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I know that this is capricious, but I’m moving again. Not moving really, but returning to the original site. The technical problems seem to be worked out, so I’m homeward bound. Please visit me there: www.evlogeite.com .
From my bishop, Metropolitan Nicholas, of the American Carpatho-Russian Orthodox Diocese:
To the Venerable Priesthood and Diaconate in Christ, Clergy and Seminarians of this God-Saved Diocese, and especially to our Beloved Faithful, our Devoted Children in Grace,
Christ is among us! He is and always shall be!
Dear Clergy and Faithful:
I write to you on the threshold of the Great Fast, our annual forty-day journey to the great and happy Day of the Paschal Victory of Jesus Christ.
I write to you out of my profound desire that you and I, in the Paschal Celebration, may enter into the joy of the Angels on that day.
And so I take this opportunity to meditate on the way of joy, and the path to the Paschal sunshine. I offer you my dearest invitation to walk with me in the only narrow way through the wilderness and the mountains, through the valley of shadows, and finally to the Rising of the Sun.
As your Archpastor, who fervently intercedes for your soul and the salvation of your family, I beckon and beseech you, come with me and all of us, into the Desert of Forty Days and Nights, the Great Fast.
We fast from food and pleasure because our Lord required this of us. He expected us to fast. In speaking to His Apostles on the character of the Christian fast, He said “When you fast, do not put on a long face like the hypocrites do” (Matthew 6:16). We must pay attention to the first phrase: “When you fast” – not “If ever you fast”. The understanding is that during the long period of time between the Ascension and the Second Coming of the Lord, Christians will and must fast: “But the days will come when the Bridegroom shall be taken away from them, and then shall they fast in those days” ( Mark 2:20).
The wisdom of fasting springs up from human nature itself. All of mankind understands that fasting is necessary in religion, whether the true religion of the Church, or the shadowy forms of religion outside Holy Tradition. Even primitive societies and pre-Christian pagans understood that fasting was a necessary part of one’s approach to divinity in worship and prayer.
In Christianity, all religion is fulfilled and answered, just as the Law and the Prophets are completely fulfilled by the New Covenant of the Lord. All the basic notions of fasting are clarified by the Gospel of Jesus Christ and the Councils of the Church.
Our Lord Himself fasted forty days in the wilderness immediately after He was baptized by the Forerunner in the Jordan River, and immediately before the beginning of His public preaching and ministry. For forty days He fasted in an empty place, in an arid place of desolation and haunt of jackals.
Now remember that Jesus Christ was fully divine, as we easily believe, but He was also fully human. While He never sinned, nor was He afflicted by any lust, nevertheless He suffered the pains of this life. Thus He was hungry, thirsty and exhausted from His sojourn in the desert.
He also fully suffered as a human the onslaught of the Devil’s three temptations. It is important to remember that the perfect surrender of our Lord’s human will to His Divine Will was never easy, but was as difficult as any obedience made by you or me. And so Jesus Christ, fully aware that He is the Son of God, rejected the philosophical counsels of the Evil One.
The human obedience of Jesus Christ was strengthened by His fast. The temptation was not part of the fast. The fast, rather, was a preparation for the temptation that Jesus knew was about to come.
Fasting, for the Christian, is necessary to overcome temptation, as our Lord revealed to us in His Own triumph in the wilderness. Fasting, for the Christian, is necessary to overcome evil, as our Lord revealed to us in His rebuke of the Apostles in Mark 9:29: “This kind cannot be driven out except by prayer and fasting”.
Fasting is the amplification of prayer. It clears our perception from the confusion of worldliness. It reminds us that our souls utterly depend on the Word of God: not just Scripture, but the whole ministry of the Holy Spirit.
And so we happily fast, because fasting is the way to live abundantly and in liberty. We fast from sinful provocations as a lifestyle, and there is no end to this type of fast. We fast from replaying memories of past hurts and grudges. We fast from watching inhumane entertainment, and looking at lustful images. We fast from social, career and sports commitments so that we might attend Divine Services.
