As a Protestant, I'm not supposed to pay too much attention to Mary. Don't want to get into that "mariolatry" thing, you understand. On the other hand, ignoring Mary is like starting at the finish line. It's kind of like cheating. It was Mary's holy and willing submission to the plan of God through which he accomplished our salvation. Not for nothing is it the case that the last words we have of Mary recorded in the New Testament (John 2) are: "What he (Jesus) tells you to do, do."

Mary says of herself in Luke 2: "All generations will call me blessed." And indeed we do. She was the most blessed of women, in that she bore in her womb our Savior. As if the miracle of human conception weren't just blow-your-socks-off amazing enough. Add to the mix that God took from her our human flesh/nature and became incarnate, and, well, the little grey cells just disintegrate.

Mary is called the "Theotokos," a Greek word that means "one who gave birth to God." Protestants get a bit wiggly when hearing that. Not because we deny that he whom she bore, Jesus, was (is) God in the flesh. But we worry that somehow this transforms Mary into some minor rival deity. P'shaw! the early Christians would say. They were adamant about calling Mary "Theotokos" because they were adamant that he whom she bore was God. It's a matter of right belief about Jesus.

I agree. Sure, sure I understand all the Protestant Roman-Catholic-heebie-jeebies that go along with that. But that's our problem. Not God's. Certainly not Mary's.

In this Advent season which orients us to the fact and miracle of the Incarnation (and ultimately to the Resurrection--yes, Easter in December!), I plan on giving thanks to God for Mary. May I be willing to wholly accept God's will like she did.

As James notes on his blog, today, 9 December, is the feast of the conception of the Theotokos. Joachim and Anna, the parents of the Virgin Mary, were childless and old. They longed for a child. God answered their prayers, and Joachim and Anna conceived Mary. Mary's parents died not long after her birth, and she was raised in the Temple in Jerusalem.

Some people "pooh pooh" the idea of Mary having a miraculous start. It just all seems too, well, biblical. How many stories are there of childless couples praying to God? This is just a "pious fiction." After all, how does Mary's raising in the Temple fit in with the biblical account of Jesus' infancy?

But think about it. Isn't this just like God? More to the point: Isn't this, as James notes, just so Incarnational? Growing up, my understanding of the faith was pretty dualistic and a tad Manichean. No, no, it wasn't intentional. It's not as though my parents, family, and church were intentionally teaching heresy. They would have agreed with the Chalcedonian definition, for example. But being Protestants, we had Maryphobia, and a bit too much love for the rational (as opposed to, not the irrational, but the mysterion). We were anti-Catholic, thus almost all our understanding of Mary was framed in "not like Rome." So we, in our great reforming, restorationist zeal, wanted to cut what we took to be this caricature of Mary down to size. Including her miraculous birth of barren righteous parents.

Well, I want the bath water back with the baby. Scripture abounds with the importance of Mary and her role and mission in God's plan of salvation. We Protestants need not back away from that. Even and especially today as we honor the memory and faith of Joachim and Anna. Though Scripture does not mention Mary's parents, we need not be embarrassed by the rich Tradition of the Church concerning them. It's never been sola scriptura anyway. Even Protestants have always had "Scripture and--".

Thank God for the Incarnation! Thank God for Mary. Thank God for the ancestors of God, Joachim and Anna. May we, like them, entrust ourselves and all our lives to Christ our God.

My encounter with the Icon of Extreme Humility continues. I purchased the icons I mentioned in yesterday's post, and this morning added them to my too-crowded bookshelf which functions as my "icon corner".

One description of this icon reads:

As I venerated and thought on this icon and what it has to reveal to me of God, I couldn't help but be mindful of the passage in Ephesians 5:21ff on the structure and ministry of married life that God has ordained for the Christian home. Whatever one may say about the text concerning wives, my responsibility has to do with the text on husbands. I need to "mind my own business." "Husbands, love your wives as Christ loved the Church, and gave himself up for her . . . ." As I prayed with the icon this morning I couldn't help but note that this was my ministry in my home. This same sacrificial love, this same extreme zeal for the sanctification of my household, is my path as Anna's husband. It is the emptying of self, the carrying daily of my cross in imitation of and obedience to the Lord Jesus Christ. It is a pathway that does not lead merely to the cross of suffering, but through it to the repose of the tomb, and then, by God's grace and under his dynamic working, through the Resurrection. If only I was more faithful in this path of emptying!

According to the Church, marriage is not just for this life, but is for eternity. Marriage is an emptying of self for the sake of the holiness of the other. A process that does not end on one's death, but continues into the in-breaking Kingdom of God. "Be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect." "Without holiness no one will see the Lord."

So much to consider and pray about. God have mercy on me a sinner.

The ancient tradition of the Church almost immediately developed the forty-day observance preceding the great feast of Pascha, or Easter, which we now know as Great Lent. The standard for the fasting and prayers of this time grew out of the catechumenate, the period of teaching and discipleship that preceded baptism, but with the monastic movement begun in the fourth century, these observances took on a rigor that seems daunting to us today. This was the modus operandi of ancient Christianity: more is more. It was maximalist as opposed to minimalist.

As the disciplines of Great Lent developed, there developed also the period we now know as the Triodion: the three Sundays prior to the start of Great Lent in which the Church prepares for the great forty-day struggle. We have received from the ancient Church the tradition that every year the first Sunday of the Triodion begins with the Lukan parable of the Publican and the Pharisee (Luke 18.9-14). In this parable the Pharisee thanks God he (rather in the manner of Michael Jackson) is not like the other guys, particularly like the publican, or tax collector he sees standing over off to the side. The Pharisee prays, fasts and tithes. But he doesn't go away from the Temple justified. The tax collector, on the other hand, we well know, does.

It's interesting to me that the Pharisee was left in his sin, not because he was praying, fasting and tithing. Readers of Matthew's Gospel know that these are the very things the Lord requires of us. Rather, the Pharisee approached these righteous acts from the standpoint of himself. He is the biblical equivalent of the religion of me. The Pharisee's faith was centered on himself, and thus he left the Temple condemned by his own prayer.

It strikes me that this is the great blessing of the Church's tradition. Too much of my own religious life is the great struggle to gauge my spirituality in terms of me. The great barometer of my faith has been . . . well, me, my feelings and my own judgments. But with the great gift that is the Tradition of the Church, it no longer has to be about me. Indeed, it cannot be. The Tradition is given to me by God through the Church for the sake of my own justification and salvation. Not that through it I earn my salvation--that would simply put me back in the religion of me. But rather that God has chosen in his mercy to actualize my justification, to sanctify me, within that which is most emphatically not about me.

The Pharisee had it wrong, not because his worship practices were wrong, per se. He had it wrong because his religion and worship was about himself. It seems to me that we Christians need the kind of worship of the publican who starts his prayer with God, appeals to his mercy, and only at the end, inserts himself. And not a self that feels good or is made comfortable, but a self who knows that the distance between himself and hell is exactly the width of God's mercy. It seems that any worship or religion that focuses on me, on the worshipper, is ultimately idolatrous. Worship is first, last and middle about God. If we keep the focus right, we'll not only know his mercy, we'll know ourselves as sinners in need of it.

Just got off the phone with Anna. She's in Pittsburgh with her brother, Delane. He faces fourteen hours of surgery tomorrow, from 7am-9pm EST. From what I could tell her mother, Mary, Delane and Anna, herself, were all facing tomorrow matter-of-factly. They don't seem too focused on its ominous presence. Perhaps they have the right mindset. Or perhaps they're more concerned about Delane's wife, Terri, with her and Delane's newborn, Lucas, and Dad and brother-in-law, traveling through the snow-blanketed north-central U. S. They expect them in tonight late.

Me, I've been pretty anxious for them all. This evening, venerating icons, lighting candles, and offering intercessions, helped. I like the final petition of the Troparia of Thanksgiving: "Now that the day hath run its course, I praise thee, O Holy One, and I ask that the evening with the night may be undisturbed; grant this to me (us), O Saviour, and save me (us)." Followed by twelve "Lord, have mercy." Even in my anxiousness, I cannot come to God but by way of humility.

For those readers so inclined, do offer a prayer for Delane, for his family, for Anna. And pray for me, a sinner.

Part of my personality works itself out in habit. Most of the time, if something is important to me, I'll find myself doing it pretty much in the same way at the same time, and mostly indefinitely. Sometimes, I'm fortunate enough to direct this force to good ends. When I was a junior in high school, I somehow became convinced of the necessity and benefit for daily Scripture reading and prayer. I started doing it, and before I knew it, it was a habit. (That of course, does not mean I've been perfect in my observance. During most of my recent seminary experience, oddly enough, I was more habitual in not reading Scripture and praying. Weird.)

However, that being said, my sense of my "progress" in the faith has not been with regard to proficiency in Christian habits, nor even in ever-greater ethical and moral purity. Rather, my barometer of spiritual good things has been: my own feelings.

This came out recently in an email discussion I had with a local Orthodox priest, Fr. Patrick Reardon. I sent him an email bemoaning my sorry fate: I wasn't praying or going to worship, I felt all dark and icky. Of course, I was hoping for some insightful, laser-focused word of wisdom (Fr. Patrick has that "feelings-be-damned-say-it-like-it -is" side to him). I thought he might say something like, "Gosh, that's terrible. You'd better get back to your prayers and your Bible, and by all means hie thyself back to worship!" Instead, he said (in rough paraphrase), "This sort of thing will not end until you quit using your feelings as a basis for judging your spiritual life."

Well, then my analytical, argumentative side kicked in. "So what the heck am I supposed to do about this? I mean how do I know where I'm at spiritually?" Well, you know, it appears that it doesn't really matter whether or not I "know" where I'm at spiritually. It seems there's this thing out there called "duty." And if it's between some sort of awareness of my spiritual state and duty, duty is the pole I'm to gravitate towards.

