In this book John Erickson gives a very nice summary history of where all of these ethnic churches came from, how they integrated with America (or didn’t), and who all the major players of the day were. He doesn’t pull any punches about the long struggles that the American churches have faced as they’ve grown. He details how events in other countries (especially the rise of Communist Russia) played a direct influence in the lives of American Orthodox Christians. He also talks about how the disputes between other Orthodox churches, such as between Russia and Constantinople, has directly affected the founding of groups like the OCA (Orthodox Church in America).

However, Erickson doesn’t leave us with only tales of the frustrations, but spends a good deal of time talking about the progress towards more unity and autonomy in the new century. He cites the explosive growth of churches such as the Antiochian church here in America, and it’s willingness to welcome converts, as well as the historic meeting in Pennsylvania a few years ago that helped to give some hope to American Orthodox for eventual unity. I believe that Erickson feels there is much room for hope in the future of the Orthodox church in the “new world”.

In this section Teresa wants to make a distinction between what she has been describing as spiritual union vs. spiritual marriage. She says that union is much like a betrothal. Two people are committed to being with each other, they’re lives are intertwined, but they are still separate and able to pull apart before the marriage is complete. She describes spiritual marriage as

But spiritual marriage is like rain falling from heaven into a river or stream, becoming one and the same liquid, so that the river and rain water cannot be divided; or it resembles a streamlet flowing into the ocean, which cannot afterwards be disunited from it.

This is the highlight and pinnacle of our journey to unity with God in our souls. To be so completely one with Him that we can no longer be separated, but are His for all eternity. It is in this state that the soul finds its rest and peace for all time with Him.

I want to spend a few moments to share a few thoughts on my experience of reading this work. As all have noticed, my entries have become much shorter as the book has gone on, and I apologize for that. However, I need to admit that finishing this book was like pulling teeth. There was very little desire to see this book to the end, and this was due to a couple of overarching problems. First, the writing craft was terrible. Perhaps a great deal of this was the translation, but the amount of random tangents, only to return to the topic paragraphs later really distracted from me learning the message of this book. In almost every chapter there was some path off into some other topic that she would start rambling about before finally saying, “Oh ya, where was I…” This alone made the book a burden to get through.

Secondly, in the area of the content, it was hard to relate to where Teresa was going as we got deeper into the mansions. The initial topics seemed to have a real relevance to our external life as believers, but once we hit mansions 4 or 5 it started to focus almost exclusively with the interior meditative life. This is all well and good, and a fruitful thing, but it’s not something that most of us can relate to, or even strive for.

So even though this hasn’t been quite what I intended it to be for my column here, it has been an ‘experience’. Her thoughts on the issue of redemptive suffering were good and are a topic that I think we don’t talk about as much as we could today. However, I think I might look at some other authors for my readings about spiritual life, such as St. Francis de Sales work called Introduction to the Devout Life.

…because so delectable a pain can never be bestowed upon the soul by the devil: he can give pleasures and delights which seem to be spiritual, but it is beyond his power to unite pain — and such a great pain! — with tranquility and joy in the soul; for all his powers are in the external sphere, and, when he causes pain, it is never, to my mind, delectable or peaceful, but restless and combative.

So the sufferings that are endured in this arena are those that also bring joy and peace in Christ. They’re not trials that come from the devil, but are experiences that temper and mature the soul for it’s journey to marriage with Christ.

To reflect on this for myself, I have to say I have a hard time with the ideas that Teresa is trying to get at here. She seems to be presenting a path of prayer that brings the soul closer to Christ, and in doing so we engage so fully in the suffering of Christ that we begin to experience His suffering in our life, physically. Although I can see how people who are delving deeply into the mystical paths of prayer that this might be something they experience, but I’m to the point where I think Teresa has left the common man. Perhaps we all have the ability to engage Christ as deeply as she’s presented here, but I don’t think it’s very common or usual in the life of the modern believer.

So what can we learn from this, despite the feeling that it’s beyond where most of us will be? What I take from this is more insight into the nature and place of salvific suffering. The idea of being bound to Christ’s suffering, no matter our place and time in life. Experiencing the suffering of Christ isn’t something that is easy to do, and I confess as to not fully understanding how Teresa’s explaining how we experience it. But, to experience that which Christ took on himself for our sake is certainly a noble pursuit in whatever way of our life that we can seek it.

In the fifth mansions we’re approached our prayer of union with God. It is in this place where we are approaching true union with the divine. Unlike previous mansions, we’re fully and completely aware of our union as well. We recognize that our experience with God is real and true, and not a dream or an illusion.

