A Man Plans His Ways, But...

Proverbs 16: 9--A man plans his ways, but the Lord directs his steps. Or, to put it another way: Life (God’s life, the life of faith, the life that we live and give to God) is what happens after we make our plans.

This morning I looked at the conference schedule and realized that there were no meetings that I had to attend, so I decided that I would go for Divine Liturgy at 9:00 am and just hang out talking to people and maybe trying to think up something inspiring to put on my blog while I sat in the lobby until vespers at 5:00 pm. Sounded like a good plan....

Just after I got off the freeway on my way to the conference hotel, my cell phone rang. It was my foster sister calling to tell me that my foster mother in Goleta had been sick in bed for three days and refused to go to a doctor. She had tried to call me several times, but had the wrong number. My sister was able to track down my cell number and call me to get me to call my mother (I’ll just drop the “foster” at this point). Instead of turning left into the hotel conference center, I made a U-turn and headed back to the freeway. I asked my sister to call and tell my mother I would be there in person in four or five hours—and off I went to Goleta (just north of Santa Barbara).

The rest of the family heard I was coming and came from Ventura (one hour drive) and Palmdale (two hour drive) to say hi. Mom was looking pretty good (for 70ish) and couldn’t sit still but had to make something. She did not want to talk about herself. She wanted to hear about Bonnie and the girls and the grandchildren. Then as each family member showed up, they wanted to hear everything again. One of Mom’s granddaughters-in-law (AKK, I can’t remember her name!), whom I had never met and who lives in the same house came home toward the end of the few hours I was able to spend there. Mom and I and her three daughters and miscellaneous grand and great grand children were sitting around the patio table having sandwiches when she came home. Mom introduced me merely as Uncle Scott—the name almost everyone in the family calls me. When she asked me to explain my relationship to the family I said, “They took me in when I was fifteen and saved my life.”

The granddaughter-in-law said jokingly to Mom, “You whipped him into shape did you?” No one giggled. They just looked at me, and then I said to my “niece,” “No, they loved me into shape.” Then my sister (the one who called me and who herself has had at least twenty foster children) said, “just love, only love.”

Love is a dangerous thing. Healthy children (or any human being for that matter) cannot exist if we do not love. But if we love, we open ourselves to immense pain. Of the several foster children Mom had, I am the only one who is not dead or in prison (that I know of). Of the twenty or so that Nancy (my sister) has taken in, only a very few now have what most of would call healthy lives and relationships. Without love, the ones who made it wouldn’t have; but love comes at a cost.

When I said to Mom after this little exchange that it must have been pretty tough having me in the family, especially the first couple of years, she only said “We loved and we prayed, and we prayed.” I’ll take a Baptist who loves and prays over an Orthodox Christian who doesn’t any day.

Someday I may tell my story in one running monologue, but I still feel like I should not do that yet. In the mean time, I share snippets as it seems useful. May God help us all to love and pray, even when the Lord directs our steps in a way different from what we had planned.

Clergy Meeting with the Metropolitan

Today I was impressed by Metropolitan Philip. I watch him answer questions from the clergy, some of whom were aggressive in their questioning, with openness and willingness to accept suggestions. Metropolitan Philip's answers were clear (although sometimes off point) and for the most part satisfactory. I do not agree with all he has done or is doing, but to my satisfaction he has explained why he has done what he has, and the canonical authority—or interpretation—by which various actions have taken place. You have to respect a guy who will allow two hours of open microphone to answer questions from a hundred and fifty often grumpy old men. Do I think everything is now out in the open? Certainly not. I do, however, think that enough is out in the open to trust the rest—right now. The most important thing I have learned through this whole six months of misunderstanding is that misunderstandings are resolved by listening. Certainly human beings will disagree. That’s why we have leadership: if we all had to agree first, nothing would get done. But if we are open about what we are doing and why, and if we listen to the concerns of those who disagree with (or perhaps only don’t understand) us, then we can go a long way toward functioning together peacefully as churches and as an archdiocese.

Restore to Me the Joy

Most people think the opposite of joy is sadness. I don’t think so. Joy and sadness can coexist—do coexist. One of the names for the feeling of mixed joy and sadness often used in the Orthodox Tradition is “bright sadness.” It is one of those feelings, or I might better say it is one of those experiences, for which words seem completely inadequate; so I will not try to explain it. What I will try to do is talk a little bit about joy.

Happiness is the opposite of sadness, but the opposite of joy is cynicism. Joy is a way of seeing and knowing and being. Joy sees the ray of light in a dark room, whereas cynicism sees only the darkness. Certainly there is much more darkness than light in the world, so cynics often pride themselves in being realists. In fact, there is a kind of noble cynic (I am thinking here of Dostoyevsky’s character, Ivan Karamazov) who refuses to find any joy, any light or any goodness so long as there remains even a little darkness in the universe.

