On May 29, 1453, the unthinkable happened: Constantinople, “the most important cultural center of Europe for one thousand years” (Sendler, 1981: 51) and “the queen of cities”—as her inhabitants called her—fell to the Ottomans, as a 21 year-old Sultan Mehmed II, who breached the unbreacheable walls built by Theodosius II in 408 through 413, and entered the city. (The walls were breached by the cannons that Emperor Constantine XI Palaiologos could not afford to purchase, when he was first approached by the inventor Berthold the Black, who then crossed the battle line and sold the technology to the Sultan.)

The Ottomans conquered Constantinople not to destroy but to make her islamic. For example, the sultan (who called himself “Caesar of Rome,” kayser-i rûm) adopted the city’s emblem—the star and the crescent moon—as the emblem of his Islamic empire. He took Christian children from homes and educated them in his court to make them administrators and rulers of his provinces. The Ottoman coins had Latin (the Language of the Roman Empire) on one side and Arabic on the other. The conversion of Hagia Sophia into a mosque is another example of the attempt to convert Christendom into an Islamic kingdom. The ambition to build a theocratic kingdom—whether Christian or Muslim—however failed. Humanism too in the cloak of democratic liberalism in modern times did not fair any better.

In any event, the cataclysmic fall of Constantinople seems to have halted all significant development in liturgy and theology henceforth in Byzantium. It also prevented the Reformation from reaching the city a century later, as it swept the Europe like a wildfire. The Reformation that began with Martin Luther’s purported nailing of the 95 theses on the door of Wittenberg Cathedral in 1517 arguably began modernity, while the majority of the Orthodox churches in the great, ancient Christian cities such as Alexandria, Antioch, Damascus, and Jerusalem had fallen under the Islamic control since the 7th-century. Constantinople was the last great Christian city to join the fate later in the mid 15th-century. Christian churches, mostly Orthodox, in those cities, however, have been able to exist in relative freedom for the most part ever since, even to this day. Armenian Church and Jewish communities are thriving in Tehran, for example, to this day. Only recently churches and synagogues in West Asia were bombarded by Israelis forces or by extreme Islamic militant groups supported by CIA, such as Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS). In 1930 Constantinople officially became Istanbul: “the City of Islam.”

The Reformation in the 16th-century took on the mantle of iconoclasm that shocked the Orthodox Church in the 8th- and 9th-century. In England, for example, Henry VIII, who read Luther, broke from Rome and in November 1534 crowned himself as the head of the Church of England. As part of the new regime, he ordered eradication of all images of St. Thomas Becket (d. 1170). All paintings and statues of the saint were destroyed, thus institutionalizing and perpetuating iconoclasm that had already begun eight centuries earlier.

Thomas Becket instantly became a saint after he was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral on December 29, 1170, for excommunicating the supports of King Henry II and subsequently refusing to annul the excommunication as demanded by the king’s supports. Thereafter Canterbury became the third most visited pilgrimage site after Rome and Jerusalem, until Henry VIII’s erasure of the saint’s images in 1534 that put a stop to the flow of pilgrims into the city. When Canterbury was a thriving pilgrimage site, Geoffrey Chaucer memorialized the pilgrimage in his novel The Canterbury Tales, written sometime between 1387 and 1400.

Henry VIII’s iconoclastic edict further emboldened the iconoclastic movement in the continent that ended up destroying visual religious arts, including icons and stained glass windows. Iconoclasts always loved music, as it replaced icons. Thus church music survived the destruction of visual art. Both Bach (d. 1750) and Handel (d. 1759) for example reaped the benefit of the Protestant protection. Luther too promoted congregational singing, popularizing church music for the masses.

If Henry VIII sparked the rise of Protestantism in England in 1532, Edward VI (1547-1553) actively promoted it. Finally, under Elizabeth I (1558-1603) the country became solidified as a Protestant nation. By this time almost all icons and stained glass windows in England were destroyed. In 1611 the King James Bible was first published.

Gutenberg Printing Press

If the invention of gunpowder breached the Theodocian Walls of Constantinople in 1453 and changed the outcome of the Islamic invasion of the city in the east, the invention of the printing press by Johannes Gutenberg sometime between 1440 and 1450 altered the course of history in the west just as the same.

The success of the printing press around the same time unexpectedly put a stop to any significant development in theology and liturgy in the eastern Church. Particularly, the text of the Divine Liturgy and, as Gorodenchuk notes, that of the rite of unction, seem to have become frozen due to the success of the printing press. This is because, while the printing press enabled mass production and wide dissemination of texts, the printing success ironically made revision of texts more difficult. Due to wide dissemination, updating the already printed texts became a real challenge. In short, the so called textus receptus (‘the received text’) became solidified and authoritative largely due to the success of the printing press. Once the text widely disseminated, it assumed permanency and thus became authoritative. No significant changes to the text of the Divine Liturgy (the ‘received text’) took place after the 15th-century. Even though there is no officially recognized unified text of the Divine Liturgy to this day, the so called ‘received text’ of the Divine Liturgy seems to have been accepted globally in its current form, except for some minor deviations at the level of local parishes and within the confines of national or cultural traditions. See Should the Text of the Divine Liturgy be Revised?‍ ‍

The Iconoclasm Controversy and a Turn towards the Historical

Along with the invention of the printing press in the 15-century, the fall of Constantine around the same time, and the Reformation in the next century, two other significant prior events in history must be considered as having deeply impacted Christian theology in particular and the Europe in geveral for better or for worse. They are the iconoclasm and the Crusades.

There were 9 Crusades all in all, starting with 1099 (when Jerusalem was captured for the first and last time) and the last campaign ending in 1272. Despite the multifaceted dimensions of the military campaigns waged by the “ones bearing the Cross,” the over arching theme and motive for the “armed pilgrims” was to recover from the Muslim control the holy land where Christ once walked and died. The Crusade was first and foremost a religious war that paved the way for all subsequent religious wars fought in modern Europe between the Catholics and the Protestants (e.g., the 30-Year War between 1618 and 1648 and possibly the 80-Year War earlier between 1607 and 1648) and the prior war of nationalism that waged on for 116 years between England and France (1337 to 1453). If war is the father of all things, as Heraclitus said, the western civilization proves him right time and again.

