vacation

We'll be heading off on vacation next week to Williamsburg, VA. I'm ready for it; I don't know if it's the change in weather or what, but it's getting harder to focus on work at the moment. I probably won't post anything while we're gone; I guess they have high-speed in the business center, but otherwise online access will be pretty limited. That might not be such a bad thing either.

I have my reading lined up:

• Orientalism, by Edward Said--I've been wanting to read it for quite some time, but something else was always more pressing.
• The Way of a Pilgrim, by an anonymous 19th-c. Russian--a classic that I just realized I could get from the public library.
• St. Silouan the Athonite, by Archm. Sophrony--ordered it from Amazon a while back, took a long time to arrive and then to make its way to the top of the stack.

And of course I'll have my usual Scripture and prayer books, if all that isn't enough.

I'm also planning to take the second disc (assuming it arrives from Netflix) of The Idiot--the Russian miniseries rendition that came out in the past few years. I was assigned to read Crime and Punishment over the summer for my senior English class in high school, and found it to be one of the worst experiences of my life. After I got interested in Orthodoxy, I decided I should give Dostoevsky another chance and read The Brothers Karamazov. That went much better, so I started The Possessed but broke it off after the first few chapters because other stuff was more pressing. I heard good things about this series and started the first disc with no prior knowledge about the book. It's interesting, if not quite my usual taste in movies.

I had hoped to visit a Greek parish in Newport News (the closest Orthodox church I could find, about 25 min. away), but my parents will be with us for the day on Sunday. (They live in SC right now, so we thought this might be a bit shorter trip for them to make than to come all the way up to see us at home.) I seem to be the only one who's interested in attending church at all, and I certainly understand wanting to spend the limited time we have together doing something more interactive. Besides, I didn't figure I'd push too hard to drag everyone to a service that's only half in English. No services during the week, either.

Nevertheless, it should be relaxing and enjoyable (at least whenever Ian's sleeping :-) I'll report back when I return.

vaguely Anglican

Today Julie and I continued our exploration of churches that might constitute some kind of a middle ground between the Anabaptist Evangelicalism that she still feels comfortable with and the Orthodoxy that I'm looking for. We visited the 9:00 "family" service at St. Mark's Episcopal, which happens to be the most convenient time for us to attend a service. We went into it pretty much expecting that we'd have to visit there at least twice. They have four services (and are working on a fifth), each of which is a bit different in style. The two that concern us most are the 9:00 and the 11:00, which is the high-church traditional service, with full choir and adult sermon. The 9:00 is stripped-down, with more contemporary music and a children's sermon during the service. It comes in at just under an hour, followed by a coffee break, and an adult "interactive sermon" at the same time as Sunday school for the kids. Rick had already warned us that this service probably wouldn't do much for me, so we didn't come with terribly high hopes, or at least I didn't.

I asked Julie afterward what she thought of the service, and her main characterizations were that it seemed lacking in authenticity and conviction. After a bit more discussion, I think I agree. At one point during the service, Ian was wriggling around, and I found that an insert in my bulletin had almost completely slipped out. It was hanging down, with one corner still barely under my thumb. As soon as I realized it, the thought occurred to me that it was probably going to fall, and as if on cue, it did. I kind of felt like something similar was going on with the connection between form and substance in the service--that something was going to give at any moment, probably as soon as anyone noticed the problem. I'm sure there were meanings behind everything, just as in Orthodoxy, and I'm sure there is plenty in Orthodox rubrics that most parishoners couldn't begin to explain, but somehow it felt like the disconnect here was much worse.

I don't want to judge too harshly before having a chance to attend the more traditional service, since it seems like much of what I was sensing was at least exaggerated by the unique characteristics of the 9:00. Something doesn't seem quite right about a formalized liturgy that's supposed to be timeless but consists of music that was probably contemporary about three decades ago. The actual songs/hymns/choruses (not sure what label to use here) didn't bother me so much--no more so than when we go back and visit the church we grew up in, with its mix of traditional Evangelical hymns and mostly out-of-date (or badly rendered) "contemporary" choruses. But the liturgical bits during the communion section, where the priest and congregation would sing responsively, didn't seem at all like the type of thing that should sound like 70s folk music. I also wasn't quite sure what to think about the processions of the Gospel and clergy, coming in at the beginning to strains of "Lord I Lift Your Name on High" and exiting at the end to "Blessed Be the Name." The whole experience, including my reaction, was reminiscent of the first (and last) day I tuned into "the Ark." I really hope I don't have to see Orthodoxy head down the same road.

I never quite got whether the altar area was supposed to be somehow sacred. Julie says she didn't notice anyone crossing at all, but I'm pretty sure one of the altar servers crossed himself while entering on at least one occasion, but the inconsistency leaves a lot of questions. (I also noticed at least some of those who went up to take communion crossing themselves.) Speaking of communion, we were both bothered by the level of openness. Neither of us participated--Julie because she didn't want to risk getting sick from the common cup, me because I didn't think it would be appropriate as an Orthodox catechumen. But we'd made those decisions before we went. We were struck, though, by the apparent lack of concern about the possible risks involved with taking communion unworthily. There didn't seem to be any call to self-examination, or even any indication that communion should be for believers. He referred to Jesus's eating with sinners, said everyone was welcome, and never seemed to qualify it in any other way. It's obviously quite different from the Orthodox approach, but Julie noted that she's had experiences of internal struggle when taking communion, where the need to partake worthily has really forced her to examine her own heart condition. Maybe that goes on in Episcopalians, but from what we could tell, pretty much everyone went up. She said at least credit is due to the Orthodox for grasping the seriousness involved.

Another area of apparent inconsistency was the priestly vestments. It looked like there were three priests (although, looking at the staff list, I think one of them might have been a deacon), with wildly different vestments. One was striped and looked to me like it might be something African (maybe because of the active Anglican movement in Africa?), another had figures of children on it and looked vaguely international (maybe an "all the children of the world" theme?) ; the head priest had a more elaborate robe--I'm having trouble now recalling what it looked like, except that it was quite different from the other two. I came away with the suspicion that they get to pick from a wide range of options, some of which might have some traditional meaning and usage in other parts of the world. But again, it seems like one of those areas where traditional meaning has given way to personal preference.

The people seemed friendly enough. A few spoke with us after the service, and there was a lot of interaction during the greeting time somewhere in the middle. (Actually, that part of the service seemed awkward, as the otherwise orderly flow was disrupted by an overly long gap for greetings, followed by announcements before the service resumed.) We didn't end up staying after the coffee break. Ian doesn't do well attending class without us in a strange place, and we discovered that, contrary to what I'd seen on the schedule earlier, one of the women would be preaching today. (That's another problematic area, since even if we were fine attending when Rick was preaching, we'd still have to deal with female clergy at least some of the time.) Julie thought it was a more user-friendly service than in Orthodox churches, but I'm not sure either one of us would get much mileage out of that. We definitely plan to attend the 11:00 service sometime, but so far there doesn't seem to be too much promising to report.

nowhere

Some of my vacation reading arrived early. (I requested a few books from the library, expecting they'd take a couple of days to appear--sometime by the end of this week, and then Julie could pick them up whenever she went in next week. She was handed two out of three a few hours after I placed the request online.) Maybe a month or two ago I finally got a disc that had been on my Netflix list for quite some time--The End of Suburbia. It's a documentary that turned out to have much more to do with peak oil than with suburbia as such. (The connection is obvious, but I still think the title a bit misleading.) I took note of the contributors who seemed to have written more about the architecture/urban planning side of things and looked up their books online. In particular, I was interested to read a couple of books by James Howard Kunstler--The Geography of Nowhere and Home from Nowhere. As luck would have it, I got them in reverse order, but so far it doesn't seem like too much of a handicap.

As you might guess, the first book lays out the problem; the second focuses more on possible solutions. The author can be a bit repetitive at times, but he's usually entertaining to read, so aside from my usual impatience (almost regardless of what I'm reading), I don't object too much to the length. The gist of his argument is that suburbia is an unnatural and antisocial environment, ultimately unsustainable and unfit for human existence. It was made possible by our obsession with cars, and it will inevitably die out as fuel is used up. (The second book was written in 1996, before G. W. Bush, before the current Iraq war, before $3/gal. gasoline, which makes his points all the more interesting.) We've created a society in which it is almost impossible not to commute in some fashion, in which home, work, and basic services are generally far removed from each other, in which civic life is dead, because it has nowhere to reside. We live our isolated existences, find no real joy in our surroundings, in a cold, dead, ugly world.

