Romania is still, in a profound sense, a people. This is because it possesses a common language and a common religion that exist as a shared soul—that is, a shared spirituality. My contact with Romanians also allows me to appreciate that this spirituality differs from that of the Russians or the Greeks—at least insofar as I am familiar with them. Romanians often display a certain sensitivity, a moderation, and a gentleness—qualities I would liken to what the ancient Greeks called *aidos*. It is a spiritual gentleness, the kind one sees on the faces of the devout, and which is said to have characterized Father Paisie Olarul and Father Stăniloae. They also possess a cheerfulness that endures even in times of hardship—a sense of joy, dance, and celebration that radiates brightly, especially in the countryside. All of this is well known and struck me just as it did others before me. Yet, we must not limit ourselves to merely praising the anthropological aspects of rural life and the village, however beautiful they may be. The village is, above all, an embodiment of spiritual community—as I witnessed firsthand in Maramureș, Moldavia, and Lupșa. It is a community that is not archaic; rather, it is thoroughly contemporary in its way of life, while its living unity is sustained in and through faith. It is a case that is perhaps unique in Christian Europe. In Breb (Maramureș), for instance, I was surprised to see—after the Sunday Liturgy—the greater part of the village gathered in the churchyard to discuss various community matters. Everyone was voicing their opinion, taking part in crafting a solution. Before me lay a truly remarkable *agora*—that of the village community gathered in the shadow of the church bell tower. And one glimpses that the true community is the one uniting the village home and the church: there is a permeability, a living exchange, an astonishing osmosis between the two that nourishes them both.
Jean Lauxerois
„Many Romanians have made me feel and admire a lived Orthodoxy.”
Interview with Jean Lauxerois, France
Jean Lauxerois is a French philosopher specializing in Greek and German thought. He taught for a considerable time in Germany and Italy, served as a program director at the International College of Philosophy, and was a professor in Paris. He has translated works by Martin Heidegger, Theodor Adorno, Walter Otto, Sophocles, Plato, and Aristotle into French (from German and Ancient Greek). His work focuses on the nature of time and ethics, as well as the meaning of art and culture. He has published numerous books and articles and written prefaces for contemporary artists. Jean Lauxerois was a student of Jean Beaufret, one of the most significant political thinkers of the 20th century. He also shares a close friendship with Kostas Axelos, who, as early as the 1970s, predicted the impending decline of French—and European—consciousness. Recently, Lauxerois has published several articles drawing attention to the situation in contemporary France. „Franţa, ţară bolnavă, stare de urgenţă” este unul dintre ele, scris chiar în limba română, which he has learned over the past few years thanks to the special ties he has with Romania through the roots of his wife, the pianist Catherine Imbert. He is Catholic, yet he has also drawn close to Orthodox spirituality..
— As a Catholic, how did you discover Orthodoxy? Which representatives of Orthodoxy have you met or discovered? And why is Orthodoxy important in your eyes today?
It was a matter of chance—or perhaps a blessing—that this discovery did not come to me all at once, like a sudden revelation; rather, it unfolded in stages, in layers. Looking back now—in a somewhat Proustian manner—I can say that each layer held its own significance, paving the way for the next along a journey that seemed to unfold almost of its own accord. My starting point and framework were the Ancient Greek I knew and my background in philosophy. What followed was, above all, my encounter with Romania and the richness of what it continues to reveal to me.
Learning Ancient Greek proved to be a blessing—something I realized only later. To the best of my knowledge, this extraordinary language is a vehicle for thought unlike any other. I was able to gauge its true measure during my philosophical training, when a great professor, while introducing us to Heidegger, drew our attention to the genuinely phenomenological dimension of the Greek language. The "inaugural rupture," therefore, arose from these two corollary openings: that of Heidegger’s thought—with the myriad questions it posed to me (such as the concept of ontotheology, the problem of God and Being, or the dimension of the negative)—and that of Greek thought, which is not strictly confined to philosophy, having first found expression in poetry and tragedy. Upon this initial foundation—which remains part of my work’s landscape to this day—I was able, quite early on and without any preconceived notions, to discover the philosophical and theological challenges inherent in the Latinization of the Greek language, and thus the importance of translation within the tradition. I was also able to begin reading Dionysius, Origen, Plotinus, and several Greek Fathers. I quite quickly glimpsed the distinctive radiance of these Fathers' Christianity—a quality that could not be encompassed by what had been handed down to me through the Augustinian tradition, even though I was already leaning more towards Saint John of the Cross and Meister Eckhart. Although my reading remained incomplete and undoubtedly lacked deep insight, reading the Greek Fathers was a singular pursuit at the time, as it was not a widespread practice in France; in any case, this reading accompanied my initial questions regarding Christianity and the separation of Byzantium from Rome, just as it helped pave the way for my later discoveries.
