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This past summer, adrift from school, I had given me the opportunity to do a little free form reading, like I used to do. Just like the good old days.
One of the things I found was an older account of the Desert Fathers of Egypt, titled Paradise of the Holy Fathers. This is a reprint of a translation of an ancient syriac manuscript made by E. A. Wallis Budge, curator of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities in the British Musuem, and first published in 1904. The translation is a little stilted in places, and for those of us used to reading other manuscripts about the Fathers translated by Sister Benedicta Ward and Norman Russell the differences will be obvious. Still, it is a fascinating book, if for no other reason than because it gives us a third source for learning of these remarkable men and women. This one was written by Bishop Palladius in about 420. Palladius himself was a monk, who spent many years in the desert. He knew many of the famous Fathers personally, and heard tales of the others.
For those unfamiliar with the Fathers, it could be said that they were the founders and the fruit of an enormous movement toward monasticism that bloomed in the wastelands of Egypt beginning in the third century. At its height, there were thousands of monks both in community and living as anchorites in cells, caves and other solitary places. The stories of these monks are full of astonishing events. Miracles were almost commonplace, and the holiness found in the desert was of a sort that modern readers find hard to believe. Interestingly, the Fathers have apparently been picked up by some edgier elements in Protestantism, as examples of “x-treme x-tianity”. Unfortunately, the tales of these men and women lose context, power and meaning when taken outside of the Church that nurtured them.
Anyway, one of the interesting things I ran across was a list of 16 guidelines Palladius wrote to the prefect for the area, Lausus. They reflect the simplicity of thought and living that characterized the monastics:
Let the following be before thy mind in all thine acts, and thou shall sin in no particular:
1. To do good to the fool and to bury the dead; both are alike.
2. It is meet that a man should put on armor over the breast, and the word of our Redeemer Christ over grief; armor and shield will hide the breast, but only faith and action can hide the soul.
3. As it is possible to see the skill of the painter on a small tablet, so a small gift shows the greatness of the disposition of the soul.
4. Have no confidence in the belief that that which is placed outside thy soul is thy possession.
5. Clothes and raiment drape statues, but habits and manners drape men.
6. An evil word is the beginning of evil deeds.
7. Speak thou according to what is right, and where it is right, and concerning the things which are right, and hearken not unto that which is not right.
8. It is better to shake a stone vainly than to utter a vain word, and it is better to be under subjection to the Barbarians than to evil passions.
9. The excellence of a horse is made apparent in battle, and the disposition of a friend is put to the test in tribulation.
10. It is impossible to divide the sea, and it is also impossible to still the waves, although for them it is always easy to still themselves.
11. The wise and God-fearing man is he who hates that which is not right.
12. The gentle and gracious man is he who treads pride under foot; but he who is set upon that which is contrary of this is one who is governed by arrogance.
13. Constant prayer is the strength, and the armour, and the wall of the soul.
14. Wine makes warm the body, and the word of God warms the soul.
15. Know thou that not even much time will bring oblivion upon one act which thou would hide.
16. The believing mind is a temple of God which it is meet for a man to adorn daily and to burn incense therein, inasmuch as it is God Who dwelleth there.
I know. Its not precisely cheerful, but it has been on my mind lately, for a couple of reasons. The first is a kind of ongoing, formless meditation on the words of St. Silouan, telling us the words of Christ to the saint: “Keep your mind in hell, and despair not.” Of course, we are always reminded to be mindful of death, or for that matter, of misfortune in general. My (relatively) young assistant suffers a stroke, a pregnant woman in the midwest is murdered and her baby cut out of her belly, 34 (more or less) people just minding their own business on a Baghdad street die when a kerosene truck explodes. What is to say that we, or our loved ones, or simply people we respect or enjoy or feel some kinship with will not suffer some other seemingly aimless fate?
The answer, of course, is nothing, which brings us to the second reason. My good seminary friend and spiritual brother wrote me this evening to say that a young friend of his died today, in an automobile accident. My friend had been encouraging him through some difficult times in the last year or two and now, as his young friend started climbing out of a deep morass, he is struck down.
Here is where Orthodox spiritual fathers and Baptists preachers find themselves in full agreement: it could be me next. In five minutes, five days, five weeks.
What if it is?
Let’s start from there, and in true lawyer fashion try to frame the issues. Our instinct is to say “how can this happen to the best and the youngest and the sweetest?” What we are really saying is this: God, justify yourself. You could have killed that grumpy subdeacon, and it would be no loss. But why this young person? Why this person I love? Why my parent, why my spouse, why my child?
But, I think, that is not the issue. We all have to die, although a sizeable minority among us resists even that truth. We die today, we die tomorrow, we die whenever.
