Second Terrace

the finding

When God creates, He communes:

there is no external power.

All grace, all being, all life

is personal,

and is love.

 

Creation is the first of God's self-sacrifice.

The aeonic world of the bodiless powers and

the universe centered on humankind --

All this came as an offering

of God to His creation,

 

With which, with whom,

He will never not interact ...

For which, for whom,

He will ever desire

For beauty.

 

Every interaction is a personal work,

an artwork of desire,

a rhetoric of devotion.

Every miracle of personal love,

an act of divine communion

and all is miracle.

Desire, the rhetoric,

will never end

even when love is unrequited.

 

He came for Creation,

He came for humanity wherever humanity was

to be found,

because, again,

there is no love without

communion, no miracle

without making, no word

without sound, no desire

without aching.

 

Were the beautiful children in the garden

under the boughs of the evening trees?

(to think that He Who is above being

desires these)

 

Were they waiting for the rustling of the leaves

and the poetry of names

and the tutelage of peace,

the Friend of the Friendship that used to be

the ground of being, known about, that is

until shame and an end?

 

He came but stood alone,

appointment cancelled

due to prior engagements.

The star-studded angel had

climbed the corporate ladder, it was

a hostile takeover and deals

were made. Along with some mis-

representations.

 

One of which was the uncomfortable fact

that there is a pesky association between

name and shame, that is,

 

if you can't hear the leaves any more

you forget what you're called

and who called you,

 

so to subsistence living then boy

and sew those leaves that used to sing

and dominance, privilege, deal with it

girl, it's the new management

and bottom line.

 

You lost yourself, so

we'll just make one up for you.

Watch TV, it'll come to you.

There's no such thing as name

so no such thing as shame,

it is what it is.

 

He came, but stands alone, and

the beautiful children are hiding behind

electric fog, the cartoon life

of fig leaves.

 

Where are you Adam? the Desiring One calls:

 

which cannot be answered,

as

Adam's lost himself, and Eve.

 

The first kenosis was creation,

the second was the incarnation.

The third outpouring was

for finding of those

who's lost themselves.

 

The widow turned her shack over

to seek her little coin.

The merchant sold his inventory

to buy his iridescent pearl.

The shepherd left his ninety-nine

to look for his sheepish lamb.

The Son of God set down his aristocracy

to become the Son of Man.

 

I had a suggestion for the incarnation

that he should make like a grand magician

and just issue a juridical proclamation

so as to avoid the inconvenience of

a difficult crucifixion.

 

But he insisted

on communion.

 

And just had to take the cross

to find the lost.

 

Because the cost of apotheosis

is divine and free

kenosis.

 

Work, hard hard work

of making, poetry

in the dark.

 

The communing God, how very odd

for us who're used to anti-communion,

not accustomed, these days, to a personal three,

and not to one who says, today,

if I'd be lifted up I'll draw all men

to me.

 

It's hard looking higher in the nameless land

of shame and confusion,

habituated to damnation

and we'd rather excuses than Jesus

and convenience.

 

but we may not deny

after forever

 

his plus-sign desire

and infinite true

persuasion.

 

After all,

he said friend,

at the end,

 

I found you.

 

To earth hast Thou come down, O Master, to save Adam:

and not finding him on earth,

Thou hast descended into hell,

seeking him there.

 

-- from first stasis of "The Praises" in Jerusalem Matins

children in the woods of seraphim

Richard Louv, author of the book Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children From Nature-Deficit Disorder, tells the story of interviewing a child who told him that he liked playing indoors more than outdoors “’cause that’s where all the electrical outlets are.”

As a former child psychotherapist, I wouldn’t go so far as to call this problem a “disorder.” But according to scientific studies, it is true that children who play outside are, as a group, much healthier than children who remain cooped up inside glued to a video screen. They are less likely to develop heart disease and diabetes. They develop better motor skills like balance and coordination. Their bone strength and immunity systems are better, too.

And out of my clinical experience, I can personally attest to the fact that children who suffer from ADHD (or depression) experience significantly fewer symptoms after spending time outside — and not just outside in organized sports, but in nature.

To be sure, there are many benefits that come from organized sports and large group activities. But what is far more beneficial for the physical and emotional health of a child is quiet, individual (or very small group) interaction with nature.

This is also true for adolescents and young adults.

This is even truer for older adults like you and me.

Some time ago, a junior high schooler told me that she wanted to attend liturgy more often. Her folks wanted to attend only a few times throughout the year. She thought, rightly, that she needed to commune with God and His people more often. We explored some options, like a church friend taking her on Sundays. But, sadly, no practical solution seemed available.

So I suggested a “last resort” (which should have been the first): “I’ll get you an icon and a prayerbook … pray the morning and evening prayers in your bedroom. But go outside. Learn to pray outside. God’s Temple is everywhere there.”

No, I didn’t give her the advice of those who say that they are “spiritual without being religious,” who want to worship God in their own way (and who, in the end, probably do not pray).

But I did give her the age-old advice of the hermitage: when you’re so far away from the community of faith, you can still pray when you recognize God in His creation, and commune with Him even there, everyday.

St Seraphim of Sarov certainly knew this well. Soon after his priestly ordination in 1793, he lived alone, in hermitage, in the forest of Sarov for over thirty years. As the biographer, V. I. Il’in wrote, “It was as if the ancient evergreen woods surrounding the hermitage … were calling him to immerse himself totally in the contemplation of God, to gather all his inward forces toward the undivided service of God, toward continuous daytime and nocturnal prayer to God.”

For great saints like St Seraphim, whom Fr Pavel Florensky called “… perhaps the most powerful light that has ever shined in Russia," the solitary life in hermitage produced a momentous transfiguration into the “angelic life,” in which the New Jerusalem is experienced even now. St Seraphim, like St Anthony the Great before him, gained power in the spiritual and material worlds, and became able to guide and comfort people. “The dark fire, the black flame, of Gehenna, prepared for those who blaspheme against and reject love, is overcome and defeated by the white, luminous heat of the Spirit. Eternal bliss is attained on the narrow path of ‘greatest resistance.’ That was Saint Seraphim’s path — he died fully in Christ, and that was why his paschal joy was so great” (V. I. Il’in, St. Seraphim of Sarov, 1971).

Not many of us are called to such intensities. But we can all participate in the peace and beauty of the hermitage. The Lord Himself sanctified this choice: “… so much more the report went abroad concerning Him; and great crowds gathered to hear Him and to be healed of their infirmities. But frequently He retreated to the wilderness and prayed” (Luke 5.15-16).

I am sure you can relate to these words from David, the Poet King — the Lord sure did: “Fear and trembling have come upon me, the darkness has covered me. I said: Who will give me wings like a dove, that I may fly away and be at rest? See how far away I have fled, I have dwelt in the wilderness” (Psalm 54.5-7 LXX).

There is restoration and renewal to be had in nature, in the wilderness, in close communion with God in His beautiful creation: “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul” (Psalm 23.2-3 KJV). Some translations go so far as to render that last line “He converts my soul.” Or, “He beautifies my soul.”

I am convinced that it is high time to teach our children the art of hermitage, of solitude in nature, of retreat. Too many children and youth are fixed on a mind-numbing routine that oscillates from group regimentation in school (and organized activities even in the summer) to video entertainments in the evening.

I think we have assumed that church camp or any kind of summer camp fulfills this need for solitude in nature. No, it does not. I have nothing against camp, but it is usually an intense, programmed experience.

And, frankly, many programs that are called “retreats” are really not a retreat at all – they are, more likely, conferences or even conventions with lectures, breakout sessions, even financial and institutional development presentations.

What we need as children, adolescents and adults, and especially senior citizens, is solitude in the wild. We need to become persuaded by the rhetoric written deeply in every creature – that reality is truly creation, that primordiality is peace and beauty and the infinite presence of divine kenosis.

There is no reason to believe that children cannot be theologians. There is every reason to believe that they will wither without becoming one.

Once again, Louv writes that “As the young spend less and less of their lives in natural surroundings, their senses narrow, and this reduces the richness of human experience.” The regimented focus of school and office in the day, and video entertainment at night, forces us all (not just children) to ignore distractions and unnaturally exhausts our minds.

But in nature, we practice an easy-going attention known as “soft fascination” that produces feelings of calm, even peace, even joy.

