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Your Eminencies,
Your Excellencies,
Honourable Rector and distinguished Professors,
Ladies and gentlemen,
Our presence here, in the historic city of Riga, is dictated by an internal need, a spiritual imperative, which emerges from within the din of the contemporary world as a question which can no longer be ignored. We are experiencing an era of paradoxical greatness and simultaneous abyss. On the one hand, humanity, through science, touches the limits of the universe, decodes the mysteries of the cell and constructs intelligences which surpass its own. On the other hand, our planet, this common abode, groans under the weight of our very own progress. A sleepless din of pain, a silent protest is raised from the polluted waters, the deforested earth, the poisoned air. It is the echo of creation, a voice which pre-existed us, and which is transformed today into a cry of agony before the a-hearing, the voluntary spiritual deafness of man.
The Orthodox Church, and especially the Ecumenical Patriarchate, which for decades has highlighted the protection of the natural environment as a central axis of its ministry, does not approach the ecological crisis as a merely technical or political problem. Because its roots are deeper, spiritual and ethical, inherent in the heart of each person. The crisis of the environment is, in its essence, a spiritual crisis, a reflection of the ruptured relationship of man with his Creator, and by extension, with creation itself. The violence which is inherent in our hearts, wounded by sin, is reflected in the symptoms of the illness which are visible in the soil, in the water, in the air and in all forms of life.
There was an era, a primordial state, where the dialogue between man and creation was effortless, a natural consequence of the communion with God. Man, fashioned “in the image” of God and “after the likeness”, was not placed inside Paradise as a tyrant, but as a “priest” of creation, as the one who would offer creation anaphorically, eucharistically, to its Creator. The whole of creation was an open book, a theophany. This harmony was violently interrupted. The fall of man was primarily an act of acoustic isolation. By closing his ears to the commandment of God, man simultaneously became deaf also to the silent testimony of creation. His relationship was transformed from eucharistic to possessive, from ministerial to dominant. Since then, the “earnest expectation of the creation” (Rom. 8, 19), its expectation to be freed from the bondage of corruption, became the muffled pulse of history.
The Holy and Great Council of the Orthodox Church (Crete 2016), this great event of our contemporary ecclesiastical life, did not fail to emphasise that “the roots of the ecological crisis are spiritual and ethical, inherent in the heart of each person.” Consequently, the course towards healing cannot be only technological. Science is valuable, but insufficient. Politics is necessary but lacking. The starting point of the solution is repentance: the change of the mind, the overturning of the perspective, the return from a-hearing to obedience. It is the decision to listen anew to the echo of creation, not as background noise, but as a word of God, as a continuous reminder of the beauty which was given to us and the responsibility which was entrusted to us. Only when the heart of man is at peace with its Creator, then and only then will it be at peace also with creation, and the groaning creation will find rest in the revelation of the sons of God who have learned anew to hear.
The modern scientific view, detached and coldly objective, has managed to shrink our planet into a speck of light, a “pale blue dot” that floats in the immense cosmic night, as the astronomer Carl Sagan described it with poetic precision, beholding the photograph of Earth from the fringes of our solar system. This perspective, while it reveals the stunning fragility of our common home, contains at the same time a profound danger: the temptation of nihilism, the perception that this “lonely grain in the great surrounding cosmic darkness” is lacking inherent meaning, that it is simply matter in motion, a random event without purpose, surrendered to the absolute authority of the sole rational being it knows: of man.
The tragedy of our era consists precisely in this schism: between the scientific knowledge that describes the world and the faith that interprets it. Science, stripped of faith, is easily transformed into a technology of domination, and knowledge into a tool of imposition. The root of this aberration is located in a deeply distorted interpretation of the biblical commandment. God’s commandment towards man of the cultivatory care and of the protective keeping of paradise, “to work it and to keep it” (Gen. 2, 15), receded before an absolutised perception regarding domination, of the “subdue the earth” (Gen. 1, 28). Man, instead of recognising himself as a steward of the mysteries of God, self-proclaimed himself absolute master, forgetting that his domination was by representation and not by his own right. Nature ceased to be the living garment of God and was transformed into simply our property, which we use for ourselves alone. This mentality gave birth to technological gigantism, which, in the arrogance of its power, regards creation as formless raw material, awaiting human intervention in order to acquire value.
