Following is an “opinion piece” that I recently read online:
It’s hard for us to remember that people became saints and were able to live a “legitimate” spiritual life for nearly five centuries before the Church fell into it’s “monastic captivity” (Fr. Tom Hopko’s phrase regarding the influence of monasticism on the church up to today).
The man “in the world” that St. Anthony the Great (the father of monasticism) was sent to for schooling in the spiritual life attained it without a monastic “holy elder” confessor, the Philokalia, the Rudder, a Horologion and Menaion, or a “fasting calendar” with all the pink days that lists whether you can have fish, wine or oil that day, etc. etc.
It’s all good until it is more of an obsession than being a Christian.
This piece was written from within an Orthodox context. The argument is simple: since there were holy men and women — saints — in the generations before the growth of monasticism, then neither monasticism, the wisdom of the elders, a spiritual guide, nor the disciplines of the Church are necessary for the conduct of a holy life and even for “sainthood.”
As far as the statement goes, it is, I suppose, true. It is also true that amputations were performed before antiseptics and anesthesia, but few would argue against their use today. Pioneers once crossed the country in wagons and on horseback, but not many of us would prefer those modes of transportation to automobiles and airplanes. I once navigated by map and AAA Triptiks; now I use a GPS and, while I have a nostalgia for maps, I recognize the advantages of modern technology.
At one level, I agree with the author of the piece: monasticism is not the primary model of or context for Christian holiness. The Church is: the Church universal and the church local. And this is also the level at which I disagree with the author and why I even bothered to comment. When he (?) suggests that the Horologion and Menaion, the fasting calendar, etc., etc. are unnecessary for one’s formation in holiness, he is close to rejecting those disciplines that the Church has developed and bequeathed us for the cultivation of holiness, the disciplines that foster holiness for the many. As an Anglican, can I progress toward holiness without the Book of Common Prayer? Of course, just as I could conceivably stumble through a 10k race with my shoe laces tied together. But, why would I handicap myself?
The Reformers erred — gasp! — in discarding certain Church institutions and practices because of historic abuse and misuse of those institutions and practices, monasticism chief among the discards. The Reformers’ spiritual descendants have suffered a certain spiritual deficit since. In the Orthodox Church, bishops are most often selected from the monasteries, from the rank of monks, not because these are the only saints among us — not even because they are saints! — but because they have been formed by monastic ideals of humility, worship, holy poverty/simplicity, prayer, silence, repentance, and forgiveness. We could do worse. In too many cases, we are doing worse. And though I am not and, thank God, never will be a bishop, I would be a better priest to the extent that I had been better formed in these disciplines. And, here is the truth: I would be a better Christian if I had been better formed in these disciplines. To reject the wisdom of the Church as expressed in and through monasticism and the disciplines of the Church is a grave, self-inflicted wound. Why would one choose that?
From a letter written by C. S. Lewis to an Italian Roman Catholic priest and frequent correspondent:
August 10, 1953
Dearest Father,
I think almost all the crimes which Christians have perpetrated against each other arise from this, that religion is confused with politics. For, above all other spheres of human life, the Devil claims politics for his own, as almost the citadel of his power. Let us, however, with mutual prayers pray with all our power for that charity which “covers a multitude of sins.” Farewell, comrade and father (C. S. Lewis, Letters On Living The Faith, HarperOne (2026), pp.195-196).
There is grace in every moment, grace sufficient for that moment: not grace as a theological abstraction, not grace as the general, favorable disposition of God, but grace as the presence and power of God working for good and for salvation. In temptation it is the grace to see the way of escape. In the wilderness, in confusion, when death seems or is near, it is the grace to remember the One who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. In darkness, it is the grace to keep looking to the Light which has come into the world and it is the conviction that the darkness has not overcome it. In weariness it is the grace to cling to the One who said, “Come to me all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart and you will find rest for your souls.” In despair it is the grace to cry out, “O God, make speed to save me; O Lord, made haste to help me!” It is not ours to find the grace, but to ask God to reveal it — to reveal himself — and then to embrace it — to embrace him — with all the little within us when he does. It is ours to ask, “What is the grace in this moment, Lord?”