So show your children the way. Take them on hikes, take them fishing. Teach them knots to tie and the names of the stars. Pray with them outside. Explain just how the flowers and the trees shine with the glory of God: and in the same breath, tell them that children and all people are the highest glory of God (St Irenaeus said so: “For the glory of God is a living man; and the life of man is the vision of God”). I like chanting the Psalms on my porch: maybe you would like to do this too. An older bass-singer in my former choir told me that every time he plants, waters or cares for his flowers and vegetables, he prays, and blesses.

What an awesome idea! So today I plunged my fingers in the deep fertile loam, and set there my young green shoots of broccoli, cauliflower, Swiss chard, kale, fennel, onions and lettuce. And sowed the peas, the carrots and the blackeyed peas.

And I prayed.

And felt like Adam in Eden before the Fall.

Because the Creator is the Trinity of Love.

Because Pascha has made possible Eden Again.

So let us help our children play in the woods of Seraphim, again, so they can again show us all how to be meek and inherit the earth.

the oceanic new

 

Lent is stepping out of the familiar world

into the perilous heaven of love divine:

the Great Fast launches the meek and the child

from the weary old lands

and into the oceanic New:

 

"You gave birth and are a virgin,

and in both you remain by nature inviolate.

He Who is born makes new the laws of nature,

and the womb brings forth without travail.

When God so wills,

the natural order is overcome;

for He does whatsoever He wishes."

 

-- Theotokion of the Fourth Canticle,

in the Monday Compline setting for St Andrew's Canon

 

"Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world."

 

-- John 16.33 KJV

 

"Therefore if any one be in Christ,

he is a new creature:

old things are passed away;

behold, all things are become new."

 

-- 2 Corinthians 5.17

 

"Behold, the former things are come to pass,

and new things do I declare:

before they spring forth I tell you of them."

 

-- Isaiah 42.9

 

"And He that sat upon the throne said,

Behold, I make all things new.

And He said unto me, Write:

for these words are faithful and true."

 

-- Apocalypse (Revelation) 21.5

forgiveness is not arbitrary

-- the greater snow goose (now winging its way to northern habitats
from wintering grounds in the Carolina lowlands), photo by Josée Dumas
for the Canadian Wildlife Federation

When dealing with the problem of sin, why couldn't God snap His fingers and make the problem go away? Or just say, "Forget about it, let's let bygones be bygones"?

Truth be told, that sort of "forgiveness" is what takes place frequently on Forgiveness Sunday. On that day in many congregations, people will line up and ritually bow to each other, say something like "Forgive me, a sinner," then embrace. 

This is a beautiful, poignant custom. A person may work hard to make each statement meaningful, and enter wholeheartedly into every clasp of arms and shoulders, every breach of the usual boundaries of "personal space." Or he may not. But even if insincerity is present at all during these symbolic actions of reconciliations, it remains true that the ritual of forgiveness at the beginning of the Great Fast is more than harmless: it forces -- as do all poignant ceremonies of truth -- a person to set aside her familiar ways of comfortable society, and to step into the wide space of perilous heaven.

Nevertheless, when humans say they forgive, the mere saying of it is often the best they can do. That is the plain reason why they have to say it over and over again. The genius of language makes clear this problem: "I forgive, but I cannot forget." That phrase may be sincere, but it also reveals an ironic truth: "As long as I remember the sin, I am called to forgive ... over and over again." As long as a person lives in this time and space, forgiveness requires the repetition of the kind about which we know in liturgy: at every repeated phrase, the meaning becomes deeper and more intense, connected with more meanings.

The same is true -- perhaps more so -- with forgiveness. Perhaps the precise reason for repetition in liturgy and poetic Scripture (particularly the Psalms) is to remind us -- as a luminous sign -- that the forgiveness of a single sin is a work of a lifetime. The phrase "Lord have mercy" is the most frequently repeated phrase in the services of liturgical communities. Instead of asking "Why so often?," one should rather ask "What does this repetition mean?" "What does 'mercy' mean and why is it so important that it is so often said?"

The answer is plain. "Lord have mercy" is repeated so often because so often forgiveness must be done. That is true of humans: we can forgive, but we cannot forget. Forgiveness is not something that we can accomplish in a moment, as a whim. Mercy is not a shrugging of shoulders, a dismissal of charges, and a nonchalant "forget about it."

Forgiveness, for humans, is hard work.

It is also hard work for God.

There is nothing "fallen" about work or hard work. "Work" and "miracle" are not opposites. All of Creation is permeated and upheld by grace, and it is all personal. God's grace, or energy, is not at all a field: it is all personally articulated by Him (yes, through His angels, but His hierarchy of providence is not one of distance but of infinite presence).

Creation is already work for God. No miracle is performed at a distance. Especially the work of forgiveness.

All forgiveness is precisely personal creation and divine self-sacrifice. Forgiveness is motivated only by love, by free desire, never by need, never required by reckoning  

Sin is the rejection of the very basis of reality. It corrupts creation as a parasite: it has no reality of its own.

Yes it is a transgression. Yes sin is a debt. Yes it is a violation.

But it is, first and finally, a refusal to give away self, and an attempt to close off the heart from the symphony of the infinite hierarchy of Love.

Only an infinite self-sacrifice of the Divine Self could heal the rift in so deep a corruption, a corruption that started the disaster of Eden and gaped open wide in a bad infinity (actually, indefinite-ness). Only to be infinitely surmounted by the Cross.

Yes, forgiveness is hard work for God. No mercy could be created by a snap of Jove's fingers: instead, mercy could only come by the infinite extremity of the Cross.

There is no other possibility. There is no alternate narrative.

And my forgiveness of you, and your forgiveness of me, is real only insofar as it participates in the Cross.

Because forgiveness, for God and you and me, is only and always the pouring out of self and the crucial sacrifice of ego. This is the requirement of life from the beginning. To proclaim this and to live this is the main and only business of the church: everything else is second place. God forgives, and for you and me to be like Him, we must forgive -- like Him.

It is His character. It is His Name. We bear His Name insofar as we forgive.

God does not forget. That, you must know, is an impossibility. He doesn't need to forget in order to love.

And you will never forget either, but you don't have to. Joy in heaven does not depend on forgetfulness  

God forgives, thank God, because the Cross is infinite in range, and exceeds the pathogen of sin. Believe, and participate.

I hope you and I can live up to the Cross, because that is what we should mean when we say, "I forgive, and God forgives. Pray for me, a sinner."

the collision: parkland, ashes and roses

At the juncture of Ash Wednesday and Valentine’s Day, a collision with the newest school shooting, this one in Parkland, Florida.

For now I won’t mention any kind of response in terms of firearms control. There seems to be little chance for fruitful dialogue here.

But it must be said that acts of horrifying cruelty, whether physical, sexual or both, are not without antecedent: there are always prior development and reinforcement.

We have permitted the immersion of our youth into a media bath of explicit, gory violence on one hand, and propogandized images of unstructured sexuality on the other.

In other words, we have aided and abetted the reinforcement of cruel, abusive behavior, and the desensitization to a river of images that should produce PTSD in any sane adult in a less sophisticated age.

We have not only aided this comprehensive program, we have fiercely protected it in the name of political shibboleths.

And we adults have demanded our personal rights to behave with discourtesy, incivility, free expression of anger that ranges from brooding to outburst, contempt for any and all disagreement. Let alone how we have adopted cynical, vulgar and denunciatory forms in our everyday speech.

And we fools have called this "freedom." Even we religious types have taken to the grammar and syntax of the gang-hardened streets.

Forget the guns for now. If you want to see less school shootings, less teachers who have to shield kids from a lead eruption of an AR-15,

then for God’s sake, and the children’s, stop the cruelty in you and around you. Stop getting mad and aroused.

Make peace. Be meek, pure in heart. Hunger and thirst for a better kingdom.

This Lent, look for true beauty, work for wisdom, pour your ego out in love, and make them real.

praying the psalms in lent: a little handbook of twenty sections

 

Singing the Psalms in Lent:
A Little Handbook of Twenty Sections

 

by Fr Jonathan Tobias

 

1. I wrote this “little handbook” to assist anyone who would like to pray through the Psalms this Lent (and maybe afterward). Outside of Lent, the Orthodox Christian community prays through the Psalms completely once per week; and in Lent itself, we are called to go through the Psalms twice per week.

2. This handbook is meant only as an introduction. There are many more things to say about the Psalms than what is contained in these paragraphs: in fact, it is impossible to write anything that approaches completeness about the Psalms. The same thing could be said about the Psalms as the Evangelist said about the Lord Himself: “… there are also many other things which Jesus did; were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written” (John 21.25 RSV).

