Slavery to Needs

In Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamozov, Alyosha remembers the final speech of the Starets Zosima.  One small part of that remembrance is a reflection on freedom. What does it mean to be free--or what has our culture taught us it means?


Keeping in mind that this novel was written in 1880 Russia, the comments about the human condition still ring true. For example, the Starets says that freedom according to the "world" is the right to satisfy one's needs, and the right to multiply those needs. That is, our culture teaches us that every person has the right to do what she wants--so long as it doesn't too severely limit someone else's right to do what he wants. (Of course, not even this is quite right; for, like in George Orwell's Animal Farm, some animals are more equal than others. If you have the resources to sue your neighbour or you are politically connected in a way your neighbour isn't, then you are more equal. But this is a different matter altogether). The world teaches us that we are basically free and encourages us everywhere to satisfy our needs.


But there is a funny thing about needs. They continue to multiply.  People engender in themselves, according to the Starets, "a multitude of pointless and foolish desires, habits, and incongruous stratagems. Their lives are motivated only by mutual envy, sensuality and ostentation." Even the effort invested in serving the causes of "brotherly love and human harmony," or save trees or bunny rabbits or the polar icecap are very often (but not always) just an attempt to satisfy another need. Needs multiply as you satisfy them. A hungry man needs only his next meal. A satisfied man needs a cigarette. 


We become accustomed to satisfying the needs that we say we have. Satisfying them becomes habit, and habit looks a great deal like slavery. Is a slave free? Just because I can stop a behaviour "if I wanted to," does not make me free because I am a slave to my desire--I don't want to stop.


Christian asceticism is about freedom. It is training in saying no. It is the beginning of freedom. Someone who has developed the habit of saying no to himself can easily say yes to his neighbor. The ascetic is free to love; the needy, at best, merely negotiates.


Honestly, I am very uncomfortable writing these words. I am no ascetic. I have only played around the edges of self-denial. These words function as a mirror to me, revealing my self-induced neediness. I don't think there is much I can do about it, except confess it. I can't transform myself--I know, I've tried.


I can, however, look into the Face of my Father, like a child caught with her hand in the jelly jar, with jelly smeared all over her face and hair. I can say I'm sorry. I can ask for help. I can at least do a little; I can say no to myself in some small ways, knowing profoundly how little I really deny myself.  


One thing is certain. I do not want to run and hide. I do not want to deny my selfishness--the bit of it that I am aware of. I want--I really, really need--to entrust myself to my loving Father who will pick me up from my messy jelly puddle, scrub me clean (even though it sometimes hurts a little getting the jelly out of my hair), and patiently teach me how to eat only a little jelly with my toast.

Words and Arguments and The Heart

Recently I had a conversation with a catechumen who told me that a relative of hers was offended that the Orthodox Church taught that he and other devout Christians outside the Orthodox Church were not saved.  She explained to her relative that, on the contrary, that was not what the Orthodox Church teaches.  However, the relative said that if the Orthodox Church claims to be the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, and all who are saved are in the Church, then those who are not in the Orthodox Church are not saved.  No words to the contrary could dislodge the relative's firm faith in his syllogism.

My catechumen didn't know what to do with this.  After reflecting on the matter, I suggested that the next time she has a similar conversation with her relative, she might suggest that he consider the possibility that what he would mean if he (or his church group) were to say these words may not be what the Orthodox Church means when it says them.  

Words, especially theological words, have different meanings in different contexts.  This is why argument is futile.  

The Desert Fathers very seldom argued.  True, some great hierarchs and apologists did argue.  It seems that whenever words will be used, a certain amount of argument is unavoidable.  However, very few of us are great hierarchs or real Christian philosophers (the category of "apologist" is not generally used in the Orthodox Church--the second century apologist Justin is known in the Orthodox Church as Justin the Philosopher and Martyr).  Most of us argue not because we must, but because we are disturbed.

It is a disturbed heart and mind that compels us to argue.  When we are not at peace, when the other speaks words that disturb our peace, we feel compelled to defend our position, our faith, our barely-held-together construct that lets us feel as though we finally have things pretty much figured out.  And herein lies our problem.

Our Christian peace cannot lie in a construct or idea or rational understanding.  If anything that can be said can disturb our peace, it is because our peace is not rooted in the knowledge of Christ in our hearts.  Attending to our hearts is no easy task in the world.  We have been trained to encounter everything with a rational mind, to form mental constructs of reality, to dissect, to analyze and to categorize.  Learning to encounter the world with the heart is a life-long discipleship.  Learning to attend to the peace "that passes all understanding" is the very Christian labor of our lives.

I must confess that I only experience brief moments of attention in my heart.  Most of the time, like most of you, my mind is scattered and my heart is left to be the dwelling place of whatever happens to be passing through my mind--thoughts, feelings, emotions.  However, I have come to know that attention in the heart is both a skill that one acquires and a gift of Grace (mostly a gift of Grace).  

When I am at peace in my heart, my mind attending to the Jesus Prayer or some beautiful reflection or just feeling the piercing pain of love, then words do not bother me.  I am aware of the weakness of words, my own and those used by the other.  When I am at peace, there is no need to argue; for my confidence is in the God of peace whose presence dissolves all intellectual knots, personal problems and apparent contradictions.

"In peace, let us pray to the Lord."  This is the continual advice, command really, of the Church.  It is good to spend our life learning how to do it.

Judgement As A Mirror and The Tears of Repentance

"Abba Macarius said..."  The Judgement on the last day will be like looking into a mirror. Just as mirrors on earth do not lie--unless they are bent and made to lie--the mirror that we will look into on the day of Judgement will tell us who we really are, what we have really done, and how it really effected those around us. This will be the judgement: the truth, reality.


Even now, however, God has not left us without mirrors. There is the mirror of our own conscience. There is the mirror of the word of a friend, or an enemy, or anyone who might tell us the truth about ourselves--truths we would rather not hear. The Bible is a mirror, so is the Liturgy of the Church, and many of the writings of holy men and women. God has not left us without some testimony, some ways to see ourselves as we really are.


