Ephrem

Words from an old friend

Thu, 11 Aug 2005 19:42:58 GMT

Last night I dreamed that Christopher who is now not going by that name but it kills me to try to call someone a different name arrived here unexpectedly. In the dream I cried and cried and cried - and NOT because I was sad. I wonder if that dream might one day come true? But I'll try not to cry.
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Voice from the past
So you called tonight. How long? Six years? It doesn't seem possible. Spur of the moment drives to Leavenworth, arguments in the kitchen, dinners eaten on the floor in front of your computer. Six years ago? More? Unthinkable. Your voice still sounds the same and can still lull me into that same complacency that says let's just drop the important and do the urgent; fly far from here. No, it's awareness into which you lull me. I know how quickly nine months pass and six years of silence take their place. Maybe seven. I haven't yet counted. Long time. I do read. I do lie on the grass and think sometimes. Not often enough, you'd say.
Your voice brought back so many good memories. I wish you to return.
Tears aren't always bad, young upstart. This post is for you. I raise my glass to you. The contents are unworthy, but the gesture means the same. Here's to you. To you coming home one day. To friendships that do not yield to the pressures of time. To loving forever. To understanding. To your mood not being my responsibility, but my concern. Here's to you. To children being a direct deposit by God Himself into the eternal bank account of our soul. To the means by which they are acquired being a non-issue. To life. Where there's life, there's hope. I will pray that God smiles on you and grants you a speedy end to trouble. God bless you. God bless you. God fill you with hope. God fill you with life.
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C.S. Lewis once gave the advice to never move away from one's friends. Good advice, that. A few simple words from a long-time friend, one who knows me as only a few others do, and the world is disassembled and rearranged. Home is where? A locality? An emotional frame of reference? A state of the heart? It is hard to be out of the presence of those one loves and by whom one is loved, even as one is in the presence of other loves. The heart yearns for home even as one is already home. In this life there is too much division—space and time are too real. Love is made more poignant by loss and longing. And all these words are so much static of the soul, the heart, as interpreted by the mind. There is only one faithful expression of all of this: I sigh.

The House

Tue, 25 Jan 2005 05:14:21 GMT

The house was dark, and filled only with silence. No spirit echoed through its halls, no memories drifted from room to room.

The young woman who chanced upon the house this night saw only the glimmering chances of her own hopes. She had passed by it many times before, but only now did it become a reality to her. She thought of the children that could enliven the recesses of its space, the lights and hangings which could bring color to its dark walls, of the history that it could one day possess, "if only..."

This thought she carefully, tidily folded into the back of her mind, laying it down next to many other such neatly preserved possibilities, thoughtfully marking it with its own unique color, scent, and texture. Each possibility was charmed, but only a handful were ever to be retrieved and put to use. For now it was time to return to the small rooms she already inhabited, those past futures which had come upon her unlooked for, almost unrecognized if not for the chances of necessity.

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Of dreams, an interior reading

Fri, 21 Jan 2005 21:36:47 GMT

A complimentary conception of dreams -- or perhaps an inner layer to their meanings, since all things can be read internally: An aspirational dream as theotic allegory, i.e. an allegory of our essential yearning towards "theosis", or the becoming at one with Christ.

A story has building blocks, one of them being plot, another setting, characterization, etc. Not one of these things -- not even the dreaded message -- *is* the story, but all are servants to the story. And the story transcends any mere conglomeration of parts. The story is itself only pointed to by the individual parts, it is a suggestion that only completes itself within the mind and heart of the reader, with each reader necessarily completing the story differently according to his abilities and openness.

A dream is a chapter, a verse, a mere phrase or word or letter of our personal story. And our personal story alludes always to our erotic attraction to the Bridegroom, which is both a innate property of our creation and a response to the Eros He exibits toward us. (Get yer mind out of yon gutter. Eros was a god before he was demeaned into being merely the servant of the fiercely unasuageable pudenda.)

A dream is something received. A fantasy is a dream entertained in the mind alone. A goal is a dream made into purpose. The Theotic Dance is a dream that has become breath.

[Elicited by the good Adam's Telling Words about dreams.]

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A Slowly Passing Thing...

Wed, 19 Jan 2005 17:55:38 GMT

She whispered with a tinkling silver breath -- the moisture condensed to fog and lay low on my heart. "It is not always as you fear... do not raise the shadows." The shadows. Plato's cave. A fire behind our eyes giving voice and echo to what can never be known.

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Which Literature Classic Are You?

Mon, 06 Dec 2004 21:08:07 GMT

Yes, ok. It's one of these cheezy quizilla things. But I thought the outcome was interesting. I happen to be just finishing up the book that I am.

Umberto Eco: The Name of the Rose. You are a mystery novel dealing with theology, especially with catholic vs liberal issues. You search wisdom and knowledge endlessly, feeling that learning is essential in life.

Which literature classic are you?

Update

I was commenting on this with a friend and had the following exchange.

J. says:
i hold the belief that what we are drawn to is ultimately what is most important to us... whether we realize it or not
J. says:
so that makes sense
Tuirgin says:
Yeah, of modern authors Borges and Eco seem to be the most important to me -- and I see a lot of corollaries between them.
Tuirgin says:
Interesting as neither are terribly spiritual writers. But they are writers of mystery, the absurd, and encyclopedic knowledge.
J. says:
somehow i think that fits
Tuirgin says:
Yeah. Maybe it's the mature me. The one that is beginning (just beginning) to feel comfortable in my own skin. The one that senses that the urgent life and death spiritual questions need to take a backseat, not out of lack of importance, but because they are comprehended best in an oblique fashion.
J. says:
yeah, i like that interpretation

Update

I should clarify what I mean by "backseat". Unfortunately, the best clarification I can think of is a passage of Doctor Zhivago in which Z contrasts Pushkin and Chekhov with Gogol and Dostoevksy, the unfortunate bit being that I don't currently have the text at my fingertips. Essentially Z concludes that G & D were focused on the "big questions" while P & C, though not ignorant or avoiding the questions, focused instead upon the business of their personal craft.

In English letters we have a somewhat similar contrast between Lewis and Tolkien. My choice is to take Tolkien as a model over Lewis. Got it? Ok.

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Real Live Preacher

Thu, 18 Nov 2004 22:29:53 GMT

The Real Live Preacher tells his story without mincing words. Refreshing.

http://blogs.salon.com/0001772/stories/2002/12/26/thePreachersStoryIn4Parts.html

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"The Breast is Best" for dogs? Say, 'Huh'?

Wed, 17 Nov 2004 21:52:31 GMT

The Maximum Leader spotted this one: Mom Breastfeeds Puppy to Protect Baby.

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Good Advice

Wed, 17 Nov 2004 20:11:47 GMT

Kids, don't ever mix coke with the Book of Revelation.

http://www.therestisnoise.com/2004/11/subpoena_angeli.html

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Evdokimov on Re-Creation

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 18:43:31 GMT

The Fathers take almost literally the fact of putting on Christ and see in it a projection or, more exactly, a prolongation in man of the incarnation of the Word, perpetuated especially in the eucharist. That is why they teach us not to "imitate" but interiorize him. This inwardness is not a simple metaphor which would force the meaning; it has its roots deep in God himself. If the incarnation reflects a certain anthropomorphism of God (a mysterious primordial conformity), it reveals above all and assuredly the theomorphosis of man. From the biblical point of view, the incarnation brings to perfection our nature, which is made to the image of God, and it reveals the manifestly Christological structure of the spiritual life.

Man then traverses an immense distance to the interior of his being. St. Paul quotes a primitive hymn charged with almost explosive dynamism. "Awake, sleeper, and arise from among the dead, and Christ will enlighten you." A variant reinforces its meaning: "You will touch Christ." This passage from the state of death to the state of life, from hell to the kingdom, is precisely the itinerary of the spiritual life.

