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Friend of all our then's

I am not a strong thinker,
And I confess an aversion to propositions.
My native apophaticism is due mostly to childishness,
Which, on occasion, rises to the silence of children
On Christmas morning, and the splendor of the first day
Of the summer holidays.
Gone for now, in this hospice,
Are the intellectualities of theory,
My ongoing denunciations of Bultmann, Ritschl,
And my codgerly debate with beloved Augustine.
They have faded, like the thick black band
Of a 45 on spindle, the arm gliding toward the end at center.
Silence, labored breath,
At the house of Mary and Martha, Lazarus.

But beyond the theories, above the Names,
Transcending the harmonic spheres and extended
Above the tines of Virtue that turn this quiet earth,
Is the bright darkness, the Friend Who presses
My heart, the center everywhere, circumference nowhere.
If You are Love, God, I need you, as a man in the tempest deep.
If You are Love, God, You are Person, for only persons can love.
If You are Person, God, You are Three,
For I have known Three of You in One, at every revelation, every time,
This time in the House at the edge of Time.

Father You ordained her in year and earth, hearth and heart
And called her, destined to the Day, athanatos, for the Son.
Jesus You fashioned her through the Law, for the Word,
Logos of wisdom, meaning, body and soul, star, spring and sand.
Spirit You breathed mystery, a flash of co-inherency at Dawn
In the secret womb, You comforted the sinner, the patient
Of this worldly infirmary, whispering, thundering truth beyond
Lyrics or musical convention, You gave life then, and for many then’s,
And all the then’s and the then’s of tomorrow, the Day …

And this “then,” at the Last Friendly House before the Unknown Lands.

O Most Holy Trinity, Friend of all our then’s,
You painted silver glass, ice, the dew of Hermes
Like argent cloisonné on this last day.
Slate rain, chromated branches,
Subdued green on the lawn,
Waiting, hushed,
For the Dawn of Spring,
The Breath on the waters,
The morning of the Son,
The Father’s Eden, once again, then,
Never end.

I am not a strong thinker,
But I can be a child
And pray this day.

She was the one who saved me

"She was the one who saved me," he said, when we reminded him that he had worked hard at visiting her twice a day, three hours at a time. Today, I saw him adjusting her oxygen hose so it didn't chafe her upper lip, frail and trembling: he finished by pulling up the white thin blanket (standard in most rooms like this) above her thin parchment shoulders, delicate as a dove.

She probably did, I think, since he is an ex-POW from Stalag 17B, two years a guest of Adolf having arrived in style under a nice nylon canopy, billowing fair, obstructing his coach -- the blazing B17 with his friends -- from view. It's tough being a PTSD wife, but she did it, staying, going on hurried trips to the beach when things got "much." Being patient, loving, forgiving much, waiting, cooking, praying with her Rusin book.

She is still here, although one may argue that it is not quite accurate later on to say "there" -- as in "present with the Lord and absent in body." She is still here, although the "here" is tenuous, weak like the famous strand of Damocles.

Last night, I sent them all home: husband, daughter (my wife), granddaughters (whom we are training to be Christian at times like these). They were tired from forty-eight hours of vigil, breathing dry hospital air, hearing soft chimes, waking every half hour from checks on vitals, watching inscrutable monitors.

"Read the Psalms for me," she whispered at two o'clock. So I did. "The Lord is my Shepherd." "The Lord is my Light and my Salvation." "Thy Word is a Lamp unto my feet." "What shall I render unto the Lord for all that He has done for me?" "I will lift up the cup of salvation." "This is the Day the Lord has made." "The Lord is near to those who call upon His Name."

"Straighten the blankets for me, Father." I have told Rose many times that she should call me by my Christian name, but she refuses. "You are a priest," she'd say, "and that's more important."

"I want to look nice for when they come," explaining why she wanted the perfectly straight bedclothes perfected, "... oh, look, they're standing there [at the foot of the bed] ..."

I looked, seeing nothing but the clinical world, and immediately concluded that she was the better sighted of us two.

"I need water, good water."

Every five minutes or so, over the night, she sipped from the little straw, two or three tiny swallows, birdlike. This is when water, a cup of cool water, is recognized again as the divine gift it has always been. Water has always been transparent silver, air distilled, the firmament rained from the heaven of doves. Rose, my expiring mother-in-law, knows this.

Better, much much better and cleaner minds than mine have meditated on this moment. They knew better the fineness of the angels, the subtlety of Graceful Will, the dank heaviness and squalor of darkness. A breach is opening, a gap, into the unsheltered Place -- a Place not filled with Space, but infinite, filled with Time.

A breach, and to be honest,  my mind is unsettled by the restless spirits oozing from the mystic crack of the mundane: the terror of forever is peeking through. But there is Power and Glory, and Kingdom in the Brightness of the Risen King. His Name is the Way through forever for her --  who saved others in her own lesser way.

He now saves her.

To see this, to know this, is the Triune Gift. Peace of the Trinity I drink in prayer, for I am in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, where I want to fear no evil. I need water, good water.

And He, the One Who saves, gives.

Joy and Wonder, Wistful Peace

Today, my friends, most of you are celebrating the Feast
thirteen days before it arrives at my table and hearth.
You have taken Pope Gregory's time machine, we have stayed
with old Caesar.

So I pray that the angels will sing joy in your heart
with the New Song of the stopping of the fiery sword
and the opening of the Springtide door.
That the Star that still shines above the Cave
will be a lamp unto your feet in a valley of castles and trials.
That the wonder of the truly Wise will assuage your mind
with childhood, and the Shepherds' humility will make you
dance again.

I am slower, a fortnight behind you,
but one day we'll all catch up. And on that day we will all
sing at the Feast and laugh at the fire, and every star
will be known by its true name, all songs will be remembered,
and all stories pieced together and understood.

The Son of God,
the Person, Only-Begotten, Who in One Hypostasis
joined His divinity to His manhood without confusion,
grant you His Peace, the Grace overflowing from perichoresis,
Co-inherence of Trinitarian sobernost, koinonia,
the principal, eternal thunder and jovial love of the Father,
and the wistful ecstasy of the Spirit that proceeds.

Through the prayers of all the saints who are the true Magi
of time, and the Shepherds of the pasture,
and of the Theotokos, Virgin Mother,
figlia del tuo figlio, O daughter of your Son,
umile e alta piu che creatura, termine fisso d'etterno consiglio:
more humble and exalted than any other creature,
fixed goal of the eternal plan:

I will meet you there, for we are in His House,
the House of Peace, the House of Bread,
in Bethlehem, the City of David,
where unto us is born this day a Saviour,
Christ the Lord.

The Table of the Star

I started my holidays with sad people.

Every year, my friend Pat the Funeral Director invites the families of the recently-deceased to a Christmas reception. There is a prayer (which was my job) and a little meditation. At the end, Pat reads off the names of those he helped bury over the past year, and one by one, the families come up to receive a little ornament to hang on their Christmas Tree, a bittersweet ivory and silver memento mori bearing the late name, like a tombstone, to be suspended in evergreen by the retro-50’s bulbs and winking suns of blue, gold and red.

A pair of late-middle-aged men strummed holiday chord progressions on their amplified acoustic guitars, occasionally breaking into clarified carol themes. The newly-minted widowers who dressed for Christmas in their suits without help for the first time this year, sat lost and listened, hoping that their windsors looked something like those neat knots, sculpted by those arthritic lover fingers for decades, gone.

The ladies looked less out of sorts, most of them having taken the time and thought during the pre-arrangement days to prepare for the adjustments in attention, and household management, and the halving of the refrigerator, the table, the sofa and the bed.

Daughters, the new matriarchs, walked briskly, tearfully and certain, to the front where my friend met them, ornament in hand. They know, this year, that sadness has a taste: the magical days of winter lights have passed from the sparkle of champagne to the musky burn of port, heavy, purple, the grapes of heart.

Sons, who generally do not know these things, mostly stumbled, unconvinced by reality, interrupted by pathos, shocked by the hot and salt precipitation from their own blinking eyes.

The holidays will be difficult, we told them. This Nativity Season will be the first with an empty chair that is empty, for once, for real. The emptiness of the Elijah place setting is always a happy mystery: but the emptiness that accrues from absence sounds the echo of abandonment and doubt.

The Table of the Magi Star always bridges this year to the next. It is a diachronic nexus, the agora of ghosts and a festival of sentiments. This year, we told them, your sadness will recall every other grief: it is the secret, unavoidable track of Holiday, the conference of years, the path through the leaves that must be taken, and may not be traversed without risk and change.