St. Macarius says that when you see yourself in a mirror, words cannot help you. But you can weep. St. Macaruis wept a lot. I don't weep very much. I can't even weep over my lack of tears.


Jesus wept over Lazarus, the sin and result of sin of all mankind.  The least I could do is weep a little over my inability to escape sinful habits and cycles and reactions that are common for me.


I think I  spend a lot of mental energy, mental words, justifying myself. I tell myself that something or another is my right. I tell myself that what I want to do isn't that bad. I explain the pain of others by saying that it is their own fault. I put a lot of mental energy into justifying myself. I should just weep. But even tears are a gift from God.


It is a gift to see yourself as you are. It is a gift to know the truth about yourself, and to weep gentle tears at your impotency. Yet, Abba Macarius also tells us that this same Jesus who weeps for Lazarus, bound and dead, helpless in the tomb, this same Jesus calls our name. This same Jesus exposes the stench, heals its source, and leads us out of our tombs--slowly, awkwardly, pealing off one strip at a time the binding clothes of death.


"....Let us draw near to Him through prayer and holy tears so He will have pity on us and raise our souls from the death of sin that we may live by His mercy."

More From St. Macarius The Spiritbearer

"It was said about Abba Macarius..."  This is how most of the sayings about Abba Macarius begin. One saying is about a time when God spoke to him and said that he had not yet reached the level of spiritual maturity that two laywomen in a nearby town had reached.


Early the next morning, Abba Macarius left his cell to walk to the town. Led by an angel, Abba Macarius  found the house and knocked on the door. The two women opened the door; and when they figured out who was standing there, they made a prostration and asked for his blessing. The old man explained to them why he had come and asked them to reveal to him their way of life so that he might benefit from it.  


Really, we have to stop here and make a few comments. Abba Macarius was a very famous ascetic and holy man. This is why the two women bowed before him and asked his blessing.  He was the sort of man whose name weaker brothers would drop to make themselves seem important: "The last time I saw Abba Mararius I heard him say...."  Here was the man of God standing on the door step of these two women's home asking to know how they lived their lives. No wonder they respond, "Why do you inquire about the way of life of those who are defiled?"  Abba Macarius asks their forgiveness, but insists that they tell him how they live, "for it is God who has sent me."


Now the women are really shaken.  The text says, "They became fearful and revealed everything to him."


These two women were unrelated, but together had decided to leave their husbands and begin a life of virginity and prayer (in a monastery, apparently).  However, their husbands would not allow it.  So the two women agreed that for the rest of their lives they would never speak of anything worldly, but would direct their thoughts to God and the saints at all times devoting themselves unceasingly to "prayers and fastings and acts of charity." The story doesn't tell us what happened to their husbands.  We don't know if they are sharing the house as two married couples, or if the husbands live in different houses or if the husbands have died or left them. We don't know.


What we know, what the women tell us, is that for fifteen years "we do not recall that we have ever quarrelled with one another or that one of us has ever said an idle word to her companion. On the contrary, we are always at peace and of one mind."


Hearing this, Abba Macarius says, "Truly, it is not the name 'monk' or 'layperson' or 'wife and husband' but an upright disposition that God seeks, and he give his Holy Spirit to all of these people."  


"And after the old man had profited from meeting the two women, he returned to his cell... saying, 'I have not been at peace with my brothers like these lay women have with one another.'" And here the saying ends.


According to the teaching of the Church and this particular saying from Abba Macarius, holiness is not the result of a particular calling or mode of life. Monks can be saints, and monks can be wicked.  Married people can be holy, and they can be selfish and manipulative. Each of us in whatever condition we find ourselves in may begin RIGHT NOW to devote ourselves completely to God.  We can direct our thoughts to God at all times and just not speak about worldly things. We can not quarrel. We can say prayers as we are able, fast as we are able, and do acts of charity as we are able. We don't have to be something else somewhere else to begin to be holy.

Peace In Seeing The Other's Face

One of the jokes in my house is that I am always half way through a dozen books at a time. By the Grace of God, sometimes I actually finish a book. Somehow the books in the pile slowly change.


One of the books I am half way through is St. Macarius The Spiritbearer: Coptic Texts Relating to Saint Macarius the Great. One of the stories that is told of St. Macarius is about a conversation he has with a departed person while speaking to the departed person's skull. St. Mararius and the skull talk about the experience of the departed person in the afterlife. Here's part of the conversation:


   The old man [St. Macarius] said to him,  "Are you at peace, or do you suffer?"
   The skull said to him, "I am being punished."
   The old man said to him, "What sort of punishment is it?"
   The skull said to him, "Just as the sky is high over the earth, so too is there a river of fire boiling over our heads and underneath us, lapping over our feet.  We stand in the middle, unable to look at one another because our backs are joined to each other.  But at the moment when someone offers a great supplication for us, we gain a little peace."
   The old man said to him, "What is this peace?"
   The skull said to him, "For a blink of an eye we see each other's faces."

And this is peace: to see each other's faces.  


When we hear this story, our culturally conditioned concepts of hell lead us to focus almost exclusively on the river of fire boiling overhead and lapping at their feet.  We imagine that this is the torment, for to have fire over our head and lapping our feet would be very painful--or so we imagine. But remember, this is a dead person. The fire lapping their feet does not burn them--they have no body. St. Macarius is holding the fellow's skull and it is not burning.  


I don't think the fire is the punishment. I think the fire above and below refer to a situation of being trapped and unable to escape their condition. The punishment is not the fire, but it is that they cannot look at one another. Notice that when someone prays for them, they experience a little peace. What is this peace. Does the fire go away or become cooler?  No. The peace is to see, for the blink of an eye, the face of others.


Peace is to see another's face. Peace is to know and relate to others as persons, not as parts or as functionaries. Perhaps the punishment that the skull describes is a punishment many of us spend our lifetime choosing. It is a punishment we choose every time we do not let the humanity of the people around us touch us. It is a punishment we choose every time we turn our face away, when we don't want to see or be seen, when we don't want to encounter the other--except as tool, or part, or functionary. We choose not to look at the other's face, and so we enter eternity back to back, tormented, unable to touch or be touched by the humanity of our neighbor.  I think this is the punishment that the skull describes to St. Macarius, the torment of hell.

