Second Terrace

on the publican and the pharisee

What Prayer Is and What It's Not

Last Sunday, Zacchaeus showed us the way through the “desert” of the Great Fast. We call it a desert because the Great Fast is forty days, which itself is a “parable” for the forty years of the Israelites in their desert pilgrimage from slavery in Egypt to righteous freedom in the Promised Land.

Our Promised Land is the eternal life of Pascha and Pentecost.

The Way of Zacchaeus is humility and repentance, the “pre-requisites” of Prayer.

Recall that Prayer is the best word we have for our relationship with the Father. This is hardly surprising, because the same word, “Prayer,” is the only word we have to describe the relationship of the Son and the Spirit to the Father — even in Heaven itself.

And that is quite the mystery.

The Son and the Spirit pour out Themselves in kenosis to the Father. That is the only way that true prayer can proceed. Only in humility. Only in the bowing of heads. Only in awed recognition of the Father’s overwhelming greatness and beauty, of His everlastingness and matchless power, of His infinite goodness and love.

Only in humble perception of our own small stature and limitedness.

And, after the Fall, prayer must own up to our own sinfulness, our own enslaving fear of death. Our anxiety and lack of trust.

Today, in the Parable of the Publican and the Pharisee, we stand in the Temple to learn about what Prayer is, and what Prayer is not. The Lord shows us two men who appear to be praying.

The first one looks and acts the part. He bears all the trappings of religiosity. He wears the ultra-religious garb of the Pharisee sect, which is meant to call public attention to the fact that “Here is a reverend and holy personage to whom you must give respect and preference. Give him the best seat at the banquet. Make way for him. Be very impressed.”

This man’s identity was so appealing that it impressed even himself.

Too much, it turns out.

“God, I thank you that I am not like other men, greedy, unrighteous, adulterous, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week, I give tithes of all that I get.”

Pharisees were known for their “advanced devotion.” Since they were of a “higher spirituality” than the normal crowd, their superiority demanded a superior rigor.

So he was obviously bucked up by his obvious differentiation from “other men” — “Even that contemptible tax-collector over there,” he said.

He went on, checking off his bulleted list of “righteous” achievements. “I fast twice a week”: the Pharisees fasted on Tuesdays and Thursdays (this, by the way, was one of the reasons why Apostolic Christians elected to fast on Wednesdays and Fridays instead).

He also made sure that God knew that he gave tithes (10 percent) not just on the things that were listed in the Law to tithe on, but he gave tithes “of all that I get.”

Everything had to be much better than the norm. He was special.

So. Given what we know of true prayer, how does the Pharisee rate?

Is there a recognition of God’s awesome love, goodness, power, and greatness? Is there humility, a sense of one’s own smallness, like Zacchaeus?

For heaven’s sake, is there even the tiniest hint of asking for mercy?

There is none of that, for one simple reason. This self-righteous, self-important, egotistical Pharisee was not even praying.

The Lord gave away the clue right from the start: “The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself” (Luke 18.11).

His religion was a pseudo-religion. It was a performance.

The Evangelist Luke said as much when he introduced this Parable: “He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and despised others” (Luke 18.9).

Yes, you read that right: Jesus told this story about a self-righteous professional-pray-er performance artist Pharisee to a bunch of Pharisees.

He later came right out and called this Pharisaical enterprise of self-righteousness as hypocrisy. On one hand, you have that odious “trusting in themselves that they were righteous.”

But righteousness — even in the Old Testament Law — is essentially Love, a love that reflected and participated in God’s own Nature.

So how can it be that a righteousness could ever be something that “despised others”? If Pharisees really wanted to be “super-righteous,” then they would have been Lovers, not Haters.

True Prayer can not permit any kind of Hate.  If you hate, you cannot pray. If you don’t forgive others, God won’t forgive you (Matthew 6.15).

Prayer and hatred are mutually exclusive. Because prayer rises up only on the wings of Love.

Speaking of true prayer, we see it exercised in the unlikeliest of sources.

It was a lowly amateur in the practice of religion, even someone who most would have written off as completely disqualified.

It was (horrors) the worst of the worst of unrighteousness: a tax collector. It was the very tax collector that the Pharisee had mentioned in his “Un-Prayer.”

The tax collector wasn’t doing a very good job. He obviously did not know how to dress religiously. He hadn’t gone to religion school on the art of public piety. One could safely surmise that he was not one of the "tithing kind."

And the idea of him fasting must have been a complete joke.

But yet …

Even though he stood “far off” (that is, in the back pews) and wouldn’t even lift his eyes toward heaven … even though he just did that honest, humble beating-of-one’s-own-breast remorse thing and simply said, “God be merciful to me a sinner” …

… the Lord said “I tell you, this man went to his house justified” (Luke 18.14).

In other words, this man’s prayer for mercy was received, and mercy was given. This man’s religion was real.

This man succeeded, because he really prayed. He prayed what prayer really is, unlike the Pharisee who prayed what prayer is not.

Prayer can only be an act of humility. In humility, we look with compassion and sympathy upon everyone and anyone. We recognize that everyone is immortal, and everything in Creation is imbued with the beauty and wisdom of the Loving Father.

In prayer, we want nothing else and nothing less than to open our hearts completely to the Father. We accept the painful fact that we can only “come as we are.” We ask for mercy from the Only One Who can give mercy, from the Only One Who is Love.

We certainly do not exalt ourselves. We do not check off our list of spiritual accomplishments.

We do not even call ourselves or think of ourselves as “Saved” or “Holy” or better than anyone else.

In fact, we call ourselves “sinners.”

“Every one who exalts himself will be humbled,” like this Pharisee. “But he who humbles himself will be exalted” (Luke 18.14).

bloom where you're planted

Bloom Where You’re Planted

 

“Bloom where you’re planted” is good advice for anyone most of the time. Unless you’re in a terrible situation that you have to change, it is always a good idea to take advantage of present opportunities and be grateful for the good things at hand.

It is also good advice for Americans, especially Christians in a modern America.

Lately, the Orthodox community has been uneasy. There’s been a lot of dissatisfaction, even grievance, with the modern world. There is a nostalgia for the “good old days,” a sort of fuzzy, rosy sentimental yearning for another time or another place where life was simpler.

And there is a long list of villains and culprits, or reasons why things are not the way they were. Secularism is almost always listed. So are multi-culturalism, modernism, globalism, technology, and liberalism.

Even things like universal suffrage, toleration, and democracy are complained about once in a while.

In my clergy circle there’s a lot of hand-wringing going on about the decline of Christianity (and religious affiliation in general) in America. It’s true. In 2007, the Pew Research Center found that 78% of American adults identified as Christian. But only twelve years later, in 2019, that percentage declined by 13 points to only 65%. 

