Category: Prose

The Jesus Prayer discovered me to be a liar, but is turning me into an honest man.

It is repetitious, but it isn’t vain, for by it I have observed my inner self transforming.

Yet at first, when I uttered the prayer, it amounted to something like this: “la de da-da, ya da-da, la de da-da-da, la de-da.”

Such was the superficiality of my inner life, and my lack of mental focus.

 

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon me a sinner.”

 

Can there be anything more beneficial, for a Christian, than to keep our mind continually on Christ Jesus?

There isn’t a simpler or better tool, for a Christian to use, than the Jesus Prayer, as he works to forge the purity of his soul and follow the commands of his Lord.

Every master craftsman, or expert in any trade, has a particular tool they most love to use, the tool they turn to in all circumstances, the one they’ve come to trust, and can rely on as they accomplish their task.

The Jesus Prayer can be that special tool, which every master Christian holds dear and close to their heart, as they do their inner work.

Don’t ask me how, but the Prayer, when done with sincerity and with perseverance, begins to reveal ourselves as we truly are, and we discover that we aren’t what we thought we were.

For instance; I’m actually a sinner. I hadn’t realized this, but rather, believed I was basically a good person who happened to sin now and then. But that isn’t the same thing at all. Rather than sinning on occasion, I am steeped in it, and sadly, sin has come to define me. I am a sinner.

The prayer revealed this to me. As I repeated it throughout the day, the words sunk in and I began to hear them, then understand them, and finally the reality of them took hold of me.

“Lord Jesus Christ”…He is my Lord…Yet I do not live as His subject…Though I should…I live for myself…I live as a sinner. But the prayer is reminding me all the time to live as His subject. This is a blessing.

“Son of God”…this is not just any Lord…this is our Creator…this truth, obviously, demands our complete awe and obedience…but I have lived indifferently and apathetically…truly I am a sinner! I am beginning to see myself as I truly am…and the truth will set us free. I have hope!

“Have mercy on me, a sinner”…yes, truly I am one who needs mercy…my self-righteousness is not true righteousness…I am not God, but I am truly a creature…I am at God’s mercy in this life and in the life to come…in Him I have my being…I am not self-made but rather completely dependent for my existence…and I am a sinner, this is clearly evident to me now as I see how I live my life. Lord have mercy!

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.

 

~FS

Each day I walk from here to there, and back again; and as I go, I walk through meadows overgrown with thistles, or nettles, or some-such prickly things, and pass by walls covered with masses of thorny vines, which also hang in abundance from the trees, and reach down as if grabbing for me, yearning to hold me in their arms, as I walk beneath them. Wild little creatures populate their foliage, dropping things, or throwing them at me, as they scurry about in the half-dark, amidst thickets of the scrubby, twiggy trees which are ubiquitous here, and hide the sun, I imagine, somewhere up above.

Occasionally I stumble on one of these cast-offs thrown into my path. Now and then, falling to the ground, I let out a curse, before I’m quite able to stop myself. I’ve even gotten myself stuck in the mud, stumbling over these things, as I make my journey here and there.

But the strangest thing began to happen a while back, and this is what I’d like to share with you. It began, I think, when I read somewhere in the Bible, probably Galatians, that the fruits of the Spirit are love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control, and I decided that I wanted these things. I considered for some time how I might get them, when it occurred to me that first I needed to make some room for them.

I already had fruits of a worse spirit within me, things such as anger and lust, self-righteousness and criticism; things which clogged me up so to speak, and backed me up, so that there was no space inside for the better fruits. What I really needed was a spiritual enema, if you will pardon the expression, and so I prayed for this, as I made my resolution to stop feeding myself these bitter fruits, which had given me so much internal strife and discomfort.

Thankfully, with God’s help, I began the long process of starving the bad fruits within me, in hopes they would shrivel and fall off the vine, and make room for the better ones.

One day, as I walked, it happened that I saw a beautiful woman. This in itself should not be a problem, but sometimes my thoughts wander at times like these, in ways that aren’t right, and sometimes I follow these thoughts. In fact, this is exactly how I’ve gotten myself stuck in the past, as I crane my neck to look at her, for a moment too long, and lose my way, and fall into a sticky, sickly-sweet slime. This particular day however, I didn’t follow these thoughts, but let them go on alone. I suppose they ended up, these thoughts, neck deep in the mud, but who cares. Instead, I directed my attention to God Himself, and I focused my thoughts, and my rising desire away from her, and towards Him. As I did this, the muddy, murky, slimy puddle I had begun to thrust myself into, transformed into a clear and sun-drenched pond, with waters still and sublime. What a refreshing change, let me tell you; and I felt no shame wading into these waters, believe me.

I’ve also had the habit of carrying around with me a bad attitude consisting of criticism of things, people, life, existence itself; and to this I’ve added a large measure of irritation and frustration which I have dispersed freely in all directions, without control. Almost gleefully, sometimes, I’ve spread these seeds, like a demented ‘Johnny Appleseed’ throwing criticism to the wind by the handful, and tossing complaints in every direction. What is surprising however, is the way that these seeds have taken root, and grown up into large thickets of ugliness, casting shadows over my world, and thrusting all that I see into a dim and ghastly pallor.  Yet, when first I stopped my tongue, and shut my mouth, behold, the world grew a little brighter.

Then, as I resisted these ticklish thoughts, and when I turned away from the giddiness that wraps these rancorous candies—replacing them with gratitude and humility instead, with words and thoughts of thankfulness—the ubiquitous, sorrowful forests came alive within me with a renewed vigor, and my world brightened tremendously. Light filtered down through the canopy of my previously twisted forest, and touched me with a softer warmth which filled me. And I must tell you, this helped me find my way.

In the rising light I found it much easier to avoid the projectiles and traps thrust into my path by those myriad strange little creatures overhead. In fact, many of them must be night creatures I surmised, because there were far fewer now above me, in the gathering light.

There are times, far too many really, when the thorny vines that reach out to grab me, as I walk about, find me an easy prey. So as I lash out at others in anger, I find myself encircled and constricted by their seductive, deadly grasp. They hug me and hold me close, at times like these, with the love of an asp, and with the tenacity of a boa. I can feel the blood rise into my face and my chest tighten and my pulse increase; and as I strain in my aggression, I can feel these vines tightening, attempting to strangle the life out of me.

But recently I discovered a better use for my anger, perhaps the only really good use for it that exists. I decided to divert it away from the people in my life and instead, turn it exclusively upon myself, or rather entirely upon those bad fruits within me that I was mentioning earlier to you. I gave them no rest, but in my anger I harassed them, and attacked them, and drove them out. And the results were threefold: first, there was no lingering aftertaste of shame from my angry activities, whereas before, whenever I directed my anger outward towards others, I invariably, and inevitably felt remorse afterwards, but in this case I felt an empowerment, and a nobility, rise up within me after driving away these little monsters within; and second, my anger acted like a machete or a potent herbicide which made those thorny vines retreat, and in their absence I felt a wave of peace, and I could breathe again; and third, these vines began to bloom.