All throughout the discernment process for ordination and, indeed, all throughout my priesthood until this very day, a verse from Psalm 69 has been a haunting refrain and prayer. It is not coincidence, I am sure, that it was appointed for the Daily Office on this, the first of the Summer Ember Days, the Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday following Pentecost when the Church offers prayers for all those called to and serving in ordained ministry.
6 Let not those who hope in you be put to shame through me, O Lord God of hosts; let not those who seek you be brought to dishonor through me, O God of Israel (Ps 69:6, ESV).
It is a prayer of priestly first aid based on the medical model: First, do no harm. There are days when that seems an exceedingly low bar for ministry, and terrible moments when it seems almost beyond my reach. But, as I said in my ordination vows, this I will do, “God being my helper.”
In the Book of Common Prayer, we have this prayer for use on Ember Days: I commend it to you and covet your prayers for all those who are called to ordained ministry, and certainly for me, an unworthy servant.
Almighty God, the giver of all good gifts, in your divine providence you have appointed various orders in your Church: Give your grace, we humbly pray, to all who are called to any office and ministry for your people; and so fill them with the truth of your doctrine and clothe them with holiness of life, that they may faithfully serve before you, to the glory of your great Name and for the benefit of your holy Church; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
Are we alone in the universe? Certainly not: there are angels and archangels and all the company of heaven, and there are powers and principalities neither good nor even benign. The former aid us in the war we wage against the latter.
But are we alone in the popular sense of being the only intelligent life in the cosmos? Or, are there extraterrestrials, some of whom may even have “visited” Earth in what we euphemistically refer to as Unexplained Aerial Phenomena (UAP).? That is the question — isn’t it? — currently en vogue with each new release of Pentagon files or photos.
From time to time I think about this and ponder how the existence of “alien” life might factor into our Christian theology. If they were to come, would we evangelize their species? Man fell, but what about non-man? What about those not in Adam? Christ died for the sins of the whole world, yes, but just this world or perhaps others, too?
I do not know; this is larger than I am and I do not greatly concern myself with it:
O LORD, I am not haughty; I have no proud looks. I do not occupy myself with great matters, or with things that are too high for me (Ps 131:1-2).
Recently, I read a letter from C. S. Lewis to Dom Bede Griffiths (8 Feb 1956) that addresses these questions quite well. I do not know the context of the letter, but the content is quintessential Lewis:
One often wonders how different the content of our faith will look when we see it in the total context. Might it be as if one were living on an infinite earth? Further knowledge would leave our map of, say, the Atlantic quite correct, but if it turned out to be the estuary of a great river — and the continent through which that river flowed turned out to be itself an island — of the shores of a still greater continent — and so on! You see what I mean? Not one jot of Revelation will be proved false: but so many new truths might be added (C. S. Lewis, Letter On Living The Faith, HarperOne (2026), p. 151).
The Feast of Pentecost: God With Us and God In Us (Gen 11:1-9, Ps 104:24-35V, Acts 2:1-21, John 14:8-17)
Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of the faithful and kindle in them the fire of your love. Amen.
18 Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been betrothed to Joseph, before they came together she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. 19 And her husband Joseph, being a just man and unwilling to put her to shame, resolved to divorce her quietly. 20 But as he considered these things, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, “Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary as your wife, for that which is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. 21 She will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” 22 All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet:
23 “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
and they shall call his name Immanuel”
(which means, God with us) (Matt 1:18-23).
No, I don’t have the liturgical seasons confused; and yes, I know that this is Pentecost and not Christmas. So, why do I start here with a nativity text in the Gospel according to St. Matthew? First, I think this Gospel scene is one of the most significant passages in the whole of Scripture, a climactic moment in the story of God and his people. Second, I think that there is a through-line from this moment to the day of Pentecost, or more truly that there is a through-line from the creation account in Genesis 1, 2 through the whole of Scripture, passing through this Gospel passage, through St. Luke’s account of Pentecost in Acts, through the “end” of the story in Revelation 21, 22 and beyond it into whatever lies ahead in the age to come. It goes like this.