On the other hand, the “religiously unaffiliated” -- or, as I like to call them, the “nones” -- climbed from 16% of American adults in 2007 all the way up to an astounding 26%. That’s a shocking increase in just a little more than a decade.

I’m sure that some of my religious friends pine for the good old days when things were a lot more religious -- like when the state supported the church with money, power, and legal preference. Maybe even when church-going was a legal requirement.

Like back in 1753, when a certain John Hunt of the Colony of Virginia found himself in a lot of trouble. A grand jury made up of his genteel neighbors found that he had failed to attend church at the Charles Parish in York County. The presentment recorded in the Williamsburg Courthouse on 21 May 1753 reads as follows:

“John Hunt who stands presented by the grand jury for absenting himself from his parish church being duly summoned to gainsay the said presentment and not appearing, though solemnly called, therefore it is considered that for the said offence he forfeit and pay to the churchwardens of Charles Parish 5 shillings or 50 lbs. of tobacco to the use of the poor of the said parish and that he pay the costs of this prosecution.”

That’s a lot of money for skipping out on Sunday morning (around $250 these days), and that’s a lot of tobacco. At least these proceeds were allotted “for the use of the poor.”

That sort of religious coercion by the state was never a good idea. There were immediate benefits, but over the long term, a cancer set in that de-natured the ethos of the church.

This may come as a surprise: Orthodox Christianity started out as holding strongly to the separation between religion and politics. It insisted that faith is a matter of free acceptance by an individual, not a public function managed by the state. 

Jesus said to Pontius Pilate “My kingdom is not of this world” (John 18.36). No religion had said that before. The old Christian Greek word for church, “ekklesia,” is a stark reminder of that truth, the completely voluntary nature of the Christian faith. “Ekklesia” means “a called out assembly.” Christianity, at least in its essence, is only called, invited -- that is, never forced, never commanded, never compelled by the state. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, “belief” itself is related to “love” in its meaning -- and we all know that love can only be voluntary and free, never forced. As soon as belief is commanded, it ceases to be belief -- it is only forced intellectual consent.

Although there are some loud voices that say otherwise, Orthodox Christianity in its foundation establishes and insists upon individual and civil rights. No one should be forced to say or do anything of conscience. No one should be denied dignity and opportunity. No one should be made lower than the other. No one should go without basic needs like food, water, clothing, and shelter. No one should be coerced or tyrannized by an uncivil, autocratic rule.

This was the nature, the ethos, of Christianity in the book of Acts.

Unfortunately, stuff happens in history. After its first few centuries, Christianity was led astray into political religion. It got seriously wrapped up in collusion and even identification with the state. In Eastern and Western Europe, the church got infected with stuff like nationalism, racism and anti-Semitism, monarchism, anti-modernism, and a lot of other bad isms. It got way more ideological than theological, which should never have been the case. All these “isms” are faith gone very wrong.

So as the centuries went by, Christianity appeared to most people (young adults especially) as something a lot less than Christian. Worst of all, Christianity evolved from the way one prayed and believed to the way a person or community identified themselves -- like with a politically partisan label.

Coming to America for us Orthodox (and other immigrant communities) was a fresh new start.

Sure, it was secular and democratic -- a kind of society we Orthodox (in particular) never experienced before. 

And sure, nowadays the Christian share of the population is in serious decline.

A lot of my confreres would like to blame this decline on the customary bogeymen of liberalism and secularism, permissiveness and socialism. These things are sometimes labeled as a "soft totalitarianism" -- a label that too many American Christians utilize to claim victimhood from persecution.

I’ll let you in on a little secret. The main culprit is none of those things. And American Christians are hardly victims of real persecution.

Christianity -- and religion in general -- sowed the wind of politicized religion and partisan militancy. Now it’s reaping the whirlwind of decline and disenfranchisement. In a mysterious divine Providence, time and tide are scouring away all those toxic isms that came of that terrible collusion with the state, that romance of power and the sword.

So here we are in a thoroughly secular situation. The agnostic jurist Robert Ingersoll, back in 1876, said that from the beginning, America was a place where religion had to make its own way -- there would be no backing from the state:

“Our fathers,” he wrote, “founded the first secular government that was ever founded in this world. The first secular government; the first government that said every church has exactly the same rights and no more; every religion has the same rights, and no more. In other words, our fathers were the first men who had the sense, had the genius, to know that no church should be allowed to have a sword; that it should be allowed only to exert its moral influence.”

We can live with those words. We should be glad to live in this time and place -- a society that is democratic, secular, pluralistic, globalistic, even liberal, where the sword has been taken away from the church forever. There are opportunities in this situation for the faith that we’ve never had before. Democracy is a blessing. Modern secular society is not a curse.

It is an opportunity. Orthodox Christianity may once again (and maybe for the first time in America) be clearly seen as a society of kenosis and true ascesis. Orthodoxy has always been this way in essence -- but the secular, modernistic, even liberal moment removes the obscuring and confusing dross that has covered up that witness.

Things are modern now, and there’s no escaping that fact. There’s been a lot of toothpaste squeezed out of the tube that can never be pushed back in. We can’t go back to the good old days. Those good old days were probably not so good anyways -- at least not so good for everyone.

It’s about time we hoped and trusted in Providence, and stopped wishing to be somewhere or sometime else.

It’s time to relearn and show faithful, authentically Christian love. We’ve been called to be salt and light in a hurting world.

I'm happy to be in this contemporary moment with you, in the here and now, where we may disagree but still love our common humanity, and love -- if you want to -- our common God.

So to my fellow Orthodox Christians, I offer this respectful and friendly advice:

Bloom where you’re planted. Here and now, and in America.

a second open letter to clergy

A Second Open Letter to Clergy

Dear Fathers,

Glory to Jesus Christ!

For some of us, we are in the interval between the Feast of the Nativity and that of Theophany. We are days away from the Julian New Year.

For the rest of us, we are almost a fortnight into the new year.

We all remain troubled by the events of January 6th (which was Theophany on the Revised Julian Calendar). In fact, the distress is only increasing when we see more images and hear more recordings of the violence, and when we read of the deaths that have occurred at the hands of insurrectionists.

It is hard to compare dimensions of trouble, and to determine which is worst.

But among the most painful reports of the terrorist attack on the Capitol on New Calendar Theophany is the report of the involvement of some of our own brethren, actual Orthodox priests.

Indeed, there were some who participated in the riot wearing a cassock and a pectoral Cross.

This one fact is heartbreaking and soul-crushing. It makes any good conscience weep.