God Does Not Exist

St. Gregory the Theologian said famously, "If God exists, we do not exist.  If we exist, God does not exist."


God's existence cannot be known by any category of existence by which we know anything else exists.  God is beyond existence.  God is outside existence.  How could it be any other way?  How could something that exists call into existence anything out of nonexistence?  God must stand outside the categories of both nothing and existence; and in that sense, God cannot exist.


This is the reason (well, one of many reasons) why scientists and intellectuals of various stripes struggle so much with the concept of God.  God does not fit any categories of existence (cannot be seen, tested or measured), so therefore God doesn't exist.  And to this Christians must say, "Yes, God does not exist!"


Nonetheless, this nonexistent God is known to us.  This nonexistent God has come to us; and the only language and the only categories we have to talk about this encounter with the nonexistent God are the language and categories of our experience, our experience in the realm of existence.  And this is our great problem.  Someone said, (I don't know who), "to speak of God is to lie."  But the lying quality of speech  is not only troublesome when trying to speak of realities beyond creation.  Any speaking, is in one way or another a lie.  Douglas Hofstadter in the Translator's Preface to a Pushkin Novel In Verse says, "Yes, one is always lying, for to translate is to lie.  But even to speak is to lie, no less.  No word is perfect, no sentence captures all the truth and only the truth.  All we do is make do...."


Truth telling, especially when it comes to matters touching on transcendence, requires both a true tongue and a true ear.  Or perhaps it is better to say that it requires a true heart in both the speaker and the listener.


I am the first to say that much speech about God comes from hearts that are less than true.  Whose heart is completely pure?  However, much can be overcome if the heart of the one who speaks and the one who listens are striving to be true.  So much of vocabulary and grammar is merely making do.  We have no words to express what we encounter in our hearts.  The knowledge of this encounter is not knowledge in the common sense of the word, but in the sense that Adam knew Eve, and in that sense one can begin to know God.  That kind of knowledge is best expressed in silence, in the long gaps between few words.

Father Therapon vs. Starets Zosima

Recently I have had a couple of conversations with different people who told me that they or others they know had seen demons.  


I do not doubt that some people see demons; however, I'm not sure that what they are seeing is what they think they are seeing.  In fact, were we to inquire seriously about this matter, we would have to have a long discussion about what it means to "see" in this context and what a demon actually is that someone might see one.  Nevertheless, laying these matters aside, let's assume that these people actually see actual demons.  


The most fundamental question that needs to be asked of those who see the unseen is not "did they really see anything?" or "what does 'see' mean?" or even "how do we interpret what they have seen?"  The most fundamental question is the question Dostoevsky seems to ask in juxtaposing Father Therapon with the Starets Zosima at the beginning of book four in the novel The Karamozov Brothers.


The Starets Zosima is a very old and very holy monk who has befriended Aloysha, one of the Karamazov brothers, the one who has very sensitive religious feelings that are expressed in an openness to everyone and an immediate concern for the suffering of others.  The holiness of the Starets and the occasional miracles that are associated with him have drawn hundreds of followers, especially peasants, to seek his prayer and advice.  This triggers both jealousy or disdain, and a cult of expectation in the monastery.  The cult of expectation (or cult of the startsy), to which the majority of the monks belong, is based on the expectation that Zosima will fulfil a certain role for the monastery, a role that startsy had played--or had been thought to play--in other famous monasteries.  


Those who were jealous of or disdained Starets Zosima were few in the monastery.  Mostly it was some of the the higher clergy who were uneasy with the whole phenomenon of the Starets.  Having a holy man or women to which crowds flock seems to bypass the establish structures and sacraments of the Church. One can see how even well-meaning churchmen would be uncomfortable with flocks of people looking for help form God in this or that holy man or woman rather than in the tried and true paths and sacraments offered by the established Church.  And even in the monastery itself, there is one particular hermit who disdains Starets Zosima, but then he seems to disdain everyone.  And it is this hermit, Father Therapon, who sees demons.


In presenting Starets Zosima and Father Therapon in close contrast, Dostoevsky seems to be asking the fundamental question that needs to be asked of all those who see demons--or see angels or perform miracles or have clairvoyant abilities.  That is, "to what end?"  Or another way to put it is, "what fruit does the seeing of demons produce in the life of the one who sees them and in the lives of those he or she influences?" Dostoevsky both asks and answers this question by juxtaposing Starets Zosima and Father Therapon.


First we are presented with Starets Zosima as he is giving his farewell speech to the community the day before he dies.  He speaks rather confusedly, trying "to say everything once more" before the moment of death comes.  "Love one another, my brothers," the Starets exhorts.  "Just because we have shut ourselves with in these walls, it does not make us any holier than the laity....However, he [who] realizes that not only is he worse than any layman, but that he is guilty before all... only then will the goal of our seclusion be attained."  Not only are the brothers to consider themselves guilty before all, according to Starets Zosima, but they are even to consider themselves guilty "for the sins of all men."  The Starets tells the brothers to be humble: "Be humble with the weak, be humble with the mighty"; and to "bear no ill will against those who reject, defame, malign, and slander you.  Bear no ill will against atheists, false prophets, materialists, even the evil ones...."  For Starets Zosima, the fruit of his life of prayer, the fruit of the spiritual gifts and even his clairvoyant abilities is love, love especially of enemies.  He exhorts the brothers to pray for all those who have no one to pray for them and for those who themselves do not even want to pray.


It seems to me that the fruit, the result, the end, of Starets Zosima's life is such that we could say, "Here is a man who says what Christ says, who does what Christ does, who loves as Christ loves.


