Epistle of Mathetes to…

While folks like Steve Robinson have been off being useful, some of us have been off on post high-season vacation in Florida… the first in a long, long time… being somewhat less useful. Okay… we actually were useful in unintended but not unfamiliar ways: We made repeat appearances in Sanibel in the guise of Rain Gods. Yes, for the second time, we single-handedly ended a long period of drought, bringing a week’s deluge sufficient to cause NASA to redirect landing of the space shuttle to California. Local growers, flora, fauna and especially our favorite amphibians (Frogs and Toads!) loved us. Local hotels and fellow touristas…. well… let’s just say we had to hire some beefy types with “heaters”.

At least this time, we weren’t traveling with small children so the re-direction of our time to our books, DVD rentals, beach walks, etc. was unconstrained by the need to de-energize (de-bean) a set of rambunctious kids with ideas of their own and no means to  pursue them other than running roughshod over the nerves of their frazzled parents. Yeah… those were the days when a vacation was not a vacation unless you could wear the little crazy nuts out in time for a reasonably sedate dinner. Twenty-something kids having absorbed all the “rest and be quiet” lessons of those years… seem to need no encouragement and will readily sleep all day… and it’s the ‘rents that seem to need to invent ways to de-bean.

So finding myself alone on what my wife refers to as one of my Bataan Death Marches – this one to the Lighthouse at the end of the island, I turned on a podcast from Deacon Matthew Steenberg on the Epistle of Mathetes to Diognetus. This familiar passage of uncertain  provenance is nonetheless pretty good stuff. As a frame to recent tussles between and within our jurisdictions, the epistle offers a worthy vision of the Church and her people in an apologetic revealing the paradoxical attraction of counter-cultural christianity of that – or any – era. It is nothing short of a challenge we could more faithfully embody individually… and as the Body of Christ.

For the Christians are distinguished from other men neither by country, nor language, nor the customs which they observe. For they neither inhabit cities of their own, nor employ a peculiar form of speech, nor lead a life which is marked out by any singularity. The course of conduct which they follow has not been devised by any speculation or deliberation of inquisitive men; nor do they, like some, proclaim themselves the advocates of any merely human doctrines. But, inhabiting Greek as well as barbarian cities, according as the lot of each of them has determined, and following the customs of the natives in respect to clothing, food, and the rest of their ordinary conduct, they display to us their wonderful and confessedly striking method of life. They dwell in their own countries, but simply as sojourners. As citizens, they share in all things with others, and yet endure all things as if foreigners. Every foreign land is to them as their native country, and every land of their birth as a land of strangers…. They are in the flesh, but they do not live after the flesh. They pass their days on earth, but they are citizens of heaven. They obey the prescribed laws, and at the same time surpass the laws by their lives. They love all men, and are persecuted by all. They are unknown and condemned; they are put to death, and restored to life. They are poor, yet make many rich; they are in lack of all things, and yet abound in all; they are dishonoured, and yet in their very dishonour are glorified. They are evil spoken of, and yet are justified; they are reviled, and bless; they are insulted, and repay the insult with honour; they do good, yet are punished as evil-doers. When punished, they rejoice as if quickened into life; they are assailed…and…persecuted; yet those who hate them are unable to assign any reason for their hatred.

(Note: I’ve editted this to more or less approximate Deacon Matthew Steenberg’s reading of the text).

The Bother of Blogging

The bother of blogging is that there are limits to what you can or will say. And there are limits to another’s interest as well. In the world of Orthodox bloggers, the monks, priests, and nuns have the advantage of street cred, and actually tend to show that… yes… it makes a difference. This of course leaves many of the rest of us enthusiasts to get by trotting out something from the Fathers and Mothers. Been there, done that, and probably not finished either.

I, for one, remain awed by the anonymous faithful, both lay and otherwise. But especially, I am awed by the folks whose lives were filled with the spiritual warfare amongst the distractions of ordinary life. I mean, this is good, right? And that’s about the best I can hope for. A star among the saints is probably not in the cards – not even remotely possible! nor necessarily anything in the middle, or even on the bench…. and sometimes, it even seems a worthy ambition just to not end up on the opposite end of the pole – as a star sinner… though that seems one of the more reliable tracks for ending up on the other end of the spectrum. But that presupposes a lot… and I tend to doubt that there were many who set out to be saints through a via negativa of this sort…. banking on a mid-life conversion somewhere, and a slew of chances to even the score.

