Spengler

For a number of years I have enjoyed the essays written under the nom de plume "Spengler" at the Asia Times site. This continues to be an excellent source of information, from a perspective beyond our shores. The irony of his appropriation of Oswald Spengler, author of The Decline of the West, in a premier Asian news source was not lost on me. Spengler has recently revealed his identity. He is, in fact, Donald P. Goldman. His story is an interesting one: a former bureaucrat at the National Security Council, musicologist , successful but disaffected Wall Street financier, a disciple of Franz Rosenzweig, who at last rediscovered Judaism. Goldman revealed his identity after recently assuming a position as associate editor of First Things. There was a time when I read every issue from cover to cover, but in recent years have given them a pass. The magazine have been a bit too triumphalist for my taste, too clearly identified with partisan American politics and have never really owned-up to their complicity in neocon misadventures in the Middle East and elsewhere. But who knows, with Spengler now associated, I may give them a look from time to time.

Goldman made a number of important points in his revelatory essay, below:

Youth culture...was an oxymoron, for culture itself was a bridge across generations, a means of cheating mortality. The old and angry cultures of the world, fighting for room to breathe against the onset of globalization, would not go quietly into the homogenizer. Many of them would fight to survive, but fight in vain, for the tide of modernity could not be rolled back….The end of the old ethnicities, I believed, would dominate the cultural and strategic agenda of the next several decades. Great countries were failing of their will to live, and it was easy to imagine a world in which Japanese, German, Italian and Russian would turn into dying languages only a century hence. Modernity taxed the Muslim world even more severely, although the results sometimes were less obvious.

Goldman explains his use of the pseudonym in this way:

To inform a culture that it is going to die does not necessarily win friends, and what I needed to say would be hurtful to many readers. I needed to tell the Europeans that their post-national, secular dystopia was a death-trap whence no-one would get out alive. I needed to tell the Muslims that nothing would alleviate the unbearable sense of humiliation and loss that globalization inflicted on a civilization that once had pretensions to world dominance. I needed to tell Asians that materialism leads only to despair. And I needed to tell the Americans that their smugness would be their undoing….And it was not hard to show that the remnants of the tribal world lurking under the cover of Islam were not living, but only undead, incapable of withstanding the onslaught of modernity, throwing a tantrum against their inevitable end.

Spengler references a prescient quote from Benedict XVI, made in 1996 when he was a Cardinal:

"Perhaps we have to abandon the idea of the popular Church. Possibly, we stand before a new epoch of Church history with quite different conditions, in which Christianity will stand under the sign of the mustard seed, in small and apparently insignificant groups, which nonetheless oppose evil intensively and bring the Good into the world." The best mind in the Catholic Church squarely considered the possibility that Christianity itself might shrink into seeming insignificance….The wells of culture had run dry, because they derived from faith to begin with….Art doesn’t exist for art’s sake.

The essay can be found here.

The House of Death

The House of Death by William Blake

It is the ceaseless labour of our life to build the house of death.
Michel de Montaigne

The extent to which one contemplates death is as accurate a barometer as any, I would think, of how out-of-step one is with our prevailing culture. I tend to think about death, a lot. And having just re-read Alexander Schmemann's For the Life of the World, I am struck by how prescient his observations from 1963 are, in this regard, for our contemporary secular society.

It would be a great mistake, however, to think of secularism as simply an "absence of religion." It is, in fact, itself a religion, and as such, an explanation of death and a reconciliation with it....Secularism is an "explanation" of death in terms of life. The only world we know is this world, the only life given to us is this life-so thinks a secularist-and it is up to us men to make it as meaningful, as rich, as happy as possible. Life ends with death. This is unpleasant, but since it is natural, since death is a universal phenomenon, the best thing man can do about it is simply to accept it as something natural. As long as he lives, however, he need not think about it, but should live as though death did not exist. The best way to forget about death is to be busy, to be useful, to be dedicated to great and noble things, to build an always better world. If God exists...and if He, in His love and mercy...wants to reward us for our busy, useful and righteous life with eternal vacations, traditionally called "immortality," it is strictly His gracious business. But immortality is an appendix (however eternal) to this life, in which all real interest, all true values are to be found.

Living "as though death did not exist" does indeed seem the way of the modern world. Not without irony, it is the American funeral industry itself (and the funereal habits/customs that have grown up around it) that perhaps best exemplifies our death-denying culture. And, as in most things, we have a unique take on death and dying here in the South. My wife and I have sometimes found humor in the funeral fetishes of her extended clan. "Visitations" are just that--a time to catch up with relatives and neighbors, perhaps to see who was "laid-out" in the next room and, of course, to critique the handiwork of the particular funeral home. These gatherings are carried off with all the solemnity of a backyard barbecue. At all costs, no one ever talks about the reality of the body in the next room. One great-aunt whose limited mobility eventually prohibited her from attending these events, used to minutely question those who did, sometimes asking if the deceased, ahem, "laid a good corpse." Two contemporary cousins--not at all aged--carry on the silliness. One, to my knowledge, has been planning her last rites for years, having chosen her funeral hymns 20 years ago. Unfortunately, she suffers from robust health, the age-old curse of hypochondriacs. Another spent all last year trying to convince family and friends, as well as a host of doctors, nurses and emergency room technicians in 4 hospitals that she was near death and in need of constant support and sympathy. Having failed at a memorable death, she has shifted tactics. This year is devoted to angling for the absolute best deal on her funeral "pre-need" policy, described as the "last thread hanging" in her life. One assumes that after this is arranged, she will lie down on her bed, fold her arms and await death...or the housekeeper, whichever comes first. Such ridiculous behavior is, of course, silly, self-absorbed, and ultimately sad. But even these antics prove Schmemann's point: all of this noise is merely avoidance and denial of the oncoming reality of death.

Several factors have converged to turn my thoughts in this direction. My readings these days come more and more from the Orthodox ascetical writers--St. Isaac, St. Silouan, Archimandrite Sophrony, Elder Ephrem, Elder Paisios, etc.--and this clearly is a factor. Participation in my first Orthodox funeral, recounted here and here also plays a part. A post by Rod Dreher regarding the recent loss of his grandmother, here put me in mind of my own mother's death. Gabriel's posts about the loss of his grandfather, here and here reminded me of the emptiness I felt, at age 8, of the loss of my granddad. Finally, Christopher Buckley recent article on the loss of parents Bill and Pat Buckley in 2007 and 2008, here, gave me pause for thought, as well as the lead quotation from Montaigne.

Christopher Buckley is a gifted writer, whose father was a genius and mother a flamboyant and outrageous grand dame. His account offers a fascinating peek into this rarefied atmosphere. Interestingly, his story generated not the least bit of envy on my part. Stringing lights on your yacht anchored in the Caribbean does not a Christmas make. I recall watching an interview in which he described his parents--not at all critically--as really two impossible people. I suspect they were indeed. But for all his father's literary and intellectual acclaim, and the social set over which his mother presided, the estate in Greenwich, the Swiss chalet and the salon on the Upper East Side--it made no difference in the end. From their son's account, their deaths were altogether pedestrian--empty hospital rooms, monitors, I.V.s, ventilators, oxygen tanks--and ultimately, quite sad. Going through life high, wide and handsome means less than nothing on that day. Christopher Buckley, son of the very observant Catholic Bill Buckley, is himself non croyant, which adds a further layer of melancholy to the account.