They bloomed tremendously and with a fragrance sweet and joyful. For long periods I would just stand beneath these flower-laden vines, where they twined amongst the trees, and I would lift my head and inhale deeply to smell their floral sweetness; and where they rambled across the little walls, beneath the sun-drenched sky, I would bend over and bury my face deep within their jasmine and honeysuckle beauty, and forget all trace of irritation.

By now, I was enjoying going here and there much more than I had before, because my world was becoming more beautiful than it had been before. But there was still the problem of the nettles everywhere I went. These prickly things hedged me in on every side and limited my freedom and mobility. How to get rid of them?

One day—as I gingerly picked my way around them, taking great care not to disturb them, so as not to get stung—I was startled by a sudden, loud sound of applause. Actually, it was only thunder, as the clouds were rolling in, but to my foolish heart I imagined it as applause. I turned to my left, and to my right, in search of my admirers, and in my delirium I imagined the sea of nettles around me were crowds of people, watching me in rapt attention, waiting breathlessly to experience what monumental thing I might say, or do next. Oh, how glorious I was, standing there above my people, the prince of the thistles, the star among the weeds. And as I felt the familiar rush of that deceptive fame rising within me, I felt dizzy with anticipation, hoping that I might be important, and in this ridiculous reverie I fainted, and fell upon my face.

When I awoke, a moment later, my body was stinging all over, and my eyes were watering, I assume from having landed in a patch of nettles. I rubbed my eyes to stop the flow of tears, but couldn’t. I tried to lift myself back onto my feet, but felt so weary. Instead, I lay there beneath the nettles and gave up. I needed a break, although whether I needed it or not, I had lost the will to continue picking my way around these obnoxious weeds.

I glanced around at the world beneath the nettles, as I continued lying on the ground. This world was dust, and emptiness, as a result of the weed cover above, which had choked out most other vegetation underneath. Even so, I saw a small flower here, and a patch of grass there, and these gave me hope. As I spent more time here, so close to the dirt, I grew more comfortable with my surroundings, and became grateful for the simplicity of this humble world. Upon closer inspection it wasn’t so empty after all; in fact, it was teeming with life—little mosses growing in the shadow of rocks, seeds of this and that beginning to push up through the soil, ants doing what ants do—so much life, all interconnected and beautiful, working together so naturally.

I considered how fortunate I was to have been brought down to this place, brought into intimacy with creation, and shown a different perspective. I looked up at the sky above me, at the sunlight filtering down through the nettles, and felt relief, because it was far less troublesome for me now, as I began looking up at the world around me, rather than looking down at it, as I had become accustomed to doing.

Eventually, I returned to my feet, but resolved to remember the lesson of laying in the nettles. Since that time, when I am tempted to think of myself too highly, or of others too lowly, I remember the humility of the world I met beneath the weeds, and this motivates me to resist playing along with my delusions.

As I continued to resist pride, and vanity, and all of the other prickly things which alienate me from the world, the masses of nettles which had previously hedged me in, began to dry up and wilt away; and in time, the meadows opened up to me, released from the tyranny of the thistles. I ran freely across large open spaces, filled with grasses and wildflowers; and I began walking more intimately with others, without the fear of stinging them, or of being stung by them.

Today, as I walked here and there, I stopped for a while to rest beside a pond. Its clear waters revealed their depths to me, and in its glassy reflection, I saw the clouds passing overhead. Sunshine filled this place, and only the passing hours changed the intensity and color of the light. As the sun descended in the sky, the light around me turned from brilliant to golden, and warmed the trees across the pond—a muted incandescent.

My thoughts had wandered to things from my past as I sat here, and as I pondered these things, I suddenly awoke to the realization that these thoughts were clouding my vision of the present. Quite literally, these musings about the past were acting like a thin veil over my eyes, or putting it another way, they gave the air around me an unnatural heaviness, as if it were a little too thick. When I put away these thoughts of the past, and simply experienced the current moment—witnessing the golden light as it reflected upon the tree trunk in front of me—it was as if suddenly a layer were removed within the air, so that it became clearer, and the world around me appeared closer, and more intimate to my senses. This startled me, but I enjoyed it—the vibrant clarity of the present moment.

Soon after this, my mind began wandering again, this time to plans I was making for the future. The excitement and anticipation of coming events gave me a little thrill, which I reveled in for a moment, until I suddenly awoke again to the realization that these thoughts as well, were obscuring my vision of the present, and diminishing my perception of the beauty of the world around me.  My thought life had a real and ontological effect on my physical vision, and diminished my experience of the world. I experimented with this phenomena several times, purposefully thinking about the past; and observed, as the nearly imperceptible veil returned to cloud my sight. Then, as I put these thoughts of the past out of my mind, I could see the veil lift again.

Now that the twin veils of past and future thoughts had been removed, I experienced the world around me with greater clarity, and as I watched the sunlight moving gently through the trees, I understood that God is present. But soon thereafter, as the mind is prone to do, thoughts of other times, and places, crept back in unnoticed, and clouded my vision of the beautiful. I felt these thoughts carry me out of the moment, out of my true life once again, and I followed them, seduced and enthralled by their promises.

Such is the back and forth journey of the spiritual life, but may God’s grace guide and awaken us. The Beautiful is available to all. May we discover it, as we journey from here to there; and may we dwell therein, eternally.

~FS

Several months had passed since Jeremy lost his wife. The house felt empty, and his mood was sullen. A shaft of light filtered down into the room where he sat, from the skylight above—light the color of whiskey. It was cool to the touch, as he rolled it across his tongue and then swallowed; but his whiskey burned as it went down, and it brought him no joy.

It was fall, the season of their joy—in times past—when the amber light of late afternoon would illumine their faces, capturing the essence of their souls, drawing each into the depths of the other. He had loved swimming in her depths.

He looked out the window now, and cast his glance across the yard, hoping to find her standing among the dahlias—her afternoon pleasure this time of year, when the light had just this quality, when each bloom caught afire, like one hundred tiny suns; and a breeze would stir up and catch hold of these flowers, moving them in orbits about her body—and why not, she had been the center of his universe, so why wouldn’t she be the center of theirs as well?

Today it was the breeze that called to him, coaxing him out of his chair and into the yard. He stopped briefly beside the dahlias before continuing down the path towards the forest behind the house. At the forest’s edge was an old barbed-wire fence in disrepair—twisted wire rusting quietly, and wooden posts crumbling into the grass—which he stepped through, as he placed his whiskey glass precariously on one of the rotting members, and left it there.

As Jeremy continued into the forest the breeze calmed, and the light fainted, but the sound of his footsteps on the gravelly path grew louder, and filled the space between the earth and sky. The canopy above him was a mix of firs, alders and maples; the forest floor was scattered with ferns, trillium and broken branches. He found one, suitable for a walking stick, and broke off what wasn’t needed. That’s what life is about, he thought to himself, getting rid of what’s unnecessary, and walking on. Which he did.

But what about when life takes what is necessary? This thought made him smile a wry sort of grin, and he spat impulsively, as if to expel the bitterness of this idea. He began walking again, a little faster now, to put some distance between himself and that last thought, hoping to leave it behind—unnecessary. His walking stick gave him confidence and made him feel stronger, which he liked.