The issue is this: given that we all die, what happens next? Lets get past the event and into the meaning. What is the true significance of death? Not theoretically, not within an eschatological framework (although it is pretty darn eschatological), not in a worldview sense. I’m not even interested in opening the tollhouse debate, even though St. Theophan the Recluse had a perspective on that can of worms which resonates deeply in my soul. Forget that, and ask simply, what is it?
Elder Paisios of the Holy Mountain gave as good a summary as any. When he was once asked where the soul goes when it leaves the body, he answered: “Well, when the watch stops working, it goes to the hands of the watchmaker. In the same way, our soul goes into the hands of God.”
He also said this: “When I see Christians cry because their fathers passed away, I am upset, for they neither believe nor understand that death is simply a journey to life of another kind.”
The Elder is not speaking of a belief in universalism, of salvation across the board. Instead, he is speaking from that most traditional of Orthodox perspectives, that our life is given to us so that we may repent. In the parable of the prodigal son, the adventure begins when the son repents, and reaches its consummation when the father runs to meet him upon his return. The repentance begins the journey. The Father completes the journey. In our litanies, we express the same idea by praying that “we may complete the remaining time of our life in peace and repentance.” We do not pray for long life, we do not pray for health, wealth or good fortune. We simply pray for peace and repentance.
Of course, I would be the first to say that it does no good to pound people about the head and shoulder, shrieking “repent!” as loudly as we can. That does not bring repentance. How can we, who do not know the hearts of others, be so presumptuous as to pass judgment upon them? We only bring judgment on ourselves. To be sure, there is no doubt that everyone we know is in need of repentance. It is just that so often we take it upon ourselves to explain to them precisely what we think they need to repent of.
Instead, repentance starts with us, repenting of our individual sins. Quietly, without fanfare, without embellishment, without beating our breast, but simply by living with a contrite heart. Like any other condition, repentance is a transmittable condition. People around us don’t even need to know that we are living our lives in repentance, only that there is something about us that speaks to the depths of their own heart. Repentance is an invisible condition. The most joyous people in the history of the Church have been those who live in constant repentance. It is not all depression and sackcloth. It is clear eyed sorrow, and hopeful joy. And if we strive for it in ourselves, we will find it taking root in those around us.
Maybe, I am thinking, our most fervent prayers for others should be for the repentance that we also seek. If our hearts yearn for the welcome of the Father, then we must start with repentance. The same is true for each of us, for those we love, and for those we have trouble loving. Pray for good repentance for yourself. Pray for it for your loved ones. Leave the deaths of others to the inscrutable judgment of God, but assimilate your own death. Make it a part of your life, and when the moment does come, it will not be so inscrutable to you.
Death is not the issue, for it comes to us all. Repentance is the issue, because sadly sometimes it does not come at all.
There is at least one advantage to hanging around a courtroom, as excruciating as that often is. Lawyers — especially bored lawyers — are often excellent tellers of tales. Typically these are true, or mostly true, or maybe kind of true. You have to decide. I’ve heard ghost stories, love stories, stories of sleeping judges and bemused jurors. Every once in a while, believe it or not, I hear a story that makes me glad I’m Orthodox.
I heard one today, from a friend of mine. He grew up back in a mountain cove a county or two over, and turned out just fine. He is a deacon in his Baptist church, but is fascinated by my own adventures. He loves to hear my stories of incense and icons and candles, and what life is like in the northern reaches of Pennsylvania. Today he returned the favor by telling me about a revival he experienced as a kid back in the mountains.
If you are Orthodox, you probably have figured out that revivals are just an attempt to bring confession back into the protestant church. Highly emotional, focused on reminding a person of their backsliding ways, each session is capped off by a long altar call, characterized by about a kazillion verses of ‘Just as I am’ and the evangelist’s eagle-eyed search for people wearing a guilty expression. In my own experience, I would often think about responding to the call, not so much out of conviction but in the hope that I was the one they were waiting on, and once I took the stroll up front we could call it a night.
Anyway, my friend’s story:
His cousin, John, had been drafted into the military, and had gone off to do his hitch in the service. Several years later he returned, and people in the cove were struck by the change in him. Tall, proud, strong, and he had even picked up a smattering of foreign talk, like ‘wee wee’ and ‘bone jure’. It goes without saying that John was quite the object of feminine desire, and life was good as he settled back into his job at the sawmill.
After only a few months, it was time for revival at the little church in the cove. An annual event, it was unheard of that anyone might not attend. It was not that a person felt like their salvation was in peril. Once saved, always saved, after all, was the theological watchword of the cove. Instead, the attraction was seeing who might become overcome by grief and remorse, and stumble to the front to rededicate their life to the Lord. That was an excellent way of confirming whether or not gossip was actually true.
