Posts Tagged eastern orthodox theology
The Logos and Kenosis doctrines as the keys to unlocking the mysteries of Creation, Incarnation, Redemption, and Inspiration
Posted by Dallas Wolf in First Thoughts, New Nuggets, The Logos Doctrine (series), Theology on May 13, 2026
Logos – Greek: λόγος – 1. Communication whereby the mind finds expression, – word – of utterance, chiefly oral. 2. Computation, reckoning. Reason for or cause of something, reason, ground, motive. 3. Independent personified expression of God, the Logos. (BDAG)
Kenosis – Greek: κενόω – to empty. A divestiture of position or prestige: of Christ, who gave up the appearance of his divinity and took on the form of a slave, εαυτόν εκένωσεν [eaftón ekénosen]. (BDAG)
Excerpts below from John B. Heard, Carthaginian and Alexandrian Theology Contrasted. T. & T. Clark, Edinburgh. 1893. pp. 266-274:
But it occurs to us that the Kenosis doctrine, which relieves much of the mystery on the subject of the human and Divine in Christ, may also throw light on the subject of inspiration… It was assumed (as all Deists must do) that the nature of the Infinite must be incommunicable to the finite. Between Creator and creature there is much more than disparity, there is a gulf fixed which no theory can bridge over. The Incarnation, in a word, from the Deistic point of view, becomes an unthinkable mystery- it goes farther back still, since, in fact, creation itself must be unthinkable; for how can the Creator, if Infinite, pass out of Himself into the finite and conditioned? Hence, we have to fall back on such senseless phrases as that He made the worlds out of nothing, and creation at last becomes a bald affirmation of a fact for which reason by itself can offer no explanation which is not merely verbal. The early Gnostics felt this difficulty, and so they set to work to invent a Demiurge, a Bathos, a Pleroma, and other hypotheses which as hypotheses have gone the way of all brain cobwebs. The orthodox East clung, however, to the conception of the Logos either as ἐνδιάθετος, as before creation, or προφορικός, as going forth in creation. It was this Logos doctrine which carried the East safely through all the labyrinths of thought, as well on the subject of creation as of redemption. Thanks to the preface to St. John’s Gospel, that most precious jewel of God’s word, the arcanum of arcana, all was explicated, and the bald dualism of God and matter bridged over, or rather absorbed in that higher Monism in which the Eternal is ever proceeding forth through the Logos and entering into time relations, and so delighting in the habitable parts of the earth.
The Kenosis, then, which is the key to the Incarnation, is also the key to our conception of God in creation. The Eternal Father is ever communicating, in condescending love through the Son, some of His perfections to those lower orders of being whom we call His creatures. It is His nature and property so to create in condescension or self-emptying, much in the same way as it is the nature and property of the sun to shed his effulgent beams out into space. Kenosis, then, as much in creation as in redemption, at once suggests the key to what we go on to describe as the self-effacement of the Divine in a human consciousness. God spoke by the prophets so the Creed affirms; but we are nowhere asked to define the mystery, or to go into psychological puzzles as to the meeting point of human and God consciousness; nor does the Divine imply a temporary suspension of ordinary self-consciousness. We find in Christ the human was so absorbed by the Divine, that on one occasion when the disciples said, ” Master, eat,” His reply, was ” My meat is to do my Father’s will, and to finish His work.” In His case we must assume perfect simplicity and entire transparency of character. Hence, that He should forget hunger and thirst in the absorbing spirit of His work, is what much lower minds than the Christ attain to every day. But the Kenosis goes farther than this; it implies that He emptied Himself of His glory, and took a servant form. If this had been only in His Incarnation, and for three short years, then it would seem a unique, perhaps incredible mystery. But the Logos has been ever so emptying Himself. It is self-abasement, exinanition of the full glory of Godhead, when He paints the lily, and fits an insect’s eye to the tiny operations of the insect world. Hence it is that, to mere Deism with its design and argument, it seems perplexing to find perfection from the least to the greatest of God’s works. The notion of condescension in the Most High, that He ” humbleth Himself to behold the things which are done in heaven and earth,” seems strange to Deism, to whom humility seems only the shadow of the cross; and that is ” foolishness,” as we know, to the mere natural man. On these grounds we see that unless we set out with this key-word Kenosis, we shall never unravel the mysteries either of creation, redemption, or of that mode of communicating the mind of God to men which we define as inspiration. But this one master-key opens all these three locks. It is the same Logos who is the link in creation between the finite and Infinite, whose goings forth in redemption are that He has become one flesh with us that we may become one spirit with Him, and who is also the source of the old prophetic fire, the one fountain of light and love in inspiration.