I understand that we all have our own political views, and we involve ourselves in varying degrees of partisanship. Some of us are Republicans. Some are Democrats. Some (I think with less justification) are Libertarians.

But as the Wednesday attack on the Capitol has revealed, there is a sharp moral difference between an acceptable array of political speech on one hand, and participation in demagoguery and sedition on the other.

There are those of us who participated in fascism on Theophany, who have aided and abetted the monstrous rise of sedition and autocracy for the last four years.

I am a theological conservative. I hold the tenets of the Niceo-Constantinopolitan Creed deeply in my heart. I am Pro-Life, and I hold to traditional social mores.

But it is hard for me to recognize a common priesthood with clergy who support sedition and insurrection -- because sedition and insurrection are exactly what January 6th was, and what these last four years have been. 

I am not suggesting any prescriptions here, because frankly, I do not know what there is to be done about clergy who carried the Cross of Our Lord into darkness. I ask the same question as one of these very clergymen posed over two decades ago, when he was offended, not by some immorality, but by an appropriate exercise of economia:

“What partnership have righteousness and iniquity? Or what fellowship has light with darkness? What accord has Christ with Belial?” (2 Corinthians 6.14-15).

We have many questions to think about, and to mourn about. Why are there so many young adults drawn to sedition? Why, historically, have so many of our faithful been drawn to authoritarianism -- especially now, but also over the centuries? Why is American Orthodoxy still so unprepared to witness to the Ascended Christ's peace, justice, and righteousness in American democracy? Must we always protest pluralism, secularity, and the evaporation of the ideal of America as an exceptional Christian nation?

And this: how was it ever possible for some of our own priestly brotherhood to have participated in a crowd that chanted “Hang Pence” and “Where’s Nancy?” -- a crowd that murdered a Capitol Police officer, and caused the suicide of another?

Was it a catechetical failure? Was it a deficiency of Orthodox dogmatic theology, or a lack of Orthodox spiritual formation? Was it an artifact of pre-conversion fundamentalism? Was it ignorance of rational American history and civics? Was it practice in indecent homiletics? Was it an unrecognized addiction to hate speech -- a sort of “political pornography” that effaces the Face of Christ from the neighbor, and programs extremism in its place?

We have, Fathers, much to think about, much to study, much to pray for, much to grieve.

Fr Jonathan Tobias

an open letter to clergy

Dear Fathers,

Christ is Born! Christos Rozdajetsja!

Even though I am on the New Calendar now, I'm too much accustomed to the Old. So I wish you and yours the Joy and Peace of the Season.

"Joy and Peace," in these days of anything but -- it sounds ironic to say that we serve the Resurrected and Ascended Lord Who is even now the Prince of Peace, seated at the Right Hand of God the Father.

Yesterday, we witnessed, on the Eve of the Nativity, an outbreak of violence upon the very heart of our nation. Despite the counter-narratives already swirling in the rumor mills of our fundamentalist counterparts (mainly in the Protestant community), the fact remains that this violence was inflamed and encouraged by our President himself.

It would be a mistake to confine our pastoral concern to this one man. He represents a large movement. Probably about 40 million firmly support his mission and his rhetoric. This may become the most significant issue for American Christianity in the next few years, if not a lot longer.

I have already heard many attempts to justify the behavior of this destructive rage yesterday. Some leading evangelical media leaders like Franklin Graham have suggested that Antifa and BLM are mostly to blame. Many (at least 20 million Americans) believe that the violence was justified, and, at the same time, that President-Elect Biden was at least partly to blame. At least just as many firmly believe the QAnon conspiracy theory of widespread pedophilia and child sacrifice. Many more believe that this violence was justified because of pro-abortion and other socially liberal policies.

Few of these "true believers," if any, will admit that much of the crowd was populated by white nationalists, holocaust deniers, and neo-nazis.

You should know that for myself, I am thoroughly opposed to abortion, and I am more in mind of traditionalist views on sexuality. 

But the fact remains that much of American Christianity has become committed to, if not thoroughly identified with, a rightwing libertarian movement that has now become demagogic and autocratic.

For now, I have no positive suggestions for new programs or initiatives.

But I will say this, Fathers, and we need to think hard and long on this reality:

We are already losing the youth (and many older adults) from our community of faith.

But now we have a generation who was born into the trauma of 9/11. Now they have become completely disillusioned by a church that has been relatively silent about racism, social injustice, and environmental degradation.

We've been eloquent about abortion and other sins. We march in cassocks in the National Right to Life March and write letters to the editor about pornography. Many of us will not hesitate to condemn liberal politicians and communists from the ambon.

But where is our eloquence about the equally outrageous wickedness of social and economic injustice and political demagoguery? 

Then there is the unthinkable possibility that there might exist clergy who not only fail to denounce the violence on January 6th, but actually welcome it. And this is heartbreaking. And I don't know how to respond to this abject possibility.

If we remain silent about the outrage of racism and injustice, strong man politics and global warming, then we will not only keep losing our youth.

We will lose them all. And we will lose conscientious, reasonable adults with them.

The ecclesial status quo will certainly not survive.

I pray in fervent supplication that this will not be so.

With love and hope in the Newborn Prince of Peace,

Fr Jonathan Tobias

the baptism of the Lord and the fulfillment of righteousness

John the Baptist is also called “the Forerunner.” His coming onto the scene was prophesied by the Righteous Isaiah (in 40.3), as a “preparation” of the way of the Lord.

He came as the apotheosis — the highest summation — of all the Old Testament Prophets, all of them from Isaiah to Amos. Even his appearance — wearing camel hair and a leather girdle, eating locusts and wild honey — manifested the truth that the Prophets were messengers (i.e., “angelos,” like angels) heralding the Word of God, preaching from heaven to earth.

And God’s Word was always calling His People — Israel at first, then all of humanity (which is the lesson of Jonah) — to “righteousness.”

“Righteousness” is misunderstood these days. Most Christians reduce righteousness to the avoidance of certain personal sins, like drunkenness, or fornication and adultery, or licentious behavior.

But while the Biblical (and Orthodox) truth of righteousness includes these concerns, it goes far beyond personal behavior.