Moralizing spirituality reduces salvation to the forgiveness of disobedience. Now biblical ontology, vigorous and exacting, leads from a moral catharsis (purification) to an ontological catharsis. This represents a very real change in the whole human being--body, soul and mind. It is the strongest affirmation of patristic exegesis, stressing the Gospel's call to metanoia or conversion. "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand." It would be more exact to say: "Change yourself", become a new creature, for it is a question of a repentance in the full meaning of the word--a complete turning about of the mind and of the whole human being.

The encounter with God could not be effected in the state of fallen nature; it presupposes a previous restoration of this nature in the sacrament of baptism. For baptism, according to the Fathers, is a true re-creation of the redeemed man. Repentance, metanoia in its complete meaning, goes to the roots of all mental faculties, volitional and affective, and even to the heart of the entire being, body and soul.

Struggle With God, Part I, Chapter 6.

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Tuan mac Carill

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 18:25:23 GMT

The following story recounts the mythical history of Ireland. But the notable aspect of this story is Tuan mac Carill, himself -- the teller of the history. He has lived an unseasonably long life by means of a series of metamorphoses -- when he grows old in one body, he returns to a cave and awakes in a new body: from man, to stag, to boar, etc. until in the form of a fish he is eaten by a queen and is born as a man again retaining the full memory of his many transformations. Cormac's Glossary lists the word, tuirgin, as possibly being a technical term for these transformations.

The story was edited and translated by Kuno Meyer and published in The Voyage of Bran mac Febel to the Land of Promise.

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Fr. Alexander Men: Two Understandings of Christianity

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 14:47:48 GMT

Introduction </h2>
What follows is the text of a lecture which Fr Alexander gave on 25 January 1989 in Moscow. His first topic takes its starting point in the contrast between two monks depicted by Dostoevsky in The Brothers Karamazov: Zosima, the famous spiritual guide, a lover of nature and experienced man of the world who believes the Christian path is to be lived in the world and therefore sends his young protégé Alyosha Karamazov away from the monastery and back into the world to deal with the troubles of his family; and the ascetic Ferapont, living a life turned in on himself, full of hatred and portrayed by Dostoevsky as semi-crazed. These two monks represent two different models of Christianity: the one open to the world, like the famous monastery of Optina Pustyn, and the other withdrawing from it. Fr Alexander draws a telling portrait of the present weaknesses and distorted ideology of many adherents of the Russian Orthodox Church today and shows how this tendency is rooted in Russian history.

The second theme of the lecture is to weigh up and assess the relative importance of the inner life and of outward works in the Christian life in general, arguing for a balance of each. The talk concludes by drawing out the point that has been running like a leitmotif through the lecture: a plea for pluralism and understanding in the religious life.

The text was published as ‘Dva ponimaniya khristianstva’ in A. Men’, Radostnaya vest’, Moscow: Vita-tsentr, 1992, pp. 309-318. The conversational style has been retained in the translation.

The online source for this text is to be found on Alan Carmack’s wonderful resource on Father Alexander Men http://home.earthlink.net/~amenpage/
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7 hours with an open window

Mon, 08 Nov 2004 22:40:20 GMT

I got 7 hours of sleep last night. Open window and fresh November air (like late Sept air in other places). I am always forgetting how important open windows are. It changes everything.

I love this time of year. Florida goes from unbearable to quite livable. But there's still little opportunity to go trudging through the woods, unless you enjoy the swamps.

With the window open I can hear sounds in the distance -- they break in on my consciousness and remind me that there is life outside my immediate surroundings... that somewhere unknown people are doing unknown things.

I blossom when I turn my analytical mind off and tap into impressions, feelings, etc. I begin to feel part of the world and not so isolated. I think there was a serious break in my inner-being when I started trying to "get serious" -- that predates Orthodoxy, btw.

I have an idea, which still isn't clear. It has to do with the inner and outer persons (me, specifically) and how as a child things are immediate -- there is no distinguishing between them, but gradually, unless we are steadfast, we begin presenting something quite different on the outside until it is entirely possible that this external "mask", to borrow from Yeats, is taken even by ourselves as being the real thing. If this happens it results in all kinds of problems: confusion, deadness, emptiness, etc.

At this time of year I get little psychic flashbacks (hey, them's called memories elsewhere, but they're especially intense memories) of the clarity of youth... *early* youth. And I begin to want to pursue that memory, seek the restoration of my inner self, "follow my bliss", and all that Joseph Campbell schtick.

But that's an incomplete solution, because the childhood clarity was, at least in part, possible because there were few external responsibilities and the world was received more or less on open terms. Eventually the claims for our attention become increasingly unpleasant and so we begin to feel threatened by them and so have to find some way of dealing with them: thus we create that mask. But this is due to passivity and a sense of one's inability to meet these responsibilities head-on and adapt them to something which could be an honest and meaningful interaction between the inner person and the outer world.

It's this stage of adaptation which I get stuck in, and have no idea how to navigate it. Various attempts to manage it have failed because of a lack my being able to contemplate the full picture and possibly a lack of merely seeing my would-be solutions through to the end. In seeking solutions I tend to make the mistake of overly simple solutions, based on an isolation of just a few elements of the problem and thus lacking the requisite integration of all the factors.

When the outer person becomes confused with the inner, the proposed solutions tend to deal more with the symptoms rather than the causes. Job, interests, engagements, etc. begin to be the focal point of change, while the inner conflict which is driving the need for change is still being overlooked, more or less purposely so due to an almost total incomprehension of the inner need.

Maybe the whole conception of problem/solution is wrong. Maybe it's not a problem that requires some specific change of environment (since that's still an external). Maybe what is required is more relational in concept. What we lose with our frenetic activity, both mental and physical, is the inner-relating, when what we really need is an open window and 7 hours of sleep with time to just listen, look, feel, but specifically *not* to engage analytically. (In which case, woops, what am I doing now?)

It seems that I am most "integrated" when I am least interested in thoughts which have a distinct goal or purpose. When they float down a lazy stream taking in the dappled sunlight, the slight breeze, the sound of the crickets in the distance I suddenly become awake in a womb-like experience of the universe, and God's energy saturates every last particle of matter. But I have always been criticized for lacking goals, being disorganized, and not being a "get it done" sort of person. It seems like my problems really became clear when forced to try to overcome these limitations -- what needs to happen is not an abandonment of the former "goal-less-ness" but some creative approaching of the external demands from within it.

And this brings me around again to the question: How to proceed? How to maintain the open-ness of childhood under the conditions of a responsible adult? How to stay free from sterile analysis while dealing with issues proper to rationality? How to not lose site of Heaven while paying my taxes? How to make life a most serious game?

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The Passion... one more review

Mon, 15 Mar 2004 15:06:01 GMT

[This review takes the form of an e-mail to my father.]

I went and saw The Passion yesterday.

The first thing I would like to say is that I regret my comments
about the corniness of Mel Gibson holding the nail. I saw at the time
that I spoke offensively and now understand why.

Beginning within the first 20 minutes I cried throughout the film. Not
unceasingly, but frequently. And it had not so much to do with the
violence or the graphic nature of the torturing of Jesus--in fact, the
movie was more discrete than I had come to expect. No, the emotion was
largely in response to the various individuals encountering Christ's
suffering--Peter and the Mother of God in particular.

The one thing, and a very important thing to my mind, that the movie
accomplished was to help me to encounter Peter, the Theotokos, and
even Christ, Himself, as people. For most of my life I have been
trying to reach such an encounter, because it is in the encounter with
the apostles as human beings, the encounter with Mary as the faithful
and redeemed human par excellence, and the encounter with Christ as
the God-Man that makes Christianity more than an ideology, more than
a set of concepts worthy of veneration.

