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Oh my. All these months I have been trying — without notable success — to talk about Christianity, and now someone has come and explained the whole thing succinctly. While I lick my wounds, peruse The Interpretative Dance Theocrats.
Christ’s Ascension is the jewel of all the feasts of the Lord, the completion of all that Christ did for us, through the work of the Divine dispensation. This consummate feast invites us to spiritual perfection and fullness, to participate in Christ’s Ascension and the experience of our own ascension. ~ Metropolitan Hierotheos of Nafpaktos, The Feasts of the Lord
I very distinctly remember a sermon I gave in the Methodist church. It was the occasion of the Ascension, although that was not a particularly recognized day for us, or for anybody else I knew. Even though my theology was anything but Calvinistic, the true nature of the day was lost on me. I spent twenty minutes talking about the event as a command for evangelism. Which it is, sort of. But not primarily, not in the understanding of the Church.
Instead, the Ascension is an intensely personal feast, perhaps the most personal one we have. Not that any are unimportant, but this one demands that we turn the mirror upon ourselves, to examine our own spiritual state. This is true because when Christ ascended into heaven, to sit at the right hand of the Father, He took with him human flesh, and human nature.
Such a thing had never been seen. Imagine, if you will, the amazement of the angels. Flesh and spirit ascended, not simply to heaven, but to the very throne of God. In combination with the Divine, Christ showed us the possibility of humanity. As St. Athanasius was to later say “God became man so that man might become god.” Christ not only saves human souls; He offers salvation to every part of us. Turning to patristic thought, His Eminence explains:
St. Diadochos of Photiki says that what happened to Christ at His Ascension will also happen to the saints. Christ assumed the human body and deified it, and so man too can be deified through the riches of God’s grace. ‘For he who belongs to the incarnate God through the body can also belong to those deified by the riches of his grace, be made gods by the generous God.’
This is astonishing business. Often we stop our analysis with our sins. If our sins are so great, it follows that we must be gross and pathetic in both body and spirit. Indeed, we often are, but that is not an inherent truth, nor is it an inescapable fate. But the complete realization of this divine heritage, however, depends at least partly on us, struggling within our meager abilities and being given immeasureable aid from God Himself. St. Nikodemus the Hagiorite likened it to the Prophet Elijah throwing down his sheepskin and thus ascending to heaven. The sheepskin for you and I are the passions, the passing things of the world which keep us from ascending. Similarly, St. Gregory of Nyassa in The Life of Moses suggested allegorically that the sandals which must be removed before standing on holy ground are nothing less than the passions, which we must discard.
The Ascension reminds us of our possibilities, of what awaits those who acknowledge their weaknesses, and commit to struggle, with all of his or her heart, against those things. What an incredible outcome! It is evidence of overwhelming Divine love for each of us, and unbelievable possibilities for us, if only we have the courage to grasp them. I regret — very seriously regret — that I never understood this while I was standing in the Methodist pulpit. What a message to deliver! It is not only salvation which is ours — it is dignity of body and soul, it is love beyond imagining. In His Ascension, Christ opened the way of each of us to become everything that God intended humankind to be.
And the evangelization aspect? St. Seraphim of Sarov summed that up best: “Acquire the spirit of peace, and thousands around you will be saved.”
On this feast, look in the mirror, and consider what God intended men and women to be. That divine destiny, that celestial nature, is open to us, thanks to the marvelous work of Christ. But we must seize it, struggle for it, devote our hearts and souls to its Author. In last year’s entry on the Ascension I groped for this meaning, but I could not yet see it clearly. Not that I have unimpeded vision now, but every day gives me a better vision of what we can be, are meant to be. But we must take the first step. A bit of effort now; a transformed heart and soul later. What could be better?