Immediately after the Starets' speech, Dostoevsky introduces us to Father Therapon, "the great adherent of the vow of fasting and silence," who was "an adversary of Starets Zosima, and especially of the cult of startsy."  We do not hear Father Therapon criticize Starets Zosima, we are only told that he is an adversary.  What we do hear is a conversation between Father Therapon and a "little monk" who is visiting from "St. Silvester's." This little monk is troubled by a miracle that is attributed to Starets Zosima, and by the cult-like zeal with which many in the monastery, including the abbot, expect the Starets to fulfill their understanding of the role of a starets through miraculous signs, especially after his death, which will make the monastery famous.


The little monk goes to speak to Father Therapon, who lives in a shack surviving on only bread and water,  spending whole days on his knees in prayer and speaking to almost no one.  When he does speak, "he would merely utter some  incongruous word[s] which would cause the visitor much consternation."  It was rumoured that he "communed with heavenly spirits and conversed only with them, which is why he did not enter into conversation with ordinary mortals."  Nonetheless, the little monk takes his chances and goes to see the famous Father Therapon and makes a prostration before him, asking his blessing.  The Father responds as follows:


"'Dost thou expect me too to fall flat on my face before thee, monk?' said Father Therapon. 'Arise!'
The little monk got up.
'Blessed be he who blesseth, sit thee down beside me.  Whence comest thou?'"


That the Father is curt with the little monk is perhaps not unusual, but what I find particularly unusual is the stilted language that the Father uses.  Of course this novel was written in Russian, so I am assuming that the translator is using Elizabethan English here to simulate the use of Church Slovonic by Father Therapon in addressing the the little monk.  Neither Starets Zosima, nor any other religious person in the novel seems to feel it is necessary to use the antiquated language of the old church service books to address others.  Whether or not this use of stilted religious language reveals anything essential about Father Therapon, I don't know.  But for myself, as one who is not a fan of the use of antiquated language in prayer or worship, I find this interesting.


The conversation that ensues, carried on in Church Slovonic on Father Therapon's part, focuses on fasting.  Once the little monk has told the Father where he is from, the first question the Father asks (complete with an imbedded insult) is how the St. Silvester's community fasts.


The little monk runs through the dietary schedule of his home community: what they do and do not eat on certain days and on which days they eat nothing at all.   


Then the Father surprisingly asks about eating mushrooms--apparently the Father a big fan of eating wild mushrooms and berries (which, one wonders, might have something to do with the visions that he is famous for).  The little monk does not know how to respond, and the Father accuses his community of being heretical and delivering themselves "unto Satan" because they do not fast severely enough.  The Father asks, "Didst thou see devils among them?"  The little monk is at a loss.  Then Father Therapon goes into a detailed description of the demons he saw on the monks at the Abbot's residence "on Holy Whitsuntide past."  He describes their size, their odour, their sounds and their actions, and he describes how he slammed the door on the tail of one causing it to screech and flail in anguish.


The Father goes on to describe how the Holy Spirit sometimes "doth fly down" in the shape of a bird, and Who had told him "a fool would come unto me [today] asking all manner of rascally questions," implying, and again insulting, the little monk. Then the Father describes how in the branches of an elm tree he sees Christ, "who reacheth out His arms and seeketh me with His arms, I behold it clearly and I tremble with fear.  Fearful, oh fearful!" The little monk does not understand why the Father would be afraid of Christ.  The Father explains that he fears that Christ might "bear me aloft....in the sprit and glory of Elias..."


The little monk leaves Father Therapon "extremely perplexed," but because he is already "deeply prejudiced against the cult of the startsy," he is inclined to attribute Father Theapon's "somewhat incongruous" ramblings to the words of a holy fool.


The reader, however, comes away with a very different impression, and this seems to be Dostoevsky's intention.  This great faster and apparent visionary seems to be insane, or at least delusional. He expresses nothing like love or concern for others.  He is quick to insult and condemn.  And his visionary powers seem to reveal nothing edifying, but rather create an atmosphere of fear. And even if we assumed that the demons that Father Therapon sees are actually demons, we must ask the question: what fruit does this bear or how does it help us?  Does it reveal to us that those who dine with the Abbot on Pentecost (Whitsunday) struggle with demonic temptation?  That's not news.  Anyone still in the flesh struggles with temptation.  What fruit does his seeing of demons bear?


Side by side we see two presumed holy men.  One is rather embarrassed that people attribute miraculous power to him, while the other goes on about visions he has seen.  One expresses compassion in his words and is gentle in his speech--even to an atheist and an arrogant buffoon ; while the other cannot avoid insulting even a fellow monk who is earnestly inquiring of him.  One sees no demons, but only hurting, confused people who need to be loved; while the other sees demons and condemns those who do not fast as severely as he does.  Where do you, my dear reader, see the fruit of Christ? 


So on the matter of seeing demons (or seeing angels or reading Hebrew for that matter), the fundamental question is "what fruit does it bear?"  In a sense, this question is the only one that really matters.


  

Job Transfigured

"I had heard of thee by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees thee" (Job 42: 5).


Some of my readers may not know that I am a armchair bible scholar.  I've read much of the bible in its original languages.  I audit graduate courses in bible and theology for the fun of it.  What a nerd!


One of my nerdy ways is that I enjoy reading translations of the bible that footnote critical problems with the text.  My Hebrew teacher told our class once--and I have found it to be quite true in my own experience--that if the underlying Greek or Hebrew is clear, then the translations will usually be clear; however, if the English translation makes no sense, it is probably because the original makes no sense.  A good critical translation, like the Revised Standard Version* (The New Oxford Annotated Bible), will let you know when the original text is "uncertain" and what the options are and where they come from.


When I read Job again this Lent, I read it in the RSV.  The notes were useful in a nerdy sort of way--just the way I like it.  I don't look for insight in the notes.  I'm just looking for the facts about the underlying text.  


I was pleasantly surprised, however, when I was reading the comment on Job 42: 5.  The commentator points out that God's appearance to Job in the whirlwind neither justifies Job nor answers any of Job's questions: "God has not justified Job, but [H]e has come to him personally.... and intimacy with the Creator makes vindication superfluous."  


Yes! Right and wrong, good and bad, correct and incorrect--all of these categories we fight and attack and strive to be on the right side of--all of these become superfluous in the personal presence of the Creator.