But through the year, the Holy Church calls us, during certain seasons, to fast from perfectly good things. During the forty days of Lent before Holy Week and Pascha, the Church has traditionally required her faithful to abstain from meat and dairy products. No one denies that these foods are good things. Since the days of Noah, the Lord has graciously granted meat to the table of His children. Because of this grace, fasting from meat is a sacrifice of our rich privilege, and it is a temporary return to the simpler days before Noah. We do this so that we may feel hungry and thus “spiritually poor”. It is during the experience of this self-imposed poverty that we draw nearer to God, and beg Him for the Bread from His Own Table, that is the Life of the world.
The Season of the Great Fast is a season of forgiveness, of acceptance, of mutual encouragement and peace. The Fathers are wont to call the time of Lent as a season of “sweet sorrow”. And in this sweet sorrow, our hearts are softened by God, and our frozen hearts are melted by the Spirit’s fire, and we may thus pour ourselves out in love for the Body of Christ. We cherish each other as bearers of the Image of Christ. We visit the sick, the poor and the desperate with friendship, and gifts of food, comfort and wealth. We pray to our loving Father, and our physical hunger reminds us that we need to hunger for the Bread of Life that is Christ, the Word of God and the Life of the world.
Pray with me, in this Season of Pilgrimage to the Great Day of Pascha. Fast with me, and let us hunger for the presence of God. Concentrate on Christ with me, and listen to His voice. Look for His Image. Savor the sweetness of His joy. Enter into the poignant, healing sorrow of repentance: yearn for the gift of tears, the second baptism of contrition that is like the latter rains – a healing summer rain that restores the desert to blossom once again.
Pray with me. Fast with me. Live again and live above with me. Become one with Christ, with me. Let us journey on this Pilgrimage arm in arm, and together let us meet the Risen Christ Who fasted and prayed before His Day of Victory, on the Pascha of the Son that is always rising and will never set.
Most sincerely yours in Christ,
+METROPOLITAN NICHOLAS
Several weeks ago, in the midst of writing a paper, I read a book by a fourth century bishop, Palladius, titled Dialogue on the Life of St. John Chrysostom. Written between 406 and 408, it is constructed as a dialogue between the bishop and a Deacon of Rome, Theodore. Palladius was a steadfast defender of St. John, and was present during much of the turmoil in Constantinople during the saint’s first and second depositions. One of the criticisms of the saint was that he was not particularly hospitable, and ordinarily ate alone. Apparently, bishops were expected to amuse one and all, and the Archbishop was thought to be improperly standoff-ish. Palladius defended him at great length, and on a number of grounds. Of interest to us today, on the very cusp of the Great Fast, is Paladius’ discourse on moderation and abstinence, using Old Testament figures to illustrate his contention that virtue is found in moderation and self-denial, rather than in groaning tables and plenty.
What evil is not to be found as a result of excessive eating and drinking? There are diseases, quarrels, upset stomach and the rest of ills. When was Eve dispelled from Paradise? Was it not when she partook of the fruit of the tree at the advice of the serpent, not being satisfied with the available food? When did Cain commit the terrible sin of fratricide? Was it not when he was the first to partake of the firstfruits, keeping them for himself in his greediness? When did the children of Job suddenly find their table a grave? Was it not when they were eating and drinking. When did Esau lose the blessing? Was it not when he became a slave to his belly, outwitted by a trick? When was Saul deprived of his kingdom? Was it not when he consumed the finest of his sheep, going against the law? When did the people of Israel provoke their God to anger? Was it not when they yearned after the tables of Egypt and begged the teacher for meat and caldrons? Now, as regards Hophni and Phineas, the sons of Eli, why were they killed in one hour of war? Was it not because they used to take meat intended for sacrifice out of the caldron with flesh-hooks? What of Jacob, the blameable, why did he ‘kick’? Was it not after he had grown ‘fat and thick and gross’? When did the ancients lose the principle of moderation anyhow? Was it not about the time when they had grown old on their couches? The prophet bitterly complains: ‘Those who eat lambs out of the flock and sucking claves out of the stalls, who drink strained wine, and anoint themselves with the finest ointments, and they are not grieved over the affliction of Joseph.’
