Post by Deleted on Sept 6, 2023 3:03:18 GMT
An article I wrote to do with the Armenian genocide a month or two ago.
“Yea, God is dead, and we are rushing to his funeral”
Over the past year my interest in the most ancient Christian culture – that of Armenia and the Armenian people, the first to adopt Christianity as their state religion in around 300 AD – has grown.
Only a minority of Armenians have ever lived in what is now Armenia. Historically most lived under Ottoman rule in the Middle East. Studying Armenian history necessitates studying the Armenian Genocide, where the Ottoman Turks from 1915 onwards killed up to 1.5 million Armenians. Modern Armenia has around 3 million people – the scale of the killings were enormous.
When studying the Armenian genocide, one story came up that I shall never forget. An eighty-five year old Armenian priest near Izmir in Turkey was told he needed to lead his flock out of their village. As he led his flock away from the village, the elderly priest was taunted by the Turks. “Who shall you bury today, old man?”, they asked him.
His enigmatic reply made a deep impression on me: “Yea, God is dead, and we are rushing to his funeral”.
Armenians being led by the Turks out of their village to their death in the Syrian desert.
This man, who had likely been a priest for 60 or more years, when faced with the prospect of death by exhaustion and thirst in the desert with his flock, appeared to despair. He appeared to lose hope. He appeared to lose faith. When Pope Benedict visited Auschwitz Concentration Camp, he asked “Why, Lord, did you remain silent?” Such questions we cannot answer. Was God’s “silence” in the face of the genocide of the world’s oldest Christian nation the cause of such great despair in the priest’s mind and heart that he lost his faith? I do not think so. In fact, I actually think that this cry “God is dead, and we are rushing to his funeral” was one of hope, not despair. It was a lamentation of love, not one of bitterness and hatred. It was a cry of resignation to the will of God.
Before I continue this analysis, let me state that I believe the world’s utter silence in the face of the genocide of the world’s oldest Christian people by the Ottomans in the midst of the worst war the world had ever known was symbolic. Howso? I shall shortly explain. But let that thought remain as I continue to the main story.
When Our Lord was on the cross, near death, he cried out “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” (Matt 27:46). Some use this as evidence that Jesus despaired on the Cross. No, quite the contrary. Our Lord was reciting the 22nd Psalm, but he was too weak to finish reciting it. The 22nd Psalm begins with a cry almost of despair. Yet by the third verse it is clear that this is a Psalm of trust in God, a Psalm that speaks to a deep faith, for it continues “Yet thou art holy…in thee our fathers trusted…”. It turns from a cry of despair into a cry of filial trust.
We also understand that for Christians, the suffering of Christ on the cross represents not only the great sacrifice by which our salvation was won, but our God’s willingness even to suffer a painful and slow death in unity with all human suffering throughout the ages. Out of suffering comes eternal life, and out of the greatest moments of fear and suffering is often the greatest movement towards faith – for in such a moment, what can one do but trust in the providence of God? If one is a believer, then there is nothing left and nobody to save us in such a situation but the Lord.
The doctrine of the hypostatic union is also relevant here, as expressed in the Athanasian Creed.1 This dogma of faith is that the human and divine natures of Jesus Christ, though separate and distinct, are united in the one person of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. As St Cyril of Alexandria taught, the one who experienced the agony on the Cross was Jesus both human and divine. God Himself was on that Cross, suffering for all of mankind.
For the priest who uttered, in a moment of great trial for his suffering people, that he was going to God’s funeral, we see him unite his sufferings and those of his community with the death of Christ on the cross. The “funeral” of God is the death and crucifixion of Our Lord on the cross. After he was crucified, however, Jesus rose again in glory and the crucifixion itself conquered death and sin. The priest’s cry was not one of despair, but of trust. Trust that just as Christ appeared to think he was forsaken on the cross, but achieved by that very suffering the ultimate act of reconciliation between God and man, so through the suffering of the flock and the martyred Armenian people would the same Armenian people be guaranteed a future. No, the horrible end in the Syrian desert of hundreds of thousands of Armenians would not be the end of the Armenian race. Rather, the desolation and hopelessness of that experience would help the Armenians who survived to strive with ever-greater determination to secure their own place in a post-genocide world.
In crying out this lamentation that appears one of dejection and complete loss of faith, what we actually see is a sincere exposition of the great Christian hope that after death – in this case, the suffering and death of his Armenian flock was united with the suffering of Christ on the cross – and after sorrow, and after the tears that fall due to the evil and sin that causes so much suffering in this world, there will be redemption. In the Book of Revelation, Saint John provides a vision of the fruits of this great hope:
Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband; and I heard a great voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling of God is with men. He will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain any more, for the former things have passed away.” – Revelation 21: 1-4.
