Just something quick to mention here. I had my first opportunity to serve as an altar server during a divine liturgy at seminary this week. The Conception of John the Baptist. Things went fairly smoothly with only a couple of minor problems. I find it hard to set aside my perfectionist tendencies, even knowing that I will never be perfected otherwise. I desperately want the very thing that I can't have until I stop wanting it. Or said in another way, the thing that I need (perfection) will only be accomplished in me if I will simply die. And not simply die, but let Christ do my dying for me. Madness. Can't I even do the dying myself? Obviously, no.
I have had the opportunity to serve as assistant sacristan during the daily vespers services for the past week. My first night, a bishop decided to pop in (Archbishop Job, who, in my opinion is an excellent man and a true servant of God). I suddenly had a surreal moment on my hands. Here I was in the altar with a bishop, whom I have respected from a distance for some time. The priest celebrating the service is a monk and the former abbot of a monastery (another excellent man, in my experience), of whom I was familiar with (again, from a distance) before seminary and for whom I had deep respect. And in the back of the nave was Fr Tom Hopko, who gets a large chunk of credit for my family's conversion to Orthodoxy. He had introduced himself to me earlier that day on his way into the chapel, and I almost didn't know how to respond. I wanted to say so many things to him to express my sincere love for him as someone who was so instrumental in my conversion and in the growing of my faith, but it seemed best to simply say "I am very pleased to me you, father!", and leave it at that. Maybe he could kind of guess what I had in my mind...
Classes continue, my mind is stretched. I battle the hardening of my heart and the cooling of my love. Walking to and from the divine services seems like the best remedy for these things, as it gives some open time to simply pray.
Fall is so close, but summer struggles to keep its grip.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Three weeks on the other side...
I am rapidly exiting my third week of classes at the seminary. Some thoughts:
"This is difficult. Maybe more than I expected."
"What an amazing community and what amazing people surround me here."
"I don't want to screw up. Oh, too late."
"This can't possibly as complex as Professor _________ is making it."
"I feel like one of the slow kids."
"I get this! It's like the lights are all coming on!"
"Lord have mercy, lord have mercy, lord have mercy..."
I guess we find ourselves where we are, not in some other imaginary place that we might rather be. I tend to question my choices. The BIG life choices, most especially. As if there is some sort of divine retribution for good intentions gone awry. Everyday, I have to crucify my intentions and my desire to take the reigns and run with this thing. I am here and am offering my time, my studies, my community service and, indeed, my life to God. He is the only who can make something of this offering and my faith is that he will do so.
I have been so humbled by the depth and skill and sheer intelligence that I have seen in my fellow students. Not to sound pathetic, but who am I? I am not much more than a glorified factory worker. What am I doing in grad school, and who do I think I am kidding? The desire to fall into self-pity is strong, but to what end? To help me justify failure if it comes? To be able to tell myself and anyone else who will listen, "See, I told you so." Lord, have mercy. I am who you made me to be. Forgive me if I denigrate the gifts you have given, and help me to be courageous to use them to their full capacity. Use my humble origins as a lever to me me to love others.
I miss my corner of the factory...
"This is difficult. Maybe more than I expected."
"What an amazing community and what amazing people surround me here."
"I don't want to screw up. Oh, too late."
"This can't possibly as complex as Professor _________ is making it."
"I feel like one of the slow kids."
"I get this! It's like the lights are all coming on!"
"Lord have mercy, lord have mercy, lord have mercy..."
I guess we find ourselves where we are, not in some other imaginary place that we might rather be. I tend to question my choices. The BIG life choices, most especially. As if there is some sort of divine retribution for good intentions gone awry. Everyday, I have to crucify my intentions and my desire to take the reigns and run with this thing. I am here and am offering my time, my studies, my community service and, indeed, my life to God. He is the only who can make something of this offering and my faith is that he will do so.
I have been so humbled by the depth and skill and sheer intelligence that I have seen in my fellow students. Not to sound pathetic, but who am I? I am not much more than a glorified factory worker. What am I doing in grad school, and who do I think I am kidding? The desire to fall into self-pity is strong, but to what end? To help me justify failure if it comes? To be able to tell myself and anyone else who will listen, "See, I told you so." Lord, have mercy. I am who you made me to be. Forgive me if I denigrate the gifts you have given, and help me to be courageous to use them to their full capacity. Use my humble origins as a lever to me me to love others.