This is in sharp contrast to the stories told by Rod and Gabriel in their recent losses. I have quoted from Rod's post at length, below.

She "talked" silently with someone no one else could see for some time. She told my mother, "God tells me he will take care of me, and will take care of y'all." And then: "He wants me to go with him. Tell him I don't want to go yet." My mother told her that it was fine for her to leave, to go in peace. The old lady said no, it's not yet time, and to please let God know. So that's what my mother did. And then Helen's pain went away....I found myself thinking about the poor thing, lying in that bed, scared out of her wits, in excruciating pain, knowing her life was coming to an end -- and then God came, and ministered to her. Was it really Him? I don't know. But this afternoon, the presence of the Almighty, if only in her mind, eased the suffering of a dying woman. And one day, we will all be like she is tonight. Whether my grandmother had a hidden faith, or only this afternoon acknowledged her Creator, praise His holy name for coming to her at the hour of her death, and showing mercy....But that's not all that happened today in that hospital room. A greater miracle occurred, one that really touches me....This afternoon in that hospital room, my mother and her mother talked at length of old times, of happy things from her childhood. Helen never brought up the meanness of those days, and my mother wouldn't have wanted her to, not now. As it happened, Helen was baptized as a young woman in a Baptist church in small-town Mississippi, and had been active in the congregation with my mother as a little girl, until her husband put a stop to it. They talked about that, and all kinds of memories. Somehow, it made my mom (and, hearing her tell the story, me) see her mother in a new light, as a fellow sufferer in that household who was frightened and confused and powerless and desperately, achingly poor. I could hear in my mother's voice as she told the story of events in the hospital room today that her heart -- and my mom has a good heart -- was full of mercy and forgiveness for past wrongs, and what she had to bear alone. None of what happened back then mattered anymore. The past was past. No words of reconciliation were spoken, but they didn't have to be. The circle is complete. My mom is at peace, and so is my grandmother. Mercy won the day.

On some level, Helen's story reminded me of my mother, and her last hours on earth. Lucy was a complex woman. Her early life was harsh and brutal, and her marriage to my dad was very much an escape. My mother had many admirable qualities. She was thrifty, hard-working, fastidious, disciplined, strong-willed and plain-spoken. She was ferociously loyal to her blood kin. Mother did not gossip; she minded her own business and expected others to mind theirs. She was the most stoic person I ever met, never complaining about her plight in life, or feeling sorry for herself.

But as with all of us, there was a flip side. Her thriftiness bordered on miserliness. She never understood that there could be differences in opinion, only contradictions to what was right, which happened to be whatever she thought on a particular subject. In a similar vein, she never understood that being blunt was not always a virtue. Mother was suspicious of everyone beyond her immediate family connections, and she made few friends. She was not in the least bit sentimental. And like Christopher Buckley said about his mother, "I [n]ever once heard [her]utter a religious or spiritual sentiment."

Lucy came from a family of the most nominal of nominal Baptists, and of them I would say, with Montaigne, "nothing is so firmly believed as what we least know." She did have a Bible, but I never saw her open it. Her bedstead was purchased in 1954, when the style was to have cabinets with sliding doors built into the headboard. The Bible stayed in the right-hand cabinet, in the box it came in. To leave it out, would have meant just one more thing to dust. When I was young, I would sneak into her bedroom, get the Bible out of the box and look at the pictures. My sister has it now, perhaps still in its presentation box.

Unlike my background, my wife came from a church-going family. Soon after our marriage, we attended a family meal at my parent's house. I never remember saying grace over meals growing up, and my dad, perceptive as always, was sensitive to his new daughter-in-law's sensibilities. Before the meal, he asked my mother, somewhat rhetorically, if we shouldn't say grace before eating. My mother shot back with "Well why should we do that? We raised every bit of it ourselves." Technically, my mother was right; the vegetables came from our garden, and the beef from our cattle. Aside from the butter, flour, sugar, and tea, nothing was purchased. For that was my mother's religion--the old American canard that "the Lord helps those who help themselves." But my dad, raised in a Christian home, was rightfully shocked, recognizing the impart of my mother's words. She just looked at him, as if to say "well?" That is another similarity my mother shared with Mrs. Buckley--she never apologized for anything.

Time ran down for my mother, as it does for all. She outlived her husband, a son, a grandson, all five of her siblings and several nieces and nephews. I remember being with her in the doctor's office in September before her death in March. He told her what she already knew, namely that all that could be done, had been done, and any treatments thereafter would be sacrificing quality of life to quantity of life. She looked straight ahead at him and simply said, "Well, I'm not going to give up. And I'm not going to fall to pieces." And she didn't. In her last hospital stay before death, she told me that she loved all of us. That was her only real acknowledgment to us that her time was short. My wife and I brought her to her own bed, at her own home, where we watched over her for that last week. The morning before her death that night, Mother was a bit delirious, not in great pain, but drifting in and out of consciousness. She raised both of her arms, as if trying to wave, it seemed. And then she said "I just want to tell everybody hello." My sister had stopped by, and said, "we're right here, Mamma," or something to that effect. My mother did not really acknowledge that, but repeated, "I just want to tell everybody hello."

Who she was seeing, we could not see. But I had witnessed this before. About 15 years earlier, I was with her nephew--my cousin--at his death. We were not close; for he was much older, and while my maternal cousins were always close at hand, there was never much interaction between us. But we shared, I think, an unspoken understanding of the great tragedy and desolation that had befallen our common family. My cousin was soft-spoken and introspective, and I was told that in his youth he liked to be alone and read, as did his dad. But he went to Vietnam, and that changed things...as did a string of marriages. Finally, he succumbed to lung cancer while only in his mid 40s. At the time, my mother was undergoing her first round of chemotherapy, and my wife was staying with her. On the day of his death, I was alone with my cousin and his nurse. By that time he was a gaunt and hollow-eyed shadow of his former self. His 3rd wife, and his children from the 2nd wife, had gone to the funeral home to make arrangements. (For the life of me, I still cannot understand this. Could they not wait?) My cousin was no longer able to speak, and he had a wild-eyed look about him. But then he raised both arms above his head, slightly bent at the elbow. His nurse conjectured that he probably needed to have a bowel movement and was motioning for us to raise him from the bed. Following her lead, we linked hands and began to lift him up for that purpose. While doing so, his spirit left his body and he died in our arms.

I have thought often of this episode. I now believe the nurse was wrong as could be. For when my cousin raised his hands, I believe he was seeing/experiencing much the same thing as my mother, and Rod's grandmother. Even if only in their minds, it was a great mercy, an ease to their suffering and a consolation to those of us yet constructing our house of death.

The Torment of St. Anthony

Michelangelo's artistic output was extraordinary, but I never realized that he produced only 4 known easel paintings. Two are in London's National Gallery, one is in the Uffizi in Florence, and come this autumn, the other with be in Fort Worth, Texas. The Kimbell Museum has pulled off a major coup in the acquisition of The Torment of Saint Anthony, painted in about 1487 or 1488, when Michelangelo was 12 or 13 years old. I found it interesting, obviously, because of the subject matter, but also as it provided more proof of the treasure that is the Kimbell Museum. Read about it here.

Better Go While You Can

Today's New York Times Travel Section carries a good article on Tbilisi., here.

