Glory to God in All Things

I sit here exhausted at the end of the second week of Great Lent. I am reminded once again that I was not designed to be constantly on the go. Or, perhaps, my current form of constantly on the go is not well-suited to me. In either case, I find I have nothing left at the end of the day, and by Saturday, I am running on a deficit. The act of going to anything feels like a chore, though when that "anything" is church, invariably I find myself glad to have gone.

Glory to God in all things.

My human frailty is set in contrast against the stamina and endurance I wish I had. I have things that need to be done that haven't been done. I have friends in other time zones and a mom feeling neglected because of my relative absence. I missed Patrick of the Mountain's wedding reception yesterday. I can only do so much. I wish I had more, but I don't, and when I'm drained, that's it. I am drained but, paradoxically, more alive than ever before.

Glory to God in all things.

This is my first Lent as an actual Orthodox Christian. Last year was a breeze. There was so much waiting for me at the end of that particular journey that the whole thing pretty much flew by. I knew this year would likely be more difficult, and it has been so far, though not in the ways one might expect. The food issue makes one more attentive to what one eats, but it is not difficult for me. Prayer, though, is a constant struggle. I find I am too fond of my bed. While the time change has not helped, I suspect I am turning that into an excuse. It matters little, though, if the result is the same.

Glory to God in all things.

Change is slow to come. Still, I find myself chafing against the things that are holding me back. I find myself coming to challenging, and perhaps crazy, solutions to deal with them. Becoming Orthodox resolved many issues for me, but it was a beginning, not an end. I will not allow myself to see it as an end, or to treat it as such. In comfort there is complacency, and in complacency, death.

Glory to God in all things.

I dare not avoid or shrink back from the mirror that is Lent. It would be easier to hide, avoid, run away. It would certainly be my natural inclination. But if I did that, then I may as well have a steak for dinner tomorrow, because the fast would be pointless. I may as well go back to the not-so-Baptist community, because in refusing this mirror, I refuse the very thing I came to Orthodoxy in search of. No, however uncomfortable it may be, I will engage this as fully as I am able. God help me!

Glory to God in all things.

I can see now that this is what I have always wanted. I knew it intellectually when I first came to the Orthodox Church, but now I know it really. Lent is meant to be a struggle, but it is most definitely a blessed struggle. These thoughts I have typed today may mark a turning point for me. Or, should I choose the easier road, they may become the words by which I condemn myself. Yet I type, because I need to remember. God help me!

Glory to God in all things.

Glory to God who allowed me to slog through so much swamp and bog and mire in search of Him, for because of these I am strong, even in my weakness. Glory to God whose irresistible tug on me has never let up, for I have found my way home. Glory to God who has never let me go, in spite of my insolence. Glory to God who never will let me go.

O Lord God of hosts, blessed is the man that hopeth in Thee.

Sunday of Orthodoxy

The first Sunday of Lent is known as the Sunday of Orthodoxy. On this day each year, the Orthodox Church commemorates the restoration of icons for use in the churches and homes of Christians. (Orthodox Wiki)

Ok, this could get messy, so first, some background.

In the Orthodox Church, there are different jurisdictions, and as it exists in the western world, they are pretty much all present and accounted for. An Orthodox Christian in SoCal could potentially find a Greek church, Antiochian, Romanian, Serbian, maybe Bulgarian, and one of several Russian churches. The possibilities are endless, really. These are nothing like the Protestant concept of denominations, as you will see shortly.

Each jurisdiction has its own leadership, and since Los Angeles is a major metropolis, the LA area is the home of several regional jurisdictions. The Serbian Diocese of Western America, for example, has its cathedral in Alhambra. Bishop Maxim is the Serbian bishop over the Serbian Christians of this part of the country. The Antiochian cathedral is just outside of downtown LA.

Enough background. Now for the story.

This year, for Sunday of Orthodoxy, Bishop Joseph called all the local clergy to the cathedral. Since we weren't going to have a priest today anyway, a couple from church decided it was a good excuse to take all us new folk on a field trip to the cathedral. Most of us had never been there.

Well, it was not just a collection of Antiochians at Divine Liturgy today. As deacons and altar servers went through the doors in the iconostasis, I could see Bishop Maxim among the faces back there. This was, after all, the Second Annual Pan Orthodox Hierarchical Divine Liturgy. Toward the end of the liturgy, Metropolitan Gerasimos of the Greek Orthodox Metropolis of San Francisco gave the homily. We got to see our friends from the OCA monastery, too.

God bless the internet. I never could have come up with all these names and titles otherwise!

A few thoughts, then, on today's adventure.

I thought metanias were awkward at St. Peter's. One tends to run into the chairs in the row in front of oneself. I must say, it is even more awkward, nearly impossible, in the cathedral. There are pews! Well, that was fantastic for Mark with his MD, and with my knee being stupid today, I sure appreciated the place to sit. Still, wow.

That said, the cathedral was rather nice. Before today, the only other "real" Orthodox church I had been in (in this country) was a little Serbian one with fairly grotesque icons. Ok, that is not entirely true. I did briefly walk inside the nave of the Greek church that hosted a seminar last month. These churches that are actually churches, rather than repurposed office or warehouse space, are really a sight to see. I wouldn't quite call it breathtaking. I reserve that description for the Cathedral of Christ the Savior in Moscow. Still, it was beautiful. It will be so exciting when our little parish finally has its own place!

It was definitely a full house in there today, as we all knew it would be. I had mentally prepared myself for crowd related panic, but none was forthcoming. Whew! It was packed, but not to the point of crowding. I suspect it also helped that I was between Pam and Martin, while Jackson, Grace, Mark, Barb, and Khouria were right in front of us, Fr. Patrick was two rows up from them, and the Z tribe was two rows behind us. I was literally surrounded by friends. Circulation of air and natural light probably played a role as well. Another thing to look forward to when we have our own place!

Of course, the two things that really struck me were exactly the sorts of things that always strike me. In many of our services, at least liturgy, but I think it's in vespers as well, we pray for "the unity of the faith." It is possible that this prayer means something other than how it sounds, but since I know no such thing, I will go with how it sounds.

This is something that, when I was a Protestant, bothered me tremendously. I hate division. Absolutely, completely hate it. The state of affairs in the proliferation of denominations is literally sickening. It's not so much the existence of the denominations themselves that is bothersome. It is the root cause of them. Division. Fighting. Granted, some of the fights are over significant issues. This only makes the problem uglier, though. Very few denominations even get along with each other at all. The jokes about Protestant denominations are funny only because they are so true. This is both ridiculous and heartbreaking.

In contrast, this morning in a single building in a seedy part of Los Angeles, three men from different jurisdictions in the Orthodox Church presided at Divine Liturgy, and they did so together. These men are Greek, Syrian, and Serbian. If culture and politics were the prevailing rule, they would not even be able to associate peaceably, yet there they were. Unity is a beautiful thing when it happens. The service was in English, Arabic, Greek, and Slavonic, and no one seemed to mind. I rather doubt anyone ever lost their place, either, even if they did not recognize the words being sung at any given moment.

Speaking of singing... What, you didn't expect me to pass on mentioning the music, did you? This, of course, is another one of those things that always gets my attention. The music. Wow. Um. So, Arabs can sing. Really. I mean, every time the singing from the kliros was in Arabic, it was phenomenal. The ornamentation. Wow. I have got to learn to chant like that. I guess I should work on getting the tones down first, though. Also, they sang one of my favorite hymns. And then they sang it in Arabic. We take this unity thing so seriously, even our songs sometimes cross linguistic lines! (Here it is in Greek, Slavonic, and Romanian! *whimper*) It's so beautiful!

That is beginning to sound like the refrain for the day, isn't it? It's true, though. Beauty is one of the hallmarks of Orthodoxy.

Have I mentioned that I really love being Orthodox?

A Chrismation or Ten

Saturday was a rather momentous day. My friend Patrick of the Mountain got married yesterday. Sadly, I missed it. You see, it was in Oregon, and I lack the ability to be in two places at once, as would have been necessary.

What I was able to do, though, was witness a baptism and the chrismation of ten of my friends at church! Martin came to St. Peter's a month or two after I did. Raeanne showed up a year ago. As a result of early introductions by Fr. Patrick and Pam, the three of us quickly became an odd trio of friends. Jason and Debbie arrived a week or two after Raeanne, but I'm shy, and there were no random introductions, so it was a while before I got to know them. Mark and Barb were the last of this crew to arrive. Mark came with the Z's right around the beginning of Lent, and Barb started coming with him shortly thereafter. Again, my avoidance of new people got in the way, and I really didn't start getting to know them until Pascha. My loss. These ten have turned out to be a fantastic collection of friends, so the decision to show up for church at 8:30 on a random Saturday morning was really a no-brainer.

It was interesting being on the spectator side of things this time. There were parts that I remember vividly from my baptism in April, and there were details that I had no memory of at all. It was so incredibly cool, though, having watched them all on this journey since we met, having compared notes on the different hurdles we've dealt with, to be there when they were welcomed into the Church. What a tremendous day for them all!

So, to my friends Martin, Raeanne, Jason, Debbie, Michael, Cathy, Dani, Chris, Mark, and Barb, welcome home!

Why

The other day, I was contemplating for perhaps the hundredth time what it was that made me leave the church I left to become Orthodox. When I left, Philosopher Pastor asked me why, and I have never had a good answer that someone who has not walked this same road would understand. "I just knew I needed to" won't cut it for most people. I cannot claim that what follows will be anything close to complete. I may never know the complete answer myself. However, this is the answer I can give for now. This may come out with an odd mix of distinctly Protestant and distinctly Orthodox vocabulary, but so it must be, for such has been the journey.

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I've mentioned before that I realized I needed someone to teach me. Call it discipling; call it mentoring. I knew I needed someone who would take responsibility for training me and commit to it. Book learning is good and useful, but by itself, it cannot bring life. I needed someone of whom I could ask stupid and not so stupid questions. I needed someone I could call if I had a really rotten day. What I needed was a godparent, a concept which simply does not exist in the world I was in. They've tried to implement something of the sort on occasion, and in some cases it has worked, but I always managed to miss out. The closest I ever came was when I got talked into meeting with the Stephen Minister person. That was a fantastic situation, but the program is designed to be temporary. I was fortunate in that when my time with her ended, I was already in the transition process.

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I needed community. I did not need more friends at church who I might talk with for five minutes once a month after church on Sunday. I needed to not exist in a bubble that hardly anyone ever ventured into. Knowing nearly everyone by name and being recognized by everyone does not create community. It does, however, turn the spotlight on isolation when it exists. Knowing everyone does not mean that one does not find oneself sitting at home alone six nights out of the week. Knowing everyone does not even guarantee a substantive conversation on the walk from the church building to the parking lot.

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I needed transformation. Everything pointed to that need. I have never questioned the reality of my own brokenness, but the more I traveled, the more I observed those around me, the more I realized the model most of us functioned with was incomplete. Praying one prayer one time is simply not sufficient. Salvation may be free, but it is not cheap. We can never earn it, but we must contribute to the process. I cannot sit around being a reasonably good person and a Christian and expect that to be enough. I was a reasonably good person and a Christian, and I knew I was still dying. I saw no sign in myself of abundant life or peace or freedom or any of those other things that one might expect.

What I did see in myself was a proliferation of the things I definitely did not want, and I had no power or means to truly deal with them. Still, the half-formed notion I had gotten somewhere along the line was that I was to somehow let God change me, and in the meantime, try really hard. But trying really hard is like filling a swimming pool with a leaky bucket. Meanwhile, God is not going to suddenly zap me into a new and improved Spidey. Neither was I interested in just muddling through until such time as I finally got to heaven and only then finding a much better me. Having hope on your deathbead is probably nice, but what about the thousands of days before? No, the Gospel is only truly good news if it is good news for today as well as some day sometime in the future.