In order to understand this state more, Teresa uses the analogy of a silkworm. A silkworm lives it’s life devouring the mulberry leaves and seeds. At a certain point the worm begins to form its cocoon, and the process of a new life as a butterfly begins. Teresa emphasizes that this is how it is in the fifth mansion. The mansion is our cocoon in which we unite with Christ, renouncing our selfish ways and coming completely into Him. This is a deep intimate connection with God and it requires complete selflessness.

However, Teresa does take the next step, and one that I was glad to see her take, stating that this union is pointless if it does not encompass our mission to our neighbor.

The surest sign that we are keeping these two commandments is, I think, that we should really be loving our neighbour; for we cannot be sure if we are loving God, although we may have good reasons for believing that we are, but we can know quite well if we are loving our neighbour. And be certain that, the farther advanced you find you are in this, the greater the love you will have for God; for so dearly does His Majesty love us that He will reward our love for our neighbour by increasing the love which we bear to Himself, and that in a thousand ways: this I cannot doubt.

The point here is that love of God and love of our neighbor go hand in hand. As we show love to our neighbor we grow closer to God. As we come into union, and deeper love with God, our hearts move to love and help those around us. It’s really the main point of all of our faith and Teresa sets it here in her fifth mansion.

Our faith is not an individual act. We may be able to attain great spiritual depth and enlightenment through our meditation and prayer to God, but until that love affects us to continue Christ’s work in the world, we’re missing the point. It takes a community of people for faith to flourish. People to serve, and to be served by, so that we can continue to show love to one another. That’s the heart of the message of deeper spirituality. If we want to grow in our union with Christ… grow in our service to those around us.

Spiritual consolations however, are those things that come to us from God. This is the joy and passion that overcomes us as a free gift of God, and for no reason of our own works. Teresa compares the two as two fountains. The first gets it’s water through a system of pipes and flows out into it’s basin as long as water is flowing through the pipes. The second fountain is built on the source of the water itself. The flow is ever constant from the source, and its basin fills and overflows of its own accord. This is the state of spiritual consolations, a place where God’s love penetrates our soul and we feel happiness and peace as a gift from Him. Teresa describes it as such:

To the other fountain the water comes direct from its source, which is God, and, when it is His Majesty’s will and He is pleased to grant us some supernatural favour, its coming is accompanied by the greatest peace and quietness and sweetness within ourselves — I cannot say where it arises or how. And that content and delight are not felt, as earthly delights are felt, in the heart — I mean not at the outset, for later the basin becomes completely filled, and then this water begins to overflow all the Mansions and faculties, until it reaches the body. It is for that reason that I said it has its source in God and ends in ourselves — for it is certain, and anyone will know this who has experienced it, that the whole of the outer man enjoys this consolation and sweetness.

Teresa then explains that the path to this is through what she terms the Prayer of Recollection, a type of spiritual praying where we give ourselves to the love of God. It is a type of meditating on God that asks us to quiet our questioning minds, yet not let go of our ability to understand and listen to what God is trying to speak to our hearts. It’s a process of “absorption” into the presence of God, though still not complete union which Teresa talks about later. Then in this state of listening to God we can experience a form of happiness and spiritual consolation that is so powerful that it can affect our physical state. Teresa even goes to far as to caution people who are not able to handle this type of connection, as she has witnessed their health failing from exhaustion.

As I personally reflect on what is being taught in this chapter, I start to understand why Teresa is considered one of the writers in the mystical tradition. She is seeking after a spiritual state that is alien to many people, except perhaps those who have lived in the Charismatic worldview. Like people in the Charismatic world, she is seeking after a deep connection with the Divine, a union that brings about incredible happiness and peace. While Charismatics see this connection as being specifically with the Spirit, Teresa doesn’t make this distinction, and simply asks that people let God flow in them like the overflowing fountain she described before.

I think  one of the very positive things that the Mystical tradition, and even the Charismatic tradition, can teach us, is that sometimes we need to experience God in a way that doesn’t involve reasoned understanding. Too often we can find ourselves over-thinking our faith life, and our thoughts become so noisy in our head that we can’t hear what God is really trying to say to us. However, as Teresa states, that path to the heart of the soul, and deep union with Christ, involves receiving the gift of God’s presence. It’s not something that we can attain through our own works, but it is something that we can open ourselves up to receive.

I believe that, through His goodness, there are many such souls in the world: they are most desirous not to offend His Majesty; they avoid committing even venial sins; they love doing penance, they spend hours in recollection; they use their time well; they practise works of charity toward their neighbours; and they are very careful in their speech and dress and in the government of their household if they have one.

Teresa’s main caution for people at this level is one of pride. For many at this level they don’t understand how to deal with trials that are sent from God. They suddenly encounter a crisis of faith when they encounter trouble, and in their mind, all of their works of charity and penance make them feel like they should be free of those trials. Teresa comments to her pupils that there is little that can be done for these people, because they can’t fathom why they should be suffering.

