Charles Williams: Descent into Hell

[A wordy offering]

In Charles Williams’ novel Descent into Hell, one of the characters, an old man and a wise poet, Peter Stanhope, helps a young woman, Pauline, who is tormented by fear. She fears meeting her double. One might argue that she is psychotic, believing that her double exists and that she has several times seen her double walking toward her. Psychotic or not, Pauline’s fear is real. She is like everyone else. We all (and often) experience very real fear, worry, anxiety, doubt or any number of distressing feeling-thoughts over matters that are not real, over matters that we imagine may be real, or may become real, but are in fact not real. Few of us have hallucinations as Pauline seems to have, but all of us create mental scenarios that are no more real than hallucinations, but which produce in us very real emotional responses and even mental confusion.

I am intrigued by the way Stanhope helps Pauline. He does not question the logical possibility of meeting one’s double, nor does he attempt to assure Pauline that such a thing can’t “really” happen. He accepts her version of reality as hers, and offers to bear part of her suffering--the real suffering that she is experiencing because of what seems to be her fantasy. If she will allow him, Stanhope says to Pauline, he will carry her fear for her so that she will not have to bear it. Pauline doubts this is possible, but Stanhope persists and encourages her to accept that he will bear it. He refers to St. Paul’s words, “Bear one another’s burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ,” but he does not dwell there. He focuses on encouraging Pauline, when she feels fear coming on her to remember that she does not need to carry it, because he is carrying it for her. Stanhope will be afraid for her, so she doesn’t have to be.

When they part company, Stanhope allows himself to imagine and then feel the fear Pauline must experience seeing her double walking toward her, and the increasing dread that something terrible will happen if they ever meet. Of course for Stanhope, the fear is easier to bear than it is for Pauline. He feels it, but he feels it as one who is not trapped by it, as one strong, as one who willingly carries the load of someone weaker, someone he cares for. For her part, Pauline forgets about the matter and enjoys her walk home distracted by pleasant sights and smells and thoughts. She forgets until she realizes that she has not been afraid. In realizing that she is not afraid, fear seems to knock at her door. She knows that Stanhope must have done something--she doesn’t know what it is nor how it has worked--but she chooses to believe it, to accept that Stanhope is carrying her fear so she doesn’t have to: she said that she would let Stanhope handle the “trouble,” and to keep her word, that is what she would do.

On one level, we can say that Pauline’s deliverance from fear is a mere psychological trick. We see right through it. However, as most of us know from experience, psychological tricks seldom really work, or seldom work very well. Just on a psychological level, the trust necessary for one to believe fully the words of another--especially about a matter that as been deeply hidden and tormenting since childhood--is so rare that I am tempted to say its occurrence is miraculous. People whom we can trust are very rare. People whose wisdom is manifest, whose genuine care for us is not questioned, and whose love is not possessive, grabbing nor contingent, such people are very, very rare.

Understanding how a psychological trick might work is one thing, finding someone whose character is such that he or she can pull it off, that’s another matter altogether.

But if we probe deeper than the mere psychology, we might see something that Williams says is “hidden in the central mystery of Christendom.” This is something Williams calls “The Doctrine of Substituted Love.” What he seems to mean--I guess I’ll understand it more as I finish the novel--is that, so long as both parties are willing, it is indeed possible to “bear one another’s burdens.” Central to Christianity is Christ’s bearing the burden of sin for the whole world. Those who would be free from the driving passions of sin may experience the lifting, the freedom, from the sinful passions--if they really want it. Similarly, each of us are able to bear the burdens of those we love and have our burdens born in turn. In fact, Williams goes so far as to say this is a universal law, and “not to give up your parcel is as much to rebel as not to carry another’s.”

I think Williams is onto something. I have experienced something like this phenomenon myself in relationships with those I have come to trust. I have experienced, on the one hand, the lessening of anxiety, worry or any number of unnamed mental torments by obeying (trusting) the advice, counsel or just accepting the support of a friend. On the other hand, I have also taken the suffering of others into my heart. Whether or not it has done them any good, I cannot say. I’m sure correlations are not linear. One bears the pain of another out of love, not utility.

I don’t think “the doctrine of substituted love” is a good name for this principle. Nevertheless, I know that something like this principle functions in the universe. Love compels us to bear one another’s burdens. And just as compelling, love teaches us to let others bear our burdens, for so we fulfill the law of Christ.

Tips to Avoid Delusion When Reading Spiritual Books

“Do not deceive yourself with idle hopes/ That in the world to come you will find life/If you have not tried to find it in this present world.”

From “The Ladder of Divine Graces” by Theophanes the Monk in volume 3 of The Philokalia.

Generally speaking, I do not recommend that people read the Philokalia, except as guided by a spiritual father. This is important for several reasons. First, like the Bible, the Philokalia is a set of texts written at different times by different authors for different purposes, although mostly to inspire monks in the spiritual life. Consequently, an unguided reader might make connections or imagine applications that are just that: imagination, not reality.