The mistake in theology has been the same as in science, by isolating a single truth, and then to try and wrestle with it as with Proteus, and to wring its meaning out in single-handed fight. The sciences will not thus be won by direct assault. Their flank must be turned. In laying a subject aside and in thinking of some other thing, a side light will sometimes enter the mind, and one theory thus open the door to another. So Newton found it, as he passed from one theory of physics, where his calculations had failed him, to another theory of optics; and, after exploring the one domain, he was able to re-enter the other as conqueror, and to hold his ground there. It is the same in theology. Inspiration and the Incarnation throw light on each other; and now that we have got hold of the Incarnation by the right aspect, in the phrase of the Kenosis, it will be strange if we cannot use the same conception to lead us on to the right meaning of inspiration. In the Kenosis of Christ’s person we hold that the wisdom and goodness of God dwelt in Him bodily. In no mere Apollinarian sense (though Apollinarianism is not such a heresy as it seems) the wisdom and goodness of the Logos dwelt in the man Christ Jesus, and were to Him His Pneuma. When we speak of a human pneuma we are using words with no meaning; we are like the disciples on the Mount, not knowing what we say. The Pneuma itself is the Divine inherent in the human; it is itself a prophecy of the Incarnation – the ground and sufficient cause of the Incarnation becoming credible and intelligible, and not a mere mystery jarring to all our sense of truth. In our Lord Jesus the Christ, a Messianic element was the plenary indwelling of the Holy Ghost, not given to Him by measure as to other sons of men. But this does not imply either omniscience or omnipotence. These are attributes of pure Deity, which must be, and were, laid aside when He emptied Himself of His glory; and if equal to the Father as touching His Godhead, He became inferior to the Father as touching His manhood. Under false reverence to shrink from this frank confession of the Kenosis, is to fail to grasp the true meaning of the Incarnation. This is why, as observed already, the popular orthodox view is still Eutychian, and explains the outcry of some hyper-orthodox champions of the old school at the measured and well-weighed words of Mr. Gore in the Lux Mundi on the subject. That they were an offence at all, is an index of the depth of popular ignorance of the true Catholic doctrine of the Incarnation. Till the Kenosis is understood, the Incarnation must remain an unassimilated dogma.
It is the same with inspiration. It also stands apart among unassimilated faith formulas until we see that the Divine can only enter the human by some act of condescension. Accommodation is the old phrase. Men say that God accommodates His teaching to the imperfect faculties and immature judgments of men. At a low stage of culture He meets them with animal sacrifices and rites and ceremonies which to us seem burdensome. As the ages advance, He lightens the burden of ritual-teaching, becomes more oral and less ocular, and at last the prophet and scribe supersede the priest altogether. Even Judaism had reached the Rabbinic stage before Christ’s coming. And how strange a decline it was when Christ’s religion sank back again into the beggarly elements, and the commemoration of His death in the Eucharist feast was lowered again into a repetition of the type after the antitype, and described as the sacrifice of the Mass! We must go on to see in inspiration these advancing stages through accommodation, or else we shall never understand the Bible as a book human and Divine. To throw all the books into pie, so to speak, and read them in a lump, finding the Trinity in Gen. xix. and the doctrine of the Mass in Malachi, this is that kind of uncritical use of the Bible which we need not waste time in exposing. It is too out of date to find excuse for it in the uncritical use of the Old Testament by the Fathers of the early Church. Inspiration, in a word, is the unfolding purpose of God for the education of the race through a chosen people, that people themselves only learning the mind of God through an elect race of prophets and teachers. Thus, within the election there is an election, and the prophets themselves had to search what and what manner of time the Spirit of God which was in them did signify. They had to grope, in a word, after the meaning of their own sayings. They uttered dark sayings of old, because God-consciousness always enters in at first to dim self-consciousness, and a man inspired must be for that very reason in a sense beside himself, though always ” sober for your sake.” Inspiration was always much more than mere mantic phrenzy, we admit, though it often seemed to approach the dangerous limits between sanity and insanity.
High views of inspiration are generally assumed by devout people to indicate high views of God and His glory. In reverence for His word written our views cannot be too high, just as our reverence for the person of the Lord Jesus. Only in both cases we are to avoid the Eutychian extreme, much more common among the orthodox than the Nestorian. Two natures exist in one person; but the natures are, since the Incarnation, so fused and intermingled that He is no longer twain but one Christ; this is orthodox theology with regard to our Lord Jesus, who objects to the expression the indwelling of the Eternal Word in the man Christ. For the same reason we should be content to speak of the book as ” containing ” the word of God. By that expression we mean that in that library which we call the canon, every book has its place and purpose: each is part of a whole; and if, to us, some part seems insignificant, it is because we fail to see organic unity. It is as with our body, in which some members seem more honourable than others, but all are tempered together and bear reference to the whole. Such is inspiration. As to the literature of the canon, there are certain rights of criticism which have their place, but they are quite subordinate to and apart from the spiritual use of the Bible as a book of devotion. On that point Canon Driver has taken his stand on strong ground. He is within his rights as a Canon of Christ Church and Hebrew Professor to discuss and to deal with the Palestinian as much as with the Alexandrian Jew’s revision of the canon. He may show grounds, if there are any, why the most negative German critic may be in truer touch with the spirit of the old book than the Masoretic or any other Hebrew school of the older criticism. But he must not forget, as the negative school too often do, that the onus of proof lies with those who advance novelties. Presumption is always in favour of the occupying holder, since possession is nine points of the law. Some of our younger critics, in the first flush of excitement, forget that it is easier to assert than to prove. Negation becomes thus quite as dogmatic and far more offensive than the old traditionalism, which maintains that a position must be true because it is long established. There is, we admit, an immense presumption in its favour, since the general shut up in a garrison with ten thousand men may expect to hold his ground till another with twenty thousand men comes against him.