During the first Crusade—when they were besieged in Antioch by the late arriving Seljuk atabeg of Mosul, Kerbogha, outside the city walls—the lance that purportedly pierced Christ was discovered under Church of St Peter, as predicted by Peter Bartholomew’s (self-serving) vision. This single event, true or not, galvanized the dispirited Crusaders, who subsequently was able to miraculously defeat the surrounding Muslim army stationed outside the walls, shouting “God wills it.”

Likewise, the recovery in Jerusalem of a piece of wood that was purportedly a part of the cross that hung Christ himself confirmed and legitimized the brutal conquest of the city, despite the slaughter and rampage that the Crusaders afflicted on the Muslim citizenry, the Jews, and even some Orthodox Christian communities. The Crusaders mistook some of Armenians, Greek, and other (Orthodox) Christians for Arabs and killed them indiscriminately unless they converted. The first Crusaders then arguably set genocide as a norm for all subsequent wars. Their pogrom against the Jews along the Rein River on the way to Constantinople (before reaching Antioch and finally Jerusalem) is widely known.

The symbol of cross that was sown into their military garments became the definitive insignia of “the one’s bearing the cross” on the march toward Jerusalem. The goal was more than to recover the Church of Holy Sepulchre and the Church of Nativity from the Muslim hand. For these holy sites frequented by the pilgrims from the west were never blocked by the Muslims. They were largely accessible to Christians for centuries. Thus, the Crusades’ ambition was to recover the holy land previously lost to Muslim conquests, which began with the 633 invasion of Mesopotania and the 634 invasion of the Levant (Byzantine Empire). The same desire for the land is arguably the root cause of the rise of the 20-century secular Zionism that founded Israel in 1948 and sparked ensuing conflicts and genocide in the region ever since.

Moved by religious fervor and combined with racism and cultural ignorance, the Crusaders fought to conquer outremer (Old French for ‘overseas’ or ‘beyond the sea’). The military campaigns—for all their atrocities and what can only be called retrospectively ‘war crimes’—took on religious dimensions. For the campaign to fight “the holy war” was promoted as “armed pilgrimage” and was equated with an act of penance (if survived) and martyrdom (if not). Joining the Crusade at an exorbitant cost financially and even risking one’s life was indeed an heroic act encouraged by the Church of Rome as an act of penance, by which, they were told, one’s sin can be forgiven (if returned alive) or by which one can earn a direct passage to heaven (if killed). Furthermore, the act of penance done through the military service could be transferred to someone else who could not undertake such a difficult and dangerous journey. The credit can be transferred to one’s beloved or other family members in need of penance.

By the second Crusade (1147-1149), moreover, there arose the need to protect and preserve the Christian territories the first Crusaders managed to acquire, such as Antioch, Odessa, and Damascus, not to mention the obvious crown jewel, Jerusalem. Pope Eugenius III thus promoted the second military campaign as “indulgence,” further clarifying the vague idea that was first flouted by Pope Urban II to mobilize the first Crusade. See Asbridge, 2011.

Thus, a direct link between salvation and military service was established with profound theological implications, one of which is this: From now on (the recovery of) the historical reality of Jesus mattered directly and physically for one’s own salvation. Moreover, salvation can be earned by military campaign and by recovering or touching the holy relics. The physical things that were associated with Jesus historically or with saints became a means of one’s salvation. This necessitated a turn toward the historical.

Another implication is that the salvific work of Christ with all of its incarnational dimensions gets suppressed in favor of the salvific work of man rendered in relation to the holy sites and relics associated with Christ and his salvific work. In short, salvation is wrought not so much by Christ’s work but by human efforts that brings Christ’s work in history back to present and renders it applicable to each who makes the effort to relate oneself to the historical sites or relics. The ensuing division between work and faith that Luther championed later does not go to the heart of the matter, however. For what is decisive in this matter is the division between Christ’s work and human work and the relationship between the two. Christ’s work becomes efficacious to an individual by a corresponding (penitent) work one undertakes. More broadly, the divine work toward humanity (i.e., the divine providence) gets directly tied to the penitent work of man. Accordingly, “grace” understood as the working of the Holy Spirit becomes “grace” of God that deems otherwise sinful man as righteous. In other words, Christ’s righteousness is imputed to the fallen humanity by grace. God’s grace thus comes to mean His free and unmerited cancellation of human sin solely based on Christ’s work on the cross. From this, the last step Luther makes is easy, namely, that by faith alone one is saved. Man’s work no longer effectuates Christ’s salvific work on the cross. Only by faith, not work, can one enjoy the benefit of Christ work. Once the vanity and corruption of the indulgence system is exposed by the Crusades, Luther’s conclusion became readily acceptable: By grace alone, by faith alone salvation is possible. Thus, soteriology became subjective, private, and individualistic. What is at stake is the strength of one’s faith, exhibited by one’s piety and fervor. The more penitent one feels the more close became one’s relation to Christ’s (salvific) work on the cross. The fact that Christ’s work involved the torture, humiliation, and death on the cross added to one’s feeling of penitence and piety. As result, the Eucharist too became the means of arousing one’s piety in penitence, as we see in St Anselm and St Francis. See the Eucharist. The Orthodox Church in the east was not immune from the rise of the western piety marked by individual piety. See Cabasilas.

The Crusaders were not the first phenomena that literally forced the Church to turn toward the historical reality of Jesus of Nazareth. A turn toward the historical realism had already taken place a few centuries earlier, however, in the aftermath of the iconoclasm controversies. The Crusades only re-enforced the ensuing zeitgeist of “incarnational realism.”

In art, for example, we see historical realism and individualism re-enforcing each other, as evidenced in paintings by artists such as da Vinci, Botticelli, Michelangelo, El Creco, Caravaggio, etc. René Descartes (d. 1650), for another example in a different field, declared: “I think, therefore, I am”—as if the whole universe had rested on what I think, what I believe, or what I imagine—as long as I think, believe, and imagine. What is real is reducible to what I can relate directly and intuitively in my present moment of consciousness, or (as in Husserl) to what is given to me here and now in ‘flesh and done,’ or (as in Heidegger) to the environ world in which one finds oneself in one’s factical existence as dasein. The work of God matters only to the extent that it matters to the work of man in physical way (the Crusades), in consciousness (Descartes and Husserl), or in the way of one’s being in the world (Heidegger). In man’s recovery of himself as a subject, he forgets the objective work of God that creates and re-creates the world (with man therein) constantly and perpetually from the beginning to the end, and throughout all ages.

