Dear People of Christ Church,
This week we had our second “Lent Tuesdays for All” and it was delightful. It does make my kids’ bedtime a bit later, and the morning a bit harder, but the time together is a blessing. This week the kids decorated gift bags for Easter for Grandma’s Pantry clients. The theme for adults was Alexander Schmemann’s phrase “Bright Sadness”—Let has a certain atmosphere of sorrow for sin, but also joy for redemption. There is much to repent, but there is more to celebrate. We looked at the prayer of Ephraim the Syrian, a fourth century monk whose prayer is done multiple times in Lenten liturgy in the Orthodox church, as well as many times in private prayer:
O Lord and Master of my life!
Take from me the spirit of sloth, faint-heartedness, lust of power, and idle talk.
But give rather the spirit of chastity, humility, patience, and love to Thy servant.
Yea, O Lord and King!
Grant me to see my own errors and not to judge my brother;
For Thou art blessed unto ages of ages. Amen
The first time I read it, it didn’t do a lot for me. I spend a lot of spiritual energy moving away from “master” language—it just doesn’t feel nourishing to envision God as a faraway ruler. But Schmemann, the Orthodox priest whose text I’m reading this year, says that it comprises the whole of the spiritual struggle. All of it. So I gave it another chance, and as he explains the prayer, I agree that it does cover a lot.
Sin begins with sloth, more poetically rendered in Latin as acedia: that feeling that we may as well not even try to pray. [Evelyn Waugh said its malice “lies not merely in the neglect of duty (though that can be a symptom of it) but the refusal of joy. [Sloth] is allied to despair.] Faint hearts filling with darkness, we lose the desire for God’s light. Not following God, we follow ourselves—fleeting desires and flashing satisfactions. Desiring our own way, we become the center of our own worlds, selfishly seeing others as the means of our own self-satisfaction. We hunt for power. Whether it expresses its desire in the urge to control others or in indifference and contempt, my spiritual universe shrinks in on itself.
Ephraim’s reference to “idle talk” struck me as a bit beside the point at first; surely there are worse things. Schmemann, though, puts our speech in theological context. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us…” Word and words are not unrelated. If God is revealed as Word, then, he says, our speech is the “seal” of the Divine Image in us. But as we abuse our power, the supreme gift becomes the supreme danger. Our speech reinforces our sin and we use the gift of expression to slander, to lie, to judge.
Four “negatives” give way to four “positives:”
Chastity: Not only sexual control, more like whole-mindedness. A counterpart of sloth—if sloth is dissipation and brokenness, the splintered vision that cannot perceive the whole, then its opposite is the ability to see toward God, not only our own urges and alienation. We pray for humility: truth wins. We are able to see God’s goodness in everything, understanding ourselves in right relationship to our creator. We are created, not our own masters. Patience is a fruit of coming near God—in sin, we measure everything by ourselves, wanting everything here and now. But nearer to God, “the more patient we grow and the more we reflect that infinite respect for all beings which is the proper quality of God who sees the depth of all that exists.” Infinite respect for all beings leads us to love—the ultimate purpose and fruit of all spiritual practice and preparation, which can be given by God alone.
Finally, positive and negative brought together by the last line: to see my own errors and not to judge my brother. Even knowing our own sins can be turned to pride, as we compliment ourselves for being so self-aware. Only when we do not judge are wholeness, humility, patience, and love made one in us.
So there you have it…which is your favorite temptation, your stumbling block? Where is Light looking for you? Where will you be found, and what good gifts will you receive?
Thursday, March 8, 2012
From March 1: Wild Beasts and Old Habits
Blessings on this grey, wintry day! However disorienting I have found this snowless winter to be, going outside in the flurries has made me appreciate the relative warmth of the last few months. I love the cycle of the seasons, but I cannot say I also love having numb toes.
Our winter-free winter has, in any event, made me pay attention more closely. One of the blogs I read regularly in preparing my sermons is written by a Methodist minister in Florida, Jan Richardson. I was recently struck by an observation she made about the wilderness text from the Gospel of Mark. The text says, quite straightforwardly, “Jesus was in the wilderness with the wild beasts.” (Mark 1:13). Richardson points out that there is no threat, no menace implied: they are just there. She wonders whether they might be companions, witnesses, protectors of solace and silence.