For all of my emotional response to art, my (seeming) sensitivity to
spiritual matters I have not gotten far beyond, on the one hand, the
paper-thin, cartoonish visions of an illustrated children's Bible, and
on the other hand the dry ancient history of the Bible as
archeological artifact. My first breakthrough in faith was my
encounter with Dostoevsky, Lewis, Tolkien, Chesterton, and
MacDonald. These men showed me a faith lived truly and
energetically. But still, as Lewis, I felt unmoved by semitic culture
and so I always felt at some remove from the Bible.

My second major breakthrough was in the liturgy, hymns, and
iconography of the Orthodox Church. Suddenly, the Psalms became
beautiful. The ritual of the Temple became filled with color and
meaning. And the Saints. Well, there is no Church without the
Saints--without them the rocks must sing.

While there was an immediate emotional response to Gibson's film there
is still much that is flawed. And no, I don't count the violence of it
to be one of these flaws. Christ's very modern plea not to have the
others "see me this way", Christ's stomping on the serpent (though it
is Biblical in allusion the way it was achieved seemed out of
character), the confusion of Mary Magdalene as the adultress, the
painting of Pilate as less of a spineless worm than Tradition depicts
him (almost an admirable tragic figure in this film), and even the
placement of the repentant thief on wrong side of Christ according to
Greek patristic teaching. The weakest scene, to my mind, was Satan
roaring in his surreal Hell. But these are all forgivable to varying
degrees. The hardest part for me is the flatness of the resurrection.

Throughout almost the entire movie Jesus' right eye is swollen
shut. The first view of Jesus after the resurrection is of the right
side of his face--his face is beautiful and whole again. And then the
camera remains fixed as Jesus stands and we see the hole in his
hand. End of movie. The icons of the resurrection from Church
Tradition depict Christ shining gloriously as on Mt. Tabor, reaching
into the tomb of Adam and Eve as His saints behold Him in glory.

Where the icons perhaps do not make so explicit his suffering
humanity, no film can as powerfully portray His "trampling down death
by death", His glorification, nor the glorification of His saints. And
so, ultimately, I left the movie sad and sorrowful, yearning
powerfully to experience Christ more fully.

I think that those who criticize the movie without seeing it are wrong
to do so. I, too, feel guilty of engaging in energetic discussions of
the movie without having seen it. I don't necessarily disagree with
those proponents of a discrete understatement in the depictions of
Christ's torture. Each lash of the Roman scourge did not increase our
salvation. The eucharistic gift is not the greater for the quantity of
blood spilled. Christ's entire ministry on Earth was salvific, and we
are warned by the Church Fathers against entering into despair as we
meditate on the Christ's passion and death. We are warned against
entering into a mindset which, however temporarily, "forgets" about
the Resurrection. I in no way accuse Gibson for the lackings of his
movie. Every temporal art is bound to have weaknesses.

Gibson's movie achieved beautifully a sense of the emotional and
spiritual bond between the Theotokos and Christ. At times the movie
seems almost to be more of an ode of love for the Theotokos, and a
co-suffering with her, than a meditation on the Passion,
itself. Throughout the film, the Church's hymns to the Theotokos ran
through my mind. Not the least of these, the traditional prayer:

Oh, Theotokos and Ever-Virgin, Mary full of grace: the Lord is with
thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy
womb for thou hast born the Savior of our souls!

Peter's denial of Christ resounded--we have *all* denied Christ. I
just wish we would have seen the aspect of Peter wherein he differs
from Judas--greater than remorse, his repentance. But at least we are
given a glimpse of his potential when he confesses to Mary, "Mother,
I have betrayed Him!"

I wish, too, that the character of "the disciple who Jesus loved"
could have been developed more. I wish to have had more of the
flashback scenes, as it would have made the contrast more
meaningful. As it is, I didn't feel numbed by the torture, but it
simply grew stale. Ultimately, what I desired most was a greater sense
of encounter with Jesus Christ and His saints. The Passion of The
Christ is valuable for what it gives us. But it is in Scripture and
the Church's prayers, hymnography and iconography where the greater
encounter will come.

One day after my viewing of the film, I feel bloodied and raw. There
is a tinge of depression to it, a need to experience in as vivid a
way the resurrection. It is dangerous to wallow in sorrow, and this
movie makes that a temptation for one such as I am, given to
depression. I am thankful for the movie, how it broke down some of my
walls, encouraging me to encounter Christ more fully. And yet, my
solace is in the Greek tradition of the Christ Glorified.

Shestov on Dostoevsky (and Gogol)

Mon, 03 Nov 2003 22:32:13 GMT

From Lev Shestov's In Job's Balances, Part 1, The Conquest of the Self-Evident (Dostoevsky's Philosophy), section 6.