My encounter with Romania came later, yet it was the event that allowed everything that had come before to ripen and find its fulfillment. A second blessing, undoubtedly, was my marriage sixteen years ago to the pianist Catherine Imbert, which opened the doors to a new world for me. Not immediately, of course; here, too, the process unfolded in successive layers. Through her maternal family (the Poenaru-Bordea line), my wife had a Romanian grandmother living in exile who had raised her from childhood to love her native land and the poetry of Eminescu; she had instilled in her a passion for Romania and its history—traces of which she continues to gather by collecting Romanian books for a library that likely has no equal today. My wife, who is also Catholic, was the first to tell me about *The Happiness Diary* by Father Nicolae Steinhardt—a book that had deeply affected her and which she recommended to me.
Our marriage provided the occasion for a first trip to Bucharest and, for me, a first encounter with Romania. A few years later, my wife’s genealogical research led her to return "to the field" and discover that her ancestors had "founded" three churches (in Bucharest, in Călăraşi, and near Slobozia—where the beautiful wooden church once located at Poiana was re-erected a few years ago). At that point—about seven years ago—things began to accelerate as places and people came together in a wonderful way. As for the people, I owe a great deal to Pia Paleologu, a relative of my wife. A woman of deep faith, a wonderful watercolorist, and a person of exquisite artistic sensibility and generous humanity, Pia Paleologu—knowing of my love for painting—helped me meet Romanians in 2009 unlike anyone I had ever known, not just in the West but anywhere in the world: artists who were, at the same time, embodiments of faith (so it *was* possible!), people with whom I felt an immediate, close bond—such as Silvia Radu, a magnificent sculptor and founder of a church and a monastery, who introduced me to the exceptional work of her husband, the sculptor Gorduz (whom I unfortunately never met), and who constantly nourishes me with her profound experience of the Orthodox faith; I also met Sorin Dumitrescu, with whom I was able to engage in a substantive dialogue about art, poetry, and theology. Against this backdrop, and in the company of our cousins—the Poenaru-Bordeas from Bucharest—my wife and I traveled to the monasteries of Moldavia in 2010. Needless to say, discovering the monasteries of Probota, Suceviţa, Moldoviţa, Voroneţ, and the others was one of the most profound experiences of my life. I had never imagined such a reality—architectural, pictorial, and theological. It was these monasteries (along with the poetry of Eminescu) that inspired me to learn your beautiful Romanian language—a language I have been practicing for five years now.
From that moment on, my understanding of Orthodoxy grew rapidly. I would highlight a few key milestones. After visiting Moldavia and Bukovina, I went on an Easter pilgrimage to Lupşa Monastery in the Apuseni Mountains in 2012—a trip organized from France by the Romanian Orthodox Metropolis in Paris. That Easter at Lupşa gave me the chance to grasp the immense importance of monasteries within Orthodoxy and in the life of Romania—a reality with no equivalent in the West. Another deeply moving journey was the one I undertook in Maramureş in 2013, largely on foot; it revealed to me how, in the heart of the villages and their wooden churches, there lived a faith I would call "open." I encountered this impressive faith among the local Greek Catholics as well, whose welcome was always deeply touching—such as that of a peasant woman named Lenuţa, who told us, speaking of death: "If you do not believe, the path to the light does not open." On the gate of her church, as on all the others in Maramureş, was displayed the admirable image of a man whose beatification had already been announced: Monsignor Ghika (to whom our Romanian family is related).