There is a great deal more, and Palladius does not neglect the New Testament example of Lazarus and the rich man.
There are innumerable aspects to the Fast, but the words of Palladius give us another thought to ponder on in the days to come.
Incidentally, let it be said: if anyone thinks we live in a time of turmoil and difficulty in the Church, let him (or her) read Palladius. He describes a great number of evils, ranging from the sale of episcopacies to venal hatreds. The terrible climax occurs as St. John is exiled for the final time. A troop of soldiers seeking him raided a vigil during which women are being baptized on Great and Holy Saturday. Priests and deacons were beaten, consecrated gifts were spilled and trampled and panicked women were forced to flee naked from the Church, threatened by death and dishonor. A quick reading of Palladius will send each of us to our knees in thanks that we live in such benign times, as least insofar as the Church is concerned.
This is my own Metropolitan’s message for this year’s March for Life. I should have had this posted sooner, and I failed to do so. Let my negligence, though, remind us that the helpless call out to us every day of the year.
To the Very Reverend Protopresbyters, the Very Reverend and Reverend Clergy and Beloved Faithful of the Diocese:
In the day of the Prophet Amos, the Vision of God’s Will was met with ridicule and dismissal. No one in society wanted to hear that God’s Law was being broken and that His Justice was being ignored. The poor were being abused and taken advantage of. The powerless and the weak were trampled on for the sake of a materialistic society.
The Prophets spoke then, but they were ignored. “The lion roared, the Lord God has spoken”, and the prophecies of God’s command were proclaimed. But society continued on its way of eating and drinking like normal, “stretching out themselves upon their couches” and “singing idle songs” (Amos 6:4).
As it was then, so it is now. The Orthodox Church has proclaimed the sin of abortion. And society has responded by sanctioning infanticide as a phase of the feminist agenda. It has responded by renaming the unborn child as fetal tissue, so it could be more easily disposed of. It has responded by making abortion a matter of personal opinion, and not of right and wrong.
It is God alone Who is the origin of all life. It is He Who holds the key to life and death. It is man, in his arrogance, who usurps the authority of the Almighty, who in his pride deliberates over the validity of God’s divine decrees, who justifies his sin and pacifies the screaming of his conscience in the face of the shedding of innocent blood. We have forgotten the absolute and unchanging nature of Scripture’s declaration, “Thus says the Lord…”.
The blessings of America remain as a contingency: we will keep our freedom and our liberal comforts only if we heed the call of Amos who proclaimed in a voice that echoes across the ages: “Seek the Lord and live!” (Amos 5:6).
I urge you, therefore, to make every effort to support the National Right to Life March in Washington, DC on Monday, January 22, 2007. Support freely and generously the work of Crisis Pregnancy Centers in your area. And be confident, without equivocation, in the hard and simple truth that abortion is sin, and cannot be countenanced or supported in the Orthodox Church.
Assuring you of my Archpastoral supplication for the day on which legalized abortion will end, with blessing I remain
Most sincerely yours in Christ,
+ Metropolitan Nicholas
Lately, Fr. Jonathan over at Second Terrace has been writing a very nice series of essays that take off from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy — I think we know what is being enjoyed in Pittsburgh these days — and end up with trenchant observations about the state of religion and society. I think very highly of Second Terrace, and I hasten to add that I would even if Father was not a teacher of mine at seminary. Sadly, though, I end up posting comments that sound like something the village idiot might post, such as “Amen!” or the like. I am ashamed of myself afterwards, but console myself by thinking that his more intelligent readers probably exclaim how cool it is that Fr. Jonathan can not only speak to the thoughtful, but to the out and out fools like that guy who calls himself Deacon James. We all have a role in this universe, and that is mine. Not holy enough to be a fool for Christ, but ditsy enough to just be an ordinary fool.