"Ah, good! So if I'm doing my duty consistently, then . . ." Nope. Ain't like that at all. I'm to just do my duty. It is within the parameters of duty, not spiritual sensitivity, that the Spirit works. I don't love my neighbor because I feel like it. I love my neighbor because it's my Christian duty. Whether I feel or sense anything spiritually in loving my neighbor is beside the point. This, admittedly, is a new concept to me.

Duty is not works righteousness. It's not as though I'm earning my salvation by doing my duty. Rather, duty is apparently something like cutting a channel through my soul. Through it, the living water of the Spirit will flow and irrigate the arid land that is so often my life of faith. Duty won't ever really give me much of a barometer of "spiritual progress"--since all my progress can be wiped out so quickly with the giving in to temptation and the formation of vicious habits.

This, I think, is the one piece of baggage I have to attempt to untie and jettison from my upbringing. I'm not sure if it's endemic to Protestantism, or just my Stone-Campbell heritage. But it has sure stuck with me. I not only had a need to be sure of my salvation--I was baptized as a seven-year old and submitted to a conditional baptism as a young twenty-something--but I also had to be sure that I remained saved and had to from time to time discern where my soul was at. That is probably much closer to works righteousness than is duty.

So since duty opens the sluices, as it were, then I'll stick with duty. The rest is up to the Spirit.

Luke 15:11-32 is always the Gospel reading for the second Sunday of the Triodion, the three weeks of "pre-Lent." It is the story of the Jewish son, who takes his portion of his fathers wealth--wealth that had not only been accumulated in the father's lifetime, but the land and artifacts and wealth of the father's father, and his father, and on back down the preceding generations--and makes off for parts unsavory. The story is well-known. As is its glorious and happy conclusion.

But it struck me today that the son's offense was not just loose-living and carousing and the like--as darksome as are those deeds. Rather, as Archpriest Patrick Reardon pointed out in Liturgy today, the son squandered the tangible deposit of the labors and wisdom of the many generations that had gone before. Like Esau, he despised his birthright for the here and now.

It was noted today that the fool in Proverbs 1, is precisely that person who rejects the wisdom of father and mother, who each are wise from their father and mother, and they of their parents, and so on. Wisdom is not learned so much as it is handed down.

Furthermore, the son's return is the essence of the Christian Gospel: a return to the Father. It was remarked that Christianity is inescapably patriarchal: as in pater and arche, a return to the Father who is the source of and ruler over all. The Father is the fount of the Trinity: of the Father is the Son begotten and from the Father the Spirit proceeds. We are taught by the Holy Spirit to say: "Abba, Father" (Romans 8:15) and "Jesus is Lord" (1 Corinthians 12:3). And Jesus our Lord taught us to say "Our Father."

But the faith of the Prodigal Son was more than just fine points of biblical doctrine--important though these are. Rather, the Prodigal Son is transfigured into the Penitent Son by parable's end. That is to say, it's not the knowing, but the knowing and the doing, that makes way for wisdom. For me, in this pre-Lenten season, and on into Great Lent itself, I want to model the Prodigal Son. I want to receive from my fathers and mothers in the faith the wisdom handed down to them. But not just head knowledge or mere understanding. Rather, I want a return to the Father that shapes and molds my very life.

God have mercy on me a sinner.

In the monastic literature, "thoughts" (logismoi) are both "thoughts" in the ordinary sense and also are those "thoughts" which can be provoked by demons and lead to sin. Jesus said, "He who looks on a woman with the intent to lust after her has already committed adultery with her in his heart" (Matthew 5:27-28). And Paul urges the Corinthian church to "Take captive every thought to the obedience of Christ" (2 Corinthians 10:5).

Being of a philosophic mind, I have understood this Battleground of Thoughts to be mainly about Truth: Knowing what is and is not real about God and the world. Recently, however, I have come to understand this battle in a much more broad and intensive sense. It is not just about thinking rightly; it is also about keeping one’s thoughts pure.

This did not dawn on me all at once. In fact, the story begins before I really started to grasp this askesis of purity of thought. It was the last Monday morning in December just past. I woke to my alarm, sat up and turned it off. The very first conscious thought I had was the haunting Byzantine chant from the Orthodox Matins service of the previous morning: "Blessed art Thou, O Lord, teach me Thy statutes."

As it so happens, this is becoming a more frequent occurrence. The Monday mornings after the previous day’s Matins and Divine Liturgy now frequently have me awaking with a hymn from the service as my first thought. Once it was "Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal" of the Trisagion hymn. Once, this Monday morning experience even stretched into a Wednesday morning experience.

In a different vein, a couple of weeks ago, I was lying in bed just prior to falling asleep, my mind roaming, when an impure thought came to the fore. I do not recall whether it was a thought of anger, contempt or even lust. The only thing I do remember was my response, which was immediate. "I reject this thought in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Lord Christ, have mercy on me and save me." I was not troubled by any other sinful thoughts that night and soon fell asleep.

Now granted, this is only a couple of experiences. I hardly qualify as a spiritual teacher. But my experiences, when put together, did help me realize the importance of battling for purity of thought. I need to both fill my mind with Scripture and the prayers of the Church. I must carefully guard my thoughts against sin.

This was brought home to me in a dream I had yesterday morning. I had somehow acquired a cloth bag full of snakes. They were all extremely tiny. Dozens of them were wrapped in a cloth ball about the size of a grapefruit. I could not leave the bag well enough alone, however. I kept coming back to it, toying with it, attempting to look inside. Finally, I untied one corner and faster than thought, the snakes began to escape throughout our apartment. One even found its way through a hole in my shirt right in the center of my chest. Many of them immediately began to get larger; some were the size of a boa constrictor. One of the larger ones began to swallow one of the ferrets we owned until just recently. I got the poor guy free after much struggle. Another snake I tried to throw out of the apartment, and it attacked a neighbor below. Snakes began to take over the apartment, and I eventually awoke.

It is terribly difficult to fight these impure thoughts, I find. More difficult than can be imagined, even in a fitful morning dream. But the monastics testify that this sort of thing, while it is an endless battle in our earthly existence, is yet a battle in which we can know consistent victory. If we continually struggle and call on the name of the Lord for help.

In the ancient Tradition of the Church, the penultimate Sunday before the start of Great Lent is the Sunday of the Last Judgment (Matthew 25:31-46). On this day, the Gospel lection is the parable Jesus told about all the nations being brought before the Son of Man, Jesus, where he will judge them. He will separate the sheep from the goats, the righteous from the wicked. The righteous will inherit the Kingdom prepared for them from the foundation of the world. The wicked will depart into the everlasting fire prepared--note: not for them--but for the devil and his angels. The righteous inherit what has been prepared for them; the wicked gain that which was prepared for someone else.

That this parable is one which Jesus himself gave has never been denied until modern times. And it is denied on the basis either of that understanding which denies the reality of God altogether or on the basis of that understanding of God based on honest misunderstandings of the biblical and patristic tradition or on deliberate falsifications of that tradition. In short, the reality of the Gospel is that Jesus will judge the nations. He came once to save. He comes again to judge.

But note the basis of the judgment: not some Augustinian or Calvinist system of God's divine foreknowledge and predestination. Rather, the nations are judged on one single standard: Christ. It is what the nations did or did not do with regard to Christ which determines their destiny. And note the context in which actions for or against Christ are judged: clothing the naked, feeding the hungry, visiting the sick and the prisoners. (I'll not go here into whether or not "my brothers" in the parable refers to Christians or just humanity in general. Though I think the Gospel context on this is clear, and therefore more particular, it's a point for another blog.)

I know there are well-meaning Christians who find the idea that Christ himself will judge the nations difficult, even repugnant. How could a God of love condemn anyone to everlasting condemnation? To which one appropriate response is another question: How could a God of love deny anyone their repeated and considered choice? For those who have repeatedly denied God again and again, heaven would be worse than hell. God is not so unjust as to deny us the consequences of our choices and actions.

And note this also: Those who depart into the everlasting fire depart not on the basis of one grand all-encompassing decision. Rather, they are judged on the basis of their repeated little actions: not feeding the hungry, not clothing the naked, not visiting the sick and the prisoners. In other words, just like salvation, judgment comes from a lifetime of small decisions.

I was prepared for today's Gospel lection by my very own actions this morning prior to going to worship. I got up feeling tired and ugly. My duty every morning is to pray the Morning Prayers of the small red service book I have. This morning I most definitely did not want to. I kept procrastinating (yes, it was most crucial that I log on and download my email; yes, I must eat something, I feel so sick, and besides why should I keep the fast since I can't partake of communion yet anyway; and so on). But finally, I dragged myself in front of the icons, lit the candle, and began praying. And a most dismal display it was, too. Not only did I not feel enlightened, anyone else joining me would have feel the deep pit of slack that emanated around me.

But when I was done and as I was heading out of the house, somehow, God had blessed my feeble efforts, and I felt prepared to worship.

Then I got to service and heard: "It's not the grand decisions which form the basis of our destiny. It's the accumulation of all the small ones."

Thank God for his great mercy. And may he continue to save me. And may I continue to work our my salvation with fear and trembling, knowing it is He who works in me both to will and to do his good pleasure. And may I one day hear, "Enter into your inheritance in the Kingdom which has been prepared for you from the foundation of the world."

Glory to God in all things.

I figured as much. On Wednesday, the tell-tale sign that the antidoron was incubating penicillin showed up. A quick pinch, a toss to the birds, and a portion consumed in prayer. This morning, the remainder had been taken over by the alternate green life form.

Antidoron is blessed bread. It is the portion of the prosphora that is cut away from the "lamb." The "lamb" is that heart of the prosphora bread that becomes the body of Christ and is mixed in the chalice with the wine that becomes the blood of Christ. The portion cut away, the antidoron, then, is blessed bread, though it is not the Eucharistic element. Anyone may eat the antidoron; one need not be Orthodox. So if you're at an Orthodox liturgy, and a worshipper hands you a small square of bread: take it, and eat it prayerfully with thanksgiving. But because it is blessed bread, even hard and moldy antidoron cannot just be thrown into the trash. It is to be returned to the natural cycle. A scattering of crumbs on our back porch, with which to bless the finches and wrens.