He doesn't seem to be particularly religious, but he has a lot to say about beauty and dignity, and how we've sacrificed both. Reading this book makes me think of the austere functionality of many Evangelical churches. (I'm thinking especially of a large church I pass every day on the way to work--recently built at I have no idea what astronomical cost--which looks from the outside like a warehouse.) I don't know if Kunstler would think onion domes are inherently beautiful, but I have to believe he'd appreciate the effort of Orthodox churches to transform their external world (not necessarily at the expense of the spiritual, either).

It also makes me sad. I wouldn't go so far as to say "depressed," but it's heading in that direction. I've mentioned before the link between my attraction to Orthodoxy and my desire for rootedness, community, and locality. I realize the irony, of course, that in America Orthodox churches are still few and far between, so that often attending one means a lot of driving. Circumstantially, it's the one advantage I can see to becoming Catholic, that in most places throughout the U. S. you don't have to go very far to find the nearest Catholic parish. Of course, one answer is to move closer (assuming you can do that without at the same time moving further away from work), but here my complicated life gets even more complicated, in that Julie and I would have different priorities as to which church we should approach.

We also have different priorities on this whole issue of proximity. Personally, I would sacrifice size of dwelling, safety of neighborhood, quality of schools, and overall environmental appeal to live where I could walk or take a reasonable bus ride to work and church. That's not to say that I'd want to live in abject squalor (squalor, yes; abject, no) or a neighborhood with daily shootings, but the point is I'm willing to make sacrifices in those areas. She wants the white picket fence, two cars, and ideal schools, even if it means living 30-40 miles away from the most promising jobs, with no public transit. Unfortunately, our modern world hasn't left us too many compromise options. Kunstler talks about the need for mixed zoning, where businesses and affordable housing are in close proximity--basically, viable towns and cities on the model that worked for centuries. But until such things actually happen, we're left with hard choices.

The other angle on all this is learning to be content in whatever circumstances. It may be that I just need to avoid reading this kind of material, because it articulates an ideal but one that I'm mostly going to long for without actively pursuing. That can get unhealthy pretty quickly. Kunstler may have a lot of valid points to make, but his vision is about human solutions. The beauty of Orthodoxy is that it has room for both the soaring cathedral and the humble monastic cell. It is the Church of kings and catacombs. Perhaps someday God will give me more than one icon on my wall and the occasional service every couple of weeks. But he can change my life without those things as well.

Great and Holy Friday, parts 1, 2, 3, 4 . . .

Last Saturday, Bp. THOMAS suggested that we just plan to stay at church all through Holy Week, with the reminder that, "If you don't like church, you gonna hate heaven!" (I think everyone needs a bishop from New Jersey.) He doesn't have to tell me twice, but I'm still trying to convince my family :-) The point is well taken, though, when you think about services for Great and Holy Friday ("Good Friday" in the West). Start with three or four hours of Matins Thursday night (remember the liturgical day starts in the evening), reading all the Gospel passages from the teachings following the Last Supper until the burial, kneeling for each reading, and don't forget the procession with the cross and waiting for everyone to come forward on their knees and venerate. This was my first time at that service. I really have no idea how to convey in words what it was like. "Strenuous" only captures part of it. "Sad, but in a good way" is fumbling. During the veneration I had a vision of this scene, multiplied to virtual infinity with all the congregations all over the world that have done this same thing each year, down through the centuries, all overlaid on the original event. The disciples ran away in that dark hour, but could he look down from the cross and see billions of Christians to come, who would creep reverently and quietly to the foot of the cross and kiss those scarred feet? It seems like he must have.

Then there's the service of the Royal Hours, at which First, Third, Sixth, and Ninth Hour prayers are done in a row, one right after the other. I missed that one this year, but I attended last year. It takes another couple of hours Friday morning.

This afternoon is Vespers, at which the body will be taken down from the cross and placed in the "tomb" (actually the bottom of a flower-covered bier). We'll have a chance to venerate then, and many will be back later in the evening for Lamentations--a beautiful service in which the bier is processed outside (looks like clear weather this year) to the mournful chanting of the Trisagion. That was actually my first service at Holy Cross, and I haven't been able to make it back since. This year it coincides with the Good Friday service at Bethany, so I'll be with my family instead. After the Lamentations service, there will be a vigil through the night, with folks reading over the body as they do when anyone dies (although I think they read the Gospels instead of the Psalms).

Indeed, it would be much easier (and much better) just to stay there all day.

teriyaki mahi-mahi, vegan cake, and the deep breath before the final plunge

In a way, today felt like the day before the start of Lent. I don't recall feeling this way on past Palm Sundays. Maybe I've been more interactive with the cycle of feasts and fasts this time around, maybe my spirit is more closely attuned to the rhythms of Orthodox life, maybe it helps that at least this day I'm in sync with my Western-calendar family and friends. In that last respect, it helps that today was (coincidentally) a potluck lunch with the small group from Bethany. Palm Sunday itself may have been a minor blip in the day's events, but at least there was food and fellowship, and I needn't have brought my fish sticks (although it worked out well for the kids), because there was grilled mahi-mahi. Julie also tried her hand at making vegan chocolate cake--perhaps her first cake ever from scratch--which turned out to be a hit with the group. I normally try to keep my Lenten menu as simple as possible, rather than push the boundaries of what's allowed. But it was good to make this a true feast day. And of course I knew that I still had the final push through Holy Week ahead of me.

I'm not going to push quite as hard as I have in some years past. I'll eat a little bread and drink some water each of the first three days. Thursday I hope to polish off the remaining hummus and the concoction of taco-seasoned beans that I later mixed with leftover corn and couscous. I don't like to have fasting food left after the end of a long fasting season. I won't be in the mood to eat it again for a while. I'm planning to do the total fast on Holy Friday and a little bread on Saturday. Then--it may not be a traditional configuration--but I figured out that pretty much all the traditional elements of the Pascha basket are contained in meat-lover's pizza. So that's pretty much what I'm bringing--maybe a danish as well, and the requisite quiche to share. But I'm getting a bit ahead of myself. There's still Holy Week to get through. I tried to plan everything out, so I won't have to think much about food in the coming days. I'm hoping that putting it all down in writing will help lock it out of mind.

Julie asked me the other day if I was looking forward to Lent being over. I wasn't sure how to answer. It's difficult to explain to someone who's never been through it. Of course, I feel like I could have done so much more with it. It would be nice to have more time, which seems to have flown by. Also, frankly, I like the discipline. Not that I wouldn't like to have some fried chicken or a cheeseburger too. But in my more lucid moments, I think the ascetic struggle is preferable. Of course, I am looking forward to Pascha. To me, though, that's not quite the same thing as wanting Lent to end. That's not what gets me excited. Sure, it will feel that much better when I bite into that pizza six days from now. I'll have the contrast to tell me what it means to feast. But God help me--I hope I can feel hungry again before Bright Tuesday is over. I'm not quite ready to give up meat permanently, but if the discipline of Lent can't spill over somehow into the rest of life, what has it really achieved?

And of course, the food part is the least concern. Will I come away with greater love? Greater strength for the struggle against sin? Greater humility? I hope so. But that's where I feel like I could use more time. And I'm not talking about another week--maybe a few years or a few decades. I don't think I could do this if it ended with anything less than St. John Chrysostom's homily. I need to hear when the buzzer sounds that I'm still welcome, even if I've come up short. But it's not time to give up yet! I've still got the lightning round ahead of me. We all have. Thank God, we're in this together. Pray for me! It's getting late (in more ways than one), and I'd better be off to prayers myself . . .

how cool is that?

