The hardships of oneness

I have been reflecting on an issue that remains deeply significant within the Orthodox Churches—an issue I first noted two years ago, yet which seems even more pressing today.

We now see that Orthodox-Jewish conferences are increasingly detached from what is officially considered the “Orthodox” domain. At the same time, Church historians and theologians—many of them specialists and enthusiasts—are celebrating the 1770th anniversary of the First Council of Nicaea (AD 325), especially the expanded formulation of the Nicene Creed finalized at the Council of Constantinople in AD 381.

These commemorations, while important in their own right, reveal a striking and troubling omission: the near-complete absence of any reflection on the Apostolic Council of Jerusalem in AD 49-52. That foundational moment, recorded in the Acts of the Apostles chapter 15, marked the formal opening of the “gate of faith to the Gentiles (acts 14:27). It was, in effect, the first and most profound “council, though “not ecumenical/universal” where the early community of Jesus-followers discerned—through intense dialogue and spiritual insight—that the path to salvation in Christ would not require submission to the full weight of the Mosaic Law. The Church became Catholic, in the original and universal sense, through that decision. Yet this seminal moment is largely ignored in Orthodox theology, memory, and liturgy.

Why?

The renowned French Orthodox theologian Jean-Claude Larchet are widely respected in the Byzantine Orthodox world. His works have had a profound impact on me, and I sincerely appreciate the spiritual depth and liturgical insight he brings to contemporary theological reflection. Larchet, who chose Orthodoxy out of conviction, has been deeply seized by what he calls the “True Faith” we share. In his book Qu’est-ce que la théologie ? (What Is Theology?), he continues to develop a theme central to his thought: in the Eastern Christian tradition—particularly the Byzantine one—“theology” is not merely intellectual speculation. It is the lived, experienced, and articulated mystery of the Liturgy, the sacred Gift received and shared.

And yet, Larchet’s position on Judaism and Hebrew sources is striking. He has told me, with a measure of gentle irony, that I cite the Talmud too often, and that I am too frequently drawing upon Hebraic and Rabbinic traditions. For him—and for many within the Orthodox world—the Greek version of the Septuagint is the only authoritative version of the Old Testament. Translated by the seventy-two Jewish scholars of the Alexandrian Diaspora, the Septuagint is seen as providentially inspired and thus the sole valid biblical foundation for Byzantine Orthodoxy.

Larchet’s view, though not universally shared, reflects a deeply rooted sentiment among many Orthodox theologians and faithful: a cautious distance, if not a theological rejection, of the Jewish and Rabbinic world—past and present. His critique is not directed at individuals but emerges from a broader ecclesial culture in which the Semitic origins of the Christian faith are often treated as historical preludes rather than ongoing sources of wisdom.

This attitude is, in my view, no longer acceptable. We must revisit and reconsider the Church’s roots in Jerusalem, not only metaphorically but concretely. The Council of Jerusalem must be acknowledged as a key moment in Christian identity, one that cannot be reduced to a footnote in the shadow of Nicaea or Constantinople.

To celebrate the early Ecumenical Councils—especially Nicaea and Constantinople—in isolation from their Hebrew, Semitic, and Jewish matrix is to engage in a kind of self-referential liturgical archaeology. These councils, foundational as they are, did not arise in a vacuum. Their language, categories, and even their understanding of Scripture are unintelligible without the deep, formative presence of Jewish tradition—including the Talmudic and Midrashic modes of interpretation that shaped the early Christian mind, even if only indirectly. When Orthodox celebrations of the Councils remain detached from these roots, they risk becoming internal reflections on fragmented jurisdictions—reflections that cut themselves off from the living trunk of the faith.

The Ecclesia universa – i. e. the fulfillment of the Great Assembly, Church, called by God, thus by the Messiah – is not merely an Ecclesia ex Gentibus (Church gathering those from the Gentiles); and while an Ecclesia ex Circumcisione (Church gathering those from the Circumcision, the Jews) may no longer exist in institutional form, Jewishness remains the enduring, inseparable companion of the Church’s reality. To forget this is not only to misremember history—it is to misunderstand the very identity of the Body of Christ. It is basically true when the Churches gather to reflect on their developments and dogmas after centuries of existence.

Over the years, I have come to see—and tried to explain—that Christian tradition has, in many ways, captured the Hebrew Bible, appropriating its words while silencing the voice that gives it breath: the Talmudic tradition. The Hebrew Scriptures, in Christian hands, are often read through a lens that willfully ignores the intricate vocalization, the centuries of commentary, debate, and ethical interpretation that the Talmud offers. This exclusion is not incidental—it is systematic.

