How God uses madmen

A true story, retold. What would you do if faced with this situation?

Sergios was a madman. One would like to be able to say that he was a “fool for Christ,” but there were just too many things that made one uncomfortable about him, things he did and said, to classify him as one of God’s special lambs. Yet, as we shall see, by those same signs he could be called a fool for Christ, or a madman—one could just never be sure, and that always unhinged us when having to deal with him one on one.

Sergios always lived a few miles outside the village. In his youth he had been a concrete worker, but after four years of marriage, his wife suddenly left him, taking their two young children, for a succession of lovers. Whenever she found someone who didn’t want the children, she would bring them back to Sergios. When she changed lovers, or was alone, she would return and take them back. Perhaps it was this that drove him mad, or made him a fool, for he never divorced her and was always there for them.

Nobody knew how Sergios lived, for he rarely worked. He had a bicycle that got him where he wanted to go, though with the state of the country roads, he had to carry a hand-pump with him at all times, because he was always getting flats. His almost daily routine was to ride his bicycle into the village to assist at daily liturgies. He was usually so regular that the father just expected him, and whenever he attended, he was to be found in the altar, helping by making sure the details “behind the ikonostasis” were carried out.

The villagers got used to Sergios and his strange ways, seeing him ride his rickety old bike down the road, dressed immaculately, even down to wearing a jacket, waistcoat and tie, on hot days, or in the rain, on his way to serve at church, sometimes stopping every half mile to pump up his tires. When we didn’t see him for awhile, we would get worried about him, because even at a young age, he had been diagnosed with some kind of heart problem, though due to his poverty, he never did anything about it.

When we hadn’t seen him for a few days, one of us would drive out to where he was living, and knock on his door to make sure he was well. Sometimes there was no answer and the lights were out, so we were sure he was away on one of his mysterious errands perhaps to another village. Other times, we would find him asleep on an old sofa at a time of day when most people are up and about. Once or twice I myself found that I was interrupting him at a very special moment.

Sergios came to the door with his large black bible open in his hands and welcomed me into his hovel. “I was just praying and having communion. Would you like to join me?” The first time that happened, I was taken aback, but then remembering his ways, I responded, “Can I just come in and pray quietly?” because on that occasion I had come with a specific purpose in mind, though I can’t remember what it was. Perhaps I was bringing him something—he was always reluctant to receive “charity” and we usually had to trick him into receiving it.

On the top of a wobbly old bookcase full of Greek bibles and prayer books mingled with small packing boxes and stacks of magazines, Sergios had set up a likeness to the altar at church, with a plate with some chunks of bread and a cup with some kind of dark juice, a ceramic pot in which incense was burning, and a few glass lampadas burning votive candles. He went back to standing in front of this and continued, mingling prayers from the liturgy with his own prayers, switching between church Greek and the vernacular.

Finally, he turned to me and asked, “Are you sure you won’t break bread with me?” And I said, “No, not this time. Maybe when I visit you next time,” lying to him and humoring him, not knowing what else to do. So he concluded his prayers, and then we talked and I accomplished whatever it was I came for that time. As usual, before I left, we prayed together for each other’s welfare and health and the mercy of God on our sins, and I left.

It was obvious to anyone who engaged in conversation with Sergios, even after five minutes of talk, that there was something not quite right with him. After fifteen minutes, if the talk were on a religious topic, it was obvious that he was ignorant of the teachings of the Church and possibly a heretic. After half an hour, if we had the patience to learn how to dialog with him, we were certain that he wasn’t a heretic, only unlearned and simple, but very stubborn, creating for himself a whole series of taboos based on his reading of a bible verse.

For example, for years he would not eat or drink anything containing grapes or raisins. This was from something he read about Nazirites. Another taboo he had was not calling the priest “father,” because of Christ’s saying “Call no man on earth father…” These taboos, however, were not permanent. Sometimes he would hear something in the liturgy, or read a bible verse in another frame of mind, and he would get it right. We knew it was pointless to argue with him.

One year during Holy Week, Sergios was having a horrible time with his bicycle—both tires continually going flat, then some mechanical part broke—and so we made a point of stopping at his place to bring him with us to the services. Then, on Holy Saturday, one of the wealthy villagers presented him with a new bicycle—not brand new, but as good as new—and he accepted it, just as he accepted our offers to bring him to church that week. He seemed to be softening towards our desire to help him.

Not knowing about the new bike, I went over to fetch him to the vigil of Pascha, as we had arranged that, because it was a very late service lasting till 3 in the morning, he would accept a ride there and back. He was, however, not feeling well, and decided not to go. He had already received the communion at the Holy Saturday morning liturgy, as to the rule to receive communion during Pascha, so to miss the Resurrection service, was not a serious matter.

The service was very long, and I remember that I was very, very tired. Coming home that night just before dawn, I was in no mood to break the fast but went straight to bed. At about 9 in the morning, I heard a persistent knocking at my door, and so I threw on my work pants and went to the door bare-chested. It was a very bright, sunny morning of Pascha, and standing there at my door, one hand steadying his new bicycle, the other clutching a small sack, was Sergios. My eyes were hardly able to open. I felt like an old bear awakened from hibernation a month early.

Opening the door, I came out to greet Sergios, and asked him how he was feeling today—though I needn’t have asked: he was as beaming and bright as the morning. He said he was well, and showed me his new bicycle. He was dressed in his best, and I asked him if he was on his way to church, and what time it was, because I knew that the Agapé vespers was not going to start for another two hours. He said he was going to church, but that he wanted to stop and have communion with an Orthodox brother before going to the service, because it was only a vespers. In the sack was a bagel and a small bottle of grape juice.

What to do? The fathers and the bible both teach that whenever two brethren break bread together, Christ is in their midst. I know that this is true and have done the same many times. Then, there is the word of Christ in His institution of the Eucharist, which we follow when we gather at the church, and only the priest prays for us all the prayers that call down the Holy Spirit “on these gifts here presented” so that we can break the bread and drink the cup that memorializes Christ’s sacrifice till He comes again, and in so doing, partake of holy communion.

Here was this man full of joy and in simplicity coming to my door and inviting me to break bread and receive the risen Christ. Would he simply sit down with me at table, say a prayer or two as before meals, and then share some food and drink? Or would he assume the role of a priest and consecrate a bagel and some grape juice under my roof, as I’d seen him do at home? In my suddenly awakened state, I felt lost in a forest of conflicting dreams, all of which were true, yet none of which could co-exist in a mind not given over to madness.