Moss and fallen needles gave flesh to the bare bones of the gravelly path as he made his way deeper into the forest; so that the scratch and crunch of his footfalls slowly gave way to a squish, and hollow thump as he stepped upon the flaccid green skin. Squish, thump and then silence…and then silence…and more silence. He closed his eyes to hear the silence better. He stood still now, to feel the silence better. Yet in the silence he heard a whistling, or a wheezing; or was it a hum? He wasn’t certain which it was that he heard, only that it wasn’t silence.

In the half-light he saw a small clearing, and a grove of birch trees up ahead. The sound came from up there. He followed the hum. At the edge of the clearing, nestled against the birch trees, stood a clump of ferns. It came from in there, so he approached the ferns. Setting his walking stick down upon the mat of moss which covered the clearing, he leaned over and peered down into the ferns; and there, in the midst of them, was a well.

Here was the mouth of a small round well, situated within the ferns, wreathed by them; and the stone of the well formed a ring, like a crown, he thought. Against the side of the well was a low stone shelf, at just the right height for kneeling and peering inside. So he knelt and peered. The light from the sky above cast onto its stone walls, but not far; within the first few feet the stone began to fade, and then disappeared into darkness.

Jeremy was fascinated by something in that darkness, but he was perplexed as he looked more intently into the depths of this round, black emptiness. But the light, the stone, the dark all seemed to play tricks with his sight, causing him to perceive that the darkness had substance, and that perhaps, it even had being. There was something strangely comforting in the darkness of this well, and he enjoyed looking into it.

As he continued to gaze down into the well, it reminded him of his departed wife, or more accurately, it reminded him of the void of life without her. Visually, this black shaft, represented, in a tangible way, the ineffable idea of her absence. It gave form to what was formless, and this comforted him. He relaxed and felt the tension of the past few months drain out of him. Breathing deeply within this comforting darkness he felt a touch of emotion, or an energy, that was unfamiliar to him; it felt like gratitude.

All the while the faint whistling continued; emanating from someplace within the well, or around the well. Suddenly, a crack sounded from among the trees at his side. He turned about but saw nothing. Looking into the well again he was frightened; he saw no comfort now in its darkness, but only foreboding. He felt alone and bewildered.

He no longer felt safe in these woods as the night was approaching and the light had faded to an obscure haze. Quickly getting up from his perch beside the well, he fled from the clearing, making his way back along the mossy, then gravelly trail, across the twisted, rusted wire with the rotting posts, past the dahlias, now dull in the gathering gloom, and back inside his house. He locked the door, and stood in the hallway for a moment, until he caught his breath. He felt agitated now, not at peace like before, but rather, how he usually felt lately; anxious and afraid.

In the hallway was a large mirror against one wall. He felt compelled to look into it. How old he looked. He was surprised how much the past year had aged him. He half-smiled at his image in the mirror, then snorted a wry little laugh at himself, or maybe it was a grimace; then he brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed.

The following day, the image of the well persisted within Jeremy; and its faint whistling pervaded his thoughts. The fear he felt the previous night had gone, and in its place was curiosity and desire.  The day unfolded as most days did, with the usual cavalcade of telephone calls, emails and meetings, which made up the business of his life, however, today there was a difference, as the presence of the whistling well infused him with a strange excitement.

He felt it was calling him. He heard it humming to him, through the whirr of the air-conditioner in the office next door; and he nearly jumped out of his chair, when it practically screamed at him, in the braking of a truck on the street outside. And the rhythm of his own breathing sounded remarkably similar to the music of the well. He counted out the hours and the minutes of the afternoon—a long procession which tested his patience—leading slowly but inexorably to the end of the workday, when he could return to his well.

Gazing into its depths with its corona of dimly-lit stone, Jeremy felt peace again. The rush of the day’s activity melted away as the palpable silence emanating from the darkness below washed over him. Jeremy wasn’t a religious man, but he felt something stirring in his soul, as he communed with this silence.

He noticed water droplets falling, catching and reflecting the sunlight briefly as they dropped, before vanishing into the darkness of the well. It must be raining, he thought to himself, as he continued watching the drops as they fell. They appeared to him as little messengers flying into space, taking with them thoughts or feelings, to be shared with whoever they might meet in there. He felt his body convulse, and only then discovered he had been crying. His tears—little diamonds—he offered to the well, and the well received them.

Jeremy returned home later that evening happy and at peace. As he walked past the mirror in the hallway he stopped to look at his face. He appeared neither particularly young nor old in it tonight. His face wasn’t smiling, but it wasn’t frowning either. It seemed equanimous; and he felt strangely indifferent to it. Bored, he went to bed.

As morning follows morning, and as day will follow day, Jeremy returned to his well again and again. It became something like a friend to him, if that were possible, and he came to trust it; it became his confidante, and the one to whom he poured out all of his thoughts and emotions. The more of himself he gave to the well, the happier he felt.

Time spent with the well was changing Jeremy, he was certain of this, but he couldn’t fathom how, or why. And the well itself was changing too. As the seasons passed through winter, spring, and into summer, the sun, higher in the sky now, sent its rays penetrating deeper into the well, exposing more of its depths to him. He knew the physics of this, and understood this must be the case, however, his eyes still played tricks on him when he gazed down into the depths because, if he didn’t know better, he would have to admit that the additional light actually came out of the darkness itself, not at all from above.

The darkness itself seemed to be light, he thought, though that sounded like foolishness to him; or, it was as if the darkness radiated light.

He left pondering these things, for it made no practical difference to him how the light came to be in the darkness.  What mattered to him was the gratitude he felt now, and the joy he experienced in connection with his well; and, from it came an energy that filled his whole being, that he could only describe as love.

Yet even this description—the word ‘love’, and what this represented to his mind—became immaterial to Jeremy. It was unnecessary, he decided, to give a name to this experience, because the experience was enough. In actuality, it was more than enough, he thought to himself—it was all that he needed.

The End

~FS

 

What is the quality of this light, the light of God, which increasingly shines within us, as we give ourselves to Him, to do His will? It is a joyful light; a light of peace radiating joy, overcoming the darkness which has ruled within us. Though at first, we might approach this light with fear and trembling, by His mercy, we can be transformed, so that in place of fear we find love, and in place of trembling we find courage. Even repentance, that first step we take when we turn away from all that has kept us distant from Him, is sprinkled with joy. At first, as we approach Him with our burdens of sin, all we may see is the shame that we carry, or the weight of past accusations and remorse, but as we sacrifice these things to His light, our burden is lifted, and He encourages us with joy, to continue on our journey into His Kingdom; so that, in time, we make this journey our life’s purpose, and greet joy as our constant companion.