Let me say first that I am not advising anyone to go watch a movie during Holy Week :-) This is just for future reference. I saw Children of Men this afternoon. Not only is it a great movie (gave it five stars on Netflix), but I love that the only helpful strangers they run into are a family of Georgian Orthodox refugees (the one near Russia, not the one near Alabama), complete with icons on the side table. I'm not a film critic, and I don't want to spoil the movie for anyone. If you're not familiar with it already, the premise is that all humanity goes infertile somewhere around 2009. 18 years later, the cause is still a mystery. The youngest person on the planet is a huge celebrity, schools are closed, most of the world is in chaos, and England is fighting to rid itself of illegal immigrants. When a pregnant woman finally appears on the scene, the main character is unsuspectingly drafted as her guardian. It ends up being a great story about humanity amid the death-throes of Western culture. The message is not particularly religious, but you don't have to look very far to find truth and reality.

is it true?

Priest Andrew Phillips has written on his site:

However, today, the younger generation in many other Local Orthodox Churches are beginning to bring others to repentance, steering others back to Orthodox ecclesiology, the calendar and other traditions. Thus, it is rumoured that the Finnish Church is considering returning to the Orthodox calendar. A quarter of the parishes in the ‘Orthodox Church in America’ (OCA) are now on the Orthodox calendar and many there are now disenchanted with their previous errors on ecumenism. Some in the Polish, Czechoslovak and Japanese Churches, which allowed some to use the Roman Catholic calendar, are thinking the same way. A return to roots is under way. Relations between the Russian Church and the Patriarchates of Antioch, Alexandria, Bucharest and Sofia are good, as also with the Churches of Greece and Cyprus.

I have no idea how much truth there is to it, but I find it encouraging to read. Not that I think the calendar is the only, primary, or most important issue to be resolved in Orthodoxy today, but if we're going to move in the direction of unity on this issue (as on so many others), I would personally like to see it come through a return to the traditional Orthodox calendar. I don't much care for the way the so-called New Calendar was instituted, least of all, that it was done piece-meal, so that today some churches follow it while others do not. As I've said before, one of the reasons this is my favorite season of the year is that we're in sync throughout almost the entire Orthodox world. It may have been a nice idea that the New Calendar would help relations between Orthodoxy and Western Christians, but at what cost? Now the more pressing concern is internal relations between Orthodox, and IMHO we could use things like a common calendar to remind us of our shared identity.

In any case, I'd rather see restoration come as it seems to be from what he says here--through the changing hearts of Orthodox people, not through something imposed on them from above. I'm also glad to see that relations are good between Moscow and Antioch. May such things spill over here in America!

spelling "relief"

I don't think it gets much air time anymore, but there used to be an ad campaign for Rolaids--a popular antacid--that said you spell "relief," R-O-L-A-I-D-S. This weekend I learned a shorter spelling for "relief"--B-O-W.

I finally had a chance to visit an Orthodox monastery. Every year a group of men from Holy Cross goes up to St. Tikhon of Zadonsk Monastery, near Scranton, PA, for a Lenten retreat. This year, at least, it was a relatively informal event. The general idea was to travel up on Friday and return Sunday afternoon. There was no set time to arrive (some of us set out mid-morning and arrived in time for Vigil, others came after work in the evening), and aside from the requirement that we attend Divine Liturgy Saturday and Sunday, no set schedule of events. I think just about all of us attended both DL in the morning and Vigil in the evening. Saturday afternoon, several of us also participated in an informal Akathist for the OCF groups in our area. We also attended a luncheon after DL on Saturday, followed by a visit to the bookstore and an impromptu tour of the monastery and seminary with one of the students, and ate two other meals at the seminary.

We didn't know when the weekend was originally selected that there would be an ordination on Saturday (the reason for the luncheon)--performed by our own Bp. THOMAS, no less. We also didn't know until we got there on Friday that a monk would be tonsured during the Vigil that night. Until this weekend, I'd never been to a hierarchical service of any kind or even seen a bishop in person. So much for that. Met. HERMAN, primate of the OCA, and Bp. TIKHON, OCA Bishop of Philadelphia, also serve respectively as Abbot and Deputy Abbot of the monastery. They served together at the Vigil and tonsuring on Friday. So not only was it a hierarchical service--there were two bishops, including a primate, with an army of priests, deacons, and sub-deacons. I'm guessing you don't get that experience too many places besides a seminary, or maybe a major cathedral. But at a large cathedral, I suspect you'd have more people and more space, and probably not be quite so close to the action.

We had an opportunity after Vigil to talk with Fr. David, who was being ordained the next morning. Actually, two opportunities--right after the service in the church, and later at the hotel restaurant. There isn't much around South Canaan, and the hotel we stayed at is pretty much the standard for visitors to the monastery or seminary. In fact, Bp. THOMAS was also staying there (but we resisted the urge to bug him, even though we found out his room number). So the family and friends who came into town for the ordination were there, and it was the logical choice for them all to go out to eat (despite Fr. David's disparaging remarks about the food when we talked with him earlier).

Saturday morning was my first time to see Bp. THOMAS in person. He served the liturgy alone (as alone as a bishop can be in such a setting; there were still a lot of other clergy, just no other bishops). I was personally blown away by his presence. A lot of it's hard to put my finger on--there's his strong and clear voice when serving, his down-to-earth and completely natural homily, and the personal affection you could tell he had for Fr. David (even though he's not actually his bishop). But the whole effect was much more that the sum of those parts--I just have no problem with the idea that this guy is my shepherd.

Saturday evening, Bp. TIKHON served alone at the Vigil, and Sunday DL was non-hierarchical. It was still a good service, though. I savored as much as I could, since I knew the weekend was about to end. Jim and I got to the church early, so I was able to make a full pass of the icons and relics, and one more to say good-bye at the end of the service. In addition to having a reliquary with some prominent saints--Herman of Alaska (just outside, actually), Nikolai of Zhicha, Tikhon of Zadonsk, Tikhon of Moscow, Raphael of Brooklyn--I know I'm leaving some out, but it really is a good collection--they also have the body of St. Alexis of Wilkes-Barre. Jim tells me he was originally buried in the cemetery outside, then was dug up later and found to be incorrupt, moved to a mausoleum beside the church, then moved inside to the nave itself.

Attending so many services can be physically demanding when you're not used to it. You stand a lot in Orthodox services anyway, but normally you get some time in between to recover. By the end of the day Saturday, my feet and back were pretty sore. I commented to James before Vigil that night that standing for worship is like fasting. One of the things about fasting is, it helps you truly appreciate the foods you can eat when the fast is over. In our American culture, we typically have too much of everything and too often. When it comes time for a feast day, like Thanksgiving, the only way we can make it stand out is to truly stuff ourselves beyond all reasonable limits. By contrast, it doesn't take much to turn Pascha into a feast. As long as there's meat and cheese, it's a celebration. But you get that by preparing with 40-plus days of abstinence from those things. In the same way, when you stand a lot, you learn to appreciate the opportunities you have to sit.

After the service, I refined my observation. Yes, standing a lot does make you appreciate sitting. It also makes you appreciate bowing. Frequent bowing may seem like work when taken out of context. But when hours of standing have taken their toll on your back, bowing is such a relief! You look for every opportunity to extend a simple cross into a bow to the floor. And if it weren't the weekend, you'd happily prostrate to get off your feet. It occurred to me, after surviving the ordeal of that Vigil, that there's a metaphor in here for my own experience with Orthodoxy. I tried to stand on my own for so long, that the only relief I could get was to bow before Christ and humbly admit my own weakness. And the beauty of the metaphor is, it's an on-going thing. Life is a process of learning to bow. We all have to do it when we come to him for the first time, but it continues beyond that. As we grow, we gain more strength to stand, and the pain is less. (I think eventually we learn to bow out of love, rather than pain, but it has to start somewhere.) We might be able to stand for longer intervals, with the strength he gives us, but we always come back to the same place, on the ground before him.

From the outside, it's the bowing that looks like a hardship. Mostly, these spectators have given up trying to stand. They sat down long ago, or worse, they lay down dead. They've found relief from the strain of standing by another means--one that makes them forget why they were standing in the first place, rather than appreciate the relief of sitting. They can't fathom why anyone would want to bow, because they don't stand in the first place. Then there are those who stand in defiance. They grit their teeth through the pain. They curse God, who made it so painful to stand. Sadly, many of them will carry this posture into the next life, where the pain will only increase and relief will never come. But it's a pain they bring on themselves. Christ has already shown us the way. He bowed down himself, to reach us on our level. He wants to raise us up to be truly human, even more, to become divine. But if we won't bow, we cannot follow. It's not an arbitrary rule--it's just how our backs were made.