"The righteous man in Israel," wrote the brilliant Presbyterian Biblical scholar Elizabeth R Achtmeier in 1963, "was the man who preserved the peace and wholeness of the community, because it was he who fulfilled the demands of communal living. Like Job, he was a blessing to his contemporaries, and thus ‘righteousness’ is sometimes correlated with ‘mercy.’ He cared for the poor, the fatherless, the widow, even defending their cause in the law court. He gave liberally, providing also for the wayfarer and guest, counting righteousness better than any wealth. He was a good steward of his land and work animals, and his servants were treated humanely. He lived at peace with his neighbors, wishing them only good. When he was in authority, his people rejoiced, and he exalted the nation ... He was an immovable factor for good ... He lived in peace and prosperity [only] because he upheld the peace and prosperity -- in short, the physical and psychical wholeness -- of his community by fulfilling the demands of the community and covenant relationship. For this reason, ‘righteousness’ sometimes stands parallel with ‘shalom’ (peace) ... And for this reason, too, its meaning can be 'truth,' for right speech upholds the covenant relationships existing within a community.”

Righteousness is a term that sums up the meaning of a restored human nature, and a restored human community, and a restored and perfected Creation. Righteousness is always a reflection of the descending New Jerusalem (a “descent” that was seen in the book of Revelation, and that will be completed on the Last Day).

Righteousness is not to be put off or delayed until the Last Day. Instead, it is to be lived out and actualized in the here and now by the Body of Christ — right now, right here.

Thus, a “whole and entire” righteousness is the Lifestyle of the Body of Christ, the Church, our fellowship. It is first and foremost an overcoming of sin and death. It is provision of material comfort (food, water, clothing, and shelter) to all humanity and Creation, whether or not they are perceived to be deserving.

Christians should never grumble about freeloaders: when people do this, they have no idea how hard work it is to survive hand-to-mouth, and how expensive it is to be poor. When St Paul wrote to the Thessalonians that “If anyone will not work, let him not eat” (2 Thessalonians 3.10), he was referring to those who thought they were so “spiritual” that they demanded that other “less spiritual” people should take care of them. This verse has nothing to do with charity for the poor.

This is why the first community of Christians in Jerusalem “had all things in common; and they sold their possessions and goods and distributed them to all, as any had need” (Acts 2.44-45). This is why the first deacons (like St Stephen) were ordained, so that they could coordinate the provision of sustenance to those in need, like the widows (Acts 6.1-4).

That early, “pre-legal” (i.e., before Constantine’s enfranchisement of Christianity) community was a community of righteousness. It was a community of a Year of Jubilee that would never end (Leviticus 25 and Isaiah 61). It was the overturning of injustice. It was an outpost of the New Jerusalem.

The reason why Ananias and Sapphira came to such a bitter end was that they falsely claimed to have given everything in self-denial for the sake of this righteousness (Acts 5.1-11). Their lie was so profoundly grievous that their souls could no longer tolerate life.

Probably the worst failure of American “heterodox” Christianity is the reduction (and distortion) of righteousness to only a fraction of its meaning. On one hand, many fundamentalists define righteousness as avoidance of certain individual sins. On the other hand, many liberal protestants define righteousness only in radically progressive and materialistic ends (e.g., liberation movements, rejection of tradition and custom). There should never have been a conflict between the “personal salvation” of Billy Graham and the “social gospel” of Walter Rauschenbusch. Righteousness has always included both meanings, and has always been much bigger than both.

But righteousness is not only the provision of material goods: it is more importantly the provision of peace and reconciliation, forgiveness and freedom from passions and from the tyranny of death. It is a heavenly wholeness of humanity (lived out even now), where there is “neither Jew nor Greek, male nor female, slave nor free” (Galatians 3.28).

It is this complete, whole and entire righteousness that is the goal of the Ten Commandments, all the Old Covenant Law, and especially the New Testament Royal Law of Love.

Its completion was humanly impossible ever since the Fall of Man in Eden, but became possible only in the Body of Christ, the Second Adam — He Who succeeded in complete obedience to God’s righteousness where the First Adam failed.

“With men,” Jesus said in Matthew (19.26), “this [i.e., the salvation of righteousness] is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”

This is what salvation means. We are saved not just from hell. We are saved for righteousness forever, and nothing less.

We always repent — that is, “turn and return” — to righteousness. And now repentance in Christ means entering into His righteousness, not just our own, because in Baptism we are adopted as children by God the Father — we actually participate in the Sonship of Jesus Christ.

He is the only One Who can said “My Father.” But because we are adopted as sons, having been brought into His Body at Baptism, we can say “Our Father” — probably the most radically new phrase ever ever expressed by the human tongue.

It is because of this new meaning of repentance as salvation, and the new possibility of completed righteousness, that Jesus said, “Let it be so now; for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness” (Matthew 3.15).

Understandably, John the Baptist, who is a cousin of the Lord (through Elizabeth’s familial relationship with Mary), did not want to baptize Jesus. He recognized that he was not even worthy to untie the thong of His sandals (Mark 1.7; Luke 3.10), as a servant would. Even more profoundly, John cried out, when he saw his Cousin, “Behold, the Lamb of God, Who takes away the sin of the world” (John 1.29).

John the Baptize simply recognized that the baptizer should be greater than the one who was baptized.

But Jesus had already submerged His Divinity as Son of God under the humanity of His reality as the Son of Man. Righteousness always entails kenosis, the pouring out of self. Righteousness always requires submission of one’s personal prerogatives to the needs of the people of God.

Righteousness can only be the taking up of one’s Cross.

Baptism has now become a saving sacrament after the Baptism of the Son of God. His Baptism has now changed water into an actual material participation in Grace.

Baptism is now not just the repentance of “turning away from sin.” It is now the repentance of “turning to and entering into actual, successful, and realized righteousness.”

Jesus in His humanity was descended upon by the Holy Spirit and was completely deified, and was publicly and historically identified by God the Father as “My Beloved Son with Whom I am delighted” (Matthew 3.17).

When we are baptized, we are brought into the Body of Christ, Whose humanity is now completely divinized and Whose humanity is now accepted into Sonship by God the Father.

Thus, we can say with St Paul the Apostle (as we do when we sing in Liturgy, instead of “Holy God,” several times throughout the Church Year), “As many as have been baptized in Christ have put on Christ” (Galatians 3.27).

And that, my beloved, is precisely why Jesus said “Let it be so now, for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.”

 

He Came Down from Heaven

-- the Great Conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn,
observed on 16 December 2020

He Came Down from Heaven

“And no man hath ascended up to heaven, but he that came down from heaven, even the Son of man which is in heaven” (John 3.13)

When we look at the Baby Jesus in the manger, with His Mother the Theotokos and His Foster Father the Righteous Joseph looking on, we join them in adoration. We share their tenderness for the Child Christ.

Think about that. We feel tenderness at the Nativity scene. We identify with the overwhelming maternal desire to care for, to nurture, and to protect this tiny little Baby.

It is a holy, tender, glowing, warm, and touching scene.

It is also shocking. 