It is this feeling of entitlement that is what separates these souls from those higher in the tower, closer to Christ. They have accepted the role of living a pious life, seeking after Christ in all they do. Yet, they still consider all of these works as a way to avoid hardship. However, as Teresa states:

For we have offended God, and, however faithfully we serve Him, it should never enter our heads that we can deserve anything.

As I reflect on this chapter personally for me, I can’t help but think, “I’m never going to even get this far….” The idea of living a pious and righteous life (even only outwardly) in our modern world seems hard to attain. I feel like there is so much in this world that can pull us towards sin, or even just general unkindness, that we may have it a bit harder today than Teresa did. Yet, I then think about some of the people I’ve known in my life, especially in some of the older saintly people, and in them I see a model of this type of life. So, from that evidence I have to assume it can be attained. These are people who I see living a life of devotion to God, and service to the world, and it makes me humbled.

The other thought I wanted to comment on is her statement about pride. Our culture too often gives us this feeling like we “deserve” good things in life, and Teresa states flat out that this is a lie. We deserve nothing, everything we have is a gift. It’s something that I’ve heard people say to me, that they deserve a certain something because of things they’ve been through. However, that’s not reality, and it seems to only lead to more and more disappointment. So as I continue to think about what Teresa has to say for us today, I need to continue to keep myself focused on two things.

1. The truth that everything is a gift, and we should be thankful for it.

2. A pious life is possible, but not without a great deal of work and humility.

First, someone expressed some confusion about the metaphor of the various mansions. What Teresa is doing is using an urban planning metaphor that people in her day would understand. In her time there were castles that were built for the kings/lords/noblemen, etc.,. These castles were surrounded by mansions that were built progressively outward from the castle. As you got further away from the castle you were further away from the king, and closer to the wilds of the world. Now, most of us today don’t live in castles, so the metaphor breaks down a bit.

The basic idea though is that Teresa wants to take us on a 7-step journey into our own souls. Before the journey we’re completely focused on the world, and after the journey we’re completely focused on Christ. She uses a metaphor that works for the people she was talking to, but if it’s something that just doesn’t make sense to you, then feel free to discard it or substitute something more meaningful. Something more modern might be to look at a 7 story office building. The bottom floor is where you enter from the world, and at the top is the CEO of the company. So we’re making a journey upwards in our building as we progress through each of the 7 floors.

Second, I want to mention that I was perhaps a bit too hasty in my last post, and as pointed out in the comments, didn’t phrase something particularly well, so I’d encourage my readers to read the comments from the previous post and understand that I wasn’t trying to say that Protestants don’t suffer, but that most non-Orthodox/non-Catholic theology doesn’t look at the idea of Redemptive Suffering, which is what Teresa has at the heart of her second mansion/floor. She wants us to realize that we have a responsibility to avoid falling in to sin, and that we too often shy away from fighting it because it’s hard, and we don’t like to suffer. Too often we also blame God for “not giving us enough strength”, which she refutes with the quote from my posting.

Finally, I want to just say a quick word about how my intentions for these reflections. In my first post I asked a question about how an inward spiritual life can affect an outward Christ-like life. To be clear, that’s my question, and not one I’m even sure if Teresa is providing an answer to. But I’m entering this reading with a mind towards seeing if any of Teresa’s wisdom touches on this topic.

Ok, back to regular posting. Just wanted to clarify a few things before we continued our walk.

In the second mansion described by Teresa , we have progressed deeper into the human soul, but not too deep. We are still in an area of the castle where the broods of vipers and wild animals (as she is so fond of talking about) can still enter and seek to bite us, in other words we can still be tempted to sin quite readily. However, in this second phase of our journey inwards, we start to see a change in intention. If prayer is the doorway in which we begin our pathway towards uniting Christ and our soul, then it is in the second mansion that we start to perfect our steps through the denial of sin.

Our primary concern in this portion of our journey is to understand how we can start to discipline ourselves to give up those sinful pleasures of life that can distract us from Christ. This often is neither easy nor what we’re used to in our modern worldview. We live in a culture that encourages possession, materialism and desire, and allows us to think that we can in fact have it all. Often it just seems too difficult to struggle against the prevailing winds of society, but that is what we are called to.

Something, however, that might seem counter-cultural to not just modern Americans, but even to various brands of Protestantism is this truth: that sometimes, God allows us to suffer in our struggles against sin. Suffering is a topic that is foreign to most modern Protestants (* see comments for more clarity on this statement), yet it’s a topic that we sorely need to remember. Too often when people come face to face with real adversity, and find that God doesn’t show up and snap His fingers and make everything right again, we come to a crisis of faith. A crisis for which much of what we read in Christian literature, has little to offer us in terms of hope. Many people have struggled in this torment, struggling with suffering, and simply decided to give up believing that there is a God that loves them at all.