No, that seems a high stakes gamble I suspect few of us are willing roll for, and even fewer likely to succeed at.

That leaves us with the fact that we know all teams have role players, and angling for one of those lesser roles on the team. Some of us are even “bit” role players… like hockey players in for face-offs and back out. By definition, this means we fit into a function, and we step on to the field, stage or whatever to follow through, but in all cases and all times, there is more to our characters than the roles we fill. The same is true of both our anonymous saints… and those we know better. And in pondering this, clearly we stand on the threshold of the unwritten part of a hagiography… the sort we’d all like to read.

The perspective from the sweep of history seems to be that all ages are equally in decline as the “last age”,  yet this seems in fact more a part of the hubris of the present, this thinking that no age has been worse. The tendency toward silence, toward contentment in anonymous disappearance of the Spirit seems unbecoming to the needs of a church that may in fact be shaking off the slumbers of mere survival to the needs of spreading the Gospel beyond its walls. Whatever trials or tribulations we see today, surely worse may come tomorrow, and thus, there is work to be done,  and souls to be prepared – least of all, our own. While it may not be our role to spread the Gospel in word, it may be enough and it may be of value to offer something of how we live our lives and record the value we attach to the Gospel – that others might sense as we have, that yes, this is something even normal people do, people like whomever we think we are… good and bad, and with all that we are. We come as whole persons to be healed… not just in part… but warts and all. And some of us will be healed in whole, others in part… but we may find healing all the same.

And while we may likely remain anonymous… we won’t appear content to be alone as if uncaring about the others round about us. The next person remains a critical part of our own path… whether the next person comes with us today, tomorrow, or long after we’re gone. Whenever the heart cools, this seems worth remembering… or at least bothering to give a blog a word or two.

Asked for Some Formative Titles

Okay. Got tagged for some formative titles. I took this through the long time line. And yet I’ve left out so many good ones that just for one reason or another don’t come to mind right now. I’m also purposely leaving room for other lists (“Field Texts”, “Spiritual Reading”, “Beach Fiction” and some others) I’d like to come back to. But this is a start that’ll do for now. And no I didn’t pay attention to numbers. How can you cut out a friend?

I’ve grouped them into sub-groups. The one I could add the most to are the Youthful Fiction. There are just so many wonderful books in this category and it is expanding rapidly with new and even better written books than ever. You might be surprised. I was. And I’ve left out so many here just because they’re off the shelf for some reason. Yes, the kids are grown, but we love some of these enough to come back and re-read them from time to time. And so do the kids! Enjoy!

Adventure Fiction (and Darn Good Tales):

Giovanni Boccaccio: The Decameron

Some fun stories in here… sources for a bit of Chaucer.

Geoffrey Chaucer (ed. Albert C. Baugh): Canterbury Tales

Middle English text with notes. Much better than modernized versions!

Alexandre Dumas: The Three Musketeers

Back in the day, Mr. Magoo cartoons and Classic Comic Books tried to stimulate interest in the classics. This was the first romantic fiction I remember reading. Most RF is forgettable. Thanks to Douglas Fairbanks, the Mars family and others, this one is not.

Chretien de Troyes: Arthurian Romances

Should remind you of didactic science fiction. Studied these with a then-famed and much feared prof whose secret suggestion was that Monty Python’s Holy Grail is probably closer to the truth of these stories than stuffy scholars like to admit. He was a structuralist critic, but with a great sense of humor. Focused on those points in the plot that puzzle us… as probably lost jokes. Took these apart as speculations about man’s behavior on his own, out of society, beyond the church, and the right relationship between men and women. “And I thought this was gonna be about swash buckling!”

Allan Eckhart: The Winning of America Series

Historical fiction. Retells in greater accuracy and depth the stories of the frontier in the East, when the Indians won as much as they lost, where both sides were both good and bad, and the level of difference in civilization between the two was small. Specifically focuses on New York and the Last of the Mohicans thing, but if you’ve ever endured Cooper’s language, you’ll understand why I came to like Twain’s comment on Cooper (see below). Not for the faint of heart. One of my Aunt Sally’s survived a scalping in those days not too far off… there was much worse. At points your sympathy for our native friends will wane and leave you wanting  the 82^nd Airborne and the helicopter gunships… but it is well written, a period of America skipped over, and accuracy is stressed a la everyone’s favorite Shelby Foote.