Further, the Philokalia is a set of collected texts. That is, it contains only selected texts from selected authors. These texts were selected in the late Middle Ages to meet a specific need. I won’t get into what the specific need was--that is not the purpose of this post--but I mention it only to emphasize that without guidance someone reading the Philokalia might wrongly think that it represents a complete summary of Eastern Orthodox spiritual wisdom. The Philokalia certainly is a treasury of Orthodox spiritual wisdom, but it is, to use a metaphor, only the gold in the treasury. There are also the diamonds and rubies, silver and platinum, and the other valuable gifts within the treasury of the Orthodox Church. These too must be appreciated in order to taste the fullness of the wisdom within the Church.

However, the biggest danger in reading the Philokalia without guidance--which, by the way, applies to the reading of any spiritual books, especially the Bible--is that people can deceive themselves into thinking they not only understand what they are reading, but also that they are actually practicing and experiencing what they are reading about. This is called delusion.

Unfortunately, there are very few experienced spiritual fathers. For many in the West, the only access to spiritual wisdom is through reading. For those who find themselves in this position, I suggest the following to help defend against the delusion that might come about from reading spiritual literature without guidance.

1. Submit to the Church. As St. James said, If you can’t love the brother whom you see, how can you love God whom you have not seen? Similarly, if you cannot submit to the rhythm and discipline of the Church, you are fooling yourself to think that you are submitting to God through your own application and interpretation of the spiritual books you are reading.
2. Take seriously the criticism of others, especially those who love you or who have a position of spiritual authority in your life. If others say that you are too________, you need to take it seriously. They may not be completely right, but they are probably neither completely wrong. Never quickly dismiss criticism. Always assume that others are more likely to see you more clearly than you see yourself. Always assume that you are wrong at some level and need to be corrected.
3. Avoid pushing things to their extreme, logical or otherwise. A little aspirin can heal you, too much can kill you. There is no single key to the spiritual life. There is no one schema by which everything else must be interpreted. No words, principles or categories suffice to reveal God’s glory. Words may point the way, but the way itself must be known through experience. And no one experience, or even the totality of one person’s experience, no matter how profound, is the whole picture.
4. Keep in mind that experience is always partial. Although you may indeed have experience in the spiritual life, consider your experience to be shallow. Assume that you have only scratched the surface. And if you think you can relate to the spiritual experiences you are reading about, be certain that you only relate to them as a child sounding out the words in a university text book relates to that text book.

A Terrifying Good

In Charles Williams Descent into Hell, one of the characters contemplates "a good so alien as to be terrifying."  I think that is what Peter Damascene sees.  How can being a slave, being sick, or being in subjugation bring about anything good?  I can see why some would worry about possible philosophical slight of hand.  They wonder, how can evil produce good?

But what if good is much more alien than we suppose?  What if turning the other cheek and not resisting evil really is the way to good?  It is rather terrifying to take Jesus literally.

This is, I think, part of the reason why the Church needs monastics.  Most of us have neither the courage nor the faith to take Jesus at His word.  To do so would involve too much suffering.  However, in a monastic context, spiritual athletes can be trained--that is literally what the word "asceticism" means.  In a monastic context, it is possible--it has indeed been done--to train a man and woman to leave everything and follow Christ.  And when they do, their words are terrifying to us.  Like Peter Damascene's.

Last Sunday was the Gospel reading of the parable of the Publican and the Pharisee.  Like the Publican, my heart trembles at the terrible and alien reality of God's goodness.  Like the Publican, all I can do is beat my chest and stand afar off and cry: "Have mercy on me the sinner."

Where You Are Right Now

We are all tempted at various times to think that if the conditions of our life were different, we could serve God better.  This is not wisdom.  Right now, where you are, in the condition of your life today, you not only can serve God, but it is also the only way you can serve God.  A sick man can not serve God as a healthy man, for he is not a healthy man.  To put off full-hearted devotion to God until circumstances change is to waste you life in procrastination.




"The general gifts consist of the four elements and all that results from them, all the wonderful and awesome works of God outlined in Holy Scripture. The particular gifts are those gifts which God bestows upon every man individually, whether it be riches for the sake of charity, or poverty for the sake of patience with humility; whether it be authority for the sake of justice and the strengthening of virtues, or subjugation and slavery for the sake of the expeditious salvation of the soul; be it health for the sake of helping the infirm, or illness for the sake of the wreath of patience; be it understanding and skill in gaining wealth for the sake of virtue, or weakness and lack of skill for the sake of submissive humility. Even though they appear contrary to one another, all these are very good according to their purpose." -- St. Peter Damascene

Lucky Ducky Feeds the Hungry

I watched two coyotes frolic in our field today.  

One of them was probably the one that got “Lucky Ducky” a few days ago.  Lucky was an amazing duck.  We hatched her under a bantam hen, and she was raised to think she was a chicken.  When she became mature, we bought another duck to try to teach Lucky to behave more duck-like.  

Lucky was afraid of the water.  