Sergios sensed in my hesitation my reluctance to fulfill his request and covered it over with, “It’s too early for you, I can see that!” and got himself ready to mount his bicycle.

“If you want to break bread with an Orthodox brother, there will be many at the church this morning, but oh, my head hurts! I’m going back to bed, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Christos anesti!” I said, as Sergios rode off towards the church, casting an “Alithos anesti” over his shoulder at me with a smile.

Old Testament Gospel

Psalms for the 18th Day
90 91 92 93 94

Psalm 91

God's protection

If you live in the shelter of Elyon

and make your home in the shadow of Shaddai,

you can say to Yahweh, ‘My refuge, my fortress,

my God in whom I trust!’

He rescues you from the snares

of fowlers hoping to destroy you;

he covers you with his feathers,

and you find shelter underneath his wings.

You need not fear the terrors of night,

the arrow that flies in the daytime,

the plague that stalks in the dark,

the scourge that wreaks havoc in broad daylight.

Though a thousand fall at your side,

ten thousand at your right hand,

you yourself will remain unscathed,

with his faithfulness for shield and buckler.

You have only to look around

to see how the wicked are repaid,

you who can say, ‘Yahweh my refuge’,

and make Elyon your fortress.

No disaster can overtake you,

no plague come near your tent:

he will put you in his angels’ charge

to guard you wherever you go.

They will support you on their hands

in case you hurt your foot against a stone;

you will tread on lion and adder,

trample on savage lions and dragons.

‘I rescue all who cling to me,

I protect whoever knows my name,

I answer everyone who invokes me,

I am with them when they are in trouble;

I bring them safety and honor,

I give them life, long and full,

and show them how I can save.’

This is the God, the Father whom Jesus our Lord trusted with such certainty that he was willing to take every promise with Him to the Cross, so that we too, believing in His name, can go boldly forward into whatever adventure Yahweh sends us.

No empty ritual

Here I go stealing again! And on Great and Holy Friday to boot! But reading Fr Stephen's excellent post this afternoon, I couldn't help flying the flag of my admiration for at least one part of it. So, like the wise thief whom Christ let steal paradise in a single moment,
I hope to be forgiven for stealing this bit of wisdom, and sharing it out to you, my brethren and co-thieves of paradise…

I have heard the phrase “empty ritual” so many times in my life that I know I confront a cliche when I hear it. The speaker has put no great thought into his/her words. Nor do they understand the most basic gifts of God. Worse still, there is an anti-Semitic component to this phrase. The Old Testament, filled with instructions for the ritual of the Temple, is seen as somehow inferior (by nature) to what is imagined to be a “spiritual” approach in the New Testament. Though the first Passover in historical terms (in Christian understanding) was but a shadow of the eternal Pascha of Christ - the feasts are both quite physical in form. One eats the meat of a lamb in a ritual manner; the other eats the Body and Blood of God in a ritual manner.

For those who think of ritual as “empty ritual,” the argument is with God, not with me. He gave us these forms.

Liturgical actions are not to be done mindlessly, but with deep care and concern. Mishandling the Body and Blood of Christ can get an Orthodox priest deposed from his priesthood, or, at least, suspended for a time as a disciplinary measure. It is a most serious matter. In the same way, the laity is not to approach Christ’s Body and Blood in a nonchalant manner.

The “ritual” aspects carry no inherent value, but instead a discipline and a respect, lest we treat holy things in an unholy manner. Those who despise the outward forms of this great gift are gnostics who are despising Christ’s gift to us. There can be no “drive-through” communions, or lunch bag communions (I’ve heard of both). These are ignorant blasphemies on the part of a people who have been taught that physical things do not matter, only the spiritual. As a result they do not know the spiritual things of God, only thoughts about spiritual things.

Take, eat. It is a simple commandment. But it gives us what had once been forbidden. It teaches us as well how grace is generally received. It comes to us in cup and spoon, in oil and water, in smoke and fragrance. In the bowing of the head or the prostration of our bodies. It comes to us in our words of forgiveness for another and in the daily rituals of kindness we perform for one another.

God has not made the acquisition of His Life hard for us - unless you despise the simplicity of His method. Those who do may go with Naaman and enjoy the beauty of the rivers in Syria. But do not expect to be healed on your own terms.

Hard to accept, but true

The following is a short message by pastor Zac Poonen, of Christian Fellowship Church in Bangalore, India that I received in my email this morning. This is a lesson that I have learned in my life, and one that was reluctantly learned, something hard to accept but true. As we grow older chronologically, it is harder to hide behind our carnal façades, and if we finally let the Lord have His way with us, well, maybe we'll finally begin to understand who it is we really are, as Moses did. Here's pastor Zac's message…

Learn to Value Divine Wisdom

Moses was a man who got a certificate of approval from God. God said concerning him, "My servant Moses is faithful inall My household" (Numbers 12:7). It was recorded of Moses at his death that, "since then no prophet has risen in Israel like Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face" (Deuteronomy 34:10).

It was not through Moses's first forty years of training in the palace and the military academies of Egypt that he became a spiritual leader. No. It was through God breaking the strength of his 'Self', when Moses spent the next forty years looking after sheep in the wilderness.

At the age of eighty, with his confidence in his own abilities shattered, Moses could lean upon God and become the deliverer of God's people.

In the construction of the tabernacle in the wilderness, we read one phrase repeated eighteen times in Exodus chapters 39 and 40 - the phrase, "just as the Lord had commanded Moses". The pattern of the tabernacle given by the Lord was a very simple and modest-looking affair. It was a far cry from the fantastic pyramids that Moses had seen built in Egypt.

If Moses had been given the plan of the tabernacle at the age of 40, when the strength of his 'Self' was in full bloom, he would certainly have modified it and made it look more attractive. But at the age of 80, Self had so died out, that he did exactly as the Lord commanded him. And that is what brought the glory of the Lord into the tabernacle.

Our human wisdom has to be dethroned if we are to obtain Divine wisdom.

The Bible says, "If any man among you thinks that he is wise in this age, let him become foolish that he may become wise."
(1 Corinthians 3:18).

God could approve of Moses only when the chaff of the wisdom of Egypt had been thrashed out of him.

The apostle Paul had studied for three years at the feet of Gamaliel, the great professor of theology at the Jerusalem Bible school. That's why he had to spend three years after his conversion, in the wilderness of Arabia to have the wisdom of Gamaliel removed from his system and replaced with Divine wisdom. Paul refers to this period in Galatians 1:17,18: "I went away to Arabia… Then three years later I went up to Jerusalem."