I left the paths that lead to nowhere, for the path that never ends. It is a difficult path, yet it is an easy path; and it is a joyful path. Jesus tells us the gate is narrow, and the way is difficult which leads to life, and few find it (Matthew 7:14) yet He also tells us that when we come to Him, our labors and heavy burdens will be lifted, and we will find rest from them all; because His way is easy and His burdens are light (Matthew 11:28-30). I have experienced both of these aspects of His way. I know the difficulty of leaving one track behind, and climbing onto another; of reversing all of the inertia built up from a life given over to hollow pursuits, and I have felt the narrowness of the new gate, which can at first appear so lonely, and too costly to enter. However, I have also tasted the joy that He gives us as we continue on the way, as He lightens our burdens, and the way is made easier.

In our world of constant motion and endless activity, it is a difficult thing to enter the peaceful gate, and to dwell with God. He tells us, “Be still, and know that I am God.” By giving up our endless activity and our swirling thoughts, and by making stillness a daily practice, in time, we can begin to see glimpses of the heavenly kingdom prepared for us. And we must leave behind so much, forsaking things we are attached to, or to which we have grown accustomed—whether they are outside of us in the world of our senses, or inside of us in the world of our thoughts—in order to be made anew, transformed, and given a foretaste of the Kingdom of God on earth. Just as Christ sacrificed Himself for us, He asks us to sacrifice ourselves for Him. What we give up however, is nothing compared with what He gives us in return; we will lose the worldly paths, but we gain the heavenly one, and in so doing, He restores us to our rightful selves, heals us of all brokenness, and makes us whole—at peace and in joy eternal.

The End

~FS

Usually when we think of a destination we think of a place up ahead, a place we are moving towards and one that we will reach in the future. As a spiritual seeker, this had always been the nature of the paths I had known, and defined the limits of my journey. I was always looking to the future, to the next location, or the next moment, and hoping I might find what I was looking for, a resting place for my soul. Yet, while these paths were often exciting, the peace I sought was always fleeting, the destination was always still up around the next bend; always up ahead but never attained.

In the case of this spiritual destination, however—salvation in the Kingdom of God—it is immediately at hand, present now within our very heart. As Christ proclaims, “Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand!” His Kingdom is at hand, however, not all of us enter it now. The gift and power of God acting in our lives is a mystery that is beyond my understanding, though I can say that He changed me after my baptism and chrismation. The Holy Spirit, the gift and person that Christ promises us, which He gives for comfort and to enable us to do His will, is surprisingly real and life-changing. The Holy Spirit enables us finally to do our part, giving us the power to fulfill the human aspect involved in entering this Kingdom, which includes doing all of the commandments of our Lord, our faith in action, if we desire it.

I remember back to the river adventure I had experienced while in the community with MD. Beneath the surface turbulence of the river, there was a strong underlying current, a power carrying me along. I couldn’t see it, though I could feel it; the waves obscured any vision into the water’s depths. Similarly, though the light of God is always present and available to shine into my own depths, I cannot see into these depths because of the turbulence I allow to confuse and agitate my inner being, because of my attachments in this world, my idols, my loves apart from that for God alone; and because of my passions, my vices which stir up the waters of my inner life, making them murky and impenetrable to the light of God. Through inner warfare with all of these things, I can turn from them, control them or destroy them, and bring light into my soul. Using the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ, and with faith in His power, I can with the tool of prayer, sweep my inner dwelling clean, and make it a place for Him to dwell.

I have two little examples to share about this warfare, and the use of prayer in gaining victory over the things that stir up our inner kingdom of sin, and keep us from dwelling in the true Kingdom. One is an observation of impure inner thoughts and how they link together to form battalions of vice which work mischief inside us, and desire our destruction. Hopefully I can communicate this idea clearly enough to be useful; I call this observation, “Catching a Demon with His Pants Down”:

I was walking to my truck today and as I passed another man on the sidewalk, we said hello to one another and continued on our way. He looked me in the eyes and in a subtle flash of a moment I noticed that something inside me averted my eyes, and didn’t want to be seen. His gaze, like headlights—my lies and deceits, like a deer—stood frozen for a quick moment, exposed and afraid under his momentary gaze, until this something inside me convinced me to look away.

Who was that, what was that within me? There was no specific shame, no specific thought or image that ran for shelter inside me, but a general fright caused this little panic, and caught my interest. As I continued walking, I decided not to let this little shifty creep off the hook, I decided to pursue this poltergeist within me to see of what it is made, from where it came, and to where it fled.

And here’s how to catch a demon with its pants down. They first and foremost don’t want to be seen, as they do their dirty work. So if you catch them, don’t let them hide. Keep them under the bright light of scrutiny until they melt away. To do this I considered, ‘what was it that caused me to look away just now’ and coupled with that consideration, I used imagination to consider, ‘what would have to be different inside me in order to not feel the impulse to look away’, and by this method I triangulated the tiny monster and exposed him briefly in my mind’s eye—he was Judgement I have against other people, not against this man I met on the sidewalk in particular, but general judgement I hold towards life, as if to say, “I could do the world better”. 

And this realization then exposed Judgement’s comrade, Pride, which then showed me Complaint and Selfishness as well. They were all there, like a haze covering my vision, or like scales over my eyes. They hated to be seen; and I saw how they pulled the strings behind the scenes, distorted my vision of life, and caused me intuitively to feel ashamed, due to the knowledge that my vision is distorted because of them, and I’m not as I should be, so long as they act with impunity in the shadows within me.

Then I envisioned what I would be if I was without them, and extrapolated that out to imagine what would the world be without them? And this led to a prayer, a request and desire, written as a poem, for just this type of me, and this type of world:

An Economy of Purity

 I don’t want to be a purveyor of judgement;

a vendor of complaints.

 Nor do I wish to do business in arguments;

making transactions in rights and wrongs—

 Or assessing the value of others,

based on their utility for me.

 Instead.

 I wish to see into your eyes,

and have you look into mine;

trading in trust and purity,

exchanging understandings—

 Making our livings

by love.

 And by this method, and similar ones, we can catch the demons with their pants down, and make the world a better place within us.

We are told in Scripture to bring every thought within us captive, because in the light of day these thoughts can’t act out, and once light is shone upon them, then we are able to turn from them, or destroy them, or refute them until they go away; and once they are gone, we gain a little more of ourselves, carve out a little more peace and stillness inside for the indwelling of holiness, and the life of God within us.

This second observation came about as I watched my attachment to things in the world; how I make idols of creation, and draw myself away from God. I find that prayer is a powerful way to overcome this tendency, and realign myself again with the Lord. Again, I hope to be able to communicate something elusive here, in a way that has some benefit:

Where does your mind wander? Have you ever witnessed your consciousness extending out beyond yourself, becoming lost in the world of what you see, and what you hear, taste, touch or smell? Have you noticed? Have you watched this as it happens, been attentive to the way you lose yourself in your thoughts throughout the day?

And what happens when you pray, can you find yourself again? Have you felt your consciousness return to you when you walk alone beneath the trees, or when you meditate upon the truth of Love? What peace do you feel, when all that you’ve scattered abroad in this wide world comes back to you and rests safely again within your heart? You are yours once more…

I saw myself leave myself today; extending my thoughts to the objects of my love, reaching out with my soul, dissipating my concentration and my energy just a little bit; so I prayed with thanks to God for all things, and called upon His mercy.  As I prayed, I felt myself returning to myself, and I felt peace; and I saw more clearly the objects of my love, as they exist outside of myself, but didn’t allow myself to be drawn out of my heart by any of them. As I prayed, I could love them without strings attached; simply with freedom and in purity.