Still, moldy antidoron. How disappointing. One settles into a rhythm of observance and prayer. Then something happens and shakes up one's little prayer corner. Coming on the heels of yesterday's corrections (and my little rebellious post, humorous though it was intended to be, stings a little bit on the soul), this was a bit deflating.

I know those, my priest is one, who, in praying for a particular person, are suddenly overwhelmed by those intercessions. One begins praying the liturgical prayers of the Church by heart, struggling to match words and heart's meaning, asking to be shaped and formed by these ancient prayers. All seems as dry as hard and moldy antidoron. And then, right smack in the middle of "Now that the day has come to a close" the tears come. One's voice breaks. The heart bursts forth with urgency and longing for one's friend. Heart's meaning not only matches the ancient prayers of the Church but seems to overflow them. One becomes, by way of intercession, one's friend, the prayer intentions one is praying for one's friend becomes, in a priestly way, one's very own intention. The tears continue throughout the evening psalms. The Creed becomes a battle cry in this struggle not against flesh and blood. And the final words "Lord Jesus Christ, our God, through the intercessions of thine immaculate Mother, of . . . and of all thy saints, have mercy on us and save us, for though art a merciful God who lovest mankind" are laid before God's throne.

I don't fully understand the ways of prayer. Heck, I don't understand them at all. I have my list of intercessions. I do my best to pray them faithfully. I know and trust that God hears. Still and all, I mostly feel like moldy antidoron. Yet even so, maybe God uses hard and crusty me to bring blessing through prayer, and only by his grace, to others . . . even these birds who neither sow nor reap, yet whom God cares for.

Today is the Sunday of Forgiveness. Tonight a special Forgiveness Vespers will officially inaugurate the Lenten season. (Orthodox, like their Jewish forbears, calculate liturgical time beginning at evening.) The Vespers service actually gets its name from what is technically a separate service added to evening Vespers. At this time, led by the priest, each worshipper present will, in serial succession, face one on one every other person present and ask forgiveness for any wrongs done them. Forgiveness will be extended, and, at least at our parish, a kiss on each cheek, with a return for a third will complete the exchange of grace.

Though I've gotten to know some of the parishioners at All Saints in the past two and a half years, I really only know one of them in something more than as a fellow worshipper and occasional coffee hour conversation partner. This will be a little daunting, and not merely because it will be my first Forgiveness Vespers service.

But that's not why I'm apprehensive about Lent. Ever since I took on Lent as a spiritual discipline back in 1993, prior to becoming an Episcopalian, and while still a non-denominational Protestant, I've tried to enter it with seriousness and intent. I'd tried the giving up and the taking on. But I must have missed the fine print, because, it didn't seem like much of it ever made it past the hard stone outer walls of my heart.

This year, the fine print ain't so fine. That is to say, the letters are large, neon, blinking red: God's gonna be doing some surgery on you, my friend. Really? What kind? You'll see. No hint? No clue? Trust Me.

This first week will be the hardest, at least till Holy Week, in terms of the physicality of the fast. But Father's given me a dispensation to mitigate the fast in such a way as to instill discipline without messing up a pregnant wife's world! (And, of course, I'm glad that the next Scotch party falls on a Saturday, when alcohol is allowed!)

But I've been getting inklings of some character surgery this past week and in my prayers. During this time, I will find out whether or not I will receive the fellowship grants I applied for, and that knowledge will directly impact what happens to my doctoral progress beginning in the autumn, when our baby is due. I may be confronted with the sort of parental sacrifice that may well alter my understanding of my vocation.

Then there's my blogging. I most definitely enjoy the exchange of ideas. And trained as I am in philosophy, and in my current academic setting, it's "No holds barred, Katie bar the door, feelings be damned, let's get down to it" sort of engagement. So the exchanges and challenges I've experienced have sharpened and encouraged me. I have found the ancient faith to stand up well under testing. No surprise there. It's been hit with everything for 2000 years, and still stands strong.

But, there is a danger here for me. Surprisingly, it's not the "bloodlust, go for the jugular" of intellectual debate. Or, I should say, that's not my primary concern. Rather, the concern is that it will reinforce one of my greatest weaknesses: the living of my faith mostly in the space between my ears. By giving my time and energy to these exchanges, or to do so to the extent I have in the not too distant past, is to take time away from living that which I know. But it's so much easier to be a Gnostic, secure in having all the right bits of knowledge, all the trade secrets, and Masonic handshakes. Perhaps God should have given me less head and more heart.

But he didn't. So this Lent I know something of what's in store. Lip service must translate to life service. As some would say: Put up or shut up.

I'm impatient, self-centered, gluttonous, proud, arrogant, self-centered, lazy . . . and self-centered. Time to remove some of these tumors.

In this next week, I'll be the grumpy, irritable, frowning, apprehensive and not very likable guy who's trying to let the Holy Spirit work on him. Stand clear. By all means, don't feed me.

But most of all, pray for me, a sinner.

So a dash to Evanston and a visit to our cats--er, I mean, to the Young's who now own our cats--to see, as Anna puts its, that our kitties are adjusting well to their new home. A quick stop on the way back home to get a pregnant woman a one-pound-bag of peanut M & M's (as if I hadn't gotten her Dunkin' Donuts earlier!), and then I was rushing off to the service for Vespers of Forgiveness Sunday.

Don't get me wrong. I was prepared. I'd already discussed my Lenten disciplines with Fr. Patrick and gotten his blessing. Anna and I had talked about them, and she was fine with them. I scheduled in my calendar for the extra services this week. For Pete's sake, I'd even purchased and read the first several pages of Alexander Schmemann's Great Lent. I mean, come on, now. I was prepared.

Or so I thought.

I'd been to a few Vespers services, so I had some inkling of what I would expect, but of course, I'd never done the "forgiveness thing" at the end. So I was curious and a bit apprehensive. Would I clink eyeglasses, or bonk noses? I'd never kissed a grown man before, even on the cheek, or at least not since I was a kid, so all those adolescent "don't want to look unmanly" sweatinesses had to be laughed away. But despite the combination of familiarity and curiosity, I was in tune with the service. I was ready.

Or so I thought.

We were into the Vesperal Litany, when I felt a change deep in my gut. "Lord have mercy" had just changed tone. No upward lilt, even if in a minor key. This was Byzantine, minor key, with downward glide. It was almost like a physical blow. I wanted to sit down. Then another "Lord have mercy." And another. We were half-way down the page when I noticed the rubric at the top: Lent begins during the Litany. Lent had begun, and I had missed it.

What now? I'd planned on having a small meal of fruit after Vespers, to prepare for the rigors of the first week. Should I eat it now, or not? I had poured a sherry tumbler of Ouzo, but had left it unfinished. Do I just dump it out? Why didn't anyone tell me Lent began during the Litany? I mean, I knew it was this evening, but . . .

By the time the prostrations came, I was well-humbled. God would be in charge of this Lent. Not me. "O Lord and Master of my life. Take from me the spirit of laziness, despair, lust for power, and vain talking." Prostration, forehead to floor. "But give to me, Thy servant, the spirit of purity, humility, patience, and love." Prostration. "Yes, Lord and King, grant me to see my own sins and not judge my brother. For blessed art Thou, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen." Prostration.

And so came the asking for and giving of forgiveness. Fr Patrick made a low bow to Eva's young boy. "Forgive me," he said. "God forgives," was the response. And so it went, each alternately asking for or giving forgiveness. I spent the first half of the time, giving forgiveness to the congregation of worshippers. We were barely minutes into it, and already there were tears. I was unmoved. Well, at least until it came time for me to look the sister to my right in the eyes, to bow and to say, "Forgive me." My eyes stayed dry. But not my heart.

Why should I ask the forgiveness of what were, really, little more than strangers to me, some of whose names I didn't even know? It began to dawn on me that my sins may not have been so much ones of commission as ones of omission. Why didn't I know their names? Why did I withhold Christian love and joy behind my introverted persona? What would it have hurt to have gone up to a total stranger and ask, "How are you doing? How may I pray for you?" Ah, see, it would have hurt my pride. See. There it was. I had sinned against these my brothers and sisters. And no, not just from withholding of Christian love. No, truth be known, I had judged them. That school teacher who'd made some harsh comments about an Orthodox bishop. Yes, it was me; I was the one that judged him as immature, and impatient. That young high school boy, the one I nicknamed in my own mind, "the loudmouth." Yep. That one stings. This young man, after all, is not merely a creation of God, but a member of God's Kingdom. He is one of the least of these. I began to keep a wary eye out for millstones.

I don't know how long Forgiveness Vespers has been around. The quizzical shrugs ("Why is that important?") seem to indicate centuries. That may well be. But it's clear to me now the spiritual genius for starting Lent this way. We need it. Great Lent is hard enough without carting all this baggage around. And anyway, we'll end where we begin: with the great mercy of God.

Today is the feast day of St. Sophronios of Jerusalem. St. Sophronios is known for many things, but two which concern me today are his revision of the Phos Hilaron, composed by St. Basil the Great, and his composition of the Life of St. Mary of Egypt. I'm not sure when, but his Life of St. Mary has for centuries been associated with the Great Canon of St. Andrew. On Thursday during the fifth week of Lent the Canon is sung, and the Life of St. Mary is read in two parts.

The Great Canon of St. Andrew of Crete is also sung in the Church on the first four nights of Lent. St. Andrew composed his Canon sometime in the early part of the eighth century, probably after 710. In total, it consists of 250 stanzas, each with the refrain, sung in beautiful and haunting minor key "Have mercy on me, O God; have mercy on me." Last night was my first singing of the Canon. The first stanza runs: "Where shall I begin to lament the deeds of my wretched life? What first fruit shall I offer, O Christ, for my present lamentation? But in Thy compassion grant me release from my falls." Then the refrain: "Have mercy on me, O God; have mercy on me." At which we bowed and crossed ourselves.