The consequence of this autocratic mentality is the modern illusion that the problems which technology creates can be solved exclusively through technology. This approach ignores the ethical background of the crisis, transforming the drama of creation into a simple equation of resource and output management. Science, severed from ethos, from the seeking of meaning and of justice, becomes blind, capable of dissecting reality into infinitesimal particles, but unable to conceive the unity and the sanctity of the whole.
The Orthodox faith does not combat science, but invites it to a deeper dialogue. Science, when it is exercised with humility, can become a form of theology, a reading of the book of nature that reveals the incomprehensible wisdom and the artistic dexterity of the Creator. The description of the complexity of the ecosystem, the revelation of the laws that govern the universe, the observation of the subtle balance that sustains life, all these can lead the researcher from curiosity to awe, and from awe to doxology. The ecclesiastical tradition embraces such a “conversation”. There is no incompatibility between the faith that sees the hand of God everywhere and the science that studies the works of this hand. The Holy and Great Council of the Orthodox Church expressed this mature stance with admirable clarity. Recognising scientific research as a “God-given gift”, the Council at the same time set the ethical boundaries within which it ought to move: “It regards that the scientist is indeed free to research, but also that he ought to cease his research, when basic Christian and humanistic principles are violated.” It is here precisely that the essence of the Church’s proposition is located: a science that is not autonomous from conscience, a knowledge that is not cut off from love, a power that is not transformed into tyranny. This is the fundamental turning from the logic of domination to the ethos of ministration. Science, instead of being the tool for the enslavement of nature, is called to become the means for her healing. The scientist, instead of being the wielder of authority, is called to become the healing physician. Authority is transformed into responsibility, and domination into ministration.
The path, then, towards a sustainable coexistence with our planet does not pass only through the laboratories and the political offices. It passes primarily through an internal transformation, a reconnection of scientific seeking with spiritual truth. Science provides us with the data of the crisis; faith provides us with the meaning and the will to act. The first shows us the fragility of the “pale blue dot;” the second reveals to us that this dot is blessed, that it is our home, the garden that God entrusted to us. True progress will not come from the accumulation of more knowledge, but from the deepening of wisdom; from the realisation that our power over nature is borrowed, and that its only legitimate use is the ministration of life.
We are entering into a new era which is defined by an unprecedented creation of the human spirit: Artificial Intelligence. A new Prometheus, the collective human of the digital age, seems to have seized not the fire from the heavens, but the very architecture of thought, constructing bodiless minds, algorithms capable of learning, of predicting, of creating. The promise is intoxicating: the solution of diseases, the optimisation of production, the liberation from toil. The allure of this new power is almost irresistible, because it whispers to humanity the ancient dream of self-deification. Nevertheless, we must approach this new threshold of history not with naive celebrations, but with discernment and sobriety. For behind the intangible substance of the “cloud,” behind the lightning-fast speed of computations, is hidden a material reality weighty and demanding, a reality which inextricably links this new intelligence with the old physical world, the one which we have already wounded deeply. The paradox lies exactly here: the development of the seemingly bodiless digital world has an enormous material footprint. The gigantic data centres, the temples of this new god of information, require astronomical amounts of energy for their operation and their cooling, consuming the natural resources of the planet at exponential rates. The extraction of rare earths and precious metals, necessary for the construction of the supercomputers and the networks which connect them, leaves behind it indelible scars on the body of the earth, often at the expense of the most vulnerable communities of the planet. The intangible dream of Artificial Intelligence is nourished by the flesh of the earth. Its take-off into the stratosphere of abstract thought presupposes the intensive exploitation of the soil, of the waters and of the minerals.
The challenge, therefore, is not to demonise the technology, but to recognise its material dimension and to ask ourselves: with what ethical framework shall we manage this new, enormous power? Without a strong regulatory framework, based not only on economic criteria but also on deep ethical principles, Artificial Intelligence risks becoming the most effective accelerator of ecological disaster. If the development of Artificial Intelligence is left exclusively to the logic of limitless growth and maximum profit, then it will simply perfect the tools of pillaging, creating a more efficient but equally destructive system. Technology is not neutral; it bears within it the stamp of the values and of the priorities of its creators.