3. God has helped me so often, and so deeply, through the Psalms that I encourage everyone to try praying through the Psalms in a regular manner. I invite you to do this whether you are Orthodox or not — even whether you identify yourself as a Christian, or a believer, or a traditionalist or a doubter or wanderer.

4. The Psalms constitute the “hymnal” or “songbook” or, better, the “prayerbook” for all Christians. Our Lord Himself, in His human life, grew up in and continued to pray these Psalms. This is a deep and beautiful thought, because it is the same Lord Who in His divinity — as the eternal Word of God — actually formed the Psalms through the work of David and the other makers of the Psalms.

5. In the same way, the Psalms “form” our thoughts and feelings and actions as we sing them. They teach us the design of prayer — the ways of meeting God in His sanctuary that He Himself has made (more on this below).

6. You probably noticed that the second title is “Singing the Psalms.” I encourage you to at least read the Psalms out loud, so that your ears can hear the words and the verses from your mouth. If you can, try to chant — that is, sing on the same note or a simple melody — the Psalms in a soft voice (sotto voce) that is just barely loud enough for you to hear. This is not an unimportant matter. It is possible that silent reading confines the information in subjectivity: on the other hand, reading audibly gives the words a higher level of objectivity. At the very least, move your lips when you read the words. In a famous passion of his Confessions (book vi, chapter 3), St Augustine was amazed to see his spiritual father St Ambrose of Milan actually reading silently, without even moving his lips, so that he would be always available for visits and thus “interruptible.” I know that I am not nearly so spiritually developed as Ambrose: perhaps this is true about you as well.

7. Sometimes (actually, many times) my attention wanders while I pray. This happens less when I chant the Psalms out loud. And even then, when my consciousness wakes up and finds itself “otherwise occupied,” I am better able to re-focus on the Psalms in the context of a chant.

8. At the end of this handbook, there is a schedule of readings that we follow in praying through the Psalms in a single week. There exists an additional Lenten schedule for reading the Psalms twice per week: I have not included this. I share with you the fact that I have rarely chanted the Psalms in Lent on the twice per week schedule. I do what I can and try to do better. If you can do better, I am sincerely happy and thankful, because you are making the world a better place (without any irony, I welcome any superiority over my own work).

9. This schedule of readings is special, and worth looking into. The early desert monks, living by themselves, would chant the entire Book of Psalms (or “Psalter”) every single day. As they grew into communities, the chanting of the Psalms every week became the community form of prayer. Over time, the Psalms were divided into twenty sections called “kathismata” (“kathisma,” singular). Every kathisma is roughly the same length, consisting of one to four Psalms, depending upon the length (thus, the longest Psalm, the 118th, is a kathisma unto itself).

10. The word “kathisma” is the Greek word for “sitting.” This reflects the practice of the monks who would sit down while one of the brothers would stand and chant the Psalms.

11. Each kathisma is further divided into three “staseis” (“stasis,” singular). “Stasis” is the word for “standing,” which is exactly what the monks would do at this point, since the monk who was chanting the Psalm would say “Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit,” at which point everyone would stand.

12. For most of the week, the schedule calls for the reading of two kathismata in the morning and one kathisma in the evening. The “kathisma” schedule is based upon the chapter numbering of the ancient Greek translation of the Old Testament, which is called the “Septuagint.” This is the translation used by the Orthodox and Roman Catholic community. Its chapter numbering is different from the more familiar English translations (like the King James Bible, or the New International Version). For example, the “Good Shepherd Psalm” is known as Psalm 23 in most translations, but in the Septuagint (which is often abbreviated as the “LXX”), it is identified as Psalm 22. To help you with this difference of chapter numbering (especially if you are using an English translation that is not based on the Septuagint), I have included a helpful chart that compares the Septuagint numbering with the Masoretic (this is the numbering used by most English translations).

13. It is more important to do a little with the Psalms than to attempt a lot, only to give up and not do anything at all. That is why I have not yet tried to do the Lenten schedule in its entirety. Perhaps it is impossible for you to chant the Psalms completely in a single week. If this is the case, pray one Psalm in the morning, and another Psalm in the evening. If you would like to complete all the Psalms on a less demanding way, I suggest that you try the “tri-weekly” schedule. In this manner, on the first week, you would simply chant the first stasis of each appointed kathisma. On the second week, you would do the second stasis. And on the third, you would complete the Psaltery by chanting the third and final stasis of each kathisma.

14. Sometimes people do not like the idea of a “way” or “method” of prayer, thinking that any such form is artificial and limits the spiritual freedom of prayer. But nothing is wrong with “form” in prayer, even a repeated form. This does not at all prevent anyone from speaking extemporaneously or spontaneously. In fact, the Psalms often speak of pouring out one’s heart to God, or expressing intense emotions to the Lord. It is in such intense moments, especially of sorrow or anxiety, that form can actually help in the expression of spontaneous concern. When the Lord condemned “vain repetition” (in Matthew 6.7), He did not denounce “repetition” or form, but the vanity of “going through the motions,” without any attention to the words, or without any emotional involvement. There are many instances of repetition in the Psalms. Themes and ideas frequently re-appear. Verses and even groups of verses are repeated in various sections. And in one famous case (Psalm 135 LXX), the phrase “for His mercy endures forever” is repeated twenty-seven times and twenty-six verses.

15. There are good reasons for repetition. One reason is that repetition signals that the phrase is important and deserves greater attention. Another reason is that each successive repetition calls for increasing intensity and higher, wider interpretation. In the case of Psalm 135, the repeated “for His mercy endures forever” calls for an ever deepening sense of God’s mercy. For example: I start with a simple identification of “His” as “God,” but then “His” turns into a personal possessive. “Mercy” may start with the simple meaning of “erasing my debts” or “letting me off the hook.” But then the repetition deepens in sense: “mercy” becomes “steadfast love and compassion,” which is more intimate than an arbitrary erasure of debit in an accounting register. Then, as the chanting continues, “mercy” reaches the deeply mystical understanding (or “knowing”) of the Self-sacrifice of Christ on the Cross (and throughout His Incarnation” — and that Self-sacrifice itself is related to the constant “pouring out” of One to the Other within the Three Persons of the Holy Trinity.

16. In this sense, any formal repetition in the Psalms is not at all a deadening, limiting and vain practice of man-made habits. Instead, it becomes a spiritual “dance” of love between the Creator and His beloved creature. There is a pattern of God’s action and word, and our response. And God in turn responds to us: and at ever act, the human heart rises higher.

17. Much, if not all, of the Psalms is simple: a straightforward “plain reading of the text” can yield powerful meaning. But at the same time, everything in the Psalms is also mysterious. In general, every Psalm and every verse (or “stanza”) is simultaneously plain and hidden. I say “in general” because frankly, there are some Psalms and some verses that are not at all plain. Some of the Psalms actually state, outright, that they are about “dark sayings,” “riddles” and “things hidden since the foundation of the world” (as in Psalm 77.2 and 48.4 LXX). This is an honest statement about reality: only some of life is easy to understand, but better understanding of real life is difficult and requires hard work. This shows the presence and deep concern of Wisdom that occupies the “depth of the earth and the height of the sky” surrounding and permeating the Psalms.

18. Thus, there is no substitute for a constant, repeated practice of praying the Psalms. Meanings will seem to jump out at you with the first readings. There may be occasions when nothing new will commend itself to you. But there are other occasions, perhaps on the tenth or hundredth or thousandth, that the utter depths of Wisdom reflected in a single stanza will overwhelm you with such loveliness and a vision of the everlasting that you will be reduced to tears (which St Symeon the New Theologian and St Isaac of Nineveh called the second baptism of the latter rain, that turns the gray wilderness into verdant pasture). Repetition of the Psalms is like a spiral, not a circle: for example — you may revisit, cyclically, Psalm 109 every Saturday morning (since it is contained in the sixteenth kathisma, but one year, one morning, you will be overcome by the poetic and Christocentric force of Psalm 109.7 LXX: “He shall drink from the brook on the way, therefore he shall lift up his head”).