The genius of Orthodox Lent is revealed in the first two days. On Sunday, after Vespers, the dietary restrictions of the Fast are in place. That morning after Liturgy, for example, was the last time to consume eggs and dairy products. Needless to say, many dishes contained these items. (Something of an Orthodox Mardi Gras?) Then every worshipper present at Forgiveness Vespers cleanses their soul by asking and giving forgiveness. On Pure Monday (yesterday) the Church proclaims an absolute fast, although subject to priestly oikonomia if a parishioner is unable or it would be unwise for them to fast completely. Humbled by our knowledge of our sins, and from the freely given grace of our brothers' and sisters' forgiveness, wearied by fasting, we come to the Great Canon knowing and understanding, as Fr. Schmemann notes, that we have been living a lie of self-sufficiency. We begin to get an ever-greater inkling that God is our hope, our life, our all. We are ready, prepared physically and spiritually, now, to begin that Lenten askesis, that athletic wrestling with our soul called repentance, metanoia.

And I had a lot of which to repent. I didn't count last night, but in the text in front of me now, there is opportunity to sing "Have mercy on me, O God; have mercy on me" more than 70 times--with three "Lord, have mercy" sung after the sixth ode. When asked why it's necessary to say "Lord have mercy" forty times (as some liturgies call for), Frederica Mathewes-Green has quipped, "Because we don't mean it till the thirty-seventh time." She's right. I'm not sure even after more than 70 "Have mercy on me, O God; have mercy on me" I really meant it. But I do know that the last time I sung it, I meant it more than the first time. Small drops of water, after all, do wear away stone. And right now my heart is stone.

Thank you, God, for this season of Lent. May it be profitable for my soul, and may I serve You and Your Kingdom ever more diligently from having been through this journey to Pascha.

The euphoric high of Sunday Vespers and Monday's Great Canon remained through most of the day yesterday. But now that high is being tested. Monday, the first day of the Fast, all I could think about was food, it seemed. Everywhere I looked--is that a Spree on the ground?--everywhere I walked--why does KFC have to be on the way home?--all around me were reminders of food. Heck, we have two boxes of Girl Scout cookies sitting at home on the kitchen table. Talk about painful!

By yesterday, however, the struggle over food was displaced for the struggle over thoughts. Are you drinking milk? That's not part of the Fast. You're a failure. But Father gave me the okay to do so, for the sake of my pregnant wife! But you're not drinking it when she's around, now are you? Trying to cheat? Trying not to feel hungry? What sort of "athlete" are you? Those thoughts then passed over into more insidious ones. Well, now this is going pretty good, so why don't you add some more rigor to your fast, you know, skip the meal after the Pre-Sanctified Liturgy. No one will know, you can slip quietly out the front door. But the Church says the faithful are to eat after the Liturgy. But you feel stronger know in the Fast. What does the Church know?

Today, having endured all the back and forth, it's just down to plain ol' grumpiness. Everything is just hacking me off. Class is boring. My students just aren't trying, so why not give them one horrible quiz to punish them. Students won't meet me during office hours but want to arrange other appointments. I'll probably be late to services. . . .

How many more days do I have to go here?

This has been a most incredible week for this Orthodox wannabe. Last night I worshipped at my first Pre-Sanctified Liturgy (and a description here.), and experienced the depth of God's presence, indeed of Heaven, such as I've never known.

The Pre-Sanctified Liturgy developed early. It is referred to in Church canons in the seventh century as already being an ancient practice. St. Gregory the Great, of Rome, is the one who revised (? I'm not sure) the Liturgy. The nature of the Liturgy is such that Eucharist cannot be celebrated during a time of ascetical fasting. Jesus said that while the Bridegroom is with them (his Apostles) they do not need to fast. Thus ascetical fasting, taking place over an extended period of time and Eucharist do not go together. (The fasting done prior to Eucharist is of a different nature.) But very early on, the practice of Wednesday and Friday Eucharist developed during the Lenten cycle. So, essentially, the Pre-Sanctified Liturgy is a Vespers service with the service of Communion added on. The Body and Blood have been consecrated on the previous Sunday, so no epiclesis is said, and the clergy partake of the elements in silence.

This being the first week of Lent, the fasting rigors, the extra services, and one's own Lenten disciplines (under guidance of one's spiritual father) are, well, frankly, invigorating and exhausting all at once. But in this first week, this "mini-boot camp" for the rest of Lent, the whole-cloth nature of the Orthodox Faith and life is made clear.

The fasting begins, and we now see for what it is the great lie that we can depend on anything or anyone other than God for our life. Our bodies are cleansed through fasting. Our hearts and souls are cleansed through the act of forgiveness with our parish brothers and sisters, our friends and our family. At the close of the first day, we sing the Great Canon and are not only instructed in the act of repentance, but actually do it. And lest we become forgetful of it, the Canon is repeated three more nights.

By Wednesday evening, the battle against the flesh (carried by the body) and against mind and spirit is fully joined. We wrestle and struggle with the old man. Our flesh incites our body to rebel by breaking the fast. Our thoughts attempt to lead our will to self-reliance and away from dependence on God and the prayers of the saints and our brothers and sisters in faith. It's only the third day and we are battered and bruised.

So I drug my weary, impatient, irritable self to the Pre-Sanctified Liturgy. The Psalms of Ascent were a blur to me. I couldn't focus on them. However, all the "Lord, have mercy" petitions were much more heartfelt, let me tell you. Then there's the prayer of St Ephrem, at whose three petitions full prostrations are made. I'm doing my best to focus and to pray, then a bell is rung and the Divine Gifts are brought to the altar. Suddenly, my attention is more focused. We prostrate ourselves. There are more prayers.

And then it happens.

"Now the Powers of heaven with us invisibly do worship. For, behold, the King of glory doth enter. Behold, the mystical sacrifice all accomplished is escorted in. Let us with faith and longing draw near that we may become partakers of life eternal. Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia." Fr. Patrick sings of the invisible hosts praising God with us now. He sings of the King and Lord who is coming into our midst. And again. And again. And then, in solemn, silent procession, we all with foreheads on the  floor, the gifts are brought into the midst of the congregation and back through the royal doors to the altar.

Never in my life have I felt the connection to Heaven and to the Trinity as at that moment. I came as empty and as whooped-on as I've ever come to a service. And there, in a rickety old church building on Newport in Chicago, earth and heaven were joined as one, and God was mysteriously present with his people. Praying with us was my patron, St. Benedict, St. Gregory of Rome, St Symeon the New Theologian, and all the other saints whose feast day was yesterday. And not only them but all the saints, all who have gone before us, the great cloud of witnesses. Indeed, God himself deigned to come down to our mixed-up planet and to bestow his divine presence on the holy Gifts.

No wonder Russia became Orthodox. The envoys of Vladimir were right. I knew in my head they were. But now my entire being knows it.

After Liturgy, as prescribed by the Church, we ate a small meal (according to fasting guidelines). It helped. A lot. As did the relaxed conversations afterwards. "So he arose, and ate and drank; and he went in the strength of that food forty days and forty nights as far as Horeb, the mountain of God." (1 Kings 19:8).

God have mercy on me a sinner.

"It's later than you think! Hasten therefore to do the work of God." (Fr Seraphim Rose)

I've been reading, this past six months, in between homework and papers, the 1000-page biography of Fr. Seraphim (ne Eugene) Rose, Not of This World, a convert to Orthodoxy (in 1962), who became a monk, co-founding the St. Herman of Alaska Brotherhood (whose publishing ministry can be found here). (Note: The biography, in its first edition, is marred by some of the jurisdictional politics that was all too rife in the 70s and 80s. A critique of the first edition, by a close friend of Fr. Seraphim, can be found here. A second edition, Fr. Seraphim Rose, is in process now, and is expected to be published soon.) Fr. Seraphim died in 1982, in his late forties.

I'm impressed by two things about Fr. Seraphim. First, his humility. A brilliant linguist and Sinologist, he turned away from a career in academia (for which he was clearly suited) to go "further up and further in" to the faith and life of the Orthodox Church. This meant for him, in time, monasticism and the priesthood. In this vocation, his strong mind was used for God, and by no means wasted. He both wrote articles in and translated works from Chinese, Greek, Latin, French, Russian, and other languages, both in their modern and more ancient forms. He read and criticized important philosophical and theological works. He was nonetheless deeply engaged in the culture of modern U. S. society, and offered deep reflections and criticisms of important movements. He was among the first to warn of the impending dangers of Jonestown, and of what has come to be known as the New Age movement. But his humility was also evident in his refusal to take part in the ecclesial controversies of his day. He sought the deeper and more genuine expression of Orthodoxy and the Church, and not the shallow, soul-destroying allegiances of church politics.

I am also impressed by his urgent desire to go ever deeper into the faith and life of the Church. Not content to read about the vibrant life of monasticism, he forged ahead, with the blessing of his spiritual father, St. John Maximovitch, founding a monastery and eventually being received into the monastic life. He knew what it was to suffer, and how suffering could play a role in the redemption of one's soul. May I capture even the smallest portion of such a spirit! (Goodness knows, I couldn't take the whole thing!)

May his memory be eternal.

The weekend of 11-13 October 2002 was my most recent, and almost certainly my last, retreat at St. Gregory's Abbey in Three Rivers, Michigan. I first retreated at the monastery in July 1997, and have always been drawn to it as a place of prayer. My few retreats there have largely been unremarkable; definitely no Damascus road experiences. But this past autumn was different. I went wanting only to be open to what God had to show me, and not with an agenda, whether of vocational questions or prayer requests, or what have you. My first twenty-four hours plus were rather of a character as my other visits, but on Saturday late afternoon, I decided I would hunt up a version of the Akathist Hymn to Mary and pray it after Vespers during the meditation hour.

The Akathist Hymn is an ancient hymn (sixth century) written by St. Romanos, a noted Church hymnographer and poet. It is prayed while standing (thus "akathist" from the Greek, or literally "not-sitting"), usually before an icon of the Theotokos. Said prayerfully, the hymn may take the better part of a half hour to pray. So, no icon being handy, I prayed before the statue of Mary in a side chapel to the monastery church.