Unfortunately, they are touting the city as the next big destination; not exactly Paris or Prague, but on a par with St. Petersburg or Moscow.

So, visit while there is still time, before this diamond in the rough gets all dressed up with tourist infrastructure and high-rise hotels.

"To solve our problems requires that we see ourselves as we really are"

Driving home from church on Sunday, I like to listen to a bit of Fareed Zakaria on the radio. This last week, he was interviewing Defense Secretary Gates. Fareed asked if the US is falling into an "imperial trap" -- spending too much time and energy putting out all of the fires of the world, while countries like China concentrate on building a great prosperous industrial machine." I found Gates' answer to be instructive. He denied that the U.S. was an imperial power, but utilized the now-familiar bromide that America was an indispensable power (This, of course, from President Clinton's Second Inaugural Address. Thanks, Bill.) Gates concluded that "If you look around the world, nothing ever gets done without American leadership at the end of the day."

This is as self-serving a myth as there is. But this view of American exceptionalism--our "indispensability," if you will, is not confined to the upper echelons of power. This self-perception, coupled with an exalted view of individualism and our unique take on liberty forms the very foundation of American society. This is the creed of our public religion. At a recent prayer breakfast in my city, a Methodist minister offered the following (as a prayer, mind you):

"Wherever there is injustice and wherever there is an abuse of civil rights, American military personnel is there. We get bad mouthed by other nations for sticking our nose where it doesn't belong, but our nose belongs where we go because God has commissioned us to be the caretakers, the protectors of the world."

This is a jingoistic perspective, with little thought to its implications, to be sure--but hardly unique in my part of the nation. For this reason, it is all the more important that the viewpoints expressed in Andrew Bacevich's The Limits of Power: The End of American Exceptionalism receive wider circulation. I have been reading about the book for months now, but put off actually reading it until after Great Lent. In my estimation, this is an essential book that should take its place on the shelf with Huntington, Lukacs and Kennan.

A few quotes from Bacevich (a retired military man who lost his son in Iraq):

Seeing themselves as a peaceful people, Americans remain wedded to the conviction that the conflicts in which they find themselves embroiled are not of their own making. The global war on terror is no exception. Certain of our own benign intentions, we reflexively assign responsibility for war to others, typically malignant Hitler-like figures inexplicable bent on denying us the peace that is our fondest wish.


Freedom is the altar at which Americans worship, whatever their nominal religious persuasion. "No one sings odes to liberty as the final end of life with greater fervor than Americans," the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr once observed. Yet even as they celebrate freedom, Americans exempt the object of their veneration from critical examination.


Niebuhr once wrote disapprovingly of Americans, their "culture soft and vulgar, equating joy with happiness and happiness with comfort."


Centered on consumption and individual autonomy...as individuals, American never cease to expect more.


Crediting the United States with a "great liberating tradition" distorts the past and obscures the actual motive force behind American politics and U. S. foreign policy. It transforms history into a morality tale, thereby providing a rationale for dodging serious moral analysis.


Accept the proposition that America is freedom's tribune, and it becomes a small step to believing that the "peace process" aims to achieve peace, that Iraq qualifies as a sovereign state, and that Providence has summoned the United States to wage an all-out war against "terrorism."


The Big Lies are the truths that remain unspoken: that freedom has an underside; that nations, like households, must ultimately live within their means; that history's purpose, the subject of so many confident pronouncements, remains inscrutable."


By extension, Americans ought to give up the presumptuous notion that they are called upon to tutor Muslims in matters relating to freedom and the proper relationship between politics and religion. The principle informing policy should be this: let Islam be Islam. In the end, Muslims will have to discover for themselves the shortcomings of political Islam, much as Russians discovered the defect of Marxist-Leninism and the Chinese came to appreciate the flaws of Maoism--perhaps even as we ourselves will one day begin to recognize the snares embedded in American exceptionalism."

As is the case on most topics, Daniel Larison has some cogent comments on the pernicious influence of American exceptionalism (this from a post deconstructing a particularly sophomoric article by Dallas Morning News columnist Mark Davis in defense of the concept.)

There are good reasons to push back against the idea of American exceptionalism, if only because it does seem to encourage tired jingoism far too often, but we should do this mainly to show that there is the possibility of an admiring respect that need not devolve into arrogant triumphalism that American exceptionalism tends to encourage....Confidence in America and respect for our actual, genuinely considerable accomplishments as a people are natural and worthy attitudes to have. Understanding the full scope of our history, neither airbrushing out the crimes nor dishonoring and forgetting our heroes, is the proper tribute we owe to our country and our ancestors. Exaggeration and bluster betray a lack of confidence in America, and strangely this lack of confidence seems concentrated among those most certain that mostly imaginary “declinists” are ruining everything. More humble confidence and less horror that our President is not engaged in stupid demonstrations of machismo might be the appropriate response to present realities.

He also links a recent excellent article by Bacevich, here.

There was a time in my life (in the not so very distant past) when I accepted such views unquestioningly, as I suppose most people do. Obviously, my conversion to Orthodoxy signaled a marked change in attitude. My self-perception and my relationship to others as fellow-citizens of a particular nation have undergone a thorough-going and much-need overhaul. I would be curious how other Orthodox see this evolution of thought in their own lives.

Watch on the Bosphorus

Halki Seminary on Heybeliada


I am currently reading George Friedman's The Next 100 Years: A Forecast for the 21st Century. His is an interesting take on what this century may hold for us. I appreciate the fact that he is a clear-eyed realist who takes a really long view of things, seemingly little concerned with any ideological presuppositions.

In short, he sees the 21st Century, not the one just past, as the "American Century." His forecasts run counter to today's conventional wisdom. Friedman does not see turmoil within the Islamic world as an existential threat to the West, nor does he believe our present contretemps to be of any great duration. Western Europe will fade, with or without Muslim immigration. He sees China's influence as limited, and ultimately waning. Russia will undergo a brief resurgence before collapsing once more. Nor does he see much influence arising out of India. I find him irritatingly matter-of-fact about the transformation of the traditional family, but even this is part and parcel of his dispassionate analytical style. Friedman attributes our continued dominance not to any sort of American exceptionalism, but rather to simple geographic, demographic, cultural and military factors. In other words, America will prevail not because we are right, or better than others, but simply because we are fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time with enough resources and a navy that controls the sea lanes. I do take issue with some bothersome sloppiness in the book. A map of the Muslim world should not include Serbia, Armenia, Ethiopia, the Philippines (as a whole) and this howler--Sri Lanka.

As they say, only time will tell. Personally, I am not at all assured that America will stride through the century as others nations stumble; nor am I convinced that it would be a particularly good thing if we did. And yet, for the most part, Friedman does not engage in wild speculations, but forecasts based on the long history of how particular nations and peoples are prone to act. Of particular interest is his prediction of the rise of new powers in this century. That Japan makes this short list is not surprising, but one does not expect the inclusion of Mexico, Turkey and Poland.

Of course, my interest lies with Turkey, and I find Friedman's prognostications to be eminently realistic. Basically, he sees Turkey resuming the role it has traditionally played in the region. The Turks will fill the gaping leadership void in the Muslim world, and act as a counterweight to Russian revanchism in the Caucusus region and the Balkans.