In this blessed region, I was able to experience the Orthodox faith firsthand when I met Father Isidor Berbecaru in Botiza—a true man of God; it was through him that I discovered the profound spirituality of his Maramureș. With him, for instance, I attended the patronal feast celebrating the Nativity of the Mother of God; on that occasion, I met an extraordinary man named Hotico—an artisan in the medieval sense of the word—who spoke beautifully about the architecture of the wooden churches he had built all over the world. The priest even took us to the small village of Vișeu de Sus, on the remote fringes of the "deep Romania," to meet the parents of Metropolitan Iosif—the Romanian Orthodox Church’s representative for Western Europe—whom I had met in Paris several years earlier.
It is but a step from Maramureș to Paris, given that Hotico built a wooden church in the garden of the Metropolis at Limours—a place where the impressive spiritual presence of Metropolitan Iosif shines forth over all of Europe, infusing his Church with an energy that is surely divine. Among the priests of this Church, I had the joy of meeting Father Marc-Antoine de Beauregard—a joy mingled with surprise, for we had been fellow students in our early years of study; we had lost touch, only to meet again more than forty years later at a conference. The philosophy student had become Orthodox, then spent a year studying in Bucharest—where he met Father Stăniloae—before eventually being ordained a priest in the Romanian Orthodox Church! Our paths were crossing once more, thanks to Orthodoxy and to Romania. He was the one who encouraged me to read Father Stăniloae—with whom he had co-authored a book of conversations and whose work he had translated into French. Another beautiful encounter under the sign of Orthodoxy was with Felicia Dumas, a university professor from Iași, whom I met when I acquired the French-Romanian/Romanian-French dictionary of Orthodox religious terms. Our relationship of respect and friendship remains primarily epistolary, yet for me, it is illuminated by the diamond-like radiance of the faith held by this humble and great Romanian woman; She led me to read Father Placide Deseille—whose texts she translates into Romanian—and in doing so, I rediscovered the Greek Fathers, of whom he is a highly knowledgeable translator and commentator.
I would add, however, that many more or less anonymous Romanians have enabled me to experience and admire a lived Orthodoxy: in particular, certain political prisoners whose faith helped them endure communist jails; then a peasant woman, deeply immersed in prayer near me during the long hours of Holy Saturday night at Lupşa; and—no less so—Adela, the lady from Maramureş who looks after our home in Paris: she tells me how her recent pilgrimage to Jerusalem changed her life, constantly brings me Orthodox books, and speaks to me about Arsenie Boca; in my eyes, she is an example of faith embodied in extraordinary humanity.
At the same time, for several years now, I have naturally returned to reading the Greek Fathers—specifically Saint Basil, Saint Maximus the Confessor, and Saint Gregory Palamas. I have read about the figures of "great spiritual fathers" such as Saint Silouan the Athonite, Father Paisie Olaru, and Father Sophrony... And I have read texts by Justin Popović, Vladimir Lossky, Father Stăniloae—of course—Evdokimov, Yannaras, Romanides, and Rafail Noica ("The Culture of the Spirit").
A question I am often asked is why I do not become Orthodox. I answer just as I do here: I do not wish to start a war on my own small scale; Orthodoxy helps me live out my Catholicism better—a relationship that has not, admittedly, always been entirely amicable... I do not want to abandon the religion of my parents and, above all, that of my grandfather—a man of great faith to whom I owe the initial impetus for the living practice and understanding of Christianity; I do not want to be unfaithful to all the wonderful priests I have met in my life—to whom I owe so much and whose suffering in contemporary Western society I am well aware of; nor do I wish to forsake the great figures of modern Catholicism who are dear to me—such as Baudelaire, Bernanos, and Simone Weil. Furthermore, I tell myself that in this way I can live out, in my own fashion, the concrete reality of the undivided Church—which, even in its Western branch, counts true marvels among its ranks: Saint Irenaeus, the great martyrs, Saint Genevieve, Saint Frances of Rome, and the great mystics of the faith, such as Saint John of the Cross or Blaise Pascal...
Here is a little something about how I discovered Orthodoxy and its importance to me. A long story, an experience spanning a lifetime—a story that remains open-ended, I hope with all my heart.