Now my steps from Protestant aversion to Mary to praying the Akathist hymn were not made swiftly. And indeed, given my bent, went unsurprisingly first through the arena of theology. I had become convinced of the necessity of calling Mary the Mother of God on the basis of the Scriptural and patristic understanding of the Incarnation. I also had become convinced of the communion of the saints, and thus of the legitimacy of asking the intercessions of those who now live in the presence of God beyond this mortal life. So it wasn't a quick leap from mariolatry polemics to the akathist.

But understanding undergirded with theology notwithstanding, I wasn't the most comfortable first-time pray-er. I plowed through, nonetheless, knowing that theology isn't a matter of my comfort. Another conviction I had come to was the necessity of submitting my intellect and will to the Incarnate God through his Body the Church. The Akathist Hymn had been blessed by centuries of use in the Church. Who was I, a lone individual with all my presuppositions and prejudices, to set aside 1500 years of faithful teaching and practice? Indeed, for that matter, request for Marian prayers date from the earliest days of the Church. So I prayed.

Lo and behold, the next day, after the noon office and lunch, I returned to another chapel--this one with an icon of the flight to Egypt--and poured out my heart in extemporaneous requests for the intercessions of the Virgin. An overnight "convert"? Perhaps.

In the ensuing weeks, I grew to daily ask the intercessions of the Birthgiver of God, particularly on behalf of my wife, Anna. While I'll not go into any of those details, suffice it to say, the growing evidence of our Lady's effectiveness as intercessor began to mount. The first instance was in the conception of our child. This is not to say that I prayed specifically for Anna to get pregnant. (A couple of our friends know the humbling account of that human blunder! Though what a blessed result!) Rather, the conception of our child was the answer to related prayers that I had been praying; something confirmed by my spiritual father. After asking Mary's intercessions in November and December for my mother's employment, I got word that Mom had gotten a job.

Of course, this is not magic. Some of the things for which I've asked Mary to pray have not come to pass in the way I had hoped and for which I had prayed myself.

More to the point, it's a tricky thing for humans to claim divine activity in the realm of human events. Some discussion in the blog world has been going on about this very thing with regard to the war. There is ever a need for humility in discerning within human events the hand of God. That he is active, we ought have no doubt. In what way he is active is another matter.

Still, to a heart formed and shaped by the struggle of this Christian unseen warfare, there comes something of a fallible certainty about these things. For example, take yesterday. It was the feast of the Annunciation. I had intended to pray the rosary at some point during the day, in addition to my observance of the feast in my normal routine of prayer. But I didn't. I had intended to pray the Akathist Hymn before bed last night. I had even set my prayerbook on my icon shelf as a reminder. But I didn't pray the Akathist. However, what did happen, is that my wife brought home the book that I had ordered: The Orthodox Veneration of Mary the Birthgiver of God. In it is a translation of the Akathist Hymn. Hmmmm. Receiving a book about the Theotokos on her feast day. Intending to pray the Akathist, and later being given a translation of it in the book. Was this a signal of something?

Now, to a merely rational mind, it would seem reasonable to assume, that just because I ordered it last Thursday and it came yesterday, and that yesterday happened to be a Marian feast, was merely a contingent coincidence of events. Had I ordered it on any other Thursday, assuming appropriate stock levels and similar shipping efficiencies, it would have come on the following Tuesday. To which the spiritually rational mind says, "But it didn't happen that way."

It's something of a proverb to assert, "With prayer there are no coincidences." I don't know if I'd press that proverb too literally. But I guess it's like anything else: if one has the eyes to see, the trail markers are a clear demarcation of the path ahead. To anyone else, though, it is the coincidental meanderings through mountain trails.

Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with thee, O Virgin Theotokos:
Blessed art thou amongst women,
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb
For thou hast born the Savior of our souls

Fr. Seraphim, a few years before he died, gave a talk at Jordanville monastery in New York, entitled Orthodoxy in America. Here is one excerpt:

Short of sleep by one hour, I hauled myself down to the bus stop Sunday morning. I wanted very much to catch the 6:40 bus so I could get to the church in plenty of time. I had plenty of repenting to do.

Having gotten off the connecting bus, I walked to the church. Passing by the parsonage, I was almost to the front steps when Fr. Patrick emerged from the parsonage and called my name. We greeted one another and I updated him on the health of my brother-in-law, Delane. Once inside, I went downstairs, doffed my jacket, made out the check for the offering, and headed back upstairs.

One of the fist things I did was to stand before the icon of Christ to offer my repentance. I had come with a whole litany of prayers I was going to pray. In the end, however, all I could do was muster enough to say the Jesus Prayer three times with a prostration with each petition. I stood for awhile, with nothing much to pray, feeling only my remorse. I made a final prostration. Then I stood before the icon of the Theotokos. I could do nothing but monosyllabically ask her intercessions.
Feeling wretched, I sat back down in my seat. I attempted to pray and meditate some more. The silence was broken by Fr. Patrick's invitation. Since he and I were the only ones present just then, he invited me to join him in the sanctuary behind the iconostasis, to observe the Prothesis (or Proskomede). Given the quiet setting this morning, he thought I'd be interested in observing a service I normally wouldn't get to see (except through the spaces on the iconostasis), this time by quite literally looking over his shoulder.

The Prothesis is a short service in which the bread and wine are prepared to be placed on the altar, and later to be consecrated during the Divine Liturgy. Fr. Patrick began by saying three times, "O God be gracious to me a sinner, and have mercy upon me." He then prayed, "Thou has redeemed us from the curse of the law by thy precious Blood: nailed to the Cross and pierced by the spear, thou hast poured forth immortality upon mankind. O our Savior, glory to thee."
He then took the circular loaf of bread (one of three), on which the Seal representing Christ had been baked. This and the other loaves had all been baked by various parishioners. Fr. Patrick took the bread in his left hand and the knife in his right and with the knife made the sign of the Cross over the Seal in the bread. "In remembrance of our Lord and God and Savior Jesus Christ."

He then cut along the right side of the Seal. "He was led as a sheep to the slaughter." Then the left. "And as a spotless lamb is dumb before his shearer, so opened he not his mouth." Then he cut along the upper side of the Seal. "In his humiliation his judgment was taken away." And the bottom. "And for his generation, who shall declare it." Then he lifted the Lamb (the portion which had been cut away) and placed it on the Diskarion (or paten). "For his life is taken away from the earth."
Turning the Lamb over so the Seal was on the bottom, he made a cross-wise cut in the bread, but not cutting all the way through to the Seal. "Sacrificed is the Lamb of God who taketh away the sin of the world, for the life of the world and its salvation." Then he took the Spear, a long, golden, knife-like object with a triangular point on the end, and turning the Lamb back upright, he inserted the Spear into the right side of the Lamb. "One of the soldiers with a spear pierced his side--" He then took the vials of wine and water-- "--and immediately there came forth blood and water--" --and poured them into the Chalice. "--and he that saw it bare witness, and his witness is true." Since this is Lent, a second Lamb was likewise cut from one of the remaining loaves, to be consecrated with the first Lamb during the Liturgy, and then brought forth later in the week for the Presanctified Liturgy.

Then a triangular portion of one of the loaves was cut out and placed on the Diskarion next to the Lamb, symbolizing the Mother of God. Smaller triangles were cut for the angels, saints, and martyrs, as well as living bishops, priests and deacons. Smaller pieces are pinched off for every member of the parish and for the living and the dead for whom prayers are sought.
Then Subdeacon Andrew brought the censer and Fr. Patrick censed the elements. He brought out the Asterisk (something like a small golden frame which is placed over the elements and over which a veil is later placed), and placed it on the Diskarion over the bread. "And the star came and stood over the place where the young Child was." More prayers and censing followed. But soon it was finished and I returned to me seat to pray Matins (or Orthros).

It brought home to me ever more forcefully the central meaning of the Eucharist, both its historicity and its mystery. Here I was, dead and lifeless, offering my best repentance. But nonetheless I felt quite distant from God. But so that I might remember his grace and mercy, which is unbounded by any standard of perfectly performed repentance, he invited me behind the iconostasis into the holy of holies. I had intended a radiant and complex metanoia. All that came forth was a half-articulate handful of prostrations. I had sought solace and comfort. I sat still burdened and troubled. But God did not want my feelings to be the basis for my spiritual struggle, so I was taken behind the veil, where, the Epistle read later in the service told me, my anchor holds. And a great grace was shown this unworthy sinner.

The life of a monk ought to be a continuous Lent. Since few, however, have the strength for this, we urge the entire community during these days of Lent to keep its manner of life most pure and to wash away in this holy season the negligence of other times. This we can do in a fitting manner by refusing to indulge in evil habits and by devoting ourselves to prayer with tears, to reading, to compunction of heart and self-denial. During these days, therefore, we will add to the usual measure of our service something by way of private prayer and abstinence from food or drink, so that each of us will have something above the assigned measure to offer God of his own will with the joy of the Holy Spirit (1 Thess 1:6). In other words, let each one deny himself some food, drink, sleep, needless talking and idle jesting, and look forward to holy Easter with joy and spiritual longing.

--The Rule of St. Benedict, ch. 49 (tr. by Timothy Fry, OSB)

Ever since I discovered the Rule, this passage is one which has stuck with me. I come back to it every year. And every one of the past fourteen years, I fall so far short. This year is no exception.

Outwardly, I have conformed to the exhortation from our holy Father Benedict. I have taken on and have abstained. I have sought the blessing of my spiritual father. But from the euphoria of the handful of weeks leading up to Great Lent, to the first half of Lent's first week, the ensuing days have revealed my soul to be dry as dust. All my "rapturous ramblings"? Who'm I kidding?

Yes, it's incredibly easy to read a lot. It's nothing to recall words and concepts. It's a small matter to weave these things together into something that appears wise and solemn, even if only to oneself. But it fools no one--well, except oneself, perhaps. My smoke and mirrors illusion was working fairly well. Everything outwardly seemed on such a happy trajectory, academically, personally. But before I could very long enjoy that, the great Lenten squeezing of the soul came on. And I produced nothing. My prayers are rote, often only half-attended to. My fasting has been all but non-existent since the first week of Lent. I have now missed Liturgy three Sundays, travel and illness notwithstanding. Contrary to St. Ephrem's prayer, I have held on to a spirit of despondency.