This is a crisis of faith, brought on by our own desire to seek a path that is easier to walk. Yet, we can feel let down by God, that it was somehow His fault that we sinned… yet again. In a society that has come to devalue personal responsibility, it becomes so easy to simply push off our troubles on someone else. However, for a person seeking to grow deeper in their own self-awareness, and deeper into their journey into their very being to encounter intimacy with Christ… personal responsibility is what is called for.

I’ll leave this mansion with a quote from Teresa…

You may think that you will be full of determination to resist outward trials if God will only grant you inward favours. His Majesty knows best what is suitable for us; it is not for us to advise Him what to give us, for He can rightly reply that we know not what we ask. All that the beginner in prayer has to do — and you must not forget this, for it is very important — is to labour and be resolute and prepare himself with all possible diligence to bring his will into conformity with the will of God.

One of the questions I hope to examine as I walk with this book, is the nature of balance between inward spirituality vs. outward expressions of Christ-likeness. What is the balance to be found between seeking Christ inside oneself, and yet, not denying the mission of the believer to the world? How does the purity of Christ change oneself into an actor of his love in the world? These, and other questions, I hope to find some thoughts about in this classic work.

So to begin, let us examine Teresa’s first room, or first set of mansions in the castle. The exterior of our soul is the border between the sinful pull of the world, and the calling to a deeper life in Christ. Yet, even though the exterior, sinful world is able to penetrate this area, we are still in a state of salvation. This could be considered the baseline, the starting point as we journey towards a closer relationship with Christ. We’re seeking out deeper intimacy with Christ, yet we still struggle and fall with the world around us.

First though, there is the question of how we even arrive into this initial gateway of our soul. How does one open the door to the first mansions? The answer simply is prayer. Teresa writes:

A short time ago, I was told by a very learned man that souls without prayer are like people whose bodies or limbs are paralyzed; they posses feet and hands but they cannot control them. In the same way there are souls so infirm and so accustomed to busying themselves with outside affairs that nothing can be done for them, and it seems that they are incapable of entering within themselves at all.

Therefore it is through deep meditative prayer that one begins to be able to distance ourselves from the world around us. It is through the act of speaking and meditating on God that we begin to be able to separate ourselves from those things that seek to harm us and distance us from the center of God’s love. It is this that leads to Teresa’s second point, which is that the outer mansion is the place where we start to learn two very important ideals: self-awareness and humility. If we want to journey deeper into our soul we need to understand ourselves. We need to have an awareness about the sins we pray for protection against. We must be able to contemplate where we exist in our world, and where we are in relation to God.

It is this self-awareness that lends itself to humility. If we understand who we are, and where we fall, then we understand our own limits and abilities, and where we need to rely on the strength of God. However, this humility is not one of self-deprecation. Though it is good to deprive oneself of pleasures from time to time to help build self-control and refocus ourselves on Christ, when the deprivation, or punishment becomes the end to our means, we’ve missed the point. At the same time, we don’t engage in “humble acts” so as to make others notice us, so that we can boast about how humble we are. This humility we strive for is one of self-awareness, and desire for deeper communion with the Creator.

So this first mansion is a place of beginnings. A place of starting a journey and developing our awareness of our relation to God. It is in this place that we begin to take stock of our soul, and can begin to delve deeper, and closer to the light of Christ.

Today on a walk, I was listening to a podcast from a Franciscan friar about the history of Catholic hospitals. This again started prodding some thoughts in my head, that have been ruminating there for a while, about the topic of a Christian response to the healthcare debate in the United State. History shows that when it came to bringing healthcare to the people, it was the Christian churches (and religions in general) that led the cause, and in fact were the only source of health and healing for most people. As early as 325 AD, the Council of Nicea ordered that every town that had a cathedral, also must provide a hospital to care for the sick. This even developed into Christian monks helping to create some of the first mental health counseling treatments.

Healthcare activity in the church continued even into medieval Europe when Pope Innocent III expanded the role of the hospital in the life of the church, but as a public institution. He instructed the creation of a place where people could go to get care, no matter if they could pay, and where the monks and nuns of the church would carry out Jesus’ work to the poor and ill. Even today one can still see the mark of the church on many hospitals here in America with names such as St. John’s and St. Joesph’s.

This wasn’t just a Catholic idea however. In 18th century England, John Wesley, evangelist and founder of the Methodist socieites wrote a book called, Primitive Physick: Or, an Easy and Natural Method of Curing Most Diseases. Wesley understood that in his day, many people would see their priest more often than their doctor, and Wesley believed that priests should be taking care of people in a complete and holistic way, body as well as soul. So he wrote this small book as something that his ministers could carry with them as they traveled, and he compiled the best health knowledge he could find at the time and put it together in a quick and easy to read format.