When you lose yourself, if you do, have you ever tried to make prayer your constant companion; letting the words of your prayer and the meaning beneath the words permeate you, protect you, and draw you back in again? Do you call upon God’s grace continually, or struggle towards that goal? It is a difficult habit to inculcate but one that promises to add peace to our steps.

(to be continued)

~FS

After my mother’s death I spent a lot of time staring at nothing in particular: staring out the window of my office, staring into the forested open space behind our house, staring up at the sky, or at my hands. And I spent a lot of time weeping. I wept in the shower, in my truck, in front of my computer, and at anytime of the day or night; sometimes waking up to cry, after crying in my dreams. I sometimes fell into despair over the loss, but I also fought for hope and joy in the midst of this distress. But mostly I just endured, in an earthly purgatory, not entirely in a pit of sorrow, yet not quite finding any heights of joy either. I found I had a strong urge to avoid the pain and the melancholy, a desire to distract myself with any kind of entertainment, or to attach myself to something, or someone, to avoid the pain of my utter interior loneliness.  Somehow though I resisted most of these urges, as I sensed a great opportunity before me now to seek my solace in God alone, and to place everything and everyone in my life, second to God. This of course is how it should be, it is a command of Jesus Christ that we have no love greater than our love for Him, but honestly up to this point I had never been able to follow this command; I loved many things in this life more than Him, as I made completely evident by how I spent my time, and what I thought about throughout the day.

I began to pray much more, in order to develop a deeper relationship with God, and as I did this I began to see a battle playing out within me for my affections, between every kind of idol, and God Himself. The more I sought God alone through my prayers, the more all of the things I had ever enjoyed in life fought to hold onto me, and direct my attention back to them. The loss of this most important person in my life though had a sobering effect on me, and allowed me to see these idols clearly; they were much the same as I had made my mother; she and they had become, in a certain sense, stumbling-blocks coming between me and God, keeping me from deepening my relationship with Him, preventing me from finding Him, and dwelling with Him.

Jesus made many difficult statements and among them is the one where He tells us that unless we love Him more than mother and father, or son and daughter then we are not worthy of Him. When my mom died, my entire world was shaken from the foundations that I had known and found comfort in, and now, as I wandered in a haze, somewhat aimlessly, uprooted, and without certainty, there was danger that I could lose my way, but also a great chance to realign myself according to Christ’s most difficult commands. I saw myself as a baby again with a chance to make God my new mother. I could step into a new way of life, and be a new person, because the bonds that had held me to the past, had been loosened; I was free now.

There are many fathers of the church, some of the same ones that helped choose which  books to include in Holy Scripture, that have written about prayer as our most powerful and effective means of developing a relationship, and a life with God. I began to read more of these writers, who wrote extensively about prayer, and stillness, and watchfulness as the central practices of a Christian. The volumes of the Philokalia, which are dedicated entirely to these principles, I began to read daily, and to put much of what I learned from them into practice. I read other books on prayer, and how to pray, and how to struggle when prayer is difficult. I began to make prayer my best friend, and to pray as often as I could, not just in the morning and night, and the times I had set aside during the day; but I found myself more able and focused on prayer of the heart, or praying without ceasing, at every moment of the day, as I’ve already mentioned earlier. I’m not saying that I became able to pray without ceasing every moment of the day, but rather that I made greater strides towards this goal, because I had become more aware of my desperate need for it. I began to see that prayer was essential to my life; that without it, my life would be wasted, my remaining time here on earth would be wasted, and in a very real sense, I would be lost.

As I considered how I should best spend the remaining time I have in this life, I began to confront, daily, the inevitability of my own death. With this fact clearly before me each day, things began to fall into place; God had to be primary, for there was no other logical, useful, or trustworthy entity, or thing, to dedicate myself in this life, or to put my hope for eternity. There is a long tradition in the Orthodox church, particularly among monks, to keep the knowledge of our inevitable death always in our minds; this can help us keep a proper perspective on the issues and problems of each day, give us a correct understanding of ourselves in relation to everyone we meet, increase our vigilance in our battle with our own vices, or passions, and foment a healthy and purifying fear of God, which leads to wisdom and purity of heart. Wisdom is its own reward, in this life and the next, and purity of heart, Jesus says in the Beatitudes, is the prerequisite for those who desire to see God; for those who wish to know God.

I oscillated often between the fear of death and the horror of it, with its cruel tearing away of all the beloved in my life, I faltered between this fear, and the fear of God and the joy that this leads to—the determination to live according to His commands, the repentance of everything repugnant to Him, and ultimately to a deep and abiding love for Him. On one hand I realized that at any moment everything could just suddenly dissolve and disappear, that nothing here had any genuine solidity, it was all just a vapor, and this disturbed me, but on the other hand this truth also drove me more genuinely into the arms of God and made me seriously consider the great possibility of eternity; eternal existence, which, if true, then spiritual considerations are much more real, and ‘solid’ than the materiality of this present, passing world.

I had always envisioned my life, and everything in it, to be like a screen before me, scenes from my movie that I was constantly stepping into, paths that led me ever forward into the pictures of my life. But now, with the fact of death present within me—my own, and that of everyone I held dear, suddenly this screen before me began to dissolve, and instead, I began to perceive my life as that of a passing landscape, viewed out the side window of a moving vehicle. Before, this movie which I was constantly entering, was my destination, but now I had a new, eternal destination ahead of me, which was more compelling than this movie of my life.

(to be continued)

~FS

The hospice nurse had thought my mother would pass away sometime around Easter of 2016 and had prepared my sisters and me for this probability. As it turned out however, she lived an entire year longer. Our mom’s deepest desire during her final years was to stay in the home she loved, and fortunately we were able to provide that for her thanks to the dedication of my sisters, several caregivers and the hospice team. I also did my best to help by flying into Santa Rosa every four to six weeks and staying for several days to a week, relieving others on the team, and doing other practical duties related to her finances and keeping up the house. When her health had begun to seriously decline, during the latter half of 2015, she had stopped sleeping in her bedroom, but spent mostly sleepless nights in her recliner in the family room. At the time, we expected she would return to her bedroom at some point in the future, not realizing that from this point forward her world would slowly narrow, at first to just the family room and the kitchen, then to just the family room, and then step by step she would draw further and further into a world predominantly of her own.

She was very unstable on her legs, and often needed to rest because her lungs had been compromised, due to an allergic reaction to mold in her house. Over the years her lungs had scarred from this reaction, but by the time the doctors finally understood the cause and the source, and after we had removed the mold from the house, the scarring had progressed to a point of no return, and it was only a matter of time before it would finally kill her. In the meantime, her lung function slowly and steadily declined. We moved an oxygen machine into the family room so she could receive greater levels of oxygen as the condition worsened. One late night she fell down on her way to the kitchen, and unfortunately she wasn’t able to call out loudly enough to get assistance, so it took her several hours on her own to make her way back to her recliner. After this traumatic experience she refused to leave her chair again, and we were more careful to have someone sleep in the family room with her throughout the night.