Icon is not Symbol

An icon is a sign. A symbol is not. An icon represents what is depicted therein. It stands in for and refers to the referent that stands outside. Like a sign, it points to the reality. For this reason a symbol is not an icon. For symbol does not point to something else, to something other than itself. It presents itself, by itself on its own. it is self contained. It is in itself. A symbol imposes the transcendent presence and invites one’s participation therein by transformation that it requires. Symbol demands one’s transformation, like fire that requires the change in the iron that burns. Divine symbols force one’s encounter with the divine and the transcendent, which in turn demands one’s transformation. That which cannot be represented is present in the symbol. Because the reality is present in the symbol itself, one must confront the reality here and now. This inevitably results in transformation. But because a symbol contains the uncontainable, it remains a mystery, an enigma, like the Bread and the Wine. The Eucharist remains Mysteries. Any attempt to explain is bound to fail. Reasons runs into impasse when confronted by enigma (ἀπορία). The question as to when the change occur does not explain how it occurs. Giving a name to the change (transubstantiation) does not explain it. But what is at issue here are: (1) whether we the participants would change along with the bread and wine and thereby become divine by the grace of the Holy Spirit—that is the question. The second is: (2) what flows from the transformation? A new creation? A new being? A being otherwise than being or beyond essence?

Icon too is a unity that contains the incarnational duality of the matter and the spirit. By the medium of the matter an icon refers to the spiritual. An icon is representational. It depicts, portrays, characterizes, outlines, sketches the subject. Governed by the forms, icon is a visual art. A symbol in contrast can never be an art. For it is a presence of the divine and the transcendent that/who demands encounter and transformation.

Perhaps, St John of Damascus best defined what a icon is by distinguishing the prototype from the image depicted therein:

… the icon bears a resemblance to the prototype… or it is an imitation of the prototype and its reflection, but by its nature [ούσία], it is distinguishable from its prototype.

Against Heresies, PG 100: 255ff; as quoted in Ouspensky, 1992: 123.

A symbol (raza) in contrast is not a representation of something outside or other than itself. As a sacrament, it contains the reality itself in itself.

Mary the person, for example, is a symbol because she ‘contained the uncontainable.’ The icon of Mary, however, is not a symbol; because it only represents the symbol, Mary the person, the Mother of God. An icon can refers to a symbol (as in this case); whereas a symbol does not refer to an icon or anything else. Symbol does not refer; for It has the Reality itself in itself, though remaining enigmatic.

St Basil’s comparison of icon with the Scripture is also helpful for understanding icon:

That which the word communicates by sound, the painting shows silently by representation.

Hom. 19, On the 40 Martyrs, PG 31: 509 A; as quoted by Ouspensky, 1992: 8.

The Scripture communicates by invisible (or conceptual) images; an icon by visual images. They both communicate but by different means. They both refer to that which they each describes in different way respectively. The Scripture is a verbal icon, whereas an icon is a silent and visual representation of Christ or the saint it depicts.

Just as the Scripture depicts God and humans in various states: in love or anger, or with respect to humans in their fall, misery, sorrow, sin as well as in their joy, thanksgiving, forgiveness, and salvific happiness. Icons too depict man’s damnation, fall from the spiritual ladder of ascent, etc. But icons, as they have become formalized in accordance with the Church Tradition, mostly portray the divinized state of saints. In the icons of Christ, for example, Christ is depicted in both His divinity and humanity in accordance with church doctrines.

Through the rough outlines depicting historical reality, icons also try to portray spiritual and eschatological reality, i.e., the divinization of the human and the material. As Ouspensky put it:

All of the figurative possibilities of art converge toward the same goal: to coney faithfully a concrete, true image, a historical reality, and to reveal through it another reality, which is spiritual and eschatological.

Ouspensky, 1992: 96.

Again, Ouspensky writes:

If the historical traits of Jesus, His portrait, are a witness to His coming in the flesh, to the abasement and the humiliation of the divinity, then the way in which this ‘Son of man’ is represented must also reflect the glory of God. In other words, the humility of God the Word must be represented in such a way that, when looking at the image, we contemplate also His divine glory.

Ouspensky, 1992: 96.

Christ the Pantocrator, then, not only looks Palestinian but also is depicted as the Prince of Peace as well as the Judge at the eschaton at the same time. ‍Mary is depicted as wearing a veil to indicate the status of a married woman but also as the Mother of God with the external signs (the prophet and the star). Ouspensky, 1992: 74. Moreover, as the one who “contained the uncontainable God” the Virgin is depicted as “the first of all humanity to have attained, through the complete transfiguration of her being, that to which every creature is summoned [to become]” (Ouspensky, 1992: 60).

Historical realism depicted in the icons also (should) portray divinization of the human in the figure depicted. Thus, saints are depicted both in their historical peculiarity of each and also at the same time in their saintliness. In this way, the spiritual is depicted in the historical and the material.

Mary depicted in an icon is a portrait within a certain artistic style such as Byzantine or Greek or Russian style. The difference between symbol and icon is that symbol has the reality in itself; whereas icon only refers to the reality it represents, portrays, or points to, like a sign, in a certain style. Symbol is ontological; icon is representational. This distinction however was blurred in the debates between iconoclasts and iconophiles—the distinction which Ouspensky too blurs at certain points (1992: 17, 18, 21).

Iconoclasm

Had the iconoclasts understood the difference between icon and symbol, they could not have come to a false conclusion and accusation: that the iconophiles engaged in idol worship, when in fact they only venerated the person in the icons. One cannot worship the king’s crown but the king himself. The crown only stands in for the king, like a sign, like an icon. To worship the crown would indeed be to engage in idol worship. But the iconophiles asserted and clarified: that they were not worshiping but venerating the person depicted in the icon; and that worship is reserved for God alone, the invisible, the transcendent, the uncircumscribed, and the uncontainable. Thus, the Seventh Ecumenical Council (787) declared:

The honor rendered to the image goes to its prototype, and the person who venerates an icon venerates the person represented on it.

