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| Year of Faith - Icon, Crete |
COMMENT:
The very popular Letter of St. Ignattius of
Antioch gives me the idea of a compulsive writer. It is even more compulsive in
the ‘distraction’ to his pending martyrdom.
How explain compulsion of writing by unlikely so
many authors?
I should be asking, ‘how explain this Blog
writing?’ Does it serve a therapy or a hobby or any other purpose?
The interest comes to the fore, as e.g., today’s
connection to know more on the Seven Letters of Ignatius.
Donald
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The Letters of Ignatius of Antioch
The Letters of
Ignatius of Antioch
7. To Polycarp
The significance of these seven letters lies in
their being intimate, familiar, and popular. They do not, in the first
instance, reveal a set of ideas though they are not lacking in thoughtfulness.
Rather they reveal a man. So much of early Christian literature is impersonal
that it is refreshing to stumble upon letters reminiscent of the frank and
personal note of Paul’s correspondence.
The conditions under which Ignatius’ letters
were written did not make for careful reflection. They are the letters of a
prisoner on his way to martyrdom. Their religious character is popular rather
than deep. Their style is compressed and turbulent, reflecting the brusque and
impetuous nature of their author (Trall., ch. 4), as well as the irritation of
a captive subjected to brutality (Rom. 5:1). Their metaphors change with
alarming abruptness, and are often more striking than apt (Eph., ch. 9). Their
grammar is not free from carelessness. Yet for these very reasons they have a
peculiar value. They disclose a real person, expressing himself in the moment
of crisis, and so making clear the ruling passions of his life.
Our knowledge of Ignatius is confined almost
entirely to these letters.
It is only for the few days when he journeys from
Philadelphia to Troas under a military guard that we catch a glimpse of this
early second century bishop.
Ignatius was bishop of Antioch in Syria, and
during a short but intense persecution of that city had been condemned to fight
with wild beasts in Rome. Perhaps others had suffered the same fate, but this
is not altogether clear unless we so interpret the reference in Rom., ch. 10.
In any case, chained to a squad of soldiers, he is taken by the overland route
through Cilicia and Asia Minor, and thence to Rome. Where the way forks at
Laodicea, the northern road is chosen. He halts at Philadelphia, and then again
at Smyrna, where he is welcomed by Polycarp, the bishop of that city, and by
delegates from the neighboring churches of Ephesus, Magnesia, and Tralles. It
is from Smyrna too that he writes the first four of his letters — three to the
churches that had sent delegates and one to the church at Rome. Pressing northward,
he stops again at Troas. From here he corresponds with the churches of Philadelphia
and Smyrna, and adds a personal note to Polycarp. We gather that he crossed by
sea to Neapolis and halted once more at Philippi, where the Christians welcomed
him. After that he passes out of sight. We may, however, conjecture that he
reached Italy by way of Dyrrhacium and Brundisium. Furthermore, we may be
fairly sure that he was eventually martyred in the Coliseum sometime during
Trajan’s reign (A.D. 98–117).
Ignatius’ letters are dominated by three
concerns. First is his approaching martyrdom. To “imitate the Passion of my
God” (Rom. 6:3) is the exclusive theme of the letter to the Romans, but it
underlies the others as well. This, for him, is the way to become a “real
disciple,” a “genuine Christian.” He is clearly impatient to “get to God” by
way of martyrdom; and to brace himself for the ordeal he pictures in startling
detail what this must mean for him (Rom. 5:2, 3). We are not, therefore,
surprised that the same line of thought is reflected in other aspects of the
letters. His theology, for instance, revolves around the blood of Christ (cf.
the striking and compressed thought of Eph. 1:1); and he emphasizes the reality
of Christ’s Passion by pointing to his own imminent death (Smyr. 4:2).