She liked to hang out with her new duck friend.  They particularly liked to look for slugs and snails in the bushes together, but when the new duck went into the pond, Lucky went back to the chicken coop.  

One day I had enough of the mess she was making in the chicken coop, and I caught Lucky and threw her into the pond.  Perhaps I was cruel, perhaps a better man would have continued trying to bribe her into the pond.  But I am not a better man.  

I threw her out about six feet into the pond.  She freaked out.  But she floated and quickly figured out how to propel herself back to shore where she climbed out and waddled very quickly back to the chicken coop.  

But the next day, Lucky followed her duck friend all the way to the edge of the water.  She took a few drinks, and waddled back.  The following day she stood with her feet in the water.  Finally, she began to swim,  and soon discovered that there were a lot more yummy mollusks in the pond than in the bushes.  She began spending several hours a day on the pond.

Lucky was the best laying duck we have ever owned.  She laid an egg almost every day for over two years.  Perhaps she learnt from her adopted family.

Lucky was blind in one eye.  This made it easy to catch her when you needed to.  Unfortunately, it made it easier for the coyote too.

Bonnie saw the whole thing.  She said the coyote was efficient and it was over quickly.  No wonder the coyotes are frolicking.  They have been dining on grain-fed duck all week.  

Emma, Truth and Salvation

As I have been reading Emma, I have been repeatedly struck by the importance of truth in Emma’s growth. I think this is one of the reasons why I like this novel so much.

One of my theologoumena (personal opinions about theology that are not a matter of dogma) is that all salvation, repentance and spiritual growth have to do with seeing and accepting the truth. Not particularly the truth about Jesus Christ, in the sense of accurate theological or historical knowledge of who Christ is and what he has done, that truth takes “ears to hear and eyes to see.” One does not know the Truth, even if one knows the facts. Knowledge of Christ the Truth comes only as we are able to see and accept truth in all aspects of life, and most particularly, the truth about ourselves. Accepting theological data does not save, but seeing and accepting the truth about ourselves may be the foundation of our salvation for it enables us to see Christ.

To know Christ, we have to begin first by knowing ourselves. We must know ourselves because we create our own lenses through which we see ourselves and see what is outside ourselves. Until those lenses begin to be corrected, we are lost in the world of our own delusions (even if we have the facts right). Both John the Baptist and Christ began their public ministry with these words, “Repent for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.” Many say that Kingdom of Heaven refers to Christ Himself; however, I’m open to different ways to understand it. But regardless of what exactly Kingdom of Heaven means, one thing is certain: the imperative of the Kingdom of Heaven is repentance. And here we get to my point: in order to repent, I need to know myself, where I have failed, what I need to turn from, and what I need to turn toward. I need to know myself as I really am, the truth about myself; then I can repent, then I can grow in salvation, then I can begin to see Christ as He really is.

Emma finds freedom from her childish delusions in the course of the very rough first year of her majority. One might even say she is saved, although that may be stretching it too far for those who expect to find all spiritual transformation couched in religious terminology. Certainly we see Emma repent. And in my own stretch of typological fancy, I like to imagine that in her marriage to Mr. Knightly, the only one who ever tells her the truth, is an image of the Church’s marriage to Christ, and thus its final salvation.

[To be continued…]

Communities and Loneliness

Communities: more than one.  Most of us move in and out communities.  The advent of modern transportation (beginning with the railway in the mid ninetieth century) first made it possible, then made it necessary, for people (in large numbers) to leave traditional communities and form new and increasingly temporary communities.  The advent of the internet has made community something even more transient. 

We belong to many different communities--communities related to work, to family, to recreation, to where we live, to what we believe or what motivates us in terms of religion, politics, causes or concerns.  You would think that with all of these communities, people would feel connected.  But they don't.  The proliferation of communities has been accompanied by an almost complete evaporation of any binding quality.  That is, communities of shared interest, shared life, or shared stuff exist only so long as it is convenient for the individual members of the communities.  Not only is one's membership in just about any community (including the nuclear family) completely voluntary, even the level of one's participation, one's transparency, or one's responsibility in that community is almost completely dependent on the whim of each individual member.

The world was not always that way.  As little as 150 years ago in Europe (and much more recently in other parts of the world), a person was born in the house he or she died in, never traveled more than 50 miles in his or her lifetime, never changed his or her job, and was a member of a religious tradition and a particular worshiping place that he or she never chose.  Most of the people who lived in a particular geographical community were also members of the extended family community, who were also members of the same worship community and whose business relationships were generally interconnected.  There were very few secrets.  Everyone knew just about everything about everyone, and no one had a choice about his or her responsibilities or level of participation.  Community was not a matter of choice, it was a matter of birth.  You were born into it.

And so today with our mobility and instant communication and our memberships in dozens of (often) very shallow and short-lived communities, today we are lonely.  Today we wonder why no one knows us, no one cares, no one seems to share anything really.  We wonder why our chosen communities today do not produce the same level of intimacy and caring that we imagine traditional communities provide.