There is no terror from the spirits, and the bitterness is sweet. Incompetent hands, now, brandish the carving knife and cannot make the gravy in the roasting pan. The laughter, too, is shy, experimental. And the trials lead, like drama, into reminiscence and story, narrating the old lesson of time: first there is fellowship, then there is remembrance, and the memory grows like an oak out of an acorn’s dream, and the eternal memory of God is sung through the soft murmur at the Table.

The First Star will not be found in the outside sky this year, we told them, but it is the single light in your window, to tell the world that life is still, in your heart this year, by this candle flame.

“They are at another Table tonight, this year, and we miss them, but for their felicity we are glad.”

Ah, yes, Christ: He came for these sad people, and for all meetings such as these.

He came for all who have had enough of the ornaments bittersweet, and who have spent too long at the confluence of ghost and nostalgia.

There is something about the winter lights that speak of forever, wistful, a something that wrings the heart like the chill of twilit snow, but glints of the fire hearth and brandy at midnight. There is something in the air at meetings of the sad and holidays, something that strips away all the Macy’s Parades, red fur hats and the clamoring society of tinsel.

There is something, with these funereal survivors, who arrive still on the midnight clear, who wait with the flocks by night.

They wait, hushed, with the lambs for the angels, for the handing out of salvific ornaments, bestowed from the Table of the Star.

I started my holidays with the sad people, and with them I found Christmas’ end.

Why there is no revival

Today, I've been told why there is no revival -- or, someone has tried to tell me why.

While preparing for a wedding today, I pulled out our old service books for the Holy Mystery of Matrimony. The cover is emblazoned with the title "The Rite of Holy Matrimony According to the Orthodox Greek Catholic Church."

Scrawled in pen by a 50-ish brain that should usually sniff at graffiti on walls and bridges were the unkempt words "or Why there is no Revival."

The underline, I take it, was for emphasis. I also take it, despite the difficult logic implied in the argument, that it is the Orthodox penchant for ritual (i.e., "rite") that is the reason for the supposed lack of "revival."

Of course, one could also say, exploiting the ambiguity, that it is the observance of matrimony that is the suggested cause. I don't think the graffiti artist intended this implication but, you know, there it is. If you're going to speak ambiguously, you'd better be prepared for surprising conclusions.

Anyways, I will make the friendly assumption that the writer (who has ruined one of my service books, and owes my church $3) really did mean well. He (the not-quite-copperplate indicates a male hand) must come from a revivalist perspective, since "revival" is the sine qua non for his ecclesiology.

Revival, for him, must mean an absence of ritual -- what he would call the "traditions of men." It must mean, too, the absence of sacrament: in the case of matrimony, he would never stipulate that marriage is a blessed unification of persons accomplished by the Trinity -- quite objectively transcendent of the emotional state of the participants.

Revival means the absence of historic order and hierarchy. It means the absence of old-fashioned fanciness (e.g., icons, gold chalices, lampada, incense, bells); although new-fashioned fanciness would be okay, because one must have their transparent plexiglass lecterns, ferns, and Amway auditoriums with horns, drums and gurgling fountains.

Revival means not just absence: it means the presence of a quasi-informality, an adoption of a practiced boisterousness, a tragic hybridization of modern idioms (e.g., self-help and temperance movements, business and townhall models) with expositions of isolated scriptures.

It also means the adoption of ecstasy or catharsis as the gold standard. "I was blessed at Church." "The anointing is here." "The Spirit was really there last night." "Revival broke out."

I am sure that much good has come from "revivals" that would past muster with my middle-aged male commentator, whose marginalia included "Rom 3:23 Impossible" atop the priest's petition that Christ might make "their marriage holy and grant that their life be without sin."

[By the way, he had better pray for a life without sin, and hope that such a thing was possible: if sin were irresistible, then there would be no sin.]

[Yes, yes, I too know the Roman Road, and that "all have sinned" -- but that is a far cry from saying "all must sin always," which seems to be the cognitive pothole my friend must have stumbled into.]

I am sure that my revivalist friend, whoever he may be, who was forced to sit through an Orthodox wedding with his eyes turning up in his head, and though his ears have been accustomed to 87 verses of "Alleluia" and "God is so good," but for some arcane reason he scrupled against hearing repetitions of "Lord have mercy" in my place ... I am sure that he has seen sinners repent and, with God's grace, overcome temptation and turn away from sin.

I hope so, because God often works despite the prejudice of graffiti.

Meanwhile, I will call my people to the annual revival of the Great Fast. At every Liturgy, I will issue an Altar Call, in which I intone "In the Fear of God, with Faith and with Love Come Forward."

And my people will come, and receive their Personal Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ into their heart, mystically, and in the physical symbol of His very Body and Blood.

And they will be revived.

Precisely because of the Rite.

So buddy, wherever you are, pony up with the $3 you owe me, since I am busy right now dabbing whiteout over your crabbed marginalia.

Unless, of course, you want to come and repair your damage, as your first penance, after your proper chrismation into the very Apostolic Church that gave you the word "revival" in the  first place.

You're welcome to come here to find its meaning.

What the dolphin said

Bottlenose_dolphin_copy On the seventeenth of August, at the Atlantic strand of Old Dominion, a curiously well-informed dolphin spoke whilst leaping into the blue light of the oceanic sun.

I will translate his four-pointed address:

POWER/REVOLUTION

Production and money do not determine politics. Politics determines economics, and politics is determined by religion, which in turn is determined by the bodiless powers. "Economy is the secular image of religious conviction."

Religious conviction is especially acute (and pernicious) when it acts under the mask of secularism. Few prophets are more fundamentalistic than are the imams of scientific materialism.

Today's economy destroys homes and families, folk groups, folk-ways and folk-churches (leaving only anti-folk industrial constructs in its wake, burning à la auto da fé the hardback hymnals of more faithful times), and militates profoundly against personhood. Two careers in the agora are now necessary to keep up with the prurient commands of the Sekhmetian American Dream (i.e., "sad"), and the children are left in the care of surrogates. The preponderance of divorce, the packing of nursing homes, the ubiquity of ADHD and the epidemic of autism should be enough to indict industrialism. But the court that could have adjudicated my complaint has been long adjourned (since WWI).

A nation sins, as a whole, if it destroys nature, especially human nature. A nation sins when it pollutes the earth, to be sure. Atoms should not be ripped apart to unleash satanic destruction. Polar bears and Amazonian botanicals should not be extinguished. Artificial hills should not be erected out of immortal disposables, diapers and twinkies.

But human nature is the crown of material Creation, and it is most sinful to pollute this ecology. Human and diabolical oppression violates human nature, to be sure, but so does licentiousness, slander, and libertinism. What is more, human nature cannot be isolated in the individual: this is the mistake of most so-called "ethics," and that is the main reason why this word and enterprise ought to be retired in the dustbin of worn-out sciences, where phrenology, spontaneous generation and abiogenesis are already mouldering.

Human nature embraces persons and people, a celibate, a family, a sobor and koinonia, and a city. It may extend farther than that to a "people" or a "nation." But it may turn out that democracy cannot obtain any further than the extent of the old polis: a nationalized democracy is an important myth in modern history, but it may turn out to be fantasia. Certainly, internationalized democracy, or any virtualized "community" (which is the appearance any so-called community larger than a polis must take) is a particularly heinous fad.

In any case, persons and people together comprise human nature. And when a nation corrodes or destroys nature, there'll be hell to pay. When children suffer the slings and arrows of parents who enshrine their self-determined "needs" higher than the icon of Christ -- which shines everywhere in the home and its faces -- then not only are the parents invoking the winds of perdition, but so is the nation that cut those winds loose, as did the shipmates of Odysseus with the bag of Aeolus.

The winds scatter everywhere, and drives every ship and soul nowhere toward safe harbor, instead only to founder on the shores of Circe, where men are transmuted into the shape of their passions, or directly into the maws of Scylla and Charybdis, even down to Erebus itself. A man sits at night with the keyboard, and calls up, from the grave, succubi leering in tumescent phosphorescence: he assumes, as a fool, that he is only being aroused temporarily and privately, but has no inkling that hell thunders with derision, because his holy intercourse and authority have been stained, and he has been unmanned (it is idiotic for him to think that he was rendered impotent, or emasculated, by his wife: self-willed pornography had stunted him long before). Subsequently, a woman leaves her children, not out of the tragic necessity to fend off starvation, but to "improve herself," and to demonstrate her likeness with man. And she, like Electra, calls her rejection of the Marian chrism "feminism" and "egalitarianism": she, too, has no inkling that she has demythologized fatherhood and motherhood, and the children are consigned to androgyny.