Has this all been little but external? Will any of it ever touch my own soul? Whatever happened to this great "stitching together of mind and life" that I so touted during the first week of Great Lent?

Ah, Benedict, father of monks, I'm not sure I could take life as a continuous Lent. Pray for me, holy father, a sinner.

This past Sunday (well, actually, Saturday night-early Sunday morning) was my first Pascha service. Things began in pitch-black darkness in the church building. Fr. Patrick lit the Paschal candle. Three times he chanted, "Come, take of the light, the light that shall not be overtaken by night, and glorify Him who is risen from the dead." The rest is a blur of wonder. I witnessed things, Horatio, which are not dreamt of in your philosophy.

It was said of St. Thomas that after praying in the Mass, he stopped writing the work we know as the Summa Theologica. The monks wondered why. The only explanation they received was that he had seen things in comparison to which all his works were as straw.

Visitations
Amid Various Sundry

Friday was an interesting and faith-invigorating day. Although it was a bit chilly and rain-threatening here in the Chicago area, I saw an interesting and well-done movie, bought a book I thought I'd never own, and got some good news on my immediate job needs and Anna shared her own news of a potential lead on a job.

I go for an interview this morning for another part-time position at another college library in Evanston. The job would entail, for the summer, essentially data input to bring a "old-fashioned" card catalog system online, then later, once school has started, turn into your basic circulation clerk. It seems enough of my experience matches their needs, but we'll find out if my fall scheduling conflicts with their stated scheduling needs. I hope it can work out, since the other part-time position I'd been looking at fell through, and Anna and I need all the extra income I can bring in as we prepare for our baby's arrival.

Anna also got a serendipitous lead on another job. The pay would be a few thousand more per annum, would allow her to go to the conferences she often misses out on due to zero-sum library finances, gain her some publishing experience, and allow her to continue working with children's and young adult books. The main drawback: it would start 1 September, thus effectively eliminating maternity leave. NOT a good thing. Of course, Anna's qualifications, while good, nonetheless do not make this opportunity a shoo-in for her. And God may have other plans. We'll see.

I saw the movie "X2:X-Men United" Friday. Wow. The reviews are correct: much better than the first, which I thought was great too. I was extremely taken with the character of Nightcrawler (aka Kurt Wagner). His portrayal was among the most sensitive, sympathetic and realistic I've seen of a traditional catholic (and Roman Catholic) Christian. He gives Storm what-for by humbly yet confidently asserting that the Faith is the core of our lives. He's shown praying the rosary twice, and also praying the Lord's Prayer and Psalm 23 (22 in the LXX/Vulgate). Though it's unclear whether his scarring is self-inflected or the mystical workings of angels, the message that what appears to be the ugliness of penance is actually the beauty of mercy and grace is thoroughly biblical. One might first be taken aback at his assertion that Christ is testing him by the tortuous control of Stryker, nonetheless it is the biblical precedent from Hebrews that in our sufferings God trains us as sons and daughters.

And all this from a script and story line that is hardly free of heresy. While I'll not assert that the X-Men movies and mythos lack any resonances with Christian faith (because it's not entirely true), nonetheless because it is based on the evolutionary faith's worldview it conflicts directly with the Christian faith. And that is what makes the character of Nightcrawler in the movie so surprising and interesting. It was odd and refreshing to have such a real Christian character portrayed where one would least expect it.

After the movie, I had an hour to kill while waiting for my wife to pick me up to go run some errands with her. And here's the capstone to a day filled with godly visitations. My original impulse was simply to cross the street from the theater and sip coffee at Borders and read. But for hardly conscious reasons, I decided not to. Instead, I thought I'd go to the library a few blocks away and read. But then I decided that would take away too much of my reading time to go there and walk back to our meeting spot. Barnes and Noble was a block closer, so I decided to hang out there, and I'd only be a block away from meeting Anna. But once inside Barnes and Noble, I didn't head to drink coffee. Despite my having purchased far more books than I probably needed this semester, and in a mood to definitely NOT buy any books, I nonetheless ended up browsing the shelves. I looked over philosophy, gave a glance at Christianity, and went to the Bible section (to vainly look for a KJV with Apocrypha). Then, with no real interest, I headed back to Christianity. After just a few minutes, I noticed the title Not of this World. It struck a chord, but until I picked it up and looked at it, I didn't know exactly why it seemed familiar. There it was: the out of print biography of Fr. Seraphim Rose.

One should understand that I couldn't even purchase this book from the publisher, let alone order it from one of the online distributors. It should also be noted that this comes from a small press, and is not likely to be found at a major retailer. Nor could Barnes and Noble have ordered it. My best bet had been to try to order it used through an online service. Yet here it was, in brand new condition. And I had come to Barnes and Noble aimlessly, and hardly with any intention of looking for it.
It reminded me of how my patron, St. Benedict of Nursia found me. I was in a conservative, evangelical seminary bookstore in central Illinois in the spring of 1990. There on the clearance rack was a small paperback edition of The Rule. I have been, in the last month or so, asking the intercessions of Fr. Seraphim, having found an affinity with him from reading his biography and most of his written works. It may well be that Friday's events, far from being merely fortuitous happenstance, was a confirmation that another patron had found me. Which means I'm either a very fortunate man, or a very great sinner.

Actually, I'm sure it means both.

In a Gratitude Frame of Mind

I'm not sure why, but this week, and especially today, have me very thankful and confident of God's care. What a contrast to a few weeks ago.

Maybe it's the recent procurement of a hand censer, some charcoal and some frankincense and their use in my morning prayers that has done it. Maybe it's the reading of St. Theophan's The Spiritual Life, or Archbishop Averky's The Apocalypse, or Hardy's The Christology of the Later Fathers. I always do get pretty jazzed in reading the Church Fathers. Then again, getting back into the classics arena with Hanson's The Western Way of War always helps. Nash's The Conservative Intellectual Movement Since 1945 (self-described liberals may now snigger and elbow one another and role their eyes at the title!) has also been a shot in the arm, and is incredibly interesting. I was aware of some of the figures and their writings, but to see these thinkers in an historical context is amazing.

Then again, maybe it's just that the major stress of school is over. Yes, I took two incompletes and have to finish my Hegel paper and an Aristotle paper this month, but the time pressure's off. And I'm almost done with teaching. I administer a makeup final in about an hour and a half; and I have to submit two change of grade forms. Then tomorrow I administer one last final and turn in grades. But school and teaching is done for me till second session summer when I teach an ethics course. And of course, I still have to get the final form of my MTS thesis turned in.

Admittedly, I am a bit worried about how the job situation is going and how it will turn out. I applied for a part time job at Loyola's library, but they keep putting me off on hours (I'm bottom of the totem pole and the more senior grad students haven't ponied up their schedules yet). I may end up trying to get on at Borders or some place like that. We'll see. I'm also concerned about the end of the summer and this fall. Will I be able to find a job that pays well enough? Has benefits? Allows me to take classes? Yet, I am confident of God's mercy, that somehow we'll work it out. By his grace Anna and I have faced worst and have landed on our feet.

So today . . . color me thankful. God is good.

The Sunday of the Myrrh-Bearing Women
Anna and I Worship at All Saints

A very interesting weekend for the Healy household, to be sure. It began Saturday morning when I got up and prayed morning prayers. I prayed, as I have for a couple of years now, regarding Anna and I and the Orthodox Church. But I happened to include in my intercessions and petitions a request I'd only prayed a couple of times before, and one which had not been met with an affirmative response. I asked that Anna would accompany me to the Divine Liturgy at All Saints Orthodox Church.

Now, let me explain.

I have unfortunately led my wife around the spiritual block on my ecclesial adventures. When we first met, we were both part of my heritage (Stone-Campbell) churches, though I was on the proverbial "road to Canterbury." For various reasons, we stayed in the Stone-Campbell churches for some three years or so, until a rather painful and devastating ministry experience (I was a young, inexperienced "senior" pastor of a small rural church that had a notorious history of "minister abuse") led us out into a wilderness experience. A few months later I unwisely, if goodheartedly, went against Anna's concerns and was confirmed in the Episcopal Church. That massive withdrawal from the trust account took years to repair. Eventually Anna supported me in my desire to seek discernment for ordination in ECUSA. In between, we had frequented Nazarene churches (Anna's heritage), some community churches, some other Stone-Campbell churches, and spent some extended times without any church at all.

So, in the first six years of our marriage, I'd already proven not to be a very good husband--insofar as religious leadership in the home is concerned. So as not to bring offense to my blog-friends, I'll not detail why I chose to abandon the ordination track (and eventually ECUSA altogether), but I'll simply say that when things were at their worst for me (and for Anna), I encountered the Orthodox Church. The last three years has been a journey of experience, intense study, prayer and reflection, all leading to a solid, tested conviction that what the Orthodox Church claims about herself is one hundred percent true.
You can imagine that given my previous track record, Anna is less than impressed. May she, and God, forgive me.
So, the last time that Anna and I together went to an Orthodox service was almost two years ago to the day, when Fr. Patrick was elevated to the archpresbyterate. Ever since then my requests for Anna to accompany me have been turned down. A year ago, these things became a source of tension. So, I kept praying about the matter, praying for my repentance of my husbandly sins, asking the intercessions of Blessed Joseph that I might be a husband and father such as he is. And Saturday, I asked again, what I had not prayed for in a handful of months.

The rest of the day Saturday was spent shopping for this ever-growing person in Anna's womb (and a most active person this baby is!). Anna's biggest wish regarding the baby's room came true: an Eric Carle "Hungry Caterpillar" crib set at the Carter's Outlet fell within our price range. Other practical mommy necessities like an expensive breastpump. A late afternoon nap. A little TV. A lot of reading. Then, as the brief storm came in to Chicago, as we lay there trying to go to sleep, I got a strong impulse to ask Anna what I'd prayed for that morning. I said, "It'd be great if we could go to All Saints tomorrow." And she guardedly agreed.