And yet I wonder how much better or worse off we really are today with our many voluntary communities.  Actually, in terms of loneliness, I don't think it is much different.  Certainly life in a traditional village was no nirvana (all you have to do is read a little between the lines of any older piece of fiction to confirm that).  Finding genuine human connection, real sharing, real community within an unchanging set of neighbours may not have been any easier 150 or a thousand years ago than it is today.  Certainly human beings were no less selfish and no less shallow in the past than they are today.  

Certainly specific circumstances differ, yet the longings of the human heart do not.  Perhaps today we are lonely because we do not have the relationships we want to have, the relationships we imagine we should have, the community that we imagine will supply what seems to be missing.  I'd like to suggest that perhaps our very freedom has fooled us.  The fact that we are free to choose communities has fooled us into thinking that if we could only choose the right community, we would feel connected.  We would feel like were really are in a community--whatever we imagine that is supposed to feel like.

What if nothing has really changed much?  What if loneliness and lack of connectedness has very little to do with which or what communities I am connected to, and a whole lot to do with who I am in myself?  I think it might.  I think that inner transformation changes everything outside me.    I think that if I can find love in me, God's love for me and God's love for my neighbour--whether I've chosen him or her as my neighbour or not, regardless of how shallow or selfish that neighbour is--if I can find that love, then I can find community.

Some of you know that I correspond every week with a man in solitary confinement in a super maximum security prison in the U.S.  Monk Anthony, as he is now known, has found God's love in his heart.  His letters breathe the love he has for his guards and fellow inmates.  In the more than ten years I have been writing Monk Anthony, never once has he mentioned loneliness.  Love of God producing love of neighbour has made him feel at home in his unchosen community.

Community and Repentance

[I have been asked to give a talk on "community" to a group of zealous, young, mostly Mennonite Christians who have been trying for a couple of years to form an intentional community. Below is an initial reflection.]

If we look to the earliest Christians for a model of community, surely we must begin with Luke’s description of the first days of the church recorded in Acts 2:42: “And they continued steadfastly in the apostles’ doctrine and fellowship [community], in the breaking of bread and in prayers.”

Preceding this description of the earliest Christian community are St. Peter’s instructions as to how one enters the Christian community: “Repent and...be baptized…and receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.” Repentance precedes community. If we are going to understand how both to create and sustain Christian Community, I think we must begin by reflecting on how we might ourselves better repent.

I’d like to reflect a little on what repentance is not--or what may be tied to repentance, but is not repentance itself. Then I’d like to take a stab at what repentance may be, especially as it relates to creating and sustaining Christian community.

First, repentance is not essentially a moral matter. Certainly, repentance may involve morality, but when it does, moral change is a consequence of repentance, not repentance itself. People adjust their morality for all sorts of reasons, reasons that often have nothing at all to do with one’s relationship with God or one’s love for neighbor. Many drug addicts, sexual profligates, gangsters, burglars or white collar criminals have cleaned up their life for the perfectly selfish reason that they realized that their moral choices were making them miserable. Vanity and pride often motivate people to “do good.” Those who would never fast or rise early to pray for the sake of their souls, will diet severely and go to the gym every morning before work in order to look good in a bathing suit. No, mere moral change is not repentance.

And on the flip side, there are men and women whose hearts turn to God, who love their neighbor much more than themselves, and who yet are unable to make notable changes to their moral life. Lifestyles are ensnaring. Circumstances in life may make it impossible, or nearly impossible, for some people to change their behavior. I have seen heroin addicts kick the habit for the sake of Christ again and again, only to return to the drug and eventually die in an overdose. Addictions of all sorts hold us in ways that are very difficult to shake off, even if we are desperate to change. I have also known and have known of people involved in seriously immoral and/or illegal activity and who prayed earnestly for a way out. In most of these cases, the people involved were supporting or protecting others whose well being or very life would be at risk if they stopped the immoral or illegal activity they were doing. Sometimes, God provided a way out rather quickly. Sometimes it took years. Sometimes it took death.

No, repentance in not a matter of mere morality.

Secondly, repentance is not an emotional experience. Repentance may be emotional, or it may not. One may have intense emotional experiences as one grows in repentance, or one may not. The tearful weeping over personal sin or harm caused to others is not itself repentance. Repentance may touch the emotions powerfully, or it may not. And even those who have very emotional experiences related to repentance may not express that emotion outwardly. Some may live for weeks or months with a constant emotional pain, like a knife sticking into their side, but show very little outward sign of that pain. Others wail uncontrollably. You cannot judge someone’s emotional pain by outward signs. Much less can you identify repentance with outward emotional display. Repentance is something much deeper than emotions, although it may touch the emotions.

Finally, repentance is not something you do once and for all. Repentance is a way of life. Repentance is not one turning point, it is a life of constantly turning to God.

Constantly turning to God. This is repentance.

