By the time I get around to finishing this series of articles on an Evangelical observance of Lent, the season will have passed. In Search of Lost Time. But in order to understand Lent, we will not merely need to find the time, we will have to delve back into the memory of the Church, to recall the times when Lent was observed differently and for different reasons. In this episode we will have much to do with history.

First of all, you’ve got to remember that for many years celebrations like Easter or Lent weren’t fixed in stone. They almost certainly don’t originate in the very earliest period of the Church. Different Churches around the Roman Empire disagreed about precisely when to celebrate Easter, and had very different ideas about when to fast and what their fasting should involve. The idea of celebrating Christmas comes along later still. Most scholars would agree that probably the earliest Church period (the time of the Apostles and the generations immediately afterward) celebrated Easter every week! Every Friday became a remembrance of Jesus death (marked by some sort of fast) and every Sunday was celebrated as a reminder of his Resurrection: the Lord’s Day (Actually, that’s basically what we still do with our Church meetings on a Sunday). Gradually these weekly remembrances were supplemented with a larger Church calendar

In some form, the practice of observing Lent was established by the time of the Council of Nicea (325AD). The fifth Canon (Rule) of Nicea reads:

“And let these synods be held, the one before Lent, (that the pure Gift may be offered to God after all bitterness has been put away), and let the second be held about autumn.”

(The Canon concerns the need for the churches to hold twice-yearly Synods to review appeals against unfair excommunication of Bishops, if only we had such a need!)

The word translated into English as  ‘Lent’ in the Nicene Canon is the Greek tessarakoste, i.e., ‘fortieth day’. The word appears to have been formed on analogy with pentekoste (Pentecost, i.e., ‘fiftieth day’). Around the time of the Council of Nicea it seems that churches around the Roman Empire were beginning to divide up the year into periods of time marked by reflection upon different events within the history of God’s redemption of his people. This might sound like a weird thing to us Digital-Moderns, but it certainly wasn’t strange in a society where time was marked out by the quality of events and activities rather than quantities. Time passed in the cycles of sowing and harvest. Years were counted against the lives and rules of Emperors (“in the third year of Caesar Augustus…”) . And all of these events correlated to religious activities: sacrifices, offerings, pilgrimages, fasts, feasts. That was how time passed, not primarily because the Earth sashayed around the solar system, or a metal arm rattled around a dial.

The Fifty Days after Resurrection Sunday (what we call Easter Sunday)  was known as ‘Paschal time’ or ‘Eastertime’. In traditional Churches you’ll still see the weeks after Easter counted out: 2nd Sunday after Easter, 3rd Sunday after Easter, right up until the 50th day after Easter: the Day of Pentecost (lit. fiftieth Day). This whole period was coming to be regarded by the  Church in the Nicene period as a time of celebration of Jesus’ resurrection and rule.

At the same time, a similar thing was happening with the period before Easter. These days, or weeks, were increasingly regarded as a special time of preparation for the celebration feast of Easter. Different churches in different parts of the Roman Empire observed different periods of preparation, so the reference to ‘Lent’ in the Nicene Canon doesn’t necessarily refer to a 40 day fast. But, clearly, people were taking some sort of pre-Easter time out to prepare.

One of the most famous participants at the Council of Nicea was the theologian Athanasius, a Bishop in the Egyptian city of Alexandria. Athanasius had a habit of writing a ‘Festal Letter’ to the ministers of the churches in his region each year, many of which have been preserved. We get a detailed description of his practice of Lent in his Sixth Festal Letter.

We begin the fast of forty days on the first day of the month Phamenoth (Feb. 25); and having prolonged it till the fifth of Pharmuthi (Mar. 31), suspending it upon the Sundays and the Saturdays preceding them, we then begin again on the holy days of Easter, on the sixth of Pharmuthi (Apr, 1), and cease on the eleventh of the same month (Apr. 6), late in the evening of the Saturday, whence dawns on us the holy Sunday, on the twelfth of Pharmuthi (Apr. 7), which extends its beams, with unobscured grace, to all the seven weeks of the holy Pentecost. Resting on that day, let us ever keep Easter joy in Christ Jesus our Lord, through Whom, to the Father, be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen. All the brethren who are with me salute you. Salute one another with a holy kiss.

