My apologies to my subscribers for the long silence since my last post. I have been heavily involved in new endeavors, which I may post about sometime in the not-so-distant future. But for now, here is another theological letter.
A friend, “Dudley,” asked about prayer to Saints. The inquiry was prompted by an adversarial post online in which the author attacked the practice in both Roman Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy. So the case went, the practice is not advocated by the Church fathers, and it faces commonsense problems. As my reply points out, the objector conflates several issues, which I separate for the purpose of an orderly examination. After a prelude on the practice in the Church fathers, I examine four issues: (1) whether the Saints pray; (2) whether we should covet those prayers; (3) how the Saints could possibly know of prayer requests from the living; and (4) the logistical problem of managing too many prayers from too many people. Please subscribe and support my work!
Dear “Dudley,”
Unfortunately, I’m replying to your letter in haste. Please do not take this to be an indictment of the question. I’m confident it merits careful attention and a thorough answer, but unfortunately, I do not presently have time to offer either. So I will offer what I can in the time available. Consider this the “Cliff Notes” on what I would prefer to write, time permitting.
To the first point that the Church fathers do not advocate prayer to the Saints, this simply is not true. My guess is that the objector has restricted his search to the “theological treatises” of the early Church fathers and come up empty. Hence, he is taking the silence to indicate a lack of advocacy. A glance at the liturgical texts of the Church, however, proves the opposite.
Allow me a brief aside on this point. Critics of Eastern Orthodox theology and practice, especially those of protestant persuasion, have a tendency to favor “theological text” to the exclusion of liturgical texts.1 Hence, an investigation into a topic, such as prayer to Saints, tends to limit itself to figures such as St. Ignatius of Antioch, Clement of Alexandria, Origen, and so on. However, this focus already places the inquirer at odds with the Church fathers.
Basil of Caesarea, in his defense of the divinity of the Holy Spirit, makes appeals to the liturgical practices of the Church as authoritative sources for Christian doctrine. In this context, Basil introduces a distinction between dogma and charygma (often translated "teaching" and "preaching"), but his explanation of these terms is quite different from the ways these terms are used today. The distinction, as Basil uses it, is between that which is proclaimed publicly (charygma) and that which is done in secret, kept out of the public square (dogma or didaskalia). The latter refers to the lived faith of the Church, something that only the initiated (i.e., those baptised and chrismated) were allowed to behold. Unlike today, where all things are discussed on the internet, in Basil’s day, the Church did not publicly proclaim its dogma to the outside world. Notice that in the divine liturgy of John Chrysostom, catechumen are told to depart before the liturgy of the Eucharist. For this mystery was for the illumined only. Catechumen were not permitted to witness it until baptized and illumined themselves. As Basil points out, only when necessary — such as a skirmish with a rapidly spreading heresy — does the dogma of the Church become charygma, something to be proclaimed and discussed publicly. (For more on this, see my letter John of Damascus’ Defense of Icons (Reply 1 of 3).)
I point this out to say that when looking for early Christian practices, one should not necessarily begin with theological treatises, as if the fathers were writing exhaustive systematic theologies. Such treatises — the charygma of the Church — only deal in matters of public skirmish that require public discourse. We should expect, given Basil’s remarks, that there is Church dogma that does not appear in these treatises: i.e., practices and beliefs lived in private amongst the illumined that preceded any public discourse about them. In short, silence in theological treatises does not constitute evidence that a belief or practice was not present. It may indicate only that the belief or practice was not disputed.
With this in mind, do we find any evidence that prayer to the Saints was part of the dogma of the Church in the time of the Church fathers? The answer is Yes.
We can work backward, tracing the practice earlier and earlier. By the seventh ecumenical council (8th century), we find clear evidence of the veneration of Saints and the coveting of their intercessions in the writings of John of Damascus and the iconodules (“servants of images”). The theological mentions of the practice in this context remain incidental, since the controversy was about icons and the veneration thereof, but the topic does occasion statements that show the practice was in effect by the eighth century.2 Hence, there is patristic advocacy of the practice by this point. I will also add, for what it is worth, that John of Damascus is zealous about cataloguing the consensus of the fathers before him, seeking to avoid innovation and add nothing of his own to their thought. He makes this point quite plainly in his writings. Therefore, it is unlikely that John is an innovator on this point, inventing a new practice surrounding the Saints. Most likely the practice was well established before him. But is there any evidence of this? Again, the answer is Yes.