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I was talking with Fr. Patrick today, and he was joking that I probably had no idea what I was signing up for when I showed up at his parish. He is without question one of the goofiest, quirkiest people around, and he knows it. It didn't take me long to respond.

The way I see it is I left something I loved that just wasn't working, and I found everything I was looking for, plus I got a bonus.

And I did get a bonus. Not only Fr. Patrick, either. Everyone I've gotten to know there, those who were there before me and those who have arrived since, they have all been an incredible gift.

No, it's not perfect. How can it be? There are issues, as there will likely always be everywhere. But somehow there is a sense of rootedness that I've never had before. Oh, and that elusive life, peace, freedom, and even joy.

Christ is Born!

Chapter Three: The Quest For Discipleship

"To make fully devoted followers of Christ"

This was the mission statement of the church I was attending when I decided I needed someone to train me.

As long as I was at that church, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what I was missing. I was there for fourteen years. I had been in small groups and house churches led by the best and brightest. I was friends with everyone in leadership, and I knew almost everyone else. I had gone to China with an outside organization and Russia with groups from the church. I had all the intellectual training I could get my hands on, but it simply was not enough.

As far as discipleship goes, I was no better off at twenty-eight than I had been at fourteen. In fact, by then, I felt like I was actually in worse shape!

I had tried to find someone to teach me. I knew I couldn't learn what I needed from books. I knew I couldn't come up with it on my own. So I looked for a trainer, of sorts. I knew everyone; how hard could it be, right?

There were a few people I worked with briefly. There was the one who tried to fix the depression problem by having me go through a workbook. There was the one who scared the crap out of me with some overly-spiritual weirdness. There was the one that turned out to be a really good friend, but not quite right for this particular purpose.

Then there was Russia. In preparation for the first trip, the team leaders asked (required) us to go through "evangelism training." This involved memorizing the Romans Road, becoming conversant in the language of EvangeCube (kitsch alert!), and knocking on doors to talk to people, using a survey from Evangelism Explosion as a guide. I did all this, because it was what I had to do to go to Russia, and because it seemed like a good plan at the time. I grew up evangelical; this is what you do, right?

I hated every minute of the two-by-two thing. It felt contrived. I was way out of my league, what with the Jehovah's Witness and Muslim I ended up in conversation with. I had the sense that I had no right to ask random strangers, even those who claimed to be Christians, the questions on that survey. I had a sense that they weren't even the right questions, but that sense was vague. What was not vague was the unsettledness about the whole thing.

It was no better when I was in Russia a few months later. We spent the whole week doing street evangelism. I loved talking with my translator. I loved talking with the people from the church we were working with in town. I loved talking with the people I met on the street. But when it came to the evangelism part of things, it just got worse and worse. Every time I opened my mouth, I would hear my words and wonder what on earth I was saying. I couldn't quite put my finger on it at first, but I had no trouble remembering what to say. The problem was somewhere in the words I was saying!

As the day progressed, so did my discomfort. I finally realized what the problem was. The whole script was designed to convince some complete stranger in five minutes' time that they needed to pray some prayer so they wouldn't go to hell when they die. What is that?

Does everything I've been taught really boil down to fire insurance? No! There has to be more. I know there's more! But from what I've been told to say, that's all there is. Did I miss something? No, I can't have missed something. I've got a mind like a steel trap. I remember everything I learned in training, in meeting with people, everything. It really does come down to some prayer that acts as a get out of hell free card!

Again, God, in his mercy, didn't leave me there. I knew there was more, and I knew it could be found if I just looked hard enough. I knew the Sinner's Prayer wasn't some sort of magic spell. I knew that following Jesus wasn't what I was being coached to say it was.

So by the end of the first day in town, I decided to quit the script. I wanted nothing to do with the scare tactics. Instead, I just talked with people. My translator and I talked incessantly. I refused to steer people away from the Orthodox Church, even though they all claimed the priest was a drunk. It became a quest to hear people's stories and ask questions instead of giving answers they never asked for.

Only one person on my watch said the prayer that whole week. Anna had actually wanted to, but "Life is so hard. Why would I want it to last forever?" I had Valera read Revelation 21:4 to her, and her eyes lit up. She was the second person I talked with on day one in Nolinsk, and even in her case, it was all wrong in my mind, because I knew she was probably going to stop with the prayer, just like most American Christians do. Because if it's all about the ticket into heaven, then once the ticket is secured, it's all good. Live a good life. Read the Bible. Go to church. Pray. You're set, right?

Because all that was working so well for me...

This week has been one thing piled on top of another. Over and over. Stuff just keeps happening. An emotionally taxing meeting on Sunday, a difficult visit with an increasingly senile grandmother on Tuesday, then Thursday happened.

When I first started going to this church last fall, everyone I met was so very welcoming, but a few of them stood out. Nora the Exuberant who is like my long lost big sister, Doug who very quickly declared himself my new big brother, the list goes on. One such person was Randi. Our paths haven't crossed frequently, but there's always been good conversation when they have. She's a remarkable person.

I got the call Thursday night while I was at the mixer. Randi is in surgery. Brain aneurism.

They say it doesn't look as grim today as it did yesterday, but I keep thinking back to my student who was hit by a train last Thanksgiving. Who can say what will happen?

I spent the whole week avoiding the stuff, so of course it all crashed on me yesterday. Father Patrick took one look at me before vespers last night and commented that I looked like all was not well. Yeah.

Liturgy, though. I barely managed to get myself to church this morning, but I dragged myself out of the house and arrived just as liturgy was beginning. There is something in those prayers and hymns that never fails to put me back together. Not always completely, of course. The world outside those doors is still ridiculous. But you know that peace that passes all understanding that Paul talks about in Philippians? I've always wondered what I was missing that I couldn't find it. I used to walk out of church asking myself where I would ever find it, if I couldn't find it at church. Well, I found it.

Ok, so I don't have a very firm grip on it yet, but a little bit sometimes is better than none at all ever. It's as though just being there is enough to shore me up enough for another week of insanity. Even when I'm falling apart midweek, it's not as bad as it used to be. And there's matins, so if I can manage to get up, I don't have to wait until the weekend.

So I'm not miserable like I was yesterday. I am, however, tired. Very tired. But this is pretty typical of a Sunday afternoon. But my brain is mush, so I'm going to hit publish now and be done with it.

A Comment Addressed

There has been a nonny moose running around my blog lately. Today I found a comment from... we'll use the oft-forgotten gender-neutral here... him, sections of which I shall now attempt to answer.

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I do not mean to downplay the emotional or spiritual impact of these past experiences, but I must ask how this specifically discredits Evangelical Christianity.

It doesn't. It is simply one part of the story. Yes, it played a role in leading me to where I am, but perhaps not in the way you're thinking. Were this about Evangelical Christianity being discredited, I would have bolted a long time ago, and it would not have been to go to the Orthodox Church.

It seems with this post that you have listed several "Christian" role models that have failed to paint a clear, whole, or accurate picture of what it means to follow Christ. It is possible many should not have ever been in positions of leadership. On the other hand, if their actions and teachings contradict the teachings of Christ, then Christianity should not be held suspect on their account.

That is entirely true. I still wonder how some of those people got to their places of authority. Most of my friends growing up have walked away from Christianity because of people like that. You and I and others like us recognize that "going to church doesn't make you a Christian, any more than being in a garage makes you a car." I never said in my post that I "held Christianity suspect on their account." I did say that I recognized that they were especially bad examples, and that recognition prevented me from leaving.

You have pointed out the emptiness, inaccuracy or insufficiency of media intended for Christian education, but not that Christianity itself is fallacious in any way. It explains your distaste for the mainstream, lazy Sunday School lesson, but these are also not necessarily representative of the teachings of Christ.

The other day I was shopping for juice. I really wanted real juice, but most of what was available was flavored sugar water with a mess of chemicals meant to resemble fruit. Yuck. That's not going to keep me healthy! And what is this business of calling something "white grape-peach" when one of the main ingredients is apple? Eventually, I found orange juice which actually used to be oranges and hadn't been processed to death between the tree and the carton. It had calcium added, and it had some other things to keep it from being rancid the next day, but it was honest-to-goodness oj.

If I thought Christianity was fallacious, I would have become something else. Buddhist or something. I was not looking for something to replace what I was being taught. I simply had the sense that there was a disconnect between what I was learning and what actually was. I never doubted the truth of Christianity. I knew that what I was seeing and hearing was not necessarily representative of the teachings of Christ. However, I also knew that somewhere there was an undiluted, not-from-concentrate Christianity that was not hopped up with infusions from pop culture and had not been robbed of its pulp. More on this in a future post.

In the last post regarding your road to orthodoxy, you mentioned briefly the terms deification and theosis. You found they were roughly equivalent to sanctification, only "deeper and richer". What does that mean? Is there something insufficient in the idea of sanctification? Is it that Evangelical Christians simply don't understand its full profundity, or are the terms truly different? If so, how?

I don't know how to answer this in its entirety. I can say that the Protestant understanding does lack the profundity that is present in the Orthodox understanding. Beyond that, I don't know.

Are the terms deification and theosis used in the teachings of the Orthodox church, or simply the early, early church?

I did come across this concept while I was a catechumen.

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Here's what Patrick of the Mountain has to say.

...[E]choes so much of what I experienced as well. I remember being a sophomore in college reading the church fathers for the first time and getting bitterly angry. Not at them, not at all, but at the church I grew up in for not showing me the depths of the faith. Though I can't blame them either. They didn't know the depths.

Another Part of the Story

I grew up in an environment that was designed to make me as "Christian" as possible. Church at least every Sunday. Psalty tapes. Christian schools until I graduated high school. VBS when I was young and Christian camps later on. I was one of those kids. This does not mean, however, that I learned what I should have learned.

I remember the felt boards from the church we were at until I was ten. I remember one of my friends wanting to pray "the prayer" at camp, and I remember being appalled when our leader told her that she didn't need to because she was already good enough. I remember learning from the "Character Traits" books in elementary school and later on moving into the Bob Jones books that only required regurgitated information. In junior high, one teacher had us listen to a book on tape of This Present Darkness, and another required us to watch the "Thief in the Night" series. Both of these accomplished absolutely nothing other than freaking us out. (I had a number of spiritually and emotionally abusive and manipulative teachers. Some were well-meaning; others were not. At one point, we had a church elder and his henchman saying my dad was the devil.) At church in junior high, the big expectation was to memorize the books of the Bible in order.

I had five Bible teachers in four years of high school. The first focused on useless trivia about the Bible. The second, a pastor, was unbearably arrogant, and he had this little habit of giving girls grades based on how much they flirted with him. He taught nothing more than the same stories most of us knew from the felt boards of our childhoods, and he fueled arguments about everything that could be argued without any resolution. Number three's favorite conversation topic was his relationship with his wife, number four was arrested after four months on campus for being a pervert, and number five taught that Jesus was half God and half man. And he was a jerk. My brother got him relegated to curriculum after two partial years of heretical nonsense.

This all makes me laugh, looking back on it. It's really no wonder I got so confused! I had a head full of knowledge, but it was only information, and I had an incredible collection of really awful "Christian" role models. By the grace of God, I recognized that. Otherwise, I would have been looking for the nearest exit. Most of my friends found the nearest exit.

I did learn some good things. The felt board stories gave us a foundation, a context for everything else that should have come later. My Bible teacher in junior high ignored the Bob Jones book and actually taught us. We spent a lot of time not just reading the parables, but studying them. He attempted to get us thinking, and he showed us how what we were reading was actually relevant for us. My high school youth pastor worked hard to teach us well. He is an amazing person. I've learned more from him (Big Brother) in the occasional one on one time over the years than from almost anyone else before or since.

