The Russian reader has already had the opportunity to get acquainted with the works of the outstanding Lithuanian religious philosopher Antanas Maseina (1908-1987). In 1999-2000, the St. Petersburg publishing house "Alethea" published Maceina's trilogy "Cor inquietum", which consisted of philosophical interpretations of world-famous philosophical and literary works: "The Grand Inquisitor" by F. Dostoevsky, "A Short Story of the Antichrist..." Vl. Solovyov and the Biblical "Book of Job". This time, the reader is offered the theological work of Maceina "The Lamb of God", devoted to the Christology of the Eastern Church. In order to forestall perplexing questions that may arise when reading this book, I consider it necessary to preface this work with excerpts from A. Maceina's autobiographical philosophical essay "The Path of Philosophy", one of the chapters of which is devoted to the author's relationship with theology. It should be noted that Maceina himself, who devoted a significant part of his life to the study of dogmatic and fundamental theology, never considered himself a theologian, but many in Lithuania considered and still consider him primarily a theologian, a theologian...

     So, here is what Antanas Maceina himself says about his attitude to theology and theology:

1. RELATION TO THEOLOGY

     "Theology is dragging after me like a loose sleeve of bast shoes, and many, seeing this robo, consider me a theologian, perhaps even first of all a theologian, and only then a philosopher or even a representative of some spiritual teaching. (…). Thus, it seems to me that the time has come to reveal my relationship with theology so that it becomes understandable not only to others, but also to myself. I did study theology for quite a long time, and later I wrote several books on theological issues. But does this make the structure and direction of my thinking theological? This question arises by itself when you begin to trace the path traveled.

      When in June 1928 I completed four courses at the Gižai Theological Seminary (Vilkaviškis Diocese),[1] I was invited to his office by the rector of the seminary, I. Naujokas, who ordered me to write a letter of resignation from the seminary "of my own free will," saying that otherwise (if I did not write a statement), the council of professors would officially expel me from the seminary. The reason: "Dear, you will not get along with the abbots." I was never accommodating – neither in the gymnasium, nor even more so in the seminary. He did not start quarrels. He did not even enter into verbal battles with anyone. So could the rectors of churches be an exception? Didn't the rector who had taught and watched over me for four years of study ever get to know me? Today, when the rector's words of fifty years ago come to mind, it seems to me that the prelate[2] I. Naujokas was right, only he did not understand the true meaning of what he himself said at that time. He said them psychologically, when they should have sounded metaphysical: "Dear sir, you won't get along with theology."

      Theological and philosophical thinking go in opposite directions. Theology begins with an answer, philosophy begins with a question. The answer for theology is provided by faith, which is the freest action of man (H. de Lubac). Theology itself has no answer; it receives it and therefore begins with it, after which it historically examines this answer, reveals it from within, methodically brings it into the system. For example, the affirmation of the Holy Scriptures – "And the Word was made flesh" (John 1:14) – is the answer given by faith in Christ as the Eternal Logos, Who united in Himself both the Divine and the human nature. Without such an answer, there would be no Christology as a theological discipline. The statement that is often encountered today – "faith is one, but theologies are many" is a pure misunderstanding, for one faith can give birth to only one theology, and many theologies require many faiths, for it is not faith that arises from theology, but theology reveals the already existing faith with its inherent methodological consistency.

      However, it is here that the difficulties begin for the one who philosophizes, therefore, asks the question. Theology does not ask questions, because it is based on an answer, which is both its object and its starting point. As "science does not think" (M. Heidegger), so theology does not ask. And this is quite logical. After all, the answer makes the question meaningless. If I am familiar with the route from Boston to New York, it would be a mockery to ask a passerby if this path really leads to New York. And if I were to ask this question sincerely, then it would be a sign that I doubt my knowledge. Asking a question with an answer means doubting the answer. In the field of religion, this means that my faith is either weak or I have none at all, for only in these cases does the question acquire meaning and be justified psychologically. That is why the theologian is quite naturally unfriendly towards the questioner: he experiences the questioner as if he were mocking or hesitant. It seems to the theologian that to ask, having an answer, means to mock or really doubt this or that truth of the confession. And if such a lover of asking questions is also preparing to become a priest, then it is quite obvious that he is not suitable for this ministry. After all, the task of the priest is not to ask questions, but to proclaim through the Church the answer received from God. Therefore, a seminarian who is inclined to philosophize, that is, inclined to ask questions, is not in his place. Having become a priest, he will be a pure misfortune for the hierarchy. For the hierarchy, which in history has always stood ex professo[3] on guard over the answers given by faith (cf. 2 Tim. 1:14; 4:2-5), is thereby – and also ex professo – the opponent of questions, suspecting of unbelief or of false faith (heresy) anyone who asks questions in the face of faith. And the fact that this suspicion usually covers more than the dogmatic sphere is proved by the daily practice of all countries. The conflict that has arisen today between the German theologians (Haag, Hermann, Kung) and the German hierarchy is essentially nothing more than a conflict between philosophical and theological thinking. Philosophers who have been ordained and become theologians continue to think, asking questions, so they create a theology that they themselves invented, but did not adopt from church tradition, as St. Paul demanded. Paul: "Permane in his quae didicisti – abide in what you have learned" (2 Tim. 3:14). The priest-philosopher is as flawed as the priest-poet: one philosophizes, and the other composes verses not from priestly existence.