Lest anyone think I am a libertine, I must hasten to say with the Apostle Paul that the commandments of God are "holy, just and good" (Rom. 7:12).  I am not saying that morality is irrelevant.  Nevertheless, I do say that the commandments exist not so that we can be righteous in keeping them, but that in keeping them we may learn that we are not righteous and thus be led to depend on the righteousness of Christ.  And in depending on Christ, we come to know Him.  And in knowing Him, being right no longer matters.


When God comes to Job at the end of his trial, it is not to clear things up.  "The philosophical problem is not solved" the commentator says in the notes, "but it is transfigured by the theological reality of the divine-human rapport."  God comes to establish rapport--literally, to bring Job back to Himself thus bringing Job to himself.  


On one point, however, I want to disagree with this commentator.  Perhaps it is not so much the philosophical problem that is transfigured, as it is Job himself who is transfigured.  Philosophical problems are generally just that: problems, quandaries, puzzles with missing pieces and thus with no lasting solution.  Although philosophical problems, in my opinion, cannot be transfigured, they do often play a role in leading us to cry out to the One who transfigures us.  And this, I think, is what happens to Job.  Job cannot understand why his experience does not reflect his understanding of God and how God works.  


Job's suffering, and I would argue most deep suffering, has little to do with physical pain and the loss of loved ones, wealth and social status.  Job's suffering has mostly to do with the loss of his theology:  Job's experience was proving to him that God was not who Job thought He was and God's ways were not what he thought they were.  This personal theodicy, personal philosophical problem, personal failure of theology is what fuels Job's crying out to God.  Sure, Job's cry is full of anger and presumption and even a certain amount of defiance.  We can only bring to God what we are; and we are often angry, presumptuous, and defiant creatures.


But just as a mother hears the cry of her baby and is drawn to her, so God hears Job's cry and our cry and comes.  God comes in ways we do not expect: sometimes in a whirlwind; sometimes as a still, small voice; sometimes through a friend (joy, healing and prosperity); sometimes through an enemy (sickness, death and loss).  God comes and we are transfigured.  God comes, not to confirm our theology.  God comes to create rapport, to bring us back to Him and back to ourselves.




*While I recommend the Revised Standard Version (1971) I do not recommend the New Revised Standard Version.  The NRSV has tried to use gender inclusive language creating a monstrosity.  I am all for inclusiveness in the interpretation of the bible.  I even encourage some careful use of inclusive language in liturgical texts--including the bible when it is used liturgically.  However, a translation of the bible as the bible, in my opinion, should be as accurate as possible without whitewashing offensive words, actions, biases or practices.  The bible certainly needs to be interpreted, interpreted by the Church and its Tradition.  However it is a dangerous thing to start intentionally correcting the biblical text to suit the political or theological taste of a particular culture or generation.  Certainly all translations have a bias, but intentional correction is to me onerous because it assumes a kind of arrogance in the face of much profound mystery.

Conspiracy Theories

“Do not say, ‘A conspiracy,’
Concerning all that this people call a conspiracy,
Nor be afraid of their threats, nor be troubled."
(Isaiah 8: 12 NKJV)


When I was with my daughter and son-in-law last week, Terry (my son-in-law) showed me a video of Dr. Judy Wood's analysis of what happened to the Trade Tower buildings on 9/11.  I can't find the exact video we watched, but here is one of many on youtube that feature her: http://youtu.be/FdKRp6m4XIU .


I must admit, of all of the conspiracy theories I have heard, hers is the most compelling.  


However, the question I asked Terry, and the question that I think we must always be asking ourselves is, "What difference does it make in your life and in your relationship with God?"  


Pick just about any conspiracy theory and for a moment assume it is true.  Then ask yourself, "What difference does it make?"  You still get up in the morning and say your prayers. We still "commend ourselves, each other, and our whole lives to Christ our God," to quote the Divine Liturgy of the Church.  We still love our neighbor, care for the poor and weak, and entrust ourselves to God who "gives us this day our daily bread."  What difference does it really make?


Isaiah, quoted above, goes on to say that we need to sanctify the Lord and fear Him; then He will be our sanctuary and a "stone of stumbling" and "rock of offence" to those who resist Him (Israel and Jerusalem in Isaiah's case). 


The same God whom we trust day to day is the God who will help us even if Israel has a secret super weapon or the U.S. government has secret, silent, invisible helicopters or even if space invaders colonize the earth--although I think disasters listed in the prayer by St. Basil in the fourth century are still much more likely: "Deliver this community and city, O Lord, and every city and town, from famine, plague, earthquake, flood, fire, sword, foreign invasion, and civil war."  That pretty well sums up all the usual suspects.  And if God will deliver us from these, probably super weapons and space aliens are included in the package.

Seriously, the emotional and mental investment one can make in this or that conspiracy theory is just not worth it. And in the end, you find yourself fearing something other than God.  "Him alone you shall fear," the scripture frequently reminds us.

My favourite defence when I am tempted to get caught up in an intriguing conspiracy theory is to recite Psalm 130 (131): "O Lord, my heart is not exalted, neither are my eyes raised up; neither am I carried along in great things, nor in things too marvellous for me..." (SAAS, Orthodox Study Bible).  But I remember it most often in the old King James, the version I was reading when I first encountered this wise and humble prayer of David: "Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty: neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me.  Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child.  Let Israel hope in the Lord from henceforth and for ever."

Did Christ Descend Into Hell?

This morning I responded to an e-mail that asked about Christ's descent into hell.  D. wrote me that his non-Orthodox friends thought it made no sense that Christ would enter hell.  Below is what I wrote D.

Dear D.,

Christ is risen!

The huge problem here is in defining hell.  In the scripture and throughout church history, the English word hell has been used to translate and describe all sorts of things.  As you probably know, there are at least four different biblical words/concepts that are translated commonly as hell.  

(Hebrew) the abyss/sheol/grave/pit/etc. All of these refer to the condition of being dead (both for the righteous and unrighteous)--with no hint of afterlife. "The dead cannot praise Thee" (Psalm 115: 17, et. al.).