The word “repentance” comes from the Greek word metanoia, and unfortunately, the literal translation of metanoia is quite misleading. Literally it means “with the mind” or “to change the mind.” This is misleading because when we think of “mind” in English we think of the rational part of our brain. To change our minds implies a rational decision--usually based on evidence or argument. Such an understanding of repentance, in my experience, far from creating community, goes a long way toward destroying Christian community.

So long as repentance (change of mind) is based on rationality, we are driven to demonize or belittle those who do not seem to repent, those who disagree with us. When repentance is based on reason, we force ourselves into a syllogistic trap. Those who do not seem to repent do not do so for only two possible reasons: the person either can’t understand the reasons why he or she should repent, or the person won’t accept the reasons. In the latter case, the apparently unrepentant one is demonized. She or he is an intentional sinner because she or he chooses not see reason. In the former case, the person is marginalized, belittled or despised. The person’s inability to see reason may inspire pity, but mostly she or he is just not taken seriously. She or he is treated like a child or a fool who just doesn’t know any better. Either way, demon or fool, such an understanding of repentance based on rationality destroys community because it legitimizes the marginalization of those who don’t seem to get it.

However, there is another way to understand metanoia. In the ancient Christian tradition, especially as it is understood and interpreted by the Eastern Christian Fathers and Mothers, mind (or in Greek, nous) is not understood as the reasoning part of the brain, but rather as that part of the mind, or what in English we generally call heart, that can know and have relationship with God. So in this tradition, repentance is understood as turning one’s heart to God. To be a little more specific, repentance means submitting the rational mind to the heart, learning to pay attention to or in the heart.

Such an understanding of repentance helps create and build community because it moves the focus of relationships inward away from behavior. It moves the focus to the heart, where we meet God and where we can begin to see others from a new perspective. It may sound strange, this idea of seeing with the heart, but many of the Fathers and Mothers of the Church have used the expression “eyes of the heart” to refer to this part of our mind or heart that can know God. When we can see others with our heart, we can love them, even if they do not love us, even if they annoy us at some level, even if they hate us. Love can be the only foundation for successful Christian community.

This does not mean that behavior is irrelevant. Communities require rules, or rather shared expectations. However, repentance, the ongoing turning of the heart toward God and growth in the ability to see one another with the eyes of the heart provides the grace that keep rules from becoming legalism. Communities often have to make tough decisions about what is and isn’t appropriate in that community. But love, seeing with the eyes of the heart, helps communities make tough transitions in at least two very practical ways.

First, when you love, you listen. What so quickly destroys community in the rationality-based model of repentance is that only those who fit a predetermined mold are listened to seriously. Who really listens to fools or demons? We may pretend to listen to make them feel better, but really we have already made up our mind. Community requires real listening, listening with the heart. According to the Rule of St. Benedict, a seventh century guide to Christian community living, only minor decisions were to be made with the counsel of the leadership of the community. All important decisions were to be made after everyone in the community had been heard. And here, St. Benedict makes an interesting comment: “God often reveals what is better to the younger.” And younger here refers not merely to age, but to spiritual maturity also. Love helps us listen to everyone.

Finally, seeing with the eyes of our heart enables us to have compassion, to share the pain of others. And when we share in the pain of others, we are careful to cause as little pain as possible. Sooner or later, more or less often, separation is necessary in a community. Not everybody fits well into every community. Sometimes separation is voluntary, a mutual realization that “salvation” (in the broadest possible sense) is not possible here, that the problems cannot be solved in the context of this community as it is now.

However, sometimes amputation is called for. Sometimes for the safety of the whole or of a vulnerable minority an offending member must be forcibly excommunicated--separated from the community. It is very difficult to know when someone is dangerous to a community. Often those of a vulnerable group are also those who have been marginalized, whose voices are not listened to seriously, especially if the dangerous one is a leader. Only by listening with our hearts, listening to everyone, even the weak, the young, and those who don't seem to get it, can we make our community a safe place.

However the apparently offending member needs to be listened to carefully too, without prejudgement. Careful listening may not heal the wound, the person may still need to leave the community. But perpetrators are usually victims too, and knowing that, seeing that and feeling that can help a great deal. For even if there must be an amputation, proper care and attention can safeguard against infection, resentment and sometimes even a witch hunt, which can kill community life more quickly than just about anything.

The first Christians required a miracle of the Holy Spirit to be a community, and any successful Christian community requires nothing less. I have suggested that one important aspect of that miracle of the Holy Spirit is repentance, repentance understood as an ongoing attention to the heart, an ongoing turning of the heart towards God. The ongoing repentance of the heart helps create and sustain community by moving the locus of discernment away from what is seen outwardly with the eyes to what is seen inwardly with the eyes of the heart, what is seen through love. But loving others starts with me. It starts with my repentance, my turning of my heart to God, letting my mind descend into my heart, and learning to see others there. Repentance precedes community. Repentance does not make community life less difficult. It only makes it more loving, more Christian, more transforming.