In Genesis 1, 2 God creates a cosmos, everything that is that is not God. In the vastness of that cosmos God creates a world which he adorns with sky and seas and dry land, which he covers with plants and trees, which he populates with swimming things and flying things and creeping things and walking things. And it is all good, especially these walking things which are very good because God made them to bear his own image, to be uniquely his representatives to the rest of creation. And he gave these walking things a place, a garden in which to dwell and from which to go forward into the world to be fruitful and multiply, to bring order, to gather up the praises of creation and present them to the Creator. Then, having done all this, God rested, that is, God took up his residence in this garden, at the intersection of heaven — God’s realm — and earth — the realm of these walking things. And that gives us a glimpse into God’s purpose, into God’s very heart. God loves these walking things and he wants to live with them so that he might be their God and they might be his people. God’s purpose, from before creation but expressed in creation, is to dwell with his image bearing people.
Soon these walking things have names: Adam, to emphasize to the man his prototypical headship of all humanity, and Eve, to remind the woman of her motherhood of all future image bearers of God. But, paradise — Eden — is short lived. A deceiver comes and seduces Eve’s heart away from God. Adam follows her down that treacherous path, and before day ends they find themselves naked and ashamed and hiding from God. They find themselves subject to death that causes sin and to sin that causes death. They find themselves outside the garden, in a world subject to futility. They find themselves exiled away from home and away from God. The intersection of heaven and earth, the place where God dwells with man, is now empty. The two realms are disjoint. The consequences of that separation are dire: murder (fratricide), the transgression of boundaries between humans and angels, the downward spiral into violence and all manner of evil until God regrets having made the walking things at all, the cleansing of the world by water, and the starting over with Noah, his wife, his three sons and their wives. Perhaps God can join heaven and earth once again. Perhaps he can dwell with Noah and his family?
No. Noah is not the solution to this problem of exile, after all, but a carrier of the problem, and it spreads throughout his offspring for generations, coming to a head on a plain in the land of Shinar. Come, let us build a city with a tower that rises to heaven, a place in which to dwell, a place by which we will make a name for ourselves. God is nowhere in this plan, and he is having none of it. So, God confuses their common language by giving them many different tongues, a babble of languages — the languages of Babel — and he disperses them over all the earth.
Yet, God’s purpose remains: to have a people among whom he can dwell. So, God begins to create and form just such a people, beginning with an old man, Abram, and his old wife, Sarai. God doesn’t quite live with them, but he does visit from time to time and he does make a covenant with Abram:
1 Now the Lord said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. 2 And I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. 3 I will bless those who bless you, and him who dishonors you I will curse, and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed” (Gen 12:1-3).
Righteous Abraham
God clarifies this covenant later; he will give Abram a land and a people, and he will be that people’s God. Put all that together — a land, a people, and a promise to be their God — and what do you have? You have the intersection of heaven and earth once again: God dwelling with man — not with all men, not all at once, but first with the children of Abraham and then one day through them with all the peoples of the earth.
It took generations to get even part of the way there. It is a long convoluted tale; I said there was a through-line to the story, but I never promised it would be a straight line. I can’t tell the whole story here, but we have a book that does, and a corporate memory that does, and you are part of a people who does: day by day, week by week, year by year, generation by generation we tell the whole story. But there are a few moments that stand out in the story, for good or ill, that I should mention on the way to Pentecost. These moments come with powerful visual images.
We jump ahead some five or six generations from Abraham to see his people — God’s people — march out of slavery in Egypt headed toward the land God had promised Abraham. They are led by Moses, and Moses is led by God in a pillar of cloud by day and fire by night. If not exactly dwelling among his people, God is at least visible to them, hidden almost sacramentally under the accidents — under the appearances — of cloud and fire. When, some fifty days after the great exodus — a first pentecost — the people encounter God at Sinai, God gives Moses not only the Law, but also a set of blueprints for the building of a tabernacle — an elaborate tent — in which God will dwell among his people. If you build it according to the pattern, God will come. If you keep the Law according to the tablets, God will stay. The tabernacle is in the midst of the people with the tribes camped about it. The Holy of Holies is in the midst of the tabernacle with the glory of God dwelling between the cherubim over the ark of the covenant. Once again, in this strange place, heaven and earth intersect and God dwells with his people.