Essentially, Athanasius is describing a 40 day fast (not including Saturdays and Sundays) for the period before Easter Sunday. Christians didn’t (and still don’t) fast on the Sundays of this period because they are all ‘mini-Easters’: days in which Jesus’ resurrection is celebrated. The fact that Athanasius has to spell out the details of how the Lenten period should be observed probably suggests that people were still trying to reach a consistent practice among different churches.

What is most significant about these Festal Letters, however, is not the details about dates, but Athanasius’ reasoning for why Christians should get involved in this practice. Whereas, much later medieval understandings of Lent revolved around the idea of ‘penance’, for Athanasius, Lent was about preparation, about ‘palate cleansing’ for the feast which was up and coming.

Coming to grips with penance and preparation, what these things mean, and what they have to do with Christian discipleship is at the heart of coming to an Evangelical understanding of Lent.  But that’s for another time, right now, here’s  Athanasius in full flight, it’s a beautiful thing:

The whole creation keeps a feast, my brethren, and everything that has breath praises the Lord, as the Psalmist [says], on account of the destruction of the enemies, and our salvation. And justly indeed; for if there is joy in heaven over one sinner who repents, what should there not be over the abolition of sin, and the resurrection of the dead? Oh what a feast and how great the gladness in heaven! how must all its hosts joy and exult, as they rejoice and watch in our assemblies, those that are held continually, and especially those at Easter? For they look on sinners while they repent; on those who have turned away their faces, when they become converted; on those who formerly persisted in lusts and excess, but who now humble themselves by fastings and temperance; and, finally, on the enemy who lies weakened, lifeless, bound hand and foot, so that we may mock at him; ‘Where is thy victory, O Death? where is thy sting, O Grave?’ Let us then sing unto the Lord a song of victory.

(Athanasius, ‘Sixth Festal Letter’ in Nicene and Post Nicene Fathers, edited by Philip Schaff, online at ccel.org)

James Fraser is an interesting character though. He was part of the Covenanter Movement in Scotland – a group that led opposition to the King’s desire to make the Church of Scotland resemble the Church of England in its government and theology. This particularly focussed on introducing a Prayer Book that resembled the Book of Common Prayer, and of course, forcing the Scots to accept Bishops. The result was a long period of wars, rebellions, and people perpetrating atrocities against each other. The Scottish struggle played a major part in the outcome of the English Civil War in the 1640-50s. After the Restoration of the Monarchy, the 1670′s became known as ‘The Killing Time’ due to the number of field executions by Royal forces of those who could not accept anything less than a Reformed and Presbyterian Church of Scotland. James Fraser was among a group of Covenanter leaders who were imprisoned in the Castle on Bass Rock, a ‘desolate rock of the sea’. During this imprisonment he wrote the Treatise. For large sections of the work he had no reference books or conversation with friends, he relied solely on his Bible. It’s a high cost strategy, but getting yourself thrown in gaol is a very effective way to avoid the pain of having to reference your work.

The section of the Treatise which I’ve read and am supposed to be ‘appreciating’ addresses the extent of Christ’s atonement. It’s entitled, “Appendix: Concerning the Object of Christ’s Death”. Fraser seeks to shed some light on the difficult question of whether Christ died for all people or just for the elect whom he actually redeems. The question is particularly pertinent for Moore Theological College Students. The College has a reputation from defecting from the full Reformed position at precisely this point (we are known as “4 1/2 point” Calvinists because a number of distinguished faculty have not been entirely comfortable with the classic statements of Limited Atonement). I suppose that’s a discussion for another day.

What does James Fraser think? Well, if you wanted to find out by reading the Appendix to his Treatise, you’d be in trouble. There are very few copies of his work in print. The nearest library holdings according to WorldCat are in Ireland and Quebec (it’d make a nice present to the College Library if you ever see one in a 2nd-hand bookshop). Fortunately the National Library of Australia has access to a digital reproduction which you can access through the NLA website if you’re a member of the Library.
What’s that, you’re not a member of the NATIONAL LIBRARY!! Shame on you. (Neither was I until last week). The good news is that you can become a member for FREE and they’ll even mail out your library card so you can show off to your friends. Go here.

