There’s a joke about the Eastern Orthodox Church that goes like this: “How many Orthodox does it take to change a lightbulb?” The answer is simple: “To change?!”
Orthodoxy is often accused of being inflexible, failing to adapt with the times. Just one visit to an Orthodox church—with its icon-laden sanctuaries, incense-filled air, flickering candles, and clergy robed in ancient garments—confirms the stereotype that Orthodox people aren’t exactly inclined toward change. Compared to sleek American mega-churches, equipped with LCD projectors, spotlights, and rock music, the Orthodox Church can indeed appear anti-progressive.
This tradition of worship (which I personally belong to) has existed since the early Church and was passed down from an even older tradition—Jewish liturgy. Does Orthodoxy seek refuge in nostalgic traditionalism, or is there something more intentional happening? I would argue that the essence of Orthodoxy, with its apparent resistance to change, is, in fact, change itself. Anthony Bloom, an Orthodox writer and theologian, describes the ancient liturgy as “a school of spirituality: it is a situation and an encounter with God and the world in God. It has its own spontaneity, which surpasses the immediate spontaneity of each of its members. It is the sacred spontaneity of a society already complete in and with God.”
The liturgy, filled with litanies and prayers that have been preserved for centuries, is like the sunrise—changeable and unchangeable, constant and beautifully sporadic—all things spontaneous, yet never chaotic.
St. Maximus the Confessor, St. Gregory Palamas, and Blessed Augustine of Hippo are among the greats of the early Church upon whose shoulders we, like dwarves, rest, learning of the calling that extends even beyond the grave. The Russian theologian St. Theophan the Recluse once said, “Look to heaven and measure each step of your life so that it might be a step toward it.” Don’t be misled by this apparent metaphor; if each moment of our lives is imbued with the purpose and direction of heaven, then we will indeed live every moment in its fullness. Having an unblemished view toward Heaven means transforming every present moment into what is truly and essentially progressive—that is, directed toward eternity.
False progress, on the other hand, is movement that only appears to improve life. Take show business, for instance, which has “progressed” toward far greater freedoms of expression since Elvis Presley’s hip-swinging antics disrupted the tame pop culture of the mid-20th century. Violence, unrestrained promiscuity, and the brazen irreverence of rock stars have claimed their rightful share of the public’s attention. But is this progress, or does it draw humanity back upon itself in a closed loop? For progress to be genuine, it must be oriented toward God, for transformation wanes when movement bends back toward the self. The Eastern Church would say that the fullness of human life is realized in turning from a fallen state toward a transformed personhood—one that becomes like God, as He became man—and, somewhat ironically, becomes more human than before. The entire world falls under the mantle of this incarnational transformation.
Nothing confounds the human mind more than the mystery of Christ’s incarnation. That God Himself desired to take on the fallen human form—the very one He created—is awe-inspiring, universally unparalleled, and somehow marvelously comforting.
We read of the incarnation in Scripture, hear it proclaimed in sermons, receive its encouraging promise—but do we truly see it? How do we see God, who came in the form of a newborn? Newborns, of course, can be described, spoken about, and seen. Parents send out birth announcements with pictures and descriptions of their child—symbols that may not fully capture the essence of this wondrous new being, yet allow us to share in the parents’ joy and celebrate the momentous event. But what of Jesus Christ—can He be described? Can He be seen even now?
Icons fulfill this role within Orthodox worship—they allow us to see Him. A particular hymn in the Orthodox Church, known as the Kontakion, beautifully expresses this profound and awe-inspiring mystery:
The Uncircumscribable Word of the Father became circumscribed, taking flesh from you, O Mother of God, and He has restored the stained image to its ancient glory, filling it with divine beauty. This, our salvation, we confess in deed and word, and we depict it in holy icons.
Here, icons offer a bridge to the invisible, a view into the boundless mystery of the incarnate God. Through them, we are drawn closer to the reality of His presence among us.
We all have a point, I suppose, when we talk about progress. Yet, we must define it precisely. When I place the image of fast-paced urban culture next to that of the peaceful steadiness of a snail, and ask myself which one is making more progress, I have to consider direction. In which case is the culture being transformed? In which case are people being transformed? Does culture become better simply through its relentless pursuit of success? Or does the snail become a better snail by simply being true to its nature?
If heaven is the goal, then humanity’s shared effort toward heaven, and heaven’s toward humanity, will dictate everything: from politics to ecology, from relationships to cosmology, and everything else under the sun. If we see the world as an icon, the journey of progress becomes much clearer. We all gain something by simply pausing to check our direction and confirm the end goal of our journey.
Perhaps that joke should read: “How many Orthodox does it take to change a light bulb?” with this revised answer: “Change it? Change is good, but only if it turns in the right direction so that, in the end, it lights up the whole world.”
Fr. Michael Tishel
Fr. Michael Tishel, originally from Boston, MA, serves as an assistant priest at Holy Transfiguration Greek Orthodox Church in Marietta, GA. He is known for his dedicated work in Orthodox Christian youth ministry, previously directing the CrossRoad Summer Institute and contributing to Hellenic College Holy Cross as a lecturer and program coordinator. Fr. Michael holds degrees in Comparative Historical Theology from Gordon College and a Master’s in Theology from Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, where he also completed a doctorate focusing on St. John Chrysostom. He combines his love for theology with a passion for youth culture, family, and creative ministry initiatives.