Our marriage provided the occasion for a first trip to Bucharest and, for me, a first encounter with Romania. A few years later, my wife’s genealogical research led her to return "to the field" and discover that her ancestors had "founded" three churches (in Bucharest, in Călăraşi, and near Slobozia—where the beautiful wooden church once located at Poiana was re-erected a few years ago). At that point—about seven years ago—things began to accelerate as places and people came together in a wonderful way. As for the people, I owe a great deal to Pia Paleologu, a relative of my wife. A woman of deep faith, a wonderful watercolorist, and a person of exquisite artistic sensibility and generous humanity, Pia Paleologu—knowing of my love for painting—helped me meet Romanians in 2009 unlike anyone I had ever known, not just in the West but anywhere in the world: artists who were, at the same time, embodiments of faith (so it *was* possible!), people with whom I felt an immediate, close bond—such as Silvia Radu, a magnificent sculptor and founder of a church and a monastery, who introduced me to the exceptional work of her husband, the sculptor Gorduz (whom I unfortunately never met), and who constantly nourishes me with her profound experience of the Orthodox faith; I also met Sorin Dumitrescu, with whom I was able to engage in a substantive dialogue about art, poetry, and theology. Against this backdrop, and in the company of our cousins—the Poenaru-Bordeas from Bucharest—my wife and I traveled to the monasteries of Moldavia in 2010. Needless to say, discovering the monasteries of Probota, Suceviţa, Moldoviţa, Voroneţ, and the others was one of the most profound experiences of my life. I had never imagined such a reality—architectural, pictorial, and theological. It was these monasteries (along with the poetry of Eminescu) that inspired me to learn your beautiful Romanian language—a language I have been practicing for five years now.
From that moment on, my understanding of Orthodoxy grew rapidly. I would highlight a few key milestones. After visiting Moldavia and Bukovina, I went on an Easter pilgrimage to Lupşa Monastery in the Apuseni Mountains in 2012—a trip organized from France by the Romanian Orthodox Metropolis in Paris. That Easter at Lupşa gave me the chance to grasp the immense importance of monasteries within Orthodoxy and in the life of Romania—a reality with no equivalent in the West. Another deeply moving journey was the one I undertook in Maramureş in 2013, largely on foot; it revealed to me how, in the heart of the villages and their wooden churches, there lived a faith I would call "open." I encountered this impressive faith among the local Greek Catholics as well, whose welcome was always deeply touching—such as that of a peasant woman named Lenuţa, who told us, speaking of death: "If you do not believe, the path to the light does not open." On the gate of her church, as on all the others in Maramureş, was displayed the admirable image of a man whose beatification had already been announced: Monsignor Ghika (to whom our Romanian family is related).
In this blessed region, I was able to experience the Orthodox faith firsthand when I met Father Isidor Berbecaru in Botiza—a true man of God; it was through him that I discovered the profound spirituality of his Maramureș. With him, for instance, I attended the patronal feast celebrating the Nativity of the Mother of God; on that occasion, I met an extraordinary man named Hotico—an artisan in the medieval sense of the word—who spoke beautifully about the architecture of the wooden churches he had built all over the world. The priest even took us to the small village of Vișeu de Sus, on the remote fringes of the "deep Romania," to meet the parents of Metropolitan Iosif—the Romanian Orthodox Church’s representative for Western Europe—whom I had met in Paris several years earlier.
It is but a step from Maramureș to Paris, given that Hotico built a wooden church in the garden of the Metropolis at Limours—a place where the impressive spiritual presence of Metropolitan Iosif shines forth over all of Europe, infusing his Church with an energy that is surely divine. Among the priests of this Church, I had the joy of meeting Father Marc-Antoine de Beauregard—a joy mingled with surprise, for we had been fellow students in our early years of study; we had lost touch, only to meet again more than forty years later at a conference. The philosophy student had become Orthodox, then spent a year studying in Bucharest—where he met Father Stăniloae—before eventually being ordained a priest in the Romanian Orthodox Church! Our paths were crossing once more, thanks to Orthodoxy and to Romania. He was the one who encouraged me to read Father Stăniloae—with whom he had co-authored a book of conversations and whose work he had translated into French. Another beautiful encounter under the sign of Orthodoxy was with Felicia Dumas, a university professor from Iași, whom I met when I acquired the French-Romanian/Romanian-French dictionary of Orthodox religious terms. Our relationship of respect and friendship remains primarily epistolary, yet for me, it is illuminated by the diamond-like radiance of the faith held by this humble and great Romanian woman; She led me to read Father Placide Deseille—whose texts she translates into Romanian—and in doing so, I rediscovered the Greek Fathers, of whom he is a highly knowledgeable translator and commentator.