We took Olga to the airport in Atlanta last night so she could catch her flight to London. Most people would not be very excited about venturing into that place, but I confess that I like the airport. A lot. In fact, if I have a flight I will try to get there early, so I can take it in. Not the planes necessarily, but the entire complex, almost as an organism. In an average month, seven million people or so wander through the place, and get on an average of about 3000 flights a day. What fascinates me is how every part of it depends on every other part. Not just flight operations, but security, the people who wrestle all the bags all over the place, the food, the fuel, the concessions, maintenance — it really is an enormously complex system. I like to just watch it at work. I also keep an eye out for people who look confused, and try to send them on their way. The last time I returned from Pittsburgh I almost ran into a couple who were standing in the middle of the concourse — not a particularly good strategy — trying to figure out where they were supposed to go for their connecting flight to South Africa. I pointed them in the direction of the international terminal, gave them tips on using the train, and walked them to where they would catch it. They weren’t significantly less confused, but at least they were going in the right direction.
Last night, though, was extremely odd. There were very few people in the terminal. Olga got checked in for her flight within minutes, and her mother and I walked her to security. Ordinarily, the security area looks like the panoramic shot of the dead and dying after the Battle of Atlanta in Gone with the Wind, except instead of masses of wounded lying on the ground there are masses of people trudging in serpentine lines to the point where they can actually go through the scanner. Last night, however, Olga simply meandered directly to the TSA agent and sauntered through, leaving her mother and I wondering what had happened. I know. Some of my readers will think that I just made that up, and that I am lying like a dog. Other, more charitable folk, will conclude that we entered an airport in some alternate reality, where there are no lines and TSA people tip their hats at young women carrying bulging back packs. This would necessarily mean that Olga has, say, flown right out of the galaxy, or perhaps into some Neil Gaiman-esque London to an uncertain fate.
In any event, we left, lamenting the mystery of precisely how that toddler we had just yesterday is now traipsing all over creation and back. Having exhausted that, however, I returned to form and started thinking about the whole concept of balancing. I have written often, and spoken even more frequently, of my desire to retreat into an Orthodox world. How great would it be to live in a place where people understand the struggle? Where fasting is generally understood (even if not universally followed), where everyone knows what Orthodoxy is and you can even catch an occasional glimpse of a priest or monk, cassock or riasa billowing in the wind, walking down the street.
Well, fat chance. Here in North America at any rate, we live where we live, in an increasingly secular society that doesn’t get Christianity at all, much less Orthodoxy. It is an enormously busy, anxious, complex culture, that focuses all of its attention on…what? No one could really say, I suspect, except to say that we are in an awful hurry to get there. Some are racing along for money, some for sex, some for power, some just because they are caught up in the racing stream and figure they better keep pace. So how do we live here, in this time and this place?
The answer, I suspect, is found in the airport. On one hand, we have to balance ourselves internally. We have to be fully cognizant of what is driving our life, and make sure that every part of it is balanced with a goal in mind. Our lives are complex, and we need to be aware of the competing demands for our resources and time. There will be enormous frustration and hurdles to overcome, but we knew that when we started. As Orthodox, we have unique resources to help us on our way, including sacraments like communion and confession, and disciplines, such as fasting and our prayer rule. Yet we forget these things so often, and have to rediscover what we already know. Because of that, we lose our balance externally: we become diverted by the world around us in unpleasant and harmful ways. Consciously or unconsciously, we enter the stream of the people rushing, speeding to a destination even they do not understand. Be in that stream, but not part of it. That is the challenge that we face every day. When we order ourselves well, though, we make steady progress, and might even be able to help people who have stopped dead in the stream, confused and wondering where they are supposed to go.
That alternate reality, Byzantium (or 19th century Russia) in America? It will never happen. Even on Mount Athos, surely an Orthodox paradise if there ever was one, the monks deal daily with pilgrims who bring their fears and illnesses with them to the Holy Mountain. Rather than pretend that we can live entirely apart from society, we simply need to adopt that royal middle way. Be in the stream, but don’t be moved by it. Walk against it, and your calm and loving manner will encourage other people to turn and follow you to the only gate that really matters.