“He used to apply the terrors of the law so directly to the consciences of his hearers, that their hearts would often sink under their convictions; and he used to pronounce the word “damn” with so peculiar an emphasis, that it left a doleful echo in their ears a long time after.”

After reading his description of God damning infants, it’s not hard to understand why his preaching left such an impression. But lest you think that Perkins was a man consumed by visions of hellfire without a consciousness of God’s comfort in Christ, it’s worth knowing that he was renowned for his pastoral work. He began his ministry preaching to prisoners in Cambridge goal, without pay, simply because he cared for them. He famously led a young condemned man to the comfort of faith by kneeling beside him and crying with him to ‘”show what the grace of God can do to strengthen thee.”

Having said that, I can’t imagine that Wolf Hall was an easy novel to write. On the contrary, it is an incredibly and painstakingly well-researched recreation of an historical character. The novel follows the rise and rise of Thomas Cromwell, the organisational and legal genius behind Henry VIII’s civil and ecclesiastical reforms. (As a side note, there are more Thomases in Wolf Hall than you could reasonably swing a sword at – but that is the fault of Tudor England, not Hilary Mantel. Who would have thought that so many men named ‘Thomas’ would be involved in shaping modern Anglophone society)
Tudor Britain was a society gripped by a series of transformations within which the lineaments of our contemporary world began to take shape. It is the lives and loves of some of the men and women in these pages that effected a legacy of change to which our current global culture continues to be heir. Wolf Hall is a chance to meet these characters and dwell with them in the daily weave of life. It’s a rich experience. You shouldn’t for a moment expect a hagiography though. Mantel leaves us in no doubt that Cromwell was both a ‘Bible Man’ and also a ruthless political operator. Something of a cross between Tony Soprano and the Anglican Church League (I leave you to decide which is which).

Wolf Hall is not just an historical novel, it is a novel about history. It is about the ways in which our paths are directed by choices other people made, the way our lives are intertwined with characters who walked ahead, sometimes out of sight, but whose presence still vibrates in the air as we pass. Mantel achieves this through a series of very daring effects: she situates the reader on the shoulder of Cromwell, not giving us a first person narrative, but free access to his thoughts and feelings. For a while we know Thomas, we live closer to him, than even his beloved wife. It is the most intimate form of ‘indwelling’. This is an opportunity to experience a knowledge of the world given through transmissible experiences rather than directly collated our own nervous encounters. Wolf Hall takes fiction seriously.

But perhaps too seriously? Wolf Hall will never be accused of insulting the reader’s intelligence. I’ve been studying and reading books about this period of history for a few years now, and I honestly think Mantel assumes more Tudor history than she communicates. But this is also the effect which makes Wolf Hall brilliant. Mantel has consciously written a novel in which the tension that drives the narrative doesn’t come from the narrative itself, but what the reader will bring to the narrative.
The secret of Wolf Hall lies in what the book isn’t about: Wolf Hall.

The up-side is that I now feel no obligation to refrain from publically commemorating the 20th Anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre (4th July 1989). As a 10 year old I remember watching the news through that period, old enough to remember the confusion about what was happening, hoping that someone, somewhere in the Chinese leadership would make it all right. In many ways, watching the news with my parents through the 2nd half of that year was my initial education in politics. I learned about ‘democracy’ because people were willing to face down tanks to experience it. I remember the tension as we all wondered whether the soldiers of the Red Army could bring themselves to shoot their fellow citizens.
Later that year, 9th November 1989, we watched the fall of the Berlin Wall. I remember the sledge-hammers, the graffiti, and the euphoria.

There was nothing internal to either of those events that could enable us, as they were unfolding, to foresee how they would be resolved. The Chinese State rolled over those lonely protesters with as little trouble as the tanks in the Square and today the Party appears stronger than ever. But Communist East Germany was ended and then a couple of years later, so was the whole Soviet Union.
But, maybe, it could have been China that was reborn. Maybe there could still be a wall through the heart of Berlin?