Lent, this year, is for me all about questioning my habits: those things I do and think without even realizing it. Living a fairly routinized life, it’s easy to stop paying attention to the unconscious choices I make. But what happens when I don’t fill my commute with radio noise? What happens when I don’t march my children to bedtime like a general, trying to get rid of them into their rooms as quickly as possible? What happens at dinner without that glass of wine, washing the dishes without that piece of secret chocolate? I’m not giving anything up explicitly (except the radio in the car—that one I’m trying really hard on)—so much as really observing what nourishes me. Sometimes it IS a glass of wine or a piece of chocolate—but oftentimes I find I’m fine going without, and those resources can go somewhere else.
Being with the wild beasts: not controlling or panicking, but coexisting, recognizing real threat where it is. Also vital to Christian practice is faith in God’s transforming grace: love is always more powerful than death. In the Daily Office lectionary we’re making our way through Genesis, currently spending time with Joseph (of the fabulous coat) and his brothers. They sell him into slavery in Egypt but he ends up working for Pharaoh, ultimately saving them from famine. As Joseph forgives his brothers, he says, “Though you intended to harm me, God intended it for good.” (Gen 50:20). In the same way as the Trinity’s 1+1+1=3 makes us have to forget how to count, the redemptive power of God makes us have to forget how follow sequence.
The life of faith is not linear. It was a terrible thing that Joseph’s brothers kidnapped him and sold him. It was a terrible thing that God surely would not have planned. At the same time, would Joseph have been able to save his family from the famine that gripped his homeland had he not been sold into slavery in the first place? They all would have died. This is the power of redemption that comes from the cross: not a suffering God had planned or intended, but still an opening of wonder and grace. So, too, with the wild beasts; how often do I perceive something as a threat that actually invites me closer to God? How often do I see something as an exciting option, when actually it distracts me from my path?
Our winter-free winter has, in any event, made me pay attention more closely. One of the blogs I read regularly in preparing my sermons is written by a Methodist minister in Florida, Jan Richardson. I was recently struck by an observation she made about the wilderness text from the Gospel of Mark. The text says, quite straightforwardly, “Jesus was in the wilderness with the wild beasts.” (Mark 1:13). Richardson points out that there is no threat, no menace implied: they are just there. She wonders whether they might be companions, witnesses, protectors of solace and silence.
Lent, this year, is for me all about questioning my habits: those things I do and think without even realizing it. Living a fairly routinized life, it’s easy to stop paying attention to the unconscious choices I make. But what happens when I don’t fill my commute with radio noise? What happens when I don’t march my children to bedtime like a general, trying to get rid of them into their rooms as quickly as possible? What happens at dinner without that glass of wine, washing the dishes without that piece of secret chocolate? I’m not giving anything up explicitly (except the radio in the car—that one I’m trying really hard on)—so much as really observing what nourishes me. Sometimes it IS a glass of wine or a piece of chocolate—but oftentimes I find I’m fine going without, and those resources can go somewhere else.
Being with the wild beasts: not controlling or panicking, but coexisting, recognizing real threat where it is. Also vital to Christian practice is faith in God’s transforming grace: love is always more powerful than death. In the Daily Office lectionary we’re making our way through Genesis, currently spending time with Joseph (of the fabulous coat) and his brothers. They sell him into slavery in Egypt but he ends up working for Pharaoh, ultimately saving them from famine. As Joseph forgives his brothers, he says, “Though you intended to harm me, God intended it for good.” (Gen 50:20). In the same way as the Trinity’s 1+1+1=3 makes us have to forget how to count, the redemptive power of God makes us have to forget how follow sequence.
The life of faith is not linear. It was a terrible thing that Joseph’s brothers kidnapped him and sold him. It was a terrible thing that God surely would not have planned. At the same time, would Joseph have been able to save his family from the famine that gripped his homeland had he not been sold into slavery in the first place? They all would have died. This is the power of redemption that comes from the cross: not a suffering God had planned or intended, but still an opening of wonder and grace. So, too, with the wild beasts; how often do I perceive something as a threat that actually invites me closer to God? How often do I see something as an exciting option, when actually it distracts me from my path?
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