Added on May 30: Last night I sat down with our copy of the latest edition of The Church Messenger, our diocesan newspaper. In a Rod Serling-ish turn of events, there I found an article by Protopresbyter Michael Roscoe concerning his own take on the Atlanta airport, thereby proving that everyone in the world has passed through Hartsfield-Jackson. He used an experience about kids running the wrong way on the people mover to draw a lesson about running from Christ and His Church. Father Roscoe avoided the alternate reality spin, which was good on his part. I commend his article to you. I could not find it on-line, but it is in the May 14 edition of the Messenger.
The excruciating alimony case (and it’s little brother on Friday, the excruciating return on the ex parte custody order) is finally complete, although the judge took it under advisement, having enlisted the help of two deputies to carry my exhibit notebooks to her car. There will be loose ends to clean up once she announces her decision, but the fact that the case has actually been tried is something that has not sunk in yet. For two years that file, primarily in the form of about a half dozen boxes of documents and a dozen exhibit notebooks, has littered my office and disturbed my sleep. It has helped to remind me that one of God’s greatest gifts is simply the passage of time. Whatever it is that we dread will one day pass. Certainly we must make the most of our time — St. Dorotheos of Gaza, speaking in the context of repentance, remarked “Who will give us back this present time if we waste it?” That puts the final spin on the issue of time. One dread passes and a new one takes its place on the horizon, but the true reason for kronos, for ordinary time, is for repentance. The greatest error we can make is to let the transitory blind us to our true and greatest work, the path to the Divine.
Ironically, I almost quoted St. Dorotheos in my closing argument. While it would have been out of context, it fit the case perfectly. In the end, though, I decided that a courtroom was not the place to try to introduce that great a saint to the southern mountains.
Yet as some things ended, others are beginning. We are taking Olga to Atlanta today for her flight to England. She will spend several weeks with her uncle and aunt before proceeding to her real destination, a summer classics program in Bulgaria. In a somewhat similar vein, her little sister, Marina, was the cause of numerous remarks to me this week. Marina finished her high school years with a poetic solo at her dance recital which surprised even her mother and I with its grace. Her mother, obviously, is the source of that grace. Yet among the compliments were a number of others along the line of “When we saw Marina last weekend, we thought it was Olga. When did she grow up like that!”
A good question, and one my wife and I ask ourselves frequently. Watching kids unfurl is an extraordinary thing. There is fear, of course, but when we were very young and the children were toddlers, we would never have predicted it. One to Bulgaria to pursue studies in Greek and Latin, the other a writer of unusual talent — there is pride in that, admittedly, but all of our friends that are transitioning in that fashion are asking themselves the same thing. None of us ever dreamed what our children would become, whatever the outcome.
Similarly, the week made me grateful for other things. Having spent the week among the shambles and utter ruin of a marriage, I am reminded how unworthy I am for the blessing of my own wife. I think that ultimately the key to a long lasting marriage, along with all of the advice offered by Dr. Phil and his kind, is the ability to accept the passage of time. Many of my cases arise when people become discontent with the changes wrought by time: quieter lives, bodies that change, sexuality that matures. If a person can learn to appreciate those changes, however, and let go of the conviction that we will always be young or that we and our spouse will always have the body and the energy we had at twenty one, and discover the truth that life changes and so do we — then happiness can unexpectedly be found right where we live.
Odd. Grief mingled with serenity. Happiness lives there. Who would have imagined it?
Day three of the excruciating alimony case has drawn to a close, and I continue to be exhibit A for why practicing law is bad for your salvation.
This morning, a CPA was testifying for the other side, trying to justify the numbers used in the wife’s standard of living affidavit, that is, to show how they lived when things were rosy. Unfortunately, it was based solely on his clent’s verbal narrative of how things were; he admitted that his numbers were not cross checked against any documentary records such as bank statements, credit card bills or what have you. So, how had he determined what numbers to insert? For example, the $1400 a month to eat out?