With hindsight comes the opportunity to trace out some of the historical causes behind the events. We reverse engineer the results and design models to account for the data. With hindsight we can see why what is, would always have been. Or at least, we think we can. We judge the actions and affairs of those who have gone before us, assign values to their struggles, weigh what we know of their motives against their outcomes. We are the teachers of history. We teach those of the past to know themselves.

But what then would you say to that single man staring down a Red Army tank? He was an evolutionary dead-end. He picked the spiky end of the historical pineapple. He chose his moment poorly. He did not know that history was against him. If he knew what we now know, he would not have done what he did. He would have stayed away.

How do you really love the Lost? How do you love and esteem something that has no future, that in itself was a terrible folly, that given the chance we would seek to prevent from ever coming to be?
Gallipoli or Changi or Tiananmen Square or the friend who commits suicide?
How do you really love it for what it is in itself, without denying the time or the person a substantial reality in themselves? How do you love this person without making his or her life just a symbol of some more substantial universal truth? (Mateship, Courage, Justice, etc).
Or is that really all they were or are?

I wonder if something like these questions are at the heart of the human aspect of the Christian doctrine of Election.

The answer is a delightfully weird man named Joseph Priestly, who had a hand in the beginnings of them all.

I’m interested in Non-Conformist/Dissenting heroes to balance out my Anglican-eye view of Church history – with Joseph Priestly, I reckon I’ve struck solid gold.

The ‘Non-Conformists’ were groups of people, who, for reasons of conscience, could not remain within the Church of England. The Act of Uniformity passed by the British Parliament under King Charles II in 1662 had legislated that all Christian services had to be performed in accordance with the Book of Common Prayer. It also re-established the system of Bishops, and Episcopal ordination that had been abolished by Cromwell and the Puritans. The result was that around 2000 Non-Conformist clergy were forced to leave the Church. At that time there was no welfare State, and some of these men were well past being able to find other professions. It led to hardship and impoverishment for many godly people.
Furthermore, the Parliament passed a number of other Acts that excluded Non-Conformists from holding public office, from receiving University Degrees from Oxford or Cambridge (the only Universities), from having any form of religious meeting, or from going within 5 miles of their former Churches. The restriction on being able to hold Non-Conformist religious meetings was lifted by the Act of Toleration in 1689, but the other restrictions persisted until 1829.

The long and short of it is this, Joseph Priestly was a very smart kid who grew up bearing a certain weight of religious discrimination. I reckon he would have been like those kids from ‘parent controlled schools’ – weird and socially awkward, but super-smart.

Anyway, Priestly discovered soda-water en route to discovering oxygen. He was a member of the Royal Society and was considered a possibility for the post of scientific officer on board the Endeavour, sailing with Captain Cook to the South Seas. As it turned out he presented soda-water as a light refreshment for Captain Cook, and it went along on the grand Antipodean adventure instead. Priestly thought soda-water might provide a cure for scurvy. Scoffers insist he was wrong but there has been a lot less scurvy since we all started drinking fizzy drinks.

Some people remember Priestly as the discoverer of Oxygen, I suppose that is a big deal. I can’t help thinking however, that Oxygen was already there, hanging around whether he discovered it or not. Soda-Water, on the other hand, wasn’t, and it is deliciously refreshing.
Unfortunately, Priestly completely failed to see the commercial appeal of soda-water and it was left to Johann Jacob Schweppe to make bucket loads of cash out of the invention.

I suppose I should mention that he supported the founding of the Unitarian Church, turns out he was about as orthodox as a float full of Uniting Church ministers at Mardi Gras (Not Very).

The real reason I like Priestly is his sincere belief that the democratisation of science would have revolutionary implications in politics, ethics, and theology.

“The English hierarchy has reason to tremble even at an air pump or an electrical machine”.

Listen to this podcast from the BBC to find out more.