But, like Canon Driver, we draw our line at the literature of the Bible. Libros Canonicos ad leones is a modern version of the Christianos ad leones. Let the young lions of criticism work their will on the letter of the record, and we fearlessly say that what remains after negation has done its worst is that ” word of the Lord which liveth and abideth for ever.” To us, for instance, this new phrase, the Hexateuch, is as unimportant as the old phrase Pentateuch: it seems like pulling down one house of cards to set up another. If the orthodox had not been so ill-advised as to fall into Bibliolatry, this kind of attack would have never been made. It was the same when the old orthodox school were Creationists, and evolution seemed to set aside the hand of God and the necessity for a first cause. But as soon as the defence ceased the attack died down; and so it will be with much of this itching ear for the last novelty of negative criticism. As soon as it ceases to alarm by our taking higher ground of inspiration than the old school did, so soon will it sink into the contempt it deserves. The archives of Israel are historical documents, and therefore must go to the school of history there to be tested in the usual way. To fear the result is to show very little faith. If the New Testament canon has come out of the fires of criticism, what have we to fear for the Old? We shall no doubt have to give up something, especially the uncritical order and ground on which Jerome arranged the Vulgate, borrowing partly from the Hebrew and partly from the Greek arrangement of the books, putting them out of their true order, which was mainly chronological, and so giving fictitious importance to some semi- canonical books, such as Daniel and Koheleth, which were probably of later date than their eponymic authors, and among the Antilegomena.
All this will soon be over, and then inspiration will be seen to be a growing truth; and that as Jesus increased in body, soul, and spirit, so there is harmonious orderly growth of the letter and spirit of the Bible. In all the books there is a theopneustic element, the test of which is that it is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness. The Didaché, in a word, is elenchus, or evidence internal of its truth; this leads on to Paideia, or education, and that established state which he fitly describes as ἐπανόρθωσις, or maturity in the faith.
Reformation Theology: The Continuing Struggle with Poor Dogma
Posted by Dallas Wolf in First Thoughts, Theology on April 27, 2026
I write this post using only direct quotes from two theologians, one American and one English. They both wrote in the late 19th century. Their concerns were similar. Their points of view were similar. Alexander V.G. Allen was a professor of Theology at Harvard. John B. Heard was a British clergyman and graduate/lecturer at Cambridge University, England. These were not theological lightweights.
I chose to address this topic with nothing but quotes from 130 years ago to highlight the fact that precious little has changed in the theological standoff festering openly in the Western Latin Christian Church since the Protestant Reformation of 1517. Both sides seem content to continue to die, generation after generation, seemingly oblivious (or more probably, willfully ignorant) of their error.
“Are we prepared to discard dogma, and to return to primitive doctrine? Are we prepared to allow that theology, ever since the fourth century, took a wrong turn, and, in the West especially, has since gone from bad to worse, until dogmatism wrought its own overthrow at the revolt of Luther? Then, in a fit of short-sighted panic, the Reformers became more scholastic than the Schoolmen, and so it has come down to our day, in which the extreme peril of the situation is at last opening thoughtful men’s eyes to see where the real danger lies.”1
“To Augustine, the Church, as the keeper and witness to Holy Writ, was the final authority; but the Reformers, in breaking with the Church, and so far parting company with the one Church Father whom they cared even to quote, had to set up some ultimate authority. This to them was the Bible… It was not so much the first as the second generation of the Reformers who set up a theory of inspiration as a new court of final appeal with which to combat Church authority.”2
“[Protestant Reformer John] Calvin’s theology is drawn, or professes to be drawn, exclusively from Scripture. The Bible, as he defined and understood it, is the cornerstone of his system. He had no respect for Luther’s view of Scripture as the mirror of the religious experience of humanity, nor for Zwingle’s view of a “word of God” in the soul by which man judges the value of the written word. He denied the position of the Latin church, that the Bible was given and attested by the authority of the hierarchy, or the continuous existence of the episcopate. According to Calvin, God reveals Himself to man through the book by the power of the Holy Spirit. Man was incapable of knowing himself or knowing God, except by this revelation. Revelation, as given in the book, is a communication from God to man, supernaturally imparted, apart from the action of the consciousness or reason; Calvin speaks at times of the human writer as an amanuensis only of the Spirit. He does not, therefore, presume to criticise the canon or its formation; the Bible is received as one whole, as it has come down through the ages. There is no other revelation except that which God made to the Jewish people through the Old Testament, and to the Christian world through the New.”3
“…those who broke away from the bondage of an infallible [Latin] Church only did so to set up the second bondage to an infallible Book, taken literally to teach all that men need to know of their origin in the past and of their destiny in the future.”4
“We have then to show that, besides Augustinianism proper, there is the popular Protestantism of a book religion which calls for careful restatement.”5
- Heard, John B. Alexandrian and Carthaginian Theology Contrasted. T & T Clark, Edinburgh, 1893. pp. 252, 253. ↩︎
- ibid., p. 261 ↩︎
- Allen, Alexander V. G. The Continuity of Christian Thought: A Study of Modern Theology in the Light of its History. Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., 1884. pp. 298, 299. ↩︎
- Heard, p. 260 ↩︎
- Heard, p. 262 ↩︎
Western Latin Theology; My “Doxa”
Posted by Dallas Wolf in First Thoughts, Theology on April 25, 2026
Western Latin Theology – My Doxa (i.e., private opinion)
The prevailing Western Latin Theology of Augustine, Anselm, and Aquinas (A3), and doubled-down by Calvin, is largely:
- Un-revealed (i.e., natural theology)
- Un-helpful
- Un-fortunate
It seems to me that Western Christians “become communicants in the divine nature“1 through divinization (theosis) in spite of their official institutional theology; not because of it.