For this reason, Orthodox theology insists on the distinction between knowledge and wisdom. Artificial Intelligence constitutes an explosion of knowledge, an incomprehensible ability of processing data. The accumulation of information, without the wisdom which sets the limits and the love which determines the purpose, can become destructive. The Holy and Great Council formulated it with prophetic clarity: “Scientific knowledge does not mobilise the moral will of man, who, even though he knows the dangers, continues to act as if he did not know”. This statement acquires dramatic relevance in the face of Artificial Intelligence. We know the dangers of uncontrolled development, of the overconsumption of energy, of the exhaustion of resources. But this knowledge by itself is not enough to check the momentum towards an even greater technological performance, if it is not accompanied by a deep moral awakening.
Consequently, the demand for the establishment of a robust regulatory framework for Artificial Intelligence is not an act of technophobia or of anachronistic conservatism. On the contrary, it is an act of the highest responsibility and of foresight. We do not seek to limit the development of this new and much-promising technology, but to frame it, to orient it, to integrate it within a humanistic and spiritual horizon. Such a framework cannot be a product only of technocrats and of entrepreneurs. It must be the result of a broad and polyphonic conversation, where theologians, philosophers, sociologists, lawyers, artists shall participate. We must ensure that Artificial Intelligence will be placed in the service of man and of creation, and not in the service of impersonal mechanisms of profit which are indifferent to the environmental and social cost.
The Ecumenical Patriarchate, from its See in the Phanar, has for a long time been proclaiming the need of bridging the gap between faith and science, ethics and technology. Artificial Intelligence constitutes the most critical field where this bridging must be achieved. The challenge is immense: to teach our creation this new mind, not only how to compute, but also how to respect; not only how to optimise, but also how to serve; not only how to solve problems, but also how to recognise the mystery. If we fail, our new power will be transformed into a new, more efficient form of tyranny over creation. If we succeed, Artificial Intelligence could become a valuable tool in the hands of man who has once again learned to be the guardian and steward of the world, inaugurating a new balance between human intelligence and the divine wisdom which is inherent in creation.
If, as we saw, science, stripped of the spiritual dimension, risks being transformed into a cold tool of domination, then the daily life of man, cut off from every notion of sacredness, inevitably falls into a voracious process of consumption. The constant thirst for “more” constitutes today the driving force of ecological devastation. The earth is exhausted to feed an insatiable appetite, which, by its nature, can never be sated, because its source is not natural need, but the existential void.
To this “pathology of the unlimited“, the Orthodox tradition counter-proposes a therapeutic treatment: the ethos of asceticism, the spiritual art of temperance and of contentedness. We must here dispel a deeply rooted misunderstanding. Christian asceticism is not a misanthropic denial of life, a Manichaean aversion to matter or a mournful self-punishment. On the contrary! It is a positive and joyful education in the art of true freedom. Freedom not in order to acquire everything, but freedom from the need to acquire them. This ascetic ethos does not concern only the monastic life, but it is a characteristic of the ecclesiastical life in all its manifestations.
Fasting, as the pre-eminent expression of this ethos, constitutes a profoundly ecological act. It is not simply a dietary regulation, but a conscious interruption of the continuous flow of consumption, a practical confession that “man shall not live by bread alone” (Matt. 4, 4). It is crucial, however, to distinguish authentic Christian asceticism from the superficial and often commercialised movements of “simple living.” Orthodox asceticism is not a fashion, an alternative form of consumerism which replaces conventional products with “ecological” ones, leaving the fundamental logic of the market untouched. It is something much more radical. It requires profound transformations in the ways of life, the patterns of production and consumption, and the established structures of power which today govern societies. It is an internal revolution which disconnects human value from material possession.