These winds, among many others wafted from Cocytus, were all done in the name of the nation, you must know, because as Coolidge once did say, apocalyptically, "The business of America is business." When did Americans become so foolish as to accept this traitorous calumny?

But it is not completely the fault of men:

Politics is no longer determined by the nation: America is no longer ruled by the USA. The eutectic rhetoric of Lincoln and the humanistic analysis of de Tocqueville are both predicated on a moral ecosystem (the only meaning of "culture") that no longer obtains. The powers-that-be are not the President, the Congress or the Supreme Court: instead, they are networked coalitions that transcend nation-state borders. They themselves, the powers-that-be, are ruled in turn, perhaps unknowingly, by the powers-that-are.

Which are, of course, the determiners of the first (i.e., pre-Christian) and third (contemporary transgressive) worlds. They are the dictators (via mechanistic inspiration) of type-written world-narratives, the tenure-bestowers to their priests and priestesses, who in turn intone the ritual epistemological chant of Creation-destroying and deconstructionist necromancy.

Who decides to revolutionize culture, to replace one order with another? To descend into a more lurid, fetid milieu of consciousness-fragmentation and materialistic demonism?

SekhmetsacredtravelcomIt is not the stock market, as this is only the offering collected at the temple.

It is not the celebrities (whether on the vaudevillian stage or in the goblin peep show of politics), as these are only the fetish-dolls of the tantric-rites of the new ishtarian pieties (the pertinent religious tracts at the grocery racks, whether they give the histories of stars or soap operas, are the same and should not believed, because the truth is worse). 

It is not the hieratic/academic deathworkers (i.e., deathwork bards, or deconstructionist new prophets of Baal) (2nd i.e., these are probably represented by Harry Potter’s death-eaters) as these are only the epistemological factotums employed by the powers-that-are. The suixante huitards, now in their flannels and walkers, who won the war quite prettily for the university, really hoped they were heroes, but knew deep down they were only plagiarizing Epeius on the whim of Athena (who despises the sacred order).

Too many so-called "conservatives" are conservative only because they seek to conserve (or renovate) their own obsolete privileges. These are not true conservatives. They are only bourgeois wannabe aristocrats -- and the world has had enough of both. True conservatives save the good from inferno, and preserve the sacred order.

Revolution is inevitable insofar as the rumor of war and evil permeate the fallen world. All revolution, especially the French one and this present, begins in Tartarus.

This is the proper interpretation of "revolution" -- that is, as a cataclysmic social renunciation of the sacred order. It is often masked by a well-intended appeal to democracy ("man as passive bovine will become, if bothered enough, the Minotaur"): but the mask is always lifted to reveal the furious face and leprous of Alecto. Sekhmet's hunger must be assuaged, her breath must be expelled: no barn has been better stocked for these First World entities than the foodstuff larder harvested by the Third.

The sacramental, apostolic church is the only defense against this chthonic scourge. The last revolution, consuming the last men described by Zarathustra, will precede immediately the Last Day.

NATURE/TIME

Dolphins know that time is not a member or constituent of nature (as is assumed by most physics): rather, it is the other way around. Nature-as-Creation is a member of time, as it is based on time.

Truth is coherence with time and nature. Untruth is digression from time and nature, and will inevitably produce regression from consciousness -- which is also known as death.

Consciousness is the intersection (or, rather, interaction) of the soul with time, because Time is a Grace, a Rhetoric Divine. The other word for "consciousness" here is "nous."

Between and above the poles of chaos and determinism rises Personhood. One cannot help but to predicate all consciousness on his own personhood. That is why the Lord said that a man will never fail to love himself. But a man can fail to love others and God. Likewise, he can ignore personhood outside himself. Consequently, this deliberate ignorance produces a stilted view of the psychic landscape -- a Stygian topology, if you will. He who allows no personhood but his own will see Chaos above him, so that nothing can oppose his own deity (which is the only personhood he now understands -- the word for this is "Self"). And below him -- the chain of being that he assigns the status of consequentiality -- is determinism. The rejection of personhood, beyond the cold walls of Self, is the vocation of the overman. This construct can exist only if the natural view of Creation is eclipsed, like windows curtained to keep out the morning -- a common occurrence in the age which has lurched from industrialism to virtualism.

If he cannot grasp this Nietzschean brass ring of homo superior, then he would rather dismiss the world as unreal if he thinks at all.

Thus are the anti-natural schools of the existentialist, who wraps himself in Chaos, and the Übermensch, who crowns himself with the Darwinian scepter of self-determinism. Both have a vested interest in obliterating any vestige of the Person, especially the Three Persons in One Essence from Whom all personhood flows.

Most materialistic observers of persons assume that a biological phenomenon, if observed, must lie at the basis of behavior. Instead, many biological phenomena occur as a result of free decisions (a passionate man will produce, in himself, a genetic and biochemical complex that will accommodate his self-determination).

Of course, the unnatural character of much of human behavior and experience cannot completely be explained by self-determination. There are effects caused by completely external factors, whether by the destruction waged by other people (consciously evil or not), environmental catastrophes, or completely meaningless/"chance" occurrences (such as the debilitation of certain genes or developmental milestones that produce congenital defects, or physiological determinisms that appear later in life -- cerebral palsy is an instance of the former; heart disease is an example of the latter).

Also of course, of all the non-self-determined evils waged on existence, the inheritance of death and the legacy of the preponderance of orientation-to-sin is the greatest of injustices. The customary assignment of blame to God for this is the greatest darkness of the Western mind, and persists in the cultural cousins of reformed theology and atheism.Achillesshield

Too much time is wasted on fixing blame for sin and pain.

On the other hand, persons, who don't waste time complaining, are restored by gardens and sacraments. Such is the anamnesis of Paradise, the irony of the shield of Achilles, the lesson of Odysseus' olive tree. It is especially the vision of beauty and the peace of the Eucharist: no Christian can complain of injustice at the Table of Divine Conviviality. One Word at the Feast silences the totality of demonic noise ... one Song at Sion's Festival, under the Tree of Life, resolves the aggregate threat of meon.

PRAYER/PARTICULARITY

Good stories -- that is, stories that should be told or read, as opposed to many stories that should be ignored or immediately regretted as having been ever told or written (and especially, grievously read and cathected) -- good stories should be like trees that are lovelier than poems, grown from the ground of person and place, watered by memory, pulled up by the love of the tri-hypostatic sun.

Prayer must be like story in this way, rooted in heart, in hearth and earth ... "Pray Thyself in me" is the Trinitarian way of understanding this wise nut that is hard to crack.

Some people say that history must be “dealt with” in prayer (but they use the institutionalized corporate term "engaged with" for "dealt with" -- don't trust those talking heads that can't speak English). That is all fine and good if one means by "history" the prophetic and apocalyptic sense of the past. But alas, that is never meant this way: it is more likely that what is meant by "history" is the acceptance of self-serving and cultural self-justifying myths fabricated about the past, not from the past. One cannot pray if one's dogma is sociologically informed: Christian prayer is predicated on dogma that is theological.

Prayer, of course, must be rooted in memory and real theology (the only philosophy that can survive the Resurrection of Christ) -- this is the mustard seed of faith that is alone efficacious enough to move mountains and sharp enough to squeeze through the eye of a needle.

Only persons can pray. Persons are inspired, through eros, to pray as oak leaves yearn toward the sun. They learn, through ascesis, to pray in faith only through Tradition and Liturgy, never ever through the lesser erotics of entertainment. This is why the historic institutional Orthodox Church exists today. This is also why it can never attract popularity. It will always indict the industrialized cows of Bashan, because it must always cleave to the House of Prayer.

Prayer that is non-environmentalist (and insensible to global warming) must needs be gnostic, and should be heartily eschewed. Prayer that is non-personal is calvinist and therefore jovian, not Trinitarian. Prayer that is simple and fervent, orthodox and childlike, winsome and importunate, unencumbered by and liberated from the chains of Job-ian theodicy-obfuscations, illuminated by ecclesial vision and charged with joy, buoyed up by peace – that sort of prayer is simply prayer that is prayer.