A more supportive, complementary theology is to be found in the ancient Christian East, not in the modern Latin West.
- Hart, David Bentley, The New Testament, A Translation, 2nd Ed. Yale University Press, New London, 2023. 2 Peter 1:4, p. 473. ↩︎
How did the meaning of the Greek word δόξα (dóxa) shift from “private opinion” to “glory”?
Posted by Dallas Wolf in Ancient Christian Manuscripts, First Thoughts, Patristic Pearls on April 1, 2026
The Greek word dóxa shifted from “opinion” to “glory” through a historical semantic expansion driven largely by the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible. In classical Greek it meant “what seems,” “appearance,” or “belief,” but in Jewish and early Christian Greek it came to express the radiant, weighty presence of God.
Here’s how that transformation happened:
1. The Original Meaning: “What Seems / Opinion”
In early and classical Greek, δόξα comes from the verb δοκεῖν (“to seem, to appear, to think”). It referred to: personal opinion, common belief, reputation (good or bad). Philosophers like Plato used dóxa to contrast mere belief with true knowledge (epistēmē).
2. The Septuagint Shift: Translating Hebrew kavod
The decisive change occurred between the 3rd and 1st centuries BCE, when Jewish scholars translated the Hebrew Bible into Greek (the Septuagint).
Hebrew כָּבוֹד (kavod) means: “weight,” “substance,” and metaphorically “glory,” “honor,” “radiance,” especially of God.”
The translators chose δόξα as the Greek equivalent.
This was a semantic leap: kavod had no connection to “opinion.” But dóxa was the closest Greek term that could express public esteem or reputation, which overlaps with “glory.” As a result, dóxa absorbed the theological weight of kavod.
3. Early Christian Usage: “Glory” Becomes Primary
Because the Septuagint was the Old Testament Bible of the early Church, the new meaning spread rapidly. In the New Testament and Christian liturgy: dóxa overwhelmingly means glory, especially divine glory. It becomes associated with: radiance, majesty, honor, praise.
This usage became so dominant that the older sense (“opinion”) nearly disappeared from religious Greek.
Philological sources note that dóxa came to mean “glory” especially in Hellenistic and Christian Greek, while still retaining its older philosophical sense in some contexts.
J.B. Heard: The Afterthoughts of St. Augustine
Posted by Dallas Wolf in Ekklesia and church, First Thoughts, Heaven and Hell, Theology on March 19, 2026
Rev. John Bickford Heard (28 Oct 1828 – 29 Feb 1908) was born in Dublin, Ireland. He was a British clergyman and graduate/lecturer at Cambridge University (M.A. 1864). His series of lectures at the Cambridge Hulsean Lectures of 1892-93 served as the basis of his book, Alexandrian and Carthaginian Theology Contrasted, published by T&T Clark, Edinburgh, in 1893. Excerpt below is from this work:
“To discuss all these afterthoughts of theology, sin and salvation, heaven, hell, and purgatory, grace and its two channels, faith and the sacraments, would be to write the history of Augustinianism in its many phases.”
David Bentley Hart: Romans 5:12 “… one of the most consequential mistranslations in Christian history.”
Posted by Dallas Wolf in Ancient Christian Manuscripts, Christian Anthropology -East & West (Series), Ekklesia and church, First Thoughts, New Nuggets on March 18, 2026

David Bentley Hart (born 1965) is an American Orthodox Christian philosophical theologian, cultural commentator and polemicist. An acknowledged expert in koine Greek and New Testament exegesis, Hart published his own translation of the New Testament from Greek. Hart’s Greek basis for translation is grounded in “the so-called Critical Text, which is based on earlier and different manuscript sources (such as those of the Alexandrian Text-type)… but also included a great many verses and phrases found only in the Majority Text [Byzantine Text-type] (placing them in brackets to set them off from the Critical Text).”
See The New Testament – A Translation, by David Bentley Hart, Second Edition, Yale University Press, (C) 2017, 2023.
Romans 5:12
English: “Therefore, just as sin entered into the cosmos through one man, and death through sin, so also death pervaded all humanity, whereupon all sinned;”[1]
Greek: Διὰ τοῦτο ὥσπερ δι᾽ ἑνος ἀνθρώπου ἡ ἁμαρτὶα εἰς τὸν κόσμον εἰσῆλθεν καὶ διὰ τῆς ἁμαρτίας ὁ θὰνατος, καὶ οὕτως εἰς πάντας ἀνθρώπους ὁ θὰνατος διῆλθεν, ἐφ᾽ ᾧ πὰντες ἥμαρτον.