The ascetic tradition is not a museum relic, but a living source of wisdom, capable of slaking the thirst of modern man and healing the wounded planet. It is the practical workshop where love for God is translated into specific and tangible love for creation and for one’s fellow man. The course from the individual asceticism, the silent prayerful struggle of each soul before God and creation, leads inevitably to the common confession, to the agreement of the many voices into one, to its synodical expression. Because the Church, in its essence, is Synod: a synod of persons, a common course, a spiritual agreement.
In an era of absolute fragmentation, where every individual opinion claims authority and the cacophony of conflicting words covers the silence of the truth, the Orthodox Church responded with the greatest event of its modern life: the convocation of the Holy and Great Council in the year 2016. It was not simply about an academic meeting or an administrative procedure. It was about a new Pentecost, where the various local Churches, each one bearing its own historical and cultural individuality, were gathered “with one accord in one place” (“ὁμοθυμαδὸν ἐπὶ τὸ αὐτὸ”) (Acts 2, 1), not in order to impose on one another their own position, but in order to listen together to “what the Spirit says to the churches” (Rev. 2, 7) and to articulate a common, authentic and responsible testimony to the modern world. The voice of the Council, then, is not the voice of a Patriarch or of a group of theologians; it is the expression of the collective mind, of the conscience of the ecclesiastical body. And in the critical issue of the ecological crisis, this voice was heard clearly and distinctly, offering a diagnosis that transcends the superficial symptoms and touches the spiritual root of the evil. The problem is not primarily the pollutants, the waste, the deforestation; these are the symptoms. The sickness is covetousness, greed, egoism, the predatory disposition, passions which nest within the human soul and then manifest as destructive actions upon the planet. The pollution of the environment is the visible consequence of the invisible pollution of the heart.
But the Council did not limit itself to the diagnosis. It proceeded to the formulation of a positive theology of creation, reframing the role of man within it. Rejecting every notion of despotic authority, the Council brought back to the foreground the patristic image of man as “steward, guardian and ‘priest’” of creation. Man is not the owner, but the trustee. His relationship with nature is not a relationship of subject to object, but a eucharistic relationship. He receives creation as a gift from God and offers it back, doxologically, to the Creator, sanctifying it through its use. The cry of the priest in the Divine Liturgy, “Your own of Your own, we offer to You in all and for all” (“τὰ σὰ ἐκ τῶν σῶν σοὶ προσφέρομεν κατὰ πάντα καὶ διὰ πάντα”), acquires thus an ecumenical dimension, embracing all creation. This liturgical view constitutes the heart of the Orthodox ecological conscience and the answer to the utilitarian notion which transforms forests into timber, rivers into hydroelectric energy and animals into industrial products.
This testimony of the Council is not addressed only to the interior of the Church. Just as the late Pope Francis, through his encyclical Laudato Si’, wished “to enter into dialogue with all people concerning our common home,” so also the Holy and Great Council of the Orthodox Church, expressing the catholicity of the Church, addresses its word to all the inhabited earth. Its voice is a testimony which contains, all the dimensions of the Christian witness: it is a proclamation of the truth about God, man and the world; it is an invitation to service to the suffering creation; it is founded in the liturgy, in the eucharistic relationship with creation; and it promotes communion, the solidarity of all humanity before an enormous common challenge. The synodical decision thus becomes an ecumenical invitation, an offering of wisdom to a world that thirsts for meaning. The Council rejects the distinction between personal and social ethics, between spiritual life and ecological responsibility. This synodical voice now constitutes the official and the authentic testimony of Orthodoxy for our time. It is our compass, the foundation stone upon which we are called to build our common action, transforming theology into praxis and faith into tangible care for our common home.
The Ecumenical Patriarchate sought to embody this diakonia through the series of ecological symposia which it organised for decades. Travelling to the most ecologically sensitive points of the planet, from the Black Sea to the Amazon and the Arctic, it brought together scientists, politicians, economists, journalists and leaders of all religions, creating a unique space for dialogue and common reflection. It was not a simple academic exercise, but a practical application of the principle of solidarity: that the problems are common, and consequently the solutions must also be common. It was an effort to break the barriers between the various fields of human knowledge and action and to create a new synthesis, where scientific analysis would meet ethical searching and political will would be inspired by spiritual wisdom. This command of solidarity was sealed with its highest authority by the Holy and Great Council as well. In its text “The Mission of the Orthodox Church in Today’s World,” it declares categorically: “It is, therefore, the mission of all the Orthodox Churches to show solidarity and to effectively organise their aid towards the needy brothers.” This synodical decision turns the ethical exhortation into a canonical obligation, individual charity into collective ecclesiastical diakonia. The tackling of destitution, whether this is material or spiritual, and the tackling of the ecological crisis, are no longer optional activities, but an integral part of the mission of the Church.