MR. WITNESS: Well, I eat out, so I used my own experience to determine what it would cost to eat out as often as they did.
(Insert witty repartee about how he knows whether her descriptive narrative is accurate)
SERAPHIM: So, assuming all of that is accurate, how do you know where they ate out, and what that would cost?
MR. WITNESS: I eat out. I know what it costs.
(Insert further dialogue about what constitutes a moderately priced restaurant in different cities. Judge yawns.)
SERAPHIM: Let’s move to the next line. What did your client say about her clothes buying habits?
MR. WITNESS: She said she brought only the best, from places like Bloomingdale’s, Macy’s and high end boutiques.
SERAPHIM: So how did you assign a value to those shopping habits?
MR. WITNESS: Again I turned to personal experience.
SERAPHIM: (~blinks~) You buy women’s clothing?
WITNESS: (~turns white with fury~)
JUDGE: (~snickers~)
OPPOSING COUNSEL: (~bangs head on table~)
Yep, its been one of those cases. I have been making friends all over. Yesterday, as I finished a day and a half of cross examination of the other party, I got permission to review the sheaf of notes she had been referring to during her testimony. My opposite number and I went into a room to look them over. Among the grocery lists, sheets of addition and notes to self about husband (”he was controlling. And made me wear tennis outfits. He bought me clothes. It was awful!”) was a freshly penned note: “SERAPHIM IS A JERK!”
We looked at it in silence, and then laughed.
“I suppose,” I said, “that if we don’t stipulate to that the judge will just take judicial notice of it.”
The best summation was offered by opposing counsel. During cross examination, my client testified how he was saving money to put the child of the marriage through college:
CLIENT: In fact, she’s already talking about going to law school!
OPPOSING COUNSEL: (~pause~) Well, at least there’s still time to talk her out of it.
JUDGE: (~snorts~)
SERAPHIM: (~nods vigorously~)
I started a four day (more or less) alimony trial today. In this day and age, it is more of an accounting exercise than in the old days, when eight by ten glossies were all the rage. Very sad. Not to mention excruciating, all of which led to the most sparkling repartee of the day. It occurred at 4:50 p.m., about two hours into the cross examination of the alimony claimant by yours truly:
Seraphim: Your honor, I know it is a little bit early, but I should ask: I’m about to shift gears from preliminary matters to questioning about the eight financial affidavits the witness has filed. Should I go forward, or do you want to adjourn for the day?
Judge: Hmmmm. How long do you think that line of questioning will take?
Seraphim: Oh, half a day or so.
Judge (wincing): Ok. We’ll see everybody back here in the morning.
Yep. Not just a blogger. Not just a subdeacon. A master of arresting dialogue as well!
By the way, if you are one of the people who I owe correspondence to, I haven’t forgotten you. It may be this weekend though before I emerge from this thing.
DSS court always provides a microcosm of life. By using the term “DSS court”, I mean court held to consider the cases of families whose children, for one reason or another, have been removed from the home and put in foster care. I am on an appointed list to represent parents in those cases. It doesn’t pay much, but it allows me to exercise my social work instincts, and when things go right can be very gratifying.
Since there is often a certain amount of finger pointing in these cases, both parents are assigned their own lawyer. I go through spells, but more often than not I end up representing the mom. There is no design in that. Case assignment is purely a matter of luck of the draw. Being top heavy with female clients has, however, given me a front row seat into what seem to be troubling changes. I have done these cases since I started practicing law, lo many years ago, and it used to be that they were either alcohol related or what we called dirty house petitions — where the home environment is so filthy that it is really not safe for kids to be in, especially kids who are young enough to crawl around on the floor, cramming odds and ends into their mouths. Both of these types are considered quaint, almost charming, these days. Instead, we have seen cases evolve, first into cocaine, then crack and now methamphetamines. It is in the latter phase that women are increasingly prominent, especially women who I think of as soccer moms — late twenties or early thirties, attractive and reasonably well educated and with several kids. Oh, and massively addicted. Sometimes Dad is also addicted; sometimes the drug use is a kind of hobby she engages in while Dad is at work. Other times, as might be expected, Dad is not in the picture.