Transcription: Dia touto hōsper di’ henos anthrōpou hē hamartias eis to kosmon eisēlthen kai dia tēs hamartias ho thanatos, kai houtōs eis pantas anthrōpous ho thanatos diēlthen, eph’ hōi pantes hēmarton.
A fairly easy verse to follow until one reaches the final four words, whose precise meaning is already obscure, and whose notoriously defective rendering in the Latin Vulgate (in quo omnes peccaverunt) constitutes one of the most consequential mistranslations in Christian history. The phrase ἐφ᾽ ᾧ (eph’ hōi) is not some kind of simple adverbial formula like the διὰ τοῦτο (dia touto) (“therefore”) with which the verse begins; literally, ἐφ᾽ ᾧ means “upon which,” “whereupon,” but how to understand this is a matter of some debate. Typically, as the pronoun ᾧ is dative masculine, it would be referred back to the most immediate prior masculine noun, which in this case is θάνατος (thanatos), “death,” and would be taken to mean (correctly, I believe) that the consequence of death spreading to all human beings is that all became sinners. The standard Latin version of the verse makes this reading impossible, for two reasons: first, it retains the masculine gender of the pronoun (quo) but renders θάνατος by the feminine noun mors, thus severing any connection that Paul might have intended between them; second, it uses the preposition in, which when paired with the ablative means “within.” Hence what became the standard reading of the verse in much of Western theology after the late fourth century: “in whom [i.e., Adam] all sinned.” This is the locus classicus of the Western Christian notion of original guilt—the idea that in some sense all human beings had sinned in Adam, and that therefore everyone is born already damnably guilty in the eyes of God—a logical and moral paradox that Eastern tradition was spared by its knowledge of Greek. Paul speaks of death and sin as a kind of contagion here, a disease with which all are born; and elsewhere he describes it as a condition like civil enslavement to an unjust master, from which we must be “redeemed” with a manumission fee; but never as an inherited condition of criminal culpability. It has become more or less standard to render ἐφ᾽ ᾧ as “inasmuch as” or “since,” thus suggesting that death spread to all because all sinned. But this reading seems to make little sense: not only does it evacuate the rest of the verse of its meaning, but it is contradicted just below by v. 14, where Paul makes it clear that the universal reign of death takes in both those who have sinned and those who have not. Other interpretations take the ἐφ᾽ ᾧ as referring back to Adam, not as in the Latin mistranslation but in the sense that all have sinned “because of” the first man; this, though, fails to honor the point Paul seems obviously to be making about the intimate connection between the disease of death and the contagion of sin (and vice versa). The most obvious and, I think, likely reading is that, in this verse, a parallelism (something for which Paul has such a marked predilection) is given in a chiastic form: just as sin entered into the cosmos and introduced death into all its members, so the contagion of death spread into the whole of humanity and introduced sin into all its members. This, as we see in Romans and elsewhere, is for Paul the very dynamism of death and sin that is reversed in Christ: by his triumphant righteousness he introduced eternal life into the cosmos, and so as that life spreads into the whole of humanity it makes all righteous (as in vv. 15–19 below, or as in 1 Corinthians 15:20–28).[2]
[1] Hart, David Bentley. The New Testament: A Translation (p.296). Yale University Press. 2017
[2] ibid., p.319
Codex Sinaiticus: “God is love”
Posted by Dallas Wolf in Ancient Christian Manuscripts, First Thoughts, Theology on March 9, 2026
Modern Greek: Ὁ θεὸς ἀγάπη ἐστίν
English: God is love (from 1 John 4:8)
Codex Sinaiticus ca. AD 350
British Museum, London
The “God is love” graphic, above, is copied from the Codex Sinaiticus. Codex Sinaiticus is a manuscript of the Christian Bible written in the middle of the fourth century and contains the earliest complete copy of the Christian New Testament. The name ‘Codex Sinaiticus’ literally means ‘the Sinai Book’. The hand-written text is in Greek. The New Testament appears in the original vernacular language (koine) and the Old Testament in the version known as the Septuagint (LXX, ca. 130 B.C.), that was adopted by early Greek-speaking Christians. Codex Sinaiticus is one of only four great codices that have survived to the present day. They are written in a certain uncial (broad single-stroke letters using simple round forms) style of calligraphy using only majuscule (capital) letters, written in scriptio continua (meaning without regular gaps or spaces between words). Words do not necessarily end on the same line on which they start. All four of these manuscripts were made at great expense in material and labor, written on parchment or velum (animal skins) by professional scribes. All four of the Great Codices are Alexandrian text-type manuscripts.
‘Codex’ means ‘book’. By the time Codex Sinaiticus was written, works of literature were increasingly written on sheets that were folded and bound together in the form that we still use today. This book format was steadily replacing the roll format which was more widespread just a century before. These rolls were made of animal skin (like most of the Dead Sea Scrolls) or the papyrus plant (commonly used for Greek and Latin literature). Using the papyrus codex was a distinctive feature of early Christian culture. The pages of Codex Sinaiticus, however, are made of animal skin parchment. This marks it out as standing at an important transition in book history. Before it we see many examples of Greek and Latin texts on papyrus roll or papyrus codex, but almost no traces of parchment codices. After it, the parchment codex becomes the norm.