For several months she persisted in staying in her recliner around the clock, and she resisted all manner of recommendations, and persuasions encouraging her to move into the bed that we had brought into the family room for her. Caring for her in the reclining chair was very difficult, but she didn’t want to move. She had purchased that chair many years earlier, and it was comfortable and obviously very important and familiar to her; and though we had made the bed in a way that was very inviting, she wanted no part of it. It was very hard to watch the mounting health issues she was facing: the swollen legs, the bedsores, and the difficulty breathing, along with the troubles and trials of regular daily hygiene. Solace for us, and for her, came by caring for her, and practically speaking, with the assistance of small doses of morphine which she took each day.

There were so few things I felt that I could do to help her, I couldn’t heal her, I couldn’t reverse the course of her condition, I couldn’t really do very much in a material way at all, but the few things I could do I did with all my heart. When I was with her I felt a heightened level of attention, and my muscles were slightly tensed as I awaited any request she might make; sometime she might ask for some juice, or she might need a tissue, or to have some moisturizer rubbed onto her legs, or lip balm applied to her lips. Any of these requests were my opportunity to do something, finally, and I jumped at the chance. I never poured out a simple glass of juice with such attention as I did then for her, trying to make sure it was the exact amount she wanted, perhaps the right blend of different types of juices that she liked, into the cup that I knew she would like, and then holding it for her at just the right angle so she could place the straw in her mouth without too much trouble, or eventually placing it in her mouth for her, when she no longer could do that herself. I felt like I had been given a huge honor when I could hand her a tissue and then wait until she finished with it and could throw it away for her. I didn’t of course always feel this way, sometimes I was tired, or bored, or wanted to do something else, or just needed a break to get away from the sorrowful intensity, but many times, quite often actually, I did feel this way, because I loved her, and felt deeply that I owed her so much for everything she had done for me in my life, and simply because she was my mom.

At first I didn’t like rubbing moisturizer on her legs because they were in such bad shape, with the swollenness and the sores, but then I remembered it had been barely two years earlier while I had been visiting her that I had a nasty rash on my right calf and she took care of me and helped healed it. This seemed fitting to return the attention and the caring. As I did so, I reflected how quickly fading this time with her was becoming, how quickly our entire time had passed, though it was forty-seven years or so that we had spent sharing this life. Rubbing her legs would likely be among the final acts that we would ever have together. With this thought I began to enjoy it, and I began to infuse it with all of my attention and care once again. And when she asked me to apply lip-balm, I trembled a little as I touched her dry and withered lips, because they were beautiful to me, and I knew, as I rubbed them with my finger, that these lips which had kissed my boo-boos when I was little, and had spoken such sweet kindnesses to me throughout my life, would soon be departing, and I would have them with me no more.

I reflected on our past together and all the things she taught me, the things we enjoyed together, the comfort I felt in just knowing that she existed even if I wasn’t near her, and that if anything in life got too bad, or too difficult, I always had her, and could trust in her support, and in her loving embrace. I remembered how she had calmed me when I had missed the bus after months on the road and was hitchhiking back home from Alaska, after so many difficult nights without shelter and with little food, and how desperately I yearned to get home, and when my hope was faltering she steadied me. A simple phone call and a few minutes of hearing her voice was enough to give me renewed strength, and the courage to continue.  I remembered all the times I had picked up hitchhikers myself, or had volunteered to help someone, or gave money to someone in need, and how all of these kindnesses had been inspired by her example; the love she gave, the gift of her time to those who needed to talk or needed a loving shoulder cry on, how she had opened our home to all of those various people in need during my youth, and had extended herself in so many ways in the service of others. I learned about beauty from her through her love of classical music, her admiration for nature, and her gift for weaving. I always knew that if I found myself in a place or situation strange and uncomfortable, I could look to her and we understood each other. There was always an unspoken understanding between us even if words escaped us.

And so it was again, on my final visit with her. She had barely spoken more than a word or two at a time, for many months, and most of our interactions had been silent ones: holding hands, combing her hair, rubbing her legs. Although, one afternoon I picked up the hymnal she had beside her bed, and opened it to several of her favorite hymns, and sang them to her. By this time she kept her eyes closed most of the time so it was hard to know if she was awake or asleep, conscious of my singing or not, but still I sang to her. I was happy to be able to sing her a lullaby as she prepared for her eternal rest. It was early March, 2017 and I would be returning to my home soon, and though nobody knew for certain how much longer she would live, it seemed clear that she was close to the end of her life now. In a rare moment she opened her eyes and looked deeply into mine. She had clear blue eyes. Sweet eyes. I looked also into her eyes, and we spoke to one another, silently, from the depths of our being. She was saying goodbye. She wanted me to know that she loved me, which of course I knew, and she wanted me to know it would be okay, that she would be okay and that I would be okay. She gathered a great deal of energy to say these things, even if they were said without words and only through the language of her eyes, and it was energy she barely had, but this was her final farewell, and I knew she wanted to give whatever she had, to tell me these things, to help me; it was her final sacrifice of love for me.

When the time came to leave and return to my home, she was being cared for by her caregivers, as they were giving her a sponge bath. She hadn’t opened her eyes again to me after that last silent conversation, and I knew it wouldn’t be a good time to interrupt her, so I quietly left the room, picked up my bags and departed to the airport. Part of me wanted to say goodbye one more time, to touch her one last time, but I refrained because she had already chosen the perfect way to say goodbye when she gathered the strength to look into my eyes.

A few weeks later my sister called in the early morning to let me know that our mother had departed this life. I had been prepared for this, I had read numerous books about death and dying, I had prayed, I had visualized, and I had imagined, for most of my life, everything about this moment. It was the moment I most dreaded, that most worried me and filled me with apprehension; and now here it was. After I got off the phone I stared at myself in the mirror and I cried. Here standing before me was the world’s newest orphan.

(to be continued)

~FS

You may remember the story of how, when Jesus was washing His disciples feet, to teach them that they should be servants to each other, Peter first declined, because he felt it was beneath Jesus’s dignity to wash Peter’s feet, but then, when Jesus explained that if He didn’t wash Peter’s feet, Peter could have no part in Him; so then Peter said not his feet only, but that Jesus should wash also his hands and his head. The Chrismation portion of the liturgy, which follows directly upon the Baptism, reminds me of this story. Chrismation is the process of anointing with holy oil and is the mystery, or sacrament, that transmits the Holy Spirit to the newly illumined person. One might imagine it would be enough to anoint the person on the forehead and call it a day, but in this service the person is anointed on the forehead, the nostrils, the lips, the ears, the chest, the hands and the feet. As I was being anointed, each time, Father John would say, “the seal and gift of the Holy Spirit”. The power of the Holy Spirit, the gift that Christ sent to us to enable us to do all things for Him is given to the whole of us, and like Peter, I felt like I was being lavishly gifted, and it emboldened me to live zealously for my God, as the Holy Spirit was given to my mind, my heart, my ears which hear, my eyes which see, my lips which speak, to my nostrils which breathe the breath of life, and also to my hands which act, and to my feet which carry me about to do God’s will.