Stepping further back, we can see that the practice is clearly pre-Chalcedonian. As I’m sure you know, Chalcedon prompted a schism in Syria, which continues to this day. Looking to the practices of the non-Chalcedonian churches, we find veneration of Saints and requests for their intercessions. Such a practice cannot be plausibly attributed to a later Byzantine influence, given the schism. Hence, we can safely place the practice before 451 AD. Can we go any earlier?
As I’m sure you know, at least two liturgies preceded the divine liturgy of John Chrysostom in the fourth century. The liturgy of Saint James was shortened by Basil, giving us the liturgy of Basil the Great, and Basil’s liturgy was shortened by Chrysostom, giving us the divine liturgy, still used in Orthodox Churches today.3 The latter two are fourth century liturgies. As for the liturgy of Saint James, this is a first century liturgy, according to tradition. Now, as one might expect, scholars dispute this claim, wishing to date it much later. While I tend to hold tradition in higher esteem than scholars, for our present purposes here, we can take a more modest stance. I think it is safe to date James’ liturgy prior to Basil, which pushes this text into the third century, at least.
Now, all three liturgies request the intercessions of the Theotokos (Mary). Moreover, they ask God to bless the entrance of God’s Saints, which follows after the mention of the entrance into the liturgy of the angels. In other words, the likely referent for the entrance of the Saints is to the unseen cloud of witnesses who worship along with those in the flesh. (We’ll return to this point below.) As for whether there is any invocation of the intercessions of the Saints — beyond Mary — the answer is Yes. Saint James’ liturgy requests the intercessions of the Theotokos, the Forerunner John, the Apostles, and all the Saints.
In addition to the liturgies, we also have Akathists — hymnody to Saints that request their intercessions. Such hymnody as traceable to at least the fourth century, if not earlier. Moreover, the homilies of John Chrysostom discuss the vast cult of Martyrs in Antioch. In short, we can safely say that the practice is not only present in the fourth century — echoing practices of the third, as per the liturgy of James — but was part of the dogma of the Church: i.e., the practices of the faith amongst the initiated.
Now, keep in mind, if one is looking for Church fathers, Basil and Chrystosom certainly count. And if one is willing to accept tradition, Saint James is also certainly a father of the Church — one who testifies to a first century dogma, again, if one accepts tradition. But since skeptics will certainly balk at the tradition concerning James, do we find any evidence of the practice earlier than the third century? I believe we do.
Eusebius of Caesarea offers an interesting testimony concerning images and the cult of Saints.4 Eusebius himself is opposed to the practice, but he laments the pervasive presence of the icons to, not only Christ, but Peter and Paul that have been preserved to the present time. In other words, his complaint concerning icons serves as a record of the use of icons — and subsequently the veneration of Saints associated with them — that preceded his day into ancient times. As for how far back this practice goes, Eusebius acknowledges it is traceable to the first century. For example, he describes at some length the statue of Christ in the city of Paneas (Caesarea Philippi) that was erected by the woman with an issue of blood. We could also look to the catacombs themselves for similar evidence of the types of practices Eusebius laments.
All this is to say, the claim that no Church fathers advocate the practice of veneration of and prayer to the Saints is clearly false. It appears in the liturgies of the early Church and its hymnody, and it is testified to by its iconodule practices (again, see John of Damascus’ Defense of Icons (Reply 1 of 3)). When we consider the early Christian distinction between dogma and charygma, understanding the meaning and authority of the former, we have good reason to believe the practice is not only patristic but exceedingly ancient.
Now, what about the “commonsense problems” with the practice? Before I address these, allow me to first mention briefly the oft-repeated objection to prayer to the Saints, should it arise. To wit, the Old Testament prohibits speaking with the dead. The standard rebuttal here, in case you’re unfamiliar, is that Christ states quite plainly that the Saints are not in fact dead. Quite the contrary, he notes that the present tense is used with regard to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, since God is still their God; he is not the God of the dead but of the living. But since this was not one of the objections leveled, I will leave the point at that. Let’s instead transition to the objection(s) raised.
There’s at least four issues that are being conflated in the post. The first is whether the Saints pray. The second is whether we should seek those prayers. The third is how they would know we are seeking their prayers. The fourth is a logistical objection — intended to offer a reductio ad absurdum — that a trio of affirmative replies to the first three questions would yield a state of affairs such that the Saints are bombarded by too many prayer requests to manage. I prefer to separate these issues for the sake of clarity.