I had three soccer mom cases this past week, all at different stages, with different degrees of hope. You can liken progress in these cases to water moving through a funnel. At the beginning, there are a great many choices and a lot of manuveuring room. With time, though, if matters do not improve the choices begin to disappear until there is finally no choice, and the funnel completely empties, leaving nothing.
The first case is reasonably new. The baby is very young, and unlike many cases was not born with drugs in his body. The child was taken thereafter, though, due to domestic violence with a live in boyfriend and some admissions of drug use, including the drug du jour. My woman, K, is responding well. She voluntarily took a drug test at the Department and was told she passed it. She has arranged counseling, and will start that soon. The boy friend is problematic — she is loath to give him up and insists there was no domestic violence. We will have to see how that develops. More encouraging, she passed what I think of as the inspection. As I talk to her I am optimistic about her prospects.
The inspection bears some explanation. I always look for signs of drug use in my clients. Part of that is their affect and behavior. With meth, that expands to looking for the presence of sores that break out all over the body. They are usually small, and scab over, but are unmistakeable. A narcotics agent once told me that the sores are a reaction of the body when it is desperately trying to push out the toxins left by the drug, causing the skin eruptions. I don’t know if that is accurate, but there is a connection between the two. So as I speak to my client, I look at her arms and face, looking for the sores. I try not to appear obvious, nor do I want it to appear that I have any improper interest in the person, but I want to know what is really going on.
In any event, I encouraged my first mom. As I was about to send her off, however, I was told by the social worker that the first drug test had been inconclusive. It was a new test kit and they had been unfamiliar with it, and were not sure that the outcome was correct. I walked away with my client.
“Are you clean? Would you pass another test?”
“Sure. I haven’t done anything in months.”
“OK,” I replied. “Go by the department on your way out and take another one. Lets get this issue put to bed.”
She agreed and left. I turned to my next case. This one was just about on its last legs. A long history of drug abuse was present. She had lost three previous children, and this baby was taken at birth last fall. Shortly thereafter, however, my woman went into rehab. She completed it, but had subsequently fallen off the wagon once or twice. She looked pretty good this week though. She told me she had not used since February. DSS, however, wanted to proceed to termination of her rights.
The real problem was that the mom’s life was utterly dysfunctional. She had never been able to hold a job and her housing situation was chaotic. DSS, obliged under the law to attempt to reunify families, had never made a referral for vocational help or to try to help her get housing. For this woman, making progress in one area did not address all her problems. She needed help in multiple areas to bring her life under control. Still, she had lost three other children. I told her that I thought the case was grim, but all we could do was take a shot at it in the hearing.
As it turned out, the judge agreed. He refused to approve the plan of termination, and ordered that the Department provide referrals and services in the other areas of dysfunction. When he finished, I took my client back to my usual spot in the back of the court room.
“We really dodged a bullet today,” I said, trying to keep my voice low. “To the extent we could win, we won. But I have to emphasize to you that this will be your final chance. If this fails, you will lose your baby. Will you commit to working hard?”
She was crying. “I will,” she promised.
“OK. Now this is important. Call me and let me know how it is going. Call me if it is good and call me if it is bad. I have to know what is happening so I know how I can help.” All too often I only see my clients in the courtroom. My best work is often done outside the courtroom, in phone calls to social workers and police. I beg my people to stay in touch.