19. There are, indeed, repetitions of many terms, phrases or themes. Here is a short list of Psalmic terms. I describe these particular ones because some of them may actually appear as an obstacle to you. Some, even, may appear to afflict you with fear or distress, or even despair. Some will say this is impossible, since “perfect love casteth out fear” (1 John 4.18 KJV). But for my part, this issue became an almost insurmountable difficulty in the beginning phase of my Psalmic life: I was saved, however, and granted peace (and a vision of beauty) only after some hard work of repetition and study. So in the hopes of sparing you some discomfort that is possibly avoidable, I offer a short discussion of the following terms:

1. Selah. This odd, mysterious Hebrew word appears seventy-one times in thirty-nine of the Psalms. The Septuagint translates this with the Greek word “diapsalma,” which indicates a pause, and perhaps a change in melody and rhythm. I suggest that when chanting and you encounter “selah,” that right then you take a breath, and think deeply on the phrase you just chanted, and pay attention to how the next words follow upon that phrase. For example: the first occurrence of “selah” occurs in Psalm 3.2 LXX. In the first two verses, David sings about how the increasing number of his enemies, and “how many are they who say to my soul: There is no salvation for him in his God.” Then there is the “selah.” At that moment, we reflect on how often in life we suffer from attack, and attack of a certain kind. The clue to this is the phrase, “many are they who say to my soul.” Plainly, this is at attack from spiritual sources instead of physical ones, since these “afflicters” are ones who can “say to my soul.” So in this reflection, we are ready to more deeply appreciate the protection of God in verses three and four: “But You, O Lord, are my protector, my glory and the One Who lifts up my head. I cried to the Lord with my voice and He heard me from His holy hill.” And even then, we encounter another “selah” before the beginning of the fifth verse: “I lay down and slept” (i.e., secure enough to sleep vulnerably in the midst of the foe) and why is this possible? “I awoke (i.e., I survived the night), for the Lord will protect me.”
   
   That is what “selah” can do for you.
   
   
2. Enemies. These are “actors” or agents who attack the prayer of the Psalms — whether the Psalmist is David, Moses, Solomon, the sons of Korah, or even you and me. At one time, these enemies may have been actual, human persons (or groups of people). But even then, when the enemies may have been Goliath, King Saul or palace conspirators lined up against David, they had given up the noble image of their humanity and were acting as puppets of their demonic masters. The literal, historic meaning of the “enemies” in the Psalms is always valid (because it is “authentic”), but it is always secondary and derivative — even in the original author’s contemporary situation. To confine David’s many, many complaints about his enemies to a political situation is to reduce the meaning — even for David himself, as he knew that behind the historical actions of his physical enemies lay the greater, far more horrible evil presence of the demonic.
   
   The interpretation work is even simpler for us after the Incarnation. “But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you” (Luke 6.27-28 KJV). Some early Christian Fathers say that human anger should never be directed against anyone who bears the image of God, at least not any human. Some Fathers teach that anger should be reserved only for the demonic. But even then, a few Fathers suggest that we should even pray for them, or at least mourn for them (I’m thinking of St Silouan of Athos here), simply because, as St Isaac of Nineveh teaches, God only loves those whom He has created.
   
   In short, when enemies are mentioned in the Psalms, they are spiritual entities, whether they are demons or demonic forces or just nameless, amorphous, even ambiguous afflictions and oppressions. We are to express completely and emotionally our affliction to God and His compassion: we are not to take revenge.
   
   
3. Imprecation. This word means “curse.” There are some moments in the Psalms when the singer seems to demand that God take revenge on the enemy. Two Psalms in particular (68 and 108) are considered the most infamous of the “Imprecatory Psalms.” There are also “imprecations” in sixteen other Psalms (5, 6, 12, 13, 36, 38, 41, 53, 55, 57, 59, 80, 84, 138, 140, and 143 LXX). The problem of the “Imprecatory Psalm” is so distinct that it has found its way into English literature. In Thomas Hardy’s novel, The Mayor of Casterbridge, the main character sees his hated rival outside the pub window, where he is drinking with the church choir after choir practice. He persuades the choir to sing Psalm 109 as a curse against his enemy. The choir director then said this, understandably, of the psalm: “"Twasn’t made for singing. We chose it once when the gypsy stole the parson’s mare, thinking to please him, but parson were quite upset. Whatever Servant David were thinking about when he made a Psalm that nobody can sing without disgracing himself, I can’t fathom."
   
   But I don’t think any Psalm, even so-called “cursing” Psalms, can ever be sung with disgrace. In the almost two thousand year long tradition of the Church, these troubling Psalms are not identified as curses or imprecations. For one thing, all curses — along with all dark magics — are abolished by the Incarnation: “From that time onward all magic was abolished and every spell” (St Ignatius, Letter to the Ephesians, xix). For another thing, it is contrary to God’s Nature: “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning” (James 1.7 KJV). God is never the cause of any evil. Any description of wrath or vengeance in Scripture on the part of God is mainly a description of the inevitable and self-inflicted consequences of persons (human or demonic) who reject God’s love.
   
   This must be said clearly and insisted upon, and you have to remember it at all times during your perilous adventure in the Psalms, because the enemy (whoever and whatever) will do its best to discourage you, and tempt you into thinking that God is the source of evil.
   
   You can pray the Imprecatory Psalms confidently. One thing to keep in mind is God’s nature of goodness, and that His Name is Love. Another thing to keep in mind is the fact that the Imprecation Psalms may not ask for God’s revenge so much as they plead for His salvation and healing. What David does with complete openness and confidence is to fully express his psychic situation to God. No, God does not need to be informed of this information, because He already knows. But in giving full voice to his pain and anguish, the Psalmist opens himself in complete vulnerability. It is as if he is driven to childlike, primitive crying for paternal rescue. And at this point of extremity, God meets the Psalmist in so intimate embrace that the Psalmist’s heart is expanded and healed.
   
   This is true of every Psalm of complaint, of which the so-called “cursing” or “imprecatory” Psalms are only the most severe. In this context, it is helpful to consider the possibility that the so-called “curses” are actually descriptions of what the Psalmist suffered at the hands of his enemies, as in “God, do to them what they did to me.” Actually, He will not. But eventually, the enemy will experience this and more a fate that he inflicted upon himself. 
   
   Take, for example, probably the ugliest, most violent Imprecatory Psalm: the end of Psalm 136 (LXX). The heading of the Psalm says that this is “a psalm of David, concerning Jeremiah in the captivity.” So it is a prophetic song about the Babylonian exile of Israel. It begins lyrically, heartrendingly:”By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down and wept when we remembered Zion. Upon the willows in her midst, we hung up our harps” (Psalm 136.1-2). But then it concludes horribly: “O wretched daughter of Babylon, blessed be the one who shall deal to you what you have dealt to us” (vs 8). And if that were not enough: “Blessed the one who shall seize your infants and smash them against the rock” (vs 9).
   
   What shall we do with these last two verses? Certainly, we can not take these as license to act with brutality to those we identify as our enemies. I know this license has been taken before, even by those who call themselves Christian. But revenge -- whether military action, social denunciation, imprecation or casting an evil eye -- is never an option for those who are called to be meek and peacemakers. It is enough here to remember the cruelest of evil injustice that is the Cross: at which extreme dereliction the Innocent cried out "Father forgive them." Moreover, it should be enough to recall that the Lord Himself said “See that you do not despise one of these little ones; for I tell you that in heaven their angels always behold the face of My Father Who is in heaven, for the Son of Man came to save the lost” (Matthew 18.10-11 RSV). So every “little one” — even the “little ones” of Babylon, even “little ones” who appear to be adult — is deeply linked with his angel (that fact is essential for our humanity).
   
   No, the only thing to call to mind when chanting these troubling verses is the fact that the Psalmist — even if it were David in prophetic vision — actually witnessed this very event. This horrific detail, this demonic infanticide, was a common occurrence in the destruction and plunder of cities (and not just in ancient warfare): and indeed, this was the experience of Jerusalem at the hands of Babylon. What other, humanly possible way is there to express the horror of this memory than to enframe it in the widely-known, contemporaneous form as “imprecation”? I propose that you understand all imprecation as an expression of anguish to God out of a broken heart. Neither David, nor does anyone, curse (i.e., imprecate) in the Kingdom of God.
   
   God judges only in love, and will not be forced into any explicit request. His justice has nothing to do with revenge, since He has no need.
   
   
4. Nine words for God’s Divine Law. In the second half of his too little-known book of essays, the poet and sub-deacon Donald Sheehan pays close attention to the various terms in Psalm 118 for God’s Law. There are nine of them (i.e., Commandment, Statute, Law, Word, Testimony, Judgment, Teaching, Way and Path), and they are not synonymous, but carry important meanings that differ but are all related. This Psalm (118 in the LXX, and 119 in the Masoretic numbering) is intimidating in its length, but may turn out to be the most critical of all the Psalms, and crucial in all of Scripture.
   