‍ As quoted in Ouspensky, 1992: 127, 135, 140. Ouspensky refers to St Basil, from whom the Council was quoting (On the Holy Spirit, ch. 18).

Venerating an icon is different from worshiping Christ, as St John of Damascus (d. 749) clarifies:

I do not worship matter; I worship the Creator of matter who became matter for my sake, who willed to take His abode in matter; who worked out my salvation through matter.

On the Divine Images, trans. D. Anderson (New York: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1980), 26-7; as quoted in Ouspensky, 1992: 129.

The material representation of Christ—the icon—therefore, is worthy of our veneration, while we worship Christ therein. The matter that depicts Christ is still worthy of our respect, because Christ the incarnate took on the flesh and became man, thus sanctifying or divinizing the physical and the material. Likewise, the icon in its material aspect is sanctified and, as such, is worthy of our respect and veneration.

Just as Christ is the icon of the invisible God (Col 1.15), so too each of us is an icon of Christ. This is, because we are created in the image and likeness of God, and because Christ has dignified the flesh by His Incarnation—the flesh that we share with Him—each of us in our flesh and bone is worthy of respect. Christ’s flesh deified our flesh, and His divinity raised us up to God. We do not worship each other but venerate each other, as we venerate the icon, while reserving our worship only to Christ our God.

The careful distinction made in the Seventh Council (787) between veneration (προσκύνησιν) and worship or adoration (λατρείαν) was a rebuke against the prior iconoclast council held in 754, in which it was declared falsely that the only true icon was the Eucharist and that all veneration of other icons stemmed from idolatry (Ouspensky, 1992: 122). The iconoclasts thought that only the Eucharist was the true icon of Christ, because the consecrated Bread and Wine are Christ’s Body and Blood. Since the image (of the Bread and Wine) is identical to Christ Himself in substance, only the Eucharist is worthy of our veneration. To rebut this iconoclastic declarations the Seventh Council distinguished icon veneration from worship of Christ. We worship Christ whether in the Bread and Wine or depicted in the icon. We venerate Christ and together with the icon that bears Him in materiality (i.e., by colors, shape, and contours). For His Incarnation divinized the matter—especially the matter that are associated with Him. We venerate the person depicted in the image. We do not venerate in the similar way Christ in the Bread and Wine. Rather, we worship Him in the matter.

However, when the decision by the Seventh Council was conveyed to Charlemagne’s court in translation, the fine distinction between veneration and adoration or worship was entirely lost in the (inapt) Latin translation, in which both were translated as adoratio. As result Charlemagne’s court come to understand the Seventh Council decision to mean that both icons and the Eucharist were worthy of adoration. Thus, the following angry response ensued in part:

It is absurd and rash to place icons and the Eucharist on the same level and to say that just as the fruits of the earth [bread and wine] are transformed into a mystery worthy of our veneration, similarly images are transformed into the veneration shown to the person represented on these images.

Libri Carolini, as quoted in Ouspensky, 1992: 141.

This response shows clearly how the Seventh Council’s declarations were misunderstood. Nothing was said about transformation involving the icons; and the Seventh Council did not equate icon veneration to worship/adoration of Christ.

Notwithstanding the poor translation, perhaps an additional distinction between icon and symbol might have avoided the misunderstanding. Approaching the (sacramental) Symbol demands our transformation and adoration of Christ; while veneration (or prostration toward) the icon corresponds to the dignity of the person depicted therein and of the painting and the wood surface associated with that person’s material and historical aspects. For all matter is sanctified by Christ’s Incarnation. We too in our flesh and bone share in and enjoy the deifying effects of the Incarnation.

History of Iconoclasm

In 692 the Quinisext Council in Trullo (attended mostly by bishops from the eastern churches) issued a canon (Canon 82) that ordained that Christ be portrayed henceforth in human form and not symbolically as the Lamb of God (Taft, 1980/1981: 72). It specifically ordered “that henceforth Christ our God must be represented in his human form instead of the ancient lamb…;” and that “[t]he symbol of Christ… must given place to the face of God incarnate, to the historical person of Christ” (Sendler, 1988: 20). As Ouspensky notes,

It is at the Quinisext Council that the Church for the first time formulated a basic principle concerning the content and the very character of sacred art.

Ouspensky, 1992: 91.

However, a turn to historical realism is evident in this Council’s decisions. 

In Canon 73 the same Council, furthermore, identified the cross as something to be venerated as a “sign of our victory” and forbade it from being “trampled upon by the feet of those who walk” and thus from being drawn on the floor or ground. Oupensky, 1992: 92.

While forbidding allegorical representation of Christ in the images of the Lamb of God, the Council also forbade desecration of the abstract sign of the cross. 

Unsurprisingly, after the Quinisext Council, icons became more historical and realistic.

In 794 Charlemagne in the west called a council in Frankfurt, which rejected both the iconoclastic council of 754 and the Seventh Ecumenical Council (which was convoked by Empress Irene in 787 and reaffirming the Quinisixt Conucil’s decisions). Pope Hadrian I, however, signed the decisions of both: the Seventh Ecumenical Council and the Council of Frankfurt. In 825 in Paris, another council was assembled, which condemned the Seventh Ecumenical Council, as iconoclasm “reached its peak” (Ouspensky, 1992: 143).

Shortly after the 692 Quinisext Council, circa 730, the eastern churches implemented the Proskomidi, the preparatory rite before the Divine Liturgy in which the bread and wine are prepared on the prothesis (a table of offering set aside from the altar in the sanctuary or near it).

Thirty four years after the Quinisext Council (692) the iconoclast persecution began (726-787) to be followed by another—only 28 years later (815-843). Between the two persecutions stood the Seventh Ecumenical Council (787) that affirmed the (Sixth) Council at Quinisext that affirmed icon veneration. In the end, the iconoclasm was soundly defeated in 843. See below for more.