One thing I kept coming back to was discipleship. I found myself incredibly frustrated that almost all anyone ever taught me was either the stories or the rules. I knew how to be a "good" person. I could tell any story from Genesis or the Gospels. I knew Samuel, David, Daniel and the lions, Jonah, basically everything that eventually became a Veggie Tales video and then some. This has its place; don't get me wrong. But it's simply not all there is to being a Christian, and I knew it early on. Faith is one thing, but information isn't going to help faith grow. For the longest time, though, I could not put words to this frustration, so I couldn't make anyone understand.

When I crashed into the concept of theosis, and after Patrick of the Mountain helped me understand it, something clicked. Becoming more and more like God actually made sense. We're supposed to be image bearers, right? There is, of course that pesky problem of sin getting in the way, and that's what theosis seemed to be dealing with. But I knew there was no way I could do that. Hello, what I need is for someone to actually train me. I knew plenty of information, and I knew how to look like a good Christian, but I desperately needed someone to teach me the real things, the deeper parts of what it means to be a Christian, rather than just look like one. Thus began my quest.

To be continued...

The Beginning of the Story

It was the fall of 2000. I was taking a class called The History and Development of Christian Thought from the Apostolic Age to Thomas Aquinas, or something very close to that. For fun.

Over all, it was a great class. I learned a lot. Almost all of the material was new to me. I had heard of some of the people we studied; I had a very limited knowledge of some of the history and heresies of the early church. What I didn't have any idea on at all was how it was different from what I knew. Really, like most Protestants, my knowledge of "Church History" was pretty murky prior to Martin Luther.

About the time we came across the word deification, my brain tried to explode. I knew I was looking at very old ideas from the early days of the Church. I knew I was likely to come across thinking very foreign to everything I knew. But deification just sounded a little... Mormon maybe, or too reminiscent of Babel and Eden. Becoming god? Hmm. But there it was, right there in the early Church.

I really wanted to know what that was all about. I figured there was a reason it was part of the belief system. Maybe it wasn't as kooky as it looked? I figured if something I came across in that class sounded questionable, maybe I should take a second look and then a good hard look at my own beliefs. Here I am, two millennia removed from the apostles. Logically, it would be reasonable to expect the first three or four hundred years to be closer in ideology to the original. All I knew for sure was that I wasn't getting any help from the class in understanding this deification business.

The only thing I knew to do was to email George. He had been through the Comparative Religion program at that school, he is brilliant, and I knew that if anyone could explain this to me, it would be him. He didn't know, but he was able to redirect my question to another person from church who did know.

As it turned out, Patrick of the Mountain has studied the early Church extensively. According to Patrick, deification (Latin), also known as theosis (Greek), is similar in concept to the Western idea of sanctification. Similar, but deeper and richer, he said. I could be ok with that.

When Geo forwarded my question to Patrick, it started the conversation that I see now set me on the path that eventually led me to the Orthodox Church. If there is any moment that I can point to and say "Here it is," this is it.

More to come...

What I've been Trying to Say

There's a Protestant pastor in Idaho. He's on his way to becoming Orthodox, and he's been blogging. His name is Shawn.

He wrote a post that captures so many of my own thoughts and experiences in ways that I simply have not been able to adequately express. Do yourself a favor and go read it.

Um

I think I'm teetering. It feels like the depression is trying to come back. That sucks. At least now I potentially have tools to fight it off. I guess we'll see how well they work.

In related news, I'll see Counselor on Thursday for the first time in three weeks.

Father Patrick said on Sunday that when one becomes Orthodox, all hell breaks loose. No kidding. He told me that it is common for the newly illumined to go through a period of testing after their baptism. He reminded me that even Jesus went into the wilderness after his baptism. The last month of my life has made my friend "Moses" declare me the poster child for post-illumination. I'm not the only poster child in my parish, though, so I know it's not just me.

Knowing where things are coming from is helpful, but I am so ready for this forty days (literal or not) to be over.

What a Novel Idea!

About halfway through liturgy today I realized a few things.

1. It's Mother's Day.
2. There was not going to be a Mother's Day sermon. (The homily was on the reading from Acts.)
   
3. I'll never have to sit through another well-intentioned but just plain wrong Mother's Day sermon ever again. (No more plastic "jewels!")
   

And when I found myself thinking this, I told myself, Well, duh. Yes, had I considered it, I would not have been surprised. However, Mother's Day sermons aren't exactly high on my list of topics for contemplation!

New(ish) Friends

A quick note.

This last weekend, I found out that several of the people at church who arrived early this year and are exploring Orthodox Christianity are also blogging their experiences and thoughts. Their background was Vineyard. They left the standard format evangelical world to give the emerging church a try. Now they're spending a year considering Orthodoxy. (That's what they say, but I think they'll decide to stay with us!)

If you are even a little bit curious, by all means, go see what Jason, Debbie, and Mark are saying. Barbara is blogging as well, and if she knows she's got readers, perhaps she'll post more often! ;)

My First Pascha

Having gotten through the vesperal liturgy on Saturday morning, which began before nine and ended just shy of noon, I had lunch with E, then went to my parents' house to do homework, at which point I promptly fell asleep.

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10:30 pm. It's crowded but quiet in the dimly lit church. We're at the end of a grueling week, which followed a long forty days. Whatever prayers, hymns and readings are being done seem hushed.

Suddenly, the room is plunged in darkness. I can't see the person standing next to me, much less anything or anyone else. It does not last long, though, for Father Patrick comes out from the sanctuary into the nave with a candle. That one candle provides enough light that we can see what's happening. Jackson and Barry light their candles off of Father's, and the light spreads from person to person, eventually illuminating the whole room. The choir, the altar boys, Father Patrick, Deacon John, and the rest of us (mostly) walk outside, down the stairs, and around to the back of the parking lot. The choir is leading us in a song, as usual, alternating English, Greek, and Arabic.

Priest, deacon, subdeacon and altar boys are back upstairs on the back balcony. The rest of us are standing below them in the parking lot. The little girls require much supervision on account of long hair, candles, and no concept of where their bodies (and candles and hair) are in relation to each other. Someone reads the gospel. Father Patrick bangs on the door and quotes the psalm... Handel's Messiah is running through my brain. Lift up your heads O ye gates, and be lifted up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory shall come in. A voice from inside shouts Who is this King of Glory? They go through this three times. Everything is in threes. Finally, the door opens.

Christ is risen!
Truly He is risen!

Χριστός Ανέστη! (Christos Anesti!)
Αληθώς Ανέστη! (Aleithos Anesti!) -- Greek

!المسيح قام (al-Masīḥ qām!)
!حقا قام (Ḥaqqan qām!) -- Arabic

Хрїстóсъ воскрéсе! / Христос Воскресе! (Khristos Voskrese!)
Воистину Воскресе! (Voistinu Voskrese!) -- Church Slavonic/Russian

And the song changes from something dirge-like to the joyous Christ is risen from the dead trampling down death by death and to those in the tombs bestowing life!

We all file back upstairs and into the nave to find the room transformed. Where all was dark now is light. White flowers and other decorations abound. The bier is gone (or stuck back in the corner). And the crowd that had been quiet and solemn is now full of life.

The "orchestrated chaos" continues until the wee hours of the morning, for there is liturgy, because it is now Sunday. By all rights, we should all be sleeping, but who cares if it's 2 AM? Christ is risen!

And not only that...

The fast is over! After liturgy, there was food. Eggs, meat, cheese, wine. And time to spend with all these wonderful people who have become my family in the last seven months.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I got home a little after 3 Sunday morning. We reconvened at 2 pm for another service, another procession, and then an afternoon together at the park.

I've finally found home.

A Week Later

For those of you with Facebook, baptism pics are here. Those of you without Facebook may be able to view them as well, or you can get access if you want it by emailing me.

My music history professor in college once said, "During the Christmas season, you can't swing a dead cat and not hit a Messiah performance." That's pretty much how constant church services were during Holy Week. There were morning and evening services until Thursday. (Then it got even busier!) Thursday evening was the first one I managed to get to. I'm so glad I did.

Because of the packed schedule, or because of tradition, or both, everything got shifted several hours earlier. We were all terminally time warped, because Thursday night was acting like some time Friday.

The atmosphere was hushed and solemn. The readings cycled through the Gospels, telling the story of the last hours leading up to the crucifixion. Each part of the story was read as told by each of the Gospels (though I couldn't tell if they were using all four, and I know Mark is much shorter on details than the others). With each reading, the tension grew. It began to seem as though we were there. There was the High Priest. Judas threw back the silver and hanged himself. Pilate's wife had a dream. Matthew. Mark. Luke. John. Each contributed their voice; each added to the mosaic of the experience. The crowds shouted, "Crucify him!" over and over and over again, because as soon as that section was read in one gospel, there were more prayers, then the next gospel told its part of the story.

Finally, Father Patrick emerged through one of the doors in the iconostasis. He was literally stumbling beneath the unwieldy weight of the cross which usually stands in the front corner of the nave, but which he was carrying, the crossbeam supported on his shoulder. The height of the door combined with his height plus that of the cross made it impossible for him to go through the door without great effort. His back and knees were bent at frightful angles. The effect of that alone was intense.

Hymns were being sung quietly, though I don't have a clear memory of what happened when. Once the cross was in the nave and laid out on the floor, though, from somewhere appeared the figure of Jesus, which Father proceeded to place on the cross.

The deacon handed him a nail. The nail was put in place. The mallet drove the nail into the wood. Three times they did this, each strike of the mallet more jarring than the one before.

I wish I could capture in words the profound difference between this and any other attempt I've seen of telling the story. It's been a few years since I've watched The Passion of the Christ on Good Friday, but even that leaves a screen between the viewer and the action. There's still an escape in the remote control. Not one incarnation of Stations of the Cross has been so painfully real. I've often commented at Easter that I felt as though I was missing something, that some depth of meaning was eluding me. I finally found it there, quite literally, at the foot of the cross, for that was where I was kneeling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Great and Holy Friday began with my phone playing "Der Erlkönig." It was my mom, wondering when they should arrive at the baptism and what to wear. That they were coming was good news, indeed.

The three services for Friday are all run together in my memory. At some point, it may have even been Thursday night, Jesus was taken down from the cross and placed with great ceremony on the bier that had taken front and center. The icon, of woven cloth rather than painted wood, of Christ's burial was placed there as well. There was yet another procession, this one with the woven burial icon, which we all walked under as we re-entered the nave.

The Friday night vigil began after vespers, which was the afternoon service. People took turns reading the Psalter. In theory, the whole thing was read. They stopped for Saturday matins (which was held Friday evening), then carried on again through the night. A couple brave adults and most of the older kids spent Friday night this way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I arrived at church at 8:15 Saturday morning. Father Patrick had gone over the basic idea with me, so I knew what I needed to do. At that point, what I needed to do was wait, and not go into the nave. Eventually I was steered to stand with Pam just inside the doors. My godmother and I stood there, facing Father Patrick and the deacon.

They started with prayers to get rid of any demons. I had been told this was coming and thought it sounded a bit freaky, but it really wasn't. Then Pam and I faced west- everything else is east- to renounce the devil. There was a part where we were supposed to spit on Satan. That was a little weird. Then we recited the creed, and finally I could go inside.

The service was a vesperal liturgy, meaning it was liturgy, starting with vespers, and therefore really long. Thus the time warp was still in place, for we were doing Saturday night at not quite 9 am.

There were fifteen readings prophesying the resurrection. I am not sure I heard any of them, because the elements of the service that directly involved me were happening at the same time. While Father Patrick and Deacon John went through the prayers and such to prepare the water for baptism, the altar boys struggled to stay awake, for they had participated in the vigil.

There was a great deal of incense, which means much jingling of bells as well. Father Patrick poured oil on the water in the form of a cross. Three crosses, in fact. Then he put oil on my forehead, eyelids, ears, hands, and feet. I suddenly realized I was really going to need a shower later. By that point, I was all a-jitter. It may have been nerves or excitement, or perhaps a bit of both.