Surgunt indocti et rapiunt caelum! To take heaven by storm, one must give up the learning, the first principles which we imbibed with our mother's milk. More than this: we must, as these quotations prove, renounce ideas altogether; that is, we must doubt their marvelous power to transform facts into theories. Scientific thought has given ideas this supreme prerogative: they are to judge and decide what is possible and what impossible, they are to fix the limit between reality and dreams, between good and evil, between what may, and what may not be done.
We may remember with what fury the underground man flung himself at the throat of self-evident truths, proud in the consciousness of their own intangible sovereign rights. Listen to this too, but forget that you are now concerned merely with a despicable little Petersburg official. Dostoevsky's dialectic in The Notes from Underground, as in his other works, can hold its own with that of any of the great European philosophers, and for courage of thought, I dare assert that only a few geniuses can hold a candle to him. And he is one with the great saints in his contempt of self.
To go on with the people with strong nerves... these gentlemen immediately prostrate themselves before the impossible. Impossibility, therefore stone wall. What stone wall? Why, natural laws, of course, conclusions of the natural sciences and of mathematics. If, for example, they prove to you that you are descended from monkeys, it is no good wrinkling your nose, you have to accept it. If they prove that one atom of your own fat must be dearer to you than a hundred thousand of your neighbour's, you must accept it, there is no help. Try to argue with them. I beg your pardon, they will say, it †¡s impossible to argue - twice two is four. Nature doesn't bother about your consent. It doesn't consider your wishes or stop to think whether you are pleased or not with its laws. You are obliged to accept it, with all its consequences, just as it is. A wall is a wall, etc. But good heavens, what have I to do with the laws of nature or arithmetic if, for some reason, these laws do not please me? Naturally I shall not run my head against that wall if I haven't sufficient strength to demolish it; but I shall not become reconciled to it simply because it is built on twice two is four! What an absurdity of absurdities! It is a different matter to understand everything, to take account of all the impossibilities and all the stone walls, not to bow down before them if they disgust us, to arrive, by the most inevitable of logical processes, at the hateful conclusion that we are ourselves in some way to blame for the stone wall - although it is again absolutely clear that we are in no way to blame; and consequently, in silence and with impotent grinding of the teeth, to lapse into a voluptuous inertia, and dream that we cannot even revolt against any one whatsoever, for there is no one and there will never be any one; that it is all probably a farce, a trick, an absurd rigmarole, one knows not what nor whence. But in spite of all these incomprehensible things we shall suffer, and the less we understand the worse it will be.
But perhaps the reader has already wearied of following Dostoevsky's thought, and his desperate efforts to overthrow invincible proof. We do not know whether he is speaking seriously or laughing at us. Can one really do anything but bow down before a wall? Can we oppose our little feeble "egos" against nature, which acts without a thought of us, and have we the added assurance to qualify the judgment which denies the possibility of this as "the last absurdity"?
But Dostoevsky does allow himself to ask just this very question: whether our reason has any right to judge between the possible and the impossible. The theory of knowledge does not ask this question, for if reason has not the right to judge between possibility and impossibility, to whom can that right belong? Without it everything would be possible and everything impossible. And Dostoevsky, as though making fun of us, also admits that he has not got the strength to knock down the wall. Consequently he admits a certain limit, a certain impossibility. Why, then, did he say exactly the opposite a minute ago? But in this way we shall fall into absolute chaos, not only chaos but nothingness, in which not only rules, laws, and ideas will disappear, but the whole of reality with them! But if we go beyond certain limits we shall clearly have to face even this. A man who has freed himself from the frightful tyranny of ideas imposed from outside, sets forth into such strange and unexplored countries, places so unknown that it must seem to him he has left reality behind and entered upon the eternal void.
Dostoevsky was not the first to live through this unimaginably terrible passage from one world to another and to find himself obliged to abandon the stability which "principles" give. Fifteen hundred years earlier Plotinus, who had also tried to transcend our experience, tells that at the first moment one has an impression that everything is disappearing, and has an overwhelming fear that only pure nothingness is left. I should add that Plotinus has not told the whole truth; he has hidden the most important thing: it is not only the first stage that is like this, but also the second and all the following stages. The soul, thrown outside its normal limits, cannot free itself of this terror, whatever may be said about the ecstatic joys which it experiences. Joy does not exclude terror here. The states are organically bound up with one another: in order to have great joy there must also be hideous horror. A truly supernatural effort is required for a man to summon up the courage to oppose his "ego" to the world, to nature, to supreme evidence: the "whole" will not concern itself with me, but I refuse equally to pay attention to the "whole". Let the whole triumph! Dostoevsky even finds a sort of delight in telling us of his constant defeats and miseries. No one before him, and none since, has described with such desperate fullness all the humiliations, all the sufferings of a soul crushed by the weight of "self-evidence". He cannot rest until he has torn from himself this desperate confession: "Can a man who has looked into his own soul, really respect himself?"
Who can, in fact, respect weakness and triviality? The whole book is a record of impotence and humiliation. The underground man is flouted, driven away, beaten; and he seems only to look for further opportunities to suffer. The more he is offended, in fact, the more he is humiliated, the more he is crushed, the nearer does he come to his objective, to escape from the "cave"; from that bewitched country where laws, principles, and evidences reign, from the ideal country of sane and normal men. The underground man is the most unhappy, the most miserable, and the most pitiable of men. But the "normal" man, that is to say, the man who lives in this same underworld, but does not even suspect that it is an underworld and is convinced that his life is the true and only life, and his science the most perfect, his good absolute good, that he is the alpha and omega, the beginning and end of all things - this man provokes Homeric laughter even in the underground regions themselves.
Read what Dostoevsky has to say about normal men, and then ask yourself which is better: the painful convulsions of a doubtful awakening, or the grey, yawning torpidity of certain sleep. Then the opposition of one against the whole world will not seem so paradoxical to you. In spite of all the apparent absurdity of this opposition, it is less absurd than the apotheosis of "omnitude", of that golden mean in which alone our science and our "good" can develop.
Aristotle's biographer (when Dostoevsky speaks of Claude Bernard he actually means Aristotle) has called him "moderate to excess". In fact Aristotle was the genius, the incomparable singer of "omnitude", of the golden mean and of mediocrity. He was the first firmly to establish the principle that "limitation is the index of perfection". He created the ideal system of knowledge and of ethics which has served as model ever since. When, in the Middle Ages, the "limits of possible experience" seemed to expand more or less indefinitely, human thought clung firmly to Aristotelian philosophy; and this was of course, no accident. Aristotle was as indispensable to the theologians as the organization of the Roman Empire was to the Papacy. Catholicism was and had to be a complexio oppositorum. But for the moderating influence of Aristotle and the Roman jurisconsults, it would never have obtained the victory on earth.
It may be apposite to remark here that Dostoevsky does not stand alone in Russian literature. One must put Gogol before and even above him. All Gogol's works, The Inspector General, The Wedding and Dead Souls, even the early stories in which he describes Ukrainian life in so gay and colorful fashion, are but the memoirs of an underground man. When Pushkin read Gogol, he exclaimed: "My God, what a tragic thing is Russia!" But it was not only Russia that Gogol had in mind: the whole world seemed to him bewitched. Dostoevsky understood this when he said: "Gogol's works crush us beneath the weight of the unanswerable questions which they put to us."
"How dreary it is to be alive, gentlemen!" This cry of distress which Gogol let fall, as though involuntarily, does not apply to Russian life only. It is dreary to be alive, not only because there are too many Chichikovs, Nosdrevs, Sobakeviches in the world. Chichikov and Sobakevich were not "they" to Gogol, not "other people" who had to be raised up to his own standard. He tells us himself, and it was not hypocritical humility but the grim truth, that it is himself and not others that he describes and ridicules in The Inspector-General and Dead Souls. Gogol's works remain a book with seven seals to us so long as we refuse to admit the truth of his confession. Not the worst among us, but the best are only living automata, which a mysterious hand has wound up and which never anywhere or in any place feel themselves free to express their own initiative and their own free will. Some of us, but they are rare, feel that our life is not life but death. But even they, like Gogol's phantoms, are able to escape only from time to time, at midnight, from their tombs, to come and disturb their neighbour's with their heartrending cries of, "I am stifled! Stifled!"
Gogol himself realized that he was like Vii, the huge, shapeless earth-spirit, whose eyelids reached to the ground, and who was unable to raise them even an inch, even to see that strip of blue sky that was visible to the wretched inmates of The House of the Dead. These works, sparkling with wit and humor, are really terrible tragedies; and Gogol felt his own existence to be a tragedy too. He, too, had been visited by the Angel of Death, who gave him the accursed gift of second sight. But is this gift not a blessing rather than a curse? If one could only answer this question! But the whole meaning of second sight lies in asking those questions to which there is no answer, precisely because they demand so imperiously an immediate answer.
Legions of demons and powerful spirits could not raise Vii's eyelids from the earth. Nor could Gogol himself open his eyes, though his whole being concentrated on the effort. He was only capable of torturing himself, of suffering martyrdom, and of giving himself over to the hands of the moral executioner Father Matthew (Gogol's confessor); of destroying his own best work and writing crazy letters to his friends.
It seems that in a certain sense this thirst for suffering, this extraordinary spiritual asceticism, is more necessary than his splendid literary productions. There is perhaps another means of freeing oneself from the power of" omnitude". Gogol does not use this word. Gogol had never heard of Claude Bernard and certainly had no suspicion that Aristotle had bewitched the world by means of the law of contradiction and the other self-evident truths. Gogol had received no education and was almost as indoctus as the Galilean fishermen and carpenters of whom St. Augustine speaks. But yet, in spite of that, or just because of that, he feels even more bitterly than Dostoevsky the absolute power which pure reason wields over the whole world, and the tyranny of the ideas which the normal, moderate man has created, and which the theoretical philosophy that has accepted the heritage of Aristotle has developed and spread abroad.

Liturgical and Non-Liturgical vs. Sacred and Secular

Wed, 03 Sep 2003 21:22:06 GMT

Cross-posted from my website: http://arts.tuirgin.com:

Another excerpt from an e-mail:

I think the difference isn't in whether it's sacred or secular, but in the distinction between liturgical and non-liturgical usage. Sacramental reality seeps into every aspect of life—it can all be offered back to God and I don't think God is worried about, uhm, intellectual property rights. Liturgical arts can become part of non-liturgical art (and should to a degree more or less inform it). It's when we try to bring the outside in that we lose out. Liturgical art isn't really art—it's living symbol, sacramental in the definite sense of the term, as opposed to expressive and artistic. Even if considered from an external perspective, a rationalistic one, liturgical art wouldn't be considered so much art as didactic propoganda.