The Nativity scene is shocking because it is God Who is lying where gods do not belong -- in a feeding trough deep within a cave, surrounded by beasts of burden and only poor people like an adolescent orphan Girl, a carpenter, and illiterate shepherds.

Here, in this dark obscurity, in weakness and dependency and vulnerability, God does not look like God.

In Heaven, the Son of God had all the divine prerogatives of being God. In other words, He “looked like God,” as St Paul says in his Epistle to the Philippians, “He was in the form of God, and did not count equality with God as robbery” (2.6). In heaven, Christ Jesus enjoyed all the glories of divinity as a natural right. There was no “robbery” of egotistical self-aggrandizement, of trying to be “king of the hill.”

Christ, in Heaven, looked like God, was glorified as God, simply because He is God, equal in divinity with the Father and the Holy Spirit. The heavenly tranquility, the divine glory of complete apatheia, was His “natural state” that He never had to grab for Himself, it was never a wealth that He had to keep away from others, like the Rich Fool who built barns (Luke 12.16-21) to protect his wealth from the needs of the poor.

Glory was His. It was never something He had to gain.

But it was always His to lose, to surrender. He did so completely by free choice, in complete and voluntary obedience to the Father.

This He did in Heaven, a decision made above and out of Time. You can’t even try to suggest a date when our Saviour freely decided to give up His heavenly glory (i.e., His “being in the form of God,” His “equality with God”), when He chose freely to submerge His divine nature completely under the human nature that He received from the Virgin Mary’s womb.

You cannot date this decision, simply because in Heaven this decision is date-less, an eternity before the Fall: “According as the Father hath chosen us in Christ before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and without blame before Him in love” (Ephesians 1.4). 

The Incarnation that is celebrated at Christmas was a sacrifice freely chosen forever.

And it was chosen as an act of kenosis, which is the beautiful Greek New Testament term for “pouring oneself out” -- like a pitcher of water that is totally emptied of itself for the sake of the vessel it is poured into.

We are that vessel into which Christ’s kenotic love is poured. 

Kenosis is just the way of Divine Nature. I repeatedly tell our seminarians, “There is no theosis (i.e., salvation) without kenosis.” In the same way, “There is no divinity without kenosis.” The Holy Trinity is the Trinity just because of kenosis: the Father pours Himself completely into the Son and Spirit. The Son and Spirit, in turn, pour Themselves completely into Him.

And this mutual outpouring (which the Greek Fathers called “perichoresis”) is the very Love which God is, and which overflows into Creation. The divine and never-ending act of creation itself is a kenotic act of the pouring out of Self. Creation is the result of God’s self-sacrificial love. There is no part of Creation that is not the recipient of this divine gift.

But when the recipient vessel of this divine, creative outpouring fell into the outer darkness of sin and death (where there is “weeping and gnashing of teeth”), God once again sacrificed Himself. “God so loved the world that He gave His Only-Begotten Son” (John 3.16). 

God the Father asked -- He didn’t force. There is no compulsion in self-donating love. And the Son said “Yes” -- very much like the Theotokos on March 25th, who said, “Behold the handmaiden of the Lord, be it unto me according to your word” (Luke 1.38).

Or, it would be more accurate to say that the young Virgin Mary said this after the standard of Love set first by the Son.

So the Son of God came down from Heaven. God the Creator entered into and became part of Creation. This is the greatest, most fundamental truth of all life -- your life, my life, and the life of the world. 

God became man, and most assuredly not as Superman. God became man in weakness and need, dependency and vulnerability. The Child in the Manger is God. But at the same time, He is so not apparently Godlike. He is a real, helpless baby. He needs His Mother to nourish Him. He needs His foster father to protect Him.

The timeless Creator chose to become, to develop as an unborn infant after conception, to be born as a baby, to suckle at His Mother’s breasts, to grow as a child, to “increase in wisdom and in stature, and in favor with God and man” (Luke 2.52). In the Heaven of Divinity, there is only timeless Being -- but the Creator entered into the realm of “becoming.” The Timeless One now experienced Time. The Infinitely Present One was now located in Space.

We must never lose our sense of overwhelming wonder at this Revelation. We must always gasp in surprise at the Truth of God becoming “not-God” while still remaining God. We must weep at the tender majesty of it all. 

There is no way in heaven or on earth for anyone to even imagine such a truth -- it lies far above the intelligence of humans and even angels to invent this thought. If you had all the time in the world, you could not have made it up: it can only have been whispered to you by the Holy Spirit.

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth” (John 1.14). This wasn’t a “visitation,” such as those splendid moments in the Old Testament when the Pre-Incarnate Christ appeared to Abraham at the Oak of Mamre and wrestled with Jacob at the Brook of Peniel.

No, this was a “dwelling,” not a visitation but a habitation. He became not just one of us, but, in a sense, all of us. He became the Second Adam, the integral Man, Who would succeed where the First Adam failed. He would bless all of life through His own Life, “recapitulating” (to use St Irenaeus’ favorite word) all of humanity. 

“Therefore He had to be made like His brethren in every respect,” St Paul wrote in the Epistle to the Hebrews, “Because He Himself has suffered and been tempted, He is able to help those who are tempted” (2.17-18). “For we have not a high priest Who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one Who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin” (4.15).

He became flesh. He became weak. He hungered and thirsted. He became tired, weary from travel and ministry to the crowds. He grieved and wept at the tomb of His friend. He mourned the stubbornness of the very people He came to save. 

And, what most people do not realize, He could only pray out of the depths of His incarnate weakness -- there was no other way: “Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord” (Psalm 129.1 LXX). In the state of his self-humiliation (for that is what laying aside His glory meant), He had to pray to the Father as God. His prayers were not prayed as mere demonstrations. His prayers were real. Through His prayer the Son received from the Father salvation from death: the Resurrection was an answer to this most tragic, the most significant, the most powerful prayer in all Time and Space..

He suffered pain -- not just the physical Crucifixion, but the pain of all the sin, all the evil, all the death of the entire human race and the strain of the entire Creation. He suffered the groaning weight of hell.

This was the life the Baby Jesus was born to. This was His destiny. 

This is the lesson of the Manger: “When He ascended on high He led a host of captives, and He gave gifts to me,” wrote St Paul to the Ephesians, quoting Psalm 67.18 LXX. And the Apostle further commented, almost quoting word for word John 3.13: “In saying ‘He ascended,’ what does it mean but that He must have had also descended into the lowest parts of the earth? He who descended is He who also ascended far above all the heavens, that He might fill all things” (Ephesians 4.8-10).

He came down from heaven and descended into humanity, just so He could ascend and take us with Him.