But the triumph over iconoclasm had its unanticipated consequences, one of which was the turn toward what Taft calls “incarnational realism” (1981: 59). The triumph over iconoclasm, in my view, then both saved and threatened Orthodox Church. It saved, as icon veneration was affirmed as part of her identity and worship, on one hand. But, ironically, it also turned theological focus toward historical realism and away from the venerable Alexandrian/Neo-Platonic tradition, in which much of her Liturgies and identity were formed along with the idea of achieving the vision of God (theōsis). Theōsis loses its steam, I argue, if theological focus rests on historical realism.

While, in the east, as icons were reaffirmed to be venerated in the foreground, the focus on theōsis began to recede into the background. However, in the west, iconoclasm never became “a systematic and organized heresy” (Ouspensky, 1992: 105), while the abstract figure of the cross gained ascendency in the west relative to the central role that icons assumed in the east. Both in the west and in the east, the cross became the chief symbol (sign) of the Church, especially among the iconoclasts. As Ouspensky notes, “the iconoclasts [in the east] never ceased venerating the cross, which is quite an inconsistency, given their attitude towards icons” (Ouspensky, 1992: 130). Absent icons, the churches in the east began to decorate the church interior with flours, Islamic geometric designs, and music (Sendler, 1988: 23; Ouspensky, 1992: 116).

Furthermore, by the late 11th- and early 12-centuries, as G. H. Williams notes, “the regal figure of the Romanesque crucifix was beginning to show the lineaments of the Gothic Man of sorrows” (1957: 252-53). Coincidentally, it was at this time in 1099 when the first Crusaders in their “armed pilgrimage” conquered Jerusalem, bearing the red sign of the cross stitched on their outer garments, and thus accomplishing their respective individual penance.

If in the east icon veneration was re-affirmed and triumphed, in the west it “ended up following the road of innovation by distancing itself from the decisions of the Seventh Council” (Ouspensky, 1992: 144). Consequently, the abstract sign of the cross received its ascendency as the chief symbol (sign) of the Church.

The idea of theōsis never caught on in the west, while it remained the main theme in the east up to and including the time of Pseudo-Dionysius and Maximos the Confessor. However, in the wake of the triumph of Orthodoxy (over iconoclasm), the idea waned even in the east in favor of experiencing Jesus Christ of history. In finding the salvific meaning in the work of God on the cross in history, the salvific meaning in the union with God in theōsis (that transcends time and space) begins to lose its central role in worship and church life in the east.

Pseudo-Dionysius, in contrast, believed that theōsis was the goal and design of the two hierarchies: the angelic or heavenly hierarchy and the ecclesiastical or earthly hierarchy. The union with God and thus becoming like God (theōsis or divinization) thereafter gave way to affinity with Christ in his incarnational reality. One no longer sought to be transformed into becoming Christ, to be children of God, in theōsis. Rather one sought to identify oneself with the life of Jesus in his life, his ministry, and his passion—in short, in his incarnational reality. As result, the shift toward historical realism had significant impact in the understanding of the Eucharist in particular and of the Liturgy in general.

The waning emphasis on theōsis in the east gained significant attraction in the west, however, but with a twist. Theōsis came to be understood as beatitude. The late Discovery of Pseudo-Dionysius in the west, I submit, had a lot to do with this development. For example, both Aquinas and Bonaventure in the 13th-century (Paris) adopted Dionysian concept of hierarchy in terms of one’s spiritual journal to God in their respective theology.

In 16th-century the Reformation further solidified the focus on Christ’s salvific work as the work on the cross in history. In a turn toward the historical reality of Jesus Christ, His Resurrection too came to be understood primarily as historical fact: to be believed as such in one’s faith. With proliferation of confessional statements (e. g., Zwingli’s Sixty-Seven Articles (1523), the Ten Theses of Berne (1528), Augsburg Confession (1530), the First Confession of Basel (1534), Heidelberg Catechism (1563), Westminster Confession of Faith (1646), etc.), the objects of faith were reduced to be the Christ-events in history.

Accordingly, the Cross became the dominant symbol (sign) of all Christian symbols/signs, over and above the sacrament of baptism. In fact, the Bread and Wine became the symbols or signs that mainly refer to the passion of Christ suffered on the cross, as evinced in the east by the implementation of Proskomidi (circa 730). See also the Eucharist. Anselm in the late 11th-century, for his part, had also contributed toward the shift toward the understanding the Eucharist as re-enactment of Christ’s passion-the prominant role it began to assume over and above baptism. See Anselm and the Byzantine Synthesis.

Anselm published Cur Deus Homo (Why God Became Man) between 1094 and 1098. In August 1096 the first Crusaders embarked on its campaign. In July 1099 they finally conquered Jerusalem. Both focus on the historical reality of Jesus Christ.

Icon and Orthodoxy

The icons were saved by the two Byzantine Empresses: Irene and Theodora. In his book, The Icon, Image of the Invisible: Elements of Theology, Aesthetics and Technique, Egon Sendler offers one of the best summaries of the two iconoclasm controversies—more precisely, the two bitter persecutions of the iconodule by the iconoclast emperors based on the same debate over icon veneration.

The iconoclasm did not arise from Judaism. As Sendler notes, the 6th-century synagogue Beth Alpha had “mosaics of the ark of the covenant, the signs of the zodiac, the sacrifice of Isaac, etc.” (Sendler, 1988: 9). The third-century synagogue of Dura-Europos in Mesopotamia contained images of “the stories of Moses, Elijah, Daniel, and other Biblical persons” that could be, as Sendler surmises, “a precursor of Byzantine art” (1988: 9). But Judaism too had an iconoclastic moment, as Sendler further notes: “The systematic rejection of all images was established at the time of the Maccabees when Judaism felt itself threatened by Hellenism” (1988: 8).

In 692 Justinian II convoked a council (known as Quinisext) in the imperial palace. The council was attended by bishops mostly from the east. In this council the importance of the holy cross and its veneration were declared (Canon 73). Canon 100 in particular prohibited “deceiving paints which being exposed to public view corrupt the intelligence by exciting shameful pleasures…” (Sendler, 1988: 20). Furthermore, Canon 82 declared “that henceforth Christ our God must be represented in his human form instead of the ancient lamb” (Id., 20). It further declared: “The symbol of Christ… must given place to the face of God incarnate, to the historical person of Christ” (Id.). The Quinisext Council thus elevated the abstract sign of the cross as an object of veneration, while “the historical person of Christ” is to be depicted in all Christ-icons, and the symbolic image of the Lamb of God to be banned.

