One of the most distinguished characteristics of the Orthodox Church is the nuanced (some might say “eastern” or “Greek”) understanding of “symbol” that is transcendant and goes beyond mere externals or the recesses of one’s brain. The concept of “symbol” for most people in the west today is — in the words of the reposed Fr Alexander Schmemann: “an illustration whose purpose can be termed pedagogic or educational.” In other words, a symbol merely points to or teaches about an idea or concept, but offers no real or transcendant connection to anything beyond itself. In Orthodoxy, however, a symbol is a gateway or “window” to something beyond itself; it is something that truly connects the person with the thing signified.
I’m sure most of my readers have heard the phrase “windows to heaven” applied to Icons (the devotional “artwork” or paintings of the Orthodox Church). While many in the west today would be uncomfortable with this insinuation, I actually find it to be quite soft. It doesn’t really emphasize enough just how vital the connection is between the “symbol” (or “Icon;” Greek “eikon“) and that which is symbolized. When I think of looking through a “window,” I don’t think of a real connection or experience of that which is on the other side — it is a mere contemplation or observation of these things. With Icons (or other religious symbols), on the other hand, the connection and experience of that which is depicted is real, transcendant and even transformative.
What’s most intriguing (especially for those not fluent in Greek) is that the opposite of symbol (symbolos) in Greek is the word for “division” or “separation” — diabolos. That’s right — devil. Separation/dis-unity and “devil” are synonymous, both in concept and in the personification of Satan and his fallen angels. One can see this in a number of ways in sacred scripture, as well. For example, the consequence of sin is death, which is another way of stating “separation” or “division” from God, Who is Life. When Christ promised the apostles that the Church would never be prevailed against, He intimated that the enemy at the gates was “the gates of Hades” — that is, the gates of death or the gates of schism/division.
Today is actually Palm Sunday.
You’ve probably heard it said that “time heals all wounds.” This is one of those quotes that gets repeated over and over again, but no one really knows where it came from. It is very similar to what the Greek dramatist Menander (circa 4th century BC) once said: “Time is the healer of all necessary evils” (Fragments), so perhaps it is derived from him.
Saint Justin the Philosopher (known also as “Justin Martyr,” given that he was martyred for besting a debater of the non-Christian empire) wrote at length on a variety of subjects that are of the utmost interest to me as a student of philosophy. His work on the Church as “the true Israel” as well as the dependency of Greek philosophers on Moses / Hebrew philosophy are crucial when trying to discern how the early Church fathers understood such things.
When a Protestant approaches the scriptures in order to rightly interpret them and apply them to their lives, the approach is typically that of a scientist and a historian – they are attempting to abstract and be removed from the context of today’s western world and be found within the culture, language and context of the original authors of divine literature. There is rooted in this approach not only a reliance upon Nominalism (as with all things Western and/or Protestant) but also the fundamental belief that we are “separate from” both these original authors and from God Himself (He is the “Man upstairs” and Protestant worship focuses on asking God to be present or “show up”). As such, Protestant hermeneutics, if you will, is an exercise in textual archaeology.
I’ve been slowly making my way through Lester Grabbe’s Introduction to Second Temple Judaism. Grabbe is a professor of Hebrew Scripture and Judaism at the University of Hull (UK), and he is what most conservative, Orthodox people would call “a liberal.” That might be an understatement for the more fundamentalist amongst us, as many would take some of his beliefs to be the utmost of heresy.
Raphael and Tobias continue on their journey and come to the Tigris River. When there, “a fish jumped up from the river and was determined to swallow the young man” (Tobit 6:2). This is an interesting turn of phrase, considering these events occurred during the time of Jonah’s prophecy about the destruction of Nineveh (mentioned later in this book by Tobit himself). Raphael instructs Tobit to catch the fish and make use of it, however: “Take the heart, the liver, and the gall and put them in a safe place” (6:4). They cook and eat the rest, of course (6:5).
As a follow-up to 
