradshaw, “Divine Freedom: The Greek Fathers and the Modern Debate,” in Philosophical theology and the Christian Tradition: Russian and Western Perspectives, ed. David Bradshaw (CRVP, 2012).

3. Irenaeus, Contra haereses, I.27; Justin Martyr, Apologia prima, 58 (Justin also wrote a treatise against Marcion, mentioned by Irenaeus in Adversus haereses, 4.6.2, but this work has been lost); Tertullian, Adversus Marcionem, passim; Eusebius of Caesarea, Historia Ecclesiastica, 5.13; Epiphaneus, adversus haereses, 374.

4. Han Drijvers, “Syrian Christianity and Judaism,” in The Jews Among Pagans and Christians: In the Roman Empire, eds. Judith Lieu, John North, and Tessa Rajak (Routledge, 1992), 130.

5. Cyril of Alexandria, Commentarium in Evangelium Joannis, XII, xxi.24 (PG 74.753d-56a).

6. E.g., Plato, Symposium, 210.

7. See, e.g., Gregory of Nyssa, De vita Moysis (PG 44.300b-301c).

8. See, e.g., Basil of Caesarea, Epistola, 234.2 (PG 32.869b-870c).

9. Basil of Caesarea, De Spiritu Sancto, 16.38 (PG 32.135a-40b).

10. The definitive work on the essence-energies distinction is David Bradshaw, Aristotle East and West (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). For an example of my own understanding of the distinction, see Nathan A. Jacobs, “The Metaphysical Idealism of Eastern Church Fathers,” in The Routledge Handbook of Idealism and Immaterialism, eds. Joshua Farris and Benedikt Paul Göcke (Routledge, 2022), sect. IV, which you can read here.

11. On the Eastern patristic understanding of the gospel, see my “Athanasius of Alexandria,” in Dictionary of Christian Apologists and Their Critics, eds. R. Douglas Geivett & Robert B. Stewart (Wiley-Blackewll, forthcoming), which you can read here, or my “Cappadocians (Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nazianzus, Gregory of Nyssa),” in The Encyclopedia of Philosophy of Religion, 4 vols., eds. Stewart Goetz and Charles Taliaferro (Wiley-Blackwell, 2021), which you can read here.

12. John of Damascus, De fide orthodoxa, 4.21 (PG 94:1197a-1201a).

13. John Chrysostom, Homiliae XXIV in Epistolam ad Ephesios (PG 62:1016).

14. See, e.g., Gregory of Nyssa, De Oratione Dominica, Oratio I (PG 44.1120a-36d).

15. We see this reflected in the Eastern patristic notion that the pains of Hell itself is not a product of the divine disposition toward the wicked but of the condition of the wicked. On this point, see my letters Hell, Hades, and Christ’s Descent (Part 1) and On Free Will.

16. See, e.g., Irenaeus, Contra haereses, 3.6; Justin Martyr, Dialogus cum Tryphone Judaeo, 58-61, 126-28; Clement of Alexandria, Paedagogus, 1.7; Origen, Contra Celsum, 5.53, 8.27; Methodius of Olympus, Symposium, 3.4 (PG 18.68a); Athanasius of Alexandria, Orationes tres adversus Arianos, 3.25.12-14; Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium, 11.3.