Finally the big moment arrived, and I was ushered over to the water. I stepped in to find that the water was warm. I dropped to my knees, then Father Patrick, with his hand on the back of my head, pretty much pushed me under. Face first. I came up gasping for air only to go back under again, and then a third time. I am a bit neurotic about being under water, so there was just a hint of panic in there, but eventually I felt sufficiently oxygenated, and I calmed down.

Shortly after I changed into dry clothes, the six of us were chrismated. More oil! Again, this time with a stylus, the sign of the cross was placed on my forehead, eyelids, each side of my nose, earlobes, the front and back of the base of my neck, back and palm of each hand, and top of each foot. With each cross Father Patrick said something about being sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit. I don't remember the exact words, though I heard them plenty. With each declaration from Father, the rest of the congregation repeated, "Seal!" The other five went through the same process, each of us with our sponsors/godparents standing close at hand. That corner of the room was a wee bit crowded, but it was convenient. When the last of us was sealed, he pulled all twelve into a huddle to tell us that we were now Orthodox Christians, full members of the community that we've each come to call home. (And there was much rejoicing!)

The liturgy was drawing to a close. Deacon John intoned, "With fear of God and faith and love draw near." At long last, the moment I'd been waiting for for months-- Holy Communion, and I could finally participate! In fact, the protocol is that I go first, not just Saturday, but every liturgy for forty days.

Two more things happened during the service. Father Patrick took a sponge full of water and, having thrown copious amounts of water at his six new Orthodox Christians, proceeded to sponge off all those oily crosses. Then, near the end, I was tonsured. This involved scissors, four small clumps of hair, and a candle. Father Patrick cut a bit of hair from front, back, and each side of my head, then burned it. It smelled, and I have no idea what it means.

To be continued...

----------------
Now playing: Casting Crowns - Who Am I (Live)
via FoxyTunes

Христос Воскресе!

Christ is Risen!

Спаси Сохрани

That's the inscription on the back of the cross that is now and henceforth shall be hanging around my neck. My Godmother inadvertently chose a Slavonic cross for me. O most blessed and glorious "accident!" The first word carries the meaning of "save" or something closely related. (Salvation, Savior, etc) I have no clue what the second word is, and sadly, my trusty Slavonic... dictionary... is preparing to sing in his church 3300+ miles away. I have not got anything close to a grasp on Slavonic grammar, but I would imagine the identical endings point to a noun/adjective pairing. I imagine I'll have a translation relatively soon.

*ahem*

I got baptized this morning! There is video and photographic documentation thereof, but no time at present to sift through it. Some time soon, I'll tell you about it. For now, I'll just say that I'm now listed as "Christian- Antiochian Orthodox" on Facebook, and seven of the people I invited were on hand for the occasion. (Thank you again for coming!)

Back to the homework. The big Pascha service starts at 10:30 tonight. I imagine I'll spend much of tomorrow sleeping, for this one is much like the Nativity marathon, from which I returned home around 3 in the morning.

The Sun'll Come Out

Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I'm getting baptized tomorrow!

I had specifically invited a few people. Big Brother can't come, but it sounds like the others are. This surprises me, somewhat.

I got a card in the mail yesterday. From Ohio. At least I am fairly sure it was from Ohio. The return address only said "tg," but since she lives in Ohio, I'm going with that.

Off work today. Got church three times today. It's Great and Holy Friday, after all. Round two of church is soon. Meanwhile, laundry is going. Homework will happen (I hope) between rounds two and three. Ah, plate spinning.

Church in half an hour. This weekend, that is top priority.

Palm Sunday Snapshots and Musings

If you happened to be driving just east of downtown today in my town, you would have probably noticed a procession of teenage boys and old men wearing yellow dresses and carrying assorted religious-looking paraphernalia, including candles, a cross-on-a-stick, a censer, and something that would have been difficult to identify to the onlooker, but which was, in fact, a book. Behind the six men in yellow dresses, you would have seen a trail of about sixty people of assorted shape, size, and color, all carrying a branch or frond of some sort.

All of this was because today is Palm Sunday. Dr. Recruiter was at the back of the procession with his son. I'm not sure which was more fun to watch. Calvin (as in & Hobbes) was jumping around and playing, since his dad had told him that would be acceptable during the procession. Dr. Recruiter had a distinctly amused expression while he looked for all the world like he was trying to herd cats. Meanwhile, one of the kids with whom I share a birthday decided I needed a palm hat.

Liturgy today was my last as a catechumen. I will be baptized on Saturday! I'm so excited! I'm not sure what I'm most excited about, really. I mean, I dreamed of meat a couple nights ago, and next Sunday we will be returning to a carnivorous state. Then there's Holy Week itself, which I'm told is really something. I've even managed to trim back my schedule a tad at the end of the week, so I'll be able to attend the most important parts.

I'm getting baptized on Saturday! I'll be able to change my Facebook profile! Silly, I know, but I'm so ready to not be "reorganizing." When I became a catechumen, I'm told I became Orthodox, but it was on a somewhat limited basis. There are things in which catechumens cannot participate. Beginning Saturday, that changes. When the Deacon says, "With fear of God and faith and love, draw near," I'll finally be able to go receive Holy Communion. I've been waiting for this for a long time. Knowing that Saturday is coming made today exciting.

It was also a bit odd. At least one person at church said something about getting me baptized, getting The Boy here, and getting us married. Someone else was joking about that situation and commented that I'm "languishing" here, waiting for him. I had to laugh at that one. A third person asked Father how many kids I should have! Father looked at him and responded, "But she's not married!" Whew! Thank you, Father Patrick, for that response!

I need a nap. And I need to study. But first I am desperate for fresh air. And maybe some fruit.

In Which I Post Seemingly Random and Unconnected Comments While Stealing Esteban's Post Title Protocol

...which is itself remarkably similar to that of A.A. Milne's chapter headings in the Winnie the Pooh series.

Speaking of adorable and precocious characters, I received a link to this a few minutes ago from Dr. Recruiter. His kids themselves are adorable and precocious. His son, in fact, could be Calvin. (The cartoon. Not so much the theologian just yet.)

John Calvin and Thomas Hobbes

Speaking of Dr. Recruiter... having memorized the 16 intelligence agencies for last week's quiz, I now have to memorize for this week the 19 Directors of Central Intelligence and the years they served. I hope he doesn't count spelling. Some of those names are a bit nuts.

Another point on this track is my baptism. Dr. Recruiter, his family, another guy, and I will all be formally received into the Orthodox Church in a little less than two weeks! We have one more Sunday liturgy in which we must be spectators and not participants in Holy Communion. This is exciting! Saturday, April 26 at 9 AM, California time. (Hint hint, Paddy, E, Nathan, and Gtargirl)

This also means that there are only two more weeks of the fast! Today, my mom made soy-beef enchiladas with fake cheese for me. They weren't half bad.

Last, but not least, poor Vladimir the Laptop is relapsing. Again. His recurring condition of power connector failure is now on round three, and this time with no warranty to cover repairs. When the connector finally gives out completely, it's pretty much over for him. But wait! There is a solution that will breathe new life into a sad little laptop with heart failure! I have been shopping around for the last week, and I have found a docking station that will make a lovely pacemaker for Vladimir. Here's to several more years of partnership between him and me! (At least long enough for me to save money for a new laptop.)

Moving Right Along

I have to say I feel a bit accomplished today. Things are happening, and they're mostly happening well!

A couple weeks ago, the confession thing was starting to weigh on me. I knew I was skating on the edge of avoidance, and I really did not want to go there. I had a chat with Father Patrick about it, and he suggested I take care of it that week.

That week, however, was last week, and last week spiraled out of control before it even started. I didn't accomplish much of anything last week, except some leg work for grad school. Last week was the best motivation ever for such things.

By this Monday I knew that if I let it go any longer, it would become avoidance. I know how hard that is to break out of, and I had no intention of getting stuck there! So, in rather faltering manner, Spider finally went to confession. I had no idea what I was doing. First time, you know? There was a good dose of first time jitters, but it wasn't too bad. I was told afterward, however, that I looked like I'd just been to the dentist. Not a bad comparison, really.

Too bad I couldn't get my teeth cleaned in the process. I'm way overdue.

I still only have transcripts from College of the Cornfields. The three SoCal schools are dragging their feet on this, but one should not expect promptness or efficiency from anything run by this state. This does not mean, however, that I am delayed in beginning grad school.

I went to my first class last night! International Relations: Political Intelligence is the class, and the professor is the one who has been helping me through the process. I'm no dummy. Other than that Chinese class, I haven't been a student for six years. I was never great at being a student, so it seemed a good plan to go with a prof I know for my first foray back into the wild world of academia.

And wild it will be! Dr. Recruiter is an exceptionally quirky geek, which I already knew. This seems to translate fabulously well into the classroom. I shall not be bored. However, I might be buried. The workload is a bit daunting. Doable, but definitely intimidating! Dr. Recruiter told us last night that there's a synonym for "Quarter System," and that synonym is "Abomination." This is a ten week class, and by the end, I will have had to write a 25-40 page paper on a topic to be determined by next Tuesday.

Yikes.

But when I look at it, I see a worthy challenge. I see a battle I can potentially win, but it's a win I will have to fight for. This, of course, will only make the eventual victory sweeter.

Halfway, Nearly There, and Way Out of Reach

When Lent is over, I'm getting a pizza steak.

Classes start Tuesday. I still have an essay to write and there are transcripts yet to arrive. I'm a bit nervous about this. This could, however, be partly because of the general feeling of down-ness I'm currently experiencing.

Everything's coming together so well. Why am I down? Probably because Thursday and Friday were up days, and what goes up... Yeah.

The confession thing still hasn't happened, and it needs to. It will this week. I'm far too good at going through motions and far too not good at the things that really matter. For this reason, the food related aspects of Lent have been no problem, but the follow-through on the other things has been lacking. I have a long way to go.

There's also that little detail of 3300+ miles. It's still 3300+ miles. It will continue to be 3300+ miles for the foreseeable future.

Lent Begins

First things first. A number of people have asked me about the fast, what it's all about, what is the rule, etc. The fabulous and amazing Esteban has graciously posted a collection of useful information on the subject. He has also provided some good resources for lectionary and other spiritual reading, as well as a brief explanation of how March 10 - April 27 can possibly amount to forty days, all rather helpful for this newbie.

In addition to all this helpful material, Esteban also gives an introduction to the wonder that is Forgiveness Vespers.

Great Lent is officially inaugurated with the celebration of Forgiveness Vespers on the evening of Sunday, at the end of which all present ask forgiveness from one another as Paschal hymns are sung. The day that follows, and by extension the entire Fast, is "clean" not only because we have rid our homes of meat and other animal products that are not eaten during the Fast, but also (and indeed chiefly) because we have set out on the journey to Lord's Pascha having sought forgiveness of those closest to us, who are therefore also those we offend the most (and with the least remorse!).

This was an amazing experience. It's not just that "all present ask forgiveness from one another;" it's how this is done.

It began with the priest. A line formed in front of him, beginning with the deacon. The priest made a prostration while asking forgiveness of the deacon, then the deacon did the same in response. The deacon then stood next to the priest as the sub-deacon (I kid you not, there is someone with that title) stepped forward. When the priest and sub-deacon had mutually asked and given forgiveness, the sub-deacon proceeded to the deacon, and the process was repeated. Therefore, everyone in the church, from age 7 to 70ish ended up standing in a double line around the perimeter of the room making prostrations, asking, and granting forgiveness.

When I first joined the line, I thought the whole thing looked a little bizarre, and I guess it probably did. But imagine being a participant. This is an exercise that leaves little room for pride. It was seriously intense. There were tears and hugs and such at various moments around the room. As you might imagine, part of the intensity was physical. (My leg muscles are still feeling it.)

Bizarre? Maybe. Intense? Oh yeah. Worth it? Absolutely. There is so much happening, I'm sure I haven't thought of all the layers of meaning that this tradition covers. What I do know is that this is yet another reason I am so very glad to be part of the Orthodox Church.