I would add, however, that many more or less anonymous Romanians have enabled me to experience and admire a lived Orthodoxy: in particular, certain political prisoners whose faith helped them endure communist jails; then a peasant woman, deeply immersed in prayer near me during the long hours of Holy Saturday night at Lupşa; and—no less so—Adela, the lady from Maramureş who looks after our home in Paris: she tells me how her recent pilgrimage to Jerusalem changed her life, constantly brings me Orthodox books, and speaks to me about Arsenie Boca; in my eyes, she is an example of faith embodied in extraordinary humanity.
At the same time, for several years now, I have naturally returned to reading the Greek Fathers—specifically Saint Basil, Saint Maximus the Confessor, and Saint Gregory Palamas. I have read about the figures of "great spiritual fathers" such as Saint Silouan the Athonite, Father Paisie Olaru, and Father Sophrony... And I have read texts by Justin Popović, Vladimir Lossky, Father Stăniloae—of course—Evdokimov, Yannaras, Romanides, and Rafail Noica ("The Culture of the Spirit").
A question I am often asked is why I do not become Orthodox. I answer just as I do here: I do not wish to start a war on my own small scale; Orthodoxy helps me live out my Catholicism better—a relationship that has not, admittedly, always been entirely amicable... I do not want to abandon the religion of my parents and, above all, that of my grandfather—a man of great faith to whom I owe the initial impetus for the living practice and understanding of Christianity; I do not want to be unfaithful to all the wonderful priests I have met in my life—to whom I owe so much and whose suffering in contemporary Western society I am well aware of; nor do I wish to forsake the great figures of modern Catholicism who are dear to me—such as Baudelaire, Bernanos, and Simone Weil. Furthermore, I tell myself that in this way I can live out, in my own fashion, the concrete reality of the undivided Church—which, even in its Western branch, counts true marvels among its ranks: Saint Irenaeus, the great martyrs, Saint Genevieve, Saint Frances of Rome, and the great mystics of the faith, such as Saint John of the Cross or Blaise Pascal...
Here is a little something about how I discovered Orthodoxy and its importance to me. A long story, an experience spanning a lifetime—a story that remains open-ended, I hope with all my heart.
Are you familiar with Romanian Orthodox spirituality?
- I wouldn't presume to call it "knowledge," but certainly a discovery—one made with joy and admiration. I was able to make this discovery through the various journeys and encounters I have experienced.
A preliminary remark regarding this question: the existence of a Romanian Orthodoxy—distinct from Russian, Greek, or Serbian Orthodoxy—is a fact generally unknown in the West and among Catholics, save for a few specialists. To Western eyes, the notion that the absence of the papacy could lead to a national distinctiveness among Orthodox Churches is clearly an oddity. Yet, this reality must not be misinterpreted—a point I came to understand from within Orthodoxy itself. Following the example of Father Placide Deseille, Felicia Dumas—as she explained to me—emphasizes the risk of "phyletism": it is essential that Churches, even when national in character, remain mindful of their belonging to the One and Universal Church, the source of Orthodox Church unity. The pitfalls of particularism and sectarianism must be avoided. This is abundantly clear.
However, the distinct character of Orthodox churches lends them an extraordinary charm, beauty, and presence—qualities that, in my view, particularly define the Orthodox Church in Romania. Here, we touch upon the pressing issue of what Simone Weil calls "uprootedness"—a phenomenon that has reached a critical intensity over the past few decades, becoming a central question regarding the future of humanity (the "migrant" issue, which looms so large in European media, certainly addresses this dimension). Uprootedness is a painful reality—one that is also enigmatic in many of its philosophical aspects—yet rootedness cannot be imposed; indeed, it can easily devolve into a suspect demand, opening the door to errors, misunderstandings, manipulations, and often excesses—including nationalism in ever-changing guises.