In Christian scribal practice, nomina sacra is the abbreviation of frequently used divine names or titles, especially in Greek manuscripts of the Bible. A nomen sacrum consists of two or more letters from the original word spanned by an overline; in the case of the Sinaiticus graphic, above, the theta and sigma are the first and last letters in the Greek word Theos, or God.
Dostoyevsky: “… all-embracing love.”
Posted by Dallas Wolf in First Thoughts, Heaven and Hell, New Nuggets, Theology, Universal Restoration (Apokatastasis) on March 6, 2026
Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821 – 1881) – Russian novelist, short story writer, essayist, journalist, and philosopher.

“Love [people] even in [their] sin, for that is the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on earth. Love all God’s creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God’s light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you have perceived it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-embracing love.”
—Fyodor Dostoyevsky, from The Brothers Karamazov
St. Gregory Of Nyssa: “Daily” Bread in the Lord’s Prayer? Not so fast!
Posted by Dallas Wolf in First Thoughts, Patristic Pearls, The Cappadocians, Theology on September 12, 2025
In the Lord’s Prayer, the petition for our “daily bread” is normally understood to signify all of our bodily needs and whatever we require to sustain our lives in this world. The Greek Patristic Fathers knew that the koine Greek word translated as “daily” is a unique term “ἐπιούσιον” (epiousion), which is only used in the New Testament Lord’s Prayer. This indicates that the word had special significance, as there were any number of other common Greek words to express the idea of “daily”. Epiousion literally means “needful”, “essential”, “super-substantial”, or “super-essential”. Understood in that sense, it takes on the more spiritual meaning of the nourishment of our souls by the Word of God, Jesus Christ who is the “Bread of Life;” the “Bread of God which has come down from heaven and given life to the world” (Jn 6.33–36); the bread which “a man may eat of it and not die,” but “live forever” (Jn 6.50–51). Thus the prayer for “daily bread” becomes the petition for daily spiritual nourishment through abiding communion with Christ so that one might live perpetually with God.
Origen of Alexandria and Gregory of Nyssa are two examples of early (3rd and 4th century) Church Fathers who contributed significantly to the understanding of the unique word epiousion; both interpreting it as referring to the spiritual sustenance provided by God, emphasizing the need for divine support in daily life.
With that introduction, here is what St. Gregory of Nyssa (335 – 395) had to say about it:
From: Ancient Christian Writers, No.18. Edited by Johannes Quasten and Joseph C. Plumpe. St. Gregory of Nyssa, The Lord’s Prayer – The Beatitudes, Trans. and annotated by Hilda C. Graef, 1954 Newman Press. Pp. 68-70
Excerpt from:
SERMON 4 Thy Will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily [ἐπιούσιον (epiousion)] bread.
Full of meaning is also the addition of this day [σήμερον (sémeron)], when He says: Give us this day our daily [ἐπιούσιον (epiousion)] bread. These words contain yet another teaching. For you should learn through what you say that the human life is but the life of a day. Only the present each one of us can call his own; the hope of the future is uncertain, for we know not what the day to come may bring forth. Why then do we make ourselves miserable worrying about the future? He says, Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof, evil here meaning the enduring of evil. Why are we disturbed about the morrow? By the very fact that He gives you the commandment for today, He forbids you to be solicitous for the morrow. He says to you as it were: He who gives you the day will give you also the things necessary for the day. Who causes the sun to rise? Who makes the darkness of the night disappear? Who shows you the rays of light? Who revolves the sky so that the source of light is above the earth? Does He who gives you so great things need your help to supply for the needs of your flesh? Do animals take care for their livelihood? Do ravens have tilled land or eagles barns? Is not the one means of providing a livelihood for all the Will of God, by which all things are governed? Therefore even an ox or an ass, or any other animal is taught its way of life by instinct, and it manages the present well but does not concern itself in the least with what comes afterwards. And should we need special advisers in order to understand that the life of the flesh is perishable and transitory? Are we not taught by the misfortunes of others, not chastened by those of our own life?
What profits this rich man his wealth? Like a fool he chases vain hopes, pulling down, building up, hoarding and dissipating, shutting up long periods of years as it were in barns, without letting them bear fruit. Will not one night prove false all these imagined hopes, like some vain dream about a nonentity? The life of the body belongs only to the present, but that which lies beyond us and is apprehended by hope belongs to the soul. Yet men in their folly are quite wrong about the use of either; they would extend their physical lives by hope, and draw the life of the soul towards enjoyment of the present. Therefore the soul is occupied by the world of sense and necessarily estranged from the subsisting reality of hope. What hope it has leans upon unstable things over which it has no control or authority.
Let us therefore learn from the counsel under consideration what one must ask for today, and what for later. Bread is for our use today; the Kingdom belongs to the beatitude for which we hope. By bread He means all our bodily requirements. If we ask for this, the man who prays will clearly understand that he is occupied with something transitory; but if we ask for something of the good things of the soul it will be clear that the petition concerns the everlasting realities, for which He commands us to be most concerned in our prayers. Thus the first necessity is put in its right place by the greater one. Seek ye, He says, the kingdom and justice, and all these things shall be added unto you; in Christ Jesus Our Lord, to whom be glory and power for ever and ever. Amen.