   In the Orthodox Church, we sing this Psalm on Saturday mornings, but also at funeral services. This is probably because Saturday morning is the time when Christ lay in the grave between the Cross on Friday and the Empty Tomb on Sunday. On Great and Holy Saturday Morning (very early, as in a few hours after midnight), we sing a special, once-a-year interweaving of every verse of Psalm 118 with that many different short hymns that link the psalm with Holy Saturday.
   
   This interweaving establishes a deep, mystical link between the Divine Law and the life of salvation through Christ, in Whom there is a union of the divine with the human. It is precisely at the signposts of these nine words that the divine life of Christ meets and becomes unified with the human life. It is through these nine words that the Christian denies his negative passions and seeks the virtues that becomes his part of Christ transforming him or her into the Body of Christ — the Body that became alive in the Resurrection.
   
   There is a beautiful (and brilliant) extended study of these Nine Words in Donald Sheehan’s The Grace of Incorruption: the Selected Essays of Donald Sheehan on Orthodox Faith and Poetics (Brewster MA: Paraclete Press, 2015). Another collection of the late poet’s work, largely on the Psalms, will come out hopefully in the near future, entitled Reflections on the Psalms and Psalmic Prayer.
   
   There are other words that require close attention, like “spaciousness,” “sanctuary,” “water,” “bread,” “tower,” “valley” and “sea” and many more. In fact, if we are to take seriously the writings of the Church Fathers, and the Jewish Rabbinic writers, every single word of the Psaltery requires close attention. This means reading carefully, slowly, deliberately, with focus on every syllable. It means researching the meaning of difficult terms and phrases, and not resting until some learning has been accomplished. Instead of dismissing a repetition or incomprehensible phrase, you and I should be motivated to understand as best as we can.
   
   For example, why is it that this odd, mysterious passage is said twice in the Psalms, word for word: “I will exalt and divine Sikima, I will measure out the vale of tabernacles. Gilead is Mine and Mine is Manasseh, Ephraim is the strength of My head, Judah is My king” (Psalms 59.6-7 and 107.7-8). Is it enough to dismiss these passages as describing only the pitiful imperial hopes of a conquered nation? After all, these geographical place names were all neighbors of Judah that had once been part of the Empire of David and Solomon.
   
   Or do these names, and the fact of their almost incantatory repetition, signify a persistent and even deeper meaning? Are these spiritual — that is, no longer merely political — realms and structures that the Kingdom of God is expanding upon, in not an imperious, triumphalist manner, but by a self-sacrificial means of wisdom, knowledge and communion with Christ?
   
   Consider this possibility: it is entirely likely that the praying of the Psalms is performative. In other words, something happens. History — that is real history, not the superficial human historiographies — is made. An exorcism has been done and the demonic is put on the run. On the other hand, a sub-creation, in a mythopoeic manner, has been fashioned and has beautified Creation in glory. Another part of the heavy obscurity of the fallen world has been rendered lissome and transparent to glory. I wouldn’t call this “magic,” but it is probably theurgic.
   
   
5. Christ. Christ, the “Anointed,” is everywhere in the Septuagint Psalms. That is the chief reason why I recommend the Greek translation of the Psalms over the Masoretic one. It is possible that the Septuagint is based on an older text than that of the Masoretic.  
   
   In any case, one of the fruits of Jesus’ teaching through Pentecost is the Christological interpretation of the Old Testament, but particularly the Psalms. The Psalmic vocation of every Christian is to seek Christ and to recognize Him in every verse of the Psalms. At times, your voice will be joined to His as life in a dark world is experienced. At other times, you will open your eyes onto the aspect of His Kingly reign in cosmic reality. You will hear Him in the verses at the bottom of your heart and even deeper. At other times, you will see Him in the mountains. Your suffering will be joined to His. His exaltation will become your celebration.
   
   Anyone can recognize Christ in the Psalms. There is no other equivalent interpretive rubric. We can do our linguistic, historic, critical and scientific investigations, but we will sing the Psalms in the octave of the Nicene Creed.
   
   The recognition of Christ in the Psalms follows the same ways of recognizing Him in life. The Psalms call us to bravely look at ourselves in the depths. Even more, the Psalms encourage us to open ourselves without reserve to God: "Search me profoundly, O God, know my heart," David sings in Psalm 138.23, "Examine me and know all my paths." This is unsettling to modern ears, who would much rather than God would do no such examination. But the Psalmist knows that the self can neither be reserved or hidden -- even partially -- in the face of Love. If Love -- especially Divine Love -- is precisely the complete pouring out of self for the other, then nothing of the self can be kept back. Where Ananias and Sapphira held back in substance, but claimed to give all in appearance, David opened his heart in complete, childlike vulnerability. Instead of so many Christians these days who fear the Advent of the Lord at His parousia, the early Christians anticipated it with joy: "Marana Tha," they sang. And so does David, even in the awareness of his moral failings, and his turning aside from the beautiful paths of righteousness.
   
   It is here, at the point of meekness and openness, that the Lord is recognized, after having followed the paths of the Psalmic form of prayer. "Seek ye the Lord while he may be found, call ye upon him while he is near" (Isaiah 55.6 KJV).

20. My favorite Psaltery is The Psalms of David, which is a translation from the Septuagint Greek by Donald Sheehan (Eugene OR: Wipf & Stock, 2013). Get it in paperback so you can mark it up with a pencil: after five years, there is little white space left in my copy for much more marginalia. Donald has a fine sense of poetic rhythm. If you do not like his use of “Thee, Thou or Thy,” then substitute the more familiar “You and Your.” My interest here is that you remove as many obstacles as you can that get in the way of your intimate, full-hearted approach to God.

There are other Psalter based on the Septuagint (which I think is necessary for Orthodox or Roman Catholic persons). The Psalter: According to the Seventy, published by the Holy Transfiguration Monastery (Boston, 1997): this volume includes the Nine Odes. There is, too, A Psalter for Prayer, which is an adaptation of the Miles Coverdale translation (Jordanville NY: Holy Trinity Publications, 2011): this volume includes the traditional troparia and prayers after every kathisma. These are the Psalter that are on my shelves: others are available.

Then, too, there are the Psalters that are part of the Holy Bible. There is the Book of Psalms in the Orthodox Study Bible (Nashville TN: Thomas Nelson, 2008). This is a fresh translation from the St Athanasius Academy Septuagint, so it is not the NKJV translation that was used in earlier editions. Unfortunately, this Psaltery — along with all the others that are included within larger Bible volumes — is not divided up into kathismata. I believe that Donald Shaheen may have assisted in this translation. 

Of course, my sentimental favorite is the Book of Psalms within the King James Version. I stipulate that some of the translation is inaccurate: for example, “The Lord is my Shepherd” is not correct, seeing as the phrase is better rendered as “The Lord shepherds me.” Nevertheless, when I’m in trouble and distressed, the KJV wording comes more easily to me.

Finally, thank you, +Sub-deacon Donald Sheehan: il miglior fabbro. Rest, et lux perpetua luceat eis, fair poet.

 

 

Chapter Numbering Comparison

 

Septuagint (Greek)	Masoretic (Hebrew and most English)
1-8	1-8
9	9-10
10-112	add 1 to the number of each psalm
113	114-115
114	116.1-9
115	116.10-19
116-145	add 1 to the number of each psalm
146	147.1-11
147	147.12-20
148-150	148-150

 

 

Division and Schedule of Psalms into Kathismata (using the Septuagint numbering)

 

Kathisma I	Stasis 1	Stasis 2	Stasis 3	Schedule
I	1-3	4-6	7-9	Saturday PM
II	9-10	11-13	14-16	Sunday AM
III	17	18-20	21-23	Sunday AM
IV	24-26	27-29	30-31	Monday AM
V	32-33	34-35	36	Monday AM
VI	37-39	40-42	43-45	Monday PM
VII	46-68	49-50	51-54	Tuesday AM
VIII	55-57	58-60	61-63	Tuesday AM
IX	64-66	67	68-69	Tuesday PM
X	70-71	72-73	74-76	Wednesday AM
XI	77	78-80	81-84	Wednesday AM
XII	85-87	88	89-90	Wednesday PM
XIII	91-93	94-96	97-100	Thursday AM
XIV	101-102	103	104	Thursday AM
XV	105	106	107-108	Thursday PM
XVI	109-111	112-114	115-117	Saturday AM
XVII	118.1-72	118.73-131	118.132-176	Saturday AM
XVIII	119-123	124-128	129-133	Friday PM
XIX	134-136	137-139	140-142	Friday AM
XX	143-144	145-147	148-150	Friday AM

 

Please note that beginning on the Sixteenth Kathisma, the sequence “jumps” out of order from the days of the week. After the Fifteenth Kathisma on Thursday night, you will read the Nineteenth and Twentieth Kathismata on Friday morning. I learned this the hard way.

the wages

-- photo courtesy of Brooke: Action for Working Horses and Donkeys*

 

In Lent, we think about sin a lot, and we say — out loud — that we are a sinner. At the close of Vespers on Forgiveness Sunday afternoon, we embrace each other and say, “Forgive me, a sinner.”

