Entrances and Exits

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.

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...

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.

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.

From one desert to another...packing for St. Vlad's

For the one of you who has followed this brief blog in the past, I have not died, nor have I been detained somewhere. I am healthy and alive, if not tired and moving toward emotionally drained (to use a dramatic phrase).

I have refrained from posting for some time in an effort to protect my (former) position at work. In March of this year I was accepted into the MDiv program at St. Vlad's, and I didn't want to spill the beans until I was in a position to deal with the possibility of losing my job over such an announcement.

As it turns out, I seemingly had nothing to fear. I worked out my time at Habersham Furniture, and finished on very good terms with my employers.

What started out as a job that I dreaded with all of my being (see some of my earlier posts below) eventually turned out to be a great blessing and a wonderful "desert experience". When people say that "God knows best", quoting Job and the Psalms and St. Paul among others, they are right. It is so easy to try to tell God what to do in our short-sightedness, fear and pride. If I had had my way, I would never have entered the wonderful "desert" that was my work space at the factory.

What do I mean by "desert"? If you are Orthodox, you probably understand the reference to the desert as a place of solitary life where one engages in strong personal reflection, repentance and heavy spiritual battle. I am thinking, at this moment, mostly of St. Anthony the Great as the perfect example of such a desert battler. My desert was the factory, which God saw fit to send me into, and where I was (much to my surprise) able to spend even more time in inward contemplation of my own dim-wittedness and pride and falleness, and where I seemed to be able to hear God's voice so much clearer and feel His presence so much more profoundly. Of course, this was all His grace, and had absolutely nothing to do with my halting and self-centered efforts at being more "spiritual". Don't have any misconceptions of my candidacy for sainthood.

And now that I am leaving this desert, I find that I miss it terribly, and that the tears come very easily. These very real tears are, to me, a confirmation of the move that we are making to New York. God is compelling us to go, and we go not to escape something we don't want, but to engage what God is asking from us.

May God bless the wonderful, crazy, loud and funny assemblers, millers, sanders, finishers and supervisors that I worked with. May God bless all of you at Habersham for the last ten years of my life. May God grant you all many years, and may His light illumine every corner of that dusty and noisy factory, where I experienced the wonder of God's love and providence.

Life and Death and Life

I realized today that I completely neglected to blog about the passing of one of our family members in the first week of January, this year: Ladybug, our cat.

Ladybug, or "Bug" as she was actually referred to, turned 12 years old in 2008. We adopted her and her sister Spot (+2005) when we moved into our first home in 1996. They were both black cats from the same litter. Spot was part Manx (no tail), exceedingly affectionate, and seemingly mentally handicapped. Bug, however, was sleek, fast, feisty, and mean.

We have had numerous cats over the years. All of them had very redeeming characteristics to offset their less-noble traits. Most of them would be with us for about two or three years, and either they would die, run away, or we would have to give them up due to a move to a new apartment.

Bug, however, shattered all the old records. She refused to get sick, or to suffer at the hands...er, paws of the other neighborhood beasts (cats or dogs). She just kept going and going.

She was a mean and unpredictable cat, who would insist that you pet her at one moment and then claw you the next. She got worse and worse over the years, adding disgusting bodily functions to her demoniac personality.

As Kate and I were contemplating the prospect of moving to NY to attend seminary, we wondered what we were going to do with this horrible creature. We were opposed to putting her to sleep, as she was both shockingly healthy and we felt that we had something of a tangible obligation to this animal who God was using to teach us lessons about patience and forbearance. She was a part of our family, and you just don't put healthy members of your family to sleep. And, as I said, no one in his right mind would have agreed to take her in.

And then, suddenly, she died. We went away on a two day family trip, and when we returned we found that she was having a difficult time breathing, wouldn't eat or drink without our help; in short, she was dying. She wasn't sick, nor had she been sick. In fact, she was far too healthy and active for such an old, somewhat weather-beaten cat. But now, her breathing had become raspy and she was sleeping constantly and quietly. This began on a Friday, and by Sunday night she died.

The strangeness in this was that I had already said to my wife and our friends that if Bug died, I would take it as a sign that it was time for us to go to seminary. Now, I am not the sort that looks for signs or "puts out a fleece" to divine the Divine. But Bug's death was providential for us, I believe, and (to be perfectly honest) a real blessing. She was never a good cat, but she was our cat. The photo above is of her grave, which I dug 10:30 Sunday night under our oak tree in the back yard, in the rain after band rehearsal. The neighbors must have been suspicious.

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And then last week, our receptionist and friend at work, Evelyn Crumpton, died suddenly and incredibly unexpectedly. Life and Death.

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And then, just a couple of hours ago, I received a phone call letting me know that my friend (and fellow bandmate) Doug's mother had passed away just as shockingly, just as unexpectedly. Again, Life and Death.

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How do we put life and death in its place as believers in a resurrected savior? Do we try to tell the victims of this death in the family that "it will be OK", that their loved one "is with the Lord, so that makes this death OK"? Comfort them we must, but with Truth mingled with love, and without a denial of reality. To quote Peter Bouteneff from his presentation on Death at St. Vlad's a couple of years ago: "Death stinks." This was not and is not trite. Death may have been a part of the original order of the yet-to-be-perfected Adam and Eve, but it has become the "last enemy" and so very evil for so many of us. It brings us deep sorrow and blackness of heart and soul. It is waves that wash over us, like the waves of a perfect storm.

But in all of this, there is Christ, who walked on those waters and calmed those waves. Christ who himself died, and in death shattered the gates of Death, trampling down death by death. Christ Himself conquered death and waits for us as we pass through that door of death.

On this side of the veil, we weep for the loss of those close to us. We who are seemingly caught in the net of time, being weighed down by our perception of seconds and minutes and hours and days and years. We miss those who we are close to, and regret the time we waste not spent in becoming closer to them in Godly love and perfection.

So what do we say or do for those who feel the loss caused by death? I think that the only thing that we can do is weep when they weep, and rejoice when they rejoice, and be silent as much as necessary.

May the memory of Doug's mom and Evelyn be eternal, and may it remind us that our lives are a vapor and like grass that dries up and withers away. Let us not waste our time on anything less than that which will bring us closer to Christ.

Wooden Chalice; or How I Spent Monday Morning

Actually, the title should read, "How I spent my break times on Monday morning", just in case anyone was confused. I managed to do a little experimental wood turning while setting up our lathe for another set of turnings for work. I am trying to learn how to turn a wooden communion chalice.

The goal is to teach myself how to make highly detailed (small beads, coves, cutaways, etc.) turnings that are super smooth once they've been sanded. The biggest problem with making a chalice (as it would seem) is making a large enough hole in the top to receive a metal cup.

This particular sample was made out of rough alder, glued up into a block. It was quite a nice material to work in, as it turns out.

In the background is a liturgical fan (ripidia) prototype that I am working on, and also a dome that didn't make the muster, for obvious reasons.

This week's reading list: Living Tradition by Fr J Meyendorff, The Mystery of Christ by Fr J Behr

Listening to: selected recordings from 2009 Schmemann Symposium (Sr Vassa's presentation was very interesting, not to mention Fagerberg's and Fr Taft's)