(Greek 1) hades/hell  Which in Greek thinking is the place of the dead (both for the righteous and unrighteous)--with a clear sense of afterlife: hell is where the dead dwell.

(Greek 2) Tatarus/deepest hell  Which in Greek thinking is the place of the most notoriously unrighteous dead. St. Peter uses it to refer to where the demons are bound. It is a region of hell.

(Greek 3 used only in N.T. by Jesus)  Gehenna/fire/torment.  Gehenna was the name of the dump outside Jerusalem: where the fire always burns and the worm never dies. It is used as a reference to being in torment.

Then, if this were not complicated enough, there are the apocalyptic descriptions such as lake of fire, river of fire, and the place of weeping and gnashing of teeth.  As apocalyptic pictures, they are not meant to be taken literally (do we take the four horsemen literally?). Nevertheless, people often use these images to describe "hell"--or use the word hell to refer to these images.

Adding to this are the many Medieval visions (often influenced by European mythologies and Scholastic speculation) of hell.  Examples are Dante's inferno in the Roman Catholic West and the toll houses in the Orthodox East. 

Finally, as materialists--or at least living in a materialist culture--we tend to think of hell and heaven as "places" other than where we are. Heaven and hell in contemporary culture are "places" people "go" when they die. These places are two: heaven were the good go and are happy and maybe rewarded for being good and/or accepting Christ (Armenian), or just being lucky and chosen (Calvin); and hell is where the bad go and suffer and are punished for all the evil things they have done.

So you can see why, for a contemporary non-Orthodox Christian, it makes no sense for Jesus to descend into hell--"Why would he go there? That's where the bad go to suffer what they deserve."

However, in the Orthodox Church and in the early church and the scripture, hell was understood as the condition of being dead, or as the dwelling of the dead, synonymous with "the tomb."  Therefore, in as much as Christ really died, he really entered hell and raised all mankind--which will be manifested in the general resurrection on the Last Day.

As far as suffering and torment are concerned, these are conditions which have nothing to do with a place one goes after he or she dies, but everything to do with an inner disposition of the soul. Just as one need not die before beginning to experience eternal life, so one need not die to begin experiencing eternal torment. Death only brings the experience that we have begun in this life into the next life, which is not a place so much as it is a new condition of existence.

So, D., the problem here is semantic. What is hell?  If hell is the place where bad people go to suffer the punishment they deserve, then certainly it makes no sense for Christ to go there. But such a hell does not exist as far as Orthodox Christians are concerned. Hell for us is the "dwelling" of the dead; so in as much as Christ really died, Christ really entered hell. And, in as much as Christ rose from the dead, all who die and have died are raised: "Do not be amazed at this, because the hour is coming in which all who are in the tombs will hear his voice and will come out, those who have done good to the resurrection of life, but those who have done wicked deeds to the resurrection of condemnation" (John 5: 28, 29).

Who Crucified Christ?

The hymns for Holy Friday force us to look at the insanity of those who crucified Christ.  Sometimes the reflection is put into Christ's mouth (as below), or sometimes in the mouth of His Mother.  


When You were led to the Cross, O Lord, You said, "For what act do you wish, O people, to crucify me?  Is it because I have strengthened your cripples?  Is it because I raised your dead as from sleep, healed the woman with an issue of blood, and showed mercy on the Canaanite woman?  For what act, O people, do you desire my death?" But you shall behold Him whom you have pierced, O law-transgressors, and know that He is Christ. 


Some translations name "the people" as "the Jews," or "the Judeans," which has a certain historical accuracy about it, a specificity that I usually encourage.  Religious experience is generally too mental.  Emphasizing a specific place and time and people helps us escape from our fantasy, our imagined--often romanticized--Christ.  Generally speaking, I think our religious experience needs more, not less specificity.


However, in this case, I think "the Jews" or "the Judeans" are not useful translations.  Too quickly when we hear these words our minds imagine someone else.  That is, we imagine some ancient people that we are not a part of.  Or, and this is the worst scenario--a scenario that has played out tragically through out history--we imagine that "the Jews" equates to the people who though the ages have called themselves Jews.  According to this scenario, our neighbours are responsible for Christ's crucifixion, not us.  And this, my brothers and sisters, is not the teaching of the Church.


Certainly Christ was a Jew living in Roman Judea, and so "the people" who crucified Christ were Romans and Jews--who else?  They couldn't ship in Norwegians to do the deed.  Christ was crucified by His people, the people whom He healed and raised from the sleep of death.  So today, when we speak of those who crucified Christ, we can only be referring to ourselves, we who have received Grace, we who have been healed, we who have hope in the Resurrection.  We are the ones who crucified Christ.


And we are the ones who continue to crucify Christ.  This is the teaching of the Church.  This is why we remember Christ's death and burial and third-day resurrection the way we do.  We crucify and are crucified with Christ.  We die and are buried with Him.  And we rise a New Creation, healed by the One we have killed.  

Speaking of Beauty, Continued

Speaking of beauty, tonight is the third of the Bridegroom Matins. The hymns for this service compare the repentance of the woman who anointed Jesus' feet with expensive myrrh, with the avarice of Judas, who having been with Jesus and experienced his miraculous power personally, still on this day contemplates betrayal for the sake of financial gain. Here is the first hymn in the sequence setting up the comparison:

The adulterous woman, O Christ, who approached thee and poured on thy feet ointment with tears, was delivered by thy command from the rottenness of iniquity. But thine ingrate Disciple, who was fully possessed of thy grace, rejected it, and wallowed in the mire, selling thee out of love of silver. Wherefore, glory be to thy compassion, O Lover of mankind.