Only then could Paul become a servant of the Lord.

The dethroning of human cleverness is fundamental for anyone who would serve the Lord. Yet there are few who learn this lesson fully.

God tested Moses when he made the tabernacle to see whether he would make it exactly according to the pattern that he had received on the mount. The glory of the Lord coming on that tabernacle was the visible indication of God's satisfaction with Moses' work.

How is it with us in what we do and build for the Lord? Is it exactly according to the pattern found in the Scriptures? Or have we modified it with some of the wisdom of this world? If so, then that must certainly be one reason why the glory of the Lord is not found in our lives.

Ichabod, or the Reverse Pinocchio Effect

Here is another worthless blog post from Romanós the sinner.
Pray for me, brethren.

Somewhere I’ve read (and it may have been in C. S. Lewis) that we are always to be found either arising out of (and repenting of) sin, or hastening into it. As for me, I am at this moment repenting of sin, but I can be no more tired of repenting than I am of being human, because to be a man is to be somehow trapped into a body of death, as holy apostle Paul says, and with him I echo, “who will deliver me from it?” and “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ,” who has mercifully hidden from us most of our sins, and who has ultimately nailed them to the Cross in His own body.

Being an Orthodox Christian, and not in name only, but by choice and by entering into the life of struggle, is really a great blessing, though it costs very dear. The cycles of the Church year are not for nothing, and not for show or adornment, as think some Evangelicals who like to borrow this and that from our “tradition,” to make their own worship more interesting. I was accused once by a well-known Pentecostal woman “evangelist” of being a religious tourist, from the pulpit, when she noticed me and my fifth grade Sunday School class, strangers in the congregation that we both were visiting, she as a guest speaker, we simply as guests. "Foolishness!" I said to myself, but kept mum, and hoped my students didn’t hear.

But being an Orthodox Christian means that you willingly let the Lord take you apart piece by piece and then reassemble you, very much like surgery while awake and at times (it may seem) without anesthetic. Only later, after each operation, do we look back and say, “No, it wasn’t that bad!” and then notice that another part of us has ceased being wooden and is now real flesh. This process, though, familiarizes us with our sins and with the nature of sin generally as it exists in other people, both Christians and unbelievers, to the extent that after many years of this surgery, we can often instantly tell what sin another person is struggling with, or giving in to. Neither clairvoyance nor magic, not practiced intentionally but permitted sometimes to us as discernment for the ministry of empathy, the Lord opens our eyes when and as He wills. He often takes us by surprise.

A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh.
Ezekiel 36:26 KJV

Last night was Good Friday according to the Western calendar, and it came to me that I should attend the evening service at the Anglican parish where I started my Christian life while on the way back to Orthodoxy. It was at this church that over twenty years ago I was a lay minister, leading the Friday weekly vespers service, and doing impromptu street witnessing and ministry out of it in the local inner city neighborhood. I have gone back there on a very few occasions during the last two decades and have noticed, sadly, a diminishing of both the congregation and the spiritual climate there.

What met my senses, even knowing this, I was quite unprepared for. The church was barely a quarter full (in former days, this service was packed, sometimes with extra chairs brought in). Looking around, I saw not a single person I knew. The choir loft was full, as I noticed eventually. "Hmm, so about half the congregation is in the choir," I thought to myself. What I had heard from one of the brethren whose mother still attends there proved to be quite true, the congregation no longer sings; the choir takes over.

As I gradually began to remember the service, which I still have for the most part memorized, and joined in spiritually, I tried to pray and worship. The first part of the service is a sung version of the Passion. I couldn’t pray during that part, of course, but listened prayerfully. Stiff, very stiff and formal, and the choir making the responses, too loud, too operatic. Later I was to discover that the choir was indeed polished, so perfect and so loud that when they were singing, I could do nothing but listen as at a concert. Chanting and singing in church, whether Orthodox or Western, if it is too poor or careless, or if it is too loud and too perfect, it disturbs my ability to pray and worship. Simple, unadorned signing from hearts of faith, that’s what my spirit responds to.

When it came to the prayers, they were intoned beautifully and perfectly, but without any hint of human warmth, almost as if done on a voice synthesizer. Nonetheless, I joined in the prayer, prayed and said my amen’s. “Whatever it looks like, and even whatever it is they think they’re doing,” I said to myself, “it’s still prayer, and that’s my intention.”

What bothered me most about this service was that everything about the clergy costume and their liturgical movement was unremittingly mechanical and perfect, as if they were not human beings at all, but wooden statues with jointed limbs that followed prescribed paths along steel tracks hidden in the floor. Every one of them, from the oldest white hair, to the youngest pony tailed and ear ringed, displayed faces as static as carved wooden masks. When not carrying something, their hands were all held rigidly before them, together and pointed up and a little out. Their steps were mincing and hidden beneath their priestly robes or black cassocks and white lace tops, as they performed their choreography—though I hesitate to use that word, as it was nothing like a dance. Watching them put into mind those carved wooden clocks with mechanical figures that come in and out with predictable regularity.

"Ichabod" kept coming to my mind, as what I was experiencing compared itself to my memory of how this church was when I attended there. Though the rudiments and rubrics of the service were of course the same back then and carried out with a perfectionism that would astonish the Orthodox (whose worship, though elaborate, is not perfectionist at all), there was a quietness and awe, and an environment of sensible faith and sympathy, and even a hint of humor, that permeated the place. There was no remnant of that now, as far as I could see. Just a little group of worshipful spectators watching a bunch of purply-clad marionettes scurrying around on their mysterious, little wooden feet.

"The reverse Pinocchio effect," I mused. "In the fairy tale, a wooden marionette eventually is transformed into a real boy. In this place, it looks like the opposite has happened. Is that what Christ came to bring, in His life, His life-giving death on the Cross, and His glorious third-day resurrection? Did He come to make us less human and more like the statues that are mounted across the top of the rood screen?"

No, of course not. He came to give us life, and that in abundance, and to transform us from being merely human to something more, not something less, to become sons and daughters of His Father, our Father in heaven.

I looked up at the majestic icon of the Ascension of Christ that completely fills the wall above the main altar (where in an Orthodox church would be the image of the Theotokos with Christ in her lap). As I have done many times in the past, I prayed to the Lord while gazing up at that huge painting. Strangely, I don’t usually pray with my eyes open before icons, but I have always felt different about this one, and always pray looking up, eyes open. “Lord, descend on this house of worship and restore it to the glory it had before, when You filled it with Your glory!” And the rest is between me and the Lord, but our God is faithful, and He will accomplish His purposes in us.

