Leo and Bartholomew in Nicaea

The Patriarch only represents a liberal fraction of Orthodoxy. If he or Leo believes they can unite the Churches, good luck! The Slavic Churches are violently anti-Western.

From Crisis

By Fr Jason Charron

A reunification of Orthodoxy with Catholicism could remind each of what was lost in the schism.

In the wake of the 1,700-year commemoration of the Council of Nicaea, where Pope Leo XIV and Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew I stood together on the soil of ancient İznik, the question of Church unity has taken on renewed urgency. Their meeting, at once liturgical and symbolic, recalled not only a shared origin but the enduring divergence of temperament that has shaped East and West. If unity is to be more than diplomatic choreography, it must engage the deeper currents of the distinct theological “styles” that define Catholicism and Orthodoxy.

The modern pursuit of communion between Rome and Constantinople often imagines unity as the work of theologians, hierarchs, or ecumenical commissions. Yet beneath formal theology lies temperament, and beneath temperament lies worldview; and renewing that is the obligation of all the baptized (Romans 12:2). Permit me to borrow a helpful analogy from a world I love, that of chess. Some openings are universal: resilient systems built on enduring principles that can withstand any opponent. Others are particular: brilliant and precise but dependent on specific conditions and upon the subjectivity of your opponent. This tension between the universal and the particular, between adaptability and rootedness, sheds light on the contrasting ecclesial genius of Catholicism and Orthodoxy.

In chess, the universal player builds upon the enduring principles of control over the center, development, and security. These principles are fixed, and the player who follows that develops a confidence which lies not in predicting the opponent but in trusting the integrity of the system. So too, Catholicism, both by etymology and by theological instinct, embodies this universal mode. 

The word katholikos, “according to the whole,” signifies a church structure that is multinational, centripetal, and missionary. Catholicism’s theological framework presumes a universal structure: the Church’s systems (magisterial, sacramental, and canonical) possess a transposable form capable of inhabiting every culture without losing coherence. Its liturgical, legal, and metaphysical frameworks function like classical chess openings: resilient principles adaptable to the unpredictable landscape of history.

This is the essence of Catholic universality: a sacramental confidence that grace can assume any cultural form while perfecting it from within (grace does not destroy nature but perfects it). The Catholic vision thus looks outward, presuming the world’s capacity to be evangelized and integrated into a single, coherent whole. Its genius lies in a missionary elasticity that assumes no cultural monopoly on truth.

Orthodoxy, by contrast, reflects the specialist’s mastery; namely, those intricate chess openings whose beauty depends upon very particular conditions. The Orthodox way of life is one of incarnational particularity: the Gospel’s deep absorption within a people’s language, symbols, and historical memory. Ever notice how traditionally Orthodox countries like Romania and Ukraine are still religious even after years of Marxist-Leninism? When Orthodoxy enters a nation, it does not impose a prefabricated structure; it indwells that nation, sanctifying its rhythms and imagination forever. Thus, the Greek, Ukrainian, or Ethiopian Churches embody not mere variations but distinct modes of participation in one Orthodox consciousness—a living spiritual awareness expressed through liturgy, iconography, and monastic life.

This particularity is not provincialism, but rather, the theology of the Incarnation made ecclesial. The Word becomes flesh not in abstraction but in the concrete life of a people. Yet, as with the specialized chess player, such depth can entail limitation: the Orthodox instinct toward precise fidelity to Tradition can render adaptation cautious, even hesitant. Its strength is continuity, vulnerability, and transposability. 

Recognizing this dynamic between universality and particularity clarifies much of the tension between East and West. The Catholic impulse toward unity in diversity often misreads Orthodox stability as insularity, while Orthodoxy can perceive Catholic adaptability as volatility. Catholicism’s confidence in universal structure presumes that the Gospel transcends culture; Orthodoxy’s instinct for rootedness presumes that the Gospel must inhabit culture to remain authentic.

Authentic unity, if it is to blossom in our time, will only come when each lung of this Sacred Body discerns the Spirit-breathed virtue within the other’s temperament. Catholicism must see in Orthodoxy’s caution not obstinacy but fidelity—the patient stewardship of the apostolic inheritance. The Orthodox emphasis on continuity with the Fathers is not fear of the modern world but reverence for the living memory of the Spirit’s work in history. At risk of overgeneralizing, we might say that Catholicism begins with mission, Orthodoxy with memory. 

As such, Orthodoxy reminds Catholicism that universality detached from embodiment of its own memory and people risks abstraction; that catholicity, if uprooted, becomes administrative rather than incarnational. Conversely, Orthodoxy must discern in Catholic universality the necessary safeguard against the ethnocentric closure and Phyletism endemic to the Eastern churches. Catholicism’s expansive mission to all nations protects the Church from mistaking locality for fullness. The Gospel, by nature, radiates outward. Catholicism reminds Orthodoxy that truth, while particular in expression, is cosmic in scope and that the bold missionary engagement with our world is a widening of grace’s horizon without the loss of depth.

The events at Nicaea 2025 dramatized this complementarity. The gestures of mutual blessing between Pope Leo and Patriarch Bartholomew were not bureaucratic but symbolic: an acknowledgment that neither universality nor particularity suffices alone. Catholic adaptability without Orthodox depth risks superficiality; Orthodox rootedness without Catholic expansiveness risks stasis. Together, they embody the two movements of divine life itself: the coming and the going which constitute the rhythm of salvation history, and chiefly of the Triune Life of the Godhead, which is an eternal giving and receiving of love.

Theologically, these modes correspond to the dual dynamism of the Church as fullness: Christ’s fullness extended to all nations yet concretely manifested in each local church. Catholicism emphasizes the outward movement of mission: “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations” (Matthew 28:19). Orthodoxy emphasizes the inward movement of the lover: “Abide in me, and I in you” (John 15:4). Both are integral to the Church’s being: the one outwardly apostolic, the other inwardly contemplative.

The best chess masters know when universality is needed and when specificity becomes strength. Likewise, a mature church structure must integrate both instincts. The Church must be at once local and universal, historical and eschatological, particular in form yet universal in scope. Unity, therefore, will not arise from absorption or negotiation but from contemplative mutual recognition. We need a dynamic interplay of churchly temperaments. Catholicism’s outward gaze and Orthodoxy’s inward depth are not rivals but reciprocities within the same divine mystery. When each learns to interpret the other’s “opening” not as opposition but as complementarity, unity will cease to be a diplomatic ideal and will, instead, become the natural fruit of shared vision.
In that moment, what began in Nicaea seventeen centuries ago may finally find its fulfillment—not as a return to the past but as the revelation of a future in which universality and particularity, Rome and Constantinople, together disclose the one Church’s radiant fullness in Christ.