The penetrating spiritual power of these hymns lie not only in their theology, but also--and I would argue most powerfully--in their use of poetic juxtaposition. In fact, if you look too closely, if you try strictly to align the hymns with the specific accounts recorded in the Gospels, you will miss by a wide margin the message the hymns are meant to convey. **


In poetically contrasting the harlot and Judas, the Church helps me to see myself mystically as both. I am the sinful woman with tears at Jesus' feet; yet I find also Judas abiding in me: even at the most sacred moments I have thoughts of taking and acquiring for myself, thoughts of betrayal. And again I offer to Jesus the most precious myrrh of my life, my resources, my all--I pour it all out on His feet. Then my mind slips into indifference and too quickly the Judas in my mind runs off to bargain for the priceless One. Tears and hardness. Both are in me, and the hymns of this day help me to see it:

When the sinful woman was offering her spice, the Disciple was bargaining with the transgressors of the law. The one rejoiced in pouring out the spice of great price, while the other hastened to sell the priceless One. The one came to know the Lord, the other was separated from the Lord. She was freed, and Judas became a slave to the enemy. Indifference is evil, and repentance is great, which last grant us, O Savior, who didst suffer for us, and save us.

Ah the wretchedness of Judas! For, seeing the adulteress kiss his feet, he was thinking with deceit of the kiss of betrayal. She loosed the braids of her hair, and he was bound with wrath; instead of spice he offered rotten evil: for envy knoweth not how to honour what is worthy. Woe to the wretchedness of Judas, and from it O God, save our souls.

The repentance that we spend our Christian lives working out is an ever deepening look at the sin that has been lodged in our soul, the Judas within us; and it is an ever deepening offering of that self to God. These are the tears of the harlot. The one who sees no Judas in himself, perhaps, can make little sense of this continual turning with tears back to God, this continual weeping at Jesus' feet, this continual offering again of the precious myrrh of our lives. But this is why the Church has given us these hymns with their poetic juxtaposition. By reflecting on both the offering of the harlot and the betrayal of Judas, perhaps we can all catch a clearer glimpse into our own hearts. And if we can do that, then perhaps we can in the rhythm of the life of the Church both shed tears with the harlot and rejoice with Myrrh-bearers at the glorious PASCHA of Christ.


**For example, you will notice on a close reading that the hymns of the Church elide the accounts of the anointing of Jesus once by a harlot earlier in His ministry and again before his death by Mary the sister of Lazarus. Similarly, for the hymns of Lazarus Saturday, the Lazarus of the parable is elided with the Lazarus whom Jesus raised from the dead. This is not because the hymnographers didn't know their Bible (You may laugh, but this is a serious criticism some Evangelicals lodge against Orthodoxy and many of the poetic prayers of the Fathers. It seems that if the interpretation and application of the Scripture by the ancients and those who are or seem "too Catholic" does not agree with contemporary linear models, then it must be because the ancients had not read the Bible very well. Really, people say these things to me with a straight face.) The truth is that a poetic interpretation and application of Scripture seeks not merely to repeat the facts of the record, but rather to reveal the meaning of those facts in a way that penetrates our hard hearts. You might even say that in many ways, both anointings of Jesus reveal the same mysteries, and by eliding them poetically we can better open those mysteries to our minds weakened, perhaps, by too much linear thought.

Beauty and Virginity

The Video above is called "Why Beauty Matters." It is done by British philosopher, Roger Scruton. It is perhaps the best contemporary argument for beauty that I have ever encountered. Beware, however, it is PG-13. Many of the examples of ugly "art" have to do with bodily functions--nothing salacious, mostly just crude and offensive. Nevertheless, Scruton makes his point clear arguing that art is about beauty and the transformation of what is common, even tragic, into something sublime and even divine. He goes so far as to equate beauty with religion. I seem to remember him saying that he thought they both had the same function. I wouldn't go that far; however, certainly beauty and religion must be closely related. I think it is as though beauty gives wings to religion and religion gives context and content to beauty. But I am no philosopher, so don't push me too hard on this.

And speaking of beauty, tonight is the second of the Bridegroom Matins taking us through the week of Christ's passion. I find these services to be among the most beautiful in the Church year. The poetry of the hymnography is such that one can spend the whole year meditating on these hymns chanted only once a year. Tonight one of the foci is the parable of the ten virgins. The following is part of the synaxarion, the explanation of the meaning of the parable as it is applied in this service:

On this day we make remembrance of the Parable of the Ten Virgins which Jesus spake along with others as he was coming to the Passion. It teaches us not to rest as though safe in virginity, but to guard it whenever possible, and not to desist from any virtues and good deeds, especially deeds of mercy, which make the lamp of virginity shine brilliantly. It teaches us also to be ready for our end, not knowing when our hour is coming, as the wise virgins were ready to meet the bridegroom, lest death overtake us and close the door of the heavenly chamber in our face, and we hear the terrible judgment which the foolish virgins heard, Verily, verily, I know you not (Mt. 25:1-13).

What I find particularly poignant in this reading is the sentence, "It teaches us not to rest as though safe in virginity..." You might well ask, "How can this apply to married people or others who are not virgins?" The answer is simple: virginity does not refer most centrally to biology. Sure, virginity has a biological manifestation; but what the Church is talking about when it exhorts us to virginity is a state of pure devotion. Virginity is a devotion of the heart which manifests itself in behaviours that proceed out of a pure heart and are appropriate for one's state in life. Even great harlots can become virgin brides of God.

But this is not the point that is important. What is important is that even virginity is not enough. The parable says that all ten are virgins, yet five are wise and five are foolish. The wise brought extra oil. The Church teaches us that we must bring extra oil: that is, we must add to virginity "virtues and good deeds, especially deeds of mercy, which make the lamp of virginity shine brilliantly."

It is not enough merely to carefully guard your own life. It is not enough just to keep yourself pure. To purity must be added good deeds, especially deeds of mercy. Salvation is a matter of going out of yourself and mercifully attending to others. This is what Jesus does. You cannot find salvation by focusing only on purifying yourself. And perhaps this also ties into beauty. Beauty helps pull us out of ourselves. It stimulates an eros which--coming from a pure heart, or at least a heart that is seeking to be purified--can create a longing in us to care, to love, to show mercy. The effect of eros on an impure heart is the longing to possess and consume. And so we must be very careful, especially in our good deeds and acts of mercy, that we not at some deep level actually be seeking to possess and consume under the guise of charity.

