Rev. Dr. John Chryssavgis
Executive Director of the Huffington Ecumenical Institute at Holy Cross School of Theology
Is it any wonder that institutional religion is perpetually questioned, especially in a church where the very definition of leadership is largely misinformed and misplaced? In our otherwise theologically convoluted understanding of sacred hierarchy and holy orders, we have sadly diminished the concepts of ordination and organization to the point where titles of church leaders are sometimes misleading or, worse, meaningless. And along the way, by confounding the concept of humble vocation with a sense of conceited ambition, we have also misrepresented the notions of paternal guidance and pastoral governance.
In Matthew 23.7–12, Christ explicitly reprimands the Pharisees for giving and receiving honorific titles, advising his disciples to avoid being addressed by such labels as “teacher,” “father,” or “greatest.” While neither explicitly abolishing nor universally denying the role of functional offices and ministerial titles, these admonitions are undoubtedly directed against self-exaltation and human flattery, intended and reserved for God alone while preserving for the rest of us a sense of equal footing. Ignorance of a distinction between the commendable power of love and the contemptible love of power—as well as Christ’s insistence that the latter “should not be so for [us]” (Mark 10.43)—has today reached epidemic proportions, particularly among ordained ministers and church prelates. The contrast between the way of the world and the way of the cross becomes further apparent when we recall that the Son of God assumed “meek and lowly in heart” (Mt. 11.29), while “abandoning all reputation and assuming the form of a servant” (Phil. 2.7).
Now, whereas the apostolic community in general respected the distinction between the diverse offices of “prophet,” “teacher,” “apostle,” “evangelist,” “leader,” and “elder,” the early Christians themselves routinely preferred to address one another with such terms as “brother” and “sister” or “fellow-worker” and “fellow-servant.” Accordingly, the contemporary and commonplace image of “men in black” or “men of the cloth” is an anachronism utterly unknown and foreign to the gospel message that in fact resisted any cult of guruism or culture of fanaticism, focusing instead exclusively on the person of Christ as the only genuine life and true light from whom no man could ultimately rob or abrogate the limelight. It was not until the Christian church was formally recognized in the fourth century that formal titles became established and enshrined.
But titles and offices make sense only when they define the mission and defend the vision of the church as centered on Christ and associated with the members of his body. In this sense, titles are “liturgical”; that is to say, they have a functional purpose. And outside of this pragmatic perspective, they only promote human pride and provoke human prejudice. Thus, for the early church, the adoption of titles and offices contributed and reinforced the fluent and efficient operation and service of the church as the “work of the people” (leitourgia or liturgy) in its administrative structure or sacred order (hierarchia or hierarchy). The distinct roles and specific responsibilities of certain elect or select members of the priesthood (kleros or clergy)—which, by the way, were always considered a-part-of and never apart-from the people of God (laos or laity)—were essential and vital for the ecclesiastical administration and even the synodal institution. They were neither superfluous additions to nor luxurious dimensions of the life of the church, but an integral part of the very being of the church.
In the heyday of Byzantium, such titles—for both ordained and lay persons (think of the office of “archons”)—arguably constituted a distinct honor, reflecting an individual’s exceptional responsibility and eminent contribution within the broader ecclesiastical or secular community. In periods of demise, however, the same titles frequently became a shadow of their original intent, merely shallow and hollow honorifics, reduced solely to complimentary and flattering verbiage. Nevertheless, with the passing of time, as imperial and religious leaders became increasingly less relatable or relevant (my favorite is the description of the Alexandrian Patriarch as “thirteenth of the apostles and judge of the universe”), there emerged a tendency toward an overinflation of titles, so that over the centuries we inherited countless variables of “reverend,” “eminent,” and “holy.” For example, the term “venerable” (σεβαστός) gradually became “all-venerable” (πανσέβαστος) and reached its crescendo in “all-exceedingly venerable” (πανυπερσέβαστος).
The problem here is not so much that qualifications of clergy (like “modest,” “dignified,” and “lenient,” as outlined in 1 Timothy 3.2–4) somehow metamorphosed into superlative and superficial forms of address. I am, on the contrary, referring to titles and offices that we witness being regularly, even conventionally conferred or bestowed upon clergy. We literally delight in awarding or adopting an overabundance of titles and honorifics. Nonetheless, along with the use of these comes the potential of their overuse and abuse. Every hierarchal system actually boasts an entire labyrinth of such titles, many of them cloaked with a cloud of mystery; and naturally, as the only true and traditional church, Orthodoxy can once again boast of being the real deal, unmistakably unique and unquestionably unparalleled with regard to the invention and investiture of titles.