Homer: The Odyssey

Prelude to Tennyson’s Ulysses, and both are manly poems! Cherished opportunity to study with a wonderful classics scholar.

Nordoff and Hall: The Bounty Trilogy

Any sailor worth his salt has to wade his way through this. Okay. There’s those Captain’s Courageous books, Captain Blood, Treasure Island, Kidnapped, Billy Budd, A Million Years Before Jane Fonda… I Mean the Mast, the Patrick O’Brian series, and all the rest… but at the start there’s still, “Mr. Christian!”.

John Steinbeck: The Acts of King Arthur and His Knights

First encounter with the legends that inspired my college major in Medieval Studies…. back before the field had “even been invented”. Dreamt it up picking courses out of Classics, English, History, and Philosophy (Theology) that looked good and melding them together with my advisor. A very adolescent exercise I’m less proud of, and recognizably impractical…. discouraging to the then current girl friend and long time wife as an insane ticket to poverty. But a decent 19th century sort of education, good prep for grad school… and  all intentions to starve as an architect were ultimately redirected towards a paying job in the salt mines anyway. Notice not many of the Arthurian legends here focus on what happens after they get hooked up…. only Chretien deals with that real life joy and agony.

Humorous Fiction:

Douglas Adams: Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Where else will you find out about the improbability drive, or what happens if you sprout a third arm. British humor. Enjoy the whole series.

Isaac Assimov: Robot Series or Foundation Trilogy

Both trilogies are worth reading. Less impressive on revisits.

Jasper Fforde: Lost in a Good Book

British humor. Amazingly creative imagination.

Kenneth Grahame: The Wind in the Willows

Some of the best prose ever written shy of P.G. Wodehouse. Some of us suffer fixations like Mr. Toad.

Mark Twain: Everything. Too hard to pick.

The first author I ever liked…. especially his short stories. Man had a few hang-ups, but a generally good sense of humor. Published Grant’s memoirs… which remain on my reading list.

P.G. Wodehouse: Meet Mr. Muliner

Good introduction to the finest Drawing Room humor (think: Charlie’s Aunt). Source of the famed 1970’s BBC-TV adaptations.

Youthful Fiction:

Virginia Lee Burton: Choo Choo

Mike Mulligan was my favorite, but Choo Choo my son’s… which had a little to do with the family obsession with trains. Sometimes two or three readings a night. Every page was memorized and skipped only on pain of death. Made certain Dad’s sympathetic to the Dad in Calvin and Hobbes. There’s a great video available from Netflix on Burton. Check it out, too. Burton literally invented today’s pattern of matching the words and story layout together. She was turned down on her first books and self-published after that. A real dancer and artist, she never looked back.

Syd Hoff: Danny and the Dinosaur

Like many Dads and Moms, Danny’s friend the dinosaur hasn’t had a day off in a hundred million years. Perceptive account of what that day’s like. Loved it.

C.S. Lewis: The Narnian Chronicles

Seems like all my life I was stuck with some doggone lamp post in a closet. Then one day the book opened up, got on past the stupid fawn and it wasn’t actually a girl’s book after all. Man couldn’t start a book to save his life. As a dimestore author, he’d have starved. But the dude can write. Makes J.R.R. Tolkein look like a piker. Tolkein was a better scholar (see his “Alliterative Poets” book), but Lewis is far less formulaic as an author. Of course one might say Tolkein is writing in the genre of the Roland poet, but if he’d been more sparing of words, it’d have been better appreciated. All of which is to say the Tolkein works are fine once-through, but seem to suffer on a second reading. Lewis isn’t clunky, and to underscore that after just re-reading the whole series a month ago, I’ll add it’s still good, and indeed better than I remembered – especially with the pre-quel.

Robert McCloskey: Time of Wonder

Fabulous pictures. If you have spent much time on the water, enough to share a few storms in and around boats, you’ll love this.

Dylan Thomas: A Child’s Christmas in Wales

A family favorite discovered in high school.