Such noble cynicism, I think, comes from a rather Sunday-school like notion of God and the universe. This Sunday-school God is all powerful so He can do “anything He wants.” The logic, therefore, goes something like this. If God can do anything He wants, and since there is evil in the world, the evil is God’s fault, since God allows it. Such an understanding of God and the universe produces cynicism. Sometimes this cynicism is crass, as one often hears in political comedy or in the base humor of many stand-up comics; sometimes it is paranoid, imagining conspiracies everywhere—the ubiquitous “they” who are manipulating “the system”; sometimes it is quite noble, as the cynicism of Ivan mentioned above. Unfortunately, this last group of cynics is the most dangerous. The foul-mouthed and the paranoid cynics are pretty easy to dismiss, but the noble, clear-thinking and in the end ruthless cynics are the ones you have to watch out for. Mao, Pol Pot, and Lenin are a few names that quickly come to mind.

The problem with cynicism, even when it is not ruthless, is that nothing is ever good enough. The cynic creates an inner ideal that in no way conforms to reality—even if reality were perfect. What I mean is that the cynic’s ideal is a world without consequences. In the cynic’s ideal world, what goes up only comes down if he or she wants it to come down. He or she plants corn and potatoes grow; he or she drinks soda all day long and doesn’t get fat; he or she sleeps around yet experiences the intimacy of a couple married for twenty years. The ideal just doesn’t conform to reality. What leads to ruthlessness is the cynic’s focus outside him/herself. The cynic reasons, since no one I see lives up to my ideal, I don’t have to either; and the atrocity-justifying ringer, if one has the demonic courage to go this far, is the thought that my compromise in my ideals is only to make the world better [better conform to my ideal].

The joyful person, on the other hand, looks inside him or herself and sees all too clearly the reason why the world is such a mess. The joyful person takes the first three chapters of Genesis literally: not as science or history, but as the story of the fall: my fall and the fall of the universe. The Garden of Eden is in my heart. I am Adam, I am Eve, I reach out and appropriate for myself what God has not given me. I listen to the seducing voice of the serpent—knowing full well that he is lying—and let myself be seduced to the point that I cannot control my impulse to shop or eat or drink or smoke or fornicate or speak sharp words (and the list goes on and on). The joyful person knows why the world is a mess, and God has nothing to do with it except that He has made a way out of the mess.

And herein is the source of joy. The joyful person is not unaware of the pain and injustice in the world. In fact, I argue that the joyful person sees the pain and injustice more clearly than anyone else, for he or she imposes no illusionary ideal on the world. However, the joyful person also sees the way out: the way of the cross, the Light that shines in the darkness.

It’s a funny thing about joy, it grows. The more light one sees in the darkness, the more joy one has. The more joy one has, the more light one sees. And if we will take the New Testament seriously, the more light one sees, the more one actually becomes light.

Am I an Evangelical?

In my Protestant days, when I began reading Medieval writers, I was often confused by their use of the adjective, “evangelical.” The reference was often made of monks and other holy people that they lived an evangelical life. At that time, the only meaning for evangelical I knew was based on my understanding of Evangelical Protestants. An Evangelical, I thought, was a Christian who emphasized evangelism: aka proselytzation. It took me quite a while to figure out, from repeated contextual jarrings, that for these writers proselytzation had nothing particularly to do with an evangelical life. Finally I succumbed to my Webster’s.

Centuries before the Protestant push to evangelize college students in the 1940s, when the name “Evangelical” came to be applied to those whom this movement produced, “evangelical” was a adjective used in religious literature to refer to a life lived according to the Gospel. For those who do not know, the Greek word translated “Gospel” is euangelion. I, unfortunately, had no excuse for my slow-wittedness, having studied Greek. I was just too bound by my own cultural myopia to look at the word itself.

As an Orthodox Christian, I have often been a little miffed that the Protestants have co-opted “Evangelical” as a sort of brand name. I find it awkward in conversations with some Protestants when they ask (for example, in the context of an interview for employment in an “Evangelical” organization) if I am an Evangelical. There is no short answer. “No,” means to them that I am not a “real” Christian—as in, “Are you a Christian or a Catholic?” [Believe it or not, I have been asked that exact question many times] “Yes,” means I am a Protestant of one of the approximately 30,000 possible varieties. If there is time, I often ask my interlocutor to define “Evangelical,” which almost no one can do. This often opens a lovely can of worms and generally leads to a meaningful conversation about Christian faith.