Orthodox prayer that is efficacious must be relieved of the weights of churchmanship and bureaucracy. If Orthodoxy has been hobbled at all in the modern age, it has been handicapped by the customs of ecclesial politics siphoned off from Rome and the Franks: if institutional Orthodox ever sputters, it is only when the ecclesiastics have little to do with ekklesia. Bureaucratic prayer (a difficult phrase, if not impossible) distributes men on ladders of importance: the Pharisee, sniffing at the Republican, did such a thing, and it was adjudicated as judgmental, not justified.

Prayers that are not simple, that fail to be Orthodox, are inarticulate groans in the night, but are heard anyways, because God is always forbearing to deficiencies of doctrine: whenever mercy is truly begged for, God turns aside and anoints with Samaritan oil. Count on it -- especially if you, on the way to Jericho, have fallen among the thieves.

It is always better to opt for God as a Divine Neighbor than a philosophical construct. Any flower or tree, mountain or sea, if properly looked at, will keep one from knowing about God rather than knowing Him. One cannot denature the Apostolic Vision into propositions. One cannot subject theology to philosophical categorization, simply because theology is not an intellectual object: as it is the empirical experience of God's Uncreated Energies, it is above all academic captures and caricatures.

Perhaps in the West it is permitted to define theology as "a word about God," but not in the East. Theology is the experience of Triune energies, the apostolic vision of the Uncreated Light: any intellectualized confinement of "theology" -- especially in a dialectic manner -- is a diminution of the term. The intellectual prejudice against experience is the reason why St. Paul's rhetoric at Mars Hill was a mixed success. St. Dionysios heard and received the Word -- not because he was an intellectual, but because he was willing to be called a fool for a bright enough light.

Prayer has been wounded by the Reformation. And since Prayer must live, the Reformation will continue to fade. What will not fade is the world militated against Prayer. Since Prayer will live, the third world of transgression will become more shrill: atheism, more and more, will be outed as a sheer cover for passion, a rejection of repentance. There will be those, as there are already, who will pledge themselves to the rooting out of every vestige of Christianity. Christianity can co-exist with non-Christians. The reverse will become ever less likely.

As Christendom is deconstructed, culture declines and love will grow cold. The rumors of war will become pronounced. Many will come in His Name and lead some of the elect astray. Words will become completely unmoored from the other side of appearances. Symbols cannot survive in a virtualized "world," where what purports to be real is directly perceived, and nothing is represented by the appearance. Prayer -- which is the communication with reality that is beyond appearances -- relies upon the symbolic. Deconstruction and virtualization (the twin demons of unleashed by industrialism) choke symbols, and wage war against prayer. When words lose all symbolic dimension, and become cardboard posturings for power, then the last man will have finally, and completely, forgotten how to pray. Then it will be truly night, and the Thief will come.

Language and culture are free "sub-creations" by man of the White Tower of Prayer. Prayer is the ultimate aim of language and the zenith of culture. The neglect of this truth is the chief pathology of civilization, the engine of decadence, and the only fact that sociology can accurately observe.

HEROES/BEAST

The utterance “Thy will be done” is the most liberationist, consciousness-raising, promethean statement of all, and can only be pronounced by free people, i.e. “saints” who are sinners who still call sin “sin,” and do not seek political endorsement of sin for an aggrandized self-awareness, but seek salvation instead from the isolation of self-awareness – a self-awareness from which Sartre found no exit.

But the heroes who are the saints and the persons, alone can see others as the persons they are because they are no longer self-determined by sin. They can see beauty because they believe in the Three Persons in One Essence, and they see beauty reverberate in all Creation. They return their cathected images of real beauty over the distance to the Creator in thanks, and thus they turn the world upside down.

This is the true power of man. Saints are the only real magicians (i.e., changers of their phenomena), as Love may proceed from Persons alone. The lesser magicians and tyrants of the age, the warlords and corporate moguls, are puppets of goblins. Satanists, manipulators of goetia and crystal-mongers, burning-man orgiasts, jihadists and skull-and-bones-tycoons are afflicted with the same pneumopathology: they entertain themselves with reveries of independent power until the next mood hits, and they lurch off, bidden, to the next diablerie of war.

That power is the mere vandal power of deathwork, like toilet paper on college nights, graffiti in the sky, orcs cutting down the trees. It is not, and never has been, the true power of Love.

Sacraments can only be agrarian (and Patriarchal and Trinitarian, scandalously exclusive and conservative), and cannot help but revile the industrial religion of the Beast. Religion cannot survive the virtualized ringwraith world of technology. There is art and there is craft, and in each there is a sub-creator and  his tools. But there is the shadow world of technology, into which individuals lurch, deceived into the night: and of this world it is well said, "one to rule them all and in the darkness binds them."

This must be the theme of any Christian enchiridion for survival in the new globalization prophesied by that quintessential testament of Mammon, “novus ordo seclorum”.

All youth workers and seminary professors and clerics must wrestle with this fact, or they will become obscurantists at best, or emergent megachurcher multistaffers at likeliest. Cowardice in this matter produces heterodox clerisy (i.e., mainline "egalitarian" elitism).

There is no unseen conspiracy. The blueprint of the Beast is written on every dollar bill for all to see: his narrative has long been plainly published. The dichotomy “You cannot serve God and Mammon” will become more literalized with every passing year of this virtualized age.

And when the culture of the antichrist is accomplished atop the new Dark Tower of Babel (being erected, like Baradur, in the cyber-den of virtual Dis), the number of the Beast will be revealed, finally (and simply) as line 37 of the 1040 tax return.

With that, the dolphin, on purpose, vanished into the looming, arching wave.

More morbidities

A few days ago, a correspondent commented on the post about suicide and euthanasia. Here is what he said:

I have worked with people in deep anguish either from physical pain or absolute hopelessness and depression. They say "I pray for relief, and God does not give it, I can tolerate no more." How can I say to them, "This is an opportunity for cross bearing and repentance, it will be worse for you if you end your life now,” when they have reached their limit. I grieve for them and pray that God gives them some relief. I‘m not sure that I could, in their place, bear their suffering either. It is easy to give theoretical answers, “You are rejecting the gift of life that God gave you and don’t trust His Providence enough.” If I, in empathy to their pain, can understand and see how they could succumb to hopelessness and despair, feel compassion for their suffering, and not be sure that I could stand it myself, how could God not respond by easing their suffering so that they can bear it (of course sometimes He does)? If God does not seem to answer the prayers of some desperate people and they continue to feel abandoned what can we say to them?

A most poignant query. Here is my response:

The point of "Morbid Fragments" was not about what should be said to desperate people in deep anguish. It was rather about what should not be said.

There are extreme points of shocking pain and despair where the giving of any theoretical answer will be hollow at best, and maybe even damaging.

But even at these extremities, the sufferer cannot wreak self-destruction while assuming he has consent from his friends. This consent may be only implied. It may be from close friends and family -- say, in one case, where the family of an accused pedophile left the house for two days after purchasing at WalMart a "strong enough" clothesline.

Or, more likely, it may be passive, even from the Church itself, whose ordained representatives -- "apostles" sent to the existential trials of others (like the "helpers" of Job) -- often assume that compassion and dogma are mutually exclusive.

I strongly believe, from personal experience with my own professional (secular psychiatry) failures and more successful pastoral (Orthodox clergy) interchanges, that one may bring the comfort and compassion of the Church, while expressing the simple truth that self-destruction, even in desperation, is still sin.

In those few successes I didn't give theoretical answers, but instead I prayed, discussed the Gospel and even dogma, and simply stayed. I found that as the situation became more intense, the needs of the sufferer became more primitive, and less sophisticated, so that the worst of my suicidals needed simply a friend at best.

And there have been times where the sufferer needed to know, clearly, what was expected by Heaven of him. "This is your cross," I have said, without any hint of theory, "and this is given to you for some mysterious participation in redemption." I have also said, baldly, that suicide will bring no relief, only exaggeration. I always thought that a suicidal ought to know this at the least, since he already knows quite a lot of information about his pain, and even about possible exits and the legalities thereof.

(I had been constrained in psychiatry, mainly because the profession doesn't, officially, permit any talk about the soul. In my present position, psychology is not censored or truncated.)

God may not have eased these extreme sufferings in the next hour or day, but in every case, He eased them all into repose. This repose took the form of an alleviation of at least the most acute agonies, even an emergence from a depressive trough. Or the repose took the form of the final one, what the gentiles call "death," but we call sleep for the penitent. A suicide, in these extremities, would have only hastened death by a few days or weeks at most, and at what horrible cost.

I am sure that if you asked a friend of mine, who reposed after a long hellish bout with Lou Gehrig's disease (ALS), whether he is glad that he remained steadfast to the end ... and if you asked him this today, where he is, I am sure that he would say, today, that he is simply glad -- and that gladness made the years of suffering worthwhile, and true.