With this in mind, I was interested to read a recent post by Mustafa Akyol, here, on the Orthodox seminary at Halki. Akyol writes for the Hurriyat Daily News, a major Turkish newspaper, where this article first appeared. There are no breaking developments on the reopening of the seminary, though Akyol does present a good synopsis of the who and why of the Halki closure. What is of note, however, is that the issue is being publicly discussed at all. The fact that a noted Muslim writer would address the issue, and call for the reopening of this Orthodox institution, in an editorial of a major Turkish newspaper (and even quoting St. Augustine to boot) is of no little significance. He notes that "the Turkish citizens of the Greek Orthodox persuasion are our citizens, for God's sake, not the fifth column of someone else." This hearkens back to the old Ottoman approach, and not the secular Kemalist view. So maybe Friedman is onto something. At the very least, it speaks to the rapid transformation underway within this nation. Unlike Friedman, I am making no predictions here, but as my old dad used to say, "it'll do to watch" this Turkish transition into the big leagues.

Pascha in East Texas, 2009

On Pork-pie Hats, Nigerian Evangelists and Baptists in Boots

Sunday was one of those busy days. It being Palm Sunday, the day began with Divine Liturgy marking the Triumphal Entry of Christ into Jerusalem. At coffee hour, I enjoyed visiting with new friends visiting from St. Barbara’s in Fort Worth. He is a fellow Georgiaphile and she is Syrian, so there was much to talk about. For my wife and all the in-laws, however, it was Easter Sunday, which meant going home to host the traditional spread at our house. My son and I were able, however, to successfully maneuver this unLenten minefield of meats and buttery dishes, without calling undue attention to ourselves. Then that night, it was back to the mission for Bridegroom Matins. I really get into the services of Holy Week, but that is not the subject of this post.

Before heading home from church, I stopped by Starbucks to pick up some Sunday newspapers, it being the only place in town to find a NYTimes. I have, of necessity, drastically curbed this habit of late, but I still splurge about once a month on a Sunday Times. Three young people, of the sort that hang around Starbucks (musician-types, if you will) were standing outside smoking. I went in, picked up the Dallas and New York papers, visited briefly with my friend Matt behind the counter, and then left. As I walked out, only one of the young people was still hanging about, a man/boy wearing a yellow pork-pie hat. We spoke in passing, the typical “how’s it going,” and I walked on towards my truck. He called out to me as I passed, saying “so you didn’t go to church today, either?” I stopped and turned around, because I understood what he meant, and took it as a high compliment. I was in faded jeans, although my shirt was tucked-in, which is not always the case. I gather that he assumed that I had not done the “Easter-thing” because I was not suited-up. I turned back, and answered “well actually, I have.” I stood there and talked with him for probably 10 minutes or so. As he finished his cigarette, I listened to a convoluted tale of how he was originally from Indiana, had come down here because of a girl and because God was telling him it was the right thing to do, was involved in a band, had a job, lost it but had hopes of another, and was now living out in the country somewhere. Grant had been raised Pentecostal, and had actually been to church that morning, thinking that he needed to do so that day. He had gone with a friend to a local Metro Church, but found the Easter service so lame he could not stay, and so left and found his way to Starbucks. Mainly I just listened, but at one point I asked if he was thinking (about the service) that “there had to be more to it than this.” He agreed. I told him what I was and he had never heard of such, first assuming I was Orthodox Jewish. I explained very briefly—for this was not a time for a history lecture. I gave him a card from our mission, told him to contact us if we could ever be of any help, and offered up some variation of the standard Orthodox “come and see” approach. I asked Grant if he had any cash, and he said he didn’t and didn’t want any, but I gave him some anyway. We said goodbye and God bless and I went on my way, and he into Starbucks. There are worse ways to spend your cash. There is something about a chance encounter like this. It is not as if the spotlight has been suddenly turned on us, but rather, it is as if we have been in training, and in training for times such time as these--and you come away hoping you didn’t blow it too bad. For me, these are the times when I really have a sense of the spiritual world all around us in which we live and breathe and move--the cosmic drama in which we play our part.

After dinner and before the Bridegroom Matins, I worked my way through the newspapers. With my talk with Grant fresh on my mind, two articles caught my attention. The first was Andrew Rice’s Mission from Africa in the Times Sunday Magazine, here. You don’t expect sympathetic treatment of religion in the Times, particularly the Sunday Magazine. Rice has spent quite some time with the Nigerian-based Redeemer Christian Church of God. Other than quoting 3 times from Philip Jenkins (usually a good indication that a particular article is not a serious inquiry), I found his story to be balanced and insightful.

Founded in the 1950s by Josiah Akindayomi, who after a vision, passed off leadership to charismatic Pastor Enoch Adeboye (known to the faithful as “Daddy G.O.”), the RCCG is at the forefront of a global religious phenomenon, emanating in the Southern Hemisphere, now washing up on our shores. The church claims adherents in 100 nations and is staking a claim on the U.S., as well. In fact, the denomination even has a Texas connection, the church’s continental headquarters on a 550 acre site in rural Hunt County, where “church officials plan to develop…a mixed-use community, with homes, stores, a university, a commercial fish farm and perhaps even a water park.”

While Rice notes the “Africanization” of the Pentecostal movement, he detects how they have adapted themselves to “the modern forces of global crosspollination,” or as Adeboye boasts: “Made in heaven, assembled in Nigeria, exported to the world.” And the church is making inroads among some groups in the U.S., where Adeboye sees “an emptiness in man that can only be filled by God.” In fact, one of their pastors notes that “everything is Americanized.” This, however, is not always a recipe for success.

Church leaders are quick to contest any suggestion that they preach the “prosperity gospel” extolled by American evangelists like Creflo Dollar, which teaches that God will grant material wealth to those he favors, but whatever distinction they’re making is small. (“I am not a prosperity preacher,” James Fadele said at one sermon I attended, “but I am rich!”) Redeemed pastors routinely petition God to transform their followers into millionaires, members are encouraged to tithe and the Sunday collection is accompanied by joyous fanfare. At various events I attended, I heard Fadele ask members to raise money to help Adeboye buy a private jet (which duly arrived in March) and to sign up to accompany the general overseer, at a cost of up to $8,500 a person, on a coming pilgrimage to Jerusalem, which is to feature luxury hotel accommodation and a re-enactment of the Last Supper.


















Indeed, the RCGG has become so Americanized that their Nigerian pastors often harken back to the founding fathers of the nation, praying that the country will return to its “old glory.” Another exhorted his congregation: “This is our Jerusalem! Father, restore the old glory back to our nation.” still another prays, "I am not an American by chance. I am in this country of plenty because you have a plan for me.”


The front page article, here, in the Sunday Dallas Morning News was also tied to religion, chronicling the continued growth of the Texas-born “Cowboy Church,” now expanding throughout the South, West and Midwest. I don’t want to continue to “beat a dead horse,” for I have commented on this group years before, here. On the surface, they appear to be on the opposite end of the American Religiosity Mall from the Redeemer Church folks, but on closer examination, appear to be selling much the same wares. Long a novelty, cowboy churches have in recent years become a bona fide, Texas-based movement, showing strong growth in congregations, attendance and baptisms even as much of denominational Christianity in the United States is losing ground.