The opportunity, gift, virtue, and energy of Romanian Orthodoxy lie in the fact that it remains deeply "rooted" without having been tainted by excessive folklorization. The West—and France in particular—is caught in the dichotomy between universalism and regionalism. Proponents of "regionalism" have all too often lapsed into a sorry form of folklorization, leading their opponents to view them as representing nothing more than an archaic regression. Fundamentally, Romania does not find itself in this unfortunate impasse. It is not merely a regional entity; in a profound sense, Romania remains a people. This is because it possesses a shared language and a shared religion that exist as a collective soul—in other words, a shared spirituality. Moreover, my contact with Romanians leads me to believe that this spirituality differs from that of the Russians or the Greeks—at least insofar as I am familiar with them.
Romanians often possess a certain sensitivity, a sense of moderation, and a gentleness—qualities I would liken to what the ancient Greeks called *aidos*33). This is a spiritual gentleness, the kind one sees on the faces of the faithful and which is said to have characterized Father Paisie Olarul and Father Stăniloae. They also possess a cheerfulness that endures even in times of hardship—a sense of joy, dance, and celebration that radiates brightly, especially in the countryside. All these traits are well known and struck me just as they did others before me. Yet, we must not limit ourselves to merely praising the anthropological aspects of rural life and the village, however beautiful they may be. The village is, above all, an embodiment of spiritual community—as I witnessed firsthand in Maramureș, Moldavia, and Lupșa. It is a community that is not archaic, for it is simultaneously very contemporary in its way of life, and its living unity is sustained in and through faith. It is perhaps a unique case in Christian Europe. In Breb (Maramureş), for instance, I was surprised to see—after the Sunday Liturgy—most of the village gathered in the churchyard to discuss various communal issues. Everyone voiced their opinion, taking part in devising a solution. Before me lay a truly remarkable *agora*: that of the village community in the shadow of the church bell tower. And one glimpses that the true community is the one uniting the village home and the church; there is a permeability, a living exchange, an astonishing osmosis between the two, mutually nourishing one another.
Also in connection with this spiritual community, we must mention the magnificent presence of monasteries throughout Romania, which impress with their powerful appeal. Orthodox monasteries—differing significantly from those of the Western tradition—are open to the surrounding villages; they possess a radiance that fosters a closeness between the monks and nuns and the people. It is immediately apparent that the monastery, with the church at its heart, is rooted in the very essence of this country—and I understand that monasticism has flourished in Romania since 1990.
In this context, I venture to quote a longer passage from a text I published in the magazine *Apostolia* (issue 34, June 2012) recounting my pilgrimage to Lupşa. After describing the uncanny moment when I sensed an invisible collective presence, I wrote:
A few days after Easter, while in Bucharest, I was discussing this experience with my friend Sorin Dumitrescu; I told him that the only thing I had perhaps missed out on was Communion—something I could not claim, given that I was not, strictly speaking, of the Orthodox faith. His reply at that moment brought my experience to its fulfillment: "Oh, but you *did* receive that Communion. What you experienced as unique is precisely your belonging to the Eucharistic community." Yes—and I had to come to Romania for that.
Even in Paris, I note the importance that the Romanian Orthodox Church attaches to the homeland. I learned, for instance, that the parish in Romainville has established a school where, alongside catechism, weekly classes are held in the Romanian language, literature, and history. It is simply a matter of getting to know and deepening one's understanding of the history of the Romanian people, as well as their ancestral language and faith. Forty children are enrolled. Need more be said?
From now on, all efforts must be aligned to keep alive such a spiritual community—one capable of enduring in today’s world without forsaking its ancestral roots or what Baudelaire so aptly termed our "native harmony." You must pray, above all, for two things—opposing yet complementary: that Romanians learn not to disfigure—through a lack of moderation and through ill-conceived concrete construction—the delicate, balanced architecture of their villages and churches; and, on the other hand, that this spiritual rootedness not be tainted by the Western ideology of "heritage." Under the guise of preserving or even reconstructing local color (often for the sake of tourism), this pernicious ideology irrevocably accelerates the loss of meaning and contributes to stifling the very thing it claims to save. The Orthodox Church must stand at the forefront of this effort to safeguard the future of this "Romanian spirituality."