The second concern is for the unity of the
Church. Against threatening schisms, Ignatius is persistent in his stress on
obedience to the Church authorities. In his letters there first emerges the
picture of the local congregation governed by a single bishop who is supported
by a council of presbyters and assisted by deacons. In this Ignatius
demonstrates a stage of development beyond the situation reflected in the New
Testament Epistles, the Didache, and I Clement. There the titles “bishop” and
“presbyter,” and perhaps the offices too, are not clearly distinguished. The
local congregations are ruled by boards of officials (sometimes called bishops,
sometimes presbyters), subject only to apostolic figures, such as Timothy and
Titus, or to itinerant prophets. In Ignatius, on the contrary, the single
bishop is the leading figure in the Church. Without his approval no services
are to be held (Smyr. 8:2) or other action taken (Trall. 7:2). He seems to represent
the localizing of the teaching, ruling, and prophetic functions of the original
missionary ministry of apostles, prophets, and catechists. This process had,
indeed, already started in the Didache (see ch. 13); but in Ignatius it is complete.
What, however, is most striking about this appearance
of the monepiscopate in Ignatius is the lack of an explicit doctrine of
apostolical succession. For him the authority of the Church officers is not
derived from a chain of teaching chairs (as in Irenaeus) or from a succession
of ordinations (as in Augustine), but from the fact that their offices are the
earthly antitype of a heavenly pattern. The bishop, for instance, represents
God; the presbyters, the apostles; and the deacons, Christ (Mag. 6:1). Such
teaching stands in marked contrast with those views of authority that emphasize
the historical connection between the episcopate and the apostles. Rather is it
a mystical nexus between the earthly Church and the sphere of the divine, which
is fundamental in Ignatius. It is this that makes it possible for him to urge
that deference to the bishop is the same thing as deference to God (Eph.
5:3–6).
The bishop in Ignatius, moreover, is not only an
administrative and liturgical officer. He is also a prophet. This is especially
true in his own case. In Philad., ch. 7, he gives us an instance of his gifts
in this direction, while the name Theophorus (“God-inspired”), which he assumes,
is likely not a proper name but an epithet to indicate his prophetic character.
One may note, similarly, how he urges Polycarp to seek for heavenly revelations
(Poly. 2:2). Not inappropriately, therefore, did the Smyrnaeans remember
Polycarp as “an apostolic andprophetic teacher” (Mart. Poly. 16:2).
The third concern in Ignatius is to unmask those
heretical movements which are leading to schism. Two of these are prevalent;
and while he does not go into detail, believing as he does more in order than
in argument, we may gather their main features from his casual references.
In Philadelphia he came into personal contact
with a Judaizing movement similar to the one attacked by Paul in his Letter to
the Galatians and mentioned later in the Apocalypse (ch. 3:9). It was, to be
sure, not so thoroughgoing as that faced by Paul, circumcision not being
demanded of its Gentile devotees (Philad. 6:1). But a requirement to observe
the Sabbath was involved, along with belief in certain Jewish traditions and
allegories (Mag., chs. 8; 9).
At the opposite pole to this error was the
Docetic heresy, rife in Smyrna. Here the attempt to accommodate the gospel to
Greek culture had gone to the limit of denying the reality of the Lord’s body.
The basic Hellenistic idea that matter was evil led inevitably to disbelief in
the incarnation. God could not have a direct relation with the material world,
since this was the province of evil. Accordingly, Christ could not have been
genuinely man. He only appeared or seemed to have a body (whence “Docetism,”
from the Greek dokeō, seem), so he must have been, so to
speak, a phantom from the heavenly sphere. The way Ignatius plays on this theme
is interesting. By inventing a sham Christ (a Christ who only “seems” to be),
the Docetics prove themselves to be a sham, and they will end up by becoming
apparitions! (Trall., ch. 10; Smyr., ch. 2).
Against such views Ignatius introduces two of
the leading emphases of his theology. One is the divinity of Christ. This was
compromised by the Judaizing movement, which viewed him as the last of the
prophets. For Ignatius, Christ is “our God.” He can even speak of the “Christ
God” (Smyr. 10:1), revealing by such an expression the clarity of his own
Christocentric faith.
The other emphasis of Ignatius’ Christianity
falls upon the reality of the incarnation, Passion, and resurrection of the
Christ. He continually stresses the genuine and actual nature of these occurrences
and the inseparable unity of flesh and spirit — even after the resurrection
(Smyr., ch. 3). So much so, that such repeated phrases as “in flesh and in
spirit” become expressions similar to our “body and soul,” and are used as
synonyms for “thoroughly” or “completely” (cf. Eph. 10:3; Mag. 13:2).