He gave up His heavenly glory to become lowly like us, so that He could transfigure humanity in heavenly light.

He left the free conversation of Heaven, that He could teach us to pray.

He was born in the darkness of the cave, that He might return in uncreated brightness as the never-setting Sun.

He lay in the manger as a helpless Infant, that He might reign as Risen Lord.

Here He is, in the cave with the donkey and the beast, the shepherds, Joseph and the Virgin.

He was born for this, for you and me. 

Venite adoremus.

Prijdite poklonimsja.

O come, let us adore Him.

parable of the unforgiving servant: things said and not said

-- a scene from the Godspell narration of the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant

The first meaning of the Parable of the Wicked Servant (found in today’s Gospel Reading from Matthew 18) is easy to pick out. As is so often the case in the Lord’s Parables, the lesson of the story is given by the Lord Himself at the very end:

“So my heavenly Father will do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother from your heart” (Matthew 18.35).

It is a sad thing that so often, our attention turns to the “or else” part of this statement. We jump so quickly to the idea of punishment -- which seems to be the alternative to the virtue of forgiveness -- that we neglect the central truth of the Parable, which is this:

The Father wants us to forgive, because He wants us to be just like Him.

The meaning of these terms -- “Father,” “forgive,” “like,” even “want” -- is far, far more important than punishment, especially as described as “torture” in verse 34: “And in anger his lord delivered him to the torturers, till he should pay all his debt.”

But before we get to these essential meanings, it is necessary to deal with the negative terms “torture” and “debt.” If these terms attract more attention than the others, and especially if they are taken literally, then the entire meaning of the Parable will be distorted if not completely lost.

All the Parables are to be understood in their spiritual meaning. Sometimes, this understanding is called “allegory,” sometimes “anagogical.” These are technical literary terms and, for now, don’t contribute much to understanding. Suffice to say that the words “debt” and “torture” cannot be taken at face value: they have to be understood in their deeper meanings.

The reason why we cannot take these two words literally becomes abundantly clear when we consider this terrible question:

Is God a torturer? Is the God Who is Love, Who knows Himself and reveals Himself as Love, even able to torture? Does God inflict pain and agony just to satisfy His wounded honor, to “balance out the scales of justice”?

God does not, and really cannot, act against His own nature. The beautiful truth that “With God all things are possible” has nothing to do with the irrational, nihilistic proposition (which is so popular in modernity) that “if God can do anything, then He can kill, damage, and mutilate however He wants.” This sort of human (and inhumane) idea of God is called “voluntarism” -- and it is a heinous anti-theology that has done more to corrupt civilization than any other philosophy. 

(I believe, with Paul Evdokimov, that European modern atheism is largely due to the calvinist belief that God predestines people, before birth, to go to Hell forever. No one can psychologically survive that kind of corrosive doctrine.)

Without having to say so, this suggestion that God could be a “torturer” is horribly anti-Orthodox and heretical. 

And “debt” cannot be taken at face value either. It is commonly interpreted as “sin” in the Parable, and that is correct to a point. But some teachers, in the past, have extended the idea of “sin as indebtedness” to the point of foolishness. Some have said that every sin committed in life amounts to a sort of “debit” in a moral registry, totalling a “debt” that needs paid off somehow. In the most popular (and bad) system of this sort, the “debit” of sin until the moment of Baptism (which includes Adam’s Original Sin as well), is taken care of by the Cross, which is -- in this very western “juridical” system -- Christ taking upon Himself the divine and wrathful punishment that should have been given to all of us. For the debits of sins committed after Baptism, then “penance” is imposed to “work off” the debt. And if any debt remains after death, then the baptized Christian must endure the penance of Purgatory -- until “he shall pay all his debt.” Yes indeed, this very Parable, especially verse 34, was used as a proof text for the western doctrine of Purgatory.

“Debt” in this Parable (and also in some translations of the Lord’s Prayer) refers to our own deliberate “falling away” from loving fellowship with the Father. It is our human nature to live and breathe the air of this divine relationship. When we fall away in sin, we wither and begin to die. Corruption enters our soul and body. “Debt” is a familiar picture of deeper reality that is far, far worse -- a reality that we can never “work off” on our own effort, and, even more to the point, can never be “punished” away.

Punishment does not get rid of sin.

It only provides gratification for the punisher. “Penance” (as in “penitentiary”) and “discipline” (as in “disciple”) differ completely from “punishment.”

The “torture” or punishment in this Parable was, tragically, very familiar to the first hearers of Jesus’ Parable. Everyone knew about torture. It was practiced by the authorities very frequently and out in the open. It was done as a “deterrent,” as a method of “teaching them a lesson.” It was an infliction of pain and death -- not meant at all for the healing and restoration of the criminal, the satisfaction of anger. The Cross of Jesus is the most extreme example of punishment.

In fact, “debt” was also familiar to this audience. If you were in debt, your house could be immediately foreclosed upon. You could be forced out without any recourse, repeal, or hope of negotiation. Your spouse and children could be sold into slavery. You yourself could be sold into slavery. Creditors, loan sharks, and financiers were lumped in with the tax collectors. They didn’t all work for the Roman Empire. Some, unfortunately, worked for the Temple administration. Most worked for the local moneylender, who was much like the wretched same day payday loan outposts in our own low-income communities.

In the modern world, we continue to be intimately familiar with torture and debt. We might be better at hiding it away from view. But in many ways, these corruptions of human nature and civilization are more efficient.

And they both prove a horrible fact: our familiarity, our lack of surprise, at torture and debt is nothing other than our very present familiarity with Hell.

Hell is the expectation, never a surprise.

It was the easiest thing in the world, after the Fall of Man, to think of God as “Eternal Torturer,” and “Cosmic Moneylender and Collector of All Debts.” This horrible theology was just a Freudian “projection” from the hellishness of the human falling away from divine fellowship. 

Humanity became like Argus Filch, the über-cranky custodian at Harry Potter’s Hogwarts boarding school. His memorable line was “There must be punishment.”

I am amazed, and saddened, by just how many Christians there are who think this way, who demand that God work this way, who believe that virtue is not possible without the threat of punishment.

As we humans have become so familiar with the fear of death, Hell, thus, is never a surprise. It is a confirmation of the despair we already know.

Love, however, is. The Everlasting Surprise.

In the Parables (and in the Gospels and Scripture in general), we should always pay most attention to the Surprise -- not the confirmation of our expectations.

The Gospel -- that is, the “evangel” -- is not only “Good News”: it is New. It is a joyful interruption of our melancholy routine. It is, as J R R Tolkien loved to say, a “eu-catastrophe” -- a revolution of goodness, beauty, and peace. It is the surprise of all time. It is the unveiling of the mystery from all the ages -- a mystery, St Paul says, that the prophets and lawgivers and even the angels longed to know.