I miss my corner of the factory...
Sunday, September 06, 2009
The City, a Desert
I saw a book in our bookstore at the seminary called "The Desert a City", or something like this. I can't remember if that is the exact title, but it sounds right. I haven't read the book, as you may have guessed, but I have some theories about what the book might concern.
Today, my family took a trip into the city. That is, we took the train into New York City. It was an adventure, I suppose, and I should have enjoyed it, and in a sense I did. Unfortunately, it was difficult for anyone in my direct presence to see that I was enjoying myself as I had a very serious look on my face for most of the trip. This was coupled with the fact that I was not speaking much, except to gruffly address my wife and kids.
I find the city to be enjoyable in the same way that some folks find cave diving or participating in a triathalon to be enjoyable. It is a concerted effort. It is hard. It requires strength and energy. In other words, most people would say that I despise visiting the city. They would say, "Look at yourself! You are angry and tense!" Au contraire, mon frere.
I love the city! Who could remained unmoved by the sheer audacity of the man-made towers of Babel surrounding him everywhere he turns. What sensible person doesn't jump at the chance of being constantly subjected to violations of personal space that the NYC subways provide on a constant basis? And the noise, the rhythm of the city, the unending din of progress and the human spirit! I love the city!
The city is a desert in so many ways. It is a distraction and a turning away from God toward man. It is a crucible where a man is confronted by demons and passions of all sorts. It is the home address and headquarters for the arena and the spiritual battle. The city is like a desert. The kind of desert that St Mary of Egypt knew all about.
But it is a place full of faces, some of which are so beautiful and open and friendly to strangers, willing to chat and show love so quickly and easily that I feel deep shame at the walls I build around myself in order to keep others out. I build these walls to protect myself, to make myself invulnerable to the hecklers and to mistakes, in order to feel less like a 'tourist' and more like a cool-as-a-cucumber native (even though it is more than obvious that I am no native to beautiful NYC). I am a self-lover and wall-builder. I am a coward and a bully. I am a prideful, arrogant fool who decided to shoot first and ask questions later.
And the city taught me this.
Today, my family took a trip into the city. That is, we took the train into New York City. It was an adventure, I suppose, and I should have enjoyed it, and in a sense I did. Unfortunately, it was difficult for anyone in my direct presence to see that I was enjoying myself as I had a very serious look on my face for most of the trip. This was coupled with the fact that I was not speaking much, except to gruffly address my wife and kids.
I find the city to be enjoyable in the same way that some folks find cave diving or participating in a triathalon to be enjoyable. It is a concerted effort. It is hard. It requires strength and energy. In other words, most people would say that I despise visiting the city. They would say, "Look at yourself! You are angry and tense!" Au contraire, mon frere.
I love the city! Who could remained unmoved by the sheer audacity of the man-made towers of Babel surrounding him everywhere he turns. What sensible person doesn't jump at the chance of being constantly subjected to violations of personal space that the NYC subways provide on a constant basis? And the noise, the rhythm of the city, the unending din of progress and the human spirit! I love the city!
The city is a desert in so many ways. It is a distraction and a turning away from God toward man. It is a crucible where a man is confronted by demons and passions of all sorts. It is the home address and headquarters for the arena and the spiritual battle. The city is like a desert. The kind of desert that St Mary of Egypt knew all about.
But it is a place full of faces, some of which are so beautiful and open and friendly to strangers, willing to chat and show love so quickly and easily that I feel deep shame at the walls I build around myself in order to keep others out. I build these walls to protect myself, to make myself invulnerable to the hecklers and to mistakes, in order to feel less like a 'tourist' and more like a cool-as-a-cucumber native (even though it is more than obvious that I am no native to beautiful NYC). I am a self-lover and wall-builder. I am a coward and a bully. I am a prideful, arrogant fool who decided to shoot first and ask questions later.
And the city taught me this.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Silence is the new black...
Silence is golden. The sound of silence. "Be still and wait..."