But am I an Evangelical? I had a long conversation with Neil Sneider, President Emeritus of Trinity Western University, about this when I first started working there six years ago. After lamenting for an hour how difficult it is to define “Evangelical,” Dr. Sneider said to me, “Well since there can be Catholic Evangelicals, I don’t see why there can’t be Orthodox Evangelicals.” Leaving the definition of Evangelical open, I agreed. In as much as I strive to live by the Gospel of Christ, I am an Evangelical. The difference between my definition of Evangelical and the broader culture’s is only about 1940 years of church history.

A Redemptive Clint Eastwood Movie?

(Spoiler Alert!)

I saw Gran Torino last night. Normally I do not watch Clint Eastwood movies. I struggle enough with thoughts of vengeance and violent impulses in my own soul: I do not need to stir up those passions by watching a misunderstood but basically good loner be pushed by evil men to acts of vengeance and murder which seem unquestionably noble in the context of the movie. At least that's what I expect from a Clint Eastwood movie.

Someone I trust, however, suggested that I see it. She said that my wife would not appreciate it but I would. She was right. I really liked it, but my wife wouldn't get it. Of course "like" is a tricky word. I did not enjoy the graphic depiction of violence, although there is less depiction of actual acts of violence than I expected, but then I had very low expectations. There is a lot of threatening at gun point, a vivid portrayal of a woman after being violently gang raped (thank God Clint, also the director, didn't make us watch that too) and a few other cruel scenes which certainly make this a movie I could not recommend to many. And, by the way, the profanity is abundant and creative. I never knew there were so many racist slurs; and Walk Kowalski (Clint's character) is in no way prejudiced. He insults everyone regardless of race, creed or gender. But in the context of Gran Torino, profanity serves a purpose: it is the language of peers. Mutual respect is established by taking insult and dishing it back out again. Not a pleasant world to be sure, but a real world that at various points in my life I have lived in or close to.

You see, I am really just a wannabe pacifist, and most street violence does not repulse me. (This is not a boast, but a confession of my own wounded conscience.) Repentance has been a long and bumpy road for me. It has been easy for me to accept that Christ did not resist evil but rather conquered evil by allowing himself to be swallowed by it – trampling down death by death. What's been hard to accept is that the pathway of my salvation, the salvation that Christ secured for me through his life, death and resurrection, also passes through a cross. I too will have to trample down death by death. I don't like dying: fighting is much easier. It's so much more comforting to imagine myself the hero, fighting fire with fire.

My father, a career submariner, often used to say to me, "a coward dies a thousand deaths, a hero dies but once" (a paraphrase from Shakespeare: Julius Caesar II, ii, 33-34). Until I was ten I was somewhat of a wimp – today I would call it pure of heart, but my dad called it something else that I won't repeat. But when I began living in foster homes and other institutions, I made a choice (I actually remember doing this) not to keep dying again and again. I learned to speak the language of violence.

Fighting was a means of communication more than anything else, a way of defining boundaries, and how you became accepted in the group. Of course some people like to hurt others. I never did. I just didn't like being hurt. In Gran Torino I completely understand the thousand deaths Thao was experiencing and why he reluctantly obeyed the gang and tried to steal Walt's Gran Torino [a perfectly preserved 1972 Ford muscle car] and almost got his head blown off in the botched attempt. I've known the deaths that make a peaceful boy a fighter.

Father Janovich is the second most important reason why I hope this film wins an academy award or some other such recognition. This is the first movie I have seen in years that portrays a pious clergyman as a sane force for good. Fr. Janovich will not leave Walt alone after his wife's death. He keeps his promise to Walt's wife and patiently and repeatedly (like a real pastor of a flock) endures Walt's insults to gain his trust and eventually respect. When Fr. Janovich knows that violence is imminent, he does what he can to stop it – including placing his own life at risk. If for no other reason than this realistic and noble portrayal of a clergyman, I hope this film gets wide recognition. But as I said, this is the second reason.

Throughout the film, Walt is haunted by his memories of his participation in war-time violence during the Korean War. There are no gory flashbacks, just occasional references: his Silver Star for bravery, snippets of conversation with the priest: "What haunts a guy is the stuff he wasn't ordered to do."

As the movie progresses, Walt has occasion to mention specific actions – "We shot men, stabbed them with bayonets, chopped up 17-year-olds with shovels." He also mentions that they used Koreans as "sandbags" (human shields). But it is near the end of the movie, after he has decided how he will end the gang violence that Thao and his sister cannot escape, when Walt finally goes to confession. His confession mentions nothing of his war experience, and Fr. Janovich is clearly disappointed and asks, "Is that all?" Walt focuses on his failure as a parent and ends it there; he is saving his most important confession for a different "priest."