Concerning whether the Saints pray, the answer is Yes, in both Jewish and Christian tradition. In Christian tradition, we can see this in the book of Revelation, which describes the Saints praying before the throne of God, or the martyrs calling out (praying) from under the throne. In Jewish tradition, we find Rabbinnic stories in the Talmud that presume the same. One such story that comes to mind is about a person who is dying. In the story, the faithful on earth are praying that God would have mercy, heal the man, and let him remain on earth. Simultaneously, the Saints past pray that God would release the man from his suffering, allowing him to join their ranks. Hence, the idea that the Saints are not only alive but mindful of our affairs and prayerful on our behalf is not a patristic invention.
But are we to seek the prayers of the Saints? I trust it goes without saying that were a Saint, such as Paul, to appear to you or to me, offering to pray for us, we would very much covet his prayers. But are we to seek such prayers?
I trust that the opening of this letter demonstrates that seeking the intercessions of the Saints is certainly present as early as the third century, and likely much earlier. But is this a patristic invention, even if an early one? I think there is reason to think it is not. As noted above, the Jews also had a concept of the Saints praying, presumably developed independent of the Christians, which likely makes it a pre-Christan belief. And we can see in the New Testament an indication that the Jews — or, at least, some Jews — may have even considered the possibility that the Saints might hear our petitions. Consider, for example, the crucifixion of Christ. As Martin Hengel points out, those standing by the crucified Jesus were evidently Greek speakers because they mishear his cry of dereliction (in Aramaic) as a (Greek) appeal to Saint Elias. Now, I find it noteworthy that their reaction is not, What a strange thing to do, call upon a Saint. Instead, they decide to wait and see if Elias responds. The reaction seems to indicate that there may have been, as early as the first century, not only the notion that Saints pray but that Saints might hear our petitions and intervene.
Now, as for the logistics: How can the Saints know our prayers? Allow me to start with a less fantastical explanation. Both Jewish and Christian texts include accounts of angels serving as messengers of prayers. We see this imagery in Revelation, where the prayers of the Saints are offered up before the throne of God by an angel. Likewise, in the book of Tobit (2nd or 3rd century BC), we meet the archangel Raphael, who identifies himself as one who reads prayers before the throne of God. So, for those who want a less fantastical explanation, there you have one. The Saints hear of the prayer requests of the living through the reports of angels.
Allow one additional consideration. One of the presumptions of this type of objection is the notion that the dead are not “here” (i.e., on earth). The presumption is that Heaven and Hell (and perhaps Purgatory, or the Hells) are off in another world. Hence, the death of the soul means the person has migrated to an entirely different cosmos. They are literally a world away. On this point, the Eastern fathers are far less literal. I will avoid going too deep on this point, but suffice two quick points on the matter. The first is that the Eastern fathers tend to see paradise, torment, and the realm of the dead — represented by locations called Heaven, Hell, and Hades — as allegorical. They represent conditions of the soul.
To use a quick couple of examples, St. Macrina offers a reductio concerning the literal reading of Hades as a region beneath the earth. She points out that the dwelling of spirits is the air — hence, the numerous references to them as “aerial spirits” — and the earth is a sphere. That means the air beneath the earth is the same as the air above the earth. We should not, therefore, take this image literally. (Incidentally, this line of reasoning is par for the course with allegorical interpretation in the East, where apparent contradictions or conflicts in the imagery are viewed as intentional, forcing the reader to think in deeper, less literal terms about the meaning.) A second example would be in Chrysostom’s homily on the cross and the cemetery, where he points out that Christ tells the thief that today he will be with him in paradise. But Christ is clear, after the Resurrection, that he did not ascend to see his father. Thus, Hades — the realm of the dead — was paradise to the thief. Why? Because he was with Christ. Paradise speaks of a condition of the soul, not a location. (For more on this topic, see my letter Hell, Hades, and Christ’s Descent (Part 1).)
I point this out because the ancient world — in several pockets of pre-Christian thought and continuing on in the Christian East — had a tendency to see the realm of spirits and the realm of flesh as overlapping. Thus, the “worlds apart” presumption is a product of more literal readings of the post-mortem locations, developed largely in the Latin West. (On these Latin developments, see my letter Hell, Hades, and Christ’s Descent (Part 2).)