It is a tenuous relationship though because these people are as prone to sin as were their forebears all the way back to those first walking things Adam and Eve. And, as with the first humans, exile looms large as a possibility for these recently emancipated sons and daughters of Abraham. But the Law makes provision for this in the daily and yearly round of sacrifices. The sacrifices keep the people repenting, keep them coming back to the tabernacle and the presence of God to have the blood of bulls and goats poured over their sins — sprinkled on them — to cover and to cleanse the people, the camp, the tabernacle and the ark itself. It is a workable, temporary fix — spiritual WD 40 or duct tape — but not a permanent cure because death remains and the sin that causes it.
Four or five centuries later and the descendants of Abraham have become a kingdom dwelling more or less securely in the land God promised to Abraham. Israel’s third king Solomon has replaced the “humble” tent in which God had dwelt among his people all those years with a grand temple: stone and cedar and gold. But the same ark of the covenant is still there in the new Holy of Holies, and God is still there The temple is now the intersection of heaven and earth where God still dwells among his people, people who still offer the daily and yearly round of sacrifices to ensure that the holy God can dwell among a sinful people without destroying them.
But the kingdom didn’t last long, nor the temple. Kings are foolish and arrogant and idolatrous, and they lead people and nations astray. Despite the calls of the prophets to repent, to return to the Lord, kings and people went after false gods, looked to political alliances and not the Lord for security, put their trust in the temple but not in the God who dwelt in it until finally God just up and left the temple, the people, the land. All of it came crashing down around them when Jerusalem and the temple were razed and the people were taken into exile where they found they couldn’t even bear to sing God’s song in a foreign land.
A generation or two later, some of the exiles were allowed by their overlords to repatriate, to rebuild the city and its walls and its temple. While the people returned, God did not. The temple — the intersection of heaven and earth where God once dwelt among his people — this second temple remained empty. As tragic as that seemed and perhaps seems, it was also inevitable. The stone and cedar and gold temple was always a temporary “fix,” a signpost pointing to something better. No box, not even the ark of the covenant, can hold God. No building, not even the temple, can house the Creator of heaven and earth.
18 Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been betrothed to Joseph, before they came together she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. 19 And her husband Joseph, being a just man and unwilling to put her to shame, resolved to divorce her quietly. 20 But as he considered these things, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, “Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary as your wife, for that which is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. 21 She will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” 22 All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet:
23 “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
and they shall call his name Immanuel”
(which means, God with us) (Matt 1:18-23).
In the incarnation God returns to dwell among his people, not in a tent, not in a temple of stone and cedar and gold but in a temple of flesh and blood: Immanuel, God with us. It is Jesus who is the perfect intersection of heaven and earth where God and man dwell perfectly together — this Jesus who is himself fully God and fully man. He comes to save his people from their sins through the pouring out and sprinkling of his own blood — not a temporary covering of the sins of a few but a full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice, offering, and satisfaction, for the sins of the whole world (BCP 2019, p. 116). By his resurrection he broke the bonds of death, trampling Hell and Satan under his feet. And then, as our great high priest, he ascended to God’s right hand in glory (ibid, p. 133), a movement in the story we celebrated but ten days ago.
But, what does the Ascension — the leaving — make of God’s purpose to dwell with us, with his people? Jesus, Immanuel, is with God, yes, but the promise was that God would dwell with us. Even Jesus himself had promised that to his disciples on the night he was betrayed:
7 Nevertheless, I tell you the truth: it is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Helper will not come to you. But if I go, I will send him to you (John 16:7).
15 If you love me, you will keep my commandments. 16 And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Helper, to be with you forever, 17 even the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, for he dwells with and will be in you (John 14:15-17).