While these are two of the central themes of
Ignatius’ thought, recent study has drawn attention to other aspects of it. One
concerns the affinities between Ignatius and the Gnostics. There are, indeed,
traces of Gnostic terminology in the letters, and a number of ideas (as for
instance those in Eph., chs. 19; 20) which were later elaborated in the Valentinian
and other systems. But Ignatius was not a Gnostic: he was very far from it. His
was not a speculative mind. Indeed, it is the simplicity and uncompromising quality
of his basic convictions, so frequently expressed in compact, credal
statements, which are most characteristic of him. That is not, however, to deny
that Ignatius is hospitable to quite a few phrases and ideas familiar from
Hellenistic religion and alien to the general stream of Biblical thought. The
Eucharist is “the medicine of immortality” (Eph. 20:2); Christians are “full of
God” (Mag., ch. 14); God is Sigē (silence, Mag. 8:2); and the
divine sphere isPlērōma (fullness, Eph., inscr.). Again, Ignatius
alludes to the myth of the New Man (Eph. 20:1), and has touches of Gnostic
influence in his Church mysticism, where the earthly order reflects the
heavenly pattern. Yet, for all that, the central convictions of the Christian
faith are clearly — even dogmatically — affirmed, while against the basic
Gnostic tenet that matter is evil he wages a constant warfare.
Closely connected with this issue are others
which bear upon Ignatius’ relation to the New Testament faith. How far does he
deviate from the Pauline gospel? Is he influenced by John? Does he depart from
John? It is not needful here to review these complex questions at length.
Rather should the reader bear them in mind as he surveys the letters. One or
two points, however, may be noted.
Ignatius knew several letters of Paul — perhaps
all. He was most familiar with I Corinthians. He probably knew Ephesians; and
there may be reminiscences of others. Some parts of the Pauline gospel — above
all, the sense of fellowship with the crucified and risen Christ — he understood
well. Others were strange to him. He does not emphasize Paul’s teaching on
justification, on deliverance from sarx (flesh), or on the
indwelling Spirit. Nor did he penetrate the fullness of Paul’s view of faith as
receptivity, the opposite of boasting. In Ignatius faith is primarily conviction.
Sometimes, indeed, he uses Pauline phrases with meanings that widely differ
from the original (e.g., Rom. 5:1; Eph. 8:2).
There are also a number of possible
reminiscences of John’s writing (Mag. 7:1; Rom. 7:2, 3; Philad. 7:1; 9:1);
their weight is cumulative, and there is a close relation between the views of
John and Ignatius on the Eucharist (cf. John 6:54 with Eph. 20:2, and Smyr.
7:1).
The process by which the faith became ordered
and organized is evident in the New Testament itself, especially in the
Pastoral Epistles. Ignatius carries the development a little farther, striking
out on a line of Christocentric mysticism somewhat different from the moral
note of the Pastorals and I Clement. But at the same time it is impossible to
miss in Ignatius the intense devotion to the person of Christ and the consciousness
of fellowship with his sufferings.
“A soul seething with the divine eros”
— such is Chrysostom’s description of Ignatius in his eulogy delivered on the
martyr’s feast in Antioch. It is an apt phrase, for more reasons than Chrysostom
intended. There is a religious vehemence about these letters, even an impatience
and a heat of excitement, which is more fittingly expressed by the classical erosthan
by the uniquely Christian agapē. Ignatius is himself aware of his
lack of gentleness and calm (Trall. 4:2). He had, too, something of those sharp
alternations of pride and humility which we meet in Paul (Trall., chs. 4; 5).
His letter to the Romans, moreover, expresses that exaggerated passion for
martyrdom which the Church later sought to restrain. In the light of these
traits it is interesting to notice how struck Ignatius was by the bishops of
Ephesus and Philadelphia (Eph., ch. 6; Philad. 1:1). He saw in their modest and
retiring character what was most lacking in his own. By their quietness they
seemed the more effectual and, as bishops, were the better able to mirror the
divine nature which their office represented (Eph., chs. 6; 15). God’s
essential character was that of silence — a silence broken only at the
incarnation, and even then with reserve and modesty (Eph., ch. 19).
Yet, for all this, there is a nobility about
this Oriental martyr. He can recognize his weakness, and he has grasped the
central truth of the Christian gospel, incorporating it into his very life. He
will suffer with Christ and so become a genuine disciple.
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