Now, on this point, we might also consider the rather standard reading of the letter to the Hebrews, where the author (according to tradition, Paul) speaks about the “great cloud of witnesses.” This is typically read as referring to Saints past. The image is that we, like athletes in an arena, are surrounded by a cloud of witnesses who have gone before us. Such an image makes a fair bit of sense when one takes the post-mortem locations as allegorical or spiritual, rather than literal. Recall the point made above that the liturgies of the early Church welcome into their midst the unseen angels and the Saints to join in worship. Even if they are “in paradise,” that paradise is the same paradise the thief experienced — the presence of Christ. They can remain in that paradise and be in our midsts. Considering this possibility, then, we have one further, less-fantastical possibility: The Saints observe the happenings of our world and pray.
Admittedly, this explanation does not fully satisfy the epistemological objection. The Saints cannot be everywhere at once, can they? Surely we cannot presume that they happen to be present whenever someone decides to seek their intercessions.5
On this point, let’s consider one further possibility. There’s no shortage of stories of spiritual clairvoyance — displaying secret knowledge, knowledge of far off events, or even foreknowledge of the future. Read the life of St. Antony, the lives of the desert fathers, or the life of St. Mary of Egypt and you’ll find ample examples. (Incidentally, you need not restrict your reading to ancient accounts; there is an unbroken chain of Elders — essentially living Saints — in the Orthodox tradition who display these same fantastical marks of deification. Read, for example, The Young Man, the Guru, and the Elder Paisios.) In addition to these biographical accounts, the Church fathers talk about such knowledge being a product of deification. Basil of Caesarea explains that partaking of the divine nature leads to foreknowledge of the future and knowledge of mysteries; Maximus the Confessor says that we participate in the divine attributes, including the attributes of the divine mind; on the point, he appeals to Gregory of Nazianzus; Cyril of Alexandria also names various divine attributes when speaking about us being transfigured in Christ; we find the same in St. Macarius, and on and on. I find it noteworthy that Saint Paul himself talks about Christians displaying secret knowledge about a person that proves to that person that God is amongst the Christians. Clearly, the foregoing phenomenon must have been something with which Paul himself was familiar.
Putting aside, for a moment, the most fantastical accounts of such divine knowledge, allow me to turn to less fantastical accounts. I’ve heard plenty of evangelicals talk about “feeling led to pray for someone” — a leading they attribute, not to natural knowledge or mental functions, but to the work of the Holy Spirit within them. Why is it so hard to imagine that someone who has advanced as far as Saints like Mary of Egypt would have more vivid and miraculous experiences? Afterall, the experience of such knowledge is a reflection of their participation in the divine energies, energies that include God’s own knowledge.6 (On the point that divine revelation is a participation in God’s own knowledge, see my articles: The Revelation of God, East and West and Kant and the Problem of Revelation.)
This brings us to the logistical problem about “too many prayers.” On this I’ll say two things. First, I’m not certain that every Saint is being bombarded by a million prayers at any given moment. But, second, let’s say they are. How would they possibly handle this? Here, I would point you to my letter on Euchristic models and Christology. There, I talk about the ways in which deification transfigures the body, causing it to transcend the limits of gross matter as we know them. I admit that I don’t know how it is possible for flesh to walk on water or pass through walls or change appearance or disappear into thin air.7 But the resurrected Christ does just that. If we grant these accounts, I’m not sure why fielding “too many prayer requests” is more extraordinary. In both cases, the only answer one can give to the question How? is this. The divine nature does not face the same limitations that are native to gross matter. So, by partaking of this divine nature and being transfigured, the limitations we typically apply to human nature are transcended. That’s the claim. Regarding our prayers, somehow God knows all things at once and fields innumerable prayers. Notice that this is an activity or energy — an active expression of the divine nature. Such divine energies are the very thing that the Saints participate in by which they are transfigured.8 So, is it possible that, just as energies that heal or raise the dead, might manifest within the Saints, so energies of hearing prayers — even many prayers — might also manifest in them? I don’t see why not.
I hope that helps. Sorry I’m short on time. I would’ve liked to give you a bit more, but I hope this suffices for now.
Sincerely,
Dr. Jacobs
—
Nathan A. Jacobs, Ph.D.
Scholar in Residence of Philosophy and Religion in the Religion in the Arts and Contemporary Culture Program (RACC)
Vanderbilt University, Divinity School
http://nathanajacobs.com
https://vanderbilt.academia.edu/NathanAJacobs
I place theological texts in scare quotes because liturgical texts are certainly theological in nature. And given that, in the Christian East, the theologian is not the scholar but the one who prays, liturgical texts may be more worthy of the title “theological” than any treatise.
I find it noteworthy that the the iconoclasts of the eighth century were more concerned about images of Christ than images of the Saints. Hence, even in the midst of this controversy, the iconic representation and veneration of Saints was a lesser point of dispute, which only contributes to the scant, incidental mentions of the practice.