Original Greek words used by Nyssen are in brackets []. From: Gregorii Nysseni, De Oratione Dominica, De Beatitudinibus, Edidit Johannes F. Callahan, 1992 E.J. Brill. P. 56
When Glory Explodes the Forms: Doxology, Faith, and the Exorcism of Epistemology
Posted by Dallas Wolf in First Thoughts, New Nuggets, Theology on July 14, 2025
![]() by John Stamps* Δόξα Πατρὶ καὶ Υἱῷ καὶ Ἁγίῳ Πνεύματι . . . I was paying attention in church last Sunday—really, I was. But when Fr. Nebojša intoned: “Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, both now and always and unto the ages of ages,” a strange Platonic thought hijacked my brain. Socrates wouldn’t understand a word of this. For him, doxa meant “opinion.” The Father has an opinion? The Son too? And the Holy Spirit? Three divine “opinions”? Socrates would be horrified. In Book VI of The Republic, he blurts out: “Have you not observed that opinions (doxai) divorced from knowledge (episteme) are ugly things? The best of them are blind.” (506c) Already, he’d be reaching for the hemlock. But it gets worse. At St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church, when we recite the Nicene Creed—first in Greek, then in English—we fervently confess: Πιστεύω εἰς ἕνα Θεὸν Πατέρα παντοκράτορα . . . “I believe in one God, the Father Almighty.” Or, more provocatively—and more Christianly—“I put my trust in one God, the Father Almighty.” Once again, Socrates would be scandalized. Pistis? Mere belief? Conviction at best? And you’re going to stake that on ultimate reality? Pistis may rise above illusion (eikasia), but it’s still fog—not the clear light of truth. Surely the divine deserves better. Surely epistēmē—solid, demonstrable knowledge—is the true coin of the metaphysical realm. To entrust pistis with the highest things would be like trying to buy eternity with Monopoly money. For Plato, pistis belongs low on the Divided Line—just above eikasia (imagination and shadows), and well below epistēmē. It’s trust in what we can see and touch, but without glimpsing the hidden reality behind it—the invisible Forms that give things their true meaning. Pistis is for the unphilosophical. The half-blind. The cave-dwellers huddled in the cave who mistake sensible things for what is really real. But Christian theology flips the entire Platonic ladder upside down. From Doxa to Glory For Socrates, doxa means “opinion”—an unreliable, subjective mental state. But in Christian liturgy, doxa is glory: not mental conjecture but the radiant, overwhelming presence of the living God. Doxa is Moses taking off his shoes before the burning bush. Doxa is Moses descending Sinai with a face that glows because he got too close to raw holiness. Doxa is the Word made flesh, full of grace and truth, dwelling among us. Doxa is not conjecture. It’s encounter. Somewhere between the Hebrew Bible and the Septuagint, doxa got an upgrade. And this raises a linguistic and theological mystery: How did the Hebrew word כָּבוֹד (kavod—weight, substance, heaviness, splendor) become doxa (opinion) in Greek? The Septuagint translators had choices. And their choice changed Christian theology forever. From Pistis to Trust In the New Testament, pistis is not an epistemic crutch. It is relational trust, covenant loyalty, and a faithful response to a God who reveals Himself not in abstractions but in history, flesh, and self-giving love. Far from being a lower form of knowledge, pistis becomes the primary way humans recognize and respond to divine glory—a deeper, riskier kind of knowing, grounded in love, testimony, and encounter. For Socrates, by contrast, pistis was barely a step above guesswork—an uncritical belief in the physical world, just above imagination (eikasia) and far below true knowledge (epistēmē). It belonged to the realm of opinion (doxa) and was reserved for the half-blind dwellers in the cave. But in the New Testament, pistis becomes something far more daring. It echoes the Hebrew word emunah (אֱמוּנָה): steadfast trust, covenant faithfulness, unwavering reliability. Christian faith isn’t vague optimism. It’s not mere intellectual assent or rearranging our mental furniture. Pistis is not a foggy feeling or private conviction. It is existential trust. It is covenantal loyalty. It is Semper Fi!— our fidelity to the God who speaks, acts, and keeps His promises and our willingness to stake everything on His trustworthiness. Faith is stepping out onto the water like Peter because Jesus said, “Come.” Faith is betting everything on the God who delivered Israel from Pharaoh’s tyranny and raised Jesus from the dead. Or, as Robert Jenson once put it: “God is whoever raised Jesus from the dead, having before raised Israel from Egypt.” This is how Christians reliably identify and name God: by His acts of faithfulness. And pistis is our answering act of trust and faithfulness in return. From Eikasia to Icon Images are tricky. Plato had his reasons to be suspicious. He especially distrusted imitative images—whether in poetry, painting, or shadowplay—because they were seductive lies, copies of copies, that lured the soul away from truth and down into the flickering cave of illusion. Teenagers glued to their 300-DPI iPhone screens aren’t so different from the cave-dwellers in The Republic, staring at shadows on the wall, mistaking illusion for reality. That’s why Plato wanted the image-makers banished from the ideal city. For him, images were not innocent—they were propaganda, simulacra, distortions. In his metaphysics, images were the lowest of the low. But Christian theology tells a different story. Scripture gives us strong reasons to trust—not all images, but certain ones—as truth-bearing windows into reality. First, just look at yourself in the mirror—warts and all. You are the imago Dei. Look at your spouse, your children, your friends. Knock on your neighbor’s door with cookies or a bottle of wine. Hand $20 to a homeless