At the end of the service, the clergy and acolytes, taking all the holy things with them, filed out the side door and disappeared, and the lights suddenly went out. I knew this would happen, of course, and I lingered as long as I could in the dark church, praying and remembering to the Lord the great things He had done for me and my friends in this place. And the wonderful chant came to mind, that always seemed the “motto” of this special church…

Oh, how dreadful is this place,
this is the house of God and gate of heaven,
and men shall call it
the palace of God.

To the brethren who are celebrating the resurrection of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ this Lord’s Day,

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

Rescued by wedding guests

Whenever I return to a stint of reading the early fathers, that is, those before and just after the peace of the Church wrought by Constantine, I’m always struck by their modernity and the freshness that leaps out at me as I read. It makes me wonder just what “modern” means.

I’ve read somewhere that the beginning of “modern” times occurred in different centuries in different places. Some say in Europe they began in AD 1300 with Dante, others that Francis of Assisi is the first “modern” man in the West: it all depends on when the writer thinks the medieval age ended. In the Far East, modern times are said to have begun during the Northern Sung dynasty, around the year AD 1000, and the criteria are such things as the appearance of printing, paper money, and machinery.

In my view, what I mean as “modern” has to do with machinery definitely, but even more with the frank and unafraid willingness to question everything to get at the root of truth. This is something that I think we lost during the “Church Age” in the West, when other priorities were substituted for it. The religiosity of medieval Christianity did not even make room for real questions to be asked, hence, the stagnation that took centuries to overcome.

Back to my topic, the written testimonies of the early Christians.

Eusebius’ History of the Church was my leisure reading matter this morning. His text reads as fluently and frankly as if it were written just yesterday, and the events he recounts are both easy to picture and believe as accurate. What a far cry from the miracle stories of Christian piety, always avid to believe anything as long as it’s monstrous—like Nicholas of Myra reassembling and revivifying the bodies of some boys who were hacked to pieces and then hidden in some barrels of pickles, or was it wine?
Golly, the stuff of nightmares!

I read for a long while about the Church Father Origen of Alexandria who escaped being canonized as Saint Origen for some of his eccentricities of belief or at least of expression. One of his funnier speculations was that our resurrection bodies would be perfect spheres, but he also speculated on pre-existence of the soul and other ideas bordering on pagan philosophy. This speculation, in spite of his sufferings in the Decian persecution, earned him the indignity of being a suspect of heresy. Looking at him through the “modern” approach that one finds in Eusebius’ history, I’d say that Origen deserves better from his “carping critics” as Eusebius calls them. I guess Origen will just have to be classed with Martin Luther, who also falls under the axe of true piety, as he cries out, “Let the saints canonize themselves!”

Now, for the real topic, a story that I found both exciting and interesting, written in History of the Church, Book 6, Chapter 40, entitled What happened to Dionysius. The account itself was written in a letter by Dionysius, and it is quoted in the book.

I speak as in the presence of God, who knows whether I am lying. I did not act on my own judgement or without God when I made my escape; but even before that, when Decius announced his persecution, Sabinus then and there dispatched a frumentarius to hunt me out, and I stayed at home for four days waiting for him to arrive. But though he went round searching every spot—roads, rivers, fields—where he guessed I was hiding or walking, he was smitten with blindness and did not find the house; he never imagined that when an object of persecution I should stay at home! It was only after four days, when God commanded me to go elsewhere, and by a miracle made it possible, that I set out along with the boys and many of the brethren. That this was indeed a work of divine providence was proved by what followed, when perhaps we were of use to some.

Let me interject two observations:
Dionysius tells, almost casually as if it were nothing remarkable, that God commanded him to go elsewhere. These early Christians like us had, and knew they had, direct access to God, without having to resort to a chain of command as later develops in the Church, eventually making it unimaginable in the Dark Ages that anyone but a perfect saint could actually talk to God and get His personal attention, as does Dionysius. This, to me, is a sign of modernity. The other thing I want to notice is his use of the word miracle. As he continues to tell his story, the miraculous aspect reveals itself to be the acknowledgment that God was personally and intimately directing the flow of events. This too strikes me as modern, that is, frank and honest, not given to exaggeration or tale-spinning.
Now, to finish the story, Dionysius continues…

About sunset, my companions and I were caught by the soldiers and taken to Taposiris; but by the purpose of God it happened that Timothy was absent and was not caught. When he arrived later, he found the house empty except for a guard of servants, and learnt that we had been captured without hope of release…

And how was God’s wonderful mercy shown? You shall hear the truth. As Timothy fled distracted, he was met by one of the villagers on his way to attend a wedding-feast—which in those parts meant an all-night celebration—who asked why he was in such a hurry. He told the truth without hesitation, whereupon the other went in and informed the guests as they reclined at table. With one accord, as if at a signal, they all sprang to their feet, came as fast as their legs could carry them, and burst in where we were with such terrifying shouts that the soldiers guarding us instantly took to their heels. Then, they stood over us, as we lay on bare mattresses.

At first, God knows, I thought they were bandits who had come to plunder and steal, so I stayed on the bed. I had nothing on but a linen shirt; my other clothes that were lying near I held out to them. But they told me to get up and make a bolt for it. Then I realised what they had come for, and called out, begging and beseeching them to go away and let us be. If they wanted to do me a good turn, they had better forestall my captors and cut off my head themselves. While I shouted like this, they pulled me up by force, as my companions who shared all my adventures know. I let myself fall on my back to the floor, but they grasped me by hands and feet and dragged me out, followed by those who witnessed the whole scene, Gaius, Faustus, Peter, and Paul, who picked me up and carried me out of the village, set me on a donkey bareback, and led me away.

Now, in conclusion I ask you, brethren, isn’t this a great story? Doesn’t it ring true, and even entertain us in a way that doesn’t offend true piety, by the candid artlessness of the author? Here we have an example of what a Christian was like in the third century, before the beginning of the Church Age. There’s a lot here to be learned, and also to help us examine ourselves, to make sure that the faith that we have is the same as that of these early Christians. Reading books like these makes me think that what we have known as the “modern” age has not so much to do with an era of chrónos time, but rather with moments of kairós time scattered through human history.

And if this be true, what then of those who call the present “post-modern”? Must we, like Dionysius, have to be yanked out of our resignation by Christ’s wedding guests, set bareback on an ass, and set free?