My woman agreed, and left. I turned my attention to my final case. This one was the worst. My client had told me earlier that morning that she had decided to sign her children to DSS so they could be adopted. To be honest, she did not have much leeway. Her choices had come down to signing her children over, or having a judge terminate her relationship with them. That doesn’t make it easier. She looked a mess: sores all over face and arms, simultaneously jumpy and mournful. I took her into a back room and sat down with her, and we went over the relinquishment papers.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “We can have a hearing.” But she knew that she had reached the end of the road. We went into the other room with the social worker, and she signed the papers. Although I had gone over them with her, the law in our state requires that the agency read them to her at the time of signing. The phrases flowed by:
“…consent to the adoption of my children…”
“…will hereafter have no legal or parental right of any kind to the child…”
She sat at the table and wept. I paced in back of her. This had once been a case with promise, one that I thought would end well. It hadn’t. Whatever I had done had failed.
After the papers were signed, I walked her out of the building, and watched her cross the street, still sobbing, shoulders slumped. As she left, one of the social workers came up to me on the courthouse steps. She was holding a small plastic cup, latex gloves and a sealed drug test kit. I looked at her blankly. All I could think of was that for some reason they were going to ask me to take a test.
“Do you know where K is? We thought she was coming for a drug test. We expected her several hours ago.”
My own shoulders slumped. K had promised me that as soon as she left the courthouse she would go take the test. It was now apparent that she was not. I sensed another long and bitter struggle coming on.
As I say, the cases in that court are only a microcosm of life for us all. Just as my clients face situations where their choices, their ability to change, become increasingly circumscribed, the truth of the matter is so do we all. As with K, we start with a great multitude of choices, many of which are good and open more choice, others of which slam doors. Wrong choices reduce our choices, as we become trapped in passions and in idolatry. Addiction to sin is as deadly as addiction to meth, and just as surely will lead us down an increasingly narrow path.
Other times, like my second client, we are unexpectedly given a reprieve, a chance to make right choices and rebuild our lives. We may summon our courage and take one step, and God will provide the remaining strength and courage, and we can leave that swirling, descending path.
Other times, like my third client, we reach that final choice. I always explain to my parents that termination is the equivalent of death sentence on a parent and child relationship. All other choices are foreclosed. There is nothing else to do. That is where we find ourselves at the moment of our death. For good or ill, we have made our choices. We close our eyes and enter eternity, just as the last drop of water swirls out of the bottom of the funnel.
In court yesterday during a hearing in a DSS case I heard a man testify that he struggled every day with addictions. “What addictions?’ the attorney asked. “All kinds of things,” he replied. “The desire to drive my car, to have women, all kinds of things.” The lawyer mocked him for this, since there was evidence that the witness had a substance abuse problem, and driving without a license and infidelity seemed to be the least of his problems.
As I listened to the exchange, though, I wasn’t quite so ready to write off his testimony. Like many of us, the man had so many severe passions — which is what addictions truly are — that I could understand why he would pick and choose. It may be that driving and women were passions he thought maybe he could deal with, before turning his attention to his other problems. I’ll also confess to being disarmed by the man’s candor. At one point, he was asked to say when a recent conviction had taken place. He furrowed his brow and shook his head, but then looked to the judge (who had presided over that event) as if to say “Can you help me out, dude? You were there!” The judge grinned and shook his head. He probably couldn’t have said when it was either.
But the discussion about addiction is what caught my attention. I have been reading a slim volume titled Breaking the Chains of Addiction by Victor Mihailoff. The author is a substance abuse specialist from Australia, a recovering addict himself, who is also an Orthodox Christian. His insights about addiction from an Orthodox perspective are very interesting. He does not in the least discount the biochemical and genetic aspects that underlie much addictive behavior, but he insists that the true answer is found in spiritual healing. Indeed, Mihailoff starts with the premise that addicts have been given a particularly difficult cross to bear because they have inherent spiritual depth:
We can see from life experiences that some people who do not have the addictive genes conclude that they have stronger willpower than people who suffer from addiction and judge the latter to be inferior. They are very wrong! God does not send trials and tribulations to any of us beyond our own strength. It is those people who posess the ‘potentially strongest’ willpower that God allows to be tested by addiction. ‘But where sin abounded, grace did much more abound: that as sin hath reigned unto death, even so might grace reign through righteousness unto eternal life by Jesus Christ our Lord.” Romans 5:20-21.