It is late on Wednesday evening. My arm is bruised from three weeks of being pinched. I have to pinch myself often. I am sure that I am dreaming this life, living in New York as a seminarian. Then *pinch*! Reality, in all its many bold colors flashes and I find myself being coaxed to "engage".
If there is one thing that I have noticed since my move from a small, unknown southern town to this city, it is the amount of speed with which the natives move from here to there, and the amount of noise it takes to do that motion. I guess that would count as "two things" that I have noticed, not just one. I miss the quiet attitude of my small home town. I miss the general ease with which the locals converse, drive, eat, and so on. I swear that I will never again complain about the unnecessarily slow driver with the handicap license plate driving unnecessarily slowly in front of me. There is little patience here for the guy with the out-of-state tag on his car.
And so, silence. *pinch*!
I am sitting next to the dean of the seminary in total silence. He has just led us in a few moments of an abbreviated compline service in the low light of the chapel in the dark of the evening. A portion of the Gospel of St. John was read in the style of lectio divina, or holy reading, and we were allowed the opportunity of simply letting the Holy words pass through us and around us. Then...silence. In the silence, repeated very often, "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner".
What does it all mean? What am I doing here sitting with these incredible men and women? I don't deserve this. I shouldn't be here! This is not my place! How will I do this? How will I make it through—.
Silence. The chance to still the heart and fight the demons with prayer. A chance to face your...my...own lack of humility and fight it by slowly wading into the waters of death: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.
And then it is over. Venerate the icon, a whispered blessing from the priest, and out of the chapel into the night. We are leaving this space still each wrapped in his own silence, taking it back to our homes on campus like a candle that is lit and must be protected from the wind, unless it would be blown out. With every step we protect that flame of silence: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner. The prayer rope slides through one's fingers and we capture these moments, stealing them from our passions, fighting our own two-faced motives, fighting the demons that accuse us of our very-real hypocrisy. Who do you think you are? A saint? The demons rage.
Into the silence of an apartment where everyone is already in bed. The small candle flame of silence burns more brightly in the stillness. Some brief prayers before sleep.
It is late on Wednesday evening. My arm is bruised from three weeks of being pinched. I have to pinch myself often. I am sure that I am dreaming this life, living in New York as a seminarian. Then *pinch*! Reality, in all its many bold colors flashes and I find myself being coaxed to "engage".
If there is one thing that I have noticed since my move from a small, unknown southern town to this city, it is the amount of speed with which the natives move from here to there, and the amount of noise it takes to do that motion. I guess that would count as "two things" that I have noticed, not just one. I miss the quiet attitude of my small home town. I miss the general ease with which the locals converse, drive, eat, and so on. I swear that I will never again complain about the unnecessarily slow driver with the handicap license plate driving unnecessarily slowly in front of me. There is little patience here for the guy with the out-of-state tag on his car.
And so, silence. *pinch*!
I am sitting next to the dean of the seminary in total silence. He has just led us in a few moments of an abbreviated compline service in the low light of the chapel in the dark of the evening. A portion of the Gospel of St. John was read in the style of lectio divina, or holy reading, and we were allowed the opportunity of simply letting the Holy words pass through us and around us. Then...silence. In the silence, repeated very often, "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner".
What does it all mean? What am I doing here sitting with these incredible men and women? I don't deserve this. I shouldn't be here! This is not my place! How will I do this? How will I make it through—.
Silence. The chance to still the heart and fight the demons with prayer. A chance to face your...my...own lack of humility and fight it by slowly wading into the waters of death: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.
And then it is over. Venerate the icon, a whispered blessing from the priest, and out of the chapel into the night. We are leaving this space still each wrapped in his own silence, taking it back to our homes on campus like a candle that is lit and must be protected from the wind, unless it would be blown out. With every step we protect that flame of silence: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner. The prayer rope slides through one's fingers and we capture these moments, stealing them from our passions, fighting our own two-faced motives, fighting the demons that accuse us of our very-real hypocrisy. Who do you think you are? A saint? The demons rage.
Into the silence of an apartment where everyone is already in bed. The small candle flame of silence burns more brightly in the stillness. Some brief prayers before sleep.
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