A (Somewhat Delayed) Follow-Up

By the end of the work day Thursday I was having a little bit of a breakdown. But breakdowns come and breakdowns go. They go faster when there's someone to walk through them with you, and I had that. (Best friends and counselors are excellent, and I'm lucky enough to have both, and they rock!)

When I checked my email Friday morning, there were a couple messages regarding yesterday's post. Both had some interesting thoughts, so I thought I'd address those.

As soon as I read that you feel like you might be drowning, I thought...hmmm...maybe that is the point. (From tnqr's comment)

You know, I really tried to work that in when I was writing the post, but I couldn't quite. It may be the point, and it is most certainly a good thing. Part of this is the realization that I can see myself changing. This adventure is turning out to be very good for me, indeed!

Who is your patron saint? (From the email)

My saint is a martyr, and she has a really cool name. She's googlable. :)

Also, what is the cultural background of your congregation? Russian, Greek, Eastern... (From the email)

It's Antiochian, so technically, we're Arabic. Except that this particular parish used to be Foursquare. Don't ask me how a Foursquare church becomes Orthodox, because I have no idea. I do know that a significant number of the people there now have been there from the Foursquare days. So while we're technically Arabic, the services are primarily in English.

I say primarily because there is the occasional appearance of some other languages. When things are in threes, they tend to happen in English, Greek and Arabic. Father Patrick has also been known to use Spanish. I've heard Romanian and Slavonic once or twice as well. I've been told there is a service during Lent where we do the readings in every language we can manage. (I know! I keep ending up at oddball churches. I love it!)

Meanwhile, there are a handful of us being received into the Church on Holy Saturday. I am just one of what has turned into a parade of new people. One family arrived about a year before I did. Two others have walked in since I got there, and the second of them is becoming a catechumen tonight at Forgiveness Vespers. Then, about a month ago, another family showed up. They plan to take a year to think about this, since there are four kids, and they're all old enough to participate in the decision. It's been fun to watch. Everyone has been so good about welcoming us all. I know part of this is because it's easy to see who's new in a small church. However, I've never seen a group of people so completely not cliquish. Plenty of these people have been together forever, and it would be easy for them to shut us out, but they really haven't. In fact, they've all quite definitely adopted us.

Today we sent off one of our cantors. She's moving out of state for reasons unknown to me. This leaves us with one actual cantor. There are a couple people who have stepped up in a pinch from time to time, but with Vanessa leaving, that leaves Lisa with the whole job. That is too big a job for one person to do alone. Especially during Lent! There are going to be services all over the place for the next eight weeks. Well, I won't be ready in the next eight weeks, but I told Lisa today that if she would teach me, I'd be willing to learn.

GACK! Ok, I can sing, but I am terrified of singing in front of people! What is wrong with me? Guess this is something else to work on with Counselor. Practice will help, too.

The adventure continues!

40 Days (And Then Some)

I find myself standing with my feet firmly planted in two separate worlds. While most of my friends and family are preparing in one way or another for Easter later this month, the Orthodox Church doesn't even start Lent until March 10. My mom will expect me to come over for Easter. That will be an odd experience, even if I take into account that it is my family. Easter for them will be a month and change before Easter for me. For once, I am fairly grateful that holidays in my family are in reality not much more than their fully secularized forms. This should not produce in me a time warp whiplash.

I have to be honest here. The last few weeks have been fairly intense. I'm now meeting with Father Patrick once a week so that I can learn some more of the things I need to learn. I told him that if he assumes I know nothing, he wouldn't be far off, so we're starting from the beginning. Some of these ideas are fascinating. It's so good to know there are actual explanations for religious type issues I've had over the years.

I've often said that I just don't get these church seasons. I think I'm starting to understand, now. This is not on a level I can explain, but things are certainly becoming more meaningful to me. It hit me on Monday. People give things up for Lent, right? That never made sense to me. It always seemed rather arbitrary and therefore not particularly meaningful. In my mind, it was much like New Year's resolutions. Well, let me tell you. The Orthodox Church doesn't mess around! Lent is seriously hardcore. And for whatever reason, it is not looking as daunting to me as I expected it to. What I find really interesting, though, is that something is finally making sense. I wish I could line up the right words in the right order to really explain this. (I'll keep trying!)

Lent starts on Monday. This is going to be an intense time, I can already tell. Not only because of the Orthodox approach to Lent. This is going to be intense because of what's ahead for me specifically. I've been told to prepare for confession. And I found out on Monday that I will be baptized next month.

Whoa. Time out! Confession? Yeah. Can't say I'm thrilled about that. Partly because, well, eek. Partly because I grew up Protestant. I have a lot of years of training saying this is exactly not how it should be done. Still, some part of me is fairly sure this is in fact a good plan. It's just having a good bit of difficulty convincing the rest of me! This is completely new territory. At least he gave me some questions to work with, so it's not like I have to figure this thing out on my own.

Baptism. I have been looking forward to this for months. It's a little unnerving, though. Somehow I had the impression that I'd be a catechumen for a while. I didn't really know what the timeline would be, but I wasn't expecting to be baptized at Pascha! That's, like, really soon. It's exciting.

It's also a wee bit frightening. I mean, this is huge! This is WAY bigger than the baptism when I was twelve. For one thing, just like anything else that means anything, that was viewed as being merely symbolic. In the Orthodox Church, baptism (and just about everything else "symbolic") is viewed as a mystery, something we cannot fully understand, because while we experience it with the senses, there is something else going on that is simply beyond what the five senses can apprehend, because it is happening in the spiritual, rather than the natural, realm.

Anyway, baptism. It's happening, folks. Suddenly the enormity of what I've gotten myself into is right there in front of me. Be careful what you wish for, indeed. I've always wished for something deeper. I've known for the last six months that this is what I've been looking for so long, but now that I'm here, I feel like I might drown in it. This makes me laugh, in a way, because the picture I immediately got as I typed that was of Anne Shirley scooping the mouse out of the plum pudding sauce and declaring that it was a romantic way to die, for a mouse.

So, for the three of you who plan to show up, it'll be Saturday, April 26. I'll post more information as it becomes available.

Nothing to Wine About

I went to a crowded party last night. Voluntarily. I stayed all the way through until the end. I had fun. I never felt out of place. I never felt like the room was closing in. I never felt like I had to get out.

This is the first time in my life that I've been able to use all those statements together. I've been known to bail on any and every social gathering. Even if I know everyone, I've always been likely to leave as early as possible or hide in a quiet corner when leaving isn't an option. Last night, though, I made no attempt to escape, because I never felt like I needed to. I am amazed, and the Voice of Counselor in my head is pretty impressed, too. *grin*

The event was a wine tasting/auction fund raiser for church. (This former Baptist is thinking We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto!) As with the wedding reception of a few months ago, I knew almost everyone there, at least a little. Completely unlike the wedding reception, unlike even my own grandfather's funeral, I was not painfully out of place. I didn't have to run away. I didn't have to find one safe person to stick to like fly paper the whole time.

I know I'm not the center of the universe, and it really isn't about me, even though it's sounding like it right now. I'm just saying. This is a really big deal.

Now to tell you about the event itself, because it was fun, and it was successful, and maybe some of my friends could swipe the idea for their own churches. We, as I've mentioned before, are looking to relocate, so this was specifically designated for the building fund.

One of the church families hosted the event at their house. A few others provided food for the event. Some of it was fairly basic- cheese, crackers, sliced beef log, fruit, etc. Some of it was brought in by one of our fantabulous cooks. (We have several of them!) There were a few gift baskets that were assembled and donated by others, and these were the raffle prizes. The church's overhead for this event was approaching zero.

Each person paid five dollars to attend. Raffle tickets were sold both in advance and during the party. Judging by how many people were there and how many raffle tickets were sold, I would guess those two alone brought in a couple hundred or more.

We were asked to bring with us two identical bottles of wine. Both bottles were wrapped in paper bags and numbered. One was opened for tasting, and the other was saved for the auction. We were each given a piece of paper and a pen with which we could keep track of which wines we liked. We had no idea beyond red or white what any of the wines were until they had been auctioned and unwrapped. We did not even know which wine was our contribution.

There was a good long time of general milling around, talking, eating, wine tasting, note taking, and a bit of listening to Edith Piaf(!) as background music (at which time I parked myself in front of the speaker). After a couple hours of this, the auction began. Twenty-five wines had been set out for tasting. Twenty-five wines were auctioned, and I don't think a single bottle went for less than $35. Someone had also donated a bottle of tequila, which sold for $100. A few people came in late, and their wines never made it to the tasting, so those bottles were auctioned as matched sets.

There were several bidding wars, some of them hilarious. Wine #20 was a sweet white. It was really good, and there were at least three people that I knew of who were preparing to battle for that wine. It promised to be a fun moment, and the three did not disappoint! In fact, that bottle saw mother and daughter bidding against each other. Of course, when the mother won, hilarity ensued. We all wanted to know what it was, so she unwrapped it, and it was the wine she had brought! With all the labels hidden, it makes sense that this might happen, and happen it did. Several times.

At one point, someone asked me to help them manufacture a bidding war to drive up the price on a certain bottle. He told me what he wanted to pay, and I just had to keep outbidding him until we got to the magic number. That was quite funny, since I had been content to sit on the floor and watch until that point. Suddenly I was bidding serious cash on a bottle of red wine that almost no one else was interested in.

Even without bidding wars, the auction was rather entertaining. The auctioneer's wife would bid, and he in turn would beg people to outbid her. Except when it came to the tequila. He was quite happy to keep her as the highest bidder for that! At other moments, two members of the same family were bidding against each other. The aha moment that followed was one of several tonight that should have been sent to America's Funniest Home Videos. A few times, Father or Khouriya (the Arabic title for the priest's wife) would bid on a bottle while the other got the entire room laughing with their comments.

The last bottle to be auctioned was one of the many that I never quite got to, since I only tasted about six. That bottle launched the bidding war of the night. All the other wines had bid increases of five dollars. The auctioneer was calling five dollar increases, but the bids were in tens. Sometimes more. That bottle ended up selling for the most at $200. How completely cool. The thirty bucks I spent to bring two bottles of syrah turned into $200! (For those who are wondering how well we did, the auction brought in $1740 for a total of twenty-nine bottles of wine and one of tequila.)

After it was all over and most people had cleared out, I ended up in conversation with my two Slavonic study buddies. (Is it bad to use such terms to describe one's priest?) I guess the previous three hours hadn't been quite fun enough. ;)

Weekend Contemplation

Two years ago, I was about to tumble head-first into the darkest, most frightening year of my life. Before that year was out, people were comparing me to Job. I might have nearly earned this by virtue of my circumstances, but I'm not certain I could claim the right to be compared to one so steadfast. I, after all, was asked to sign a contract promising not to harm myself.

One year ago, I was nearing the tunnel's end. While last year had its hard moments, it was ultimately a year of redemption. Without exception, that which was lost in 2006 was restored, even improved upon, in 2007. The occasional panic attack serves as a reminder of where I've been and how far I've come.

I barely recognize the person I see when I think back to the beginning of 2006. That broken shell of a human being disappeared somewhere in the darkness, and while the ensuing two years changed me tremendously, I still have a long way to go. The good news is 2006 did a fairly complete job of demolition, so everything new can lay its own foundation rather than having to rework old structures. I was contemplating this on Saturday when I recognized one piece of the old me that hasn't managed to change much.

I grew up in the Christian bubble. My elementary school was Church of Christ and junior high was Assemblies of God. My high school was loosely affiliated with Brethren in Christ. My dad was an elder and worship leader and my mom was the Sunday school superintendent at the Baptist church we went to until I was ten. I was about as close to being a pastor's kid as a person could be without actually being one. I was completely surrounded and completely inundated. On top of all that, for as far back as I can remember, I was always the kid who wanted to belong to God, first and foremost. To this day, my clashes with my mom generally boil down to a difference in value systems. I think her expectations are too grounded in American culture, and she wishes mine were more so. With all this in mind, you might think I'd have things pretty well figured out by now. You might not even be surprised to see me glowing like Moses did after he'd spent time with God.