She was a bit grumbly about the matter in the morning, and best I could I absorbed the force of her irritation. Soon we were out the door, on our way, and standing for worship.

I could not have asked for a better set of conditions. Fr. Patrick and Khouria Denise were out of town (which was unfortunate as Khouria would be a great person for Anna to meet), so we had two guest priests, and some of the parish particulars were a bit different. Fr. Patrick's slow and deliberate processions to cense all the worshippers was much truncated as our visiting priests did things a bit differently. But that meant Anna's allergies didn't go haywire. Unfortunately, Anna had a hypoglycemic spell, but in God's providence, two women near her and the woman greeter all came to her aid. This resulted in extended conversations with four women after service. (Anna spoke longer with more people than I did--and I'm the semi-regular attender!) As I knew they would, the women of the parish came and enfolded her in love and welcome. Being Mother's Day, the priest spoke on the Orthodox Church's teaching, practice and history of women and their role in salvation and Church. What a marvelous foundation he started with in speaking of Our Lady! Glory to God.

This doesn't remove the tension over the issue of the Orthodox Church, by any means. Anna and I will still have to negotiate these, for us, troubled waters. The consequences of my previous sins still visit themselves on us. But I continue to repent, and to pray. God willing, other prayers I've prayed, especially the intercessions of the Theotokos, will one day come to pass. In the meantime, it's the God-given path of love and sacrifice to which us men as heads of our homes are called.

It is said that St. Anthony, a young man steeped in the Christian faith and regularly worshipping at the Divine Liturgy, was wondering what to do with his life. He went to Church, heard the Gospel, "Go sell what you have" and went home and did just that. Still restless, he went back and heard again, "Do not worry about tomorrow," and, arranging for the care of his sister, went out to the desert to wrestle with demons.

Though much less dramatic, I have known these "St. Anthony moments." Three, in fact. All on hearing the Scripture read during the Divine Liturgy at All Saints Orthodox Church. 9 June, 15 December, 9 February. My journeying became not so much a tour, a vacation. It became a matter of obedience.

There have been three other moments, of a somewhat related nature, in the more recent past few months, the last and most recent occurring yesterday. I'll unfold it in reverse chronology.

"The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure in a field which a certain man found and hid again, and from joy sold all he had and bought the field."

Sometimes one just happens on things. Like reading the book of Job this month. I just followed a reading plan, and it just happened to include Job. The providence of this timing is enough to chew on for a few lifetimes. Demons wrestle with my family members. Bodies disintegrate. I sit in ashes.

"Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant seeking fine pearls."

Sometimes things happen after long searches. I've been looking for Annie Dillard's Holy the Firm in hard cover for two years, ever since I first picked up a copy of American Childhood in hard cover out touring the wineries of Napa Valley. Oh, I'd had all the books in paperback. But the pages have been yellowing, the bindings become more rickety. After American Childhood, there followed Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, got from a bookstore in Gloucester. Then Teaching a Stone to Talk there in Evanston. Last night, wonder of wonders, I dropped in to buy books for my brother-in-law, Delane, to read while he recuperates. I got the books, then looked, in order, at the philosophy, classics, and theology sections. On a whim, I thought to myself, "What about that Dillard book?" And there it was. First edition.

Some excerpts:

Early yesterday, I received this, from Robert:

[J]ust as the illiterate cannot read books like those who are literate, neither can those who have refused to go through the commandments of Christ by practicing them be granted the revelation of the Holy Spirit like those who have brooded over them and fulfilled them and shed their blood for them. (St. Symeon the New Theologian, The Discourses, Discourse 24, p. 264)

Today, Anna and I begin our five day journey to Oklahoma, Arkansas and Missouri to see family (baby showers, two family reunions, much time spent in the car). God's providential timing is exquisite. With these reflections, and those not written here, I am sent on a journey, to shed blood. Enforced blogging silence for at least five days. After that, we'll see what God says. God once gave me three "St. Anthony moments" with regard to the Orthodox Church. Yesterday is now a third in a similar series of moments. This time I dare not disregard his voice. Elijah needed only a still, small whisper. I need a megaphone. But I get it, now. I get it.

Blessed Seraphim, ascetic of St. Herman, you know quite well my present state; pray for me, athlete of Christ.

The last few days have been amazing. My priest assured me having a second patron was perfectly normal, and encouraged my acceptance of a second patron. One of my friends from college, who recently got his PhD from the same program I'm in, and I have been corresponding about babies. And I discovered that one of the bloggers I've been reading, and to whom I've linked, is a familiar face (though I'll not add any details unless he okays it).

As I've noted before, Fr. Seraphim Rose has become an important influence in my faith journey; first through reading his biography (can't wait for the revised edition), as well as through answers granted through his prayers. I've wanted to "take him on" as a second patron (in addition to St. Benedict of Nursia), but have been hesitant to do so. Primarily because Fr. Seraphim is something of a point of controversy for many. But at lunch Sunday, Father unexpectedly (to me) gave a strong endorsement of Fr. Seraphim, an endorsement that took in Fr. Seraphim's ascetical struggle with his homosexuality. Fr. Seraphim is a strong and effective intercessor in terms of human sexuality ordered to God's will, as well as in other ways. So I broached the subject with Father and discovered that a) having two patrons is actually very normal and b) Fr. Seraphim's present lack of canonization would be no hindrance to having him as a patron. Orthodoxy doesn't work the way Rome does, apparently, when it comes to things like that. And as I'm given to understand, when it comes to patronage, frequently your patron choose you as much as you choose them. I know that sounds weird and mystical, but it sure has been my experience. And although I am a little weird, a mystic I'm not.

My friend Brent and I have both been approaching upcoming fatherhood. It didn't hit me until a few days ago that his wife, Angie, and Anna are due within about a week or so of each other. Like us, the Adkins' have decided to wait till birth to know the sex of the baby. He and I have been swapping teaching stories and what-not. It's been great to have more contact with him in the past weeks, especially since he moved a year ago.

It's been a great couple of days. Glory to God in all things.

The Priesthood of All Believers

It is still a matter of wonder to me how the Orthodox Church has maintained, for two thousand years, the proper balance of fidelity to Tradition and meaningful living of that Tradition in one's time and place. Take, for example, the matter of the priesthood of all believers. This has been among the, if not the, Protestant sine qua non. Yet, the Orthodox Church, in my study and experience, has maintained the proper expression of that biblical doctrine for two thousand years.

That may sound like a rather bizarre statement coming from a lifelong Protestant such as myself. Particularly so when the Orthodox Church, as the Roman Catholic Church, has restricted the sacramental ministry of the Church to a strikingly small percentage of male Christians--a percentage that grows even smaller when women are included in the tally. The Reformers, after all, in reaction to the clericalism, among other abuses, of the Western Church, brought to the fore a seemingly long-forgotten doctrine. But somewhere along the way, perhaps due in part to the clericalism that was so much a part of their history, the later Reformers, and later Protestants in general, fell back into the clericalism trap themselves.

Even my own heritage churches are a case in point. Aspiring to something like a second Reformation, the Stone-Campbell churches sought to return to the pristine simplicity of the New Testament Church. Gone were ordained priests and other clergy. Local bodies were merely governed, shepherded and led by a group of male elders, assisted by a group of male deacons (and in some churches, deaconesses). But lo and behold, over time, each local church was served by a duly called and trained minister. In time, this minister was assisted by a youth minister, or an assistant minister. Then came children's ministry. Then worship leaders. Then church administrators. And the much-vaunted priesthood of all believers withered away, when local congregational leaders gave over their responsibilities to men who were specially trained.

And this was not unique to my own heritage churches. Protestant churches generally, have fallen back into the clericalism, though perhaps in our era it is more properly called "professionalism." Indeed, for many Protestant seminaries--mainline and evangelical--ministry is more about professionalization than it is about classical, traditional ministry. Think about how many administrative, counseling, homiletical, and pedagogical classes are required. Then contrast that to how many classes are required in biblical exegesis, training in the biblical languages, and spiritual direction (which is not the same thing as counseling).

This is not to say that Orthodox seminaries fare any better or worse. I have never been to or otherwise had any experience with Orthodox seminaries. My point is merely to point out the failure, on our own terms, of us Protestants to uphold our own primary doctrine.

My experience in Orthodoxy, however, has been much different. In Orthodoxy, the home is explicitly called a little church, and the father and husband functions as a priest of the home. He leads the family in gathered liturgical prayers and Scripture reading. He leads by example and teaching in the disciplines of the faith: fasting, confession, and so forth. But he also blesses the members of the household, and the house itself. Walking through the house at night just prior to bed, he prays for angelic protection, sprinkling holy water. He anoints the foreheads of the members of his home with holy water, or with oil from the vigil lamp, praying prayers of blessing over them. He bows in a metanoia and asks forgiveness of the family members he has wronged.

Of course, in our human fallenness, there are exceptions among the Orthodox to this ancient model. Given the anti-male tenor of our current society, we men fight an uphill battle to accomplish our God-given responsibilities. And too many of us, weak and fallible, fall prey to these rampant misandric heresies. But it is precisely because this is the model in Orthodoxy, and precisely because it is kept and lived in home after home, that Orthodoxy never had its own Reformation. Because it had never lost the practice of the priesthood of all believers (though I have only described the husbandly/fatherly aspect of it). Of course, being killed and tortured by Muslims didn't allow for much time or energy to do much else but stay focused on the essentials.

One wonders what might have happened among Protestants and Roman Catholics, if Protestantism had been able to maintain its own teaching, and had not fallen back into the clericalism it rightly rejected.

Unfortunately, the academic settings in which I've learned theology have two tendencies: intellectualization and compartmentalization. By intellectualization I mean the separation of theology from the rest of life. Theology becomes a subject to study, which said subject too frequently remains between the covers of books, or within classroom and library walls. By compartmentalization I mean that one "theological subject" rarely is fully integrated with another. Incarnation is viewed through the lense of atonement, but not through the lense of ecclesiology; pneumatology is viewed in terms of sanctification and the charismatic gifts but rarely through ascetical theology. Ecclesiology is often enough tied with pneumatology, but is frequently left out of marital askesis. And so it goes.