It's Monday again, and prostrations never felt so good!

the OT canon

In my third semester of seminary, I wrote a paper on the canonicity (really, the uncanonicity) of the Apocrypha. (Please forgive the lack of proper formatting. If I remember correctly the history of the document, it started in MS-Word, migrated to OpenOffice, back to Word, then to Google docs. I'm not concerned with making it pretty--the content is there, if you care to suffer through it. I also have no idea how long I'll actually leave it up, so it may happen that someone who dredges up this post in the distant future will find the link broken.) It's not my intention here to respond blow-by-blow. I mostly just want to take the opportunity to reflect a bit on the paper as it strikes me now. A lot has happened in the intervening decade. I like to think that I've progressed a bit in my writing skills and my sense of what constitutes good research. Needless to say, my outlook on the subject has also changed.

One of the most glaring problems that strike me now is the shoddy research that went into the paper. My published sources were mostly slanted in an Evangelical direction, while the other side was covered by some e-mail exchanges with people I found in various newsgroups. Granted, there's something to be said for having actually exchanged blows with an enthusiastic opponent; but the tendency is still going to be for the published arguments to look more compelling, because they cite impressive sources, or they come from known, reputable sources (reputable in certain circles, that is). As I recall, this reliance on personal exchanges was one of the few substantive criticisms I got back with my grade. It was mostly a result of laziness--we didn't have a very good library, especially when it came to locating sources outside the Evangelical tradition, and I didn't make the effort to find them elsewhere. As a result, the deck was stacked from the beginning.

At the same time, the published sources I did use were second- and third-rate. Books on Old Testament Introduction are intended for a particular purpose and can serve that purpose well, but they should have been little more than a starting point. For the most part, I was not looking at primary literature (actual writings of Church Fathers, first-century Jewish writers, etc.), or even secondary literature (original studies of those writings)--I was looking at collections based on writings that may have been secondary literature, but also may have been tertiary. And although I had a half-way decent listing in the bibliography, the footnotes reveal that most of my points were supported by a small handful of resources. This problem doesn't in itself invalidate the points I made, but it does seriously call them into question.

There are also some pretty clear biases. For instance, I assume, rather than argue, that to be canonical, inspired Scripture, a text must be inerrant in all of its details. I also assume toward the end, when I'm talking about Jewish custody of the OT Scriptures, the Dispensational view that Jewish Israel continues as its own spiritual entity, with its own role in God's plan, beyond the foundation of the Church on the Day of Pentecost. I actually remember something of the fundamental outlook I took away from this study, beyond what's entirely clear from the paper itself. I was convinced that the Rabbinic canon was the one to follow, because God had given the OT to the Jewish people as an inalienable possession, and it was their business to define what constitutes its canon, not ours. And certainly it was beyond the ability of the largely corrupt, institutional Church to improve on their judgment. This outlook now seems so backward to me, that it's hard to fathom how I acquired it in the first place.

One thing I'm reminded of is how I lacked the courage to apply the same kind of study to the NT canon. I allude in the paper to the fact that Protestants generally accept the historic judgment of the Church in that area, and I remember having some misgivings about how hard it would be to get around the role of Tradition in the recognition of NT canon. Clearly, I couldn't accept the Rabbinic judgment that the NT was completely out of bounds. I was somehow satisfied with the idea that the OT belonged to Rabbinic Judaism and the NT belonged to Christianity. (Which is in no way to say that I thought Christianity should ignore the OT--far from it.) But if the Church couldn't be trusted to sort out the OT canon, why should it be trusted on the NT? And the fact was also there, that in any case, it really came down to the judgment of the community over what constituted Scripture--a judgment that, at least in the case of the OT canon, had no discernible relationship to the spiritual condition of the community. I didn't see it then, but it was an almost magical view of the Spirit's intervention to preserve Scripture.

Of course, I dealt with specifics as well. My arguments mostly consisted of showing how one form of evidence or another could go either way. It might be difficult to make a solid case that the Rabbinic canon was the only accepted list, but if I could show that it was just as difficult to affirm a longer canon, I had room to play with. Forget the fact that ascertaining the canon must have always been a gradual process, and that even though there may have been different perspectives on which apocryphal books really belonged, there is still significant testimony that the canon was open. I don't think I ever managed to remove from myself the assumption of a hermetically sealed canon, so it was really quite impossible for me to accept that it could have been so undefined as to allow for variant collections. And I never paid the least attention to what has been used in the liturgical life of the Church over the centuries.

I'm not sure if I ever actually considered how the progression must have worked. Jesus and the Apostles had a relatively fixed canon matching that later affirmed in Rabbinic sources, but then what? How did those wishy-washy Christians of the second and third centuries end up even considering that extra books might belong? What (presumably Gentile) Christian decided 1 Maccabees was important enough to include? And why add new books that had not been included earlier, calling them part of the OT? Why not make them part of the NT, since the canon of the OT had already been fixed by that point? Furthermore, how did any of this process make any sense at all, if Tradition was not a significant piece of the puzzle?

I'm trying not to be too hard on myself. Most of the papers I wrote in seminary were more apologetic in character than truly exploring new territory. You start with an issue and your preconceived conclusion (usually, the standard Evangelical line), and you assemble your arguments to back it up. Sometimes, if there are acknowledged options within the Evangelical mainstream, you can actually draw your own conclusion. But in some areas, you just don't take seriously the alternative viewpoints. Pretty much anything that looked like Catholicism fell into this latter category for me. We'll see it again if I get to my paper on "born of water and spirit" in John 3:5, which clearly had nothing to do with water baptism. That I dealt with things this way was predictable, given my background. That my teachers never objected also speaks to the environment in which I was learning. We all believed in sola scriptura, but we also stuck pretty close to our own traditions.

I hope I don't vanish into thin air

I'm not going to ask for a show of hands, who else practically memorized that great time-travel epic of the mid-80s, Back to the Future. (Sorry--my viewing options were limited.) I've always been kind of opinionated about time travel themes. I'm not sure what I think now, but for a long time, being the good Calvinist that I was, I unquestioningly objected to the premise that a person could travel back in time and change the past so that the present came out different. The sequence of time was a done deal--certainly in the future, and how much more in the past. I therefore considered Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure to be more realistic (I'll pause for a moment so you can get back up off the floor, wipe away the tears, catch your breath . . OK, on we go), because the effects of their time travel were evident before they ever realized such a thing would happen.

Anyway, this metaphor is getting out of hand, so let me bring it back to the point. In Back to the Future, the main character Marty finds himself slowly vanishing, because his interference in the past is preventing his parents from falling in love, getting married, and eventually having kids. There are other, similar theories about the effects of time travel. If you meet yourself in the past, such that you as an individual are simultaneously present in two manifestations, you will self-destruct, or the space-time continuum will collapse, or who knows what other dire consequences. These ideas make for sometimes interesting plot devices--just don't spend too much time thinking about them.

What does all of this have to do with anything? Well, Roland's recent project of posting older writings on his blog has teamed up with a brief trip through my own archives to suggest something similarly spooky. I'm going to debate my former self--specifically, my Evangelical seminary student self from about ten years ago. Actually, "debate" is too strong a word (that would be just a bit insane, wouldn't it?)--maybe "critique" is better. The very idea raises an interesting hermeneutical complexity. I've often said that one of the problems with interpreting an ancient text like one finds in Scripture is that the author (from a human standpoint) is no longer available for comment. It becomes very one-sided when it's just the modern interpreter interacting with a text. (This is, I would say, a major problem with the whole idea of sola scriptura.) But what happens when the interpreter is the author, but is coming from a decidedly different frame of reference? Can we say that the author of a text is never truly available from the moment that the text is finished, because he is, however subtly, a different person?