Following the anointing with oil, Father John then led me in a procession around the baptismal font while the choir sings a hymn related to our new life in Christ; along with the choir everyone together sings these words, “As many as have been baptized into Christ, have put on Christ, Alleluia!” This speaks to the new spiritual reality that the newly baptized no longer wears their garment of sin, but has instead put on a new garment, the light and power of the risen Lord; and with this, they proceed into their new life as members of the body of Christ, on their way into the Kingdom of God. Because this is a movement away from the old life, and a movement into a new life, with new gifts and new power, we are led in a procession, which embodies and symbolizes this new reality of movement into Christ’s Kingdom.

One final interesting moment during the Chrismation, which came as a surprise to me was tonsuring, in which a portion of my hair was cut off. I’ve always associated tonsuring with becoming a monk, and didn’t realize that everyone entering the Orthodox church is tonsured. Since our hair is associated with worldly beauty, and in a sense our worldly power, or simply our worldliness in general, the idea behind tonsuring is that it shows the underlying reality that we have sacrificed our worldliness for Godliness, and that by our choice and act of baptism and chrismation we have given our worldly beauty to God to be transformed and made new into His likeness, into divine beauty.

With the conclusion of the Baptism and Chrismation liturgy my entry into the Orthodox church was nearly complete; now I had only to wait until the Pascha (Easter) service later that night when I would be first to receive the light of Christ coming out from the altar and first to receive the Eucharist on Pascha morning. My confession had taken place the night before on the day the church participates in the death of our Lord on the cross, my Baptism and Chrismation happened on Holy Saturday, the day that the church participates in Christ’s entombment, and soon I would participate for the first time, with the church, as it participates in our Lord’s glorious resurrection.

As I’ve mentioned it was challenging yet rewarding to wait for so long, several years ultimately, before I could take part in the Eucharist during the Divine Liturgy. From where I stood in the choir though, I had always enjoyed the spectacle, as the church body, every individual, lined up and waited their turn to approach the chalice, and be served the bread and the wine, the body and blood of our Lord. Meanwhile, we in the choir sing the words, “Receive the body of Christ; taste the fountain of immortality”. I often reflected, as I sang these words, that there could be a double meaning to this ‘reception of the body of Christ’. The obvious meaning is that we are singing to all the people in the congregation as they approach the chalice about to receive the body of Christ broken and shed for each of us, but as I watched each individual approach the chalice—every unique person: old, young, tall, short, funny, serious, healthy or sick, joyful or sorrowful—I was also struck that here in all of these divinely created people, also was the body of Christ. Every Christian, every saint was made in the image and likeness of God, and through the actions of God, each of them are returning to Him again. So God too is receiving the body of Christ, because He receives each of us to Himself. I don’t know how theologically sound this idea may be, but I enjoyed the poetic beauty of it, and the wholeness and reciprocity that it represented. Somehow the idea of simultaneously receiving and being received is satisfying and feels supremely fulfilling. I tried to capture a little of this idea, of this feeling which I had mused about while singing and watching others over the years coming forward in praise and thanksgiving to receive the most blessed gift in all creation; I finally put the idea forward in the following words:

Incense coils upward

in long argentine strands

Angelic voices sing a joyous refrain:

“Receive the body of Christ

Taste the fountain of immortality.”

The hands of Christ serve

the body of Christ

from a golden chalice.

Each member called by name,

singular and unique.

Forming a line in quiet expectation

of the gift of eternal blessings;

a body numerous are

the servants of The King,

multiform, and manifesting His

infinite creativity.

Let us each put on

the eyes of thanksgiving

and the ears of obedience

and praise.

Laying aside all earthly cares,

let us settle into that peace

which reveals things

as they truly are;

without judgement

or condemnation,

but in the simplicity

of Godly revelation.

The Body and the Blood–

we receive,

and Christ receives us.

We are glorified by His glory

and deified by His divinity.

We come to the King empty-handed

and He gives us everything.

As I stood in line waiting my turn I felt a nervous excitement, a great anticipation and a curiosity. I wondered what it would taste like, how it would feel, would I do everything correctly? When finally it was my turn, and I stood before the chalice, Father John spoke my name, it was so personal and intimate; the body and blood of my Lord and Savior was being offered specifically and precisely for me, Francis John. I received it and returned to my place in the choir. My reception was now complete, and while it was joyful and extremely meaningful to me at the time, it wouldn’t be until some time later that the true power of it would come into clearer focus, and I would experience the life changing aspects of these mysteries in greater fullness.

(to be continued)

~FS

My baptism, like all baptisms in the Orthodox Church, was a community event that involved most of the church membership. Baptism is a major act in the life of the church and people make an effort to be present at each one, not only because it is a joyful event to witness the rebirth of a new member in Christ, but at the same time each baptism of a new member of the body is a reminder, for every other witness present, of their own baptisms; it is a reenactment in a way, or a reaffirmation and renewal for everyone involved. Had I not previously witnessed several other baptisms in the years prior to my own, so as to be familiar with this wonderful inclusiveness of support and love, I would have been taken aback, and been a little embarrassed by the outpouring of attendance for this service, whose entire function and purpose was to invite me into the life of the church, into the Kingdom of God. It can be a little overwhelming to experience this kind of attention, yet it is a generosity that is reflective of God’s love for us, and it is an experience that warms the heart.

The baptism service is long, not inconsequential, nor something done quickly so as to move on to something better. I don’t know exactly how long it is but it must be close to an hour and involves the choir singing multiple hymns and prayers along with the participation of the priest and deacon, and the entire congregation. Additionally, each catechumen about to be baptized, has chosen a sponsor, someone who is there beside them, literally and figuratively having helped them in the months or years previous, as they approached this important step, and now standing alongside in this service as participants, assisting the catechumen, responding along with them, walking beside them. My sponsor, Jack, had been an Episcopal priest for about thirty years prior to converting to Orthodoxy many years prior to my baptism. He was very knowledgeable, kind and humorous; the exact sort of person to trust with an important event such as this, so I felt at ease, and in good hands.

There are far too many elements and aspects to baptism and chrismation for me to address them all here, and besides I likely only know a fraction of them anyway, and there are other books written on the subject by authors far more knowledgeable than I; but I can give you a first-hand account, eye witnessed and experienced in detail. I’ll share the highlights of mine, but I encourage everyone to experience for themselves an Orthodox baptismal liturgy at least once in their life, because they are beautiful in very many ways, and are life-changing as well.