Could throw in Ovid, Virgil, and all the Greeks and Romans to beef things up and look more edified, but I’ve tried to pick the better ones here that “changed my life”. Shakespeare’s a good add for you modernists… but you have to see it “live” and avoid the 1930’s film versions. And then there’s that whole poetry thing… naaaah.

Under the Dome

So we’re all under the dome, right? My unofficial catechesis class was pretty clear… the architects were supposed to give us a dome. There was this bit… something about domes signifying that God bends heaven down to kiss the earth rather than leaving us on our own to make spires as if to poke around “up there” just to see first if there’s anyone home, and if there is, whether they’ve forgotten ’bout us, or decided to let us back in. Makes a nice story, but of course these days – as no doubt always – Orthodox churches come in all shapes and sizes: domes, spires, and even flat as a pancake.

Thus no matter the details, the story holds. And it holds for good reason. For like a priest’s blessing spoken first and followed with his hand on our heads as if to make certain we’re here, or to make clear whom he is blessing… or even to specifically transmit a blessing that is all of this and more… beyond words and filled with the love of Christ felt in the warmth of his heart, fed by the Eucharist and  coursing through his system to the very hand that falls lightly on our heads.. that we might be touched by the very same warmth… all through the dome of our heads.

Some of course are blessed to have the padding of hair in these places. Others of us offer a more direct medium.

And this very personal dome is indeed the dome where heaven may bend down to kiss the earth filled with the breath of the Holy Spirit in our lives… if only we are so blessed to seek it, to sense it, and to respond. And yet being the highest point in the temple of our person, no doubt we are prone so often to our own thoughts, to our own ways, and to simply being on our own as if unkissed, untouched, and unloved… and unblessed. And as if in our own personal Towers of Babel, we instead remain puzzles unto ourselves. This is the unreality of our separate lives and the disintegration of our selves from our intention… from God’s intention. And yet even in our misguided separateness, we think we intend far different, far better, but have simply turned the wrong way.

It is nonetheless a way of many wonders, and of gifts beyond measure. And these days, these gifts seem ever at our fingertips, at our personal whim and disposal, and as apparent riches, gifts, and wonders they are more powerful than any illusion. Their reality is intoxicating as if a paradise more wondrous than any god can create…or even the True God can manage… for the beauties of nature we have polluted with our wastes and cast-offs, and the loveliness of the heavens we have polluted with our fears, our weapons, our wars, and our stories of alien beings seeking our destruction. Increasingly only those places kept aside from our use, beyond our reach – even beyond our imagination, or those places rescued from our use are left untouched… and now rather than reflecting the work of God alone reflect our choices, and exist as much by the work of our hands as any other.

But under the dome, there still remains a work untouched by our hands. Within the mind, within the heart there is a place that God alone can touch… a place beyond even the greatest evils we may seek to surround it with as if to violate the very gates. This Holy of Holies is our true and hidden temple… and retains the image indellibly left there by our Creator. And as invisible as it may become to us, if allowed to manifest itself , it shines through the paradox before us to pierce the power of our manifest illusions, to shake the greatest powers we can manage as the weaknesses they are, and to reveal our weaknesses in their true power…  to simply sustain an altogether different, and all-encompassing reality.

All this lies under the dome. It’s a busy place, a place of paradox, a place of condemnation, of redemption, of love and heart break. It is a place where the sweat of one’s brow is rewarded with warmth, where toil is the treasure and measure of the man,  but where rest and leisure seem something for another day… or a mistaken side alley.  It is a place of worship as well as sacrilege, and of tears… and if we are grateful… it is as well a place of laughter – especially laughter – as well… but laughter at ourselves, our foibles and out of love.   It is a place where we are born, reborn, and a place where we will die once, twice, over and over… and again. This is life, or the story of one life under the dome, and no doubt, not much different than any other. But by God’s grace, it will have its markers, and those may prove pleasing in eyes of  the Living God that takes measure where our own cannot and should not… and on the last may attest to a life lived fiercely, peaceably as a grace to others, and embracing the anonymity of the saints.

And I submit this is nevertheless a dream or a wish… but a dream lived at least in part rather kept alone as something for those moments before sleep where the choice to remember God or remember only one’s self forms the last breath of the day. Yes, it should be the whole of that life, the rudder and balance of that life… but like so many dreams… of those moments on the edge of sleep… it is both within my grasp… and utterly beyond it. There are always problems in steerage.