Therefore, for this elderly village priest, for whom the world he had hitherto known was being torn down by the very people that the Armenians had relied upon for protection, to say that he was leading his people to God’s funeral was really a hopeful cry tinged with lamentation for his people. The hope was expressed clearly – the suffering of his flock in the Syrian desert would be united with that of Christ on the cross. Just as after Christ’s death, He rose again in glory, so this “funeral” of the Armenian people would not be the end either of the nation of Armenians nor of the souls of the individuals who died.
Perhaps this cry was also filled with a question to God, along the lines of Lord, “Lord, why do you let your people suffer this way, Lord, why are you silent?” Yet even this priest would have known that God was not silent. Rather, he was shedding tears for his people, allowing them, permitting them to suffer in this way, for he knew that they would be redeemed. Indeed, the Armenian Apostolic Church has canonised all the victims of the Armenian Genocide.
Of course, we must return to the issue of the symbolism of the fact that almost the entire world was silent when the Ottomans murdered up to 1.5 million Armenians – members of the first nation ever to adopt the Christian faith as the religion of the state – out of cold blood. I think it is because the horrors of the First World War, the sheer death and destruction it caused, were so unparalleled in history that the world ceased to be surprised at the kind of death and destruction that man was capable of committing against his fellow man.
When the Catholic Armenian Patriarch wrote to the Pope, he spoke of the horrors he had witnessed and said “All this happens in the face of utter silence before the whole Christian world”. The Armenian Apostolic Church, the Oriental Orthodox Church to which the majority of Armenians belong, suffered immensely. Yet the Catholic Armenian Church, to which only a minority of Armenians belong, lost five bishops, 300 priests, 270 nuns, and 156 churches to the genocide. 85,000 Armenian Catholics perished. How many more died in the Armenian Apostolic Church? How many died in the face of complete silence from the entire Christian world?
In fact, one of the only people in the West who took action to save as many Armenians as he could was Pope Benedict XV. He said, “the helpless Armenian people went to meet an almost total annihilation”. And this annihilation was met with nothing but silence, silence, and total silence. If anything is clear, it is that whilst the Turkish authorities who had protected the Armenians for centuries murdered them en masse, and whilst the entire Western world remained silent in the face of this evil, God was still with them, suffering with them and for them. I am sure that many Armenians were tempted by despair, but like the aged priest, their cry was not one of despair, but of trust and hope in God’s Divine Providence.
“Yea, God is dead, and we are rushing to his funeral”
Over the past year my interest in the most ancient Christian culture – that of Armenia and the Armenian people, the first to adopt Christianity as their state religion in around 300 AD – has grown.
Only a minority of Armenians have ever lived in what is now Armenia. Historically most lived under Ottoman rule in the Middle East. Studying Armenian history necessitates studying the Armenian Genocide, where the Ottoman Turks from 1915 onwards killed up to 1.5 million Armenians. Modern Armenia has around 3 million people – the scale of the killings were enormous.
When studying the Armenian genocide, one story came up that I shall never forget. An eighty-five year old Armenian priest near Izmir in Turkey was told he needed to lead his flock out of their village. As he led his flock away from the village, the elderly priest was taunted by the Turks. “Who shall you bury today, old man?”, they asked him.
His enigmatic reply made a deep impression on me: “Yea, God is dead, and we are rushing to his funeral”.
Armenians being led by the Turks out of their village to their death in the Syrian desert.
This man, who had likely been a priest for 60 or more years, when faced with the prospect of death by exhaustion and thirst in the desert with his flock, appeared to despair. He appeared to lose hope. He appeared to lose faith. When Pope Benedict visited Auschwitz Concentration Camp, he asked “Why, Lord, did you remain silent?” Such questions we cannot answer. Was God’s “silence” in the face of the genocide of the world’s oldest Christian nation the cause of such great despair in the priest’s mind and heart that he lost his faith? I do not think so. In fact, I actually think that this cry “God is dead, and we are rushing to his funeral” was one of hope, not despair. It was a lamentation of love, not one of bitterness and hatred. It was a cry of resignation to the will of God.
Before I continue this analysis, let me state that I believe the world’s utter silence in the face of the genocide of the world’s oldest Christian people by the Ottomans in the midst of the worst war the world had ever known was symbolic. Howso? I shall shortly explain. But let that thought remain as I continue to the main story.
When Our Lord was on the cross, near death, he cried out “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” (Matt 27:46). Some use this as evidence that Jesus despaired on the Cross. No, quite the contrary. Our Lord was reciting the 22nd Psalm, but he was too weak to finish reciting it. The 22nd Psalm begins with a cry almost of despair. Yet by the third verse it is clear that this is a Psalm of trust in God, a Psalm that speaks to a deep faith, for it continues “Yet thou art holy…in thee our fathers trusted…”. It turns from a cry of despair into a cry of filial trust.