OK, my head hurts. Enough meta-critique; let's just get down to the thing itself. I make no promises that it will be at all interesting.

throwing in the towel - part 2

I need to back up and cover some things that didn't come out in my historical sketch. Shortly before I went off to Bible college, my boss took me out for a steak dinner. He was a professing Christian and a bit eccentric. He always seemed to have some kind of grand idea about ministry, but there could also be a disconnect between his outspoken faith and his behavior in business. The point of our meeting (it turned out) was to try to persuade me that going to a small Bible college was a mistake. He told me that formal education is not about learning (which you can do anywhere) but about credibility. When I graduated, what I most needed was a name that people would recognize. He was speaking from his own experience of going through some sort of training program run by New Tribes Missions, which apparently wasn't quite what most churches were looking for in a pastor. But I was young and idealistic, and his words sounded to me like compromise. I gave them little thought and went ahead with my plan.

Of course, I eventually came to see his point, especially as I went looking for a Ph.D. program, for the sole purpose of winning credibility in the job market I had chosen. I believed firmly that my Th.M. was enough training for the career I wanted; it was because others would expect the doctorate that I had to go on. But another reason that I went on for the Ph.D. (and this is wrapped up with my decision to pursue an academic career in the first place) was a desire to get out of the Evangelical box I found myself in. Both in college and in seminary I went through similar scenarios, where theological debates erupted. In one case, a prominent faculty member lost his job over the position he took (which was not explicitly against the school's doctrinal statement but still ran up against the views of some powerful alumni). In the other, I found myself caught in the controversy and nearly resigned my position over it. I also didn't feel much like dealing with the personal issues that would inevitably plague a local church ministry. I wanted to retreat into academics. So, I didn't want to be a pastor, and although I wanted to teach, I didn't want to be stuck in a Bible college somewhere. The Ph.D. program was supposed to be my way out, without wasting the work I'd put in already.

But it often happens that the attempt to deal with bad decisions short of repentance only makes things worse. It's like the guy who refuses to ask for directions, even though he's thoroughly lost, and continues to drive around until all hope is gone. I found myself stuck in a rut, where the only solution I had to changes in my perspective was to keep going to school and hope things would work themselves out. In the meantime, I was ignoring most other aspects of life, most of them much more important--my relationship with my wife, my own spiritual life, our spiritual life together, having kids, etc. I learned a great deal in seminary and graduate school--there's no question about that--but I was so buried in coursework that I hardly even noticed that life was going on around me. It was also going on inside me (or rather, it wasn't), as my spirit steadily shriveled up without any real nourishment. The great danger of academic work in the areas I was studying is that it can easily pass for a spiritual endeavor without being anything of the sort.

I'm not going to re-hash the intellectual progression that got me to where I am now. I'll simply make the point here that my graduate education (including seminary) has been intertwined with a set of misplaced priorities. Julie wanted to start having kids much earlier than we did, but she sacrificed that goal for my education. She worked full-time while I was in seminary and during the three years of coursework for a Ph.D. She spent her evenings alone--in fact, we spent very little time together over those years--and established patterns that now make it difficult for us to interact substantively. For the most part, we did not pray together, read Scripture together, or interact seriously on spiritual issues. As far as that goes, I did not pray, read Scripture (devotionally, as opposed to assigned work for class), or do much of anything for my own spiritual development. My primary effort for personal development was intellectual--I tried to apply the skills I was acquiring to a more rigorous study of theology--but the conclusions I reached rarely had any impact on my spiritual life.

During my Ph.D. coursework, I started to experiment with various devotional mechanisms--Orthodox fasting, Jewish prayer, etc. I got some benefit out of these things, but they were stop-gap measures and never really went anywhere lasting. Also, by that point Julie and I were in such completely different places spiritually that I didn't even consider involving her in these experiments. When I finally reached the point where I knew I needed to take more drastic measures, there was no common ground on which to address the issues. And even that point didn't come until after I'd finished coursework. In general, my life since then has been about re-acquainting myself with human existence. I got interested in politics for quite a while, which wasn't really on target but at least had more relevance than I'd seen in a long time. Now my interest is in the spiritual life, which has been going on for a few years, and I hope and pray it continues.

Of course, it's also during this time that my focus on academics has reduced to almost nothing. I'm not saying that it couldn't have been otherwise, but the contrasts have awakened me to what I believe are the serious underlying problems. To return to intensive academic work now would mean de-emphasizing my own spiritual development and the strengthening of my family. With another child on the way, I have no desire to give her any less of myself than I've given to Ian. In fact, I'd like to do more with my family. I want to keep working toward some kind of unity and improved interaction on spiritual issues. I want to grow in my interaction with them when we're together (often just together, as in, somewhere in proximity, but all doing our own thing). I try to avoid getting buried in whatever I'm doing when they're around, but the trend is still one of distraction. I also have a long way to go with my own spiritual growth, and a significant increase in the time I'm spending on academic work would detract from that effort.

I should add that my overall outlook on career issues has changed dramatically. I don't need a particularly fulfilling or challenging career, because that's not where I find my identity. It would be nice to do something I enjoy and that challenges me to grow in one way or another. But if I'm doing a job that needs to be done, I'm providing for my family, I'm learning discipline as though working for God, it's enough. It doesn't matter much what specific job I'm doing. Much of this change has come out of my spiritual development. Some of it also comes from what I would call a healthy realism about jobs and living conditions. A lot of people around here have what you might call "good" jobs. They pay well, they have lots of growth potential, the work is fulfilling, etc. But most of them still have double-income families, often with no or few children. Sometimes this is by choice, because both partners have their career goals, and children would just get in the way. Often it is because they feel like they can't afford the life they want without two incomes. And to a great extent, this sentiment is justified. It may be relatively easy to find a job around here that pays $50-100k per year. But when house prices are so high that even with a decent-paying job you still need two incomes to afford a home, what does it really get you? So for instance, in our case, moving back to Western New York would probably mean taking a pay cut, but ending up with less financial stress, better schools, and family close by.

That kind of thinking seriously minimizes the usefulness of a Ph.D., especially in an obscure field, because you're no longer willing to take the steps necessary to get that first steady job. I'm not about to put my family through the uncertainty of playing this game, so common now, where you teach one or two adjunct classes over here, one or two over here, and spend your life running from one campus to another, making little money when it's said and done, and ending up less marketable, because people wonder why you did that for so long. I'm much less likely to take a job in California or Europe, because that's where something is available, but we'll never see family. Add on top of that, that I no longer have the option of teaching in an Evangelical seminary or Bible college, I no longer have such a positive image of studying the Bible as mere literature, and I'm more interested now in other dimensions of the Christian life--the odds are pretty slim that I'd ever find a teaching position to be happy with.

I still want to be challenged intellectually, but I can get that regardless of what I do for a job. That much has become perfectly clear over the past several years. I still want to serve God with my mind, but there are plenty of opportunities for that outside of academia. In fact, my perspective now is that there are significant ways in which such service happens that are superior to strictly academic pursuits. I used to say that, if I didn't end up teaching, at least I'd have a very interesting hobby. I can still have that, since I don't need a degree to apply what I've learned. And in fact, since making the decision not to finish, I have felt free once again to apply my skills to what interests me (and happens to have spiritual value as well), where before I was reluctant to start little side projects, because I felt like any effort I put into that area ought to be on my dissertation.

So on the positive side, I have restored joy in the subject area that I was studying, I can continue pursuing more important things like spiritual growth and family interaction, and I can stop sinking money into a degree that is now of no apparent professional value. The only real negative is the wasted investment of time, energy, and money up to this point. But in that respect, I think we're legitimately cutting our losses. If I continue, we're going to have to spend quite a bit more money before it's all done, and based on my track record so far, it's hard to expect that I'll be able to finish even in the couple of years I have left. If the degree isn't going to be of any professional use, what is it good for? Not much. I don't want the title for its own sake, and I have no intention of hanging the certificate on my wall. So how does the wasted effort and personal sacrifice change, if we have to invest substantially more over the next couple of years, and the outcome is still of little or no use? I do genuinely regret the cost of this program, more so in terms of relationships, time and energy, and especially what it has required of Julie, than in terms of the money involved. Whether I finish or not, the outcomes are not worth the investment. But I can't convince myself that seeing it through to the end is a more productive response than walking away now.