…to become His disciples

The problem is not that the Church is bad or wrong or needs reform. The problem is that we think, speak and act as if there were moments in our lives when we are not the Church. We think of Church as this or that—it’s the institution, or it’s the building, or it’s the worship service, or it’s the altar call, or it’s the bible study, or it’s the prayer group, or it’s the social functions, or it’s the fund raising, or any number of other “its.”

The reality is first and foremost that we are in Christ. That fact alone establishes the Church, not only in every time and place, but in every one of us, alone or in a crowd. Yet we fail to see that, and continue living as though church were something to do, and to do only at specific times, in specific places.

This is not to say that there ought not to be “sacred spaces,” sanctuaries, churches, but that these tangibles are not to become an external focus, supplanting in us the knowledge and experience of our being in Christ. When this happens in any age or place, the Church suffers loss, the members of Christ’s Body become the prey of wolves.

For us as Christians, there is nothing in this human life that is not infused with God, with His presence, and so there is nothing that cannot be infused with our acknowledgment of Him in everything we think, speak and do. That acknowledgment is worship: we recognize God by acknowledging Him in all our relationships with people, events and things, and we testify that He alone is worthy, and that is worship.

This is not to say that worship is not or cannot occur in church services, but when there is no actual worship going on there, it becomes a hollow ritual, evidence against us that we have forgotten who we are, not necessarily who God is. When this happens, it’s not time to reform churches, redesign services, deploy different ministry methods, or hire a marketing team.

When this happens, it’s time to repent our apostasy, to return to God and to live in His House all the days, all the moments, of our lives, in His presence, in His Word.
It’s time to become His disciples.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the world of the past has gone…
2 Corinthians 5:17

Wake up from your sleep, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.
Ephesians 5:14 Jerusalem Bible

Another ramble on Greek

Saturday morning came and went quickly. When most people might be sitting down to have lunch, I was still in breakfast mode, so I made myself a light breakfast and, as usual, grabbed a book off my shelf at random to read while I ate. It happened to be my old college book, New Testament Greek for Beginners, by Machen. I'm going to show the other books I'm about to describe in this post, but this old text book has an unremarkable blue-green cloth cover, not worth showing. And besides, I'm not recommending this book to anyone; the others I am. (Be sure to click on the book images for larger views, especially the sample pages of the Greek NT.)

As I perused the book, at once I was hit with the reason why I never learned New Testament Greek, that is, koiné, in college. It was boring. It was stock memorisation of word forms we would never use. It was being discouraged from reading Greek out loud by the professor's very reticence about pronouncing it himself. Isolated words and maybe a phrase or two were ventured to be spoken in the learning process but to actually speak koiné Greek as if it were a living language—unheard of!

Nearly twenty years after my first encounter with the Greek New Testament in this academic environment, I encountered it again in—of all places—the Church! At the age of 37 my pilgrimage to Orthodoxy came to an end—I was home.
Home, where the Word of God that I had come to love more than anything else was also loved in a way that I could relate to. Better yet, I was finally in a place where the original language of the scriptures was not an academic exercise, but rather the medium of the exercise of both worship and study.

Greek, I was delighted to discover, is not a dead language, not even the koiné (which I now learned was pronounced kee-NEE with the accent on the final syllable). What's more, all those syllables which seemed so unnatural-sounding and impossible to say out loud in the college classes, well, they weren't pronounced that way at all. The people with whom I started going to church were speaking it fluently all the time in the services and in bible studies; it literally rolled off their tongues, and after not even a year, it was rolling off my tongue too.

Greek is a language that has somehow managed to keep growing, yet keeping all its parts intact. The everyday Greek of the household is a different dialect, but the scriptural Greek is pronounced the same way and has been, from the time of Christ and the holy apostles. When we read the New Testament writings aloud, we are actually hearing what the writers wrote as they spoke it. As a collector of Greek coins of the Roman emperors, I found out this was indeed true. When the emperors' Latin names were written in Greek letters on the coins of the Greek-speaking provinces, they were spelled phonetically, showing that koiné Greek was pronounced approximately the same as Greek sounds today.

Where I am going with this ramble is to encourage anyone who can, to learn to read and understand the New Testament in the original language. From my experience, I think that learning New Testament Greek from grammar books is backward and prevents one from picking up and internalising the language, which is the only reason for learning it at all—so that we can read and understand without translating what the Word of God actually says.

You can get an entire Greek Bible, called Η Αγια Γραφη (i Aghía Graphí), and the Old Testament part will be the actual Septuagint translated by the Greek-speaking Jews of Egypt two centuries or more before Christ. But it's really best to start and even maybe stay with the New Testament. The United Bible Societies published an excellent edition of the Alexandrian New Testament that also includes a dictionary which is still available. The Majority Text Interlinear by Thomas Nelson is the other Greek New Testament I would recommend without hesitation. I use both, but I am more used to the Alexandrian text. If you must have a grammar book, the very best and easiest to use and understand is Learn New Testament Greek by Rev. John Dobson. He minimizes grammarian complication and makes you go straight to the scriptures where you belong. He still uses the non-Greek pronunciation of Erasmus and the academics, but that doesn't keep you from learning much and quickly from his book. He also does the same thing with Old Testament Hebrew. The man is a genius and a great lover of God's Word, and finally we have some grammar books that make you learn to speak what you read.

Now, where to find the correct pronunciation? That's the question.

Best thing to do is to simply find a local Greek Orthodox church (one that still uses Greek in the services, some do not) and start attending some of the services. No one will pressure you to join or anything like that. You just tell them why you're there, and they'll not only understand but they'll admire and approve of your aim. This is the best way, unless of course you have a Greek friend like Romanós who is all fired up to read Greek with you at the coffeehouse. If you can't find a Greek church and have no Greek friends nearby, you can still find videos of Greek services on YouTube, and there are also audio versions of the Greek New Testament on CD—be sure the version you get is the koiné dialect version, not modern Greek; both exist.

Now, back to Hebrew study for me, and some translating work. For those who are observing Palm Sunday tomorrow on the Western calendar, happy feast day. As for us Orthodox, we're a week behind you this year; tomorrow is the last Sunday of Sarakostí (Great Lent).

And to all the brethren, a Kalí Anástasis (Beautiful Resurrection).