Yeah, right.

What all that training did for me was stuff my head full of knowledge. Some of it was good. Most of it fell to dust and blew away in the various storms that came my way in the last six years or so. The one thing I've always wanted is the one thing I've never been able to achieve- to take that head knowledge and translate it into something deeper, more substantial, more real. I think I am probably doing some of that in counseling, and that's a decent start. But it's not enough, and I won't learn there all the things I know I need to learn.

Now I'm a catechumen in the Orthodox Church, and what am I learning thus far? Mostly head knowledge. Now, to a point, this is fine. I mean, plenty of what I used to know is gone, so something really needs to take its place. I'm pleased to say, though it may scandalize my protestant friends, the new head knowledge (though dreadfully incomplete in its current state) makes a heck of a lot more sense than the other stuff did. These ideas don't seem to have holes in them, nor do they cave in on themselves under scrutiny. I'm glad. I'm not sure I could survive another worldview collapse! Still, I know there's much more to this, and I am anxious to learn.

Waiting

It's such a relief to know that Mordor is in the past, that I no longer have to hide in the dark corners of Gorgoroth. The struggle to the Cracks of Doom is over. I will never forget that time, but the memory has faded into shadow. The horror has passed, and I have seen the splendor of Ithilien in springtime.

Rivendell is a lovely place. It's safe. It's pleasant. But it is not home. No matter where this hobbit roams, the road will always lead back to the Shire.

After the journey I've been on, though, I know that home will look very different from the image I hold in my memory. In fact, I already know I'll never see that place again. I am too much changed. No one can face such darkness and treachery and be unchanged.

Still, the waiting, while necessary at times, is a bit tedious. My Facebook profile announces my religious views as "Currently reorganizing my worldview." I was thinking about that yesterday, and I realized I've been reorganizing for three years or so. At least now I have a direction, which I could never seem to find before. Still, I'm not much one for waiting.

I am waiting for The Boy to tie up loose ends so he can move. I am waiting for the day when I can legitimately call myself an Orthodox Christian. (That's my loose end.) I know both of these will create as many challenges as they resolve, but I've already faced death and demons. Life can give me no worse. Not that I imagine myself to be immune. Rather, I finally know who I am, and I know that whatever I may face, I will not face it alone.

Becoming a Catechumen

Me, Father Patrick, and my "sponsor," aka Godmother.



On the far right edge of this one, you can catch a glimpse of my two small group friends from the other church.

Many thanks to Nora the Exuberant for taking and emailing the pictures!

Regarding Baptism (and Re-baptism)

leylatov said...

why do you have to be baptized again?

Sam Gamgee said...

I'll eventually be baptized again for one important reason. I can't find any actual proof that the first one happened. 1990 was a long time ago, but I suspect the paper disappeared as recently as the hasty move out of the condo.

Paddy O. said...

Would you have to be baptized again if you did have proof? I'm curious.

I used to have a paper that said I was baptized on whatever day in November, 1990, by pastor L.W. of a church that closed two years later. If I could locate that paper, or if I could locate the video that might still exist somewhere among the 27,183,654 videos my parents have stashed throughout their property, then no, I would not have to be baptized again, technically speaking.

The creed says "I acknowledge one baptism..." and they take that seriously. If I could somehow verify that I was indeed baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, then the question would go to the bishop. More than likely, when the time came, I would then be chrismated instead. (It might also have helped matters that, as a Baptist, it was definitely by immersion.)

It's a strange thing. I have never liked the idea of re-baptism. (I have been willing to make one exception, but my situation doesn't fit the necessary scenario.) I have never liked the idea that a person could not fully participate in certain church-type communities without being baptized into that community. (This probably comes from growing up surrounded by hard-line Church of Christ people.) So what's the deal? Why am I doing this if I'm so definitely opposed to such things?

The answer is actually quite simple. Anyone who is an Orthodox Christian, having been so sealed by baptism or chrismation, can participate in Holy Communion. The Orthodox Church is the only church I've seen that manages to be exclusive (preserving the holiness of Communion, rather than cheapening it by giving it away wholesale) without being exclusionary. Infants are baptized, thereby explicitly allowing even very young children to participate. Those of us who have not been baptized or chrismated cannot, not because the Church wants to keep people out, but because it has such a high view of Holy Communion that it must be this way. And even then, at least in my experience, being on the outside in this way has not been a means of being left out in an oppressive or arrogant manner. In fact, rather than being an obnoxious barricade, this process has actually created a sense of anticipation.

Orthodox Adventures: The Next Generation

I became a catechumen last night.

My two small group friends came to vespers with me to witness the (very brief) (non) event. I had prepared them for a regular vespers service, so of course, it wasn't a regular vespers. It was a Tomorrow is a Major Feast service. It was halfway through the twelve readings before I figured out what was going on, so that was fun. It was basically the end of vespers before Father Patrick motioned to me and my newly assigned Godmother that it was time.

Last week, Father Patrick told me I needed a sponsor, or Godmother, and I needed to decide who and let him know before Saturday. I think I must have looked like a deer in the headlights. I sputtered and stammered a bit. Or I could choose for you? Whew! Yes! I was much relieved at that and insisted that he should do so. Of course, I proceeded to be jittery and a bit anxious about it for a few days, until I emailed him on Friday. As soon as I read his response, though, I knew he had made exactly the right choice.

A while back, I was talking with E about the eventuality of this step. E is a funny one. She mangles words.

Cat-a-human? Does this mean you won't be allergic to cats? But what about when you get baptized? Cats don't like water. Will you become a dog-a-human?

Of course, she was joking. She knows she mangles words, and she has this tendency to run with it when she does. I was laughing so hard I fell off the couch. I also laughed pretty hard last night when she attempted to talk about Father Patrick and called him Patrick Stewart. (What, my priest is a shakespearean trained starship captain?)

It's been a while since I've been much of anything. I left the Baptist church in October. It's like I've been in limbo since then. I'm not Orthodox yet, but I'm not really anything else anymore, either. And I really don't know when I stopped being Baptist. It was before October.

I don't know how to express this. I was never homeless in the process. I had already received a warm welcome at the new church before I said goodbye to the old. But at a certain level, I'm going to be an outsider until the day I'm baptized. I have no idea when exactly that will happen. The sooner the better, but I'm not interested in rushing it. This is worth doing right, so if it takes time, so be it.

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas, everyone!

I got home at 3 this morning. Church lasted until almost 2, and then there was food. There's always food. And my brother was there, so everyone wanted to meet him. It was fun. He was there to see what kind of crazy stuff I'm getting myself into. We did not disappoint, but it wasn't too weird. I am giving him Father Patrick's email address, though, for he has the same questions I had after my first visit.

Dad's flying back to Chicago this afternoon, so Mom announced that breakfast would be at 8. Consequently, I got about three hours of sleep. *yawn* There shall be napping later, I think.

Mom's World Vision donation this year was a couple alpacas for some poor families. Now sc0tlas and I each have a little llama. My immediate thought was Mark's blog mascot, but goodness, no. I don't need a Julio the Wonder Llama. My name ideas thus far? Dali, Salvador, Levi, Potato, or Duck. Stacey is suggesting an LOTR name. My brother just announced that he's naming his Como Se Llama.



I have a new chant cd, too. This one, thank goodness, is not monks singing Celine Dion's greatest hits. It's just as quirky, though. *grin*

And this one is in honor of everyone from rlp land. The actual shirt is... teal.

I would also like to mention that my brother got an intro to Orthodox Christianity book for our parents. :)

A New Song, So to Speak

Two weeks ago, I stood in vespers fighting off a small panic attack. Before going to church, I had been sitting in Chick-fil-A taking advantage of the free wireless and visiting a friend who works there. For two days I had been fighting with an email, trying to make it say what I wanted it to say. Sitting there munching on waffle fries, I finally prevailed. It was a letter to people from the church I left explaining why I'm gone and what I'm doing, as well as thanking them for being who they are. I sent the email. Thirty minutes later I was at St. Peter's, shaking, teary, decidedly short of breath, and convinced that I would be disowned.

I haven't been disowned yet... that I know of, so I suppose I may have been wrong about that. I hope I was wrong about that. What I have heard in response has mostly been varying degrees of support. Some good-for-yous and some you-know-where-to-find-mes. One person thought I was crazy and gave it six months. One person decided we should meet over coffee and talk about it.

I was sitting in coffee hour on Sunday when Father Patrick waved me over for a chat. So when are we going to make you a catechumen? Um, I don't know. When? A couple conversations later, we're set for Christmas or just after.

It was so good to talk with Wade on Monday. For one thing, Wade's just a cool guy. He's been on staff for several years, in charge of both greeting and the coffee cart. I've worked with him in one capacity or other for most of the time he's been there. He and his wife are packing up their kids and moving to Hong Kong in two weeks. I'll miss them.

Monday wasn't just a time to say goodbye. Just the fact that he was interested in having the conversation quieted some of my issues with leaving. I'm not sure exactly how to say it. I guess it was freeing, in a sense. I really don't need to worry, because I know how to contact the people who are most important to me, and they know how to find me.

Things are going well.

Something Old, Something New

Old: Orthodox Christianity

New: Me attending an Orthodox church

I've been going to vespers on Saturday nights for several weeks, and I've been to liturgy on Sunday mornings twice now. I've also been attending a class on Tuesdays, for which I'm reading this book. (It's a good read, so far.)

I was a little down this last Saturday. Last week was just hard, and I was feeling it. I knew I wouldn't be going back to the Baptist church the next day, or possibly any Sunday for that matter, and that was painful. So was my out-of-joint hip. It was a bit of a struggle to not start crying. Looking ahead to Sunday, tears seemed almost inevitable.

There was supposed to be a meeting of the young adults group after vespers. I was going to go. I figured I could at least give it a chance. So I hung out for a bit after vespers in order to find out where to go. Except that when the priest's wife sat next to me, she told me that it was canceled.

I can't say I was terribly disappointed. I was even less so when she immediately followed that announcement with an invitation to join her and Father Patrick for dinner. Hey, that works for me. With the smaller crowd and people who aren't total strangers, it sounded much more my speed.

Well, we got to talking. He asked about college and what my degree was. Guess what. Forget it, you won't guess. They're both linguists. Now, I pretty much already knew he was. I mean, he is constantly making comments that only a linguist would make.

It was quite an enjoyable evening. There was reading of German poetry. There was quoting of Winston Churchill and Mark Twain. By the time I left, I wasn't down anymore. I wasn't thinking about any of the hard stuff. It only got better, too. The day ended with an unexpected phone call from The Boy. It made me smile.

Processing

I was processing last night as I drove home from small group. I was thinking about when I asked Counselor, "What's left?" I mean, really. But then I thought about what a long time coming the Orthodox thing has been. I have no idea where this is going to take me, but somehow I know it's what I've been looking for for a very long time. And there's so much else. I'm sane (relatively), I actually like myself (what is that???), I'm finally not completely stuck in absolutely every area of my life, and there's The Boy. And I realized something. I realized that I have everything I ever really wanted. I still think it sucks that I had to lose everything I had before. Especially the church. But that change is already turning out better than I anticipated on so many levels, even though oh my gosh it hurts. Then I surprised myself with another thought. All of this, if it gets me to where I need to be, then it's all worth it. If depression and panic attacks and all the losses last year and even having to leave the church is what it takes to make me who I'm supposed to be, then ok. It sucks, but I can't think of anything more important than... well, she said I'm obeying God, and I guess that's probably true. And that is priority one. Plus, it beats getting whacked with a celestial 2x4. ;)

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Now playing: Jason Robert Brown - Stars and the Moon
via FoxyTunes

Goodbye's Such a Hard Thing to Say

I went to the Baptist church this weekend. The last time I was there was three weeks ago, and it was a difficult day for me. I went to first service, and about a half hour in, I was hit by an overwhelming sense that I was at the wrong church, but it was by then too late to leave and go to liturgy. A few of my friends stopped me that Sunday because I was clearly not ok. The next week I ended up at liturgy instead. Last week, of course, I went to no church at all.