Every suicide, and every suicidal ideation, and every suicidal thought (include in this category every sin and passion, every logismoi and fantasia, because suicide is where sin will take you) is essentially a question of theodicy. Suicide is an ultimate complaint against Divine Providence. When I suffer (my lack of real anguish in my life is embarrassing here, to even compare with the Martyrs), I carnally tend toward anti-prayers like "I don't like this moment" or "I don't like this place" and "It shouldn't have been me." And I lurch into the fantasia of "it should have been" and "God You're wrong for letting me be." The whole philosophical tradition of theodicy is predicated on our disagreements with Providence: it is the ancient existential complaint rooted deep in the antichrist vocation of suicide.

But no adequate reasoning can be made of the moral ambiguities of this life, in this life: resolution happens only in the shade of the River of Life, under the healing leaves. The first concern of Christians is for peace and repentance in this life, and for the blessing of salvation. If that is not the case (a rubric, I suspect, that obtains in many bio-ethical discussions), then Christians are forced to speak of what they do not know, and they are forced, rhetorically, to shut the treasure chests of their heart (which is a common occurrence with Christians who try to accommodate modernity).

Christianity is all about proclaiming the Gospel in extremity. The Gospel is contaminated when it is confined by rhetorics of theodicy. The Gospel must be free and revolutionary -- not "liberated" in an accommodationist sense -- but free in the scandalous sense of experiencing the beauty of the Trinity and the fellowship of Jesus Christ in the depths of every trial. Our greatest, most historic proclamations of the Gospel, our most dynamic rhetorics of peace, are made in the profoundest depths of suffering.

Compassion, prayer and anointing are Sacraments that must always violate determinisms (which are always symptomatic of Christianity lapsed into intellectual cowardice) and scandalize modernistic sensibilities (Christianity must always offend certain fraternities in the agora and on Mars Hill) ... and, if not done in a mere "theoretical" manner, this Unction is always sufficient grace for every desperation.

It is better to pray than to philosophize with someone in pain. It is better to read the Gospel and dogma than to read, to the dejected, the texts of modern complaint. It is better to apply the ecclesial oil of the Good Samaritan to the sufferer, than to drink with the wounded man the koolaid of Kevorkian and Sartre, Singer and Fletcher.

A priest who does this can do this only insofar as he himself is a man of prayer and virtue. One can speak of peace insofar as he is a witness of peace.

Priests are not meant to answer questions of theodicy (a subject that cannot escape its bourgeois roots), because when it comes to justice, he knows, more than any, that salvation is the most unjust thing of all.

Why I am allowed to be alive

Scourging_post

This is the Column of Christ's Flagellation, the post of His scourging, the customary place of criminals who suffered for their sins against society, not usually the place of suffering for society's sins, but One Day is was done that way.

This is the Column, dark today, of the Son of God, the Second Person of the Trinity, born of the Ever Virgin Mary and of the Holy Spirit, Who did miracles wondrous fair, and fished for mankind, and turned stone into bread, and bread into Eucharist.

This is the Column I saw, and peered into, near the Throne. Only a King such as He would take a Column such as this, with anamnetic iconic force linked across millennia to remind us all that only this King would take a Whipping Post, painted crimson That Day, and make it royal, though ebony for the ages.

This is the Column I saw and kissed one day, last week, like all days, and knew it was My Column once, and should have been my crimson, were it not for a Son One Day who took me past, with you, through the resolution of Time. At this place in Istanbul, above and beyond to the veil of her, who prays for the City still, as she did for her Son Who stood before this Column of His Flagellation, and our Salvation.

From a guide to the Ecumenical Patriarchate, by Fr. John Chryssavgis: Located in the southeast corner of the nave (of the Patriarchal Church of St. George), this column is one of the most treasured and ancient relics of the Church of St. George. It is a portion of the column where our Lord was bound and whipped by Roman soldiers during His Passion and before His Crucifixion. Two other portions of this column are preserved in Jerusalem and in Rome. It is said to have been brought to Constantinople by St. Helen, the mother of Emperor Constantine, after she visited the Holy Land.

Where the exorcists are

I hold a lantern and I howl,
And today, I look no longer for an honest man,
For every ruler under the sun
I have told to stand aside:
I looked for the bones of their fathers
And cannot tell them from the remains of a slave.

Today I look for the One who restrains him --
The lawless man, the liar and phantasmagorist,
The herald and currier
Of gangrene carrion.

You think I’m shocking
With my Ginsbergian, anarchical ways
(who’s your Dada?)?
But I am nothing to his nothing,
The anti-logos who deserves no capitalization,
The killer of pigs
Who authentically, like the good existentialists they were,
Chose suicide
Over one more moment of demonic swinehood.

I look for the One who restrains them,
The nameless, bodiless gnashers of teeth
And who throws them like lightning into outer darkness
From the precincts of human nature,
Now sociologically dedicated to the proposition
That all men are not created,
But “equivalent” all the same
(inverted suspended double commas were invented just for me).

Democracy, egalitarian, Jacobean, has swept the house clean, brothers,
And eight visitors have noticed the vacancy sign.
The lawless, a-logial and chthonic suckers of passion,
Incubi and succubae, who really do exist, mind you,
And simply adore every reverie,
Every maxim daydream, every housewife desperation and ennui.

And whilst I’m at it, rubbed in my tub,
Debasing Sinopian coinage and dieting on onionage,
I should point out (and I am, after all, a good pointer in the middle way)
That the night snackers are not all that gender picky:
A guy is just as likely to draw the incubi.

I look for the One who restrains him,
The One who exorcises the Age of Men,
Who raises the shield to let man be man
And possibly grow into something better and forever,
Like god.

But times are a-changin’ and the answer that’s blowin’
Is not the Third Person and blows ill indeed
Like a rolling stone.

It is my dogged opinion
That the icy lake down below might now be vacant,
Except for record numbers in Ptolomaea:
That’s the hyper-modern anthem --
Treachery to guests:
"Come in for the orgy, leave your ancestors behind,
Your metaphysics, memory of place and gardens of time,
Oh, and forget your soul,
So we can eat you whole."

The Restrainer is the Exorcist,
In His House,
Eschatology and diabology hereby embrace.
Where the Word is, the Son in His pleroma,
In His legacy undiminished,
Where symbol and substance marry
In union and knowledge,
Where truth and experience are one in vision
Of a company beyond death:
There the antichrist cannot abide
And withers down the lusty, aggrieved  and hungry chain of privation.

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked …”
he had no idea, the badness of naked
the whence of hysteria, the starvation of revolution.

My object, Hitler said to Josef Hell in Aufzeichnung,
is to guide first-rate revolutionary upheavals,
regardless of what methods or means
I have to use in the process.
Earlier revolutions were against the peasants,
or nobility, or clergy,
or against dynasties and their network of vassals,
but in no case has revolution succeeded without the presence
of a lightning rod that could conduct
and channel the odium of the general masses.

[Adolf answering Mr. Hell, when the latter asked,
"Why, Mr. Hitler, did you choose the Jews?"]

Are you frightened, Frodo?
Then you are not frightened enough:
I know what hunts you.

Go to Rivendell, the place of mystery,
Where breathes the light of the Tree.

I look for the one who restrains him
(the lawless man),
I looked where the exorcists are,
And found Him there:
Rampant upon the serpent supine.

There were exorcists by the score in the Great Church upon a time,
And they didn’t look at all like a casting call
For a maudlin movie with red flannel, ketchup,
And regrettable Roman glissandos and cymbal crash,
Rotating crania and green bile.

They were, rather, quotidian Sunday School teachers
Who taught what Sunday School teachers used to teach
(instead of that spot-color Rogerian ilk that misses all the punch lines):

Hard-core orthodox doctrine to the children,
Trinitarian, Christological (scandalously exclusive),
And the rehearsal of Apostolic ascesis,
And the reception of mystical, material sacrament:

Which is the only antidote for pig-possessors.

In the Great Church,
Exorcists were the catechists:
Sunday School teachers drove out demons,
Everyday.

That is the criterion for the real Church, brothers:
Does it exorcise when it theologizes?

That is the basis for ethics, brothers:
Does it address the demons when it theorizes
in committee and extemporizes in the news?

That is the only reason for ecumenicity, brothers,
My fellow sons of Sceva,
Does it help us drive them out?
Does it help us do our job?
Does it help us be where the exorcists are?