I learned a few things I didn’t know about the Cowboy Churches. First, they are directly supported by the Baptist General Convention of Texas (the BGCT.) The Cowboy Churches are, in short, Southern Baptists in boots. They number 136 churches in Texas, with a new one opening every week. According to the writer, they offer “simple Bible-based sermons and live country music,” where “pastors further set the tone by wearing cowboy hats, doffed only for prayer.” The most disturbing bit of information however, was learning that most services concluded with that old Roy Rogers-Dale Evans chestnut, “Happy Trails.” Sermons are kept short, for as one pastor noted, “they’re not going to sit there for very long....We try to be in and out in an hour.” (Orthodox Christians, particularly here during Holy Week, are allowed one derisive snort at the unintended humor of this last remark.) These factors, and others, indicate that one has not exactly waded off into the deep end of the pool at one of these gatherings.

There are other tidbits—the writer seems to find it unique that they use horse troughs for baptisms (which are not at all unusual to this Orthodox Christian.) The more important factor, however, is that the church is in the baptizing business. Though it accounts for only 2% of the BGCT membership, it supplies 10% of new baptisms. Interestingly, 70% of these baptisms are of adult men.

Still, I have to admit that I just don’t get it. They claim to “celebrate Western culture while trying to reach both cowboys and tenderfoots with an unpretentious and nonjudgmental approach...people who have a problem with the traditional church.” As one pastor concludes that "what we’re really shooting for is to keep the riffraff in....We tell people to come as they are, and buddy they do.” These are admirable sentiments, I suppose, but what I think they have done is to build a straw man which they use as justification to fashion church the way they want it. One can always find a stuffy church in which one is not particularly welcomed. But in my 27 years as a professing evangelical Protestant, I never felt the constraints of any unreasonable dress code. Men (or women) in casual western dress would have drawn no particular attention at all.

It seems that members have largely constructed a church around the lifestyle they enjoy, or the image they wish to project. “I’m doing everything I want to do…and I am doing it as a Christian,” said one. Maybe I’m wrong, but I thought that was a big part of being a Christian, that we not get to do everything we want. Another just likes Western dress, music and movies, stating that “if there’s a Western movie on, my TV is on.”

But one of the pastors let out a secret that I have long suspected. He concluded that “of the 700 people who go to our church, there’s probably not a dozen that I could bring out to the ranch and could actually help me some....The rest I’d make sit in the truck.” Even this percentage may be as overstated as some of the old OCA membership statistics, for most are just people who like to dress western and drive a truck. In short, the church seems built upon little more than a fashion statement. I make no claims to cowboydom, but my dad was a real cowboy, from a part of the state where that was the norm (which is to say, not from around here.) I know the real thing when I see it.

If the Redeemer Church and the Cowboy Church were my only choices, I’m not exactly sure what I would do. The singing of “Happy Trails to You” would probably be an insurmountable hurdle for me, though. Chances are, I’d chuck them both and go hang out with my friend in the pork-pie hat.

More on Obama in Turkey: Meeting with the EP

Good story and photos, here:

ORA ET LABORA: Obama and Halki

File Under "You Can't Make This Stuff Up"

The BYU student newspaper recently ran a story regarding the LDS Church's leadership, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. Their caption, however, read "The Quorum of the Twelve Apostates." As they say, from the mouth of babes and college students. Read it here.

Obama Does Istanbul

'


Photos of the President's visit to Turkey, here, with related stories.

One of Obama in the Haghia Sophia:



















And this one, meeting with religious leaders:




















Indeed, Obama went out of his way to reach out to religious leaders of all stripes during his visit to Turkey. Here, he meets with, from left to right, Syrian Orthodox Archbishop Yusuf Cetin, Grand Mufti of Istanbul Professor Mustafa Cagrici, Chief Rabbi of Istanbul Isak Haleva and Armenian Patriarch for all Turkey Mesrob II Archbishop Aram Stesyan.

Pan-Orthodox Sermon by His Beatitude Metropolitan Jonah

Delivered at St. Seraphim Cathedral, Dallas, TX on 5 April 2009

http://video.yahoo.com/watch/4812572/12841013

Transcript, here.

Also, Rod Dreher's account, here.

Remains of St. Queen Ketevan may have been found

For all you Georgiaphiles out there, this is of interest:

Byzantine, Texas: Remains of St. Queen Ketevan may have been found


(h/t to Josephus Flavius)



Her story, here, and here.

Towards a Southern Orthodoxy

About this time every year, I embark on my annual ritual of propagating oakleaf hydrangeas. Back in the mid 1990s, we stayed at a bed-and-breakfast at the Monteagle Assembly, perched on the edge of the Cumberland plateau in south-central Tennessee. This hidden enclave's turn-of-the-century neighborhoods caught my attention, to be sure. But I was more interested in the profusion of oakleaf hydrangeas in full bloom. To this Texas boy, I had not seen anything so beautiful, and I determined that I would introduce them back home--for they are not native here. I started with two from a mail-order nursery. Later, I found a retired gentleman in the area who had started selling cuttings at yearly garden sale. I was his best customer for a few years. Now I take my own cuttings, having 45 plants in my own yard, as well as pushing them on friends, family and neighbors. Someone walking down our street would not know that these lush, exotic shrubs were not native to this area. They have taken root here in the redland soil of East Texas.

The concept of "taking root" is what leads me to the current topic. The status and future of Orthodoxy in America is a favorite subject of conversation among Ortho-bloggers, with opinions running the gamut from wild-eyed optimism to gloomy defeatism. I like to think I fall squarely in the middle, a clear-eyed realist who hopes for the best but is not surprised at the worst....but then I am self-deluded in other areas, as well.




Among American Orthodox, if you are susceptible to being twisted into knots over machinations at the top, or jurisdictional squabbles, or intra-jurisdictional infighting, then there are certainly developments out there to view with alarm. The OCA has come through a rough patch, much better positioned going forward, but not out of the woods just yet. The Antiochians are currently undergoing their own turmoil, the full ramifications of which, I am afraid, have not yet come to pass. And then, if that wasn't enough, the Ecumenical Patriarch's representative just lobbed a theological grenade into the midst of American Orthodoxy--during Great Lent, no less. But there will be no links, here, for that stuff is easy enough to find if you are seeking it. It is not that these things don't concern me. They do. But it is like fretting about the budget deficit, there is little enough you and I can do about it, and in the meantime, life goes on. We never really "solve" anything, but we do muddle through, somehow. By focusing on these larger concerns, if we are not careful, we may miss the real news here. In my view, this is the formerly hothouse flower of American Orthodoxy beginning to take root in American soil, and--slowly--taking on an indigenous nature. Admittedly, we are still well under the radar screen. Our numbers are small, and will probably remain so. But Orthodoxy is patient, and takes a long view of things. The Church is digging in for the long haul. Evangelism is on-going. The webs of connectedness between far-flung parishes, missions and monasteries are in place. I can't speak for other parts of the country, but it seems that the South is one of the most receptive regions of the country. Several bloggers I follow (religiously, in fact) have commented recently on the course of Orthodoxy in the South.

The Ochlophobist reports in from Memphis, here, with some observations on parish life in that city.