Ευαγγελισμός

Not every Western depiction in art of the Theotokos is a frangopanaghía (Greek, "Frankish madonna," a contemptuous term applied to Catholic paintings of Mary the Mother of Jesus), but on the whole I rather agree that most are. I am repulsed by most representations of "the Madonna and Child," regardless of how "tender" or "sweet" they look—in fact, the sweeter they look, the more they repel me. Because of different beliefs about the place of Mary in the life of salvation, Catholic devotional art often shows her alone, whereas in Orthodox icons, she is almost never shown without Jesus, who is the reason for the veneration shown to her and every other saint. She is shown alone only in those icons where Jesus is not historically present, as when she was a child or, especially, in the icon of the event called Evangelismós (Greek, "Annunciation," or "telling the Good News").

This icon is one of the best known Orthodox icons. It shows Mary on the right being approached and spoken to by the angel Gabriel. There are many symbolic elements in the icon, as is usual, because icons are supposed to be the Word of God in visual form to teach the faithful Christian the truths of faith. Though this icon as written by hundreds of iconographers may differ in minor ways, basically all the elements, down to the colors, are the same in every example. This both limits and expands the apprehension of Gospel truth, depending on the viewer.

While the traditional icon can pass to us some unspeakable truths about the plan of salvation, and while it can help some people "see into Heaven," it does not really give us much insight into the human side of Mary, which is our humanity as well.

For the uncreated Creator God to enter into His creature who is both His daughter and His mother, and through her to acquire a human nature, these are truths that the icon may teach us. But what of the human side of the story, that which can speak to our hearts of flesh in these bodies of clay?

Since beginning this blog, I have found one Western painting which conveys this human side of Mary without detaching from her any of the dignity or mystery of her place in salvation history. Oddly enough, at about the same time, I also found a painting of Moses at the burning bush. The colors in both paintings are sympathetic and similar, and taking the paintings into the mind's eye together also brings out an ancient Christian analogy about Mary, expressed in the Akáthistos Hymn written by my namesake Romanós the Melodist, that Mary is like the burning bush, in that the Eternal came and dwelt inside her physically without consuming her, as "the bush burned but was not consumed."

There is another Western art form that has done great damage to Gospel truth as well as promoting it, and that is cinema. Although there are portions of the film Jesus of Nazareth by Franco Zeffirelli that are not in line with Orthodox beliefs, they are minor and few, and his casting for the movie reflects his careful attention even to Orthodox icons. Most of his characters, even Jesus, follow the depictions of Christ and the apostles in our icons. The same is true, in my opinion, of his casting the part of Mary. His depiction in cinema of the Evangelismós is realistic historically but nonetheless the Gospel truth shines from it. And isn't that what the icons are supposed to be and do as well? They are to depict for us in visual form only the truth, even the historical truth, and the departure from this standard is rare. Hence, any art form that intends to do what the icon does sometimes succeeds.

Here are sixteen stills from the scene of the Annunciation in Jesus of Nazareth that speak volumes to me, and I want to share them. The images are small, but if you click on them they will zoom to full size. Each movie still depicts an aspect of the event. All of them taken together will hopefully suggest what can be experienced by watching the film itself, which I consider in its totality a cinematic icon. I had intended to post this on March 25, but not until today have I had the time to assemble it.

Anna, though not recorded by name in scripture, was the widowed mother of Mary, and hence the grandmother of Jesus.

Mary sleeps.
Mary awakens.
She sees a light.
Mary's room.
She begins to see.
Anna is awakened.
Mary is afraid.
She hears the voice.
Gabriel the bodyless.
Rejoice, highly favored!
You are to conceive a Son…
Anna watches.
The Child will be called Holy…
Let it be unto me…
Elizabeth will bear a son…
Mary wonders.

The Message…

…nobody wants to hear. No, we simply can’t bear it. Things simply can’t be that bad. God really can’t care about things like that. He’s making it all up. Why does he have to keep raving like he does? Lock him up! Shut him up where we don’t have to hear his raving! Deep, down deep! Let him rant at the stones in the dungeon, yes, in the dark dungeon! What? What did you say? You actually think he’s right? Is that why you won’t let me have him killed? You know we’re living in sin? You really believe that? Is that why you’re always going to listen to his raving at the grate? Is that why you insist on keeping him here?

Herod Antipas kept the prophet and forerunner John the Baptist imprisoned in his dungeon and would not kill him, despite his wife Herodias’ displeasure. Herodias had left her husband, who was Herod Antipas’ brother, to marry him. This was a social climbing marriage for Herodias, kicking her status up another notch in the politics of that day. She wanted to keep up appearances and insisted that John be done away with, since he was defaming her new marriage. She wanted the people to see her and Herod Antipas as Torah-observant Jews who followed the commandments, well, at least the important ones. What did a little history of adultery matter?

So what, if they really were living in sin. They were having a good time, weren’t they? They were successful, they had lots of friends, important and influential ones. They were in the flow of things, they were going the way the world was going. Soon it would all be theirs. But there was that noise again! That persistent, stinging invective, those flaming words, “Did you not know, have you not heard? Was it not told you from the beginning? Have you not understood…” Why couldn’t that voice be silenced? But their party must go on, their celebration of the king’s birthday must go on, something or somebody must silence that voice!

Herod arose from his drunken stupor, casting aside his cup, but he was helpless, a man who couldn’t go forward or back. As a “good” Jew he knew what was right, what Torah required of him as a king and as a man, but he couldn’t do it. He was trapped by his own ambitions, by his own lusts. The world had made him its slave, while he pretended, while he went through the motions of being a king. Ah, but where a man can’t be depended on to do a man’s job, a woman will always step forward. Herodias knew exactly what to do. “Music! Music!” she called out with an allusive smile and a broad sweep of her commanding, graceful arm. The music was jacked up and for a moment they thought they couldn’t hear the Word coming up at them through the pavement, echoing along the walls. They and their guests splashed wine down each others gullets. More and more, soon to drown out that voice with its dreaded Message.

So it is with the world. When it can’t bear to hear the Message any longer, it cranks up the music, adds more lighting, wears fancier clothes and better perfumes, it wigs up and makes a bigger pitch for the audience’s attentions, promising ever greater rewards, if only that voice would stop raving, if only that Message would go away and stop spoiling the fun…

Who now are the big players on stage?
Who are the actors? Who has written today's script? Who has the Message and who is proclaiming it, and who is pretending to be Torah-observant so they can continue reigning on earth? It doesn’t matter that it’s not the real Torah but only a replica, only a man-made concoction of the latest platitudes and politically correct mantras. Add more wine to the party, add more inebriants, more medication, let the death-dealers come in too, there’s nothing wrong with bringing a little bit of hard, cold reality into the party, and death on demand would be a perfect ending to a perfect life, for some people.