But what struck me about Father’s post today was a reference to Thomas Oden, because while Thomas Oden does not know me, I have a vague acquaintance with him. When I was in the last throes of my short career as a Methodist minister — that being the period of time between my accidental acquaintance with Bishop Kallisto’s The Orthodox Church and my entry into the catechumanate — Oden was recommended to me as a tonic for what ailed me.
I should explain, I suppose. Like a lot of converts, my first flirtation with the Church was intellectual. I didn’t have much in the way of heart-knowledge about Orthodoxy, but by golly I read a lot of patristics. It bothered me, to be honest. I wasn’t finding much support for what the urban Methodists were into, like re-imagining God as Sophia and the like, but I also was not finding much of what my own parishioners were into, which involved a lot of once saved always saved, the Rapture and a heavy dose of pentacostalism. In fact, my own parishioners were deeply suspicious of urban Methodists, but that suspicion was one of the few things they and I shared. Oh, and that they were truly wonderful people. I love those people more than I can say.
But I was plainly drifting out of the fold a bit, and I finally decided that I should reveal my doubts to my senior pastor. I met him for lunch, and explained that I was not seeing much correspondence between the patristic writers and thinkers, and modern Methodism, either city or country. My friend was not particularly versed in much of the first century, although he liked to tell about how writing a paper in seminary about The City of God had almost killed him. Privately, I feel much the same way about a lot of what St. Augustine wrote. But my friend did know about Oden, and Oden’s loose movement to bring the denomination back to truly ancient roots. He recommended a book about the subject, which I read, although I can no longer remember the title. He assured me that I would then realize that the Methodist church was riddled, more or less, with a movement of people who thought exactly as I was.
Needless to say, the idea didn’t take. Oden’s notion of molding modern Protestantism and a dash of the first millenium is interesting, and even praiseworthy. Still, in my view, even in those days when I was surpassingly ignorant as opposed to my present condition of being stunningly silly, the notion fell apart because it offered nothing but bones — dry bones if you will. If patristics and dogma represents the bones of the Church, it is the mindset, the phrenoma, that represents the heart and blood. It is what gives life to dogma, and it is what ultimately lets us live the Faith, as opposed to simply understanding it in a theoretical fashion. I knew precious little about that phrenoma in those days, but I sensed it was true, a suspicion that experience has borne out.
That, I think, is what Oden and those like him have not grasped. That is not to say that in American Orthodoxy fried chicken or barbecue could not reasonably replace pirogis — a bold and dangerous statement if there ever was one — but that there is a vital penumbra of belief and practice that gives life to dogma and teaching. We cannot fully grasp all that Orthodoxy is without living it and submitting to it. That is what movements like Oden’s lack. Which is very sad.
Every year I do the same thing: Zacchaeus Sunday comes creeping up on me, and I scratch my head and exclaim “Lent? Already?” I keep promising myself that I will not let it catch me unawares, but every year I fail.
Well, its not Zacchaeus Sunday quite yet, but I was pleased to open the Gospel book this morning and read Luke 18:35-43. If this passage doesn’t serve as an announcement that you-know-what is looming on the horizon than nothing does. The blind man this morning was exceeedingly insistent that Jesus pay attention to him and heal his blindness. How well does that foreshadow our soon to begin labors? As I explained to the altar boy after Liturgy, we must be just as insistent in our pleadings to God, and Lent is just the time to remind ourselves of that. Of course, he’s a smart kid, from a pious home. I could only remind him of what he already knows, which is a blessing to see in a kid nowadays.
But here is the truth of the matter: every year I am unreasonably happy to see Lent roll around. More than most, I need it badly, and I love every moment of it. Zacchaeus Sunday, the Publican and the Pharisee and meatfare Sunday all whet the appetite. Forgiveness Sunday may be my favorite Sunday of the year. That sounds kind of strange, I confess, but I know just how wearing I can be, and the opportunity to seek forgiveness from the people I love is something I look forward to. And then Lent itself — what is there not to like?
I know how odd all of that sounds, but there you have it. As I read this morning’s Gospel, I felt that familiar sense of anticipation. Lent is coming, and this morning was like seeing the first robin of the spring.