Mercy and Grace

Mercy and grace, in as much as we use these words to refer to God, can refer to the same thing.  That is, both mercy and grace--and love and justice and truth and any other word that can rightly be used to refer to God--refer to God as God comes to us.  I am tempted to say that they are attributes or characteristics of God, but that would not be quite right.  God merely is, or more correctly, God exists as Himself beyond even existence.  And yet, God also comes to us and makes Himself known to us.  

God does not change.  God cannot be divided or enumerated by characteristics--as a scientist might a new species.  Most of what we can with any confidence assert about God must be stated apophatically: What God is not.  God is immortal (He does not die), God is immutable (He does not change), God is invisible, etc.  And yet, God comes to us.  The profound mystery of God’s relationship with human beings is that the unknowable God makes himself known, the Invisible reveals Himself.

In this sense, mercy and grace refer to the same thing, in that both words refer to God's coming to us.  They refer to what is experienced or known of God.  They refer to the works or the manifestation or the life, light and energy of God--all words used to talk about how we experience God's coming to us.  And because God’s actions, God’s works, come out of who God is, we can say things like God is merciful (because we experience mercy from God), God is gracious (because we experience grace from God), God is light, God is love, God is just, etc. (because these are what we experience from God).  However, all of these attributes are conditioned by human experience; so they in no way limit, and certainly do not exhaust, who God is.  Words are of very limited use when speaking about God because words have meaning only in our very limited human experiences.  (What does green mean to someone who is blind?  Our experience gives meaning to words.)

And yet, mercy and grace may differ, or refer to slightly different experiences of the God who does not differ, does not change.  I read somewhere once that grace refers to God’s coming to us despite our unworthiness, lowliness and sin; and mercy refers to God’s coming to us because we are suffering and miserable.  Despite and because. When we talk about God’s grace we are emphasizing God’s freedom from obligation and our complete lack of right: God owes us nothing, and we owe God everything.  Grace is God’s coming to us in spite of our debt.  Grace refers to God’s magnanimity,  condescension, and freedom from obligation as he comes to us, comforts us, reveals Himself to us and saves us.

Mercy, in a sense, is a bolder word.  Mercy implies compassion.  Mercy asks God to see our suffering, our pain, our miserable condition;  and mercy asks (here we get very bold) for compassion.  We ask the passionless God to share in our suffering; we ask God to show compassion, to act because he shares our suffering, to have mercy.  How is this possible?  How can the immutable God suffer with us?  How can we be so bold as to ask for such a thing?

Mystery: God became man without ceasing to be God.  Jesus Christ is the Theanthropos, the God-man.  In Christ, God experiences change (without changing), God shares in our suffering (without suffering), God enters our misery (without being miserable).  Like I said, it’s a mystery.  God comes down without leaving heaven, God suffers as a man without ceasing to be the impassable God. 

In Christ, because of Christ, and through Christ we can ask for mercy, we can ask for compassion.  In Christ we have boldness to ask God to come to us not only despite, but also because, because God Himself knows and shares our suffering, because God has compassion.

But this brings us back to the beginning.  In our human experience, despite and because seem to refer to the same thing.  God comes to us despite our sin, and we suffer because of our sin.  Because God suffers with us, He comes to us in our suffering, despite the fact that our suffering is caused by sin.  When we pray the Jesus Prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner,” we are praying for both mercy and grace.  We are asking God to be Himself to us, despite our sin and because of our need.

Who'll Tell Emma The Truth?

I’m reading Jane Austen’s Emma again because of a sentence I read in Elder Porphyrios’ Wounded By Love. In a passage on the dangers of praising children too much, Elder Prophyrios makes the following statement: “You must tell the truth for a person to learn it. Otherwise, you sustain him in his ignorance.” When I read this, I immediately thought of the character Emma Woodhouse.

Emma is a very good-hearted, intelligent, pretty and a generally gifted twenty-one year old spoiled rich kid. Only one person in her life tells her the truth, no one else will. Mr. Knightly, a close family friend and relation by marriage, is ten years her senior, owns the neighboring estate, and is often in the Woodhouse home. He tells her the truth. No one else will, and Emma doesn’t have to listen to Mr. Knightly--even if circumstances and often her own heart tell her that he is usually right.

It’s not as though others do not tell Emma the truth because they want to deceive her. Everyone who surrounds Emma depends on her. They are in various ways much weaker than she. They are too vulnerable. Since her older sister married when Emma was fourteen, she has been the mistress of her dotty father’s estate. Her father’s mental weakness makes him dependent on her. Her governess--in what is perhaps the most serious (even if understandable) failure--becomes her best friend. I certainly do not think Miss Taylor intentionally shirked her responsibility, her responsibility as governess to govern Emma (“govern” comes from the Greek meaning “to steer”). Because Miss Taylor has no financial resources herself, long-term friendship with Emma and/or eventual marriage is her only hope to avoid penury.

Mr. Knightly tells Emma the truth, but what makes Mr. Knightly successful, what makes Emma pay attention to Mr. Knightly and eventually love him is the way he tells the truth.