Given the spiritual foundation that he identifies, Mihailoff turns to spiritual healing. He does not discard medical and therapuetic approches, but insists that by themselves they are inadequate. In a sense, this echoes the semi-spiritualized approach found in organizations like Alcoholics Anonymous, but the author does not stop with the twelve steps. Instead, he argues that the addict must work closely with a priest or spiritual father in formulating a rule of prayer, frequent confession and communion and participation in the life and services of the Church. There will be setbacks and failures, but in the long run Mihailoff believes that only immersion in the spiritual life of the Church will truly destroy addiction. Replace the malevolent addiction, he concludes, with a spiritual addiction to Christ and His Church.
I appreciate the thrust of the book. I work with a lot of addicted people: drugs, alcohol, sex, what have you. I am certainly not a substance abuse expert in the real sense of the phrase, but I observe a lot of those behaviors. Real life and practical experience tells us that the addict’s behaviors must be replaced with an entirely different set of behaviors, and there is no better place to find that than within the therapeutic house of the Church.
But I also think those of us without technical addictions need to closely consider the advice in the book. In practical terms I see little difference in the damage wrought by traditional addictive behaviors on the one hand and the passions on the other. If my addiction, for example, is poorly controlled anger, it will break up my family and destroy my life — and soul – every bit as effectively as alcohol. In other words, in a spiritual sense we are all addicts. I do not need to get in my car and go out seeking women. I can sit on my couch and be just as destructive. Whether we have a disorder recognized by psychiatry, or simply struggle with the passions identified in the tradition of the Church, all of us need the healing that can be found only in the Church, the gift of Christ.
In comments on the last post, my friend Steve expressed some mild irritation at the idea of criticism directed at the United States from people or countries overseas. I should say that Steve and I have a history. He is a very fine tenor, and used to stand next to me (a bass) in the choir at our church. We were probably a bad influence on each other, but that is no surprise since everyone knows that the choir is where the behavior problems are sent. He used to hold his young son as he sang, and we would sometimes pass the child around. That is where I learned that kids that eat Fruit Loops and then throw up will produce a product with a certain technicolor effect.
In any event, Steve eventually left us for a Roman Catholic church. He has reasons that he gives if asked, but I always knew that it was because he was tired of having to stand next to a bass who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. My suspicions were confirmed several months later when I was kicked out of the choir and sent to the front of the church, where Father could keep an eye on me. Only now am I starting to get over the sense of failure; indeed, the almost fatal blow to my self esteem.
Be that as it may, Steve’s irritation at negative things being said about us by people in other places is shared by many. A year or two ago I had a small dust-up on a similar theme with another blogger, who quoted a story I had related about what an icon seller in the Plaka had said about the war and then wrote a “don’t you hate it when Greeks who I think are jerks anyway talk like that about us” blog entry.
Of course, I spend my life listening to other people’s opinions. Judges feel free to express themselves toward me, as do opposing counsel. I pay attention to judges, but listen to opposing counsel mostly out of amusement, although you never know when you might learn something worthwhile. I listen closely to my wife, and I give great attention to my bishop. On the other hand, I feel free to discount the statements of people who are trying to get me to represent them (”you’re the best lawyer around here, that’s what everyone says!”) and of some non-Orthodox people who try to persuade me to get out before it’s too late (”they’re idolators! Accept Jesus as your personal savior now!”). It’s all a matter of deciding if the person speaking has some knowledge or insight that makes his or her opinion edifying. Discernment. That’s what it calls for. Sometimes the statements are helpful (”that was pretty good, but next time…”) and sometimes simply concise and entirely accurate (”you’re an idiot!”) . You just can’t argue with the truth.