For instance, someone of the stature of the late Kallistos Ware could be elected to titular bishop of an obsolete diocese (ostensibly somewhere near ancient Phrygia or perhaps even modern Montenegro) and subsequently promoted to titular metropolitan—which means that he was a bishop or metropolitan only in name but without a “flock,” alternatively defined as an “honorary” bishop, “for our eyes only” or “in name only” (ἐπί ψιλῷ ὀνόματι). Similarly, the late John Zizioulas—who “wrote the actual book” on what it means to be a bishop, though he was ordained to the three orders of priesthood successively (ἀθρόον) within a week—could be appointed an “active” or “actual” metropolitan “of a previously flourishing diocese” but currently without a visible flock, though the flock was vibrant in the heavenly kingdom. It’s all there clearly explained in the dusty, musty archives of canonical protocol and ceremonial etiquette.
The truth is that “authority” and “power” in the church have little to do with us and more to do with God, the unrivaled “author” and “provider” of all life. Indeed, hierarchy has less to do with any chain-of-command ascending from the laity to the priesthood, or indeed with the transition from the rank of diaconate through the degree of the priesthood to the presidency of the episcopate. It primarily has to do with the sacred “principle” or “source”—which, incidentally, is the literal and etymological meaning of words “hiera” “archē—of all things in heaven and on earth. Likewise, church administration hardly pertains to a sense of earthly power or corporate management but rather to the regulation and stewardship of the institutional church for the express purpose of supporting the entire body of Christ for the communion of all believers—which, after all, is precisely the meaning of the word “ad-ministration.”
But wait; there’s more! In a more recent trend, retired, widowed, and select priests are occasionally endorsed by elevation to the episcopate, albeit normally with nominal or limited eparchial and synodal involvement. Hierarchs themselves are dismayed, demurring that such a profuse expansion of titles and honors lessens the status or cheapens the grace of their order and office. The reason frequently provided for such gestures of token reward is “due acknowledgment” or “deserved recognition” of the clergymen in question. In other words, while in the real world someone retiring from the workplace might expect to receive a gold watch, in the spiritual world we see a contortion or exploitation of titles for the fulfilment of either the giver or receiver, or both. Perhaps it would be simpler—and far more suitable—to present a gold cross to clergy for honorable service. Arbitrarily offering or endlessly accumulating honor upon honor is a matter of poor choice and poor taste.
All this struck me as unusual when my father was recently considered for an honorary title in recognition of his extended and accomplished ministry. For most of my life, he was befittingly “protopresbyter of the ecumenical throne” but, shortly after my mother passed away, the former archbishop of Australia—a prominent and powerful prince of the church—suddenly deemed it appropriate to elevate my father to the rank of “archimandrite.” Not to be outdone by his predecessor, the current archbishop of Australia subsequently decided to recommend my father for promotion to “archimandrite of the ecumenical throne”—with all the perks of “pre-check” and “fast-track” in processional lines.
The title itself is interesting but, of course, quite inappropriate because the office of “archimandrite” is essentially Constantinopolitan and exclusively intended for celibates or monastics, initially referring to an abbot of a brotherhood and (though this may come as a surprise to most and possibly even a shock to many) even sharing a feminine equivalent for the abbess of a monastery. I have to wonder, then, if hierarchs consider the implications of such a title for the selfless and often thankless service of the woman behind every married clergyman. Does it occur to our hierarchs that such titles might dishonor a woman’s extensive support and humble service over many decades? Like most clergy wives, my mother ministered worthily outside the altar—often without any acknowledgment or recognition—so that my father could liturgize inside the altar. Moreover, like many wives of clergy, she served sacrificially inside our home—frequently without any shortage of successes and scars—so that my father could attend to parishioners outside our home in the wider community.
Are hierarchs not perturbed that a pointless shell of an honor for a presbyter might prove to be a posthumous disservice to a presbytera? I refuse to believe that they can be so obliviously lost in their own imaginary world that they cannot perceive how a superfluous new title for a clergyman might insinuate that, upon his presbytera’s death, a widowed presbyter is somehow—at the will or whim of a bishop—apparently and ultimately entitled to some privilege otherwise withheld from him during his previously “lesser” ministry as a married clergyman? Should hierarchs be more sensitive in order not to denigrate the memory and service of clergy spouses? It is the least they can offer to a married clergyman and his presvytera, both of whom devoted their lives to the church.
For a church that takes pride in recusing itself from any discussion surrounding female orders and in refusing any ecclesiastical office whatsoever to half of the world’s population, one would imagine that greater attention and accuracy should be accorded to titles and offices so that their content might reflect their original intent. If we can fully grasp the calling of the royal priesthood, then we can better appreciate the distinction of the ordained priesthood. And this process should start from the bottom, which is how we enter the Body of Christ—namely, through baptism and chrismation. It behooves us to revisit and revise our concept of the priesthood. And we can start by understanding the vocation and objective of the diaconate as one of support and service , the presbyterate as one of celebrating the eucharist and sacraments, and the episcopate as one of teaching the gospel and expressing unity.
It seems somewhat capricious—in our day and age, with all the critical challenges we face in the world—to be improvising with titles on the spot. Just because something is concocted or suggested by a bishop—in other words, the fact that a bishop is entitled to confer a title—hardly means, in liturgical language, that it is “worthy and right.” But if we don’t conform to the original vocation of the ordained priesthood and Christ’s message of humility, we shall always be “making it up as we go”!