John, therefore, although changed by his foreign experiences, succumbed to peer pressure, made his way to the church with everyone else, and settled in to listen to the evangelist. This year they had a real barn burner. From one cove over, he was a graduate of Fruitland Seminary near Hendersonville, where he apparently majored in pew jumping and arm waving. After two hours of vivid descriptive material about Hell and the contents thereof, everyone was primed for the climax — the altar call. Directing the congregation to the appropriate page, Myrtle struck the first chords on the piano, and the whole crowd surged into — of course — ‘Just as I am’.
This is what John had been waiting for. Foreign language skills were not all he picked up in the service. He had also perfected the art of throwing his voice. He had neglected to tell anyone about that skill. He had a plan.
The altar call started out slowly. The only volunteer was Jeb, who immediately stumbled weeping and sobbing to the front. Jeb was 45 years old, and this marked the 40th time he had been saved. Like the turning of the leaves in the fall, it was expected. The next volunteers, however, were slow in coming.
At that point, everyone in the church heard a disembodied voice, apparently emanating from the ceiling, near the fan.
“Bill!” it said.
Bill was sitting about midway back in the crowd. His mind was wandering, and he was not immediately paying attention. He would pay for that.
“Bill!” the voice returned, louder and more insistent this time. “I know you’ve been messing around with Widder Dockery! Get up there and repent!”
In fact, Bill had been messing around with the Widder Dockery, who was seated with the Baptist Ladies’ group toward the back of the church. She had been paying attention, and her eyes were as big as full moons. Bill himself was in a state of shock, and had not yet complied with the voice.
By this time, my friend, about eight at the time, had climbed up to stand on the pew so as to see the proceedings more clearly. Prior to this the most entertaining thing about church was sitting behind Susie Robinson and pulling her pig tails. This was better.
“Bill!” the voice thundered. Clearly God was getting impatient.
Bill was galvanized into action, and tumbling from his pew he half-sprinted, half-shambled down the aisle. He could tell from the heavy breathing that Widder Dockery was close behind. My friend was fascinated. Widder Dockery was not a small woman, and he had never seen all of her component parts move in such a concerted and willful fashion. He had never realized that adults were capable of such speed and athleticism.
As the couple collapsed in front of the pulpit, the singing faltered. Clearly something powerful was going on, but just as importantly there was some concern about who might be called out next.
“Donna!”
“Wilfred!”
“Jack!”
Finally the voice seemed to be satisfied, and a dozen or so bewildered sinners were being ministered to by the Fruitland graduate. The revival was slated to last four nights. To say that everyone planned to be there every night would be a great understatement.
The next two nights were similar to the first. Person after person, man and woman — it seemed that everyone who had reached puberty was called to account, although some were given a kind of grudging respect, like Don and Wilma who were congratulated on ‘a right fair mating’, but then told in no uncertain terms to repent. My friend was captivated, even as his parents debated whether or not he should be there. This was religion! This must be what it was like for Moses and the Israelites! He considered a career in the ministry.
The mystery collapsed, however on the last night of the revival. By that time it was standing room only, as people from the coves on either side made the journey over the mountains to view the proceedings. One person was absent, however, that person being John. Being the omniscient diety had produced a powerful thirst, and he had travelled to Asheville to slake it. Back in the church, everyone waited breathlessly for the voice to return, but to their immense disappointment and relief, God failed to show up. Then they realized that John had not either. It did not take too long for the association to be made.
In the end, my friend decided against a career in the pulpit, settling on law instead. You get to hear confessions in law, too, except there isn’t much you can do about them.
He finished his story. “Do you have confession in your church?” he asked. I allowed as we did, but it was not near as exciting as in his childhood church. I also allowed that I was glad it was not. The next time you are embarrassed to stand with the priest in front of the icon of Christ to gve confession, think about this tale. It could be worse, you know.
Well…darn. It has been a long time. Oddly enough, however, there was absolutely no indication that my absence caused rates of bad things to skyrocket, depression to be widespread, or generalized pain of heart to run rampant. So there. An excellent lesson in humility.
To be honest, the first week of non-posting was all about sloth, and a general loathing of the entire blog business. What starts out as a way to see if anyone would actually read what you write, turns into an amazed awareness that people actually do read this stuff, which inevitably leads to the final phase, which can be described generally as “O my God, what if I am misleading people and leading them astray.” That’s where that whole “good defense at the dread judgment seat of Christ” business that I intone every Sunday kind of comes back and grabs you. That, and the fact that sometimes the whole thing is just mildly irritating.