So how does this little history lesson tie into the healthcare debate of the United States today? In a few different ways… When we look at the landscape of health care in our country we can see a few things. We can be proud that we have very advanced medical techniques available to help save lives. We can do amazing things in our modern hospitals. However, those hospitals are locked to those who can’t pay (beyond emergency services). My mother died years ago from cancer, and she was on public assistance for her healthcare. Even though one could make the argument that she might have gotten better care with a private insurance plan, the fact that she was able to get care at all was a blessing. It helped to extend her life much further than without the care. However, in my mother’s case, she was able to get coverage because of her disability. I wonder how someone in her shoes who didn’t have that ‘luxury’ would have coped.

It’s quite obvious that there’s a problem. Costs are skyrocketing, people can’t afford coverage, the current public options don’t cover everyone who needs coverage and our system doesn’t deal with societies underlying unhealthy lifestyle choices. We have a system that from all vantage points seems broken and on a continuing downhill slide. This is where my personal viewpoints enter into the equation and I need to ask a very simple question.

Where are the Christians in this debate?

For the most part, most Christians (particularly Evangelicals) have bought into the propaganda machines that tell them that Universal Health Coverage is a terrible idea, that its been tried in Canada and it’s failed, that we’re asking for long lines for care, and even the completely absurd notion that we will be allowing other people to tell us when we have to die. Yet, isn’t ‘health care for all’ what the Church has been promoting for over a thousand years? That as followers of Christ we should be be going to ‘the least of these’ and bringing the love of Jesus and the healing of our hands into their world? Yet time and time again in this debate, followers of Christ lose sight of the mission. And why shouldn’t they… it’s the reason we’re in this mess to begin with.

You see, the reason why people are opposed to Universal Healthcare is because it would mean the government would be running it. Why does the government need to run it? Because as modern Christians, we failed. We dropped the ball, looked away, and walked off from a life of service as followers of Christ in order to fulfill some fashion of an American Dream. We’ve decided that our freedom of individual choice is more important than Christ’s words to seek to help and heal the lost and hurting. We’ve elected to focus our time and energies inwards, developing our personal spirituality, without realizing that our spirituality is nothing if it doesn’t show itself in the world. Therefore, since the Church has decided that it is not in the business of healthcare, then someone else needs to step up to the plate. Right now, the only place that is in a position to have enough money and capability to provide Universal Healthcare is the government.

I’ve been a State government worker for 14 years. I know how bloated and slow and bureaucratic government institutions can be. However, things still get done, even if they’re not the way we want to see them done. Yet, as Christians, we’ve decided that healthcare (and education for many Protestants as well) no longer belong in the day to day activities of our religious life. So despite the fact that we’ve decided, willingly chosen even, to abrogate our responsibilities to some one else, that doesn’t change the imperative. Our faith is still a faith grounded on the teachings of Christ, that we need to help those who are sick and poor. If we can’t do it ourselves than we need to look to supporting someone or something else that will accomplish this. Just because we don’t want to do the dirty work ourselves, doesn’t change what Christ said. Just because we don’t like government, doesn’t change what Christ said. Just because we don’t want to ‘give up control’, doesn’t change what Christ said.

Christ said “truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you did it to me. (Matt 25:40)” As Christians… what are we doing… or not doing… to Christ? Today’s New Testament reading was from James 2, and I want to close with this passage for thought. As followers of Christ, let’s take a moment to truly consider where we’re standing in this whole healthcare debate. Think hard about what Christ teaches us about how we should treat those around us. I’m not a ‘pro-government-nazi’, so I’m not trying to say that the government is the only answer. But until the Church stands up to its responsibility as an institution of Christ on Earth, we need to seek out the best way to still carry out our mission in Christ.

What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him? If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled,” without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that? So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead. (James 2:14-17 ESV)

It seems you can take the Orthodoxy out of the culture, but not the culture out of the Orthodoxy.

When I say Orthodoxy, I mean its existence in the West; and by culture, I mean what the various facets of Orthodoxy brought from the motherlands. If you attend a Russian Orthodox Church, it’s likely going to be very Russian in its flavor. If Greek, then Greek. If Antiochian, very Middle Eastern and likely to hear Arabic being chanted hear and there. It seems inescapable and inseparable.

As an American-born convert to Orthodoxy (in the Antiochian archdiocese), I’m pretty ordinary as it comes — I love hamburgers and beer, I pretty much only speak English, can’t speak a lick of Arabic, and have a pretty ordinary scandahoovian upbringing. As far as my tastes and my interests go, although eclectic, I’m a minimalist when it comes to consuming music in other languages and such. I appreciate world music, but can’t say that I’m going to give up my American rock.