And as with so much Under the Dome… it remains an unfinished business.

Rechristened

By your leave, today, I’m rechristening this blog. Veni Vidi Credidi had its points, but after a while… heck it’s a little pretentious. I’m neither Caesar nor claiming ambitions remotely parallel. And anyway… he can keep France. My forebearers left it for the land of soap… soon to be followed by making a path to America… and we never looked back. We weren’t exactly allowed to… all Huegenots were supposed to land in Virginia… but  one look ( or should I say “whiff” ? ) at our Frenchiness and it was, “Staten Island’s just the place for you guys: Down wind of New Jersey. You’ll love it.  Jersey smells just like you guys.”

So Veni Vidi Credidi becomes Under the Dome. Aside from fitting the hairdo, it covers just about everything that passes between the ears, and extends in some measure from the inspiration of the last post of the same name… which in turn was inspired by the new photo… which in turn was inspired by weariness borne on the rocks of Fame Island (the old photo). And heck… the Beatles almost became St. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band… ’cause there was this new group… CSNY and they wanted more words… but rather than changing the blog… I’m just changing the masthead. And no, this is not another ploy to lure all three fans into buying new  T-shirts, Lunch Boxes and Coffee Mugs – though that’s an idea. And no, I’m  not claiming fame, nor class, nor fans… nor even to be one of the long lost Beatles… but seeking something I can live with… or at least loosen up with. ‘Cause like I need too, huh?

Many thanks for your patience.

This Site Under Construction…

Yep. Time for a refit. Lose a little weight, take a little in. A tuck here, a tuck there.

I’ve been somewhat stalled out since Pascha. Stalled both by speechlessness, busyness, and writings that leave me scratching my own head…”Nahhhh. Not now at any rate.” The number of saved drafts seems to be climbing. Same seems to hold for those comment boxes on other people’s blogs… where you write something… and then think, “Nah. They don’t wanna hear that.”

So I’m rethinking the whole blog thing. The towel’s been looked at, but I think it’s safe to say we’ll keep it on the rack for now. You can see I’ve been thinking about and trying some new “Themes” from WordPress. Some worth a look, others… well… need too much work.  And I’m looking further at other options as well… including a new title. So what I want to do at this point is beg a little patience for now. We’ll be back at it soon.

Not sure exactly what “it” will be… but it won’t be all that far off what it’s been. Seems kind of like we need to re-arrange the furniture… something I’ve almost never done as an adult.. but used to do all the time as a kid.  Same stuff… different view. And maybe that different view is all I need to get untracked. Well… I could do worse.

Posted, Lentened and Outted

Long ago and far away, I struggled through Lent. Seems a millennium ago. There were good readings and bad. There were odd things, there were discoveries… and on the whole, I’m richer for the journey. I’m not necessarily “better”…. just more experienced.

I remember the very distinct view that came to me that hey… if only I were in a desert this whole fasting thing could have been easy. I mean if you don’t see anything… smell any burgers cooking nearby… see folks eating what you’re missing… I suppose it’s easier. Possibly. And given what’s left to us on the menu, by the time we get to the end of Lent, not eating seems the better option. This whole concession  to our weakness thing… well, it doesn’t work so well. Starve me in the desert for forty days as a concession to my weakness… halfsies just doesn’t seem to fit my piggishness. I mean… you just get tired of the lack of variety, the lack of flavor, and… let’s face it… a little dairy goes a long way toward dressing up some pretty dreary stuff. Forget the Manna from Heaven… let’s just have a little cheese. “Yeah. That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.” No, I didn’t lose any weight, but I guess I did clean out the system. At any rate, I scheduled my annual physical check-up shortly afterward, and I’m hoping the blood looks “clean”. They can say this ain’t dieting… but y’know… it ain’t Putt Putt, either.