Truth is a very dangerous commodity. It is like a very sharp knife. You will kill or wound someone with truth more easily than you will cut the cords of ignorance with it. Truth often hurts; sometimes the hurt is necessary. A friend of mine used to say, “The truth will set you free, but it will make you miserable first.” In order for wounds to be healing wounds, they must be both given and received in a context of love and trust. Emma may often disagree with Mr. Knightly, but she never doubts his concern for her and her father.

An example of selfish truth telling is Jane Fairfax’ letter to her aunt. Austen says of the letter that it “contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not told.” The irony is that all the truth that can be told leaves some truths not told. Truth does not fit easily into words. Therefore the good intention of the truth-teller is essential. By good intention, I do not mean intention for some abstract good. By good intention I mean love, love for the one to whom the truth is being told. And by love I mean concern for the good, blessing and happiness of the other--even at the cost of my good, blessing or happiness. And I do not mean love of the truth, for if the truth is not personal, then it is merely an abstraction. Impersonal love of truth is mere love of my system or opinion.

I attended a high school retreat last weekend and the main speaker made the following comment about romantic love. He said “I love you” usually means, “I love me and want you.” Until “I love you” means “I love you more than I love myself,” I love you has no meaning. Mr. Knightly can tell Emma the truth and Emma can hear it (eventually) because Mr. Knightly loves Emma more than he loves himself.

Forgiving the Unrepentant, Again and Again

Forgiving, again, and again, and again.  Forgive me if I carry on with this topic forgiveness, even if I get repetitive.  


When I was a kid (about 8), I scraped my knee pretty badly.  I wasn't in a context of close adult supervision, so the wound was never cleaned or bandaged.  The scab was huge.  I couldn't leave it alone.  I kept picking at it until it got infected.  I would squeeze out the puss, a scab would reform, and I would pick at it some more.  It took months for the wound to heal (thank God I didn't get blood poisoning).  Well into adulthood, I had a scar on my knee from that wound.


Forgiveness, in my experience, is much like healing a wound.  If we have good spiritual care and we follow instructions and the wound is not too severe, we can heal (forgive) pretty quickly.  However, if we are left to own devices, if we have bad advice, or don't follow good advice, emotional and spiritual wounds can fester and become gangrenous and eventually kill us.  This is especially true if we keep picking at them: if we keep calling to mind past wrongs and experiencing afresh past pains.


One aspect of forgiveness that causes some confusion--and thus adds to the picking--is the association of forgiveness with punishment.  In a juridical context, sure, forgiveness means not receiving punishment.  However, experiencing consequences is not the same as being punished.  God forgives us our sin, yet we still experience many of the consequences of our sins.  This is an aspect of human freedom.  Freedom wouldn't be real if consequences were not real.  If I chose to go left, but experienced the consequences of the path on the right, then I never had a real choice.  While forgiveness averts punishment, it doesn't change consequence.


God may forgive me for hitting my brother, but the black eye doesn't suddenly go away.  In fact, although my brother too may forgive me, the emotional or mental sickness or instability that originally impelled me to hit my brother still needs to be healed.  Moreover, my brother having completely forgiven me, may still want to stay out of arm's reach for a while--at least until he has reason to believe that I have begun to lean how to control my anger.  This staying out of arm's reach has nothing to do with forgiveness.  Forgiveness was a matter of my brother's heart.  Staying out of the way is a matter of wisdom.  A man who has shown that he has anger control issues should not be treated as though he really doesn't struggle with such issues.  That would be stupidity, what is commonly called codependency. That is not forgiveness.


Sometimes people have a hard time healing emotionally and spiritually because they cannot separate these two matters, forgiveness and consequence.  This confusion is like an infection that poisons emotional wounds.  In order for the wound to heal, forgiveness is necessary. But forgiveness seems impossible, or at best foolish, when it is tied to (A) second chances (third, forth, fifth, sixth, chances) or (B) to trust.  


Forgiveness does NOT mean an automatic second chance.  Forgiveness does not equal trust.  Forgiveness means that I have stopped picking at the wound in my heart.  Forgiveness means that I do not hold your trespass against me, against you.  I forgive you, but I also now know you better and will treat you according to that knowledge--not to punish you, forgiveness lets go of punishment.  I will treat you according to my knowledge of you so that you can heal, so that you are not soon put in a situation where you will be tempted to commit the same trespass again.


This is good for you and safe for me. Forgiveness does not throw wisdom and common sense out the window.  Sins have consequences, and forgiveness does not make those consequences go away.

Forgiving the Unrepentant

Ostensive Lyme asked whether Christians "need to" forgive the unrepentant.  The short answer is yes.  

I can see why someone might say no if we think of sin and forgiveness in mere juridical terms.  However, as Orthodox Christians, this is not how we understand sin and forgiveness.