This is shocking to people in other communities. Some groups would say that you are no longer a “sinner” after you become a Christian. Others say that calling yourself a “sinner” is damaging to your self-esteem.

But we know the truth about ourselves. Sin is always a crisis in this life, and it will not stop being a painful problem until the morning we wake up in Paradise.

So no, we can be a Christian but we cannot stop owning the fact that we are sinners.

And no, if my self-esteem depends on me denying the reality that I do, in fact, sin, then my self-esteem is at least delusional, if not psychotic.

Here we are, entering into the Lenten season, and we look forward to a sweet season of prayer in candlelight, and the simple, elegant diet of Eden before the Fall -- a diet that will help us pray sweetly and better.

We look ahead to the Lenten Missions when we gather with Deanery friends at Sunday Vespers, or Paraklis or Moleben services, or the Liturgy of the Pre-Sanctified Gifts. We remember the Great Fasts of the past and the beautiful voices of missed friends, who echo from yesterday (e.g., how I miss Paraklis in Slavonic at St Michael’s in Freeland on a Sunday afternoon in Spring, almost two decades ago).

We loosen up the purse strings and prepare ourselves to become “secret agents” of generosity. Like, some cash given out “on the sly” to scruffy folk on the street. Or, some impromptu acts of kindness done for the frail and heartbroken: leaving off a casserole in a foil pan (the kind that doesn’t need returning) with a neighbor who is sick or sad … clearing the walks and steps of an elderly friend (or maybe you don’t even know his name) … sneaking a gift card for the grocery or gas station into the coat pocket (or mailbox) of a young family struggling to make ends meet — and please, don’t bother putting your name down, so that they don’t feel obliged to send you a thank you card …

In fact, don’t bother taking pictures of the nice things you do, or getting a receipt for your 1040. Don’t try to compete for a major award (remember the Leg Lamp?) for “Most Heroic Prostrator and Self-Starver of Lent 2018.” As in, "my prayer rope is longer than yours."

The moment you aim for acknowledgement is the very moment that you give up your real wages, as if you would have ever forgotten to stop off at the paymaster’s window on Fridays at the mill or the mine.

Because the wages of being God’s “secret agent” in Lent — when He, Bože, is the only One Who knows what you did — is Him. He gives Himself in return to you when you think, when you feel, when you forgive, when you act like Him.

Lent is work for sure, but it is liberation from iron bondage. Lent is the sweet revolution. Lent is the rehearsal of Eden Again, where the evening walks are possible again. It is light. It is free.

You know what I mean. When you do something nice and generous — even merciful — to someone else, and no one else is looking … when there is no applause or thank you note … you feel in your heart a warming sense of quiet joy and “okay-ness.” Then, you have no problem accepting the fact that you’re a sinner, because you know, more importantly, that you are a child, humble and meek in the embrace of Trinitarian grace. You look up and around, and you see the blue sky of the Virgin Mary, and the constellations of the Saints and Angels: “we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses” (Hebrews 12.1).

A sinner who repents and forgives, and gets forgiven, knows that tomorrow is never dark, and that he’s never alone.

These are the wages from God: the peace that passes all understanding (Philippians 4.7).

Indeed, there are other paymasters and other wages. But these wages pass into the human heart like cold iron. I don’t know about you, but I can tell you that the feeling I get from sin is like Frodo on Weathertop, when the Witch King of Angmar drove a Morgul-blade into his left shoulder, which wound ached cold until his repose in the Blessed Lands. Sin may be pleasurable for a moment, but it is never happy, and its consequences last long indeed.

Sin destroys peace and mental health, and no safe-zone will protect us from this psycho-essential abuse. The wages of sin is, as you’ve heard, death. No, not physical death. You and I both know already, without any sermons to remind us, that sin is worse than crime … it is even worse that spiritual sickness … sin is a rejection of God Himself … it is a deliberate preference for existential failure, hopeless meaninglessness, and eternal depression.

Come now, let us reason: without knowing the technical terms, we know already that something is horribly wrong when sin freezes the heart. We are bone-weary from birth of the sick bloodshot stain. We are like the poor, deranged Lady Macbeth: "Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!—One; two: why, then 'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky" (Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 1). We long to hear the gentle whisper -- like Elijah's still, soft Voice: "Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow" (Isaiah 1.18).

No one need tell us this, in a sermon or a patristic quote or even Scripture. We knew this for a cold hard fact even before we read the Romans of St Paul. 

Sin is a hard, hard yoke, and a heavy, heavy burden — like the short life of a coal mine donkey in the old and bad days, who never saw the sunlight, yoked to a coal-wagon heaped high with black rock, never released into the green pastures.

“Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest,” says the Savior of all the beasts and children, “For My yoke is easy, and My burden is light” (Matthew 11.28,30).

You and I should work for Him.

* the photo above reminds us that over 100,000 donkeys work today
in the broken mines of Pakistan

some maxims for the new wilderness

 

1. Live in Scripture. See everything, think everything theologically. Interpret all phenomena according to Wisdom.
   
   
2. Avoidhandling money. Do not trust money: it is more ephemeral than you think. It is not real.
   
   
3. Speak and write English simply and well. Speak in time, but out of the moment: rid your speech (and mind) of fashion, fad and jargon.
   
   
4. There is no difference between a mood and a passion.
   
   
5. Avoid anger: the older you get, the more you’ll distrust it, and the more tempting it will become.
   
   
6. The most dangerous part of a speech is the joke. If you are a preacher, do not tell jokes in sermons.
   
   
7. Grow a simple routine: savor productive boredom.
   
   
8. Only a fool would legislate ascesis and arcane rubrics before he first lived them himself.
   
   
9. I have never met a person that fasts faithfully who is at all more hypocritical or less virtuous than one who does not fast – not a single one … it is far more likely that the one who fasts is much more faithful.
   
   
10. That said, do not publicize your fast, your almsgiving, your "prayer rule" (as in the boorish number of prostrations you do), your almsgiving, your church-going.
    
    
11. And please: do not turn every virtue (like almsgiving or any "ministry") into a program. This sort of administrative philosophy leads to despair.
    
    
12. In the fast, simplicity is never at odds with beauty. In fact, beauty should be the ground and atmosphere of the entire fast.
    
    
13. Never, ever imitate or joke about or denigrate any priest or person – whether he is your peer, your junior, or – God forbid – your elder: touch not God's anointed (1 Chronicles 16.22).
    
    
14. Run (for the sake of your soul) from any conversation or relationship that gossips or puts down other persons … this sort of conversation is cancerous or leprous (whichever is worse).
    
    
15. Carry yourself with dignity and quietness, meekness.
    
    
16. Pray in response to your worries – do NOT let them fester
    
    
17. And what you worry about is almost always wrong: your speculation about the motives of others toward you is always wrong
    
    
18. Write little notes of encouragement
    
    
19. Turn off the TV and read Scripture, read the Fathers (certainly the Fathers before the Elders), read good literature ... avoid any material that is at war with the English language. Do not look for safe zones. Make yourself invulnerable to triggers.
    
    
20. God does not expect you to be a “good judge of character” … He expects you to “test the spirits” and to “discern the truth.” In other words, you are not to figure out people. People change: they are not as categorizable as psychology or sociology alleges. In fact, all categories are demonic lies (e.g., race, socioeconomic status).
    
    
21. Force yourself to understand old poetry. Like Dante. Like Shakespeare.
    
    
22. Chant the Psalms every morning and every evening. Two kathismata in the morning, one in the evening as appointed. This will form your mind into prayer and life.
    
    
23. Do not be opinionated ... opinions take little to no intelligence.
    
    
24. Do not make excuses ... say simply, "I was wrong," or "Forgive me, I sinned against you."
    
    
25. In fact, instead of saying "Forgive me, a sinner" -- which has become trite -- say, instead, "Please take me back, a failure."
    