Nevertheless, even if we cannot love perfectly, we must love. We must learn to be virgins. We must learn to appreciate beauty and from a heart that is being purified let that beauty draw us out in acts of compassion, mercy and good.

Joseph, the Earliest "Symbol" of Christ

At the first Bridegroom Matins, served on Sunday evening of Palm Sunday, the Church commemorates Joseph the All-Comely (Joseph the son of Jacob in the book of Genesis). The Church holds up Joseph as the "earliest symbol of Christ."


There are many aspects of Joseph's life that make him a symbol or type of Christ. First, he is the only major character of the Old Testament who has no record of any sin associated with his life. As an early representation of the Christ who would come, Joseph prophesies with his life that the Christ would be without sin.


Joseph is beloved of his father, and this leads his brothers to envy him. And out of envy they throw him into a pit and sell him into slavery in Egypt. Similarly Christ is envied by his brothers, the Jewish leaders, and handed over as a captive to the Roman authority. As Joseph finds himself a slave under the authority of a foreign power, so Jesus is handed over out of envy to a foreign power.


Moreover, Joseph must further resist temptation even in his humbled circumstance. The hymns of this day say that the Egyptian woman, Potiphar's wife, was to Joseph a "new Eve" by trying to seduce him. But Joseph resists temptation, fleeing naked from Potiphar's wife--which symbolizes pre-fall innocence. In aggressively resisting temptation, Joseph finds again the innocence of Eden. Jesus also resists all temptation, fasting in the wilderness and sweating great drops of blood as He reaffirms his submission to His Father in the Garden of Gethsemane. Jesus goes to the Cross as a completely innocent man, submitting completely to the will of His Father, and holding no resentment. With the innocence of Adam in the Garden, and of Joseph fleeing from the "new Eve," Jesus offers Himself to all Mankind as a ransom to death.


Most stirringly, however, I think Joseph prefigures Christ in his continued humiliations and his lack of resentment against his brothers, but rather interpreting all of his sorrows in terms of God's will for their salvation. Joseph first has his robe stripped from him by his brothers, then he is thrown into a pit. Next he is sold into slavery. Then, as a final blow, for the sake of righteousness he resists Potiphar's wife, and finds himself slandered and cast into prison. And if that were not enough, in prison he interprets the dreams of the butler and baker, receiving from the butler the promise of speedy delivery--which does not come. It is several years later when Pharaoh has his dream and the butler remembers Joseph in prison. The humiliations of Joseph come one on top of another. Lower and lower he sinks until all hope seems to be gone. And then, suddenly, he is raised up to be ruler of the whole land. And when Joseph's brothers finally come to him begging food (and fulfilling the dream Joseph had as a boy), Joseph holds no resentment against them but tells them that what they did was actually God's will to save many people.


Jesus also experiences successive humiliation, however, for Christ the humiliation is something He has taken on himself voluntarily. Christ does not cling to his prerogatives as God, to his power, to his greatness; but He humbles himself and becomes a human being. As a human being, he becomes a servant--and not just the servant of one person, but the servant of all. He resists the devil and finds himself handed over to be condemned in a mockery of a trial. And condemned, he is beaten mercilessly, and hung on a cross to die where he asks the Father to forgive those very ones who have killed Him, "for they don't know what they are doing." And so he dies and descends into the realm of the dead--into prison--and there not only rises from the dead, but with Him Christ also raises all who were dead. Light enters darkness, thus darkness--the darkness of death and hell--no longer exists.


Joseph prefigures this descent and rising. We too can in a sense prefigure Christ, if we will allow ourselves to learn from Joseph, when we are brought low by life's injustices, tragic accidents, and our own human weaknesses. If, like Joseph, we can learn to entrust ourselves to God even in the pits and prisons and economic servitude we find ourselves in, and if even here we can resist temptation, then we too can proclaim Christ through our lives. We too can witness that from the depths when we cry, God hears us.

The Fruit of Life: Raising Lazarus

The sixth week of Great Lent is the countdown week to the resurrection of Lazarus.  The resurrection of Lazarus is a pivotal point in Jesus's ministry in at least two ways.  First, in raising Lazarus who had been dead four days, Jesus manifests to all his absolute power over death.  The hymns of the Church tell us that this final manifestation of His power was particularly for the purpose of making clear to His disciples that his own death was voluntary.  Having complete power over death, Jesus gives His life, no one takes it from Him.  In St. John's Gospel, this is further reinforced by the soldiers falling down when Jesus speaks to them when they come to arrest Him--falling down twice. At the same time, the raising of Lazarus is also the pivotal act that forces the religious leaders to do something to stop Jesus.  The high priest realizes that now all of the people will believe in Him, as we see manifest on Palm Sunday.  The Gospel tells us that the crowd had gathered because they had heard that Jesus had raised Lazarus.  The religious leaders fear that the crowd's enthusiasm for this prophet would upset the tenuous peace they currently enjoyed with the occupying Romans and, perhaps most importantly, their own position of power vouchsafed by the current state of affairs.  And so in this divine act of raising Lazarus, Jesus both triggers the final chain of events leading to His arrest and crucifixion and manifests His authority over the whole process, even over death itself.   But isn't this the nature of existence as we know it?  The fruit manifests the tree, and within the fruit are the seeds of new growth, of the next level, of the new life?  When Jesus the Life of all speaks, the fruit is life, even for a man four-days dead.  And the seed of this fruit is His own death, which manifests even greater life--all in the tombs shall rise! In our own lives this too is what we experience.  The actual fruit of our lives, as disappointing as it often is, manifests what kind of tree we are--fallen, sick, in need of transformation.  Yet this disappointing fruit, our failures, our mistakes, our sins, bears the seeds of new life; for how we respond to our failures to a large extent determines our growth. Jesus, the Life of all, enters the world of our experience and by the laws of creation--fruit bearing seed--He plants the tree of resurrection in the middle of the earth.  This is the Tree of Life which grew in Eden of old, the Tree whose fruit we now eat as the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ, the Resurrection and the Life.