Today I figured I'd try again, hoping that I could possibly alternate or otherwise not complete the switch until New Year's.

Not so much.

We weren't through the first song today when it hit me again. I managed to hold it together while Big Brother Pastor spoke, but as soon as he was finished... Wouldn't you know it, I ended up sitting on the floor in the back. Nothing new there. But I was crying. With actual tears. I had to get kleenex! This is not normal for me. And it wouldn't stop, either. Oh, it would for a few minutes, but then I had to tell my friend. I told four people, and each time, I started crying again. The last was the hardest- Big Brother.

So today was my last Sunday at the church that's been home since I was fourteen. Part of me wishes this part wasn't so hard. Just typing it is bringing the tears back again. But another part of me is glad for the pain. It means that I actually do value the people I won't see so often. It means maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to hold up my end of those relationships.

I'll be out of sight, though, and we all know what that means. I can name a few people who won't forget me. At least three of the four I told are on that list. But I should just expect to drop off some people's radar. That's just the way it works. But after fourteen and a half years, that'll be hard, no matter how it comes.

And The Answer Is...

I don't remember making the decision. I had my alarm set so I could be ready for first service at the Baptist church or Liturgy at the Orthodox, and I completely ignored the alarm. I was having great difficulty waking up.

By the time I was up, it was decidedly too late to get to the 9 am service, but not so late as to be late for 9:15, and far too early for 11. Thus it was decided, perhaps by default.

Several people were a bit surprised to see me at Liturgy.

Is it Saturday? No... I wasn't expecting to see you on Sunday for a couple months!

Yeah, I wasn't expecting to be here for a couple months.

Or,

How did you end up here this morning?

I have no idea.

So, yeah. And it wasn't the somewhat jarring experience it was two years ago. I know about half the church now. I understand things better, and those things I don't yet understand are becoming more familiar, since I've been going to Vespers. I stayed for coffee hour and chatted with a few of the people I've gotten to know a bit.

There is one thing that I seem to be worried about. There is a young adults group, which I am being encouraged to join. I have one very good reason for not going to the next meeting. It's next Saturday. During Western Days. I am not omnipresent. This is good, since I do not particularly want to go.

I have issues, and they are my issues. To this I am willing to admit. First off, I tend to find all the places where I decidedly do not belong. Almost any supposedly "peer" group has predictably been just such a place. This is predictable to the degree that I am generally reluctant to try again, because it's almost guaranteed to be the same song over and over. Maybe this is an unhealthy attempt at self preservation. Maybe not. I don't know.

Another issue is this thing that happened with a group I was once in. Actually, I was on the team that started it. There were four of us. We spent a year preparing. We gave it a name. Then someone else was brought in and put in charge. A few weeks later I was told I was out of leadership. The new leader brought in his own team to back him up, and I was expendable, I guess. Then the crew the new guy had brought in started giving my friend T problems. That left two of the four. D quit because he felt pushed out by the leadership. Only L left for her own reasons. I was out of leadership, but I still went, until the day that one of the imported leaders in all earnestness used pizookies as a sermon illustration. The group had become something much less than the four of us had hoped for. It was wildly popular, but it was also painfully shallow. And, as usual, I was totally out of place. In a group I had started.

As I said, the issues are mine. However, the question still remains.

Is it worth trying?

Orthodox? Baptist?

I don't know which church I'm going to tomorrow.

Really. No clue.

Well, Then

A few weeks ago, I decided it was time to get going on this business of becoming Orthodox. I'm healthy enough that I can, and conveniently there's one right down the street from my house. In fact, as I mentioned before, that's the very same Orthodox church that I visited nearly two years ago, where I know people! Already we can see God working in the details, no?

Oh, but it gets better.

I found out that there is a Vespers service on Saturday nights. Of course, at the time, I was working Saturdays, but then the Chamber threw some overtime my way, and I had to quit Coffee Place again, thus opening my Saturdays for other things. So my next Saturday working was my last. That was two weeks ago.

Last Saturday, I went to Vespers, hoping that the terribly outdated website was still accurate. As I approached the building, the first people I saw were members of one of the families I know from my first teaching gig. The new situation anxiety was pretty low as it was, but in that moment, it went down even more. Lisa, the mom, is the singer, so she decided Grace would show me the ropes, sort of act as my tour guide through the service. Grace was an excellent tour guide, too.

Afterward, everyone congregated in the lobby area. A former student named Spud tackled me in a hug, which was fun. I met the priest and his wife, and while I was meeting the priest's wife (who shares my name- hilarity ensued) another lady came charging at me, exclaiming, "Ai!" Or, rather, "爱!" for she was reading my necklace.

You read Chinese!

And, simultaneously,

"Do you speak Chinese?"

Suddenly we were speaking Chinese, then talking about China... languages... she wants to learn to read Russian... Um. Geez.

Everyone else was stunned for the two or three minutes that this went on. Eventually, they were able to break in. They asked what brought me to St. Peter's.

The short version is that I need to become Orthodox.

They all nodded in complete understanding. They've all been there.

The longer version is a little complicated and I'm not sure I understand it all, but there is one part that involves a boyfriend [insert description of The Boy].

Language Lady, Nora the Exuberant, exclaimed, "I heard about you!"

WHAT!?!????

"I don't remember who told me, but there was someone telling me about you and your boyfriend."

At this point I decided it would be a very bad idea to start swearing, so I shut up pretty quickly. Until a few minutes later, that is, when she announced that she knew who had told her. It was a Toastmaster. She told me about why she was associating with this particular Toastmaster, and finally said his name.

That's my DAD.

Oh good grief.

Well, Nora the Exuberant and Father Patrick both suggested that I go to this class that was starting on the 11th. That very Tuesday. How convenient!

Of course I went. And an unexpected former student was there, and he, also of Baptist upbringing, decided that I needed to help him process afterward.

When I related all of this to Counselor on Thursday, she laughed through the whole thing, and she was reduced to "Dang!" as her only working comment. Of course, she did eventually regain her vocabulary. She told me that she hadn't been sure what this process would do to me. She's supposed to protect me where she can, she said, and there was the possibility for a lot of bad things. But with Saturday and Tuesday, well, she thought that was pretty clear confirmation. There was just too much to be coincidence, even if there were such a thing. I agreed. The way those two evenings went, there was really no room left for argument.

This is for real, folks. :)

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Now playing: Andrew Peterson - More
via FoxyTunes

I Quit

Again.

This gig at Coffee Place is so over. The plan was to work Saturdays through September. The plan has changed.

I'm exhausted. I can't keep up on other stuff I have to do. And now the Real Job has handed me an after-hours overtime assignment. Enough, already!

Of course, the real reason was because the local Orthodox church has Vespers on Saturday nights, which would ease the transition. A sudden departure from the church I've called home for 14.5 years would be a bad idea. Stalling on something I know I need to do is an even worse idea.

The manager doesn't know it yet, but today is my last day. I'll sub on occasion, if they ask nicely and promise not to sneak me back into the schedule. But I'm done being a slave to that schedule.

It's just too much.

Yes, I Know This is Stream of Consciousness, but I am NOT as Unintelligible as Joyce

It was Poetry Sunday here at Coffee Place. My shift started at 1 pm, and the poetry people arrive a bit before 2:30. I was here by myself with a crowd of customers and a growing backlog of unmade drinks. Also, the ice machine wasn't working, so that was an added bit o' fun.

Well, these three people came in and ordered two raspberry iced teas and a coffee. I eventually got their drinks to them, and promptly forgot they existed, since there was plenty else to do. Later, though, the lady called and identified herself by that order. She said they had left some Very Important Papers, and could I check to see if the papers were still there? They were, along with some sunglasses, so I put them in the drawer behind the counter, and she said she was coming back for them. They walked in ten minutes later. I returned the Very Important Papers and sunglasses, they walked out the door, and it was all good. Then the guy walked back in and handed me a tip. I figured, hey, that was an easy buck, but then I looked at it. It wasn't a 1. It was a 10.

Wow. And on my last Sunday at Coffee Place, too.

Also in the wow file is what happened yesterday. A guy came in who was once a friend. We're talking the '98-'99 school year. Music history at the local community college. Like I said, he started out as a friend. He turned into a stalker of sorts. Well, he showed up at Coffee Place last night while I was working. The last eight years have done interesting things to this boy. Most notably, he seems to have acquired a tail. A large, bushy, squirrelish tail. Um.

Did I mention that today was my last Sunday working at Coffee Place? Yes. God took a day off, and now I'll have one, too. Of course, God's been pretty busy ever since the incident with the proverbial apple, or pomegranate if you happen to agree with me & enz, or fig if you follow the traditions of the East. Which seems much more fitting than an apple, but, ew. Sorry. Nothing appealing about figs. But that would explain why God hates figs. ;)

Speaking of the traditions of the East. Remember that Orthodox Adventure I had almost two years ago? (It was November 2005) Well, it seems I'll be going back there soon. I'm going to become Orthodox, you see. The story behind this is long, going back at least into my college years, though I can see little moments in high school and even earlier that point this way.

Interestingly, this church is right down the street from work. The real job, I mean. Ok, actually, I live right in the middle of everything in this town. I could walk to Coffee Place if I wanted. I do walk to work. I can easily walk to the Antiochian Orthodox Church that I visited two years ago.

Walking, walking. I've been doing a lot of walking. In the three months since the move, I have lost 12ish pounds without even trying. Combined with the ten I dropped a year ago, that's nearly 25 pounds. I am nearly back to where I was after my 5 weeks of ramen, rice, watermelon, and mocha ice cream bars in China. This is a goal I thought unattainable. Of course, most of this year has been an exercise in reaching unreachable stars.

I'm still pretty hung up on last night.

HE HAD A TAIL.

Timing. Gah.

There's been this one thing that has been growing in my mind over the last few weeks. I have come to a place that is hard, but necessary. The weight of it, when it presses in, is such that I cannot manage it without a great deal of effort. Today, for example, I found myself once again on the floor in the back, shaking. Twice, I had to go outside. It was just too much. Breathing, praying, and quoting Philippians 4 at myself eventually got me back in control.

6 Ne vous inquiétez de rien; mais en toute chose faites connaître vos besoins à Dieu par des prières et des supplications, avec des actions de grâces. 7 Et la paix de Dieu, qui surpasse toute intelligence, gardera vos coeurs et vos pensées en Jésus Christ.

(Yes, it was in French in my head. Three years of French at a Christian high school. Welcome to my brain.)

Anyway. After church, I was walking through the room, kinda wanting to say hi to Big Brother Pastor, but also wanting to avoid him. He intercepted me. "How are you?" he asked. Ok. "No you're not."

*Groan*

Let me tell you. Of all the people to have this conversation with... I did NOT want to have this conversation today. Not with my brother. It's too hard! I mean, I suspect this conversation is going to be as hard for him as it will be for me. But there it was. I wasn't ready. It came out all wrong. Jumbled. And totally without context. This is a conversation that really needs context, and there was none. And by the end, we both had tears in our eyes.

It was so hard. But at least now he knows that we really need to talk sometime.

Wrestling God Knows What

Somewhere in the last four months I seem to have snuck up on myself. In January I was distraught because the old me had gone and the new me was still some undefined future. I was confused and disoriented. I had no idea who I was or even who I would eventually be. I'm not sure I was even so certain that I'd ever actually find that undefined future me.

Four months later, pieces are falling into place. Anyone who reads here or sees me in person knows the dramatic turn of events that began with the job. It's been one thing after another coming together since then. The puzzle may not be complete, but the picture is starting to make sense.