But in reading the Church Fathers, and, more particularly, in reading "Eastern" Christian theologians, it is increasingly clear that the West (and perhaps more specifically modern Christian academia) suffers from an analysis that discovers important details but at the cost of the patient's life.

Take for instance these three issues: the enfleshment of God in Christ, the establishment of the Church, and the relationship between husbands and wives in the Christian home. These have nothing to do with one another, right? Or, if they do, it's only very generally, and under the catchall heading "Christian theology." Think again.

The Incarnation is not only important for soteriological reasons--God has to become human if humans are to be saved from the consequences of sin and their sins--but it is also critical for understanding the Church. If the God-Man, Jesus, had to be both God and a flesh and blood human being, then, the Church, if it is his Body, must also be both divine (participate in the divine nature as Peter says) and human. That, of course, means the Church must be a visible entity--since humans are visible beings. But more to the point, if the Person of Jesus is the indivisible union (without separation, confusion, change or division) of God and Man, then the Church must be indivisibly one as well. One God-Man--one Body of Christ; one visible Church.
But the Church wasn't just established because a bunch of middle eastern Jews got together and said, "We've got to continue this Jesus thing." The Church was founded in the action of the Holy Spirit. In the Spirit is the visible unity of the Church kept. The Spirit continually guides the divine-human unity of the Church into all Truth. The Spirit unites individuals to the Church. The Church itself is the fullness of Christ, and it is in Christ in whom the Godhead dwells bodily. The Church is a divine-human institution/organism, brought forth and preserved by the Spirit.

And by Looking at the Incarnation, as well as the Body of Christ, the Church, we see the Trinity. The Father spoke at Christ's baptism; the Spirit descended on him as a dove. The Spirit unites humanity to the Incarnation of Christ, giving birth to the Church, and that Church, by its hypostatic union with Christ, accomplished by the Spirit, participates in the energies of God the Father. Trinity.

How does the Incarnation and the Church relate to the home? In that marriage is an emblem of the great mystery of the Church, the home, then, becomes a "little Church" and the relations of the husband and wife in the Christian home, "iconize" the relations of the Trinity.

God the Father is clearly the "source," in terms of atemporal (eternal) cause, of the Godhead. Scriptures teach that the Father begets the Son, and "processes" the Spirit. The Father and the Son are the same in nature (and thus equal in dignity and majesty), though they are distinguished in Person. The Son does not beget. The Son is eternally begotten. Only the Father begets. The Father is not begotten. Yet, Father and Son, though distinguished in Person, share in the same essence. That is to say, by way of illustration, they share in this act of begetting. It is eternally the same act:

Father-begets-Son-is-begotten-of-Father. They share in the dignity and majesty of the divine begetting. But they are not the same in terms of Persons: because the Father is always one to beget, and the Son is always him who is begotten. Similarly for the Spirit. Father and Spirit share in the same essence: procession. But they are distinguished in that the Spirit is always "processed" from the Father; the Father always "processes" the Spirit.

Notice the harmony here. This is the monarchical Trinity (monarch: literally, one source), and because it is Christian it is the patriarchal Trinity (patriarch: literally, Father [is] source). Notice that there is not diminishment of Persons; all are equal, all share in the same essence. But this shared essence does not cancel out the distinction of Persons.

These Trinitarian relations, then, are the forms in which husband and wife are to relate. Husband and wife share the same essence (that of being "mankind" in biblical terms, or of being "human" in modern accepted usage), but that sameness does not negate distinction: husbands and wives have different obligations. So, Paul states the same mutual submission is to occur between husbands and wives. But that sameness does not mean the submission is not to be distinguished. Wives are to submit to the husband as to the Lord. Husbands, on the other hand, are to give their lives for their wives to present them to God in holiness. Just as the Church submits to Christ, so wives are to submit to husbands. Just as Christ was crucified to make the Church holy and pure, husbands are to die to themselves for the purpose of an ever-more holy and pure wife. In other places, Paul more concretely traces out this sameness-with-distinction. Husbands are "at the mercy" of their wives' sexual needs; as too are wives to their husbands'. Neither is to deprive the other--except for prayer, and only then for a limited time--of sexual relations. But Peter indicates that wives are to beautify themselves with holy lives, as did Sarah, and other saints. Men are not called to attend to a concern over fashion, but are rather called to attend to how they show respect and honor to their wives, because their relationship with their wives has direct bearing on their prayer lives. Distinction. But no less equality.

So here we are talking about the daily matters of husband and wife relationships, yet we have had to do so within an understanding of the Trinity, the Incarnation, and the Church. One can't study marriage apart from these other great "theological subjects." Similarly, one cannot understand the Trinity without a prayerfully living a marriage in conformity with God's will and his being as Trinity.

It's seamless, folks. That's why in the debates over the last decades as to liturgical language, Bible translations, women in ordained leadership, human sexuality, and abortion--to name some of the prominent ones--we've ended with chaos and schism. We have compartmentalized out sexuality from abortion from the birth of Christ by the Holy Spirit and the Blessed Virgin Mary. We have separated language from God-talk/liturgy and thus have lost our way in terms of sexuality. Christian marriage/divorce rates are the same as the non-Christian population because we've talked marriage without talking Cross-Resurrection-Ascension-Pentecost.

Someone else (I think Dorothy Sayers, or probably G K Chesterton) has said, "The Dogma is the Life." Oh, surely I'm not living the seamless life. I've got more than thirty years of bad habits to unchoose. The Dogma is the Life.
Indeed it is.

I have some time here at the end of the work day--my co-workers having left me to lock up and my ride coming in thirty minutes--and I've been thinking about some things, so I thought I'd "break" my less-frequent-posting rule and put these out for blog-o-verse consumption.

Today, I am saddened by the chaos in the Episcopal Church (ECUSA). When I was confirmed in April 1996 at the hands of Bishop Peter Beckwith (Springfield), I felt as thought I had "come home." For more than five years I'd been searching for some sort of connection to the historic Church. Raised in the Stone-Campbell/Restoration Movement churches, I had the right orientation (seeking the one, true "New Testament" Church), but the wrong method (sole focus on the New Testament, jettisoning some 1700 years of Church history). Gone were the sacraments, the Tradition, the Eucharist. In their place was a truncated doctrinal "purity" that was more about "knowing" the Truth, rather than loving Him Who is the Truth. Don't get me wrong: we were the typical "Jesus and me" evangelical church group. We were all about "falling in love with Jesus." But being a Christian was more like thinking the right doctrinal thoughts. We most sincerely didn't understand why such a focus didn't bring about the unity for which we labored.

For several months shortly after my graduation from Bible college, I did look into the Roman Catholic Church. If there was an historical connection, I thought, surely Rome had it! But I could not leave behind my doctrinal concerns over papal infallibility, the immaculate conception, and a beauracractic/legal understanding of Church unity. Enter ECUSA. Well, actually, I'd already been looking at ECUSA for some months by then. Robert Webber's Evangelicals on the Canterbury Trail provided strong impetus to head toward Canterbury (via 815). But it wasn't until I'd essentially experienced the darkest implications of the "doctrine" of congregational autonomy in the Stone-Campbell churches that I made my way into ECUSA via Trinity parish.
If I'd never left the parish, and never read any news reports, I would have thought that the way of life of Trinity and the Springfield diocese was exactly what ECUSA was/is. But after about a year and a half, General Convention 1997 mandated women's ordination (despite previous promises of latitude for differing convictions) and my wife and I moved to Baton Rouge, and I got a wider view of ECUSA. The college chapel Anna and I attended in Baton Rouge was great. The rector was my age, a graduate of Nashotah, and engaged with the college youth. But it was while there that I began to understand the ECUSAn world I'd been engaged in was only a small piece of a much different picture. Subsequently, I found myself in seminary, General Convention 2000 presented a resolution that "made" extramarital sexual relationships (heterosexual and homosexual) equivalent to marriage, and I was confronted with a side of ECUSA I'd never before seen or known.

It has not been painless since then. A year ago I found myself realizing that I could not then, as an aspirant for holy orders, in good conscience adhere to the tenets of the denomination. And while there might be any number of bishops and parishes outside my own home "turf" who might welcome such a ministry as I might offer, I could not take ordination vows with my fingers crossed. I would be forced to own all that ECUSA stood for. And the official happenings (whether "merely" resolutions or more formally canonical) were such that several important items I would have to condemn. So I withdrew from ordination. An expensive journey, leaving me with an as yet unfinished degree (need to write that thesis), and some $25K in indebtedness. But sometimes the faith and one's conscience trumps "wasted" time and lost funds.

Now General Convention 2003 for ECUSA is nearly arrived. Though the ECUSAn bishops had heretofore given an public proclamation that no resolutions for official approval of rites for same-sex unions would be discussed, GenCon '03 will be forced to discuss and vote on an openly gay bishop-elect (Robinson in New Hampshire). Since Bishop Ingham (in Canada) has officially approved rites for same-sex unions in his diocese, many observers realize that despite the ECUSAn bishops previous proclamation, discussion of same-sex rites is now inevitably going to happen. Worldwide, the Anglican communion is seemingly coming apart, as two-thirds world bishops openly condemn Bp Ingham's actions and have severed communion with him, and seem ready to do the same with all of ECUSA should the church pass such resolutions at GenCon.

Today's picture of ECUSA is not that in which I was confirmed in 1996. I have lost something here. And it may well be that many parishioners, priests and bishops will be losing something much more, as well. We'll see in about a month, I suppose.
Since when did activist agendas--even in the name of "justice"--trump faithfulness to the past, and faithfulness to the present, not to mention faithfulness to the future? Why are so many lives being sacrificed on the altars of various agendas? I am angry and hurt for myself and my ECUSAn brothers and sisters.

© 2002-2003 Clifton D. Healy

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