    
26. Be well-known for your forgiveness ... never get famous for your tantrums.
    
    
27. Do not demand attention, and never count on appreciation -- these things will never come when you think you most deserve them. People who need or depend on appreciation turn into politicians, and these folk are most to be pitied.
    
    
28. Memories of the past -- of a parish (or diocesan or any community) “golden age” -- can be beneficial only if they are accompanied by pious thanksgiving for the Lord’s great works. But this is rare. Most likely, they are toxic when they are used as an alternative reality in an escape from the present. Beware: they can be most painful to the priest (and his wife) when he hears parishioners pine for conditions that no longer exist.
    
    
29. Resist, kindly and meekly, the constant disregard of (if not outright antagonism to) the Orthodox theological task that is endemic in society, and is rife even in the Orthodox (and general Christian) community. Which is a dire tragedy, as we’ll need such Wisdom (i.e., Sophia) while the world is permeated more and more by the the harsh anti-theological doctrines of antichrist.
    
    
30. Never brag about success … never brag about accomplishments in promotion, construction or popularity … it is never true that “you built this on your own” … it is only true that God would have done this “with or without you.”
    
    
31. If you think you are popular ... or, on the other hand, if you think your stock is low ... wait for the weather to change -- the opinions of the crowd are as fickle as the wind.
    
    
32. Go on many walks: the Good Shepherd of the green pastures will take care of you. He will restore you at the cool waters.
    
    
33. Always remember that anger makes us temporarily energetic, but also stupid ... I cannot think of one good thing I ever did or said in anger: but I can think of many regrets.
    
    
34. Anyone who says "I have no regrets" has simply never noticed.
    
    
35. Beware of thinking that you simply must get an advanced theological degree -- theological degrees are rarely worth the money, and nothing is stopping you from getting the education you really need, right now.
    
    
36. There will be many times that you will be afraid of communion. The fear of the Chalice is a good thing, but the fear of communing with persons is not. This fear arises, more often than not, from unconfessed sin and despondency. Repent, confess and pray. Start small again, and let prayer grow again: it may be smaller (after all, you renounced, for a while, your predestination), but it may be this time, and because of infinite grace, even more beautiful.
    
    
37. Use simple tools. Write with a pencil instead of cleverness. Let no man stand between you and the land: mow your own lawn. Grow your own garden: herbs, fruit and vegetables. Sweat yourself under the sun.
    
    
38. Walk into the cold morning, sunrise, wind and rain. Pray free, and breathe the wind again.
    
    
39. Fight despair aggressively. Do not put up with it. Do not tolerate it (the Gadarene pigs had better sense). Do not let it turn into depression, which can kill you.
    
    
40. Garden and cook, hike, raise a rabbit or a pig. Give up on hobbies that require microchips or gas engines. Build a fire a night and watch it down to the coals.
    
    
41. Stop wasting time in entertainment and video games and media false-space … be virtuous instead of being virtual.
    
    
42. Smile at people, weep for them in the evening. Doubt your anger, never assume motive: you can discern spirits, but you must not be clairvoyant, because you cannot.
    
    
43. Be loyal to Bishop and Priest and to your elders. As you sow, so shall you reap: complainers must be afraid to grow old.
    
    
44. Bake your own prosphora … use your hands … knead and pray.
    
    
45. Pray ...
    
    
46. Teach others to pray, for that is your quality, and your vocation.

 

we have tomorrow

-- at Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge, at Cape Hatteras Seashore

In getting things packed up for our recent move, one of our young helpers unearthed a cassette audio tape. She looked at it quizzically, turning it over for clues about its function. It was like watching early man discovering fire.

I think everyone should move every once in a while — at least once per decade. It is an opportunity to go through old stuff and get ride of unnecessary things. If you’re paying the movers by the pound, you’ll be surprised at just how easy it is to unburden yourself of old clothes, books and electronics you had thought so long were so necessary.

The benefit of moving and lightening yourself is so beneficial that it would be worthwhile to move if only next door.

I found unopened boxes from the seventies that had accompanied me to college, grad school, and through a succession of apartments and houses for forty years. One contained a bottle of English Leather cologne — its contents had evaporated long ago. Another held an old tape recorder (hence the cassette above): the decayed C batteries (remember them?) had destroyed the innards with that special rusty acidic mess that seeps from darkness, decades and disregard.

It was tough making some disposal decisions. Should I keep my varsity jacket? These certificates? These black-and-white photos from the early fifties that look special, but we have no idea who that guy is with the fedora and white shirt, waving from his unknown porch? What to do with all these hymnals and songbooks from my protestant past?

Should I keep this nylon tricot shirt? This wide orange tie with paisley explosions? That’s easy. No.

My better half, Pani Marsha, and I learned a good lesson over these last few months of moving from our beloved East Pittsburgh to North Carolina. And that lesson is this:

You don’t need stuff to help you keep the past.

What you remember, what you keep in your heart, is something that cannot be taken away, or even given away. We all like photographs and histories: but we don’t need them.

We will always have our past, our memories of little girls and vacations, of family pets and long passed relatives, of nutroll baking and Lenten Missions.

We will always have our yesterdays.

And even if my memory grows short through the weakness of age and loss of cognitive function, I know — without a doubt — that on the Last Day, the Lord will restore our memory to perfection: a perfection that is no longer distorted by the false division of past, present and future.

We will always have our yesterdays.

* * * * * * *

But here is where age and adulthood become a burden. Over time, as we get older, the past becomes more appealing than the present, and the future becomes at least depressing, if not outright frightful. Despite all the youthful resolutions we made to the contrary (as in, “when I get old, I’ll never look backward like my grandparents do”), we find ourselves saying painfully incriminating things like:

“Kids these days” … or

“Things were better, simpler back then” … or

“This country is not going to survive” … or

“I can’t believe God will let the world go on like this.”

We probably swore that we would never talk this way … but here we are.

Here we are pining for the Past. We probably know that the Past is never what we crack it up to be. We probably suspect that the appeal of the Past is that it never challenges our interpretations, since it is cleaned up and permanently set still.

But it’s nice to cling to it. Even though we know better. Even though we understand, sadly, that clinging on to past and living in the present is like driving forward while watching the rear view mirror.

There is a big difference between childhood and adulthood. A child doesn’t (or shouldn’t) worry much about the future: but that usually changes as he or she gets older. The future gets colder, full of anxiety and worry. Death haunts the future in the fallen world, and St Paul says that the fear of it is the root of sin (Hebrews 2.15). Rich fools try to build enough barns to stave off the bitter end (Luke 12.13-21). People in general fall away from childlike wonder and trust into soul-darkening passions (Romans 1.18-32).

And we all, staring into the face of a New Year, try our best to make plans and resolutions. Anxious about the unknown lands of the future, we attempt to draw maps of the “not yet” based upon our experience of the “now.” But all the while, we are like pre-Columbus cartographers, fearful of the edge of the world over the horizon, suspecting that in not a few spots we might have to write, like on the old world maps, “here be monsters.”

This is what St James says about resolutions that try to box in the future and shut the door to keep out the fear and cold of death: “Come now, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, spend a year there, buy and sell, and make a profit’; whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away” (James 4.13-14).

Yes, that’s St James in his usual toughness. He’s not too pleasant here, but he’s right. Manmade plans, strategies and programs that are built on the fear of death will never work out. The future will not consent to be managed. To the small human mind, the future is always chaotic and dark. It is wild, never tamed.

You cannot take this tiger by its tail.

And that, in a nutshell, is why we aging adults like to cling to the past. Daydreams stay put at least, like a just made bed, even if they may not be real.

* * * * * * *

This New Year, like all New Years forevermore, is wild.

But in Christ, it is good.

Faith, neatly put, is trusting God with Time. It is the recognition that Time is only His Creation. It is the vision of Christ, the Word, dwelling in not only the distant Past and the infinite Present, but also the far-flung Future, even if “there be monsters.”

Faith — Orthodox Faith — recognizes Christ through chaos. Christ is the Dayspring just over the horizon, in the dawn rising.

Faith knows — even though it is hard work to reach this wisdom — that only Christ occupies the future. There is no Tomorrow that is not filled by His Today. That is the simple reason why St Paul says “Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation” (2 Corinthians 6.2).

If Christ occupies tomorrow and renders the chaos of the future into the poetic sweet reason of His Presence, then we old Christians do not have to be afraid. St John the Theologian is sure of this: “There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear” (1 John 4.18).