We began the service at the western entrance to the church. Actually it was the southern entrance, since our building isn’t a proper Orthodox temple, but had it been designed and built originally as an Orthodox church, then the entrance would have been at the western end, while the altar would be at the eastern. Much of Christian cosmology associates Christ with the east, so this is the basis of this architectural orientation. So the baptismal liturgy begins at the west (south in my case), as far away from the eastern altar as possible, because this expresses the reality of our soul’s condition before baptism; we are as far away from God as we can be, lost in our sins, reveling in our worldly passions, going our own way in every conceivable way. As the service progresses we move towards the east, towards the altar of our Lord, towards our new life in close communion with Him. Several important things occur at the ‘western’ entrance: an exorcism to free us from the influence and power of Satan and the demonic powers of this world, our verbal renunciation of him from our lives, and our verbal proclamation of allegiance to our new lord, Jesus Christ. During this point in the service, I am asked to proclaim the fact that, “I unite myself to Christ.” Stating this out loud three times, in the presence of all of my church family, gave me chills, because it was a statement of power, and felt very authoritative and binding. I felt grateful in this moment, that the church understood my inner need to say this, and had given me the words to proclaim it for everyone to hear, and to hear myself say it, not once, which could have just been an accident, and not twice which might have allowed me still to change my mind, but a third time, somehow sealing the deal.

As I approached the altar, coming closer to my God, I stood before the baptismal font. Here before me, in the middle of the sanctuary was a large pool of water roughly two feet wide, six feet long and two feet deep; in a subtle way it resembled a coffin. How appropriate, for it was to be my burial, and my tomb yet simultaneously my womb, and my birth.

Father John blessed the waters and anointed them with oil. As Christ sanctified the entire world when He incarnated in the flesh and came to reclaim what is His, these baptismal waters, as part of our Lord’s created and sanctified world are blessed and made holy. I don’t understand the mystery of baptism, all that it is or does, but as Father John blessed and anointed the water, I imagined its purity, and that it would somehow convey this purity to me as I was submerged within it. I imagined these waters as suddenly crystalline, and as a conductor of the energies of God, activating my own soul and bringing it to life again. I wrote this about the experience:

My life has been a rainbow of iniquity—

the red of anger misplaced,

the yellow of cowardice,

the green of envy,

and the blue of dejection.

But Christ has healed my colors,

transforming them,

into a spectrum of devotion.

Through baptism and the oil of gladness—

the fragments of my mind and heart,

have been gathered,

and life restored to my fading soul.

The baptismal font:

that crystalline prism which purifies,

the disparate and multi-colored,

paths of my sinful life,

yielding new life in me,

uniting me in the white light of Christ.

I have been distilled by water and the spirit—

dissolute no longer,

dissolved into the life of Christ.

I have descended into the crystalline waters;

my impurities have fallen away,

and I am raised up again as a pure vapor.

I am a new spirit,

a pure spirit,

a holy spirit.

As I entered the water, and as all of these things were occurring within me, there was another drama playing out at the water’s edge; a joyful and light drama, perhaps more of a comedy, unscripted, non-liturgical, spontaneous and improvisational, yet very biblical and certainly enriching my baptism immensely. Along the right edge of the baptismal font several of my favorite children lined up, crouching against the side of the font, their heads and arms draped along the rim of the font. Their smiling and laughing faces watching me as I was dunked under the water, holding conversations amongst themselves as I prepared to dunk a second time, some staring down into the water, another pointing out something of interest to her friend, and then another convulsion of laughter rippling through this happy chorus as I am dunked a third time. Could there have been a better welcoming committee at the shore of my baptism than a host of wonderful, laughing children, with bright and smiling faces? The Orthodox church rarely adds or changes its liturgies, but if it did, I would highly encourage the addition of children at the edge of every baptismal font during every baptism, for there could be no better welcome into the body of Christ, or into the Kingdom of God than to be welcomed by a smiling child.

(to be continued)

~FS

In the late winter of 2016 as my baptism was approaching, my mother’s health had declined to the point that my sisters and I accepted the help of hospice care, with the understanding that she likely wouldn’t live much longer. In fact, one nurse suggested during my visit in February that I should certainly plan to return again before Easter because she didn’t think our mom would survive more than another month or so.  I had grappled with the sorrowful inevitability of death before, with the deaths of my father, brother and step-father, all people very important to me, but the looming probability of my mother’s imminent death shook me more deeply. Though I knew Jesus should be the true cornerstone and foundation of my life, the reality was that up to that point in my life, my mom was these things for me, so the thought of losing her was an existential threat to me psychologically; it was profoundly difficult to imagine myself living, if she wasn’t alive.

Providing hope and a bulwark against the backdrop of this impending loss was my faith, and more particularly the expectation of my coming baptism and entry into the Orthodox Church. I saw my baptism as an inoculation in a way, or a homeopathic remedy to my sorrow, so to speak, because baptism is also a death, the death of who we have been as we are made new in Christ, and so, by this death I could be healed of death, and in a sense death could be put to death by the very mechanism of my death in Christ. I mean that the death of my mom, and my own inevitable death, could lose its sting, lose its power over me, and thereby in a sense be put to death, through baptism, or death in Christ. The reason for this of course, is the hope we gain from the other aspect of baptism—that by it we are joined to Christ, who has conquered death by way of His resurrection, and by the reality of His life after death, to which we also gain entry.

We are told to prepare for the Kingdom of God by repentance. Though our part is negligible in the economy of salvation, still we have things we are told to do and repentance is one of the main things. Turning from our old life of sin, turning towards a new life of virtue and of following the gospel commands, renouncing the things of our old life and proclaiming allegiance to our Lord, casting off the shades of darkness and putting on garments of light, allowing ourselves to be given an inner light that shines for all to see; these are the things of repentance and of baptism, and these things are to become a way of life for a Christian, not something done once and then forgotten, but something done daily and forever. Repentance is at the heart of Baptism and it is also the essence of the other great mystery known as Confession; which is required for the first time, just prior to Baptism and entry to the church. It is the opportunity to jettison all the sin, all the shame of the past, to throw it overboard once and for all, to bring it to the light and let Christ dissolve it, overcome it and purify it in his perfect light. The night before my baptism I met with Father John at the church and had my first confession, a full life confession which was my opportunity to repent of everything I had ever done or thought, voluntarily or involuntarily, with knowledge or in ignorance throughout my entire life up to this point. What a horror but what a joy it was, what a supreme shame and yet also what a magnificent relief, what flow of tears of mingled sorrow and contentment. It was the shower before the bath.

The following day I would be baptized, on Pascha of 2016, and I had just taken the first step by my Confession. It was the beginning of a new journey. About this new path I wrote the following:

Preparing for the journey;

traveling light.

You won’t need those things,

where you’re going.

And you can’t take them with you.

Can you squeeze the world

through a pinhole?

And if you could,

what use would it be to you,

in your new home?

Pull up what you have hidden,

under the floorboards—

throw them all overboard.

You’re a traveling light now;

traveling light.

Goodbye to darkness,

all your shadows disappear,

dissolving into brightness,

total victory over fear.

Perfect light,

contains no darkness.

Perfect love,

contains no weight.

Death in Christ—

means traveling light.

You are a traveling light now.

So travel light.

It is common to be afraid to bring shameful things to the light, because of fear of rebuke, of losing face, or being derided, or feeling accused; but there is nothing any of us have done that isn’t common to man, and by bringing everything to the light and repenting of everything we not only achieve our own freedom from the power it had over us, but we make the path easier for others to do the same and to find their own freedom, which is an act of love.

(to be continued)

~FS