When my wife and I converted, the closest Orthodox congregation to us was just four blocks away, an Antiochian church that was planted here some 90 years ago by a group of Syrian immigrants. While most of the services are in English, Arabic is sung here and there and always used in the Matins before Liturgy starts. Once in a while I’m able to tolerate the Arabic, but most days it bothers me — I can’t understand what they’re singing or saying, I get concerned about any non-Orthodox, non-Arabic visitors we may have with us, and I just find it irritating that this congregation has been here for 90-some years and they’re STILL using Arabic in the services.

I think when I first started attending our congregation, my zeal for wanting to find Christ in Orthodoxy suppressed my angst with the use of Arabic in the services, but I’m afraid that those feelings aren’t going to go away anytime soon. So why not examine them, poke at them and give them a little light.

My godfather (who himself is of Egyptian descent) had told me once that the use of Arabic (or any “Motherland” tongue for that matter) was completely nonsensical and not consistent with the mission of the Orthodox church. When the Word was brought forth to Russia, they translated the Liturgy and their texts into Russian — and out of that region was born the Russian Orthodox Church. The same goes for other branches of Orthodoxy that we’re born out of the evangelism by the Apostles. They adopted that region’s language into the Divine Liturgy and all supporting texts and prayers.

One would have thought that when Orthodoxy was brought to America, that the Liturgy and the texts used within the Divine Liturgy, Matins and other orders would have been adopted in English — that instead of being a huddling zone for folks with a given ethnicity, it would have become a missionary-minded congregation. But as with anything where humans are involved, change is difficult, right?

I am really struggling with the culture club within Orthodoxy — and its especially ever present in churches of middle eastern descent (at least it is at my church). Why am I struggling with it? Several reasons:

1. I want to feel like this is home, a place where I have something to contribute and feel I’ve some ’stock’ in
2. Perhaps more practical, I’d like to understand everything that’s being sung and said
3. If I have friends or family that I want to bring to Divine Liturgy, I don’t want them to freak out when they hear Arabic, Greek, Russian, whatever
4. We’re in America — the “mother tongue” here is English. Can’t we just use that?
5. I don’t want to learn Arabic. Really, I don’t.

I’ll be honest, for every ounce of me that feels legitimately about this, there is an equal measure of selfishness to go with it. I am concerned about what visitors see and have to experience, but at the same time I just get really tired of hearing the Arabic. Really. So I’m at least willing to acknowledge my own selfish motive — I want to understand what’s going on, that’s all.

You may ask, “why not find an OCA church nearby?” Sure, why not? But that is hardly the answer to a much wider problem. While the Orthodox churches (of each given branch: Russian, Greek, Serbian, etc.) may be in unity and communion with one another, it honestly looks more like protestant denominations from the outside. Until the various factions of Orthodoxy in America unite together under one banner — The Orthodox Church in America — how can we say that we are one? How will we truly reach our neighborhoods that may not speak the mother tongue? How can people commune with God and one another when they cannot understand some of the words being used in the Liturgy? And while it may be fine and dandy to celebrate our cultural roots, would it not be isolating for the new converts who don’t share in that cultural heritage?

I ask these questions because I feel it’s necessary to. Though I feel in good standing at my church — I confess my sins regularly, try to give into and participate in the process of Theosis, and try to give more of my time, money, and talents to the Church — I feel like an outsider when my church starts getting nostalgic and celebrates its ethnic roots. I have nothing to contribute to an ethnicity that I don’t share, nor wish to dive into.

So what am I going to do about it? I’m going to learn the tones and help my godfather with the chanting up front — one more white guy to help with the English contingency. I also speak up when I can and where appropriate, “what about those who don’t speak ____” and being their advocate. But beyond that and prayer, I’m not sure what else I can do.

All I know is that culture issues is likely holding some back from attending (or returning) to the Orthodox Churches near them, and I would love to see that change. I would love to see it in my lifetime — all the Orthodox churches in America united under the OCA and adopt English as their language used. And if you must, have a service once a month (or more) that is spoken/sung in the mother tongue. My church did just that — but, um, they still use Arabic in the regular “English” Divine Liturgy. Go figure.

It was probably better that way.

I met with my long-time friend Jamison for lunch, huddled in an excessively air-conditioned diner, drinking coffee with some hope of waking out of the funk I’ve been in for the past several weeks. While I’d like to say it was more of a James Brown kind of funk, I’m sad to report it’s just your run-of-the-mill mind funk.

After talking about some nonsensical subject matter, I threw it out there: so I’ve been thinking, wondering what the sum of my life is supposed to be. After commiserating in our like circumstances and thoughts over french toast with sausage and eggs sunny-side-up, we just left it at the conclusion “we don’t know.”