Applying this to the case at hand, I always like to know what people in other places think of us. In one respect, it is only fair to let people take their shot. After all, not a day passes when we don’t read in the paper that Dick Cheney or Condaleeza Rice or Donald Rumsfeld is giving some poor country a good dressing down over one thing or another. Fair is fair.
Certainly sometimes I don’t agree with criticism from other lands, but other times the commentator just might have that bit of distance that can improve perception, and I value those insights. In the case of Metropolitan Hierotheos’ comments, I doubly value them. Not only is he not a hothead, painting graffitti on the subway walls in Athens, but he has unusual discernment in spiritual matters. In fact, in the past I have called dibs on the presidency of his fan club, in case one is ever established. And while what he said was not the most pleasant thing to hear, the truth of the matter is that there is some truth to it. Although if he had asked me — and Bishops never actually ask me about these things — I would have started by suggesting that he not quote Frank Schaffer, but that’s just me.
The truth of the matter is that we do suffer from a certain theologically based hubris. Call it what you will — Manifest Destiny, One Nation Under God or The Power of Pride — we don’t like to acknowledge that just like everybody else in the world we put our pants on one leg at a time. Worse, there is at least one politically powerful segment of the populace that is convinced that God has a list, and on it He has put USA at the very top in big bold letters, highlighted and with little hearts and flowers drawn around it, and then underneath it has grudgingly written, in tiny letters “and everybody else”. He didn’t really want to, of course, but He’s stuck with John 3:16 which unfortunately does say “the world”. No problem there, though, because we are also going to send missionaries all over the world to make sure that everyone else is fragmented into 25,000 different Christian denominations, so they can become just like us and maybe some day make their way to the top of God’s list with us. All of which is an odd position to take in a country which, on the one hand, is deemed to be the most intensely Christian nation on earth and, on the other hand, handsomely rewards pornographers, abortionists, gangster rappers and Dan Brown.
(Calm down, Seraphim! Breathe deeply…there…there. It’s OK.)
Of course, just because you don’t mind other people criticizing us does not mean that you have to think they are perfect. Obviously they are not. We are all sinners, and every nation has its own particular set of problems and failings. It goes with the territory. Sometimes we have not helped. For example, my three weeks in Greece suggested to me that the Greeks’ biggest problem might be that they are increasingly influenced by our culture. I absolutely concede that three weeks does not make an expert, and I acknowledge that, but there it is, I expressed an opinion. Now, of course, I have probably irritated all of my Greek readers, and they will write me nasty letters and leave in droves, leaving an empty space on my cluster map on the sidebar, although I will say in my defense that my icon selling friend in Athens agrees. But the bottom line is that Greeks and Russians and Europeans and everyone else have major shortcomings. I’m OK with that. I do too.
Having accepted the mild rebuke from the Metropolitan, does that mean I think that all of the Protestants in this country are doomed — although in fairness the attitude that His Eminence described is not purely a Protestant phenomenon? Absolutely not. As Steve points out, both he and I have deep roots in Protestant churches. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that the Orthodox do not have the market cornered on love. I know a great many Protestants whose prospects of entering heaven are, I suspect, far greater than my own, because of the generous way in which they express love. I have argued before that love — the willingness and effort to wholeheartedly love God and one’s neighbor — is the keystone of true Christianity. The presence of that great loving multitude, however, does not change the overall truth of the Metropolitan’s statement.
There you have it. One blog entry. In it, I’ve managed to outrage Americans AND deeply offend Greeks, all in the space of just a few paragraphs. Some days you just have it, if you know what I mean.
These thoughts by Metropolitan Hierotheos of Nafpaktos have thus far been little noticed in the Orthodox blogosphere. I first read of it on Fr. Jonathan’s Second Terrace, who linked the English translation found here, at what appears to be a non-Orthodox blog. If you live in America, take a deep breath and read it prayerfully. His Eminence is certainly one of the foremost theologians living today. His thoughts about American society are well worth our consideration.
Ancient Church 