God is Father, not just the Absolute, not some impersonal force. The “kingdom of heaven” is the overflowing relationship of the Father with His Son Jesus, through the Holy Spirit. That relationship is only healing, restorative Love. 

Forgiveness is the free and willing participation in the action of Christ. Forgiveness makes no worldly sense. There is no bottom line with forgiveness. For people who can only think in terms of accounting books and profit/loss statements, the idea of “forgiveness” is utterly scandalous and offensive. “Someone has got to pay. If you don’t, who will?” is just the sort of thing that non-forgivers always complain, who cannot understand (or refuse to accept) “Blessed are the poor, the meek, the peacemakers.”

When you forgive your fellow servant (who may be your spouse, your sibling, your child or parent, your friend, your neighbor, your political enemy), you bring him or her with you to the very moment when True Forgiveness was established and let loose in this dark world of unforgiving Hell.

That timeless moment, to which you two have mystically journeyed, is that infinite point of dereliction, that Severe Mercy, when the Son of God hung His sacred brow and said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

God the Father wants us to be just like Him. If we belong to His family, then there oughtn't there be some family resemblance? We are most like God when we participate in forgiveness.

So we’ve covered all the positive terms: “Father,” “forgive,” and “like,” except one: that God the Father “wants.” 

This means that He desires us to be with Him in His family, His home, His kingdom. He calls us to His covenant of grace, His unbroken relationship that is now restored by the Cross of His Son and healed by the proceeding of His Spirit. He desires His children to worship Him as Father “in Spirit and in Truth.” 

He is willing to desire and wait for the ages.

And I believe that what God wants, God eventually gets.

psalm 54

Psalm 54 (55 in the Masoretic text) -- a paraphrase

This psalm is appointed for the Sixth Canonical Hour, and it falls within the Seventh Kathisma, which is read on Tuesday mornings. Here is my amplified version:

Give ear, O God, to my prayer,
Do not disregard my plea.
Wait on me and hear me.
My prayer was suppressed by despair,

For I was upset by the voice of the enemy,
By the unjust oppression of the evil powers:
They turned their abuse upon me,
And in their rage they denounced me.

My heart suffers in anxiety,
The terror of death has descended upon me.
I am overcome by desperation
As the darkness has flooded my soul.

I cried out:
Who will give me wings like Noah's dove
So I can fly, fly away
And find some green branch of life
Saved from the flood of death.

See how far away I've fled
Like a refugee,
I dwell in the desert.

Selah

I am waiting for my Saviour
From my weakness, from this tempest surge
Of darkness.

Drown these tempestuous wraiths in the Abyss,
O Lord,
Confuse their swarming tongues,
Their manufactured insinuations,
Their confounding speech,
Their rotting thought,

I have seen only injustice and strife in this City,
This present and dolorous Dis.
There is no ceasing of sin
And enslavement of the weak and poor
And the chaining of the misbegotten and forgotten,

Seething wickedness, vulgarity, depravity,
Lust and pride
Throb at the heart of Dis,

And usury, creditors and debtholders,
Loansharks and marketplace usurpers
And financial powers and principalities

Wall Street deceivers, demagogues and partisans

Have never, ever departed from the infernal City
That, dreadfully,

Is all here
Always now.

What have these wraiths done,
How have they possessed and afflicted,
Swarmed like flies
In this darksome, dissonant Burg?

We were friends, you and I.

If I had lost contact with the true enemy
I could have borne it,
If it were only my enemy that denounced me
I could have disregarded it.

But in this dolorous city on the sixth circle
Friendship is broken,
Friends who are equal,
Friends who are guides,
Friends who communed at the Table,
Friends who walked in one mind,

But that mind is no longer one,

Behold, the Craft of the Lord of the Flies:
Breaking ties that bind
Is the commercial business of demons.

Humanity is meant for only friendship
As it is the analogue of Triune Grace.
But its nature shrivels when friendship falls
And communion fades from sight.

Take away, Lord, these spirits of decay,
Send them not into the innocent swine,
But straight into the Abyss.

I cry to God in the desert
And the Ascended Lord has heard me.

Evening and morning and noon
I will cry out to Jesus
And He will hear my plea.

He will rescue my soul,
He will lead me to the peace of the still waters,
The green, cool valley,

Away, far far away, from the spirits of Dis
Closing in round about me.

God will hear and send them down,
God Who lives before all Time.

Selah

There will be no rescue for them
Because they do not want rescue
From the Only Rescuer they have,
The Only Saviour there is.

They have fallen into the Abyss of their own denial,
Because they reject His Communion
Of Friendship Divine.
Refusal of Love is only the Abyss
Of indefinite Dis.

The swarm is scattered by the Face of Love.

Cast your cares upon the Lord,
All of them and hold nothing back.

He will sustain you,
He will save you from drowning in the storm.

You, Ascended Lord,
Jesus my Rescuer,
Will exorcise the bloodthirsty,
And deceitful wraiths
Shall fade away,
Even here, even now,
None of them are here to stay,

Thank God.

As for me in this desert of peace,

I hope only in You.

 

conspiracy theory and scapegoatism

The Church has a responsibility to fight superstition, irrationality, and conspiracy theory.

Too many times, scapegoats have suffered and died, because the Church did not do enough. Ask the Jews. Ask the Roma. Ask the Chinese, before the Cold War. Ask the Uighurs now.

Conspiracy theory has left horrible stains on history. Think of the aftermath of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Think of the recent ugliness festering from the Turner Diaries.

I don't think this trend toward dangerous irrationality and "mob epistemology" is just an internet or social media phenomenon. The demonic "Turner Diaries" -- and I'm serious about that description -- came out in 1978, and by itself it created a sub-culture of militia-ism and survivalism that is more pervasive than what we’d care to believe.

All along, the Church should have insisted, in fidelity to Holy Tradition, upon rationality, theology, and humanism and universal charity, and should have always fought proactively against the forces of demagoguery, contempt, and mob violence.

That “Christ crucified” is “folly to the Gentiles,” and that “God has made foolish the wisdom of the world” has nothing to do with reason and clear-thinking. 

There is a direct correlation between the willingness to imbibe esoteric histories and sociologies, and the rise of strong man demagogues (and totalitarian regimes). We cannot simply laugh off flat earth theorists, lunar landing deniers, “pizzagate” Q-theorists, and New Apostolic Reformation heretics.  