To the trap of heritage, I will add, in conclusion, two dangers that should not be overlooked either: that of a Church becoming too insular—too self-contained—within a Romania that might confuse the *national* with *nationalism* (a distinction I borrow from the German poet Hölderlin). On the one hand, such insularity is dangerous for the Church itself—especially when the country faces economic difficulties (in every sense of the word) and a political class of upstarts incapable of shaking off corruption, yet capable of destroying the very best part of the nation’s soul: its spirituality. Spirituality must know how to employ every weapon available. Prayer, of course. But education is also essential, as the example of the church in Romainville aptly demonstrates. Furthermore, an ethic of discernment is required; while it is said that one should not judge, this does not mean abandoning all discernment. Spirituality also entails a sense of responsibility toward the image of God within us—a truth Christ understood well when confronting the money-changers in the Temple. As for nationalism, it poses a well-known risk, as it invariably paves the way for ideologies that history has condemned and that are inherently self-destructive; the *national*, by contrast, is spiritual and poetic. Romanian spirituality holds promise for the future, provided it avoids the three aforementioned traps and remains a living, rich spirituality—one deeply attuned to the sense of beauty. In short, it must recognize itself as the foundation of the iconic, charismatic, and Christ-centered dimension in which Romania is rooted. In the long run, it is a source of hope. For us, too.
The opportunity, gift, virtue, and energy of Romanian Orthodoxy lie in the fact that it remains deeply "rooted" without having been tainted by excessive folklorization. The West—and France in particular—is caught in the dichotomy between universalism and regionalism. Proponents of "regionalism" have all too often lapsed into a sorry form of folklorization, leading their opponents to view them as representing nothing more than an archaic regression. Fundamentally, Romania does not find itself in this unfortunate impasse. It is not merely a regional entity; in a profound sense, Romania remains a people. This is because it possesses a shared language and a shared religion that exist as a collective soul—in other words, a shared spirituality. Moreover, my contact with Romanians leads me to believe that this spirituality differs from that of the Russians or the Greeks—at least insofar as I am familiar with them.
Romanians often possess a certain sensitivity, a sense of moderation, and a gentleness—qualities I would liken to what the ancient Greeks called *aidos*33). This is a spiritual gentleness, the kind one sees on the faces of the faithful and which is said to have characterized Father Paisie Olarul and Father Stăniloae. They also possess a cheerfulness that endures even in times of hardship—a sense of joy, dance, and celebration that radiates brightly, especially in the countryside. All these traits are well known and struck me just as they did others before me. Yet, we must not limit ourselves to merely praising the anthropological aspects of rural life and the village, however beautiful they may be. The village is, above all, an embodiment of spiritual community—as I witnessed firsthand in Maramureș, Moldavia, and Lupșa. It is a community that is not archaic, for it is simultaneously very contemporary in its way of life, and its living unity is sustained in and through faith. It is perhaps a unique case in Christian Europe. In Breb (Maramureş), for instance, I was surprised to see—after the Sunday Liturgy—most of the village gathered in the churchyard to discuss various communal issues. Everyone voiced their opinion, taking part in devising a solution. Before me lay a truly remarkable *agora*: that of the village community in the shadow of the church bell tower. And one glimpses that the true community is the one uniting the village home and the church; there is a permeability, a living exchange, an astonishing osmosis between the two, mutually nourishing one another.
Also in connection with this spiritual community, we must mention the magnificent presence of monasteries throughout Romania, which impress with their powerful appeal. Orthodox monasteries—differing significantly from those of the Western tradition—are open to the surrounding villages; they possess a radiance that fosters a closeness between the monks and nuns and the people. It is immediately apparent that the monastery, with the church at its heart, is rooted in the very essence of this country—and I understand that monasticism has flourished in Romania since 1990.
In this context, I venture to quote a longer passage from a text I published in the magazine *Apostolia* (issue 34, June 2012) recounting my pilgrimage to Lupşa. After describing the uncanny moment when I sensed an invisible collective presence, I wrote:
God is truly here, whereas we are not always present. Being there at that moment—when my presence, shared with others, transformed into an event through the deeply essential experience of belonging to a community—marked the highlight of my stay in Lupşa and, at the same time, revealed to me the true meaning of a pilgrimage.