I attend a parish now where there are a number of folks who are quite community minded, and make deliberate efforts to foster community life in the parish. This oftentimes works in our parish. But I am not inclined to think that it works when it works because of convert zeal, or former Protestant paradigms, or such things. I think it happens to sometimes work in our parish because of two things: we have some key parish members who are perfect icons of Southern hospitality, and, we have a pastor who is holy, who loves people, and exudes that love in a particular manner that encourages folks to be inclined to look after each other. With regard to Southern hospitality there is a quality to it that helps with community life. For all of the eccentric and, frankly, annoying qualities of Southerners, when they take you in, they take you in like you are family, and they tend toward familial styles of loyalty. Thus if you are the weird uncle or the screw-up cousin, you still have a place at the table. They might judge you, they might speak to you in a condescending manner, they might gossip about you like there is no tomorrow, but once you are "in," they will always welcome you, your place at the table will always be assumed to be constantly assured, and they will stand beside you in your trials. If there is one quality that I love about Southerners, Delta Southerners anyway, it is that they generally do not look away from suffering in the manner of Midwesterners who tend to change the subject when suffering comes up, or to desire to quickly provide an "answer" to the suffering. But I digress. With regard to holy priests I don't know how this relates to community exactly. I will use my usual cop-out and suggest that perhaps some priests simply have a charism - communities build around them because a particular grace is present in the life of that priest.

Fr. Stephen Freeman has recently posted a number of articles pertaining to Orthodoxy in the South. The first, here, is a tribute to the pivotal--no, essential--role that Archbishop Dmitri has played in Southern evangelism. Next, he writes of "Orthodoxy and the Christ-Haunted Culture of the South," here. This is a great favorite of mine, as it include Fr. Paul Yerger's talk on Flannery O'Connor, and particularly her story, Parker's Back. I tend to go on a bit about this author. (Not everyone "gets" Flannery O'Connor, not even all Southerners. My theory is that these people must believe that Southerners are normal people like everyone else. As a fan of Dr. Grady McWhiney's Cracker Culture, I know that just underneath the thin veneer of hospitality, politeness and sweet tea lurks murder, mayhem and madness. Those that think likewise "get" Flannery O'Connor.) Fr. Stephen pulls it all together, here, in "Southern Orthodoxy: Personal Reflections." Finally, he notes the growth of monasticism , not just in the South, but in America as a whole. In my view, this development is essential, and with it we acquire a permanence that we would not otherwise have. This is also fresh on my mind, having recently visited Holy Archangels Monastery in central Texas, and also being aware of plans for the establishment of a convent in East Texas. Again, this is a very. good. thing.


And finally, just today I stumbled across what has to be my new favorite blog: Manhole Music Tea Room: Redneck Asceticism, with the coolest header picture. Any blog with a picture of "Parker's Back" (credit--America: National Catholic Weekly)in the header is a site I will be frequenting regularly. The blogger, who writes under the name Suleyman, chronicles his journey into Orthodoxy, by way of North Carolina. His posts are some of the best I've read anywhere, a veritable compendium of what it means to be Orthodox in the South.

In A Southern Orthodoxy, he observes:

First, I say southern culture because in my mind it is not only more germane to Orthodoxy than generic "American" culture, but I also happen to inhabit it and study it. Second, the very fact that Orthodoxy comes to us in a myriad of ethnic styles should give us heart, simply because Orthodoxy has changed wherever it has gone. Not in terms of theology, but in terms of its style. Let me be clear: I don't want Orthodoxy to make accommodations. There is no intent on my part to make Orthodoxy subject to the leveling impulse of the West. On the contrary, I intend to illustrate that the South is in many ways already almost Orthodox in its cultural leanings.

In The Building Committee, Suleyman addresses what an indigenous Orthodox temple in the American South could look like.

Suleyman's records his first Lenten Service in Parker's Back.

Antebellum Southerners on Orthodoxy is an eye-opening look at the ignorance, prejudice and presuppositions of our Southern forebears. I am surprised to find that they had any opinion at all on Eastern Christianity.

I saved the best for last--Suleyman's Men in Funny Hats. While working at a local Books A Million Store (a Southern Barnes and Noble), he engages in conversation with a black lady of the Pentecostal persuasion. And right there in the aisles of BAM, she lays hands on him and attempts to exorcise Orthodoxy out of him. Maybe this sort of thing happens outside the South, but I doubt it.

The woman confronts him about not speaking in tongues. "Then how do you know if you have the Holy Spirit?" she asks.

Suleyman:

How do we know anything? How do we know God exists and that He created all things? How do we know that Jesus Christ is His only begotten Son? Except apprehend it by faith? When people say things like "How do you know if you have the Holy Spirit?" or "How do you know if you're saved?" it upsets me. Because it's a preoccupation with salvation, with the signs of election, than with what really matters, and that is loving God. A believer should not be asking him/herself such things, but rather they must love God, love their neighbor, pray without ceasing, repent, rejoice, and give thanks. But most of all give thanks for the gift of salvation....I honestly didn't know how to react initially, but as the evening went on and I thought about her words they only further confirmed me in my decision to convert to Orthodoxy. I thought, what could possibly deter me from the True Faith, from the Church, in which is Life? "Unadorned worship," is no worship at all. Worship is rich and elemental; gold, smoke, fire, water, bread, wine. To me the very notion of not being baptized into the Church was foreign. For all of my life of being brought up Christian, I had Christ, but in the One Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church I have seen Him. I have come to the fullness of Him. I thought about the words that are sung after communion every Sunday: "We have seen the True Light, we have received the Heavenly Spirit, we have found the True Faith, worshiping the undivided Trinity, Who has saved us!" How do we know if we have the Holy Spirit? We eat the flesh and drink blood of Jesus Christ. I have come to the point on my journey where I think, why would anyone not want to be part of this?Perhaps only those who do not understand, or who have yet to "come and see." I wonder to what extent the ignorance of this woman with regards to the Orthodox Church - who I believe is a very sincere believer, and most certainly a much better Christian than I - is general among southern evangelicals?

Amen, brother.

Zacharia

Fareed Zakaria story, here.

Brose rebuttal, here.

Scoblete counterpoint, here.

Dr. Larison, here.

Kumbaya, Turkish Style

I don't know what other people do on youtube, but as for myself, I listen to Turkish music. I agree with my nephew who claims this makes me either incredibly well-rounded or very weird. The travel bank is busted right now, so listening to Turkish music is as close as I will get to the Bosphorus this year.

In so doing, I stumbled across this by Turkish recording artist and heartthrob Mahsun Kirmizigul. I am not exactly sure what to make of it. The concert appears to be some sort of Can't-We-All-Just-Get-Along affair, with a large crescent, cross and star of David dangling over the stage. But what really got my attention were the dignitaries in attendance. Prime Minister Gul and wife sat with a gaggle of Turkish officials. But right next to them was Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew himself. And next to him was a clutch of Syriac and/or Armenian clergy. A Sufi religious leader was thrown in for good measure. If Jewish leaders were in attendance, they were not front and center. None of them looked particularly comfortable to be thrown together in this manner. The first stanza goes as follows:

God is everywhere that solidarity and love exist

The number of ruthless people increase every day

World is surrounded by poverty and war

What do the Scriptures say about Evil?

Those who kill, discriminate, and torture people

And then everybody sings:

Are not one of us

You get the drift. I am not making light of this, for it is a good thing. These are noble sentiments, and another example of Turkey's maturation. But I guess my point is this: the EP and other clergy (and even the Sufi) can go home after the concert. The Turkish government officials need to stick around, however, and listen to the song a few more times. Maybe the message will sink in.