Someone recently raised the objection that it will be hard to tell my kids they need to finish things they've started, even if they don't feel motivated, especially when it's school work that they never wanted to do in the first place. I don't think it will be that much of an obstacle. Teaching kids discipline is important, but they also need to learn right motives and right priorities. They need to learn about repentance and the consequences of mistakes. I hope that my kids can learn from my mistakes, why family and faith are so much more important than academics and careers. I hope they won't have to repeat them but can learn from my example. But if they do get themselves pointed down the wrong road in life, I would be honored to see them walk away from that degree, that high-level job, that special honor, for five more minutes spent meaningfully with their own children. What better way is there to glimpse the true value of people and relationships?

throwing in the towel - part 1

This week, I officially declared my intention to quit my Ph.D. dissertation. It's not a decision I came to lightly, but I'm confident that it's the best one I can make in this area right now. Let me start with some background.

I decided when I was about nine years old that I wanted to be an engineer. No, I didn't want to drive a train--I wanted to build bridges. (I'm guessing most kids at that age don't even know that meaning of the word.) About five years later, I refined my ambitions and decided I would prefer electrical engineering, because it was closer to pure physics. Then I had one of those summer camp moments, where I felt that God was calling me to be a pastor (as he does with so many 15-year-olds). I decided to go to Bible College, because that's what my pastor had done, and generally speaking, that's what anyone at my church did who was planning on ministry. The fact that I was seeking a bachelor's degree rather than a three-year diploma worried me a bit that maybe I was in it too much for the academic honors. But I was a bit young to be starting college anyway, so another year delay before entering full-time ministry probably wouldn't hurt.

I started my undergraduate studies at 17 and finished at 20. (Yes, I crammed credits, but not too much--mostly it was that they gave me a lot of transfer credits for the AP courses I'd taken in high school.) At some point in my last year, I started thinking about the remote possibility that I might want to go back to school someday and get a seminary degree. I browsed catalogs in the library, figuring I had better resources at the moment to evaluate schools than I might later on. At least I could get a sense of where I'd want to go, if it ever came to that. Then, I'm not sure where it came from, but a thought awoke in my head, that most churches don't hire 20-year-olds for anything beyond youth ministry. I'd been working in youth ministry throughout college, and I didn't think much of it. So maybe it wouldn't hurt to use the academic momentum I already had, keep going to school for a while, and that way by the time I finished (at the ripe, old age of 23), I'd have a better shot at the job I really wanted.

So it was that, after waiting to finish college before getting married, my wife and I began our new life together hundreds of miles away from home in a place we'd never expected to live, temporarily of course. We moved to the Maryland suburbs of Washington, DC, where we still live, eleven years later. The plan was to earn a Th.M. (master of theology) degree, which is sort of like an M.Div. on steroids. An M.Div. (master of divinity) is the standard professional degree for ministry--like an M.D. for medicine or an M.B.A. for business. An M.A. is generally a more academically-oriented degree in the humanities, often the first stage in a Ph.D. program, for instance. A Th.M. is essentially a combination of the two, so you get your professional degree but with an extra academic emphasis. A faculty mentor in college had told me his one regret about seminary was that he didn't get the Th.M. while he had the chance, and I figured too that it would give me a chance to balance out my languages. I started learning Greek in college and continued throughout seminary; with the later start on Hebrew, a Th.M. in OT would allow me to catch up.

The other nice thing about a Th.M. is that, as an academic degree, it's supposedly useful for teaching. Once upon a time, you could, for instance, be a Bible College professor with just a Th.M. That's becoming less and less the case. The desire to get and maintain regional accreditation is pushing even Bible Colleges to require more doctorates, and the market seems to be providing them with more than enough candidates. If I'd realized that earlier, I might not have bothered with the Th.M., but at least it opened the door to the possibility of a career in the classroom, rather than the local church. Also, because I had to earn the M.Div. first, before moving on with the extra year for the Th.M., I got a chance to do some adjunct teaching, which I found that I enjoyed. So by the time I was wrapping up seminary, I was thinking more and more of an academic path, which meant I now had to start looking at Ph.D. programs.

I ended up with a choice to make. I received a three-year full tuition scholarship to the Catholic University of America, which would allow us to stay in the area, and which fortunately knew something of the small seminary I'd attended (mostly positive). I had applied to two different programs there--Biblical Studies, in the School of Divinity, and Semitic Languages, in the School of Arts & Sciences. I felt like Semitics would be more useful, more challenging, and less redundant of what I'd already done; the only problem was, I'd have to get another master's degree. I figured it would be worth the extra effort, since I'd come out with a broader range of qualifications. It would require three years of full-time coursework, plus doctoral comps and a dissertation. Realistically, I could still be done with school by the age of 30.

This is going to get kind of long, so I'll break it off here and continue in another post.

permanent repentance

Orthodox praxis is often described as a "lifestyle of repentance." This description is borne out in the repeated cry of kyrie eleison ("Lord have mercy!") and its longer cousin, the Jesus prayer ("Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!"), the frequent fasting, prostrations, etc. To Protestant sensibilities, all this repentance can evoke memories of the Catholic monk Martin Luther, wearing out his confessor with long lists of sins, finding no rest until he realized that justification comes by faith alone. How, one might wonder, can I constantly repent without wallowing in discouragement over my own sinfulness? How can this be the life Christ called me to?

I've been chipping away at Fr. Dumitru Staniloae's Orthodox Spirituality, and in the section on repentance he writes:

But this repentance . . . shouldn't be confused with a discouraging dissatisfaction, which can paralyze all our enthusiasm. It must not be a doubt in our greater possibilities, but a recognition of the insufficiencies of our achievements up to now. If it is discouragement, it itself is a sin, one of the greatest. Our repentant conscience doesn't continually pronounce a critical judgment on our past actions because of the sentiment that nothing truly good can be accomplished. Instead it judges with the deep conviction that it can also do better, based on the experience of a mystical power much greater than its own nature, which can always be made stronger by the divine. It judges with the feeling that in what we have done and in the way in which we have behaved we have realized only in an insufficient measure and in a colorless way what we could have done. Repentance expresses the thought: "It can be better." Discouragement on the other hand says: "This is all I can do. I can't do better." Strictly speaking discouragement is opposed to repentance, because where something better can't be expected, regret has no place. This is a fatalistic sentiment, a skeptical resignation. Repentance is borne by a faith in something better.

I like that. To say that even our virtues require repentance, because they could have been more frequent or consistent, or come sooner, is an expression of profound hope, because by God's grace we can always do better. It's hopeful as well, because even the greatest of saints can end life with a cry of repentance. Clearly, our eternal fate, our standing before God, our relationship with Christ--whatever you want to call it--is not dependent on personal perfection. If it were, none of us would be saved. But neither do we sit back and say God's grace must mean our sins are irrelevant. We live every moment in repentance, because that is the only proper attitude before a holy and perfect God.

searching for common ground--first cut

About six months ago, Julie and I met with the elders at Bethany (the Evangelical church we'd been part of for most of our married life) to ask for prayer and guidance about our situation. On that particular occasion, the senior pastor recommended that I read Velvet Elvis, by Rob Bell, which I commented on earlier. The point then, as when we had met with him about a year earlier, as when they sent us a letter immediately before I became a catechumen, was that perhaps we might find somewhere we could both be happy. Particularly, Rob Bell fits into a movement known as the emerging Church, which is pretty diverse in its expressions, but often includes more traditional elements borrowed from the ancient Church. I was pessimistic about the idea after reading Bell's book, and now that we've had a chance to visit a church that falls somewhere in this category, I'm not feeling much better about it.

A couple of weeks ago, we had a follow-up meeting with a couple of the elders about the letter, and one positive outcome was that both Julie and I realized we'd somehow jumped to the conclusion that the other one was not interested in trying to see if there might be some kind of church out there that would meet both our needs. Now that we know we're both open to it, we've begun taking some steps in that direction. It's hard to say where it will lead, if anywhere. We may find that the best we can do is go somewhere that neither one of us would like, in which case what we're doing now is probably a better option. We may learn something along the way--something about each other's unique expectations, something about what we really hold in common, or maybe just something about what alternatives really exist. A renewed perspective wouldn't necessarily be a bad outcome. Or we just might actually find something that works for both of us--perhaps as a permanent home, but perhaps also as a temporary stopping point along the road, where we can both find some degree of contentment as we prepare to look further together.