The course, therefore, from the humble heart of the ascetic believer up to the interstate agreements and the global strategies, seems long, but it is one and indivisible. Without the internal change of the individual, every collective effort remains an empty letter. But without collective action, individual virtue remains powerless to overthrow the momentum of destruction. The Orthodox Church, through the voice of its Ecumenical Throne and its synodical wisdom, calls humanity to such a double movement: a movement inwards, into the depths of the repenting heart, and a movement outwards, into the building up of a global society of justice and solidarity. It is the only way for us to respond simultaneously to the cry of the earth and to the cry of the poor, recognising in both the voice of Christ Himself suffering.
The scale of the ecological catastrophe is such, the challenges so colossal, that the human will is paralysed before the size of the responsibility. The feeling that our individual efforts are a drop in the ocean, that the structures of injustice are all-powerful, that the course towards destruction is unavoidable, can lead us to a fatalistic inaction or to a cynical nihilism. Nevertheless, exactly before this darkness, the Christian faith is called to proclaim its most radical and anti-conventional truth: the truth of Hope. Not of a vague optimism based on human calculations, but of the certainty which springs from the empty Tomb. Our ecological action is a joyful participation in the resurrected life of Christ, a foretaste of the transformation and the final renewal of all things. This transformative dynamic the Church experiences pre-eminently in the heart of its life, the Divine Eucharist. Here, the elemental gifts of the earth, the bread and the wine, fruit of the earth and “the work of human hands,” through the invocation of the Holy Spirit, become the Body and the Blood of Christ, a medicine of immortality. Matter is not abolished, but is assumed and sanctified, becoming a vehicle of eternal life. The Divine Liturgy is the model of every ecological action. It teaches us that our purpose is not to transcend the material world, but to offer it anaphorically, to transform it into a means of communion. That which happens on the Holy Table we are called to extend into our whole life, into a “Liturgy after the Liturgy,” where our every action, from the way that we work up to the way that we consume, becomes a eucharistic offering, an act of sanctification of the world.
This eschatological hope does not lead to the devaluation of the present, but to its more intensive and more joyful experience. When we see the world not as a prison from which we must escape, but as the forecourt of the Kingdom, then we discover anew its beauty. Ecological responsibility, under this prism, ceases to be a melancholic duty and becomes a joyful acceptance of the gift. The answer to the cry of the earth is not only the action, but also the doxology.
Esteemed audience,
The way towards a “green” transfiguration is not a journey that Orthodoxy can or ought to travel alone. For the ecological crisis the dogmatic and interdenominational borders are irrelevant; the wounded earth does not distinguish between Orthodox, Catholics or Protestants. The challenge is common, and consequently the answer ought also to be common. There is a pressing need for an ecumenical common campaigning, an “ecumenical dialogue” where “the diverse viewpoints of contributors’ theological and practical commitments,” will be synthesised into a common testimony and a coordinated action. The Ecumenical Patriarchate, from its particular position and responsibility in the Christian world, will continue unceasingly to work for this rapprochement, believing that the unity of Christians is not a luxury, but a prerequisite for a credible testimony in the contemporary world.
Ultimately, the whole effort is summarised in the fundamental truth that constitutes the core of the existence of the Church: “The Church does not live for itself. It is offered for the whole of humanity, for the elevation and the renewal of the world into new heavens and a new earth.” This is our hope and this is our mission. Not to condemn the world for its sins, but to love it with the sacrificial love of Christ, and to work with Him for its transfiguration. May the All-good God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, bless our journey, enlighten our mind and strengthen our will, so that, through our works, we may become a worthy image of His coming Kingdom.
Thank you for your kind attention!
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