Young Thao wants to take vengeance on the gang for raping his sister. He has finally "become a man" and is ready to speak the language of violence. Thao will not listen to Walt, who tries to calm him down. Thao knows only his own anger and frustration. In their final conversation we find out why Walt received the Silver Star for bravery: he was the only one to return from a mission to destroy an enemy machine gun nest. Then, locking Thao in the basement so that he cannot foolishly take vengeance (which the gang is expecting and lying in wait for) and looking him straight in the face, Walt confesses: on that mission he had shot in the face "some poor little gook, just like you" who "just wanted to give up." Thao becomes the priest, the icon of Christ, the icon of the boy whom Walt had murdered in the war. Walt makes his confession.

Then Walt goes to "finish things." I almost didn't want to watch the end. I expected a self righteous blood bath. There was blood all right; not the blood of self righteous vindication, but the blood of redemptive sacrifice. Walt ends the violence by dying, not killing. The camera shot of Walt lying dead on the ground, carrying no weapons and with his arms out stretched out in the form a cross, leaves no doubt in anyone's mind how his death is meant to be understood. Walt's redemption is to die in place of Thao as a penance for his own sins. Perhaps foul-mouthed, racist old war heroes can be saved too.

I can only recommend Gran Torino to those who are already familiar with the language of violence and will not be offended by the racist profanity of an old man and of street gang bravado. It is not a movie for gentle souls or the pure of heart; but like Walt, "I'm soiled," so the graphic depiction of violence did not bother me as much as it clearly communicated to me the pain of the characters. And even the abundant profanity was to me at points witty in its innovative use of insult-I giggled several times. My wife would not get it at all, and I'm glad she wouldn't. Gran Torino is about a violent man in a violent world, a world like the one that crucified Jesus, a world like the one just across the tracks or on the other side of town. It is a movie that speaks the language of violence and points to the possibility of redemption, that the cross, rather that killing, is the only end to violence.

On Washing Feet

St. John records for us the washing of the Disciples’ feet by Jesus before the Last Supper. Peter is embarrassed and doesn’t want to let Jesus wash his feet—not realizing that Jesus has already washed him entirely, for they are already clean because of the word Jesus had spoken to them [15:3]. Peter is already clean, he just needs a little clean up. That Peter needed a little cleaning is, of course, not what bothers Peter. What bothers him is that the Lord and Master wants to do the cleaning, a job normally done by the lowest servant of the house.
In Middle Eastern culture, feet are generally considered unclean. Consequently, lifting one’s heal at someone (exposing the bottom of one’s foot or shoe) is a great insult. It is no coincident that immediately after washing the Disciple’s feet, Jesus cites psalm 41:9: “He who eats bread with me has lifted up his heel against me.” By washing all of the Disciples’ feet, including Judas’, Jesus willingly exposes himself to every humiliation that can be poured out on him. If the story ended there, we would merely have another example of the great condescension of God in Christ. If Jesus hadn’t gone on to interpret his actions for us, we could breathe a deep sigh of relief: “Jesus has done great things for us.” But Jesus does interpret his actions: “You ought to wash one another’s feet…I have given you an example…blessed are you if you do them.”
That’s the difficult thing. It is difficult not only because I do not like exposing myself to insult and humiliation, but it is also difficult because I do not have more than a glimmer of an idea what washing other’s feet means in my life today. Washing feet has no emotional impact for me. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not particularly humbling. Now what is humbling and embarrassing to me is to wash the whole body of a disabled adult. Or to wash the dead body of a fellow priest, especially one whom I have known and respected. (In the rites associated with the death of a priest, fellow priests wash the whole body of the departed priest with water, rub it with oil and then dress him as though he were standing at the Altar.) I have only done this once. I’d like to be able to report that it was a deeply moving and spiritual experience—other priests have told me that such was their experience when they have been called upon to perform this act of love. I, on the other hand, felt so awkward and conflicted that I performed my responsibilities as though in a fog. I didn’t let myself think or feel anything. That was five years ago, and still I am processing the experience.
Nurses and care givers (and morticians) wash the bodies of others regularly, so perhaps this image doesn’t help them get at what Jesus was getting at. In fact, “washing” in any literal sense is not at all what Jesus is talking about. Jesus says later that the Disciples are clean because of the word he has spoken to them. And it is from this that I can get a clue as to how this lesson might apply in my life. The words that I speak have the power to cleanse or defile others. What I say can bring encouragement, hope, life; and what I say can bring cynicism, despair, death. When I am with others and the conversation exposes their heels (the dirty part of their soul slips out through their mouth), what will I do? Will I answer in kind, letting out of my mouth equally defiling accusations, innuendos, complaints or cynicisms? Or will I be quiet—always a good choice when you “can’t say something nice”—and bury in myself the filth of my friend? Or, if by God’s Grace I have an uplifting thing to say, will I say that, and perhaps wash a little the feet of my friend?
Lovingly bathing the filth off the body of another is humiliating work, especially as we realize that the same filth we bathe off another is also produced by our own bodies (and souls).