      In this hostility of the theologians to the question was concealed the true meaning of the above-mentioned words of the rector – "Dear sir, you will not get along with the abbots": the word "abbot" here implied theological thinking, which, beginning with an answer, does not accept everything that begins with a question. Thus, it is logical that the seminary could not tolerate me, although it had a very positive influence on me – it was for me a school of knowledge and a school of my development. But it could not make me a theologian, that is, a man of the kind of thinking that would calm down when he received an answer. There are a lot of restless seminarians. However, most often they ask questions during breaks in classes and ask these questions not to theologians, professors, but to their fellow students. This suggests that their question is more or less a school question. Therefore, he does not torment them, and they calmly go on their way to priestly service. Meanwhile, in the one who asks the professor a question during classes, the "spiritus contradictionis – the spirit of contradiction" gradually begins to manifest itself: then he either retreats himself or is forced out of the path he has chosen. That's exactly what happened to me. In my case, the seminary authorities suspected that this twenty-year-old young man was created differently from his fellow students, and therefore was not fit to become a spiritual mentor in his priestly ministry. He who asks questions himself cannot lead another, for to lead another means to know the way, without in the least doubting the truth of this path. Bishop of Münster (later Cardinal) S. von Galen, after reading Wust's book Ungewissheit und Wagnis, Doubt and Risk (1936), said to a visiting philosopher: "I have no doubt and no risk." This is an absolutely correct definition of the spiritual structure of a spiritual father. A spiritual mentor never experiences faith as something he doubts and therefore as a risk. Otherwise he would not dare to guide the soul of another, for one can only risk one's own soul, but one must not put another's soul at risk. Those who decide to be a spiritual mentor must be sure that they are not taking risks. I have never had such confidence. For me, faith is a terrible risk.

      Therefore, my religious writings do not contain any attempt to instruct anyone spiritually. (…). In general, moral problems, which primarily concern spiritual mentors, have never particularly attracted me. Knowing that the moral norm of a person's actions is first of all his own conscience (even if he is objectively mistaken), and seeing how this norm is increasingly strengthened in the consciousness of mankind, I have always experienced ethics as a set of artificial rules that have no ontological basis and therefore do not exceed the level of "decent behavior." For the same reason, the so-called "philosophy of values" (M. Scheler, N. Hartmann) has always been alien to me, and very close to M. Heidegger, who asserted that the ascension of God to the rank of "supreme value" was the final blow that killed Him in the soul of Western man. Therefore, the path to the existence of God, which goes through the search for meaning, for the latter is necessary for man in his life and activity (cf. B. Welte. Religionsphilosophie, 1978), I consider it a false path, following which a person inevitably makes a logical leap from "must" to "eat": man needs meaning, and so he is in the form of God.

      The direction of my thinking is not instructive and therefore not theological, for a theology that is not directed toward spiritual instruction is meaningless. Today's effort to turn theology into a "science of faith" is a contradiction in itself: a science based on causal inquiry and a faith based on free self-determination are mutually exclusive. Just as there is not and cannot be a "science of freedom," so there is not and cannot be a "science of faith." Otherwise, astrology would be a science. Theology is one of the forms of spiritual instruction or one of the types of activity of the Church as the fulfillment of her messenger ministry. And if theology tries to free itself from this kind of activity, it will really turn into astrology. It never occurred to me to create such an "astrological theology".