In much the same way, the more important pieces are also coming together. Pieces of who I am are turning up and falling into place with almost alarming frequency. It is startling. A couple sessions ago, Counselor suggested something difficult, and I said Ok, I'm game. Even she was startled by that one, and she asked me Who are you??

In these last few months I've seen things return that were once a part of me that disappeared several years ago. Pieces that didn't seem to go together, or even belong in the same puzzle, have combined to reveal a fairly significant part of the picture. Significant enough that the trio with whom I've processed (all individually, even- they don't know each other) have confirmed that they see this in me. The word calling was used. Not by me, mind you. By them.

Last month I said These things are way beyond me. I'm feeling very very small because what I've just walked into is so very immeasurably vast. To be honest, it all scares the crap out of me. Not that I'm terribly surprised. I can't exactly ask where this all came from. These pieces have been with me for about as long as I can remember. It just all came together so fast. And confirmation has been everywhere. I should know better than to argue this, really, but it seems I've been wrestling all month.

I've also been wrestling all day. I had to take a drive this afternoon to get away from distractions and try to find some clarity. But how much more clarity do I need beyond these three who have walked through it with me and several other occurrences that seem to support their conclusions? Especially when I know they're right.

I've been reminded multiple times in the last month that I am no great fan of mirrors. I deal with them only when absolutely necessary. The mirror in this year's Stations of the Cross gave me problems, and I admit I didn't really engage that station as a result. It struck me as I was writing this post that perhaps it is not only the literal mirrors that I am afraid of.

Yeah, It's Kinda Like That

I can't help thinking of Isaiah and his vision when I read, "I'm feeling very very small because what I've just walked into is so very immeasurably vast."

Ding ding ding! I think Pastor BlueJeans hit the nail on the head, there, folks. I didn't make the connection to Isaiah 6 right away, but that was definitely how I was feeling. And to a lesser degree, it still is.

1 In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord seated on a throne, high and exalted, and the train of his robe filled the temple. 2 Above him were seraphs, each with six wings: With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were flying. 3 And they were calling to one another:
"Holy, holy, holy is the LORD Almighty;
the whole earth is full of his glory."

4 At the sound of their voices the doorposts and thresholds shook and the temple was filled with smoke.

5 "Woe to me!" I cried. "I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the LORD Almighty."

I am still stunned. I am still half cowering there in the smoke. And, you know, I have to question the translation here. Woe to me? Riiiiight. Cause that's exactly the words that came to my mind when I found myself here. I am ruined. Yeah, that works for me. I'm thinking maybe not so much literally, cause we've already seen me ruined, and clearly this isn't that. But I fully understand the sentiment.

And my eyes haven't seen the King. Judging by the intensity of my weekend, it's no wonder God in the Old Testament kinda expected people to drop dead when they encountered him. It's no wonder Isaiah responded how he did. And, really, it's no wonder the seraphs were (are) singing Holy, holy, holy is the LORD Almighty. Other than my initial expletives, this was about the only coherent thought I could muster. And it still plays in my mind. The Todd Agnew version.

Big Ideas

The last few days have pushed me in a direction I wasn't expecting. No worries. This isn't a bad thing. Just... unexpected.

Wednesday was very very hard. I can't go into the circumstances, and I'm not convinced the situation is what made it a hard day.

Counseling on Thursday was interesting. It was one of those days where I got there and immediately knew we weren't gonna get to the book. That was ok. It was a good time of talking through things. I think I learned a little. And then there was a Wizard of Oz moment.

Remember at the end when Toto pulled the curtain to reveal the actual Wizard? Ok, it was kinda like that, but flip-flopped. The real Wizard of Oz turned out to be far less impressive than anyone thought. But Thursday, the curtain got pulled back a little, and my experience of God as a Passive Observer got blown to bits.

I spent most of Friday feeling like I'd had the wind knocked out of me by a cosmic 2x4. That was on fire. Or maybe a bowling ball comet. Whatever. I was overwhelmed. I was close to tears. I was desperate for someone to talk to, but I couldn't find words for what I was feeling. Still can't.

Then today happened. I met with SM, cause it's Saturday, and I was telling her about the week... Next thing I knew, Toto was pulling back the curtain again.

These ideas flying through my head are too big for words right now. I am Sam, at the point where he begins to understand the reality that Strider is actually Aragorn, heir to the throne of Gondor. What a heavy realization!

Patrick, you were right. About a whole lot. All those thoughts on depth and prayer...

These things are way beyond me. I'm feeling very very small because what I've just walked into is so very immeasurably vast.

I am utterly terrified, but I can't wait to see what happens next!

Orthodox Adventures: The Return of the Spider

What Worked, What Didn't, and What Now

Time and distance are wonderful things, and now that I have written the hard part, I can finally answer some questions.

This whole drama seems to have centered around music, and from this place of looking back, I can say that it was only the chant that really captured me at the Orthodox place. The rest of it, well, it was ok, but it wasn't home.

The theotokos business, on the other hand, was definitely a deal breaker. While chant is a powerful but insufficient reason for such a huge change, so is this enough to keep me from signing up.

Yes, it is smaller, and yes, I know 25% of the people there. I probably know a similar or higher percentage at my own church, and I know many of them better. Again, this would not be a significant factor.

I think I have reached a conclusion. Other than the inescapable fact that I am confused, I think that whatever this strange feeling is, this God-spot that is causing much discomfort, it is not something that one church is going to help me figure out better than another. This, while frustrating as anything, is also comforting. I don't have to leave. But I think I'm glad I went to St. Peter's.

Orthodox Adventures: The Two Churches

*Previously on Orthodox Adventures*

The chant pierced my soul with a sense of glory.

Then I did something very silly.

*Now to continue our story*

I found myself driving to my church. This was not in the plan for the day, but it made sense at the time. It was, after all, only five minutes away and still in session. I hadn't seen my mentor in a month, and I thought it would be good to talk with my pastor about this adventure.

After a few minutes outside talking with some friends, I went inside and sat down. I sat in my Thoughful Spot, a span of wall between the two sets of double doors. As I slid to the floor, the music swept over me again.

My church is loud, and usually, I like it that way. The song was "My Glorious" by Delirious. It's an ok song, but on Sunday, it felt like high school math.

Train O and Train B are heading toward each other on the same track. Train O begins at Point A and travels 60 mph. Train B begins at Point Z and travels 80 mph. How smashed will the Spider at the point of impact be?
A--------------------------S----------------------------Z

When placed in contrast with the morning's chanting, "My Glorious" seemed a mockery, cacophonous and empty. The former had pierced me with a sense of glory. The latter crushed me into tears.

Not at all helpful in that moment was my recent pondering. It has been months since I've been not scattered and distracted at church. I had begun to feel like Bilbo Baggins- thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread. I am not very patient with myself, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe I needed to find another church.

I go through these seasons. In a church of 600ish, it is easy enough for a flaming introvert to get lost in the shuffle. In a commuter church, it is not easy to find real community. In an intellectual church, it is easy for the poet to feel a bit empty.

All that, realized in the midst of the emotional trainwreck that was "My Glorious," left me with the very strong urge to run far far away, but I was completely unable to move. All I could do was stay rooted to my wallflower spot and cry. Of course, my pastor is fitted with a tear-seeking device, so when the service ended, the wallflower idea suddenly did not work.

I tried to talk to my pastor. Really, I did, but I only got as far as "I went to an Orthodox church with a friend and it was great!" Then there was a trainwreck flashback, and my mind went blank. I couldn't find words. I couldn't do anything. I was scared. I couldn't handle even the possibility that it might be time to move on. This has been home for twelve and a half years! This is my family. Sure it's big and sometimes I get lost, but there's always someone there when I really need someone to be there. Quite often that someone is the guy I was trying rather unsuccessfully to express all this to. Then there's the completely ridiculous guilt factor, seeing that this whole thought might go wrong somewhere and- oh I don't know what I thought might happen. I just had a vague sense that however I said it, it would come out wrong and hurt someone, most likely the person I was trying to talk to. And that would be sad.

So I froze. There was too much, and none of it words. Someone else asked him a question, and I bolted. A few hours later I tried to get this into an email, but I ended up crying again instead. It was simply too hard.

Even now, days later, it's still hard to write. Had I known what it would do to me, I wonder if I would have gone...

St Peter the Apostle Antiochian Orthodox Church

Orthodox Adventures, Episode 1

As the doors to the sanctuary opened, waves of an incredibly beautiful sound washed over me. It was chant, but in English. Granted, it took me a few minutes to hear words in those waves. I took that time to look around the room.

At the front of the room was an archway leading to a smaller area. I do not have the terminology to call it correctly, but there was a table and some various symbology in there, and it was in this room where the priest spent most of the service. On either side of the archway were four slightly recessed areas housing icons. I could not identify all of them, but at least two were meant to be Christ, one or two were Mary, one seemed to be John the Baptizer, and another Peter. Further icons lined the two side walls, these icons representing various saints in the history of the Orthodox Church. Oh, and several former students of mine were there, though these were in the congregation, not among the icons.

The chants being sung were as textually rich as they were musically. I recognized some as being directly from scripture. Others may have been creeds, liturgies or various prayers. Throughout one of the latter, there was a phrase which was repeated numerous times. At each repetition, everyone bent at the waist and reached the floor with their right hand. I was caught off-guard by this. That's how they bow, Dave whispered. Each bow was followed by the sign of the cross.

Were it not for the lack of chairs and the constant bowing, I would have closed my eyes and simply listened, but by this time I realized my attention was necessary. I thought to myself, The bowing and such are not something I'm personally used to, but they're ok. I like the reverence and the focus it requires. The icons are something else, though. I'm not too sure about them.

O Theotokos, save us. Say what?!? I did not go into this completely unprepared. I had browsed a bit online, so I had some context to know this part of the chant was referring to Mary. My Baptist sensibilities were a bit unhappy. It's not that the idea is foreign to me. I think I was not expecting those words to come together, and I certainly was not going to go there without a good reason why I should.

Otherwise, the chant experience was amazing. It was the same feeling as sitting on my rock at the point, standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower at midnight, looking out over Niagara in biting cold or the Grand Canyon in sweltering heat, or singing Shout to the Lord with my Russian friends. The chant pierced my soul with a sense of glory.

After forty-five minutes that could have lasted forever, we all sat down on the few chairs against the walls or on the floor. The priest spoke for about twenty minutes on Luke 8:40-56. This part was not too different from what I am used to, neither did it have a profound effect on me. Then the spell was broken, for the priest said "give each other the kiss of peace."

What the heck???? I have to admit I was a bit freaked out by this.

More chanting followed the homily (a word which always always makes me think of corn), then the priest and the I-forget-what-they're-called boys (three of the four of whom I knew) began to move around in that smaller room with the table. Through the words in the priest's part of the chant, I realized they were preparing for communion, or however you want to call that. Uh-oh, I thought. I turned to Dave.

What are the rules? I asked. The rules are we aren't Orthodox yet, so we can't take it. We'll sit here. But someone will bring us what they call the "Bread of friendship." So that's what we did. We sat as the rest of the congregation, about forty in all, lined up. As they filed past, I realized just how many people I knew. I could identify about ten of the forty. One of them brought us both a piece of bread. Then someone else did. This continued, and by the end, four or five had brought us bread.

This was very interesting to me. I understand the idea of not wanting to allow just anyone to participate, but the Baptist part of me does not like the idea of leaving people out because they were not baptized into the "right" church. On the other hand, if a tradition is going to require confirmation, the "bread of friendship" concept is a good picture of how the Church should be. I liked it.

A few more things followed. There were announcements, and then some chanting for a man who had died and his family. It was similar in concept to a mass for the dead. Then it was over.

In another room there was a table with coffee, juice and various food items. We sat in there for a few minutes, we said hi to a few people, and then I left.

Then I did something very silly.

Stay tuned for what happened next...