A childlike religion

It was through this post, originally published at Cost of Discipleship blog on May 4, 2009, that I first met Yudhie Kristanto, my adopted son in Indonesia, who is about to graduate from Universitas Pelita Harapan and will soon be a high school teacher. His major is mathematics, but he is also a talented writer and linguist, translating Orthodox literature into bahasa, the common language of his country.

I want to repost this so when he reads it, he can remember with me how the Lord placed us in each other's path.

Selamat, Nanda, pada wisuda Anda. Saya bangga padamu.
Saya berterima kasih kepada Tuhan karena Anda, setiap hari.
Tuhan memberkatimu, dan memberimu bertahun-tahun.
Aku mencintaimu, putra saya…

It's not often that I get to tell people about Orthodoxy, because we don't promote it: we usually wait to be asked. If someone wants to know about it so bad that they have to ask, then it's worth telling them, I think.

For me, this happens mainly during the Greek Festival on the first weekend of October at Aghía Triás, my church. I have been standing watch in the church for the last probably twenty years—I don't think I've missed a single year—not bragging, I just like to do it. I am a doorkeeper of the Lord's temple, that's my job, 24/7. At festival time, it takes on a literal meaning.

What brought some thoughts to mind was reading an excellent post at Fr Milovan's blog, Again and Again, which I think is very pivotal, both to the significance of his blog's title, and to the Orthodox faith in general.

I won't spoil it this time by copying whole swatches out of his post, Our Father Is Younger Than We, but I want to invite you to read it, by clicking on the linked title. What makes it intriguing starts with the title. The Father he's referring to is not a priest or someone's dad; it is God Himself, our Father. How can our Father be younger than we? Read the post and find out!

I just love what Fr Milovan has to say. This is the Orthodoxy that I adhere to. Everything about it is paradox and irony.

People ask, ‘How can you stand for so long in those services? They're hours long!’ and ‘How do you put up with all that repetition?’ and ‘Why do people seem to be crossing themselves all over the place, and not just once, but three times?’ The list of questions goes on, interminably.

While I'm on duty, the Lord gives me infinite patience in dealing with them all—and their questions, what's more ironic, are just as long and repetitive and spontaneously ceremonial to me as our Orthodoxy seems to them. It's a perfect match!

The mystery of Orthodoxy is not what most people think. It's not arcane and secret doctrines or impossibly complex—‘byzantine’—theological dogmas. It's not the apparent rigidity of ceremonial which, for unsympathetic (or too grown-up) outsiders, seems empty and meaningless. It's not even (what appears to some as) the pomp and fussyness of worship, which combined with the Oriental chanting and the fragrant frankincense smoke filling the sanctuary, creates an almost psychedelic experience—a living, moving three-dimensional hieroglyphic, it's been called.

No, the mystery of Orthodoxy is that, underneath what the eye can see, lies a childlike religion, startling in its simplicity, a following of Jesus in the world, almost incognito.

What the five senses perceive in the encounter with Orthodox Christianity in its traditions, is the luxuriant, redundant joy of the childlike heart exulting ceaselessly and seamlessly in the Presence of God. What some experience as ‘too much’ from an adult point of view, others receive gladly and can't seem to get enough of.

That's one reason, I think, why Orthodoxy isn't for everyone. It takes a child's heart, simple enough to trust that the Father is so totally caring and careful, that it doesn't just believe, it knows that nothing happens without Him knowing, and therefore, all will be well. That's also one reason why we immerse our young in every aspect of the faith, even giving communion to unknowing infants. It is this foundation that every Orthodox can fall back on, rebuilding, if need be, after suffering the damage that the world is sure to inflict.

A childlike religion, lighting candles and standing them up in sandboxes in the church, bringing flowers—even the most humble—and leaving them in front of the ikons as a love gift, taking part in dozens of small ceremonies—not very different in some ways from Judaism, another childlike religion—and always asking questions, and full of wonder at the Presence of God. None of us ever really leaves our childhood behind, but not all of us will admit it. But it is to such as these that the Kingdom of Heaven belongs.

‘Suffer the little children to come unto Me…’ is a much wider invitation than most people realize, and that too is the invitation of true Orthodoxy, wherever it exists.