And, of course, the disciples were confused until the day of Pentecost when the wind blew and the fire fell from heaven and the Holy Spirit descended upon them and filled them, until Peter at last knew that the last days had come, the days in which, as God had declared, he would pour out his Spirit on all flesh so that sons and daughters would prophesy, young men would see visions, old men would dream, and even servants would prophesy, and all who would call upon the name of the Lord would be saved. This is where the through-line of the story has been headed all along: not God in a garden, not God in a pillar of cloud and fire, not God in a tent or temple, not God among one people only in one land only, and not even just God with us, but God, in the person of the Holy Spirit, in us so that we are partakers of the divine nature (see 2 Pet 1:3-4). Where does God dwell on earth now? Where does heaven and earth intersect now? In these walking things made in the image of God, fallen yet redeemed by the blood of Immanuel, filled with the divine presence of the Holy Spirit. If you are in Christ, if, as Peter said on that great Pentecost day, you have called upon the name of the Lord, if are living a life of repentance, and if you have been baptized then you have received the gift of the Holy Spirit (see Acts 2:38). God tabernacles in you. You are the temple in which the living God dwells. You are a person in whom heaven and earth intersect. And if this is not yet you, it can be, beginning this very day.
Pentecost was a harvest festival when the first fruits of the wheat fields were gathered in and offered to God, one of three annual feasts with mandatory appearance at the temple. And so Jews came from all around: Parthians and Medes and Elamites and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, because God wants Babel undone, because God wants to end the exile, because God wants the whole earth to be filled with the glory of his presence as the waters cover the sea, because God wants to dwell in his image bearing humans, to unite them to himself through the Holy Spirit. These Jews who gathered in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost, who gathered from every nation under heaven, were the first fruits of the Gospel: the first fruits of a harvest that continues until this day. The word still goes forth making this the day of salvation:
38 …“Repent and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of sins, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. 39 For the promise is for you and for your children and for all who are far off, everyone whom the Lord our God calls to himself (Acts 2:38-39).
All of those who are in-gathered in this great harvest comprise one body in whom the Spirit dwells. Yes, the Spirit dwells in you and in me and in all those in Christ Jesus, but the Holy Spirit also dwells in us together to make us one in Christ and one with each other. St. Paul speaks of us as individual members but also as a body:
12 For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. 13 For in one Spirit we were all baptized into one body — Jews or Greeks, slaves or fee — and all were made to drink of one Spirit (1 Cor 12:12-13).
So, where does God dwell on earth today? In you, in me, most fully in us — the church. We need each other and the world desperately needs us all, all of us together united in heart and mind and purpose. In and through the Holy Spirit, we are, each of us and all of us together, the temple of the living God to whom be glory from generation to generation in the Church, and in Christ Jesus for ever and ever. Amen.
I know a priest who, as he approaches the altar at the beginning of the Eucharist, discretely and reverently bows to reverence the altar with a kiss. It is, after all, the place where heaven and earth meet and where the material of bread and wine become the very body and blood of Christ. It is my practice when taking up the Gospel Book — whether to mark it for the Deacon’s use during the Eucharist or to read it myself during the service — to discretely and reverently honor it with a kiss. It is, after all, the locus of the Holy Spirit’s action to make the word written become the living Word spoken and received. These things crossed my mind as I read the following passage from a favorite book this afternoon. The action takes place on Patmos — yes, that Patmos on which St. John the Theologian was exiled and on which he received and recorded the Apocalypse. The writer was, on the night in question, a wavering atheist on the slippery slope to faith. His wife, Felicia, was already an Orthodox Christian.
One evening — it was on the fourteenth of August — we met on our walk Vassos, who collected the town rubbish with a string of donkeys. He was, unusually, sitting at a table on the street, drinking ouzo. Even more unusually, he had a smartly pressed blue shirt and an unfamiliar newly shaved look. I asked him why the party suit and he told me he was on his way to the Monastery of Diasozousa for the night service before the big Festival of the Dormition the following day. Felicia and I decided to look in, even though I have a horror of church festivals. They are always crowded with women in the finest of their finery — an unnerving sight on Patmos, where the finery takes the form of jackets with shoulders like Al Capone’s, handbags with yards of brass chain attached and black high-heeled shoes with enormous bright buckles.
These are always social occasions on the island, and it is unthinkable to miss one. And they have always seemed to me to have little to do with faith and more a matter of putting in an appearance. They remind me of the village barn dances back home, when everyone got together for a good chat, the men and women in separate groups. As I have a horror of crowds, I tend to skulk in the shadows and leave it to Felicia to participate. But that evening, as we climbed the steps to the big church strung about with electric lights and saw the hundreds of faces looking up at it, I had a strong feeling that they were there for a common purpose, and that this purpose was more than just sociability.