person. Pray for—and forgive—your bitterest enemy. Why this exercise? Because every one of them is the imago Dei. They are the spitting image of God. This is where Christian theology begins: with the startling claim that human beings are made in the image and likeness of God. We bear the weight of glory. This image (εἰκών) is not falsehood. It is truth-bearing. It carries the imprint of the Creator. The image is not a pale copy—it participates in the reality it reflects. This image is a site where divine glory dwells. Second, when the Word became flesh, God’s image wasn’t entering alien territory. The Incarnation is not some bizarre intrusion into a world God otherwise keeps at arm’s length. It is the culmination of God’s long purpose for creation: that divine glory would dwell bodily within it. The Incarnation is no invasion. The kosmos belongs to the Lord, and the fullness thereof. Third, Jesus of Nazareth is the Image-Bearer par excellence. He looks just like us. That God was one of us is the scandal at the heart of the Christian confession. And yet . . . the One in whom all the fullness of God dwells (Colossians 2:9) looks so much like us that we don’t recognize Him. Familiarity breeds contempt and generates its own kind of blindness. Glory walks right past us wearing dusty sandals. But if we have eyes to behold the mystery, Jesus—crucified, risen, and ascended—is the true Image (εἰκών) of the invisible God (Colossians 1:15). Not a photocopy. Not a metaphor. Not a shadow. He is one of us—bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh. And yet He reveals God to us fully and truly. We Orthodox insist on this incarnational truth: images matter because the Image matters. To celebrate this, we wallpaper our churches with icons—not as decoration, but as theological proclamation. Icons are not aesthetic accessories. They are visual participation in divine reality. Icons reveal. They manifest. They make present. They proclaim what words alone cannot say. Why do we venerate icons? Because images, rightly ordered, are truth-bearing. Because the Image became flesh and dwelt among us. And because, through Christ, we too are being transfigured—from glory to glory—into the image of God. For us, seeing is not believing lies. Seeing is encountering glory. Epistemology Needs an Exorcism My old philosophy professor, Nicholas Wolterstorff, used to warn us: “Ever since Plato, the Western world has been haunted by the lure of certitude.” And he’s right. That ghost still lingers. We need an exorcism. We need to turn epistemology into doxology. Or more precisely: episteme-logos into doxo-logos. Once you’re bewitched by epistemology and the certainty it promises, it’s hard to break the spell. You start—and you end—by measuring all truth, including theological truth, by mental clarity, logical deduction, and timeless abstraction. But Trinitarian doxology and the Nicene Creed don’t just challenge Greek epistemology—they scandalize it. We can’t start with clear and distinct ideas. We must begin with faithful witness. We begin where we actually encounter the glory of God. The Father who speaks. The Son who acts. The Spirit who breathes. Three Persons. One God. Doxology—not detached speculation—is the engine that drives Christian theology. To the Greek philosophical mind—fixated on unchanging forms, impersonal absolutes, and epistemic certainty—this kind of God-talk sounds like theological madness. A God who speaks? Acts? Loves? Suffers? Raises the dead? So yes—we fumble and stumble for the right words. Apophatic theology rightly reminds us that God always exceeds our categories and language. But that doesn’t mean we stay silent. Christian speech begins in worship—yes, in doxology—and in the risky act of saying something true about the God who cannot be contained. Let the Platonists chase certainty . . . we behold glory. For the life of me, I still don’t fully understand how kavod—a word of weight and substance—became doxa, a word that once meant “opinion.” But the Septuagint translators had choices. And their choice opened the door for Christian theology to do something the ancient philosophers never saw coming. Faithful God-talk begins not with control, but with wonder. Not with clarity, but with trust. Not with epistemic mastery, but with doxology. We speak because God has spoken. We bear witness because doxa showed up in history, and refused to stay abstract. We dare to name the Unnameable because the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth . . . and we beheld His glory. Let the Platonists chase their Forms, the Cartesians polish their clear and distinct ideas, and the positivists flatten everything into data. And yes, let the American Fundamentalists obsess over the inerrancy of the original autographs—those long-lost parchments that somehow guarantee perfect doctrine, if only we squint hard enough. Scripture, for them, isn’t the living voice that calls us into communion, but a cosmic answer key dropped from heaven. The lure of certitude is still a mirage. We will not lose our nerve. We will render doxa to the God who acts— Who speaks, Who raises the dead, Who walks through our kosmos with dusty feet and scandalous grace. . . . καὶ νῦν καὶ ἀεὶ καὶ εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας τῶν αἰώνων. Ἀμήν. ![]() * * *John Stamps is Senior Technical Writer at Guidewire Software in San Mateo, California. He holds a BA in Greek from Abilene Christian University, an MDiv from Princeton Theological Seminary, and pursued further study in the philosophy of religion at Yale Divinity School—just long enough to accrue debt and existential questions. He attends St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church in San Jose, is married to the long-suffering Shelly Houston Stamps, plays mediocre tennis with misplaced confidence, and speaks Spanish that routinely scandalizes native speakers and small children. |