The liturgies of Basil and James continue to be used in the Orthodox Church, but these are reserved for specific times in the liturgical calendar. In the case of Basil, this is used during the five Sundays of Great Lent. In the case of Saint James’ liturgy, this is celebrated on his feast day, October 23.
Here, I am presuming that the iconic representation of Saints and the veneration thereof likely includes invocation of their intercessions.
I do not explore in this letter whether bodily limitations may also change with the transfiguration of the person. On this point, one must be careful. The role of the body and its participation in salvation is a critical feature of Christian theology. However, there is no question that when Christ transfigures his body, it does very strange things that transcend typical fleshly limitations. Insofar as Christ is the picture of the deified destiny of the faithful, this fact should be taken into consideration as well. However, I will not dwell on the point here, even though I think it is a worthy consideration when discussing the activity of the Saints.
In this letter, I presume the reader is familiar with the essence-energies distinction. For those unfamiliar with the distinction, the term energeia (“energy”) arises from Aristotle, specifically when discussing divine activity. He draws a distinction between imperfect activity, which goes through successive stages and can be abandoned (e.g., building a house), and perfect activity that is complete at each moment it occurs (e.g., seeing). The former is kinesis; the latter is energia. Because Aristotle’s God, the Unmoved Mover, does not mutate, Aristotle suggests he operates by energia, not kinesis. The term was adopted in Alexandrian Judaism as a useful way of describing divine activity. However, in this context there emerged a distinction that does not appear in Aristotle. Philo of Alexandria, drawing on the biblical distinction between God's face and his back, distinguishes God's essence from his energies. The former refers to what God is in himself or essentially (his face); the latter to God's activities towards creatures, the energies that articulate what God is and come down to us (his back). One further development in Alexandrian Judaism is the notion that energies are communicable. A favorite analogy amongst the Eastern fathers is the analogy of fire and metal. If we place metal in fire and heat it, the metal begins to glow and burn. If we remove the metal from the fire, those heating and lighting operations remain. Now, is the metal fire? No, it remains metal. However, something of the nature of fire has been communicated to it, namely, the operative powers of heating and lighting — the energies that articulate the nature of fire. This notion of communicable energies was used to explain various spiritual realities. Demoniacs, for example, display superhuman powers because they are energized by demons. The Maccabees were energized for war by the holy angels, according to 2 Maccabees. And prophets are energized by God. The concept of energeia, along with the notion of communicability, is picked up in the New Testament, particularly in Paul. Paul says that it is not he that “works” but God who “energizes” him; he says the same God who energizes him for ministry to the Gentiles energizes Peter for ministry to the Jews; he talks about the synergy between the Thessalonians and God — translated "co-workers"; and in Ephesians, he speaks of the children of wrath being energized by The Devil, to name just a few instances. The Eastern Church fathers naturally pick up on the distinction between essence and energy, as well as the concept that spirits can energize human beings. The concept informed how they thought it possible for a human person to partake of the divine nature and participate in the divine attributes — the attributes of God being energies, according to the Eastern fathers. Just as metal can partake of the nature of fire, its heating and lighting energies taking up residence within the metal, so humanity can partake of the divine nature, its holiness, incorruption, immortality, and other attributes taking up residence within the human person. In the present context, the energies that are most relevant are those related to knowledge of prayers —though note 5 above raises other considerations as well.
G. W. Leibniz offers an interesting and noteworthy point concerning miracles more generally that may offer some help. Leibniz points out that physical laws, unlike geometric laws, for example, are descriptive and do not contain logical necessities. Contrast, for example, the four-sidedness of a square with the downward trajectory of unsuspended objects. To negate “four sided” with reference to square is to fall into a formal contradiction and thus introduce a logical impossibility. Such contradiction — and thus impossibility — does not arise when negating the downward trajectory of unsuspended objects. In other words, physical laws are of such a kind that they can be negated without formal contradiction. Hence their negation is logically possible, even if exceedingly rare, and this is why miracles are logically possible. One may, of course, object that formal contradictions do emerge when negating basic physical or psychological limitations in human persons. To this, I would point the reader to the Eastern patristic notion that man is an icon of God, making our participation in divine attributes a natural fulfillment of our nature, not a violation thereof. See the latter parts of my letter, Can Jesus Sin?, where I deal with objections.
If the reader is unfamiliar with the “energy” concept, see note 6 above.