The sacrament infuses the life of the artist. The artist to some degree is one who expresses an inner reality in a personal and yet universal way. But this expressiveness doesn't inform the sacrament. I think this is the mix up we see in the Western deviation from the traditional liturgical arts.

So, it's not a two way street. The liturgical functions, as with icons, as a window into heaven, a divine function, if you will, and therefore changeless and eternal. While the non-liturgical is a window into the human, the natural (created) and it's relation to the eternal, and so is a human function and therefor mutable. There is no reason why these two must be at odds with each other. But it must be understood that the liturgical is in essence eternal (despite the external trappings of its aesthetic), while art is essentially a transitory perspective on/about the eternal.

The Orthodox Artist and the Eternal Thread

Wed, 03 Sep 2003 20:54:42 GMT

Cross-posted from my website: http://arts.tuirgin.com:

The following are excerpts from an e-mail dialog on an Orthodox Converts mailing list. Though it isn't mentioned explicitly, the thing tying the whole concept of the Orthodox response to the modern world, of art and modernity, is that of the Eternal Thread, that which is outside of time and it's dance with time.

I am totally opposed to the whole concept of trying to create
bowdlerized replacements for today's media. And it is, unfortunately,
far more "media" than "arts". But those of us who are artists and
Orthodox ought not wall ourselves into some artificial culture of
Orthodox Contemporary Artistry wherein all of our work is peppered
with particular spiritual catch phrases. If we are not expressly
creating liturgical or pseudo-liturgical works we ought to be in the
midst of things, pursuing our art. But of course, to those of us who
are both artists and Orthodox Christians there is no need for
self-conscious religiosity or sermonizing, because "where your
treasure is, there will be your heart also," and where our heart is,
there will be our art.
A year or so ago I was introduced to the imagist poet/teacher David
Athey by a mutual friend. (I'll plug his book here: Hunting and
Gathering Heaven… if you're interested in finding a copy I'll get
in touch with him again to find out the details on ordering.) David's
theory of poetry is so far from sermonizing. His poems are not
self-consciously Orthodox, but there is a gentleness of spirit and of
humor that is suggestive of the sacramental view of creation. It
doesn't hit one over the head with anything—it sings it's song of
creation in its own way.
This is a model, I think, of what an Orthodox person's involvement
with the world should be. So many of us converts are self-consciously
Orthodox, perhaps obsessively so. But to the degree that it is
compulsive, obsessive, self-conscious, etc. we haven't yet entered
into the heart of the battle, but are only playing "soldier".
> What I was trying to convey (and perhaps I didn't convey it as well
> as I should have) was that I have a problem with mixing "the world"
> and it's system with trying to live a life that is pleasing to God
> and yes...sometimes that can be a bit hazy for me, trying to find
> that acceptable balance.
We often use the "balance" paradigm, which is rather like the yin/yang
symbol, which connotes opposing forces, both of which must be
controlled. Let me suggest a different paradigm, that of infusion.
With infusion we aren't so concerned with the strength of one power
against another, but as food coloring (or blood) spreads through
water, not changing the water into something other than water, but
spreads through it, coloring everything, so the energy of God will
spread through us. Surely we must work to bring about this effect more
fully—we begin with muddy water—but the end product is not a result
of counter-balances, but of a complete marriage of two elements.
<snip>
Hollywood is big on the "cult of personality"—(Who is "Living
Color"?). But we created Hollywood. It isn't the product of some
others, some evil pocket of subversion. For as much as we argue
against it, we and our parents have enabled the growth of the image
culture.
The solution to it isn't a bold holy war against the Hollywood
Infidel. I think the solution is more organic. We cannot fight
nihilism with nihilism. We cannot, probably, tear it all down to build
it anew. More likely the solution is to gently but consistently offer
the alternative—daily, in every word and silence, in every gesture
and glance—a silent insistence in the sacramental reality over the
artificial facade.
> I guess it depends on how one defines culture. : ) I don't know if I
> could call Heavy Metal or Gangsta Rap "evil" but for me, I am left
> asking, "Is it appropriate?" I don't see how it is. But that's just
> my opinion. : )
It may not be appropriate. Or maybe it is inappropriate for you. Or
perhaps it is inappropriate for you at this time. It is easy to yield
judgement against those things which are not to our liking to begin
with. To some degree, I think it is up to those who have a tendency
towards a certain behavior or quality to judge them. Certainly we can
weigh in on violence, demeaning of women and humanity in general,
lust, greed, etc. But the fact that I find rap in all its forms to be
extremely distasteful (Ican say the same for country & western) makes
me a poor candidate to weigh in objectively on it's merits in general
(as opposed to the specifics of particular thematic contents). Perhaps
I just lack the necessary social frame of reference to appreciate the
form. I think I can argue my case against rap effectively, but it's
often much more enlightening to argue contrary to my natural
inclination.
To take and redeem a culture, it takes gifted people—people, that is,
which are gifted with both vision and love.
<snip>
> Hence why Orthodoxy, in my opinion, is God's Holy Church because
> it's traditions are ancient.
There is certainly nothing wrong with being ancient. But nothing per
se of particular benefit, either. The gnostic heresy is also ancient.
Buddhism is ancient, Hinduism even more so. Disbelief is quite
ancient, sinfulness going back to our earliest forebears. So it is
that Orthodoxy is God's Holy Church not because of its age so much as
its eternality. Certainly there is significance to historical
origin—I wouldn't claim otherwise. But many innovations and
modernisms have roots in some very ancient beliefs and practices, too.
This is why it is not so much the date of origin that is of particular
importance, but the source of origin.

Oksana Zabuzhko: A Definition of Poetry

Wed, 03 Sep 2003 20:52:46 GMT

Cross-posted from my website: http://arts.tuirgin.com:

I found this today when searching for Mandelshtam’s On Poetry. I got here from Henry Gould’s blog.

The physicality of a poem

Oksana Zabuzhko's poem, "A Definition of Poetry," came as a wonderful surprise last night as I began searching for today's PotD. She nails that physicality of the poem that I have been thinking about quite a bit of late. The Olson-ian notion of understanding emotion through the shape and cavities of the body she very much elucidates. But, it's the first line of the poem that intrigues me most. The poem begins with the idea of death but then goes on to describe in precise detail the enthralling qualities of feeling alive. The balance of extremes: feeling excitably alive while always acknowledging the specter of death that looms over all of us. These two forces create that "friction" that Yeats talked about, but she just articulates the friction for us through the apex and nadir the come from the fullness and emptiness of emotion. And feeling mos def is physical, no?

A Definition of Poetry

I know I will die a difficult death-- Like anyone who loves the precise music of her own body, Who knows how to force it through the gaps in fear As through the needle's eye, Who dances a lifetime with the body--every move Of shoulders, back, and thighs Shimmering with mystery, like a Sanskrit word. Muscles playing under the skin Like fish in a nocturnal pool. Thank you, Lord, for giving us bodies. When I die, tell the roofers To take down the rafters and ceiling (They say my great-grandfather, a sorcerer, finally got out this way). When my body softens with moisture, The bloated soul, dark and bulging, Will strain Like a blue vein in a boiled egg white, And the body will ripple with spasms, Like the blanket a sick man wrestles off Because it's hot... And the soul will rise to break through The press of flesh, curse of gravity. The Cosmos Above the black well of the room Will suck on its galactic tube, Heaven breaking in a blistering starfall, And draw the soul up, trembling like a sheet of paper-- My young soul-- The color of wet grass-- To freedom--then "Stop!" it screams, escaping, On the dazzling borderline Between two worlds-- Stop, wait. My God. At last. Look, here's where poetry comes from. Fingers twitching for the ballpoint, Growing cold, becoming not mine. --Oksana Zabuzhko Translated from the Ukrainian by Michael M. Naydan

I always wonder how people can read so much poetry so quickly. I tire when I read poems, and it is rare if I can get through an entire book of poems in one day. The exception comes when the book is a single long poem (from now on LP). The force of LPs takes the reader with them, and I am thinking of Hart Crane's "The Bridge."
Anastasios 10:55

How has Orthodoxy influenced your art?