In 721 the Umayyad caliph, Yazid II (who ruled over Alexandria, Jerusalem, Antioch, and Damascus between 720-24) imposed “very draconian measures in order to eliminate all images from the sanctuaries and homes of the provinces under his authority” (Sendler, 1988: 22). In 725 three bishops from Asia Minor supported the iconoclastic movement: Theodosius of Ephesus, Thomas of Claudiopolis, and Constantine of Nacolia (Id.). From 726 and thereon Emperor Leo III ordered destruction of icons in churches and houses. In 753 Emperor Constantine V assembled a synod that declared that the images should not be venerated (Chaillot, 2018: 27).

In 730 an underwater volcanic eruption took place near Santorini, north of Crete. Interpreting this as God’s punishment for the idolatrous veneration of images, Emperor Leo III “ordered the destruction of a greatly venerated icon of Christ above the Bronze Gate in Constantinople” (Sendler, 1988: 23). “Immediately there was a riot,” which was suppressed. But realizing the seriousness of this revolt, Leo III invited Patriarch Germanus (d. 740) to the Senate to try to win him over to his side. But Germanus was not intimidated by Leo III. Rather, he stood up in the Senate, “took off his omophorian (the bishop’s stole), and cried out: ‘I am like Jonah; throw me into the sea. I can have no other faith, Oh Emperor, than that of the ecumenical council.’ He then left and went to his ancestral home where he stayed for the rest of his life” (Sendler, 1988: 23).

In 730 Leo III appointed an iconoclast Anastasius as the patriarch, after Germanus abdicated. As result, Sendler writes:

The images in the churches were replaced by flowers, ornaments, birds, and even scenes of the hunt and of the horse races. What is striking in this type of painting is that it was a return to ancient models. In the final analysis, it was an return to paganism which expressed itself in the liturgy as well; preaching was strengthened along with an increase in religious poetry and all sorts of music.

Sendler, 1988: 23.

It is noteworthy that with iconoclasm the emphasis on preaching emerged, which is the same phenomenon that occurred in the Reformation.

The persecution of the iconophiles began. Sendler writes:

Every citizen had to bring his icons to a public place so they could be burned. Many of the clerics, monastics, and faithful who resisted were condemned, tortured, or killed; others simply left the capital.

Sendler, 1988: 23, 25.

During the time of Leo III, according to Ouspensky, “[m]onks emigrated in groups, particularly to Italy, Cyprus, Syria and Palestine” (1992: 112). “Italy alone received 50,000 of these monks,” says Oupensky, citing some historians (id.). We wonder if these emigrations had to to with the later flourishing of arts in Italy during the Renaissance. For icon production was one of the main occupation in the monasteries. It was monks who mostly revolted against iconoclastic emperors.

In 731 the newly elected Pope Gregory III, however, rebutted point by point Leo III’s letters sent to him on the controversy, and convoked a synod in Rome in 731, whereby everyone who “opposed the veneration of the holy images and blasphemed against them, destroyed them, or profaned them” (1988: 25) were excommunicated. In retaliation, Leo III “confiscated the patrimonies of St Peter, increased the taxes in Calabria and Sicily, and finally detached the provinces of Illyricum from Roman jurisdiction and gave them to the patriarchate of Constantinople” (Sendler, 1988: 25).

Thus, the seeds of the eventual Great Schism of 1054 had been planted, although Germanus was later canonized by both Orthodox and Catholic Churches.

John of Damascus

St John of Damascus (aka St John of Damascene, who belong to the eminent Mansur family holding high offices in the government of the Ommiad caliphs; d. 749; Sendler, 1988: 25) provided the following eloquent defense for veneration of the icons:

In former times God, who is without form or body, could never be depicted. But now when God is seen is the flesh conversing with men, I make an image of the God whom I see. I do not worship matter; I worship the Creator of matter when became matter for my sake, who willed to take His adobe in matter; who worked out my salvation through matter.

On the Divine Images, “Apology I,” St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, Crestwood, NY, 1980, p. 23; as cited in Sendler, 1988: 40.

St John continues:

If we made an image of the invisible God, we would certainly be in error… but we do not do anything of the kind; we do not err, in fact, if we make the image of God incarnate who appeared on earth in the flesh, who in his ineffable goodness, lived with men and assumed the nature, the volume, the form, and the color of the flesh.

On the Divine Images, PG 91, col. 1320; St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, Crestwood, NY, 1980, pp. 52-3; as cited in Sendler, 1988: 25.

In 741 Emperor Leo III died, to be replaced by Constantine V (a moderate iconoclast), who ruled between 741 and 775, who was then replaced by Leo IV, who ruled between 775 and 780, who was then replaced by his wife Irene, who became the regent during the childhood of their son Constantine VI between 780 and 790, and who co-ruled with her son between 792 and 797, when she deposed her son (by fatally gouging out his eyes) to become the sole ruler of the empire until 802.

In 754 Leo IV convened the iconoclastic council at Hieria in an imperial palace near Constantinople (Sendler, 1988: 26). The final statement, signed by 388 Byzantine bishops, put forth the following Monophysite argument, as summarized by Sendler:

… if we represent the divinity, we confuse the natures, and we claim to be able to ‘circumscribe’ what cannot be expressed. If we represent the humanity, we divide what must be united in the person of Christ and thus fall into Nestorianism. Through a material image, we would thus deny the hypostatic union which had been defined by the Council of Chalcedon. In addition, matter which is used to make images degrades the original holiness of the model. The only possible icon, instituted by Christ himself, is the eucharist which is the mystical presence of the incarnation. The only permitted representation of the saints is to follow their examples and strive for moral perfection….

In reality, iconoclastic doctrine did not accept the perfect hypostatic union: the union without confusion of divinity and humanity in the person of Christ. It manifested rather a Monophysite foundation: according to the iconoclastic view, the human nature of Christ was practically absorbed by the divinity.