Belonging is, therefore, an event. A manifold belonging: that of the individual to a group whose members sometimes know one another so little; the belonging of this group to the entire body of believers in a village and to the monastic community that welcomed us—even going so far as to share the Easter meal with us; likewise, the belonging to the community formed by this monastery and its neighbors—whose monks and nuns, having greeted us in the preceding days, surprised us with their youth; the belonging to the even wider multitudes of the region and the country; and the yet higher belonging that unites us with the whole of the ecclesial community. This was the original meaning of the Greek term *ecclesia*—the assembly that elevates each person to their highest reality—a meaning Christianity adopted to name and embody the Body of Christ’s Church.A few days after Easter, while in Bucharest, I was discussing this experience with my friend Sorin Dumitrescu; I told him that the only thing I had perhaps missed out on was Communion—something I could not claim, given that I was not, strictly speaking, of the Orthodox faith. His reply at that moment brought my experience to its fulfillment: "Oh, but you *did* receive that Communion. What you experienced as unique is precisely your belonging to the Eucharistic community." Yes—and I had to come to Romania for that.
Even in Paris, I note the importance that the Romanian Orthodox Church attaches to the homeland. I learned, for instance, that the parish in Romainville has established a school where, alongside catechism, weekly classes are held in the Romanian language, literature, and history. It is simply a matter of getting to know and deepening one's understanding of the history of the Romanian people, as well as their ancestral language and faith. Forty children are enrolled. Need more be said?
From now on, all efforts must be aligned to keep alive such a spiritual community—one capable of enduring in today’s world without forsaking its ancestral roots or what Baudelaire so aptly termed our "native harmony." You must pray, above all, for two things—opposing yet complementary: that Romanians learn not to disfigure—through a lack of moderation and through ill-conceived concrete construction—the delicate, balanced architecture of their villages and churches; and, on the other hand, that this spiritual rootedness not be tainted by the Western ideology of "heritage." Under the guise of preserving or even reconstructing local color (often for the sake of tourism), this pernicious ideology irrevocably accelerates the loss of meaning and contributes to stifling the very thing it claims to save. The Orthodox Church must stand at the forefront of this effort to safeguard the future of this "Romanian spirituality."
To the trap of heritage, I will add, in conclusion, two dangers that should not be overlooked either: that of a Church becoming too insular—too self-contained—within a Romania that might confuse the *national* with *nationalism* (a distinction I borrow from the German poet Hölderlin). On the one hand, such insularity is dangerous for the Church itself—especially when the country faces economic difficulties (in every sense of the word) and a political class of upstarts incapable of shaking off corruption, yet capable of destroying the very best part of the nation’s soul: its spirituality. Spirituality must know how to employ every weapon available. Prayer, of course. But education is also essential, as the example of the church in Romainville aptly demonstrates. Furthermore, an ethic of discernment is required; while it is said that one should not judge, this does not mean abandoning all discernment. Spirituality also entails a sense of responsibility toward the image of God within us—a truth Christ understood well when confronting the money-changers in the Temple. As for nationalism, it poses a well-known risk, as it invariably paves the way for ideologies that history has condemned and that are inherently self-destructive; the *national*, by contrast, is spiritual and poetic. Romanian spirituality holds promise for the future, provided it avoids the three aforementioned traps and remains a living, rich spirituality—one deeply attuned to the sense of beauty. In short, it must recognize itself as the foundation of the iconic, charismatic, and Christ-centered dimension in which Romania is rooted. In the long run, it is a source of hope. For us, too.
Notes
33) A Greek term derived from *Aidos*, the goddess of modesty and respectful shame.
34) *Apostolia* is a journal of Orthodox spirituality published by the Romanian Orthodox Metropolis.
Inteview conducted by Tudor Petcu
Translated from French by Natalia Corlean
From the volume *Rediscovering the Orthodox Heritage of the West* (interviews, testimonies, revelations),
Edited by Tudor Petcu
Translated from French, English, and Italian by Natalia Corlean, Tudor Vișan-Miu, and Tudor Petcu
Agaton Collection
Făgăraș, 2017
FINAL NOTE
*) Europe's problems stem from the absence of a trial for communism analogous to the Nuremberg Trials and from the abandonment of the Christian roots of European civilization—roots that have nothing to do with the "Russian Christianity" of Patriarch Kirill (KGB), who blesses tanks.
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