We also understand that for Christians, the suffering of Christ on the cross represents not only the great sacrifice by which our salvation was won, but our God’s willingness even to suffer a painful and slow death in unity with all human suffering throughout the ages. Out of suffering comes eternal life, and out of the greatest moments of fear and suffering is often the greatest movement towards faith – for in such a moment, what can one do but trust in the providence of God? If one is a believer, then there is nothing left and nobody to save us in such a situation but the Lord.
The doctrine of the hypostatic union is also relevant here, as expressed in the Athanasian Creed.1 This dogma of faith is that the human and divine natures of Jesus Christ, though separate and distinct, are united in the one person of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. As St Cyril of Alexandria taught, the one who experienced the agony on the Cross was Jesus both human and divine. God Himself was on that Cross, suffering for all of mankind.
For the priest who uttered, in a moment of great trial for his suffering people, that he was going to God’s funeral, we see him unite his sufferings and those of his community with the death of Christ on the cross. The “funeral” of God is the death and crucifixion of Our Lord on the cross. After he was crucified, however, Jesus rose again in glory and the crucifixion itself conquered death and sin. The priest’s cry was not one of despair, but of trust. Trust that just as Christ appeared to think he was forsaken on the cross, but achieved by that very suffering the ultimate act of reconciliation between God and man, so through the suffering of the flock and the martyred Armenian people would the same Armenian people be guaranteed a future. No, the horrible end in the Syrian desert of hundreds of thousands of Armenians would not be the end of the Armenian race. Rather, the desolation and hopelessness of that experience would help the Armenians who survived to strive with ever-greater determination to secure their own place in a post-genocide world.
In crying out this lamentation that appears one of dejection and complete loss of faith, what we actually see is a sincere exposition of the great Christian hope that after death – in this case, the suffering and death of his Armenian flock was united with the suffering of Christ on the cross – and after sorrow, and after the tears that fall due to the evil and sin that causes so much suffering in this world, there will be redemption. In the Book of Revelation, Saint John provides a vision of the fruits of this great hope:
Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband; and I heard a great voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling of God is with men. He will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain any more, for the former things have passed away.” – Revelation 21: 1-4.
Therefore, for this elderly village priest, for whom the world he had hitherto known was being torn down by the very people that the Armenians had relied upon for protection, to say that he was leading his people to God’s funeral was really a hopeful cry tinged with lamentation for his people. The hope was expressed clearly – the suffering of his flock in the Syrian desert would be united with that of Christ on the cross. Just as after Christ’s death, He rose again in glory, so this “funeral” of the Armenian people would not be the end either of the nation of Armenians nor of the souls of the individuals who died.
Perhaps this cry was also filled with a question to God, along the lines of Lord, “Lord, why do you let your people suffer this way, Lord, why are you silent?” Yet even this priest would have known that God was not silent. Rather, he was shedding tears for his people, allowing them, permitting them to suffer in this way, for he knew that they would be redeemed. Indeed, the Armenian Apostolic Church has canonised all the victims of the Armenian Genocide.
Of course, we must return to the issue of the symbolism of the fact that almost the entire world was silent when the Ottomans murdered up to 1.5 million Armenians – members of the first nation ever to adopt the Christian faith as the religion of the state – out of cold blood. I think it is because the horrors of the First World War, the sheer death and destruction it caused, were so unparalleled in history that the world ceased to be surprised at the kind of death and destruction that man was capable of committing against his fellow man.
When the Catholic Armenian Patriarch wrote to the Pope, he spoke of the horrors he had witnessed and said “All this happens in the face of utter silence before the whole Christian world”. The Armenian Apostolic Church, the Oriental Orthodox Church to which the majority of Armenians belong, suffered immensely. Yet the Catholic Armenian Church, to which only a minority of Armenians belong, lost five bishops, 300 priests, 270 nuns, and 156 churches to the genocide. 85,000 Armenian Catholics perished. How many more died in the Armenian Apostolic Church? How many died in the face of complete silence from the entire Christian world?
In fact, one of the only people in the West who took action to save as many Armenians as he could was Pope Benedict XV. He said, “the helpless Armenian people went to meet an almost total annihilation”. And this annihilation was met with nothing but silence, silence, and total silence. If anything is clear, it is that whilst the Turkish authorities who had protected the Armenians for centuries murdered them en masse, and whilst the entire Western world remained silent in the face of this evil, God was still with them, suffering with them and for them. I am sure that many Armenians were tempted by despair, but like the aged priest, their cry was not one of despair, but of trust and hope in God’s Divine Providence.