Of course, part of the problem now is, how do we actually go about finding something that's in between Bethany and Holy Cross? We had the suggestion of emerging churches, and particularly of Cedar Ridge Community Church, founded and until recently pastored by Brian McLaren, which happens to be down the road from Bethany. We've also spent some time talking with Rick Laribee, pastor of St. Mark's Episcopal Church, who himself was a Baptist pastor before he started exploring more traditional forms of Christianity. So that church is on the short list. Someone else suggested Missouri Synod Lutheran, which tends to be more conservative in its theology than some Lutheran denominations.

We know there are going to be some challenges. Neither of us is particularly comfortable with female clergy, and that's something we're going to run into in both Episcopal and emerging churches. We also tend to be pretty conservative on theology and ethics. Even if we find a particular local congregation that's OK on those points, will its denomination be more problematic (thinking here particularly about Episcopal)? And there's still the nagging suspicion (for me, at least) that whatever compromise we find is going to be better on the less important issues but not so good on the substantive ones. For instance, more liturgical worship without a solid grounding in traditional theology isn't going to do much for me. But we're trying to be open-minded and just see what's out there.

So, today we made our first visit. We started with Cedar Ridge. The people we talked to--a greeter who met us at the door, a woman who helped us with signing in our son (who ended up wanting to stay with us in the service anyway), a staff member who gave a brief intro to the church after the service--were friendly enough, but then it was also their job to be nice to visitors. The sermon was decent, but somewhat repetitive and rather long (not sure of the exact length, but the first hour consisted of one song, a brief welcome, and the sermon). The music was entertaining, but we both agreed that the instruments were so loud that they de-emphasized the singing and seemed to make it easier just to sit back and listen than to participate. The last part of the service was interesting, but seemed tacked-on. After the sermon, a different staff member came up and gave a brief explanation of what would come next. During some time of silence and (comparatively) quiet music, people could proceed to various locations throughout the room where they could take communion (self-administered), or pick up some handouts about the action items from the sermon, or light a candle, or pray quietly with some guidance for contemplation, or ask some designated persons to pray with them. Eventually, the singing resumed for about three more songs, and the service closed in a final prayer.

For the most part, I can see what they're trying to do. The general structure of the service follows the traditional flow of Scripture/preaching then communion. I appreciate that they take communion weekly, and I guess I prefer the idea of going forward for communion over passing trays around while everyone remains seated. On the other hand, it shifts communion more toward the individualistic end of the spectrum, which bothers me a bit. There's some advantage to having opportunities for personal devotion, like lighting candles and praying at various stations (vs. not having them at all, which is what I've seen in most Evangelical churches), but it lacks the natural expression and the blend of spontaneity with regularity and shared devotion that you get in Orthodox worship. And when you think about it, to throw in 15 min. of interactive worship at the very end, after an hour of rather non-interactive observation, seems a bit out of balance.

All in all, there may be a few surface-level gains (from my perspective) over our experience at Bethany, but neither of us was terribly impressed, and I don't think it would substantially change our current dynamic. I would still feel a need to involve myself with Orthodoxy, and all that would have changed is Julie would be uprooted from her church home and transplanted somewhere quite similar. There may be other emerging churches out there that do a better job of incorporating traditional elements, but for now I think we need to move on and look at something with more actual, handed-down tradition.

round two

It snowed again today. Kind of a surprise, too, because they were calling for mostly ice. This time I shoveled all of the spaces right in front of our building (meaning, half of the total spaces, or more than that, if you don't count the ones the plow eliminates with its snow pile). That's not as impressive as it sounds--I don't think we got as much this time, and since there were cars parked in them, there wasn't nearly as much space for the snow to accumulate. Besides, it was mostly for my own sake, since I'm hoping to increase our odds of getting a clean space. And it was just enough for me to scratch the snow shoveling itch. (I know that, because when I turned to look at the other side, I wimped out.)

We haven't moved our car yet, so no way to know whether my attitude will be any better this time around. I would appreciate your prayers that this doesn't just add more sin to the pile (which I'm sure is considerably bigger than any of the snow banks out there).

most holy Theotokos, save us!

One area where I've got my head around Orthodoxy but am much slower to feel at home in it is veneration of and prayer to saints. I have no problem repeating the morning and evening prayers, or affirming what we sing and pray in services; but it's probably the most significant area--perhaps the only area--where I often feel like I'm just going through the motions. Tonight I had an unexpected opportunity to attend the Akathist service, which Holy Cross does pretty much every Friday during Lent. For those who don't know, it's pretty much one long hymn of praise to the Mother of God. Everything is grounded, of course, in her role as the bearer of Christ, but if you're not particularly comfortable with the idea of praying to human saints, it can feel disconcerting, or at best, like there's really not much connection.

Part-way through the service, though, a thought hit me. This is probably just a very tiny step, and hopefully in the right direction, but as we kept repeating after each stanza (there's probably a better word here, but I still haven't got a handle on all the musical terms), "Most holy Theotokos, save us!" I began to think of it in the context of the annunciation. Time tends to get a bit goofy in Orthodox worship anyway, so I don't think it's necessarily out of line to look at it this way. But I began to see it less as a request and more as an exhortation. In some sense, when we say that line, we're cheering her on, to say "yes" to God's plan for her. It is not by her own power that she can save us, but by her willingness to be used by God so that the Word can be made flesh. Without the incarnation, we're hopeless, and in that moment between the angelic proclamation and Mary's willing response, all creation shouts its encouragement.

Now, I know that there's more to it than that. I know that it's also dealing with present needs and asking for her prayers on our behalf. As I say, I can understand and accept that part in my head. But it's still not something I quite feel on a personal level. There's a growing process here, most of it still ahead of me. But I think tonight I acquired a piece, however small. And in some sense the rest of it really does flow out from there. I had glimpses. If she says yes, God becomes man; and who can really perceive all the facets of the salvation that comes to us from that event. Last Sunday, at Forgiveness Vespers, we were reminded how our sins affect others, however private they may seem. This unseen ripple effect touches every soul. But how much more does the work of Christ touch everyone in every way? If I pray for a sick loved one to be healed, or a city to be defended, or a danger to be averted, the salvation I seek in those situations comes through Christ. And like everything else, it all hinges on his becoming human on our behalf.

More to come, but for now I'll take what I can get.

lent and legalism

I suppose I probably read or heard this somewhere along the way, but it came into my head the other day that there's a good picture of salvation in the Orthodox experience of Pascha (Easter). Of course, that should go without saying, but I have in mind a particular juxtaposition.

Orthodox Lent (and really the whole annual fasting cycle) is just about the most rigorous general fasting practice (to be distinguished from specialized monastic rules) in Christendom. Another way of putting this is, Western Christianity has scaled back its fasting practice from Church Tradition, to the point where it is barely token in Roman Catholicism and all but vanished in Protestantism. To over-simplify, we eat vegan for the whole period of Lent, plus cutting back the number of meals to one or two per day and some days abstaining from food altogether. There are more detailed specifications, and with all the available options, substitutes, checking ingredients, etc., it's easy, especially as a newbie, to get wrapped up in the mechanics and lose sight of the purpose. It's also easy to become critical of those who don't fast as rigorously, or self-satisfied with how strenuous one's own practice is.

Fast-forward to Pascha, the end of Lent (well, technically Lent ends at Palm Sunday, but the rigorous fasting continues for one more week). In every Orthodox church around the world, the same homily is read every year, and has been read consistently over the centuries--the paschal homily of St. John Chrysostom. St. John preached some long sermons, many of which have been collected into several-hundred-page commentaries on the various books of the Bible. But this one's comparatively short and sweet. I suspect that at least part of the reason it's repeated every year is that it's hard to improve on. Perhaps a smaller part of the reason is that you always know what's coming. One thing about Lent is everything's done in view of what comes at the end. You know, from the first day of the fast, that at the end you will hear these words:

If any have laboured long in fasting,
Let him how receive his recompense.
If any have wrought from the first hour,
Let him today receive his just reward.
If any have come at the third hour,
Let him with thankfulness keep the feast.
If any have arrived at the sixth hour,
Let him have no misgivings;
Because he shall in nowise be deprived therefore.
If any have delayed until the ninth hour,
Let him draw near, fearing nothing.
And if any have tarried even until the eleventh hour,
Let him, also, be not alarmed at his tardiness.