This post started out as something else. A case I was involved in came to a sudden, dreadful end, in the form of a murder/suicide. As originally written, it detailed some of what happened, and what had happened in the case up until that point. After only a few minutes, though, I took it down. It didn’t seem right, for a variety of reasons. Mostly, it seemed to me that the details, which were necessarily sketchy, were not the important thing. There are two dead men, one of whom I knew about as well as any lawyer can know a client, but there are also dazed and traumatized survivors, including children. But it wasn’t until this evening that I could begin to understand the true significance of what had happened, of what terrible things like this mean to us, as a wisp of scripture came to mind.
Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment: But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.
Mt 5:21-22
When things like this happen, we are aghast, and our first impulse, usually almost unconscious, is to distance ourselves from the act. The sheer horror of it allows us to reassure ourselves that something like that could not happen in our safe world, even as we sympathize with the victim. Yet from a spiritual perspective, these crimes are years in the making, even if perpetrator and victim become acquainted only at that last fateful moment. It is not that we are inherently depraved, as the Calvinists would argue, nor is it always the direct result of demons, although they have a role and love to see blood shed. Instead, we each drag around after us chains, huge shambling piles of them, the first links of which are forged in our cradles, and new ones added every day. Our passions are both the result and cause of the shackles we wear. Pride, anger, lust, vainglory, fear…you name it, and it can be found in the heart of bruised and wounded people.
Each and every person in this tragedy — each and every one of us — bears the scars of life. In a line that only God can truly trace, there are years and years of slights, indifferences, resentments, misunderstandings. Needs are not met, and a cycle of petty cruelties ensues. Even when the end result is not so spectacular as in this case, the quiet toll is just as devastating. Here is the truth: however we may meet our physical demise, we all die spiritually in the same way. Not in one thrust of the enemy, but in the moral version of death by a thousand cuts. A tiny slice here, another there. We scarcely feel each individual cut, but the cumulative effect of slights and hurts, of disappointment and rejection, leads us to destruction. And we not only bear our own chains. We forge the chains of others.
Do you see? This tragedy began in infancy, it blossomed during adolesence, it bore a poisonous fruit in a marriage, and it was harvested on a quiet winter’s day. But you and I cannot segregate this from our own life. Jesus teaches us that we commit spiritual crimes with each cruel word, each deliberate slight, each crime of the heart. We are each the man, wounded almost to death, who was rescued by the Samaritan. But we are also each the robber, and we assault each other behind polite words and smiling masks, leaving loved ones and strangers alike lying helpless and damaged.
No wonder the second great commandment is to love our neighbor as ourselves! If we ourselves do not break the cycle of pain and hurt being suffered by those around us, by those who bear the very image of God, then who will? What Christ calls us to do is struggle past our own wounds, to offer oil and wine for the hurts of others. We must see within ourselves the potential for murder, of the spiritual variety if nothing else, and the crimes that we commit every day.
After all, I’ve had the flu all weekend, and haven’t left the house for anything. That includes all of this weekend’s Theophany services, which bothers me enormously. Maybe that helps explain why I find myself unreasonably amused by this photograph, of a priest who appears to be explaining things to Vladimir Putin during Christmas services last night.
The expression on President Putin’s face, by the way, closely matches the one I’ve had all weekend.
Last night, on Christmas Eve, I stayed in a hotel since the drive home and the drive back to Atlanta on Christmas morning didn’t make much sense. The Hampton Inn was surprisingly full, but thankfully, was very quiet last night. This morning, however, there were a lot of people having coffee and pastries in the lobby. I heard them as I got off the elevator, and could tell that they were having fun and carrying on. As I walked into the lobby, though, wearing the collar and carrying my vestments, absolute silence fell, and everyone watched me check out and walk out the door. Without uttering a word.
I have never had such a startling effect on people. I’m not sure what to make of it.
Other than that, this is what I learned in my thirty hours in Atlanta:
1. Do not think that you can go into a coffee shop and have a peaceful cup of coffee when a family is sitting two tables over arguing with Junior about whether or not they treat him differently after they learned he was gay.