To give a bit more background information and context, I have been largely indoctrinated and largely grew up with a western, evangelical mindset. The idea of having a purpose and a destiny was ingrained into me, so much so that it seems a never-ending pursuit: synchronicity between my purpose or destiny with my life (which includes vocation and free time). For quite some time, I had associated my musical pursuits as being a part of my destiny, part of who I am; and the desired outcome was of course a life-long career as a musician, songwriter and performer — and through that craft expressing my beliefs, perspectives, experiences, and feelings.

Why and to what end? To be noticed? To leave a legacy? To serve God through something I was good at and enjoyed? Whatever the answer, it has long been in my mind that my value and self worth was equated with what I was doing. And from that, it wouldn’t be out of the question for me to deduct, that if I am not doing much of anything at all, I have little worth or value.

Doing = being.

I know that’s flawed in every way, viewing my value and worth through the lens of what I do for a living and extracurricular activities and hobbies. But the reality is, is that is the reality of my thinking.

Prior to my conversion to Orthodoxy, I belonged to a church that held the mantra (or more accurately was their motto/slogan) our church is “…a safe place to discover your destiny in Jesus Christ.” You couldn’t make it a few weeks without hearing about your destiny. Now that’s not entirely a bad thing, but I think it fueled my dysfunction: being = doing. Next to our pastor, I was probably one of the most busy people in our church. Outside of my 30-hour-week job I was holding down, I was putting roughly 20-30 hours a week at church: maintaining our website, designing marketing and printed materials for them, leading practices sessions with the band(s), leading the music portion of the worship service (evangelicals would call me a “worship leader”), and during the Christmas season contributing my creative services to the annual Christmas pageant.

I was busy. Very busy. And residing subtly within the recesses of my heart was this idea that I had to be doing things to earn God’s love and his favor. According to my level of reasoning, I should have been one of the most loved people in my church; but on the inside I was desperately lonely, empty, and spent of all my reserves to try and please God, gain favor with my pastor, and be loved and appreciated by our church. The reality is that I felt quite alone, unloved, unappreciated, and that I was no closer to being loved by God through all my efforts.

Today, on the flip side of the coin after converting to Orthodoxy, my outward expressions changed a little bit. I still found myself always trying to plug myself into this or that and doing, doing, doing. And after trying various means of expression and finding that few were really interested in what I had to offer the world, I stopped doing.

I don’t do much outside of my job, being a husband and new dad, and wasting my free time on the computer. Nothing has really changed — still feeling alone, unloved, unappreciated and a bit distant from the God I once loved with all my heart. If anything has changed, it’s that I’ve aligned myself with a church that is in apostolic succession and generally speaking is doctrinally correct. My new-found traditions have changed, but the heart remains the same — ever striving with this idea stuck in my head that I have to be doing something to earn God’s favor, and that my sense of self and my depiction of worth is inextricably tied to what I do.

So where does this leave me today?

I’m left wondering, where do I draw my value, worth and esteem from, when I feel so compelled that I have to be doing something to achieve that? The answer I know in my head is that my value, esteem, and worth ought to come from God, but let’s just say that even though I go to the well every Sunday, there are a million and a half reasons that I feel unable or incapable of scooping my bucket in and drawing from the wellspring (realizing of course, that I should be drawing daily). And because I have not been drawing from the well, let’s just say that my mood hasn’t been the most positive as of late.

With so many things swirling around and surging various thoughts forth, I’m left wondering “so where do I go from here?” I don’t do a whole lot because I just can’t bring myself to thrust obligations into my life beyond what I have with my wife and my daughter. But then I question my idle time — should I be doing something with that time other than wasting it? And to what end and for what purpose? Is it to add value to my existence, or is it to feel like I’m not wasting it and being a good steward as not to tick God off?

I’m afraid I have no answers for my own questions, and that this post basically amounts to a vent of my frustrations and feelings.

I’ve considered resuming my musical ambitions, but several questions remain:

• To what end would I be satisfied?
• Why is it so important to continue on with the music?
• Am I really content if no one cares or if no one ever listens (or even likes it)?
• How much of this is fueled by my need for self-esteem and approval from others/God?
• Or am I better of just selling all my gear and closing that chapter in my life for good?

The questions aren’t easy… neither are the answers.

For those unfamiliar, the Eastern Orthodox churches follow the Byzantine Rite. It’s a much longer liturgy than most of us in the West are used to. It’s also mostly sung, without instrumentation (kudos to the choir at St. George for doing such a nice job).