The second week, however, was the result of two separate events, both equally sobering. The first was a talk my Bishop had with me in Johnstown last weekend. Part of what was said stunned me so thoroughly as to require reconstruction after the fact, as I retreated into “huh?” mode during the conversation itself. There are a lot of words for that conversation: exciting, breath taking, daunting. All of those come to mind, but for now let’s rest on ’sobering’. It reminded me that all those trips to Johnstown are not simply for the pleasure of seeing friends and listening to learned teachers. It is also about preparing oneself for ministries of various types, and with that comes a great deal of responsibility. There we are, back at that ‘dread judgment seat again’. There’s no escaping that, is there?
It would be wrong to describe the contents of the conversation. There is still a lot of water that needs to pass over the dam before anybody needs to worry about anything. Even if nothing comes to pass, though, I cannot say how much it meant to me for the Metropolitan to take a few minutes to talk to me. He’s a busy man, with a lot more responsibility than I’ll ever know, and for him to stop and talk turkey with a southern subdeacon left a memory that I warmly remember. No matter what happens.
Yet upon returning home, there was yet more sobering news. My longtime assistant, who had not been feeling well late the week before, was diagnosed as having suffered a stroke. She is ten years younger than I, and we have worked together for almost fifteen years. That longevity produces the kind of relationship where we know before anyone says anything what must be done. I have been learning this past week just how much she does. Regardless, everyone is hopeful, since younger people who suffer a stroke very frequently bounce back. There is physical and occupational therapy ahead of her, and it goes without saying that this has badly shaken up she and her husband, but with God’s mercy she will be back. Of your charity, please keep Paula and her husband in your prayers.
But there we are again. A stroke, in a young, healthy, vibrant person. For the third time, the dread judgment seat comes to mind. Clearly, there is a message being sent. It is a reminder for us all, young or old, vibrant or angst-ridden, wealthy or poor. As we each struggle to live a Christian life, may we always keep this upper most in our mind. St. Silouan of the Holy Mountain used to say “Keep your mind in hell, and despair not.” I think what he was suggesting is that if we live in sobriety, if we stay focused on the only true realities of life, then maybe the dread judgment seat will not be dreadful at all, but the start of a new and joyous existence, one not marked by concern over blogs or fear of misleading others or what our fragile bodies may do next, but of inexpressible freedom and ecstasy before the Throne of God. That is worth looking forward to.
On an unabashedly joyous note, today my classmate, Fr. Deacon Gregory Justiano, became simply Fr. Gregory, as he was ordained to the Holy Priesthood by His Eminence, Metropolitan Nicholas. Fr. Gregory and his priest, Fr. Luke, have been offering periodic Hispanic liturgies in Connecticut, and I think that Fr. Gregory intends to do mission work among the Hispanic community. Axios!
Holy Trinity Seminary in Jordanville, a part of ROCOR, hosts a very intensive summer session in liturgical music every year. It is a three year program, and the director, Father Andre, cheerfully admits that the students are deliberately overloaded and saturated. Olga attended one session a couple of years ago, and returned pale and wan, but with considerably more knowledge about Russian music than when she left. One year was enough for her. After that she turned her attention to more recreational activities, like bouncing around Bulgaria. I know of at least one person who finished, however. Meg, who writes Muttonings, is a proud graduate. She remembers Olga, correctly identifying her as the pale and wan girl.
Anyway, I ran across a link to a program BBC Radio put together recently, about this past summer’s session. It is about a half hour long, and is not only very interesting, but has some beautiful music as well. When standing around the grill gets tiring this weekend, give it a listen. You will be very happy you spent the time.
Quite different from the first recommendation. After I posted the BBC link Olga, no longer pale and wan but fully recovered, reminded me that Labor Day festivities are also complemented by high culture. That, she said, is best provided by Geoffrey Chaucer’s Owne Blogge. Not the first entry, offputtingly titled “hotte or nat”, but the spoiler-ridden (or so it is claimed) ‘Serpentes on a shippe’, a gripping retelling of you-know-what. A representative slice, to whette y appetitte:
Sir Neville cam to wher the folke of the shippe wyth the snakes yfought, and he sawe the bodyes of the dede and the sight grieved hym sore, for the battel had waxed passinge hard and the folke had little wherewithal to defend hemselves. And Sir Neville then fared wood as a lion and with his swerd he cutte in twayne the snakes that at him lept.
‘Builde a walle for to kepen out the serpentes’ he seyde, and the folk obeyed hym and piled up her luggage, the whiche did stop the onslaught of the serpentes as an othir walle had long agoon ystopped the onslaught of the Scottes. And the WOMAN WYTH A BABYE AND AN ACCENT coud sum thyng of leechcraft and so put salues and poulticez on thos who had been bitten and yet had nat perisshed. And oon of the FOUNDLINGES was bite and hys arm was sore sore.
At what other blog can you obtain, in two successive short entries, both the sacred and psuedo-literate profane? Nowhere, I’m thinking. On balance, I recommend the BBC program more than Chaucer, but if you are in one of those moods…
Ancient Church 