In the past, when we failed to attack the irrational language of anti-semitism, Tsarist pograms were unleashed upon the Jewish community. In the end, the Holocaust emerged from an atmosphere of people who were intelligent and well-educated, but had fallen into the madness of scapegoating rage.

I have to believe that the Church -- Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and Protestant -- could have done much more to protect and promote reason. There should have been a steadfast witness against some of our own well-known Orthodox clergy, who uttered anti-semitic language. The irrationality and anti-Christian nature of such language was known then, just as such language is known now.

And just in case you may have heard this before, no, the Bolshevik Revolution did not occur as a divine punishment for Tsar Nicholas permitting the erection of a Jewish synagogue in Moscow. And no, Tsar Nicholas II and his family were not ritually executed by a Jewish squad. And no, the Beast in the Apocalypse of St John is not going to be a Jew -- as is stated in more than one systematic text.

You haven't lived until you've suffered at least 10 iterations, strung out over 5 decades, of what "666" can mean, and how the State is going to plant a marking/controlling device in your right hand and your forehead.

Eschatology (especially interpretations from the book of Revelation) has long been like a Body Farm (like the one near Knoxville) for the growth of homicidal conspiracy nitwittery.

The sophiological understanding of eschatology, especially as explored by Bulgakov in Bride of the Lamb (despite my misgivings about his treatment of the Millennium), is what's needed here, and it needs promulgated in pastoral teaching a whole lot more. That may be the prophylaxis called for in this mad moment.

Christianity should have always been able to sniff out the stench of scapegoatism, whenever and wherever it's reared its ugly head.

After all, we know the Ultimate Scapegoat of all, and we do not revile Him. We worship Him.

Orthodoxy and QAnon cannot co-exist in the same soul.

Unafraid

There is an interesting idea going around about the pandemic, especially about the governmental response and public health measures that have been put into place.

And it is important to talk about this:

Some Orthodox Christians (and other Christians, too) -- perhaps many -- are saying that submitting to public health measures (like masking, keeping social distancing, hygiene, and avoiding large groups) manifest a "fear of death." Perhaps, even, it is tantamount to a deficiency of faith.

Let me start off by saying at the outset that I completely oppose any forced closure of churches by the state. I oppose any state interference in the way we administer the sacraments of the church. For example: only my hierarchy can tell me just how I can administer the Eucharist.

It was plainly foolish for any civil authority to demand church closure or restrict its attendance, while permitting gambling casinos to remain open. This was a politically stupid maneuver, and it almost guaranteed the antipathy of many conservative Christians toward any governmental COVID-19 response.

Parenthetically, it is intolerable that state governments forced closure of small businesses while big box stores like WalMart were permitted to remain open.

That said, it remains true that civil authorities are expected, by God, to attend to society-wide problems. If there is a threatened armed invasion, the state is expected to defend its shores. If there is a famine, the state is expected to locate and deliver food to the hungry. If there is crime, the state is expected to defend the innocent and prosecute the violent.

And, obviously, if there is an epidemic or plague, the state has a God-given responsibility -- a "divine ordinance" -- to control the spread of the disease and to work toward its removal. This has happened several times in Christendom, both in the Roman West and the Byzantine East.

In many plagues of the past, the public health measures were all-too-familiar to us. There was restriction of travel and movement. There was curtailment of public activities like carnivals and fairs. There were quarantines -- like most recently in the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918 and 1919; and even more recently with quarantines for measles, chicken pox, and other communicable child diseases.

Some of you remember when posting a quarantine sign in the house window was one of the most obvious tasks of the school nurse.

There were curtailments of recreational activities. For entire summers during the polio scare, children were kept away from playgrounds and swimming pools.

And there was even a general requirement for mask-wearing. Such happened in the Spanish Flu epidemic. Men, in particular, had to be persuaded that it was a "manly and courageous" thing to do (and they had to be dissuaded from poking a hole in the mask to accommodate a cigarette, cigar, or pipe).

Churches were, in some cases, shut down by civil decree. In the best case, church services and sacraments were curtailed voluntarily by the hierarchy.

Yes, many mistakes were made in plague management. Various false treatments were advertised and a lot of snake oil was sold. People looked for conspiracy theories for scapegoating purposes, or simply to find an easier, "secret method" to protect their loved ones.

Science made mistakes, too. In the beginning phases of each outbreak, there were always wrong theories. Even in this present one with the coronavirus, masks were initially not encouraged, and it seems now that surface contact is not nearly as contagious as aerosol exhalation. There was a time that I had high hopes for hydroxychloroquine, but those hopes have been dashed by objective science.

In each outbreak, science has delivered. Dr Jonas Salk discovered a polio vaccine. Dr Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin. Edward Jenner developed the smallpox vaccine (and China had learned to inoculate against it centuries before). In the Black Death, the Jews were frequently scapegoated (of course, and this is why I can’t stand this epidemic being called the “China Plague”: it’s so very dangerous): science later found that this plague was caused by a bacteria hitching a ride on fleas that infested rats.

These are just a few examples of medical science winning the day. And in every single moment -- most of which was serendipitous -- God's Holy Spirit was surely leading.

But back to my main concern. Some Orthodox and Roman Catholic and Protestant writers (and some of these very well known and respected) have equated these public health measures -- particularly the curtailment of public activities -- with a fear of death that is not only craven, but un-Christian.

I cannot disagree with this enough. I will not name names here, as I hold some of them in great respect, and some of them I hold with deep affection.

But I have to say this: the civil authority that every Biblical Christian agrees that Romans 13.1-4 recognizes that civil government is "God's servant for your good." This is true whether that government is your political party or not. And, as I noted above, one of the government's responsibilities is public health.

So when I am not able to go to a college football game this Fall ... or when I am not able to gather with a congregation of more than ten people ... or when I put on a mask (whether I like to or not) at Food Lion ... or when I've had to meet with my students, my friends, and my family on Zoom, instead of face-to-face ...

Please, please don't tell me that I am "entrapped within my fear of death."

As a priest who has faced death up close and personal many, many times, I can assure you that such fear is not my problem.

What is and remains my problem is the suffering of the hundreds and thousands and millions of victims of this disease -- and the comfort of that suffering.

My problem is the containment of this suffering, and for that I will gladly wear a mask when needed ... I will gladly wash my hands ... I will gladly stay home more than I'd like.

I figure that we Orthodox, of all people, ought to be able to enter without complaint into silence and stay put better than most people. We are called upon to enter into the spiritual quiet, and to discern Paradise even from within the confines of a little monastic cell, let alone a nice house in a nice neighborhood.

I am a conservative Orthodox Christian, and as such I do not fear death.

And especially for the sake of others,

I will fight it like hell.