One of the things that struck me right off the bat is that the congregation seems to be more of a spectator than in the ‘modern’ Western Rite. The priest is often speaking with his back turned, and there’s a great deal of quiet prayers that the priest is saying while the congregation and/or choir is singing or speaking a different part of the liturgy. It does promote the idea of heaven coming down to us, and we are witnesses to the great mystery, more so than in the Western Rite.

There is also a great deal of repetition in the Eastern Rite. Many litanies are repeated over and over again, which I’m sure contributed to the length of the service. Also, there was many more places where people are doing the sign of the cross, so there was a bit more physical movement.

In terms of things I didn’t like, I have to say I felt a bit lost, but this is probably due to the lack of good congregational materials that are available for the Eastern Rite. Even though the liturgy was incredibly rich, I almost felt that it was too much for me. I felt a bit of overload at times. Perhaps that would lessen in time, as someone would get used to it more, but the initial shock was certainly there. Also, since the liturgy was so packed, at times it seemed that things were a bit rushed.

However, there was a great deal that I appreciated. I enjoyed the lack of instruments frankly. It kinda kills the whole ‘worship wars’ idea. There was a deep reverence as well that seemed to carry into everything that was done, even when it was done quickly. Not just the sacred host, but many elements, were given reverence, including kissing of crosses, and the display of the the Gospel, and reverence towards icons. In fact the entire worship space had a very rich artistic and reverent feel to it.

So it was certainly a very interesting first experience in an Eastern context. I think there’s a lot that both East and West have going for them in terms of their liturgies and I feel like I’m richer for having experienced both.

In a previous post I talked about my reasons for becoming Catholic, as opposed to the other two options that seemed open to me at the time. I spent a bit more time in that post talking about my reasons for not going Orthodox, and felt that I glossed over the Anglican piece a little too quickly. Since it’s something that’s been mentioned more than once I thought I’d take a moment to talk a bit more about our friends in the Church of England.

First, I should say that I was a bit dismissive in one of my previous statements. I said that, “Additionally, I simply felt that the political reasons for forming the Anglican church in the first place simply weren’t very convincing for me.” I didn’t unpack that however, which I should have. First off, it is important to note that the idea of ‘Anglicanism’ has existed for centuries, mainly as the distinctly British Isles stream of the Catholic faith. Much like there are many ethnically based branches of the Orthodox church there are also cultural streams in the Catholic church that have existed since the earliest days of the church. Much before the split that formed the Church of England proper, there were seeds of a culturally distinct church going back to the days when Augustine was sent to Britain in 597. These distinctions showed themselves in various ways throughout the years, embodied in various people such as Thomas a Becket and John Wyclif. It was people like this that formed the backdrop that allowed Henry VIII to move for a more formal separation when he wanted an annulment that the Pope refused to grant. So even though it was the act of Henry VIII that began the formal Anglican church, there was a distinct cultural difference that was present for ages previous.

Second, I wanted to emphasize again a point that I made in my previous post that there are a great many wonderful Anglican’s that are doing amazing work for God’s kingdom in the world today. When you peel back the veneer that is current state of the Episcipol church in America right now you find that there are many wonderful parishes trying to balance the commitent to the traditional (such as the Book of Common Prayer) with the needs of the modern secular world. One of the wonderful things I remember in Seminary was the deep liturgical history and heritage that the Anglican tradition tried to bring to the Protestant world. Many times the churches that were on the cutting edge of reviving ancient spiritual practices, were the Anglican churches.

It’s because of this desire to hold on to tradition, and the desire to still associate itself with the line of Apostolic Succession yet, engage the world in a way that is much closer to the way that Protestantism behaves, that has caused the Anglican church to be associated with a term called ‘via media’. That is to mean, that they often see themselves as the ‘middle way’, the church that is between the ancient Roman world, and the bridge to the new churches of the Protestant Reformation. However, I believe it is this balancing act that has given the Anglican communion it’s greatest strengths, and it’s greatest weaknesses. Especially in the church in America. It too often seems that the Anglican church tries to be everything to everyone but in the end becomes nothing to no one. The grasp and desire for diversity and acceptance often leads the Episcopal church in America into squabbles and hardships that end up detracting from a primary purpose of the Church, which is to bring the incarnation into the lives of Christ’s followers.

As I listen to many programs about converts to the Catholic church, I’m surprised at how many of them are from the Anglican church. What’s even more intersting is how many of them ended up leaving, not because of a complete lack of theological merit in the Anglican church, but because of what was seen as a complete breakdown in the structure and leadership of the church. In many ways this is what caused me the most issue with considering a conversion to the Anglican church. Not the lack of theological truth and depth (John Wesley, my historical mentor was a deeply committed Anglican), but it’s lack of direction and purpose in the world as it struggles with it’s mission, as a church trying to walk a very fine ‘middle’ line, and optical amplifierperhaps falling too often.