For the Lord, who is jealous of his honour,
Will accept the last even as the first.
He giveth rest unto him who cometh at the eleventh hour,
Even as unto him who hath wrought from the first hour.
And He showeth mercy upon the last,
And careth for the first;
And to the one He giveth,
And upon the other He bestoweth gifts.
And He both accepteth the deeds,
And welcometh the intention,
And honoureth the acts and praises the offering.

Wherefore, enter ye all into the joy of your Lord;
Receive your reward,
Both the first, and likewise the second.
You rich and poor together, hold high festival!
You sober and you heedless, honour the day!
Rejoice today, both you who have fasted
And you who have disregarded the fast.
The table is full-laden; feast ye all sumptuously.
The calf is fatted; let no one go hungry away.
Enjoy ye all the feast of faith:
Receive ye all the riches of loving-kindness.

We never feel satisfied that we've fasted perfectly. Each year we strive to do better than the last. Each year we face our own pride and sinfulness. We work to bring our bodies into submission, and to match our physical obedience with spiritual. But when all is said and done, we never earn God's favor. We never can, and that's not even the point. All are welcomed at the feast, however much they've stumbled, however late they've started, even if they haven't fasted at all. We don't do this to pull ourselves into heaven by our own bootstraps. It's an expression of our love for Christ, or it's nothing. The challenge is to remember that as we proceed.

razor-sharp grass and back-breaking apples

In The Great Divorce, C. S. Lewis portrays visitors from hell to heaven as phantoms. Their experience of the reality of heaven is literally painful--the grass is too sharp to walk on, and even a leaf can barely be moved. I felt like I was living a scene from that book this morning. As usual, Ian wanted to go out and play in the snow, which for him means mostly to shovel it with no particular objective. Wet snow followed by a cold snap gives you basically a coating of white ice, and it still hasn't warmed up enough to soften things up. He was determined, though. I'd watch him grunt and slide, until he finally managed to scrape free a few precious grains that could be hurled. He'd had enough by the time I was ready to go inside and went along willingly.

At one point, we tried walking out into the common yard between the buildings. You stay right on top of the snow, and if you're not careful, it's easy to slip and fall. Fortunately, with his snow pants on, he didn't get hurt from falling on his butt several times in a row. Still, it didn't seem like we'd get very far that way, so I had him sit on the shovel and pulled him around the yard for a while. That was fun while it lasted, but he still had to make the attempt at the shoveling.

Truly axios are those men of the Brotherhood of St. Joseph, who are probably assailing the shell around our church as I type this. I hope they have more pick-axes among them than shovels.

extra cheese & halopinos [sic]

The other day I was listening to talks from the Orthodox-Anglican conference held recently in Michigan. Someone quoted Bp. KALLISTOS as saying, "It's not the meat, it's the cheese." I'm pretty sure I agree. Since we had to go up to see my grandpa, I didn't get much chance to finish Meatfare with a bang, but I didn't have big plans anyway. We might have gone to Golden Corral toward the end of the week, so I could have a selection of meat, but it was mostly because I felt like I ought to. As it is, I ended up having beef on weck for my "last meal," which was certainly unexpected, but appreciated nonetheless.

But Cheesefare--I had a long list of foods I wanted to eat this week. I've hit most of them--raspberry danish, various types of cookies, cheesecake, apple pie, ice cream, macaroni and cheese (from KFC, no less), cheesy potatoes (still working on those), and pizza. For Valentine's Day, we went to Red Lobster; I got the shrimp pasta (very cheesy), Caesar salad, and of course the ever-popular cheddar biscuits. I still need to have eggs, and maybe some donuts, but I have a couple of days left. Tonight it was pretty cold, so Julie decided to order pizza, rather than go anywhere. The coupon was for two toppings. I don't like vegetables 0r fungus, and it didn't seem like a good time to find out whether I like anchovies, so we ordered it with extra cheese, pepperoni on half, and jalapeños on the other half. They don't normally put them on pizza, so someone hand-wrote "halopinos" on the receipt. Julie put it into words as well as anything: "Hooked on Phonics worked for me!" I don't think I've ever ordered pizza with "halopinos" before, but what else could I do? It was pretty good, but I'm sure I'll regret it in the morning.

I'm definitely going to miss dairy over the next several weeks. Still, I'm looking forward to the fast. I get lazy in between. Fortunately, this time it wasn't long between the Nativity Fast and Lent (pity we're not on the Old Calendar--they had even less time to relax). I feel like I've done nothing but overeat since Christmas. My goal this time (aside from the more important spiritual needs) is to control my portions better than I normally do, even when fasting. One meal a day I can do. Give me the list of what I can and can't eat, and I can follow it. But too often I end up stuffing myself.

So here's my wish-list for Lent this year--portion control, compassion for others, prayer from the heart, and tears of repentance. Knowing myself, I'll be lucky to get the first one, let alone the others, but I hope at least to keep them before me as I go. In the meantime, I still need to have some nachos before Sunday night.

snow, dust, and ashes

Well, yesterday turned out to be the test of my ability to find God in shoveling snow. We had our first real storm of the season, which brought a mixture of everything from freezing rain to wet snow. The sun came out in the middle of the day, and the temperature stayed warm enough that, although the snow was wet and heavy, it was still loose enough to shovel. Last night it got cold again, and it's now hardened solid. I figured yesterday was the one good chance to move the stuff, so in the afternoon I got out there with my trusty shovel. Ian did his part, too, but I outlasted him. He went inside after about an hour and a half.

Although living in an apartment saves you a lot of work--someone else keeps up the grounds, plows snow, and shovels walkways--you still end up with about as much to do when it comes to shoveling out your car. You have the added difficulty of shoveling between cars (some of which don't belong to you, so knocking them with the shovel really isn't an option), and you spend a lot more time walking back and forth between where your car is parked and where you can dump the snow. Plus, although they do plow the parking lot, they don't want to hit cars either, so they leave a lot of snow in front of them. But the real kicker is that you never know who's going to end up parking in the area you clear out.

In our complex, there are no assigned spaces. So if you shovel the space where you're parked, the only guarantee that you'll get that space back is if you don't go anywhere. Otherwise, all bets are off. Most people don't shovel unless there's absolutely no way to get their car out otherwise, which is their own business if they're the only ones using the spaces they don't shovel. But of course if they take the spot you cleaned out, you're stuck with whatever mess they left. To make matters worse, the plows dump snow piles in empty spaces, so you end up with a general shortage. It's like some sick game of musical chairs, where the last person to come home might not have anywhere to park.

My solution is to shovel more than one space. I typically do two, even though we only have one car. I figure that increases the odds that we'll get to use one of them, and it also allows someone else to benefit. Plus, with the way things were yesterday, I couldn't pass up all those empty spaces. I knew if they didn't get shoveled then, they wouldn't get shoveled at all. Doesn't that make me a great person, shoveling more than is required of me?

No, it apparently just gives me occasion to sin. Aside from feeling proud of myself for clearing out an extra space, I also ended up judging the person who parked in it. Later in the evening, I looked out the window and saw that the biggest SUV in our building was parked in my extra space. That person obviously had not shoveled their own space (no one else had), and they had the vehicle most capable of parking somewhere else. If that wasn't bad enough, I knew their spouse also drove an SUV, and I was sure my other space would be gone as soon as we left. Sure enough, when we got back later that night, all the spaces were taken, including a car that doesn't even belong to anyone in our building. We ended up having to parallel park in front of the snow pile, and I had more opportunity to grumble about our inconsiderate neighbors.

So apparently I do fine when it's just me, God, and the snow. But once Satan shows up with my neighbors (not that he's making them do what they do, but he certainly draws my attention to it), everything falls apart. God, be merciful to me a sinner!