‘It’s all Greek to me,’ said my husband, putting down his whisky glass, which was not wet but might have been, on the cover of Liddell and Scott. ‘Oh, darling,’ I said, snatching it up and restoring it to a ‘Guinness is good for you’ mat next to his chair. ‘Don’t pretend to be stupid. There’s no need.’ I had been rummaging around perichoresis, which has suddenly become voguish in English among the sort of people who speak of the ‘anthropic principle’. Not that it is a new word. Gregory of Nazianzus was happily using it in the 4th century. But he spoke Greek.
What does it mean? It is something to do with the Trinity. Edward Gibbon produced a prize marrow of disparagement when he wrote in The Decline and Fall: ‘The perichoresis or circumincessio is perhaps the deepest and darkest corner of the whole theological abyss.’ Highty-tighty, Mr Gibbon, don’t scoff at what you don’t understand.
John of Damascus, a thoroughly good egg, used the word in the 8th century to explain the verse in the Gospel: ‘I am in the Father and the Father in me.’
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