Which is the real meaning,
I say in my onion dome breath,
Of the Church on the rock today.

Notes:

I have been asked, courteously, to shed some light on allegedly obscure passages in the lines above. Here goes:

Line 1:
I thought that Diogenes of Sinope would make for a worthy, searching critic of non-exorcistic realms of ecclesiality. Legend has it that Diogenes went looking with a lantern for an honest man. He lived in a tub that was provided for him by the vastly entertained city of Athens. He ate a lot of onions. He also told Alexander the Great, who had come to visit him, to step aside, as he was blocking the sun. He also told the famous conqueror that crack about the bones. He was known to brandish his middle finger, but it is not known what that gesture meant back then. He (and/or his father) was exiled from Sinope for having debased the coinage.

Lines 7-8:
2 Thessalonians 2.1-10

Line 12:
That would be Allen

Line 13:
And that would be Dadaism and anti-art, with Tristan Tzara and friends.

Line 16:
Mark 5.13. Some Biblical scholars (I use the word in its broadest sense) have accused Jesus of the willful destruction of property not belonging to Him. I kid you not.

Line 23:
Human nature in itself is meaningful only in fellowship with the Holy Trinity – a redeemed fellowship that is nicely expressed in the icon of the Marriage Supper of the Lamb, outside of which is darkness, weeping and gnashing of teeth. The orcs do a lot of gnashing, if you need to see this done to be clear about the action. I guess orcs do this a lot mainly as a result of self-awareness.

Line 24:
America is a culture where freedom is predicated upon the acknowledgment that humanity is created and sustained by God. Since that doctrine’s been thrown out the window, what will happen to equality? Bestialization? Commodification? Eugenicization? ... What? This is happening already?

Line 27:
Quotation marks are justly called “scare quotes” by those of us creeped out by Derrida’s posse – who, against the advice of the Chicago Manual of Style, litters the text with these chicken scratches. Diogenes would have been delighted with scare quotes, though it pains me to think of what he’d have done with Jacques. He'd have probably stuck them around Jacques’ name, rendering him so-called, like "Derrida."

Line 29:
Matthew 12.43-45

Line 31:
The former means “lie on top,” the latter below.

Line 33:
Something for misogynists and misanthropes.

Line 49:
Fra Alberigo to Dante, in Ptolomaea, Inferno XXXIII, ll133-135

Ella ruina in sì fatta cisterna;
e forse pare ancor lo corpo suso   
de l'ombra che di qua dietro mi verna.

The soul falls headlong to this cesspool.
Perhaps the body of this shade, who spends
the winter with me here, still walks the earth ...

Line 52:
Real conservatism seeks to nurture the old knowledge of the complete man, with the hope that with manners and a sense of truth and beauty, he will have enough wits to recognize hell when he sees it. It worries me that people may be in Hades and never know the difference.

Line 67:
The first line of Howl.

Lines 71-82
This, unbelievably, is a real conversation with a man who really had this name. Cited in My Life Among the Deathworks, by Philip Rieff, p. 160.

Line 93:
St. Nikodemus the Hagiorite: “The name of exorcist is given to the catechists of those faithless or heretics who are coming into the faith, because in catechizing them, they exorcise the evil spirits dwelling in them, in the name of the Lord, that they should leave them …”

Line 105:
Of course, one must add to the list of antidotal ingredients these catalysts: humanistic and liberal enterprises like good grammar, good stories, and good poetry. Have you noticed that demonification corrodes language concomitantly with the decay of the ego? The intact language I'm speaking of here (pardon the pun) is the noetic art of communicating the experience of grace and glory, and of understanding the logoi of creation. This is the first world, primeval language described by Barfield in Poetic Diction and Saving the Appearances. The linguistic acrobatics and recursive closed-loop grammars of people like Proust and Joyce are not language that expels demons, but rather invites them.

With the exception of astronomy, it is an open question whether indoctrination in mathematics and science will do any good with regard to the devil and his horde. The history of "Science" and evil is ambivalent, to say the least -- as is true of all alchemies (of which this present techno-culture is only the latest): it is to be hoped, perhaps in blind faith, that science has saved as many lives as it has destroyed. I still suspect, with Tolkien, that goblins have a lot to do with technology.

Tomorrow

There is a tomorrow.

Outside of the Resurrection,
this cannot be known.

Christos Voskrese! Christos Anesti! Christ is Risen!

For today, and for tomorrow.

Found

In the grave with the body, in hell with the soul,
in Paradise with the thief.
The Good Shepherd,
in the storm of wrath,
the desert of death,
found what He was looking for.

The ninety-nine angels rejoice.
The widow dances with her lost coin.
The merchant wonders at the pearl.
The father embraces, festoons and rings His son.
The wheat kernel dies, the mustard seed blossoms,
and the oak reaches its arms to the stars.

Streams gush forth in the desert from the Rock,
the pierced side,
he that saw it bore witness and his testimony is true.

We were lost, shades in hades, the wilderness of wandering,
oddly named
("Sin", can you believe it?),
spirit-bound.

Today is the end of life-squandering,
the closure of shame:
Grace, can you receive it?
We were lost,
and now we're found.

Tonight

Tonight, I am not a theologian.
Nor an intellectual, nor a literatteur, nor a poet, a writer,
a commentator, a sophist.
When I see Him, passing by,
the Lamb,
I have nothing, nothing to say,
but weep softly, in the darkness,
in the rain and cold,
for this Friday and all Fridays,
where my soul and captive body have lain,
the arctic dark and redemptorist reach,
the severity where the Lamb was slain.

Art is dead tonight.
Thought has died.
My head aches,
whilst Jesus, my Personal Lord and Saviour,
weeps crucified.

And the prayers trail after ...

Lent is the time for being sorry, and saying so.

Of course, we’ve been treated to the saying so of sorry without the predicate of being so. One can depend, always, on the incessant buzz of politics whose hive-speak never shuts down, for an ever-ready supply of quasi- or even pseudo- states of sorry.

Both parties and all parties are practiced in the various ruses for deflecting complaint, which is the only surviving rationale for making an apology. In happier times, sorrow was appropriate for repentance, or metanoia. There was a real psychic fear of the consequences from having offended the powers, earthly and not-so-earthly.

But today, the political world has educated the rest of us in the stratagems of the passive voice, the limited atonement, and the minimal acknowledgment.

Unpleasant examples jump to mind, unbidden. I see that the mildewed gag “Mistakes were made” has been trotted out, again and again. Another bit of "semi-sorry," this time listed under the “limited atonement” rubric, was pulled out of the closet in the last few months – a former Mr. World uttered “If I offended you I apologize” while explaining his transgression of that well-known kindergarten precept “Hands to self.” I guess there are women, in his conceptual world, who are not offended by groping. Or not offended by being groped by a celebrity like him.

Likewise, the "minimal acknowledgment" is always well represented – it goes something like this: “Never mind my having filleted you alive on the party line to pay you back for your sour look at my orange-carrot-and-green-bean jello salad with mayo dressing at the pot luck [ed. note: these things are never lucky]: what I am apologizing to you for (and publicly) is for not having sent this thank you note sooner for your having brought the pretty white plastic forks to that same pot luck.”

These hardly rate as confessions of sin. These days, confession seems to be limited to an acknowledgment of some sort of indirect responsibility. It is rather like a thief being caught with the goods, and he turns around and states the obvious: “Well, I’m caught, but only with received stolen property.”

Which is true, I guess, but not true enough.

“Sorry” should be an expression of sadness and regret. It is a description of humble fear, and a desperation for a stay of execution, or a liberation from the consequences that are sure to come. There should be, in the saying so, a frisson of terror and the lingering knell of doom: psychically, these are translated as guilt and shame (two very very discredited, podunk terms), and medically experienced as anxiety and depression.

It goes without saying that “sorry” requires spiritual poverty. Physical poverty probably helps. That's why our Lord said that thistle-y thing about the camel.

The best source for sorry, of course, is the Parable of the Prodigal Son. The Holy Tradition is replete , like Mother Mary of Egypt, with examples of how sorry should be done. There should be little confusion in the Church about what my mood should be when I confess my sins. I should be embarrassed and ashamed, and frightened at the inevitabilities of the consequences. There should be no bravado, nor nonchalance, nor soliciting.

Absolution should always come as a surprise.

I should never expect the Crucifixion.

There can be no “of course” to the Cup.

I should feel, escaping from the Mystery, as though I were a death row inmate, whose injection was stopped at 2359, and whose sentence was commuted, who’s been sent to a cottage on the sands for the rest of his days, with my family in flipflops, watching the dolphins pirouette in the blue argent tide, in the Trinitarian sun.