Wed, 03 Sep 2003 20:49:55 GMT

Cross-posted from my website: http://arts.tuirgin.com:

Artists, photographers, writers, et al, how has Orthodoxy influenced your art? For those of you who are converts, has there been any marked change in the aesthetic of your art, or is it (if at all) limited to thematic differences? How does Orthodoxy inform your voice? Do you draw from Orthodoxy with a conscious exlusivity or has Orthodoxy provided a foundation upon which you feel free to draw from everything around you?

For those of you who are not Orthodox, what role does faith and the Church play in your own works? Is Art a religion of itself as many modern artists have claimed (thinking here especially of Yeats and his thoughts on Wm. Blake) or is it a vessel of orientation, a lense through which the universal is made personal and the personal is made universal?

Furthermore, is "sacred art" distinguished from "secular art" or do all things either point towards God or else point towards darkness and void, regardless of it's being consciously (perhaps self-consciously) "religious"?

Let's get the discussion rolling.

Ephrem

Arts & Eastern Orthodoxy at http://www.tuirgin.com/EasternOrthodoxy

Wed, 02 Jul 2003 22:09:33 GMT

I just posted this to the group I have been hosting:

Hi, I just wanted to let you know that I've been working on a private website that would allow us to continue the conversations without the intrusion of MSNs advertisements. It will also allow for greater flexibility in the type of dialog we have.

Right now the discussion forums are mostly set up. In the future I will allow for larger articles, reviews, news items and things of this nature. My goal is to become a portal for all things related to art and Eastern Orthodoxy.

So please stop by http://www.tuirgin.com/EasternOrthodoxy and sign up. If you have a Blogger, Delphi Forums, Drupal, Jabber, Manila, or Yahoo account, you'll be able to log in with your pre-existing account.

Thanks,
Ephrem Christopher Walborn

----

p.s. for all you LiveJournal users, I tried to enable automatic login with livejournal accounts, but it crashed the authentication module... maybe in the future. For now you can create a new account with me.

seraphimsigrist's Interview

Thu, 05 Jun 2003 12:58:31 GMT

Bishop Seraphim continued the 5-question topic.

this is just chat but Im not as familiar as I should be with Seamus Heany...does he have a religious as well as a general spiritual side?
do you find people in your parish you can share your heart and thought with? I have asked this of others but I am interested in the state of community in the churches...
does Fr Men's thought that there is not sacred art and secular art there is only good art and bad art and real art is sacred, seem about right or would you prefer something more isolating iconography as such from other art?
favorite music?
Yeats and Blake sent you invitations for lunch tomorrow which one will you accept?

My responses are rather long, and there are a couple illustrations from Wm. Blake, so it goes to the cut.

this is just chat but Im not as familiar as I should be with Seamus Heany...does he have a religious as well as a general spiritual side?

From his own words: Like all my generation of Catholics, I had to secularize myself totally. But when I reached 50, I thought: My God, that was a mistake!
do you find people in your parish you can share your heart and thought with? I have asked this of others but I am interested in the state of community in the churches...

It is difficult. Living where I do (SW Florida) there is an unusually high percentage of retirees and snow birds. Our little church is empty 2/3rds of the year when the snow-birds have flown north. And, too, it's a commute for my family; not the longest, but enough to be discouraging at times. Recently, however, a group from our church went to an iconography exhibit. The exhibit was okay—one quite interesting modern Romanian piece, and a number of 18th century icons, but it felt strange to view and pray before the icons in such a place, a museum.—but afterwards we stopped off at an Irish pub. (The parish priest is Irish by birth and a Celtophile.) We had pints, laughed, and talked. Was able to discuss Irish music, "Celtic Christianity", etc. with Father Ian, and then some films with our reader, which was a pleasant surprise. It is always good to meet others who are at least aware of the legacy of Tarkovsky.
does Fr Men's thought that there is not sacred art and secular art there is only good art and bad art and real art is sacred, seem about right or would you prefer something more isolating iconography as such from other art?
I love that quote, really. I come back to it time and again. It's spot on. At the same time, I do still make a distinction between art and the specifically religious forms. In fact, to some extent, to the extent that there is always a bit of a didactic purpose to our iconography, hymns, the liturgy (drama) I would say that these things are not really categorically art. They are not so much personal expressions as communal representations of our theology (no matter how organic). Certainly there are artistic elements. Certainly there is a relationship between these sacred forms and the secular ones. But there aims are rather different. In my previous interview, the one with arisbe I discuss this to some extent in regards to his question about iconography, photography, and modern painting. But to go further, to make a real statement to distinguish their differences, I would say that art is primarily human and from the human perspective. It can be communal, but it is usually extremely personal. It can look towards the Divine, towards the Eternal, but this is almost always a secondary feature. The primary subject of man's art is man—man's relationships with man, the cosmos, the Divine. Whereas iconography, hymns, and liturgy are more from the perspective of the Divine, the Eternal, truly of the uncreated God condescending to the created and including us in His eternal perspective. So I guess you could say that the one is poetry which looks from man to God, and the other is prophecy which looks from God to man.
I take Father Alexander Men's statement to be a corrective against the denigration of the so-called secular. Frequently the religious use secular in a pejorative sense, and this is, I think, very wrong. The word has a qualitative, categorical meaning, not a moral one. I would go so far as to suggest that one is not inherently better than the other, that both have their necessary place in life.
The above story about our trip to the museum and the pub illustrates this perfectly. To meet for the Divine Liturgy is to delight together in the Mysteries of Our Lord, to receive together, communally, the blessing of salvation. But meeting together in the pub to inbibe, to talk, to laugh... this too is a communal act, and a blessing. Because God is sanctifying every aspect of our lives, and no part of it is unrelated to the next. If we only meet in the church building, then we have not become a complete community. Likewise, if we only permit the sacred arts into our lives, then our secular lives have gone unsanctified and there is still a great divorce, a separation of our spirit from our body. I think Father Alexander was echoing William Blake, "Everything that lives is holy" (Marriage of Heaven and Hell).
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell plate 27 (Bentley 27, Erdman 27, Keynes 27), from http://www.blakearchive.org
Vision of the Last Judgement
What, it will be questioned, when the sun rises, do you not see a disc of fire somewhat like a Guinea?
Oh no I see an innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty
favorite music?

I don't have a favorite, really. I love music—like a legal drug, really, quite capable of inducing altered states of consciousness. Classical, jazz, Irish Traditional Music (well, world-wide Trad., in general), Indian classical, and rock. It's easier to list my favorite albums:
- Arvo Pärt's Fratres
- John Coletrane's A Love Supreme
- John Tavener's The Protecting Veil
- Tchaikovsky's ballets
- Daniel Lanois's solo albums
- Peter Gabriel's Passion, which was the soundtrack to The Last Temptation of Christ, which I've never seen because I've feared that it would ruin the music for me
- U2's War and also The Unforgetable Fire
Well, the list could go on and on, I suppose. I guess that wasn't easier.
Yeats and Blake sent you invitations for lunch tomorrow which one will you accept?
As much as I love both, I probably love the former Wm.'s poetry more than the latter Wm.'s. However, I've gotten the distinct impression that of the two Wm.'s, Blake would be far more approachable. I think I would be intimidated by Yeats…maybe intimidated by Blake, too, but in a different way. For all of Yeats' passionate seriousness, Blake's eccentrism would be, for me, comforting. I'd accept Blake's invitation, I think.

arisbe's Interview

Wed, 04 Jun 2003 22:59:54 GMT

arisbe decided to do some interview's. Here are his questions for me.