As Orthodox Christians we think of sin as wounding and alienation--from God, from others and within ourselves. So forgiveness has to do with reconciliation.  Forgiveness has to do with healing.  Just as I pointed out in Jesus’ parable of the unforgiving servant, forgiveness is not static.  That is, how or whether we receive God’s forgiveness depends a great deal on what we do.  It’s a mystery, not a syllogism.  God forgives unilaterally and completely.  Jesus has already died for the sins of the whole world.  From God’s end (so to speak), all of the sins of all of humanity for all of the ages have already been forgiven.  But that is not the end of the story.  Forgiveness has a life of its own--and anyone who has tried hard to forgive someone who has deeply hurt them knows this by experience.

Somehow the one forgiven interacts with the forgiveness offered.  We might even say that the forgiveness offered must take root and grow and bear fruit in the life of the one forgiven.  If this does not happen, forgiveness is somehow short circuited--in the one forgiven, not necessarily in the one forgiving.  It helps to think of forgiveness as the whole process of healing, not just the initial step, not just a legal absolution or a letting go or forgetting of past wrongs.  In relationships with others, one’s willingness or unwillingness to repent affects the progress of forgiveness, of healing.  However, whether or not someone repents or accepts forgiveness does not necessarily have any effect on another’s ability to forgive.  God forgives completely, even if His forgiveness does not always take root and bear fruit.

Not only does forgiveness interact with the one forgiven, it interacts within the one forgiving.  God is perfect, so only God can forgive perfectly, once and for all.  Human beings are sinful, which means that within ourselves we experience alienation.  Part of us can want to forgive, while another part of us doesn’t, while yet other parts of us remain hidden.  We can forgive on Monday and by Wednesday find surging resentment and anger rising from some hidden place within us.  Forgiveness, for sinful human beings, is a process.

From the perspective of the one forgiving, the repentance or apparent repentance of the other is irrelevant because you have no control over someone else.  In fact, I can’t even know if someone else really is repentant, no matter how penitent they seem.  Only God knows that.  What I do have control over is myself, and like God--and only with God’s help--I can forgive, I can begin to heal, regardless of the other's repentance or lack thereof.

P.S.  It is also possible for one who has committed an offence to experience forgiveness even if someone refuses to forgive him or her.  Forgiveness ultimately comes from God.  So in forgiving, it's important to realize that the resources necessary to forgive are not our own apart from God.   The ability to forgive those who sin agains us comes from receiving the forgiveness that God has first given us, and in turn our forgiving others affects our ability to receive God's forgiveness. It' a mystery; it's a process; and it takes a lifetime. 

Forgive Us Our Trespasses As...

We forgive those who trespass against us, don’t we?  I have been wondering about this as I have discussed the topic of church community life over the past few days with several people with similar frustrations but in different communities.

Fr. Boris Bobrinskoy in his essay, “The Mystery of Forgiveness,” points out that in the Lord’s Prayer, Our Father’s forgiving us is contingent on our forgiving those who trespass against us.  However in most of the other passages in the New Testament relating God’s forgiveness to our forgiving, God forgives first, and we forgive as a consequence.  This is not a contradiction; it is a mystery.  St. Paul says, “...forgiving one another just as in Christ God forgave you” (Eph 4:32).  And “Forgive as the Lord forgave you” (Col. 3:13).  And in Romans, “While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us” (5:8). 

Similarly, our Lord’s parable of the man who owed his Master 10,000 talents begins with the Master forgiving the servant this huge debt merely because he begged Him.  At the end of the parable, Jesus associates the Master in the parable with “My Heavenly Father,” just in case we don’t get it: Our Heavenly Father first forgives us our great debt.  However, the story is not over.  The experience of forgiveness implies consequences.  The same Grace that forgives also transforms the forgiven one.  But this transformation must be cooperated with.  That is, we must bear the fruit of forgiveness, which is forgiveness.  (What do you get from a pear tree but pears or an apple tree but apples?)

When the servant forgiven of his great debt could not himself bear just a little of the fruit of forgiveness on behalf of his fellow servant who also owned him a debt (a much smaller debt), this stinginess affected his relationship with His Master.  And the remainder of the parable is painful to read:

“Then his master, after he had called him, said to him, ‘You wicked servant!  I forgave you all that debt because you begged me.  Should you not also have compassion on your fellow servant just as I had pity on you?’  And his master was angry, and delivered him to the torturers until he should pay all that was due to him.  So My Heavenly Father also will do to you if each of you, form his heart, does not forgive his brother his trespasses.”

Notice the Father forgives first.  But then we must also participate in perpetuating that forgiveness; otherwise, somehow we are no longer able to participate in the original forgiveness.  Put another way, God graciously and lovingly gives us opportunities to participate in His Life and Grace by giving us fellow servants of Christ who owe us what they cannot pay.  Our fellow servants of our common Lord owe us love, owe us kindness, consideration, friendship, understanding; and very, very often they cannot pay.  

But this is a set up.  God wants so much for us to share in His Life, in His Grace, in His Forgiveness that he sees to it that we are surrounded by men and women as weak as we are.  I think the experience is called Salvation.