Christendom has thus constructed a reading of Scripture that suppresses the very framework through which Judaism has preserved, animated, and transmitted the Word. And yet, there is something even deeper: the Talmud, in its dynamic, dialogical unfolding, might be understood as a manifestation—however unexpected—of the very breath of the Holy Spirit, the divine presence that also animates the message of Jesus Christ. In this light, the true confrontation between Christianity and Jewishness does not occur simply at the level of Hebrew texts, now fossilized in theological systems. At present, through Yiddish—the living, breathing vernacular of Jewish thought and feeling composed Jewish Esperanto, made of Indo-European speech and Aramaic, Hebrew and Semitic phrases, ways of thinking. Yiddish carries the affective and ethical trace of Sinai, not as a monument, but as a murmuring fire. It is there, in that warmth and trembling, that a genuine encounter can begin again.

And yet, there is something even deeper: the Talmud, in its dynamic, dialogical unfolding, might be understood as a manifestation—however unexpected—of the very breath of the Holy Spirit, the divine presence that also animates the message of Jesus Christ. In this light, the true confrontation between Christianity and Jewishness does not occur simply at the level of Hebrew texts, now fossilized in theological systems, but through Yiddish—the living, breathing vernacular of Jewish thought and feeling. Yiddish carries the affective and ethical trace of Sinai, not as a monument, but as a murmuring fire. It is there, in that warmth and trembling, that a genuine encounter can begin again.

Thus, considering the Semitic tongues and linguistic mental style, it is clear that Ephrem the Syrian firmly opposed Arianism and any theological attempt to assign a subordinationist status to the Son in relation to the Father. However, he does so without any reference to the famous Council of Nicaea or its doctrinal terminology. Given the historical and theological significance of the Nicene Council and its definition of Orthodoxy, Ephrem’s decision to omit direct reference to the council and to the term homoousios/ὁμοούσιος  (“of the same essence,” or “consubstantial”) is highly significant.

Ephrem stands alongside many fourth-century writers who viewed homoousios as an unnecessary addition—one regarded with suspicion primarily because of its absence from Scripture. Nevertheless, Ephrem can be seen as a supporter of Nicene Orthodoxy, insofar as he explicitly condemns Arianism and any subordinationist understanding of the Trinity. He speaks of the Father and the Son as existing in “one essence” (ḥda ’itutā), avoiding terms more directly aligned with the Greek homoousios such as bar ’itutā or bar kyānā.

This same concern with theological substance is mirrored in the way certain Jewish languages express reality. Ashkenazi Yiddish, for instance, though composed largely of Indo-European or related elements, orients its entire lexicon around questions concerning God and the relationship between God and humanity. A striking example is the term mamushes (משמעות / ממשות), derived from the Hebrew mamash (ממש).

In Hebrew, mamash refers to “truth,” “veracity,” or “reality” in the sense of something being genuinely or emphatically true. In Yiddish, however, mamish expresses “substance,” “essence,” or “nature”—what truly exists and, in a deeper theological sense, what reflects the very identity and substantiality of the Creator. Within this framework, the Yiddish term mamish could even be used—according to very ancient conceptual categories—to describe the Real Presence in the Eucharist, as the concrete partaking of the Living Body.

It is not enough for the Churches, scarred by war, political crises, and profound internal divisions, to convene only to speak of the Councils as if out of the blue—floating above time, concerned more with metaphysical precision or the ancient debates on the nature of Christ than with the wounds of the world. The image of theologians still discussing “the sex of angels” in a burning city has never been more relevant.

What do 1700 years of conciliar memory mean if the jurisdictions remain fragmented, split, incapable of even standing in the same room, let alone breaking bread? And in parallel, Israel—burdened by its own isolation, its own “eternal hapax of existence”—risks straying dangerously far from the moral depth of its own tradition, trespassing sacred boundaries, not out of malice but from not being seen, not being heard, not being understood.

What is at stake is not survival alone, but the moral face of survival: the human capacity to speak, to listen, to weep, and to respond with tongues that carry truth—spoken with decency, memory, and respect. In such a time, theological celebration must become a form of moral courage, not historical pageantry.

Why is this important now?

Because we are living in a time when the Hebrew language has been reborn, becoming once again a vehicle for spiritual, ethical, and philosophical renewal in the context of a free and independent State of Israel. Over the past century, Hebrew has not only been revived as a spoken language but has become a dynamic and creative force, integrating ancient traditions with new concepts. The Oral and Written Laws, far from being relics, continue to shape Jewish life and thought in meaningful ways.

To ignore this profound revival, to remain entrenched in a theological stance that denies the living significance of Semitic sources, is to risk ossifying Orthodoxy into a self-contained and culturally static identity. We can no longer afford a theology that forgets Jerusalem even as it exalts Byzantium and all the structuring layers of the Christian consciousness. The faith that was once widely opened to the nations through a council in Jerusalem, subsequently in the dispersion and the whole world must again be opened to the deeper roots from which it came to life.