Do you consider Chesterton Orthodox?

Well, that's a tough one, isn't it?

Chesterton's books The Everlasting Man and Orthodoxy played an important part in my movement away from protestantism. I read them before I had really learned anything of Eastern Orthodoxy and so my memory of specifics is vague. A Roman Christian with much good to say, it seems to me. What does it mean to "be Orthodox"… I've been trying to figure that out ever since I was Chrismated and brought into communion with the Orthodox Church. It's not just a matter of theology; not just a matter of personal piety. I guess it has most of all to do with communion, not just in the Eucharistic sense, but in the broadest sense of being joined together with the community of Orthodox Christians, those who suffer and strive and try to overcome their passions for Christ's sake, for love of Him and His people—his whole creation, really.

I guess my answer has to be a wish-washy one—just as I am only partially Orthodox in the sense that I'm still struggling, still carnal, still without full gnosis of the Logos, so also was Chesterton partially Orthodox. Obviously a lover of Christ and His people, how much is a "heterodox" Christian limited from communion with his Lord? I am too simple and ignorant to answer this.
Must a modern icon follow the ancient rules?

I am not thoroughly learned in the minutae of the iconographer's rules. I would promptly suggest, however, that the ancient rules must be the foundation for modern iconography. Obviously, iconography has undergone changes of style. And thank God for this, St. Andrei Rublev's icon of the Holy Trinity was something of a departure from his inheritance and it is one of the most profound icons I've ever seen. And this brings out another question prominant in today's discussions of Orthodoxy—what role can change have in Orthodox practice? I think that this must be answered carefully, that there shouldn't be change without a distinct purpose and that this purpose must be rooted in the revelation of Holy Tradition. Change shouldn't be so much a response to modernity, but a response to the message of Christ spoken in/to the modern heart.
Have you always been Orthodox?

No. I grew up in Baptist circles. I was a pk for a while. I greatly resented the legalism of the congregations I grew up with. And now I am struggling not to give into my own legalistic tendencies as an Orthodox.
What is your favorite book by Macdonald, and why?

Without a doubt, Lilith. Lilith is wonderfully esoteric and childlike at the same time. MacDonald seems such a childlike visionary and yet his insight is profound. Lilith spoke directly to me, verbalized questions I'd had, myself.
Is photography as an art closer to the spirit of iconography than Western oil painting?

I don't think so. It's a question I've pondered at some length. Photography is ultimately a medium of seeming realism. So much so that it strikes the audience as being more realistic than it actually is. It does not see the world sanctified as iconography does. The alteration of perspective (visual distortion of spacial relationships), tone, contrast, and hue is inherently artificial, while the form of the subject depicted remains distinctly, concretely realistic. When the form, itself, is manipulated to produce visual effects similar to painting I find the end result quite displeasing. Photography's genius is in depicting a fully material world, but carefully sculpted…an instant, or several, in time, from a distinct aesthetic perspective. It is capable of turning the heart inward as is all art. It is capable of eliciting compassion, love, humbling mystery. But it is not explicitly sacred, being incapable of expression sanctity in an abstract form. Ultimately I think that this is what separates modern painting from iconography. And the same could be said for music, theatre (as opposed to the liturgical drama), etc.

Good questions!

PHOTO: Waterfall

Tue, 20 May 2003 20:50:34 GMT

</div>
An image from my photo archives. This was taken at the Ramsey Cascades in the Smokey Mountains.

Mickelsson's Ghosts

Mon, 19 May 2003 16:36:47 GMT

I have just finished reading Mickelsson's Ghosts, written by John Gardner. While I do not currently have the time--nor have I sorted through my thoughts, yet--I hope that by placing this here I will come back to lj to discuss my thoughts on the book. I must say that Gardner strikes threateningly close to home with his main character's egoism and increasing madness. Not a comfortable book and not one with a tidy ending, but a good one.

What's your spirituality type?

Thu, 01 May 2003 20:06:56 GMT

Find out here: http://www.visionguide.info/spiritualitytype.cfm.

Here's mine.

PATH OF DEVOTION (Augustinian prayer): The majority of saints are of this spiritual temperament as well as 12 percent of the populaton (but half of those who go on refleats or belong to small faith groups). This method uses crealive imagination to transpose; the world of scripture to our situation today--as if the scripture passage is a personal letter from God a addressed to each one; of us (like Saint Augustine picking up Romans 13 and reading; a message pointed direcdy at him). The essential element of this spirituality, going back to New Testament limes (Jesus, Saint Paul, the early church fathers), is experiencing a personal relationship with God. Because they read between the lines and catch what is inexpressible and spiritual, those who follow the path of devotion best understand symbols and their use in the liturgy. This path concentrates on meditations that loosen the feelings and expand the ability to relate to and love others. The stess is on the love of self, others, and God. Those on this path can follow the four steps of the Lectio Divina: listen to what God says in scripture; reflect prayerfully and apply it to today; respond to God's word with personal feelings; remain quiet and stay open to new insights.

I'm also an INFP, with an apptitude preference of Art, and as previously mentioned I'm enneagram type 4 (Individualist: sensitive, withdrawn, expressive, dramatic, self-absorbed, tempermental) with a strong 2 (Helper) and 6 (Loyalist)... yada, yada, yada.

Why are we all so addicted to these things? It's a little weird, isn't it?

Just to Be(and Divine Friendship)

Thu, 01 May 2003 14:15:17 GMT

I've been writing an old friend of mine whom I haven't seen for a number of years now. Among other things we discussed the peculiar state of being which friends can draw us into.

> With you, much of the time, I could just "be". That's a nice thing
> for a misguided pigeon hen. 
I think that was a mutual blessing. It's something I don't experience much anymore. Most of my life has been taken up with trying to become something. You gave me the space and comfort to be what I already was. I wish I understood all of this well enough to apply it now. There are moments, don't get me wrong. Moments of silliness with my daughter or moments that I'm forced to just sit and do nothing. Or the few moments after reading or hearing something that has reached me. W.B. Yeats still has that affect on me. And, too, the movies of Andrei Tarkovsky. The music of Arvo Part, particularly Fratres & Tabula Rasa. Have you read Doctor Zhivago? I'm not talking about the movie—the movie was mostly a waste. If you can spare the time, read Doctor Zhivago, and then read the Zhivago poems which come at the end of the book. Pasternak, Mandelshtam, Dostoevsky—these people have made my heart beat and ache with awareness and love.
Few are the people in my life that have been aware of this in me—of that secret passion and joy—to know me. You were one.
[Current relations are] unaware and I feel as if I become a phantom, spirit devoid of soul and body. I have stopped trying because it is so difficult to get through the day. One day, my hope is this, perhaps one or two of my children will really know me—find that bit that I have hidden and help me to "be".

This conversation and my memories of my time with this friend remind me of the conversation of St. Seraphim of Sarov with his disciple, Motovilov. No doubt, comparing my experience to the following is like comparing a symbol to it's realization. But I think as earthly marriage is a symbol of the marriage of the Church to Christ, so is the earthly friendship a symbol of the divine friendship.

"…I do not understand how I can be certain that I am in the Spirit of God. How can I discern for myself His true manifestation in me?"