Brethren, the time is close, very close now. Yet we do not proclaim the salvation of our God and Savior Jesus Christ. We play juggler with His words, we pantomime Him ceremoniously, we make converts to ethnic festivals, we educate with museums, make our people culturally aware. The Message? What’s that? Oh, is that what you’re talking about? Nobody wants to hear stuff like that. It spoils the fun we’re having. “Pipe down, brother!” as a woman was heard to bark at someone who was actually witnessing at the Festival last October. We want the world to see that we’re observant like they are, that we’re educated, not like those others who keep raving about some Message or other.

Not only the Gadarenes, once having heard and seen what Jesus does, have implored Him to leave their neighborhood, or their world.

An unlikely ending

This afternoon I picked up the latest copy of Ðy‎namis, our parish monthly newsletter, that appeared in my mailbox. I always look at the “Our People” section. That’s a section that I created years ago (when I was the managing editor) to chronicle significant events in the lives of people in our community. Now, they use that section to list baptisms, weddings, funerals and other announcements. Avidly I looked for the funeral announcement of a recently reposed new friend of mine, only an acquaintance really, but meeting him somehow closed an open circle in my life. The announcement was there, very brief, but it had the dates of both his repose and his funeral:
Reposed February 2. Buried February 28. Age, 70 years.

I first met Stéphanos (I’m using his middle name to protect his anonymity) one evening when Brock and I were hanging out at Common Grounds coffeehouse on Hawthorne Avenue in Portland. We went there to study Torah and practice reading Hebrew out loud, the same way that we also read Greek New Testament, to improve our language ability. We had our Greek scriptures with us as well, but the heavy leather-bound tome of Tanakh (Torah-Nevi’im-Ketuvim) the Hebrew bible was what we were intending to practice.

We noticed an older man, probably in his late 60’s, sitting at one of the small round tables next to the only two empty spots left in the crowded room, as I dropped off our bags and books on the tables to claim them while we got our mochas. This older man we’d seen once before a few nights previously. He was involved in some kind of altercation with some people that resulted in the police coming and even turning on their lights. All this happened outside in front of the coffeehouse and the adjacent shops.

We got our mochas, sat down with them and began handling our books. The older man sitting next to us was dressed in quasi-military fashion, down to his green beret, and he wore various medals on his “uniform” and around his neck. Some of these medals contained the cross, others looked more Masonic or occult. The man’s complexion and stocky build made Brock and me think he reminded us of Saddam Hussein or at least an Iraqi general or something.
We were sure he was an Arab.

Suddenly, he looked over at us sitting right next to him and commented something like, “Is that the bible?” and that was the beginning of a slowly expanding conversation with him. When we explained that we came to read Greek and Hebrew, he said something like, “That’s good, so you read Greeks?” When we nodded in the affirmative, I suddenly became aware that the man was speaking with a Greek accent. “Are you Greek?” I asked with amazement. “Miláte elliniká?” I added. “Of course!” he said, he was a Greek. I asked him his name, and told him mine. “Stéphanos, Romanós me lene!”

Our conversation deepened by fits and starts. We found out that Stéphanos knew a very talented young Greek cantor who was also an excellent guitarist, and whom he admired very much. He only saw him occasionally, sometimes at this coffeehouse and elsewhere.

“That’s my son Andreas!” I exclaimed, “You know him?”

“Of course! He plays here and practices chanting outside in front of the coffeehouse. He is your son? I will tell you, he is a very good person, not just a good musician. I want him to come with me back to Greece. He can stay in my house there. Tell him that I want to see him again, please.”

What a small world we live in, or rather, how small the Lord the God of heaven and earth makes the arena in which He suffers His servants to meet one another!

And so our conversation continued. Stéphanos approved very much of the bible, agreeing with us that it is above all else, i alitheía, “the Truth,” but he did not have kind words for the Church, that is, the Orthodox Church (for him, what other was there?). To him it was all just a business, a racket, a way for dishonest men to squeeze money out of the people. Of course, the same idea has occurred to almost every thinking Christian, and he was a Christian too, though in some ways uninstructed, or maybe just rebellious.

Like not a few Greek Orthodox whom I have met, Stéphanos seemed to believe in God and in Christ (and maybe in the Theotokos and the saints), but he didn’t seem to understand or accept the unique mediation of Jesus Christ; he seemed to think that anyone who believed in God and, following their conscience, did unto others as they would have done unto them, would be saved, would “make it.” This attitude is not monotheism (only One God) but rather henotheism (one God among others, and mine is best for me).
I’ve found this attitude at both extremes—the over-educated types and the simple, uneducated types, both sometimes espouse it, the first through arrogance, the second through ignorance. I’m not sure which end Stéphanos was at, but I believe it was through ignorance, in spite of the fact that he was well-read.

Stéphanos was a cultured, well-read man of the world. He seemed rich enough, not a homeless person, whom he almost resembled because of his clothing, trinket-like medals and big sacks of books. Yet, I would say that he was not an arrogant intellectual, but someone who like most of us, reads a little more than he should, grasps a little less than he thinks, and lets appearances fool him into sometimes holding absurd opinions. Brock and I met him there on at least one or two more occasions. The last time, he reminded me that Andrew had not called him, and asked me to remind him again. That was at the end of January. When I got home that night, I reminded Andrew that Stéphanos wanted him to call urgently.

Now, where to go from here to finish this story?

Recently, I wrote about an incident at my church that happened more than 15 years ago, in my post entitled He never did take off his hat. In that post I told the story of (what I took to be) a gypsy man coming into the Divine Liturgy at Aghía Triás one Sunday morning, planting himself right in the center of the congregation, and joyfully participating as best he could, even going up to receive the communion from the hands of Fr Elias (of blessed memory). The man received communion and then joyfully left, giving a fervent hug and kiss to one of the men near the side aisle as he went past him.
We never saw him again.

I want to tell you all, that I think I was quite mistaken about that man being a gypsy. As I have looked back on that incident many times since meeting Stéphanos, I am almost completely certain that it was no gypsy, but a Greek non-conformist named Stéphanos, whom I had the good fortune to meet and get to know in some small way. This man was a remarkable individual, and an individual indeed, a free-thinker yet a man of faith, of trust in the mystery of God. Maybe I am wrong about him. God knows I didn’t get to know him well. But God knows him, I think, and that’s all that counts.

February 2nd, the day the Orthodox Christians commemorate the presentation of the infant Jesus in the Temple, when the aged Simeon took the babe in his arms and said, “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy Word, for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation, which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people, a Light to enlighten the Gentiles, and the glory of Thy people Israel.”