Sendler, 1988: 27; also 122.

In short, Christ was too divine to be depicted in a material image. But since the bread and wine change into the Body and Blood of Christ at the Eucharist, the only true icon of Christ is the Eucharist. Thus, the iconoclasts had a stronger sense of ‘icon,’ by which they seemed to understand that, as Ouspensky puts it, “a true icon must be of the same nature as the person it represents; it must be consubstantial with its model (ὸμοούσιαν)” (Ouspensky, 1992: 122).

This misunderstanding is grounded on Col 1.15 in which Paul says: “He [Christ] is the icon of the invisible God.” Now, since Christ is of one essence with the Father (as defined by the first Ecumenical Council), the word ‘icon’ here, the iconoclasts thought, must mean the same in essence with God. Such an ‘icon’ is nothing other than the Eucharist. This is the stronger sense of the word ‘icon’ that they employed. But for the iconophiles, the word ‘icon’ had a weaker sense: that of resemblance and representation. A depiction of a person cannot be equal to the person himself. An icon depicts Christ or saint; therefore, it cannot be equal to the person in honor and veneration. We worship Christ, while we venerate His icon. Due to the different understanding of the word ‘icon’ that existed between iconophiles and iconoclasts, “[t]hey were speaking two different languages,” as Ouspensky notes (1992: 129).

To be clear, the Eucharist is not an icon of Christ. It is a symbol of Christ, because it is the Body and Blood of Christ.

The council of Hieria in 754 condemned “the criminal act of painting” and those who defended images: Germanus, George of Cyprus, and John of Damascus (Sendler, 1988: 27).

A new wave of “persecutions, tortures, exiles, spoliations, forced marriages of monks, and executions” ensued (Sendler, 1988: 27). As the monasteries became the centers of resistance, Emperor Constantine V “threw their relics into the sea, transformed monastic buildings into army barracks or stables, and even prohibited the use of the words ‘saint’ and ‘monk” (1988: 27) Sendler writes further:

In 761, some 342 monks were mutilated in various mays and put into the Pretorian prison; others gave their lives for Orthodoxy such as Stephen the Young, Andrew the Cretan, and Paul of Crete… Even the patriarch, Anastasius, was not saved. Although he had been a creature of the emperor, he was later exiled and beheaded.

Sendler, 1988: 27.

In 780 Leo IV died; and his throne was taken over by his wife Irene, as her son (later to be Constantine VI, who became iconoclast unlike his mother) was too young to assume the imperial power. Empress Irene, the first woman to be an empress and who was an iconodule from Athens, appointed Tarsus as Patriarch and convened a council in 786 to be held in Constantinople, which however was intervened by the revolting imperial guard.

About five months later, on September 24, 787, Empress Irene succeeded in convening another council in Nicaea, which came to be known as the second Council of Nicaea, that met in Hagia Sophia (Sendler, 1988: 28). In this ecumenical Council (the seventh and the last), an important distinction was drawn between ‘veneration’ and ‘worship.’ As Sendler summarizes:

Images receive relative or honorific veneration, proskynesis schetike [προσκύνησιςσχετικός], and not worship, latria [λατρεία], which is reserved for God alone. What is more, images are not the ultimate object of veneration because the image only has a reality in relation to the object represented: the image is the reflection of the prototype. Because the veneration of the image is addressed to the prototype, Christ; the veneration is transformed into worship.

Sendler, 1988: 28.

‍In 769 Irene of Athens became the consort of her husband, Leo IV. In 780 Leo died and she became the empress regent for their son Constantine VI. In 797 she became the sole empress by deposing and blinding her own iconoclast son and ruled until 802, when she was dethroned. In 803 she died in the lonely island of Lesbos. Although some Orthodox churches celebrate her feast day on August 9 for convening the Second Council of Nicaea in 787, she was never canonized.

In 781 Irene arranged a marriage between her son, Constantine VI, and Charlemagne’s daughter Rotrude, who was to be given a Greek name, Erythro. Shortly thereafter Irene changed her mind and broke off the engagement, thus angering Charlemagne.

In 794, Charlemagne, the king of the Franks, who was to become the crowned (by Pope Leo III, as approved by Empress Irene) Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire 6 years later (on Christmas in 800) and who was not informed of the Nicaea II council’s 787 decision, convened the council of Frankfurt in 794. At this council, it was decided that icons should be neither prohibited nor worshipped. (Sendler, 1988: 29).

In 813 Leo V the Armenian became the emperor. A former general of Anatolia [Turkia] and an iconoclast, Leo V issued an order prohibiting icons. In 815, however, St. Theodore the Studite replaced Patriarch Nicephorus, who was exiled for opposing Leo V.

St. Theodore organized a procession for Palm Sunday in which “1000 monks carrying icons took part,” after which he too was exiled, following Nicephorus (Sendler, 1988: 31).

In 820 Leo V was assassinated by the supporters of Michael the Stammerer, who was proclaimed emperor and convened another council in Paris to reconcile the two opposing parties over the iconoclast controversy. Before the council could be concluded, Emperor Michael died in 825. His son Theophilus became the successor and assumed the throne in 829.

Emperor Theophilus convened a council in 832 with the aim of renewing the iconoclastic decrees. Once again, monks, especially those of St Abraham’s Monastery, rose up in opposition—as they did against Leo V in 813—which irritated Theophilus and caused him to imprison them along with bishops and iconographers. The second mass persecution of iconophiles ensued, though not as severe as the first that occurred in 761 (Sendler, 1988: 27, 32).

I‍n 842 Theophilus died. With his death iconoclasm also died. His wife Theodora and her three year-old son, Michael, assumed the throne, deposed the iconoclast Patriarch John the Grammarian, and appointed iconophile Methodius, a highly respected clergy in Constantinople (Sendler, 1988: 32-33).