So, check it out. There are English subtitles for those whose Turkish is a bit rusty.

The iMonk et al on the Future of Evangelicalism

[Update: Soon after I posted this, I noticed that Fr. Jonathan Tobias and Ochlophobist had posted on the same article, here and here. Both are excellent. If pressed for time, read theirs and skip mine.]


James links to an interesting article in his "Obligatory Evangelical Collapse Post," found here. At least several weeks have passed since I last had an OECP, so I thought I would link as well. The article in question is a recent Christian Science Monitor story here by Michael Spencer, an evangelical who posts on the popular Internetmonk.com. The expanded version can be found in 3 parts, here, with 238 comments (and counting) that only confirm Spencer's thesis. In short, he foresees the coming collapse of evangelical Christianity amidst the rise of the post-Christian West. He notes several factors as reasons:



1. Evangelicals have identified...with the culture war and with political conservatism.



2. Evangelicals have failed to pass on to...young people an orthodox form of faith that can take root and survive the secular onslaught.



3. There are three kinds of evangelical churches today: consumer-driven megachurches, dying churches, and new churches whose future is fragile. Denominations will shrink, even vanish, while fewer and fewer evangelical churches will survive and thrive.


4. Christian education has not produced a product that can withstand the rising tide of secularism.


5. The confrontation between cultural secularism and the faith at the core of evangelical efforts to "do good" is rapidly approaching.



6. Even in areas where Evangelicals imagine themselves strong...we will find a great inability to pass on to our children a vital evangelical confidence in the Bible and the importance of the faith.


7. The money will dry up.



Spencer doesn't see this as a bad thing, necessarily, noting that much of evangelicalism doesn't need a bailout, but a funeral. And he is skeptical that anything will ever "shake lose the prosperity Gospel from its parasitical place on the evangelical body of Christ," concluding that "American Christians seldom seem to be able to separate their theology from an overall idea of personal affluence and success. "



Spencer sees the trend as benefitting the Catholic and Orthodox communions. Perhaps, but we should not take too much comfort from that. In his post, James notes that "if the future is as bleak as iMonk makes it out to be for evangelicals, well we should all be worried - or in faith NOT be worried."


That is exactly the point. The coming years will not be easy ones for Christian disciples of whatever stripe. Of all people, Orthodox believers should not be surprised by this. The deficiency I always detected in popular American evangelicalism--long before I ever entertained the notion of Orthodoxy--was that it was such a creature of the modern, contemporary world. There was nothing transcendent about it. It patently did not have the legs for the long haul. On the other hand, a church that has survived Romans, Persians, Arabs, Turks and Bolsheviks can certainly steel itself for what lies ahead, that "rough beast, its time come round at last."


Of course, the reformation impulse never dies and many evangelicals recognize the disease, if not the cure. Alan Jacobs, over at First Things, reviews 3 new works: The Tangible Kingdom: Creating Incarnational Community by Hugh Halter and Matt Smay, Finding Our Way Again: The Return of the Ancient Practices by Brian McLaren and New Monasticism: What It Has to Say to Today's Church by Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove. Jacobs describes these authors as a third generation of evangelicals who are seeking to appropriate some traditional Christian practices. To Halter and Smay this is the "incarnational community" (or "church" to the rest of us), to McLaren it is "missional" living, and Wilson-Hargrove seeks a "new monasticism." And while Jacobs characterizes the movement as both "deeply historical and vibrantly contemporary" (yes, God forbid we ever be anything other than vibrantly contemporary), he finds little of value in the books.



On Halter and Smay:



Their chapter on the history of the Church since the fourth century is called “The 1,700-Year Wedgie.” That neatly captures the book’s tone and its level of intellectual seriousness. If we can call this an argument, it’s a familiar one. From Luther’s time to our own, every generation of Protestants produces people who rise up to proclaim that the Church lost its way within decades of Jesus’ death, leaving the true gospel forgotten and unproclaimed until . . . well, us.


On McLaren:



It has the same fondness for sweeping historical generalizations and for charts that are just cleaned-up PowerPoint slides. He tells a lot of stories, some of them about fishing. (All these books may set out prescriptions for changing the world, but one verity they never question is the absolute necessity of having at least one-third of their text taken up by folksy anecdotes.) He has a fondness for sage statements that don’t add up to anything discernible.



On Wilson-Hartgrove



...set the bar for monasticism as low as Wilson-Hartgrove sets it and you might as well call a Christian college dormitory a monastic institution. Frugality, fidelity, and consistency are very good things, maybe even essential things, but they aren’t the same things as poverty, chastity, and obedience.


He pinpoints the flaw in their approaches, finding that these books and the general movement they represent constitute an attempt to borrow or transfer charisma: Ancient and monastic traditions of piety embody a community-building power and a devotional richness that these folks want to appropriate—but not at the cost of embracing either the doctrine or the authority of the Catholic Church or any other church....A key assumption of all these books is that the beliefs and practices of other traditions that we like are detachable and transferable: It’s a buffet, not a home-cooked meal.

Remembering Jamie (continued)

Several have expressed interest in the funeral homily delivered by Fr. John Mikita at the funeral service for James Wingerd. I have obtained a copy of the text, below:

Let the Little Children Come Unto Me....

Our Lord Jesus Christ tells us that in order to see the Kingdom of God, we have to become like little children, for the Kingdom is theirs. If you've been able to listen to the hymns we've been singing today for Jamie, it's clear that as a little child, he is truly in a blessed place, and in a blessed state, right now. As one innocent and undefiled, as soon as his precious little soul left his body, he was instantly in the paradise of the Kingdom of Heaven with Jesus and all the choirs of angels and all the saints. We have had to wait in our sorrow for this day, to lay his body to rest. But he has not been waiting. He has already been dwelling in glory – the glory of being in the presence of our sweetest Jesus in paradise. We might wonder what it means to go to paradise as a baby. Does he stay a baby forever? How does that affect the way he knows God? We usually associate knowledge with maturity, and wisdom with age. Yet the Psalmist says that God makes the infants wise. We think that to know God we've got to be able to read, and think, to systematize our well reasoned beliefs, and speak with sophistication. Jamie is a little child. These things were not yet part of his life. We mourn all that he didn't get to do, to see, to say, to know. But we cannot mourn about whether he knew or now knows the Living God. That much is certain. We baptized him at St. Barbara's, and he was chrismated, receiving the Holy Spirit, and he received every Sunday the Holy Mysteries of Christ's Body and Blood, not because we thought that someday he might know Jesus Christ. We did those things because Jamie belonged to Jesus already, and already he knew God in an ineffable way, in a manner too deep for words. Our relationship with God doesn't depend on the age or development of our brain. It depends on Him, our God, who formed us in the womb, Who knows and loves us perfectly, and Who knows the mysterious and painful path each of us must take. Jamie was just beginning to walk. But what is walking when in an instant he races to paradise – what is running when he can fly in the blessed realm. Jamie wasn't speaking full words and sentences. But what is speech, when the language of the Kingdom is silence? What is knowledge, and thoughts, and feelings, when in stillness he gazes beyond time into the Face of the Ancient of Days, and beholds in His eyes a perfect communion of love, and in an instant he knows and understands all that really matters. He dwells now with the God Who Is. Our God is not the God of the dead, but of the living. And in Christ the veil separating us is much thinner than we would believe.