2. The people in my parish are unbelievably kind. Despite rookie problems in my first two liturgies, they continue to tell me that they love me.
3. Nothing is as good as coming home to family on Christmas afternoon, after thirty hours in the big city, even if that did include two liturgies and the Christmas Eve service. At Christmas, there really is no place like home.
Today, I finally got it. After months of silent contemplation of what I was about to undertake, after the nerves and jitters, after the helter-skelter trip to Pittsburgh and thence to Johnstown, after the nonstop activity of the weekend, and the return home. After all of that, this afternoon, at about 3 o’clock, I finally got it. I was writing some notes of thanks to people who had helped me through the journey to ordination. I was not particularly pleased with any of them. Trying to say on paper the most basic things is not always easy. You prayed for me. You were kind to me. You trusted me. I am grateful beyond words. But none of what I wrote seemed right, and in the midst of worrying about what I had written, my heart finally opened.
It is almost — within a eyelash — of Christmas. And in the light of Christmas, the realization of the Nativity, all cares and all fear fades. Granted, throughout most of the Eastern Church , Theophany reigns as THE feast of the winter season. I think, though, that for those of us who grew up in the west, Christmas has an inescapable mystery that captivates us. When we were young it was the result of an unfortunate materialism, but despite that veneer on the season, even then we were convinced that this was something intangibly special. Something different. Something…that we could not quite understand, but was indisputably fraught with meaning. We could almost believe that at midnight on Christmas Eve the animals really do speak, and the skies are filled with glory, although we never looked to see, as we lay in our warm beds. I don’t regret those years of dim understanding, because even though they were spent without understanding, they did not lack the experience of what the Nativity truly is.
So, this afternoon, as I worried about my verbiage and fretted over how many mistakes I might make at liturgy on Sunday morning, I remembered that God Himself came for us, in the most humble, most helpless, most awkward way imaginable. Can we really grasp all of what that means? At times, like St. John of Damascus, we are struck by the magnificent humility of His Mother, whose “hands steadied the first steps of Him who steadied the earth to walk upon, and her lips helped the Word of God to form His first human words.” Sometimes, like the shepherds, we are overcome with awe, by the majestic hosts of angels who accompanied our Lord.
But all of that pales compared to the astonishing work of Christ, who became one of us. I know what one of us entails, because I am undeniably human. We struggle, we strive, we despair of our life and our soul. We compete with each other, often not so much out of need as by vanity or pride. We live in an arena of violence, sometimes physical, but more often emotional. Petty insults, gross indignities, careless hate. We inflict these things on ourselves and on each other, without a thought and without repentance. It was into this maelstrom of despair that the infant Jesus was born.
Many people have said deeply moving and meaningful things about the Incarnation. But at 3 o’clock this afternoon, I remembered a snippet of something from St. Isaac the Syrian, and I scrambled to locate the rest.
This Christmas night bestowed peace on the whole world;
So let no one threaten;
This is the night of the Most Gentle One — Let no one be cruel;
This is the night of the Humble One — Let no one be proud.
Now is the day of joy –
Let us not take revenge;
Now is the day of Good Will — Let us not be mean.
In this Day of Peace — Let us not be conquered by anger.
Today the Bountiful impoverished Himself for our sake;
So, Rich One, invite the poor to Thy table.
Today we receive a Gift for which we did not ask;
So let us give alms to those who implore and beg us.
This present Day cast open the heavenly doors to our prayers;
Let us open our door to those who ask our forgiveness.
Today the Divine Being took upon Himself the seal of our humanity
In order for humanity to be decorated with the Seal of Divinity.
There is the magic. The Babe calls us to an interior transformation, a self-humbling, the only rational response to the gift of Him who made such an astonishing gift of Himself.
That is what I remembered this afternoon. Suddenly, Christmas is here. What do I want for Christmas? Humility. A transformation of my heart and soul. The ability, or even the simple desire, to see in those around me the Seal of Divinity. Only those gifts are worthy of the Babe, and His wonderful, loving Mother.
Ancient Church 