Well, now, that was just too personal, wasn’t it?

But I think some more personal is needed in sorry these days. Myself, I’ve been too doctrinaire in a bureaucratic sort of way, thinking of sin as transgression in some cosmic juridical drama: you know, Christ as my Perry, old Louis the Officer as the DA.

To help with sorry, I’ve found a surprising source. It is Homer, no less, from the Iliad. Here is Phoenix, Achilles’ old tutor, trying to prevail upon his former protégé to join the battle line against Hector and company:

We do have Prayers, you know, Prayers for forgiveness,
daughters of mighty Zeus … and they limp and halt,
they’re all wrinkled, drawn, they squint to the side,
can’t look you in the eyes, and always bent on duty,
trudging after Ruin, maddening, blinding Ruin.
But Ruin is strong and swift –
She outstrips them all by far, stealing a march,
leaping over the whole wide earth to bring mankind to grief.
And the Prayers trail after, trying to heal the wounds.

Here and I thought my prayers for forgiveness, and all my sorry’s, were quite noble, aristocratic works. I was proud of my confessions, because it was, after all, a great condescension on my part to actually kneel down and admit I was wrong, that mistakes were made … or to say that, God, if I offended You, or if You took offense at anything I did (without my knowing) … or to admit that I failed the Fast last Wednesday by eating margarine with whey in it (I should have consulted the label first).

He should have been pleased that I was so articulate, that I fell, rhetorically and oh so Wagnerianly on my mea culpa sword.

But Homer says that my prayers for forgiveness are old ladies, limp and halt, who stumble, wrinkled and squinty, after the mad Ruin of my sin.

Sin is not so much crime, or even disease, as it is ruin. It is the ruin of Creation, logos and telos, meaning and destiny ... it is the shriveling of hypostasis, the schizophrenification of time.

Truly, sin is mad Ruin.

And the Prayers trail after, trying to heal the wounds.

And by His stripes alone are we healed.

Snow in my heart

Winter This Saturday evening, Orthodox voices all over the world will sing the most poignant hymnody of all time.

Bearded ones, and fresh faced ones, some with makeup, some with babushkas, some in polo shirts, some in exorassa, some with diamond tennis bracelets, others with black chotki knots wound, clutched through fingers, will sing the lament of Adam:

O precious Paradise, unsurpassed in beauty … with the sound of thy leaves pray to the Maker of all: may He open unto me the gates which I closed by my transgression.

That is from the ninth of ten verses, which are interpolated with Songs of the Ascents.

Then, in the Aposticha, with the celebrant hidden behind the Altar, on the synthronon, this controversial verse:

… O most holy Paradise, planted for my sake and shut because of Eve, pray to Him that made thee and fashioned me, that once more I may take pleasure in thy flowers …

Most people pay attention to the chauvinistic complaint about the woman. What about Adam’s role in this? Could he not have forestalled all of the ramifications, by simply saying “No woman, put that down, I’ll put in a good word for you at the front office”?

Calvin’s folk would say, in the interests of felix culpa, that no, nothing could have been done.

I don’t know. And very little could be said or even should be said about what might have been. It is for good reason that “what might have been” has been called the very worst of temptations. I think all dejection, all despair, is rooted in the idea of alternative realities.

I don’t blame any woman, or any man, for any of my sins. I regret Adam’s simpering negligence, and his receiving stolen property into his nature (quite a cosmic felony, if you think about it). And I regret Eve’s intellectual downfall into the histrionic fog of the psychology of self.

I don’t blame them, but I regret them. I have inherited their legacy of sin and the logical consequences of death. I regret this. I am entangled in winter, there is snow in my heart. I am too often anxious about the likelihoods of sin, and I am too frequently fearful of death. I fight these anxieties and fears. When I pray and commune and love, I am relieved. But I still fight the fog and the histrionics of pride.

C’est la vie. C’est la guerre. I blame, and can only blame, only myself.

Paradise I cannot wait for the first breath of summer, in Paradise, the breeze on my face and in my integrated mind. And I shall be able to pray, without ceasing, without doubt, for I shall see Him as He is, face to face. The fog will be lifted, the histrionics will have closed. The symphony will play, unhindered and clear.

So will we then take pleasure in the flowers. So will the sound of the leaves, the rustling of Paradise longing for our Parents and their children, be requited.

Orthodoxy, Christianity, is about this longing for Paradise. It is about this homesickness of the soul, and this longing for easy prayer. It is about my very fast acceptance of the epithet “sinner” (I find it an odd blessing, to accede to this title).

It is about our fear of death and hell, and our even deeper desire for the abundance of Paradise, with her waterfall echo of the Spirit through the leaves, in the glimmer of the Son.

We do not attempt to solve the problem of God, love and death by surrendering the words that enable us to speak about such things. We reject the attempt to put death to death simply by ignoring it, or plumping it with formaldehyde, and smoothing it with the greasepaint of the Final Act.

Instead, we embrace the single Act of putting death to death only by Death. By One Death, by the Trampler, the Victor, the One Who opened the Door once again, for the sake of the flowers, the rustling of the leaves, and the brightness of the One Tree.

There is snow in my heart, Lord, but in the green leaves of Paradise, there is melting summer, sempiternal, with Thee.

A short hiatus from Ford

Just got back from Theophany Compline. A little tired, throat dreadfully dry. But it's okay.

There are many reasons to be a priest. But if the privilege, the deep pleasure, of being able to intone the Great Blessing of Waters, especially the Prayer of Sophronios, was the only thing, 'twould be enough.

There is wax on my fingers, still, and the pungent incense remains, still, in my shirt and my breath. I heard the filling of jars and cups as I lifted the phelonion off my shoulders, and it sounded like the stream in the desert that makes the rose bloom, the heart glad, and the weary-hearted grow strong in January, long before Spring.

Light shines in the darkness, Jesus Christ my Personal Lord and Saviour, and the waters green the desert. I heard the whisper of Elias, and it was laughter. Joy shall be forever, in the sunrise, wind and rain.

If I were the Devil

Here’s some new advice for the basement crowd, on effective devilry:

  1. Martyrs are bad news. Do your best to avoid making one. Something weird happens when they do that denial-of-self-and-taking-up-the-cross thing. It is so not you, and, from your point of view, positively viral.

  2. Speaking of martyrs, the good news for the basement is that there is an anti-virus. The opposite of martyric (or saintly) is not agnostic, or atheist, or heretic, or arch-villain. That idiotic antinomy (which is always good for a laugh in the infernal improv) serves, I’m sure, to obfuscate the real integrated treatment plan for humanity: make like the First Dead Man (not Adam – way, way before that) – be completely self-absorbed … embrace your inner hell. Become yourself. Savoir Sartre.

  3. How to make people more self-absorbed? I have to hand it to you. Materialism was a great idea. Not because it is an “ism,” which it isn’t. Despite what cultural critics (and wannabe’s like me) might prize out of the mix, there really is no intellectual content to materialism. It is only a fancy word for the process of avarice, gluttony and idolatry. I know this, and because I know it, you can construe two things. The first is that it can’t take much to figure out, if it can occur to someone like me. The second is that if someone like me thinks it, it won’t catch on.

  4. Again, kudos for your proficiency in giving fancy names to a lot of cardboard-covered packets of effluvia. Madison Avenue could take a lot of lessons from you, in this regard and many others (well, uhhhh …). Pssst, true be told, and I won’t tell anyone, but just between you and me – isn’t there a lot of cultural stuff, high and low, that passes for nouveau and sophistication, but is only façade and gas? And you can even get whole movements to line up behind these significations. What sophistry! What rhetoric, to set the flies buzzing after the waving banners! When did you guys learn that more was gained from giving up on sinking humanity down to Cocytus, and simply confining it to minimal hell, running amok in the vestibule?

  5. You guys must have the latest in hardware and software. Are you Bluetooth-capable? Probably. I wonder what your domain is. Well, anyways, I just wanted to say that your VR work is really, really … well, not “real” or even nice, but really attractive. You have achieved a whole generation preferring artifice over creation. You have gotten fundamentalist materialists to reject matter! You have sucked millions into the furious orifice of baneful priapism, and have leeched onto the rut and ruck the sepsis of despair! You have supplanted joy with frenzy, love with lust, hope with positive-thinking, leadership with gentile-domineering, kings with oligarchies, persons with corporations, happiness with entertainment, dance with voodoo, ceremony with celebration. None of these replacements would have been possible without the phantastik wedge of virtual reality. Let’s see … it started with photography, then moving pictures, then broadcast moving pictures, then AI-directed media (they call it the Web, but you and I know different), then what’s next? Neural implants? Just like you? Oh, I forget. You guys don’t need any hardware. You’re wireless already.