If we find ourselves asking why this happened, then we must face the only real answer God gives us: His Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, hanging on the cross, despised and rejected of men, giving His life for the Life of the world. God never explains away our pain, our sorrow, our suffering. He never dismisses them with “reasons”. He enters into our pain and suffering, and bids us follow. Deny yourself, and take up your cross, and follow me. This is the mysterious life of the Christian. This is the Way that seems foolish to the world. What we seek now, in this life, is not the end of our mourning. We should mourn. What we seek is the transformation of our mourning by the Grace of His Cross, where sorrow and joy coexist in us as they did in His Holy Mother, our Theotokos and Panagia, who in silent weeping watched her own son die that we may live – who let Him go His own painful route, so that He could do what He was sent by His Father to do. Our task after this shocking and tragic accident is to live each day by grace, to seek the face of our Lord in and through our suffering, for that is the only place He will be found. And to come to that place, at the foot of His cross, and in the bright and never ending Light of His resurrection, where the radiance of His joy and peace wells up through our sorrow singing Alleluia, and in humility and love we know that all is well.

To see the Kingdom of God, we must become children. Jamie is not less in the Kingdom of Heaven for being a child – he is infinitely more. We will miss him. We will mourn him. Let us also take comfort that, in him, as one pure and innocent, we have a new intercessor in the heavenly places, one who took each one of us whose faces, and voices, and touch he knew, kept in his heart and mind, to his God and our God; to the God who is with him, and the God Who is with us.

Remembering Jamie

This is the hardest post I have ever tried to write, an attempt to articulate what I have experienced since the death of my little friend Jamie on March 3rd. I remember grieving over the loss of my parents, my in-laws, my brother, a favorite uncle and countless relatives and friends, but nothing prepared me for this. Jamie died in a freakish accident at only 14 months.

Let me tell you about Jamie. He, his parents, uncle and older brother are members of our parish. When people speak of a certain family as being the “backbone” of a congregation, they are talking about people like Jamie’s family. His dad is my son’s godfather, and I am Jamie’s uncle’s godfather. Jamie was simply the sweetest, most charming child I have ever known. He was always happy, with a ready smile for everybody. For some reason, he took to me (most children do not) and was content for me to hold him. But then, Jamie loved everybody. He liked to play with my beard and try and poke his finger in my mouth. Jamie particularly loved the icons in our church. I would walk him around to each one and he would point to them, one by one. He never tired of it.

Last week would have been my favorite week of the Orthodox liturgical year. We began with Forgiveness Vespers on Sunday, and this would be followed, of course, by the Great Compline and the Canon of St. Andrew of Crete every night for the rest of the week. I just love these services. For some reason, I didn’t hold Jamie at Monday night’s services. My son John did, however, and I recall smiling and making faces at Jamie from across the room, trying to get him to laugh at me. As we were leaving the churchyard that night, his dad asked me how I liked his new pajamas, and I off-handedly replied that Jamie would be cute even if he were wearing a paper sack, as I got into my car. I received word of his death about mid-morning the next day.

Somehow, we continued with our services through the week, even that Tuesday night. But in looking back, the question is not so much how we did that, but rather, how could we have made it without the services? The familiar chants, such as “Christ is with us,” or our hymn “Oh Lord of hosts be with us, for beside Thee we have no other helper in adversity, Oh Lord of hosts have mercy on us,” took on meaning we could have scarcely imagined before.

For a variety of reasons, the funeral could not begin until the following Sunday. Jamie’s parents were with us for Divine Liturgy that morning. Visitation was from 2-4, and from 6-8 that afternoon, with a Panikhida beginning at 7:30. The crush of people in the first session consisted primarily of non-Orthodox extended family and friends. I am sure many of them wondered about those of us, standing next to the casket, who took turns chanting from the Psalter, as they chattered away about who brought which flowers, in the way Protestants generally do funeral visitations. The last visitation session was decidedly more hushed and Orthodox in flavor, as friends and priests started arriving from Ft. Worth and Houston. This was my first Orthodox funeral. I am used to the beauty of our services, but nothing prepared me for the Panikhida.

With the saints give rest O Christ to the soul of Thy servant where there is neither sickness nor sorrow, and no more sighing, but life everlasting.

Thou along art immortal, Who hast created and fashioned man. For out of the earth were we mortals made, and unto the same earth shall we return again, as thou didst command when Thou didst fashion me, saying unto me: earth thou art, and unto the earth shalt thou return, wither we mortals all shall go, our funeral lamentation making the song: Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!

The next morning, our priest and we pallbearers returned to the funeral home. We processed to the hearse, carrying Jamie’s casket, and then began the 30 minute journey to our church. When we pulled up into the churchyard, we were amazed to see the number of people assembled there. And yet, all of these mourners, largely non-Orthodox, managed to wedge themselves into our small sanctuary. There were easily 125 people in attendance.

The Orthodox do not twist themselves into knots over “why bad things happen to good people.” We do not deny pain and suffering, though we are human, and the swiftness and severity of it sometimes takes our breath away. The Orthodox funeral service reflects this reality. In the sermon, Fr. John reminded us that little Jamie, even at his young age, already knew Christ, he had already received Christ, in the same way that we all must do. The service at the church ended with the Last Kiss. The Orthodox, and those others who wish, process by the casket, venerating the cross, and kissing the deceased on the forehead. I was apprehensive about this, not due to any qualms I had, but rather recognizing my attachment to Jamie. But the Church is wise, and knows what it is doing by having this in the service.

After the service ended, those of us who were going to the burial left from the church fairly quickly. Jamie was to be buried in the cemetery at Holy Archangels Monastery in the Texas Hill Country north of San Antonio, some 290 miles distant. But this is Texas, and we do that sort of thing here. Some in our church had prepared sack lunches for all making the drive, as we would not have time to stop and eat if we were going to reach the cemetery before sunset.

The topography of the Texas Hill Country differs markedly from our leafy East Texas environs. The land there is rocky and rugged, dotted with gnarly live oaks and cedars. Substitute olive trees for the live oaks, and it could pass for most any Mediterranean setting. The monastery itself never fails to impress, with its exquisite church, and near-completed monastic complex that could easily house 100 monks.

All was quiet save for the wind blowing and the sound of rock doves cooing in the distance. Slowly, the monks strode through the grove and assembled around the grave. The burial service itself was in Greek, and relatively brief. Unlike Protestant funerals where the family is shuffled away before the casket is lowered, we remained huddled around the grave as it slowly descended. Then, we each took took a shovelful of dirt from a wheelbarrow and poured it on the casket. Nothing is denied. Nothing is left undone. We had buried the body of little Jamie.

The monks invited us to a meal at the refectory, and then offered a tour of the church and grounds for those interested. We spent the night at a little tourist court at a neighboring town, and headed back on Tuesday morning. When we arrived home that afternoon, I think we were different people than when the journey began a week earlier. While we would never choose this method, the fact is that our young mission had “jelled” as a true parish. Certainly before we were people who loved God, loved each other, and loved to worship. That is true. But this had thrown us into each other’s lives in a way we could have not imagined. Those of us who accompanied this grieving family through this week know what I am talking about, even though they may find it hard to express in words, as I certainly do.

Andrea Elizabeth and David Bryan have each written with eloquence about Jamie on their blogs, here, here and here. I encourage you to read their observations.

May his memory be eternal and may he pray for us.