A long queue of local people was waiting to kiss the wonderworking icon. Not having escaped to the fringes of the crowd, I was pulled in. We shuffled along, and as I chatted with people I know — the electrician, the grocer, the carpenter, the plumber — I was struck by the fact that these people, practical workingmen with no very obvious religious slant to their lives, were doing something extremely odd. They were all waiting patiently standing there in their best suits waiting to kiss a painting. What was really going on?
I remembered something that Philip Sherrard, an Orthodox writer whom I admired, had written about Western society’s having lost its way. Materialism had become the creed of the majority, and it was opposed not by the churches but by those who claimed a vague spiritual allegiance or inkling which they insisted had nothing to do with “organized religion.” But Sherrard pointed out that any genuine religious tradition provided for some formal discipline as a means of spiritual realization. He wrote that people who attached themselves to these modern, rather gaseous trends of New Worldism were spiritually inferior to the simple believers who practiced a faith sincerely but with only the slightest knowledge of the metaphysical principles on which it was based..
As we stood in the queue at Diasozousa, I realized that these people, by the simple act of kissing an icon, were rejecting the closed system of materialism in which most people of the West are living today. Even if the act is a formal one, done because everybody does it, to revere an icon is to perform an action which proclaims that the material world is not the end — that there is a spiritual dimension to life which we may not understand and which we may ignore in our daily business of living but which on occasions such as this we can come together and publicly acknowledge. To kiss an icon, to cross oneself, to say “an theli o Theos” (“God willing”), however perfunctorily or unthinkingly these actions are performed, is to strike a blow at the closed universe of the materialist (Peter France, A Place of Healing for the Soul: Patmos, Atlantic Monthly Press (2002), pp. 88-90).
“To strike a blow at the closed universe of the materialist” seems to me a noble and necessary Christian vocation, one that we all share. There are perhaps as many ways to do so as there are Christians. Pray. Ask a priest for a blessing. Light a candle in church. Cross yourself when you hear an emergency siren or when you pass a church. The latter is bit much, perhaps, since there are churches on seemingly every street corner here in the South. Learn to say, even if just to yourself, “Lord, have mercy,” “Glory to God,” “God bless it,” and a host of other breath prayers. Let your sacred imagination run wild. But strike a blow against the closed universe of the materialist!
Recently I marked the eleventh anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood. Following are a few things I have learned along the way. Some are serious, some are very much tongue-in-cheek; you can decide which is which. The lessons are in no particular order; it is all rather stream of consciousness. With that preamble, here goes.
If you are not able to confront your own inadequacy, your own sin, your own hardness of heart constantly, run from the priesthood.
Anglicanism is a mess. Get used to it. So is every other expression of the faith, by the way. But, as far as I can tell, God has not yet given up on the Church; nor should we. Anglicanism is my mess, and I love it.
It is important sometimes just to keep things simple: say your prayers, go to Church, remember God. I think that advice was from Fr. Thomas Hopko’s mother when he was about to leave home for seminary. When in doubt just “do the red and say the black.” For those wondering about that last line, the rubrics (instructions) in the Prayer Book were once printed in red: do them. The text to be said is printed in black: say that. “Do the red and say the black” is a caution against making things up as you go. Stick with the sacred tradition and its proven way of life and you won’t go wrong. It’s all so much simpler that way.
Word and Sacrament are the anchors of faith. Hold fast to them. And they will hold you fast.
Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. Love your neighbor as yourself. When you have mastered this, come teach me, please. It is a constant struggle.
I enjoy the idea of clerical obedience far more than the reality of clerical obedience, but I benefit from the reality of clerical obedience far more than from the idea of clerical obedience.
It is possible to be blessed by one’s enemies. They can drive you to your knees in repentance and into the arms of God for shelter. And it is possible to love them, to pray for those who persecute you, and to forgive them even before reconciliation, even when reconciliation seems — and may be — humanly impossible.
Humans are fearfully and wonderfully made and the image of God in them often shines through with a near blinding brilliance if we just look with eyes of faith. That so many keep putting one foot in front of the other along the Way given the burdens they bear — and all are bearing burdens — is astounding, is inexplicable but for the presence of Christ in them. Prepare to be in awe of your parishioners.