In 843 Theodora convened a council to affirm for the last time the Seventh Ecumenical Council’s defense of the icons (in 787) as well as the six previous ecumenical Councils’ decisions (1988: 34). The council also determined that on the first Sunday of Great Lent, March 11, 843, the triumph of Orthodoxy would be celebrated. Sendler writes:

There was an impressive procession presided over by Patriarch Methodius; the empress and the whole court led the procession and behind them followed the monks and the faithful. Many of them still carried on their bodies the marks and proofs of their fidelity. The whole group moved to Hagia Sophia to celebrate the feast of Orthodoxy or the definitive triumph of truth.

Sendler, 1988: 34.

The triumph over iconoclasm, according to Sendler, “was the beginning of a new split between the West and the East, which was to deepen and contributed to the final separation of the great schism of 1054” (1988: 35). However, according to Ouspensky, the split over veneration of icons had already begun as early as the Council of Frankfurt in 794, as described above. This dispute also contributed toward the Great Schism. After the Latin conquest and looting of Constantinople in 1204, the split became irreparable.

It must be noted that the so called Great Schism of 1054 is an exaggeration. For by the time Cardinal Humbert (legate of Pope Leo IX) delivered the papal bull in Constantinople (during the Divine Liturgy), the Pope had died. Therefore, the papal bull he delivered was no longer in effect. Moreover, the papal bull excommunicated Patriarch Michael Cerularius, not the whole Orthodox Church. Patriarch Cerularius, in turn, returned the favor by excommunicating the Candinal, not the Pope or the Church of Rome. In 1203—some 150 years later—the Franks and the Venetians (the fourth Crusaders) arrived at Constantinople once again by the invitation of the exiled prince Alexios Angelos, who promised money to the Crusaders (to overthrow his uncle Emperor Alexios III Angelos) and who, thanks to the Crusaders’ sack of the city, became Emperor Alexios IV Angelos. He was killed however in a coup in less than 6 months (in January 1204) when he could not pay the money he promised to the Crusaders. The three-day looting and rampage in the city ensued, including Hagia Sophia. Those who resisted were summarily killed. Thereafter the schism between the east and west became irreparable.

Incarnational Realism

The triumph over iconoclasm, more importantly for our purpose, diminished the role of symbols in the life of the Orthodox Church. While emphasizing the material reality in the veneration of icons, the victory over iconoclasm ushered in a unintended consequence: a turn toward, in Taft’s words, “incarnational realism” (1981: 59). With the rise of historical realism also emerged “the victory of allegory over sober practicality and symbolism rooted in the true meaning of the sacramental rites” (Taft, 2004: 427).

Taft writes in referring to Patriarch Germanus, who in 725 defended icon veneration, as described above, and was exiled as result:

So what we find in Germanus is the encroachment of a more literal tradition upon another, more mystical level of Byzantine interpretation—and this precisely on the eve of Iconoclasm, when shifts in Byzantine piety led to such growth in the cult of images that Orthodoxy soon found itself locked in [in] mortal combat to defend this new expression of radical incarnational realism against the reaction of a more traditional iconoclastic spiritualism.

Tarf, 1980/1981: 58-59; italics added.

Liturgically, it was during this time period (circa 730) when the development of the rite of Proskomidi took place—the preparation rite in which the bread and wine is prepared on the prothesis before the Divine Liturgy begins. The text and the symbolism of proskomidi is highly historical and realistic, as they refer to the historical events of Jesus’ crucifixion. The text is mostly cited from the Passion narrative in the Synoptic Gospels. The historical realism, thus, entered into the Divine Liturgy in earnest, although Chrysostom is said to have brought the institutional narrative of the Last Supper into the anaphora in the Divine Liturgy.

Accordingly, a shift occurred in the understanding the Eucharist as well—a shift from the heavenly sacrifice that Christ offers perpetually (as described in Heb 1.13, 4.14, 7.3, 11-25, 8.1-5) to a realist understanding thereof as a  representation of (and representational re-enactment of) the historical event of Jesus’ crucifixion as described in the synoptic Gospels. In short, the shift occurred from the present reality of Christ’s sacrifice to the past event of Jesus’ crucifixion in historical reality.

The zeitgeist of realism swept through the western churches as well. The late eleventh and twelfth centuries was the time “when the regal figure of the Romanesque crucifix was beginning to show the lineaments of the Gothic Man of sorrows” (G. H. Williams, 1957: 252). The paintings of artists such as Rogier van der Weyden (d. 1464) and Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (d. 1610) also testifies to the dominance of realism in the west. Caravaggio in particular used common people from the streets to pose as models in his religious paintings such as The Calling of Saint Matthew (1599-1600) and The Death of the Virgin (1601-1606).

Along with the rise of realism, however, the sacred dies. If reality means what is real to humans, the divine reality, which is not and beyond human reality, is not and cannot be real (to human). In other words, what is divine is not human. For it is more than human reality and surpasses the latter. It is beyond real, because it transcends the real.

Recovering Jesus’ Relics and the Holy Places in Jerusalem

If the iconoclasm controversy resulted in the turn toward the historical Jesus, there was a prior movement that also propelled the shift toward historical realism that already have taken place in early 4th-century. It was the movement, initiated by Empress Helena (d. 330), to recover the historical sites and relics associated with Jesus’ life and death in Palestine.

More specifically, the Edict of Milan (aka Peace of Constantiana) issued in 313 created a new movement to hallow the holy places associated with historical Jesus, such as the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem (326-335) and the Church of Nativity in Bethlehem (326-330). Once Christianity became official, the interest in recovering the sites and relics associated with Jesus became intense. Thus, the seeds to turn towards what Taft calls the “incarnation realism” (1980/1981: 59, 65) had already been planted centuries before the iconoclasm controversy. Accordingly, Christ-Event become real as historical events in theological imaginations—the fact which had been assumed all along but did not assume a decisive role in theological discourses.

Pseudo-Dionysius (b/d. ~500), however, belonged to the time period when historical realism had not yet fully flourished. For this reason, his theology remained symbolic, not historical. Thus, he could be placed in the Alexandrian camp. His emphasis and reliance on the role of sacred Symbols as God’s revelation and presence puts him at adds with the more historical and realistic Antiochene camp, as represented by St Chrysostom.

Another major influence that accounts for historical realism and the rise of individualism is St Anselm’s substitutional theory of atonement that was first proposed in the late 11th-century. See Anselm and Byzantine Synthesis.