A contemporary of Basil’s, Epiphanius of Salamis, flatteringly referred to the Pneumatomachi as,

“A sort of monstrous, half-formed people of two natures [holding] the truly orthodox view of the Son, that he was forever with the Father…but has been begotten without beginning and not in time. But all of these blaspheme the Holy Spirit, and do not count him in the Godhead with the Father and the Son” (Epiphanius. The Panarion of Epiphanius of Salamis, Books II and III (Sects 47-80), De Fide). Section VI, Verses 1,1 and 1,3. Translated by Frank Williams. EJ Brill, New York, 1994, pp.471-472)

The Pneumatomachoi forced Basil and other Christians to go back and examine the Scriptures again, and to use all their reasoning ability to understand the truth about the nature of the Holy Spirit. It was while Basil was Bishop at Caesarea that the doxology, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit” was first used, placing all three persons of the Trinity on an equal footing.

It was on the basis of this work that the formulation of the Nicene Creed reads,

We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life,
who proceeds from the Father and the Son,
who with the Father and the Son
is worshipped and glorified,
who has spoken through the prophets.

Reading through Basil’s On the Holy Spirit, I’m struck by how carefully and closely he sought to ground his argument in the text of Scripture. Basil (and friends) didn’t invent the divinity of the Holy Spirit, they argued it from God’s revelation of himself.

Chapter IX

Definitive conceptions about the Spirit which conform to the teaching of the Scriptures.

Let us now investigate what are our common conceptions concerning the Spirit, as well those which have been gathered by us from Holy Scripture concerning It as those which we have received from the unwritten tradition of the Fathers. First of all we ask, who on hearing the titles of the Spirit is not lifted up in soul, who does not raise his conception to the supreme nature? It is called “Spirit of God, “Spirit of truth which proceedeth from the Father, “right Spirit, “a leading Spirit. Its proper and peculiar title is “Holy Spirit;” which is a name specially appropriate to everything that is incorporeal, purely immaterial, and indivisible. So our Lord, when teaching the woman who thought God to be an object of local worship that the incorporeal is incomprehensible, said “God is a spirit. On our hearing, then, of a spirit, it is impossible to form the idea of a nature circumscribed, subject to change and variation, or at all like the creature. We are compelled to advance in our conceptions to the highest, and to think of an intelligent essence, in power infinite, in magnitudeunlimited, unmeasured by times or ages, generous of It’s good gifts, to whom turn all things needing sanctification, after whom reach all things that live in virtue, as being watered by It’s inspiration and helped on toward their natural and proper end; perfecting all other things, but Itself in nothing lacking; living not as needing restoration, but as Supplier of life; not growing by additions; but straightway full, self-established, omnipresent, origin of sanctification, light perceptible to the mind, supplying, as it were, through Itself, illumination to every faculty in the search for truth; by nature un-approachable, apprehended by reason of goodness, filling all things with Its power, but communicated only to the worthy; not shared in one measure, but distributing Its energy according to “the proportion of faith; in essence simple, in powers various, wholly present in each and being wholly everywhere; impassively divided, shared without loss of ceasing to be entire, after the likeness of the sunbeam, whose kindly light falls on him who enjoys it as though it shone for him alone, yet illumines land and sea and mingles with the air. So, too, is the Spirit to every one who receives lt, as though given to him alone, and yet It sends forth grace sufficient and full for all mankind, and is enjoyed by all who share It, according to the capacity, not of Its power, but of their nature.

Now the Spirit is not brought into intimate association with the soul by local approximation. How indeed could there be a corporeal approach to the incorporeal? This association results from the withdrawal of the passions which, coming afterwards gradually on the soul from its friendship to the flesh, have alienated it from its close relationship with God. Only then after a man is purified from the shame whose stain he took through his wickedness, and has come back again to his natural beauty, and as it were cleaning the Royal Image and restoring its ancient form, only thus is it possible for him to draw near to the Paraclete. And He, like the sun, will by the aid of thy purified eye show thee in Himself the image of the invisible, and in the blessed spectacle of the image thou shalt behold the unspeakable beauty of the archetype. Through His aid hearts are lifted up, the weak are held by the hand, and they who are advancing are brought to perfection. Shining upon those that are cleansed from every spot, He makes them spiritual by fellowship with Himself. Just as when a sunbeam falls on bright and transparent bodies, they themselves become brilliant too, and shed forth a fresh brightness from themselves, so souls wherein the Spirit dwells, illuminated by the Spirit, themselves become spiritual, and send forth their grace to others. Hence comes foreknowledge of the future, understanding of mysteries, apprehension of what is hidden, distribution of good gifts, the heavenly citizenship, a place in the chorus of angels, joy without end, abiding in God, the being made like to God, and, highest of all, the being made God. Such, then, to instance a few out of many, are the conceptions concerning the Holy Spirit, which we have been taught to hold concerning His greatness, His dignity, and His operations, by the oracles of the Spirit themselves.