      What, then, are my writings that deal with religious questions? – Aware of faith as a risk and therefore unfit for spiritual guidance, I have been faithful to the Christian religion represented by the Catholic Church all my life. I was not separated from this religion by my conflicts with our hierarchy both in Lithuania and in exile,[4] nor by the mistakes and sins of the hierarchy that it committed in the course of history, nor by the human imperfection of the clergy. As for the teaching of the Church, I feel surprisingly free: dogma has never served as fetters for my thoughts. I have always experienced the Church's answers to the basic questions of our existence as my own answers. It did not seem to me that these answers were imposed on me from above and therefore alien, coercive and suppressive, on the contrary, it seemed to me that they were born in myself and therefore were my own and worthy of further comprehension. I considered and still consider to be fiction the arrogant assertion of theologians that "the object of faith transcends the soul of man" (G. Sohngen). If this were really so, then who would be able to preach the faith and to whom would its content be understood? In the realm of faith, we may not know much, but we can and must understand everything that is preached to us. Otherwise, the belief will turn into a superstition, which is subject to a certain group of people who believe in the positive or negative power of this or that superstition – not to get out of bed on the left foot, not to settle in room number 13 in a hotel, to nail a horseshoe on the door in front of the entrance... None of those who speak to man and man can step over his soul. On the contrary, he must condescend to this soul and submit to its laws. And only such submission fills the speaker's speech with meaning. That is why the Church has never been afraid to put the truths of Revelation into philosophical formulations.

      Thus, it was this experience that gave rise to my religious writings. In them, I translated the answers of the Church into the cognitive plane and turned them into philosophical questions, which I myself am trying to answer. Therefore, all my writings are not subject to the theological method, which is to be based on the Holy Scriptures, the Church Fathers, theologians (especially scholastics), liturgical texts, and, finally, on the official decrees of the Church. However, this does not mean that I did not use all the above-mentioned sources in my writings. This only means that for me they only confirm the authenticity of the issue I am researching and nothing more. The question itself is investigated by the mind – this is the philosophy of Christianity in the true sense of the word, for Christianity, being a historical reality and a unity of certain attitudes, is determined by the laws of logic in the same way as any other cognitive system that requires the mind and is accessible to it: "fides quaerens intellectum is the faith that the mind seeks," as Anselm of Canterbury said in the eleventh century. After all, there is only one logic, namely human. There is no divine logic or super-logic or anti-logic. Divine Revelation was embodied in the forms of human knowledge, and the Divine Word found expression in the human word. Divine truth, embodied in human cognition, naturally falls into the realm of our thinking and becomes the object of our comprehension. Moreover, it becomes the main and primary object of our comprehension, because we have voluntarily accepted it as our own, and by it we have determined our existence. My religious writings are the comprehension of this Divine truth as my own truth and at the same time an attempt to reveal it in one aspect or another to the best of my ability. This is only my own work, which has neither an educational nor a spiritually instructive character: a philosopher does not teach or preach; He only explains.

      Here I will try to answer the question that was raised by Dr. K. Skrupskelis [5] and sounded something like this: "Can Maceina talk about God at all? Does he have enough words, phrases in which he could express God?" But it is justified to some extent. Why? Considering the metaphysics of God to be a failure and a failure not only historical but also essential, I try to speak not of who God is and how He is in Himself, as the metaphysics of God does, but of God in relation to man or of the God of religion. However, K. Skrupskelis seems to be afraid of such an approach to God. He says: "Where we begin with a person, there we end with a person. And man himself can only create an idol." That is why he asks: "When we say that God loves us, that He created us, that He is good, perfect, and powerful, we apply to God the concepts borrowed from this world. Do we not belittle God by doing so? When we say that God is love, do we not identify this love with earthly love? And when we say that He is the Creator, do we not identify Him with mechanics and sculptors? Somewhere here lies heresy, or rather the danger of idolatry."

      I try to answer these questions with the idea of God's kenosis. It is to be regretted that Dr. K. Skrupskelis did not delve into the idea of kenosis, the main idea of my philosophy of religion. And yet only this idea gives us the right to speak of God. We do not belittle God, but He Himself is diminished; We do not make God a man, but He himself becomes a man. And only when we talk about this self-diminished and incarnate God, will our conversation make sense. Scrupskelis's mockery of the advocates of natural theology (theologija naturalis), as if their God was "just like a man," which Scrupskelis picked up, does not really contain any ridicule. The kenotic God is the God Whom alone we can know, and of Whom we can really say that He is "just like man." God the Absolute is God in His transcendence, God outside of relation to man and completely inaccessible to man. Mystical hymns addressed to the Absolute not only do not express Him in the least, but in no way bring Him closer to us. Moreover, the deeper and more beautiful the mystical song, the more images and even meanings it borrows from the world. (…). This suggests that mysticism can "catch" God only on our level. Only when God assumes the state of creation and descends to its level, He becomes close to us ontologically and epistemologically accessible. If God remains in transcendence, He remains beyond any of our categories, as if He did not exist at all.