On this day, Stéphanos also departed, though not in peace. He died within his burning house, which collapsed around him. They must not have known anyone was inside. They probably found his charred body after the fire was out. He was a smoker. Maybe his cigarette started the blaze. But he was also a crazed man in some ways, forced to the perimeter of this earthly existence. Who knows how the fire started, but that became his door to the mystery of God. May his memory be eternal. No one to sing his 40th day memorial, he was alone here in America.

He departed just a couple of days after I reminded Andrew to call him. He never did get in touch with him, but he chanted his memorial service on the 28th of the month. The body of our friend was held by the authorities while they searched for any relatives. Just as he never did take off his hat—if that man was Stéphanos—but marched boldly in before the earthly throne of grace, so may he be found among those who can appear boldly before the judgment seat of the heavenly King, knowing that his sins were nailed with Christ to the Tree. So ends this story, as far as we can tell.

A Christ-Haunted Culture

I just had an experience reading a post on Glory to God for All Things blog by Fr. Stephen. The post is entitled Orthodoxy and the Christ-Haunted Culture of the South. It's hard for me to even describe this post, but it moved me deeply, it blessed me, and I wanted to share it with others for whom it might do the same. You can link to the post by clicking the title just above. If you do, and if it doesn't bless you, just stop reading and forget about it—it must not be for you. But if it is, I hope you are blessed by it as much as I was. Here's a little excerpt, a couple of my favorite passages…

Orthodoxy is the only Church that puts it all together: the mind in the heart, the body and the spirit, the word and the image, grace and freedom, the good God who loves mankind. This is the “evangel”: the Good News for the South. Her deepest longings are met here. As Vladyko [the retiring Orthodox archbishop of Dallas] has taught us, all that is good and true in Southern Protestantism is here. Jesus and the Holy Ghost are here: the real Jesus confessed as Lord and God and Saviour, risen from the dead. We are steeped in the Bible and love to hear its cadences. We also know that deep sense of the irony and mystery of human life, that yearning for something lost. The writers of the Bible knew this yearning well: By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, when we remembered Zion. This yearning is really a yearning for the New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God.
Let us not make of Orthodoxy another law to be obeyed, another head religion to feel proud of, another emotional trip, another escape to some other world. Let us proclaim it as the Good News that the people of the South and every land are hungry for.

Immortality

A fellow Christian blogger recently wrote…

My grandmother impacted me. She changed who I am. I think most people who know me would consider me both gentle and provocative. I don’t generally let my kids win when we play games. I am changing the world through these, and many more important ways. I will be dead someday. And the people who I impact will change the world, too.

I truly believe we will live forever in a much more literal way. There is that kind of immortality. But that doesn’t diminish this kind of immortality. Yes, I remember my grandmother. But more than that, I’ve been changed by her, made a better person by her. This is no small thing, and it’s a much bigger thing than mere memories. [Italics added.]

Not to detract or even contradict what he was expressing, it made me think the thoughts he wrote through to another level of reality, that which is emphasized in my Orthodox faith, and I left the following comment which I'd like to share as a ramble on immortality…

Immortality, in the sense usually meant by some types of Christians and other “spiritual” seekers, is either a “die and go to heaven” or a “die and be admitted into a higher plane of being” mentality, neither of which have any substance in reality.

Something which I think you are hinting at in this post is, on the other hand, closer to the truth than what most people, Christians included, are willing to admit: Real immortality is much closer to the immortality of fame in the human world than it is to the mythical or fairy-tale versions of immortality one finds in religion.

Immortality as fame means that your name will never die out, that people will remember you, at least your name, for hundreds, even thousands, of years. Though we may not know much about Confucius, Julius Caesar, or William Shakespeare, most of us know the names as household words almost. And not a few people actually do know these men through familiarity with their thoughts. And if any part of us should deserve immortality, I think it must be our thought, that which made us what we are. So, the famous men and women of history, in their thousands, have immortality among us as long as the human race lasts. And how?

They are immortal because of memory.

We remember them. We remember and pass on, generation by generation, this memory of them. Does our remembering these people confer on them anything like real immortality, that is, eternal life? Well, no, it doesn’t. That’s where the comparison has run its course. But where it leaves off, something else takes over.

In the Orthodox Church, at every service of the Divine Liturgy we hear the words proclaimed, “May the Lord remember you in His Kingdom, now and always and unto the ages of ages!” as the priests and deacons process through the temple bearing in their hands the bread and wine which will become, by the operation of the Holy Spirit, the mystery of Christ’s Body and Blood. While they’re carrying it, it isn’t that yet, it’s still just bread and wine, though the bread has already been divided into dozens of small chunks, each piece having been prayed over in memory of human beings, alive or dead, prayed over and brought to God’s attention, for His help. So, in an odd sort of way, the bread at least has already ceased being ordinary bread; it has started on its journey, having become by this stage true prosphora or offering.

We also, in the Orthodox service, pray this prayer before receiving communion, “…but as the thief I confess to you, Lord, remember me in Your Kingdom.”

Hence we see that, in Orthodox Christian terms anyway, the place of memory or remembrance in the reality of eternal life is absolutely essential. While our remembrance of famous people gives them a figurative immortality, because we are just creatures ourselves, it is God’s remembrance of us that gives us real immortality, real eternal life. We exist even now because it is God who is thinking of us, upholding the reality of our being by His thought, by His memory. When we come to the end of our physical lives, it is the same:
God remembers us, and hence we live.

In scripture, there is very little content as to the nature of “heaven” or the life immortal, or eternal life, only the word of Jesus, who says to us that it is in Him that we live forever.

In Him? And how is this? By His thinking of us, again, by memory, as the thief cried out, “Remember me when You come into Your Kingdom!” and Jesus’ response, “This day you will be with Me in paradise!”

We really have nothing else to go on.
Even the whole of the Old Testament gives no assurances, only expressions of faith and hope in God’s mercy, “This I know, that my Redeemer lives, and from my flesh I will look on God” (Job) or even of agnostic abandon, “Who knows if the spirit of man goes up, and the soul of the beast down to the earth” (Ecclesiastes).

It all hinges on memory, that YHWH, the Holy One of Israel, remembers us.

And if He remembers us,
we indeed are immortal.



“Receive me today, O Son of God, as partaker of Thy Mystical Supper, for I will not speak of Thy Mystery to Thine enemies; neither will I give Thee a kiss as did Judas, but like the thief will I confess Thee: Remember me,
O Lord, in Thy Kingdom.”