Perfect Love — that is, the infinite Presence of the Holy Trinity — pushes all fear out of tomorrow, and turns the darkness of the future night into the morning bright.

* * * * * * *

We have our yesterdays in sentimental memory, in our photo albums and tape cassettes, our certificates and musty books and cedar chests.

But in Christ, we also have our tomorrows.

* * * * * * *

What would it be like for an Orthodox Christian, to walk into tomorrow, in faith and in love? Just like going forward to the Eucharist, to receive God in Body and Blood?

Here are some New Year’s Resolutions that even St James would like:

Work hard to recognize Christ everywhere, and every time. You will have to pray a lot and learn Orthodox wisdom: that is the job of getting older. No one has graduated from God’s School.

Work hard to love. Forgive, even if you can’t forget (I don’t think this is ever possible anyways). Doubt your emotions: disbelieve your passions. Always try to do newer and better things. Recognize the Face of Christ in everyone. Walk out into Creation and say, “This is my Father’s world.” Grow a garden.

Surrender. Commune with God in His Mysteries. Accept the Peace of Christ. Rest in Him. Instead of worrying, be thankful. Keep only good and beautiful things in your room and in your mind.

Permit yourself to be happy. Be brave enough to be thankful.

Look for Christ in the New Year, the next month, week or day, in every morning.

After all, you are moving. Maybe not to another house. But you are indeed moving to something stranger, something further away than even North Carolina is from Pennsylvania.

You are moving from now into then. You are, whether you like it or not, stepping into Tomorrow.

You don’t need to be afraid: “I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Matthew 28.20).

In Christ, we have tomorrow.

silence and night

 

“If you are silent, you will have peace wherever you live.” — Abba Poemen

In one sense, the carol “Silent Night” is an odd thing to sing about Christmas. Most of the time, the holidays are anything but “silent.” Shopping, traveling, cleaning and preparing for guests, decorating, shopping, cooking, caroling, rehearsing, and did I mention shopping? — all of these activities are pretty noisy, especially with the constant muzak airplay of that dubious (and probably non-consensual) number that has nothing to do with Christmas, “Baby It’s Cold Outside.”

And, if you think about it, the very idea of “birth” usually has nothing to do with “silence.” When a baby comes into the world, there is always a tumult of the mother in hard labor, the father pacing in anxiety, the obstetrician and nurses scurrying about. The critical moment of birth is punctuated by Lemaze sounds from the about-to-be-new-mom, instructions from the staff, and finally, a first cry after a very first breath.

It’s all beautiful, to be sure, but usually not at all silent.

Usually, that is, except for one totally unusual birth.

Gazing into the Nativity Icon, you get an entirely different sense of birthgiving. There is quiet written into the entire scene. Mary, the Mother of God, is resting in tranquility, with her swaddled Infant at her side, “no crying He makes,” as Martin Luther, for once, correctly states in his lyric, “Away in a Manger.”

The Nativity of Jesus Christ — when the Son of God also became the Son of Man — happened in silence. It was a mysterious quietude, because this moment was a profound junction of Eternity with Time, of the Divine with the non-divine … when the Creator — and let us be amazed here — became Creature.

The Righteous Joseph, foster father of Jesus, was not in the Cave at the moment of the Nativity. He was looking for a midwife to assist the birthgiving.

The Protoevangelium of James, a document written around 150 AD as a compilation of reminiscences of Mary, her parents, and Joseph (see the very good article about the Protoevangelium by Protopresbyter Lawrence Barriger at the ACROD.org website), recounts Joseph’s firsthand memory of the moment of the Nativity:

And he [Joseph] found a cave and led her there and stationed his sons to watch her, while he went to a find a Hebrew midwife in the land of Bethlehem. Then, Joseph walked, but he did not walk. And I looked up to the peak of the sky and saw it standing still and I looked up into the air. With utter astonishment I saw it, even the birds of the sky were not moving. … And suddenly everything was replaced by the ordinary course of events. (Protoevangelium of James, 18.1-4, 11, emphasis added)

Everything stopped. Everything was stilled by silence, the silence of the eternal descending into time. This was the crucial moment Jesus described later to Nicodemus in the Gospel of St John: “No one has ascended to heaven but He who came down from heaven, that is, the Son of Man who is in heaven” (3.13).

This Holy Night of the Nativity was not the first moment of eternal silence. It had happened before (as described in a recent presentation by Eric Vanden Eykel at the Society for Biblical Literature this past November). When God gave the Law to Moses on Mount Sinai, the mountain was covered with smoke and God’s voice is heard by the people, far down below, as thunder. In an old Hebrew commentary on the book of Exodus, dating from the eleventh century, the Shemot Rabbah says this:

When God gave the Torah no bird twittered or flew, no ox lowed, none of the Ophanim [i.e., the mystical wheels seen by Ezekiel] stirred a wing, the Seraphim did not say ‘Holy, Holy,’ the sea did not roar, the creatures spoke not, the whole world wash hushed into breathless silence and the voice went forth: I am the LORD your God” (29.9).

Even further back, there is another Silence, and this was at the very beginning. Philo, or someone associated with him, writes this in the Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum (dated from around the time of the birth of Christ): “There were darkness and silence before the world was, and the silence spoke, and the darkness became invisible.”

It seems that Silence prevails whenever (and wherever) divinity descends into humanity. And since humanity, in turn, lies at the heart of all Creation, then Time and Space are drawn into that mysterious, mystical silence that lies “at the still point of the turning world” (T S Eliot, Four Quartets).

Whenever does Divinity descend so far into the extreme of Humanity lostness and despair, as when Jesus Christ descends into Hell and Death on Holy Saturday?

“Let all mortal flesh keep silent,” we sing at the Cherubic Hymn in St Basil’s Liturgy on that day, referring to the original lyric in Habbakuk 2.20, “and stand with fear and trembling, and in itself consider nothing of earth; for the King of kings and Lord of lords cometh forth to be sacrificed, and given as food to the believers; and there go before Him the choirs of Angels, with every dominion and power, the many-eyed Cherubim and the six-winged Seraphim, covering their faces, and crying out the hymn: Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.”

It is more than interesting that our Protestant friends sing this hymn mainly at Christmastime. There is a beautiful old French folk melody (called “Picardy”) that was joined to these words by the composer Ralph Vaughan Williams. Perhaps you’ve heard it.

And finally, at the end of all things there will be Silence. In his vision of the Apocalypse, St John the Theologian has already seen the terrifying judgments that God has wreaked upon the world. Now, however, God is turning to usher in the new heaven and the new earth, where everything is utterly transfigured, where nothing is lost and everything is gained.

What do you think happens before the dawning of this New Creation?

“And when He [i.e., the Lamb] had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour” (Apocalypse 8.1, KJV).

You guessed it: Silence.

What are we to make of this still silence, this suspension of time and utter quiet of space?

At the beginning of every New Creation, silence covers the world and the created universe. At each of these “birthgivings” of new life — the Creation of the World, the Giving of the Law, the Nativity of Christ, His Destruction of Hell at the Passion, and the Universal Transfiguration at the Last Day — the Divinity of the Trinity is revealed. Just because that revelation is unearthly there can be no earthly noise.

Ask any mother: at every birthgiving, there is always a sacrifice of pouring out one’s own life. For humans this always involves a lot of noise.

But for God, it is always the sound of silence. Why? Because the Nativity is nothing new for God: it is a working out in the created world what is already a reality in the divine world. The Three Divine Persons give all of themselves away: and in that fact alone are they known as Persons.

God, in turn, pours out Himself in the creation of the seen and unseen worlds.

God gives Himself away in every revelation, especially the revelation of the Old Law and the New: St Paul says that Jesus Himself is the Law’s “completion” or “goal” (Romans 10.4).

God gives Himself in the Incarnation, which is climactically fulfilled in the Passion and Resurrection. And at the Ascension, God assumes human nature into the Godhead for all eternity.

This “assumption” was done in Silence, and one day, that same bright Silence will cover the heavens and the earth.

Indeed, “let all mortal flesh keep silence” in the face of Divinity.

So, then:

In this Christmas season, practice the advice of the old Desert Father, Abba Poemen: “If you are silent, you will have peace wherever you live.” Pray this season. Fast for silence. Give freely, as God gives Himself to you. Sing as an Angel. Feast as a Shepherd. Watch the stars like the Magi.

Practice the Silence of the Manger.

If you do, then maybe, just maybe, you’ll come to know, more than ever before, the actuality of “Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men.”