  6. Here’s the advice (note that it comes at this number). Mind you, I hope you don’t take it. I like to think I’m on the other side. I know that you’re not going silly at premature celebrations over slush-funds-for-hush-fun revealed There’s no hoopla over float-your-boat-ordinations for the not-so-girl-next-door, the profitless-prophetess. And even though I would think that a whole Goetian Walpurgisnacht would be thrown for the spectacle of feminists marching with the Hezbollah, you guys are just too busy. Hat tip to you: you’re not distracted. Depressed, yes. Distracted, no. You have hidden your madness and your clinical despair. Your psychosis is so big that it has become normal – so normal, that it has leaked into the upper stories (probably through the ductwork). But no one knows. It’s like the fish, unaware of the water: except this madness is in the air. It’s only right, of course: you are, after all, of it the Prince. You aren’t celebrating mainly because these cheap little escapades are just cover for your real enterprise: there’s too much work to be done.

    But advice? Keep distancing language from things, and from the bigger things. You know what I mean – the things too large to fit in the senses, too true to be defined by thought (or that playpen restriction of the scientific method). And keep preventing prayer. You know, and I know, that determinism works for you. Prayer is the revolution. Suppress, devil, the spiritual proletariat from rising up, and throwing off its chains, and you’ll have more to keep you company, if you can call it company, and if you can call yourself a “you” … in any case, you’ll make out better at whatever you’re doing and why.

Which I don’t understand, except in those regrettable moments when I look at passion from the inside out. Then I get a glimpse and understand that there is no why.

Well, I’ll sign off, knowing full well I’ve told you nothing new. I’ve divulged no secrets, especially not to you. There’s no advice here. You’ve thrown off the red pajamas, the Freddy claws and the Jason mask long, long ago.

You’ve ensconced yourself nearer, and clearer, behind every mirror.

Thank God I’m not on your side, and that He died, and you are tried.

At seventeen

I visit, and pray for, a suffering innocent. Away from his parents, I secretly pose the usual debates of theodicy: why is he the way he is, and where he is. But after all the usual and perhaps necessary arguments, he remains an innocent at almost seventeen. Palsy of the cerebral sort will do that – that is, keep you innocent, for much longer than expected.

Born in sin, like me and all of us, but sinless as an infant, still, at seventeen.

He has that curious look and aware, frequently smiling at enough moments spot on that it appears, even to an uninitiate like the narrator, he is a full participant in the perichoresis of humor. The jokes are smiled at before the laughter, and the laughter is enjoined like a choir.

It is a mystery how much he knows. It is certain he knows more than expected.

Today he is in the place of the mercenary healers, who mean well and do well, and ply their art with steel and mathematics. But they have cast him, from scapula to tarsus, immobile, to ensure, I guess, the success of the procedure.

But my altar boy (but for his wheelchair) knows little of these technicalities. He is fully aware, however, of binding and stricture, of a loss of range. His mother, who suffers more than he, and his father, pray without ceasing, and they practice the deep co-inherence of pleading with Jehovah, at Peniel, that they might take the cast upon themselves, that their boy might be assuaged.

This Sunday I will bless the faithful with the sign of the Cross, and bespeak them the peace that passes understanding.

And when I visit Benjamin, almost seventeen, my altar boy who would be in sanctuary, but for his wheel chair, I will be past understanding.

But still, uninitiate in the higher ways, I will bring him the Samaritan oil, and the food of the Table prepared in the presence of mine enemy.

I will visit and pray for this innocent, still at almost seventeen.

And he will teach me his innocent ways, he who simply loves, and for simple mercy prays.

For the pious Servant of God Benjamin, recovering from orthopedic surgery, in Allegheny General, let us pray to the Lord. Hospodi pomiluj.

Red in the Morning

It’s hot, and the Holy Land burns. There is no wine in Qana of Galilee.

Gas trickles down the esophagus of my car, at $3 a jug: my poverty enriches the nouveau riche (and tres gauche) who are perched, Sultan-like with quivering jowls, atop a landfill of cash.

Is it wrong? Is it right? Is it conservative? Is it neo-con blight?

It’s hot, and the parched chaparral blazes. There is no balm in Jal’ad.

The Caribbean is diseased with a hundred degrees: the storms will rise as Leviathan tremens, Poseidon raging with Alecto.

Is it warming? Is it left? Is it liberal? Is it spinning deft?

It’s hot, and there is red in the morning. There are fewer Christians in al-Jaleel.

Meanwhile, on Monongahela, eight ladies are priestified on the Good Ship Lollipop, vestals of the new consciousness.

Is it enough for the signs of the times, this adjusted, inclusive, multi-cultural, sensitive, emasculated religion of the times?

Is it straight?

Is it true?

Is it faith?

Red in the morning:
Sailor -- take warning.

Language and Prayer

Power resides in language itself (not, naturally, in violence, as Nietzsche would say), since God called creation good, and as Adam named the animals and was given dominion over the earth. Calling creation into being is the foundation of reality. Naming the animals is the primordial essence of language – an essence that has not passed away, but rather resides still at the mythical core of speech. At this core, primordial, mythical speech participates in the relation of creatures. It does not reduce. Neither does it objectify. It does not impose order arbitrarily. It seeks to discover the order of logos, and participate in its exaltation and elucidation.

Language at the Tower of Babel was the zenith of the subversion of language. It was the imposition of man’s supposedly autonomous will on creation. It was the erection of a system of false myth, consisting of language that no longer participated in relation, but rather sought to impose “naming” from the prideful and detached mind of man.

But the language of Paradise continues still. It continues in memory, even in genetic memory but moreso in the true history of songs and stories, the true myths of Tradition and even in the mythopoeic work of the bards.

It also and more clearly continues in true prayer. Prayer is the song and speech of the Temple being built in these latter days, as the right structure of the culture of man (replacing the false effort – continuing still – of Babel). Prayer is not the antithesis of autonomous language, since time does not proceed by dialectic, nor by random conglomeration. Prayer is as it always was – the song of the Dance, the willful, joyful anticipation and fervent plea to enter the procession of joy – the poetry of the Trinity – the bringing to this deepest of Poetry, the Divine Magic, all memory, thought, consciousness and relationship – so that by the cords of kindness, peaceful restoration and recognition of beauty, man through his servile will and attached mind might bring shattered Creation back to the Creator.

Prayer is the chief enterprise of the Church, and the prime vocation of man. Prayer is at the heart of life. If man prays, he inheres with the wisdom of Time, and thus participates in “truth.” If man fails this vocation (to which all man is called), then he enters by free choice (perhaps unwittingly, though) into the shadows of false myth – a path that will eventually lead to Hades, even before physical death. If man obeys (yes, “obey,” that offensive word) this vocation, then he participates in the Trinitarian Poetry that must embrace each and all. There is no private prayer. There is solitary prayer, but even so, it is still the song of fellowship. There is no Gnostic prayer (if such a phrase is even possible), as all prayer must embrace Creation, not spurn it. Gnostic rejection of Creation is the ultimate, and blasphemous, disobedience of the Divine Call to Man – the Call that he name the animals, thus bringing them into his psychic communion through language. The Gnostic way is the yearning for Hades, and the prayer for Hell.

Raison d'etre

Prayer is a word so large that it is near meaningless. When a term can mean anything, it ends up meaning nothing. And that is certainly true for "prayer," and other religious words like "spirituality," "worship," and "god."

(Some other time, there will be a listing of favorite "meaningless religious words." Topping the list will be "celebration.")

The term "prayer" might be laden with ambiguity and abstraction, its meaning severed by the march of modern self-consciousness from the act. But the act, or the work, of prayer can never be meaningless, because of all work, prayer is the most meaningful.

As work, prayer is creative -- or rather, sub-creative. It can only coinhere with God's creation and will, as prayer cannot extend from autonomy. Prayer freely participates in grace, despite the seeming paradox that this ultimately free moral decision on the human side results in the accomplishment of "Thy will be done."

Of all the crises, and of all the seeming gambles made by Heaven, that a man should pray is most crucial. That a man should pray is why he was saved. It is why he continues to live on earth.

It follows, then, that the Adversary should be most interested in obstructing this enterprise.