For a bit of historical curiosity, I’ve included the Creed of Ulfilas, a classic statement of the Arian position.

I believe that there is only one God the Father, alone unbegotten and invisible, and in His only-begotten Son, our Lord and God, creator and maker of all things, not having any like unto Him. Therefore there is one God of all, who is also God of our God, And I believe in one Holy Spirit, an enlightening and sanctifying power. As Christ says after the resurrection to his Apostles: “Behold I send the promise of my Father upon you; but tarry ye in the city of Jerusalem until ye be clothed with power from on high.” (Luke 24.49) And again: “And ye shall receive power coming upon you by the Holy Spirit.” (Acts 1.8) Neither God nor Lord, but the faithful minister of Christ; not equal, but subject and obedient in all things to the Son. And I believe the Son to be subject and obedient in all things to God the Father.
The creed of Ulfilas, as found in the Letter of Auxentius

It almost sounds right at points, it’s supported in parts by quotation from Scripture…
this was a tough, incredibly serious issue.
this was Basil’s cup of tea.

At the time Basil was appointed Bishop of Caesarea, the Roman Emperor Valens was himself a paid-up, card-carrying Arian and he also wasn’t a firm believer in the separation of Church and State (actually, he didn’t believe in it at all).
In an attempt to intimidate Basil, and move him from the Orthodox position, Valens sent the Prefect of the Imperial Guard, Modestus, to “persuade” him with some “robust” reasoning…
(I’ma gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse…)
Basil answered that he was ready and eager to die for Jesus, and he had so few possessions that banishment, confiscation, or imprisonment would not make much difference. To be perfectly honest, banishment, confiscation, and imprisonment were the Basic Rules of his monastic lifestyle.

Modestus complained that no-one ever spoke to him like that.
Basil answered that, perhaps he had never met a Bishop before: “When the interests of God are at stake, we care for nothing else.”

That was one tough Shepherd of the Flock…
Valens backed off and left him to get on with the job.

I have to admit to a healthy, protestant, skepticism regarding monasticism. But with Basil I’m not really sure what to think. I deplore the understanding of monastic life as meritorious, therefore gaining salvation, and I’m similarly against the apparent rejection of the goodness of God’s created world. Also, in the face of a perishing world, monasticism can seem horribly indulgent and contrary to the love of God for the lost. I’m not sure any of this thinking lay behind Basil’s asceticism. I think he genuinely wanted to focus himself on God and the life of the age to come. He felt that the structures within which we are enmeshed in daily life continually betray us into thinking and living for this world, rather than Christ. He answer was to toughen himself up, to renounce as much of this world as he could, and to build little communities of people who would anticipate the heavenly existence – being like the angels gathered in worship around God’s throne. He didn’t think this world was altogether evil – he wasn’t a dualist. He preached eloquently on the magnificence of God’s world, and on the beauty of the human body. He just didn’t want to get distracted into thinking that this is all there is. I still think he was a bit wrong-headed (he allowed his Greek Philosophical Theology to cloud his thinking about God’s attributes, and therefore, how to be godly) but I reckon we could all do with a little bit less “friendship with the world” these days.

Nevertheless, It is an interesting project to research. It’s taking me into feminist theology, monasticism, Patristic Exegesis, you name it. And along the way, I’m gain a much deeper respect for those early Christian theologians. Basil the Great, is actually Great!

Here’s a quote by St Basil the Great, of Caesarea, on proto-blogging…

God who has created us has given us the use of language, that we may reveal the plans of our heart to each other and through our shared nature we may each give a share to our neighbour, as if from some treasury, showing forth our intentions from what lies hidden in our heart

he was for it.