Of course it is a fairly decent… read easy to manage… introduction to earthly deprivation. And after 50 years where as Americans we’ve represented 4% or so of the world’s population, yet consumed 30% and higher of its output, it’s a fairly meager experience of it… but it’s something. Surely it’s not as impressive as the story OCN shared on the filming of a documentary on hunger in Ethiopia where they ate virtually nothing all week until after Divine Liturgy where a whole village shared in the meal of one chicken. I liked the close to the story where the film crew hightailed it back to London for some real food. But the point is that it’s a stretch to say we’re suffering from more than self-imposed culinary boredom. Still…

And yet the preparation yields to good experiences, too. I had the opportunity to travel to St. Mark’s (OCA) in Bethesda, meet Fr. Gregory Safchuk and hear Fr. Thomas Hopko’s talk on Sin. But of course, first I had the honor to share in the beautiful liturgy of Pre-Sanctified Gifts with Deb-on-the-Run Dillon and John Bonadello. Definitely one of the highlights of Lent!

Then as a parish, St. Gregory’s went to worship at nearby St. Peter and St. Paul in Potomac, Maryland to celebrate the chrismation of a new Western Rite parish in Littleton, Maryland. And in bringing together three current Antiochian Western Rite parishes to celebrate the establishment of a fourth, the size of the congregation together with the great setting led to one of the most beautiful services I’ve witnessed. For the first time, I heard the beauty of the Gregorian plainchant arrangements of the Psalms at their best, and it was literally breathtaking. Those of us serving behind the Iconostasis were blessed to pause and just listen. Smiles all around. It was wonderful. St. Peter and St. Paul is a wonderful church with great acoustics, gorgeous icons, and an even more gracious and wonderful priest in Fr. George Rados (Many thanks!). Chrismation is always one of my favorite services as well.

Another joy for me was oddly enough in dreaming an amalgamation of singing the words of Mama’s & Papa’s “Dancing in the Streets” to the tune of Bruce Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac”. Well… in truth it wasn’t a joy at the time because I was trying to sort it out and get it right… I mean t to sing “Pink Cadillac” but the “Dancing in the Streets” words were all I could manage… and the brain wasn’t liking it. I mean… I just didn’t know the words to “Pink Cadillac” so it was Mission Impossible… but since that’s never stopped me whenever I’ve been awake… it obviously wasn’t stopping me in my sleep either. Only the odd thing was that the mix up bothered me… but it never does when I’m awake. Hmmm. And then some Orthodox hymn words were creeping in, too… but that was just too weird to recall…. and there’s already enough logs on the fires down yonder waiting for me to go there… so we won’t… and I can’t… ’cause I was trying to sleep.

But of course I had to look’em up when I got up. And maybe this will start your motor like it did mine. I think I had no idea there were any “references” in the song… and so I share my surprise here:

“Well now way back in the Bible,

Temptations always come along.

There’s always somebody tempting

Somebody into doing something they know is wrong.

Well they tempt you man with silver

And they tempt you sir with gold

And they tempt you with the pleasures

That the flesh does surely hold.

They say Eve tempted Adam with an apple

But man I ain’t going for that:

I know it was her Pink Cadillac

Crushed velvet seats

Riding in the back,

Oozing down the street

Waving to the girls

Feeling out of sight

Spending all my money on a Saturday night

Honey, I just wonder what it feels like

in the back of your Pink Cadillac,

Pink Cadillac.”

Oh, and I’ll confess that right before that Saturday night, I’d stumbled on a 1950’s honest to goodness pink cadillac in the gas station parking lot on MacArthur Boulevard over by what used to be the Defense Mapping Agency. It’d had a hard life, and I can tell you… the 1950’s fantasy… well… I guess our parents longings were for a world far more pedestrian than we’ve come to expect. The interior was … uh… disappointing… call it plainer than a go-cart. What can I say? Sic Transit Gloria Mundi.

And like my Lenten Journey… the cadillac fantasy seems parked for refurbishing. Maybe we’ll get it fixed up next year. Maybe it’ll run again. Maybe those crushed velvet seats won’t ride like the crude things they look like by today’s standards… Yeah. Maybe next Lent… the whole will ride easier, ’cause then… maybe…

“…my love will be bigger than a Honda,

yeah it’ll be bigger than a Subaru

Hey man there will be only one thing

and one car that will do.

Anyway we don’t have to drive it honey,

We can park it out in back

And have a party in your Pink Cadillac.”

(Apologies to Bruce for my Thickheaded modifications).

Yeah. Sounds like big ambitions, but a smaller reality. ‘Bout right.