Sin is dull and boring; righteousness is glimmering and adventurous.
We have an enemy, the ancient foe. But he is no match for our Champion. In fact, he is already defeated and does what damage he does only as he thrashes around in the throes of death.
Prayer is hard. Prayer is essential. Prayer is hard. I’ve heard there are experts at it. I have never met one. If you struggle, be of good cheer. I know of no one who feels his prayer life is adequate.
A priest’s wife shares the weight of his ministry and makes that ministry possible. Is it fair? It is the reality.
It is possible to be a Christian and a priest and still be a jerk. See Facebook for details.
We Christians — and yes, we priests — spend too much time arguing about things of which we are almost totally ignorant, mechanics confused by stories and wanting schematics when gloriously rich metaphors are on offer.
Preaching is unfair. When it is good, God gets the credit. When it is bad the preacher gets the blame.
The most searching theological questions are often posed right as the processional hymn begins.
Unity and purity of faith are both essential and seemingly mutually exclusive.
What you know is important; how you love is essential.
The answer to almost every Why? question about God is twofold: (1) because he loves us and (2) for us and for our salvation.
Listen always. Speak when necessary.
Being the servant of the servants of God is a blessing and honor of which I am and will remain unworthy.
Soon after we met, I had the chance to talk to [Fr. Amphilochios Tsuokos] about Orthodox Christianity. The conversation was to alter my perspective on life, and I remember the setting clearly. We were sitting again on the rocks outside his little chapel with the early morning sun filtering through the trees. Felicia was there, patiently watching me falling into the mode she had seen so often, that of Everyman reporter. I had spent the previous twelve years interviewing religious leaders, and I recognized Father Amphilochios as a promising interviewee: he was firmly rooted in a primitive Christian faith which shaped his every waking hour; he seemed to combine a medieval austerity in his life with a renaissance enthusiasm for living. He was clearly a man whose priorities lay outside his immediate circumstances. Since he had experience as a missionary, spreading the Christian message among the tribal people of West Africa, it seemed fair to ask him about his techniques for enlightening unbelievers. I was one of them, and I was tackling him on behalf of liberal humanism.
I explained to him that I was a member of an enormous modern tribe that rejected the Christian message. This was not because we knew too little but because we knew too much. We understood the human psyche; we had analyzed the workings of the human mind, conscious and unconscious; we knew that religious faith was simply a compensatory mechanism that gave emotional reassurance to the insecure. We could not be deceived by myths, no matter how powerful their archetypal resonances. We sought the truth and, unlike Christian, saw no virtue in putting our trust in so-called realities for which there was insufficient evidence.
For the past three hundred years leading intellectuals of our tribe had examined the philosophical proofs for the existence of God and found them wanting. Our scholars had looked at the linguistic and archeological evidence for biblical truths and had pronounced them flawed. Our biologists accepted a version of the story of life on earth that needed no external directing hand. So, we had abandoned Christianity after long and careful consideration of its claims and with some regret. That rejection was c consequence of our fearless pursuit of truth. “If you came,” I said, “as a missionary to my tribe today, what would you say to us?” I sat back, conscious of having put him on the spot. He looked at me with a smile and said simply: “I would not say anything to you. I would simply live with you. And I would love you.”
This was not the answer I expected from a theologian…
I had been thinking and reading hard for forty years, slowly amassing knowledge but not advancing in understanding. That morning in the woods outside the Chapel of the Holy Trinity, a door opened.
I realized that to approach Christianity, as I had tried, from what seemed to be the logical first step — that is, by examining the arguments for the existence of God — was to tackle it from the wrong end. The most basic principle of learning is to start with the known and move to the unknown. I had been trying to start from the unknowable. Father Amphilochios was proposing that the journey to Christian trth should start with the human experience of love: it should move, that is, from the known to the unknown (Peter France, A Place of Healing for the Soul: Patmos, Atlantic Monthly Press (2002), pp. 82-83).
“Therefore, be steadfast in your resolutions. Stay in the boat in which he has placed you, and let the storm come. Long live Jesus! You will not perish. He may sleep, but at the opportune time he will awaken to restore your calm”.
First Blessings 