Father Seraphim replied: "I have already told you, your Godliness, that it is very simple and I have related in detail how people come to be in the Spirit of God and how we can recognize His presence in us. So what do you want, my son?"

"I want to understand it well," I said.

Then Father Seraphim took me very firmly by the shoulders and said: "We are both in the Spirit of God now, my son. Why don't you look at me?"

I replied: "I cannot look, Father, because your eyes are flashing like lightning. Your face has become brighter than the sun, and my eyes ache with pain."

Father Seraphim said: "Don't be alarmed, your Godliness! Now you yourself have become as bright as I am. You are now in the fullness of the Spirit of God yourself; otherwise you would not be able to see me as I am."

Then, bending his head towards me, he whispered softly in my ear: "Thank the Lord God for His unutterable mercy to us! You saw that I did not even cross myself; and only in my heart I prayed mentally to the Lord God and said within myself: 'Lord, grant him to see clearly with his bodily eyes that descent of Thy Spirit which Thou grantest to Thy servants when Thou art pleased to appear in the light of Thy magnificent glory.' And you see, my son, the Lord instantly fulfilled the humble prayer of poor Seraphim. How then shall we not thank Him for this unspeakable gift to us both? Even to the greatest hermits, my son, the Lord God does not always show His mercy in this way. This grace of God, like a loving mother, has been pleased to comfort your contrite heart at the intercession of the Mother of God herself. But why, my son, do you not look me in the eyes? Just look, and don't be afraid! The Lord is with us!"

After these words I glanced at his face and there came over me an even greater reverent awe. Imagine in the center of the sun, in the dazzling light of its midday rays, the face of a man talking to you. You see the movement of his lips and the changing expression of his eyes, you hear his voice, you feel someone holding your shoulders; yet you do not see his hands, you do not even see yourself or his figure, but only a blinding light spreading far around for several yards and illumining with its glaring sheen both the snow-blanket which covered the forest glade and the snow-flakes which besprinkled me and the great Elder. You can imagine the state I was in!

"How do you feel now?" Father Seraphim asked me.

"Extraordinarily well," I said.

"But in what way? How exactly do you feel well?"

I answered: "I feel such calmness and peace in my soul that no words can express it."

"This, your Godliness," said Father Seraphim, "is that peace of which the Lord said to His disciples: My peace I give unto you; not as the world gives, give I unto you (Jn. 14:21). If you were of the world, the world would love its own; but because I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hates you (Jn. 15:19). But be of good cheer; I have overcome the world (Jn. 16:33). And to those people whom this world hates but who are chosen by the Lord, the Lord gives that peace which you now feel within you, the peace which, in the words of the Apostle, passes all understanding (Phil. 4:7). The Apostle describes it in this way, because it is impossible to express in words the spiritual well-being which it produces in those into whose hearts the Lord God has infused it. Christ the Saviour calls it a peace which comes from His own generosity and is not of this world, for no temporary earthly prosperity can give it to the human heart; it is granted from on high by the Lord God Himself, and that is why it is called the peace of God. What else do you feel?" Father Seraphim asked me.

"An extraordinary sweetness," I replied.

And he continued: "This is that sweetness of which it is said in Holy Scripture: They will be inebriated with the fatness of Thy house; and Thou shalt make them drink of the torrent of Thy delight (Ps. 35:8) [16]. And now this sweetness is flooding our hearts and coursing through our veins with unutterable delight. From this sweetness our hearts melt as it were, and both of us are filled with such happiness as tongue cannot tell. What else do you feel?"

"An extraordinary joy in all my heart."

And Father Seraphim continued: "When the Spirit of God comes down to man and overshadows him with the fullness of His inspiration [17], then the human soul overflows with unspeakable joy, for the Spirit of God fills with joy whatever He touches. This is that joy of which the Lord speaks in His Gospel: A woman when she is in travail has sorrow, because her hour is come; but when she is delivered of the child, she remembers no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world. In the world you will be sorrowful [18]; but when I see you again, your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no one will take from you (Jn. 16:21-22). Yet however comforting may be this joy which you now feel in your heart, it is nothing in comparison with that of which the Lord Himself by the mouth of His Apostle said that that joy eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor has it entered into the heart of man what God has prepared for them that love Him (I Cor. 2:9). Foretastes of that joy are given to us now, and if they fill our souls with such sweetness, well-being and happiness, what shall we say of that joy which has been prepared in heaven for those who weep here on earth? And you, my son, have wept enough in your life on earth; yet see with what joy the Lord consoles you even in this life! Now it is up to us, my son, to add labours to labours in order to go from strength to strength (Ps. 83:7), and to come to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ (Eph. 4:13), so that the words of the Lord may be fulfilled in us: But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall grow wings like eagles; and they shall run and not be weary (Is. 40:31); they will go from strength to strength, and the God of gods will appear to them in the Sion (Ps. 83:8) of realization and heavenly visions. Only then will our present joy (which now visits us little and briefly) appear in all its fullness, and no one will take it from us, for we shall be filled to overflowing with inexplicable heavenly delights. What else do you feel, your Godliness?"

I answered: "An extraordinary warmth."

"How can you feel warmth, my son? Look, we are sitting in the forest. It is winter out-of-doors, and snow is underfoot. There is more than an inch of snow on us, and the snowflakes are still falling. What warmth can there be?"

I answered: "Such as there is in a bath-house when the water is poured on the stone and the steam rises in clouds."

"And the smell?" he asked me. "Is it the same as in the bath-house?"

"No," I replied. "There is nothing on earth like this fragrance. When in my dear mother's lifetime I was fond of dancing and used to go to balls and parties, my mother would sprinkle me with scent which she bought at the best shops in Kazan. But those scents did not exhale such fragrance."

And Father Seraphim, smiling pleasantly, said: "I know it myself just as well as you do, my son, but I am asking you on purpose to see whether you feel it in the same way. It is absolutely true, your Godliness! The sweetest earthly fragrance cannot be compared with the fragrance which we now feel, for we are now enveloped in the fragrance of the Holy Spirit of God. What on earth can be like it? Mark, your Godliness, you have told me that around us it is warm as in a bath-house; but look, neither on you nor on me does the snow melt, nor does it underfoot; therefore, this warmth is not in the air but in us. It is that very warmth about which the Holy Spirit in the words of prayer makes us cry to the Lord: 'Warm me with the warmth of Thy Holy Spirit!' By it the hermits of both sexes were kept warm and did not fear the winter frost, being clad, as in fur coats, in the grace-given clothing woven by the Holy Spirit. And so it must be in actual fact, for the grace of God must dwell within us, in our heart, because the Lord said: The Kingdom of God is within you (Lk. 17:21). By the Kingdom of God the Lord meant the grace of the Holy Spirit. This Kingdom of God is now within us, and the grace of the Holy Spirit shines upon us and warms us from without as well. It fills the surrounding air with many fragrant odours, sweetens our senses with heavenly delight and floods our hearts with unutterable joy. Our present state is that of which the Apostle says; The Kingdom of God is not food and drink, but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit (Rom. 14:17). Our faith consists not in the plausible words of earthly wisdom, but in the demonstration of the Spirit and power (cp. I Cor.2:4). That is just the state that we are in now. Of this state the Lord said: There are some of those standing here who shall not taste of death till they see the Kingdom of God come in power (Mk. 9:1). See, my son, what unspeakable joy the Lord God has now granted us! This is what it means to be in the fullness of the Holy Spirit, about which St. Macarius of Egypt writes: 'I myself was in the fullness of the Holy Spirit.' With this fullness of His Holy Spirit the Lord has now filled us poor creatures to overflowing. So there is no need now, your Godliness, to ask how people come to be in the grace of the Holy Spirit. Will you remember this manifestation of God's ineffable mercy which has visited us?"

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