Why I Don't Hate Religion

Here's what I read: http://i.imgur.com/mpQA0.jpg. It's a montage of articles on evils perpetuated by religious people. It's posted as a justification for hating religion (and religious people) as a whole. And the emotional impact is enough to make any kindhearted soul want to go an an anti-religious rampage. But then, that would be hypocritical.

Here's what I am feeling right now: A palpable heaviness. A sense that people bent on hating religion will continue to hate it regardless what I say. It's so easy to see religion as the root of all social problems. But the thing is, most of the people on this planet have some religion or other, and if not a religion, most have a guiding political philosophy, traditional cultural ethic, or intellectual framework gleaned from the particular way they were educated. We sort ourselves out according to our beliefs, even if we kid ourselves that we are total individuals, completely isolated in our thought processes from any other human. (Generally, that is what is known as a sociopath, BTW.)

The problem, of course, is that we are sinners. All of us. I know that's kind of an old-fashioned word and it's extremely loaded, but there it is. Regardless what lofty ideals we hold, we screw up. We're not our best selves a good deal of the time. We get together with like-minded folks and try to create something good--elect a good candidate, pass good laws, educate children, support the arts, worship the creator of the universe--and our selfish little egos get in the way. We like to think we're not capable of pettiness, judgmentalism, hatred or abuse, but it turns out that stuff is in all of us--in varying degrees, and depending on our choices and circumstances, but it's there. Religion has no corner on hypocrisy. I get weary of people saying that the religious are hypocrites. You ever meet someone who isn't?

So, I've still got this stone sitting on my chest right now and I want to figure out what that's about. I think it has something to do with being accused of hatred, violence and abuse. I suppose that's a little sulky, but the creator of the montage of articles seems to propose that the shoe ought to fit for me because I call myself a Christian.

I didn't always. If you read this blog, you'll know that I left off calling myself a Christian for some time. But I call myself one now--unabashedly, regardless of my own sins and the sins of my brethren (and sistren)--maybe because of those sins. I was just never able to shake the idea of a God who is unknowable and transcendent, who fills all things and is everywhere present, and who is interested enough in humanity to show up here as a human being. I'm a Christian because that's what I believe about Jesus.

If I were not a Christian, I might be Jewish, or Muslim. I might be Hindu or Buddhist. I might be Neo-Pagan. There are things in each of those religions that I love--teachings in each of them that resonate deeply for me.

But I think I would still have a religion, even if it was not Christianity. Why? Because I long for God and that just won't go away. I believe it is because God longs for me. That's hubris, I know. But I think God longs for all of us and God put a longing for God inside of us. That's why we come together as Christians or Jews or Hindus--to exercise a corporate longing, through which great love can come to the world. Because when we are truly longing for God instead of for our own self-fulfilment, we want to feed the hungry and bind up the wounded. We want to care for the earth and create beauty. We want to lift up the abused and bring peace to the warring. We want to, but we can't do it alone. We need each other and we need God.

Many terrible things have been done in the name of religion (and, I might add, in the name of political parties, moral philosophies and business ventures), but look around you: Look at the universities and hospitals, the famine relief organizations, reconciliation initiatives, and social justice groups. Look into their histories and you will find that a very large percentage sprang from religious teaching or were directly founded by religious groups. John Donne said, "No man is an island." It is amazing what people can do when they come together motivated by a love for God.

It is enough to lift the heaviness from me. It is enough to make me pray.

Praying to--or with--Mary and the Saints

The other day I had a conversation with someone who was disturbed by the practice, among Catholics and Orthodox, of asking the Saints to intercede for us—or “praying to” them. I told her that we ask the Saints to pray for us in the same way we might ask a Christian friend to pray for us. Because the Saints are still with us. They are the “cloud of witnesses” mentioned by the writer of the Letter to the Hebrews:

“Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith.” (Hebrews 12: 1-2a)

Asking for prayer from this “cloud of witnesses” reminds us that we do not really die—we don’t “end” when we’re finished with this life. Our ancestors in Christ are praying for us, just as surely as our friends are. It is appropriate to “pray” to them, just as we “pray” to our friends. The word “pray” in this context, does not mean we are putting that Saint (or Christian friend) in God’s place. In this context, it means “to ask or entreat,” as in, “Pray, kind sir, do you have tuppence to buy flowers from a poor flower girl?” So we are “praying for the prayers” of the Saints, so to speak.

I’ve thought of it that way for years. But I’ve always been bothered by the notion I sometimes hear that Jesus will listen better if I go through his mom first—as if He’d turn a deaf ear to me if I go direct.

So this morning I was reading the account of the wedding at Cana—when Jesus turned water into wine.

“And when they ran out of wine, the mother of Jesus said to Him, “They have no wine.”

Jesus said to her, “Woman, what does your concern have to do with Me? My hour has not yet come.”

His mother said to the servants, “Whatever He says to you, do it.” (John 2: 3-5)

And, of course, Jesus goes ahead and turns the water into wine, even though he just finished saying to his mom, “My hour has not yet come.” (“Woman, what does your concern have to do with Me,” by the way, is not an expression of disrespect on Jesus’ part. Here is the footnote on that passage from the Orthodox Study Bible: “Contrary to certain modern usages, ‘Woman’ is a sacred title in Scripture, an address conveying respect and distinction. ‘What does your concern have to do with me’ is more literally, ‘What is that to Me and to you?’”)

So what occurred to me this morning was that Jesus does not turn a deaf ear to us (ever!), He just loves His mom—because she’s His mom—and he wants for us to love her, too. Why? Because He loves her.  So to the question, “Why ask Mary to intercede?” I imagine Him saying this:

“Because when you do, you acknowledge her—and that means a great deal to Me. It means a great deal when you acknowledge any of My Saints. You’re not in this alone, you know. It means a great deal when you ask friends or mentors to pray for you, because when you do, you acknowledge them, and you acknowledge that you need each other.”

  

I think this is what the Church means when it says we are “saved corporately.” Salvation is not just a “me ‘n’ God” thing—even though Jesus would have died for me, had I been the only soul on earth. I’m not the only soul on earth—or in the Kingdom of God (which, Jesus says, is “at hand” or “as close as your hand.”) Salvation is a family affair. We each help the other towards a closer and closer relationship with Christ. And those who have a particularly close relationship with Him are our way-showers.

Pray, pray for me, a sinner.  

Letter from my Grandmother

This is a letter from my Nana, sent to my mother after my mother had a miscarriage and was despairing of ever having children. I often think of the generations of praying women from whom I came, and what an impact that had on me--the firstborn who, after four miscarriages (one, my twin), finally arrived.

February 16, 1960

Darling daughter—

Your precious personal letter is here and I appreciate your confidence in me. Right now I feel like I’m more in a position than ever to offer you encouragement drawn from vital experience. Coping with near-tragedy and the incidental problems—plus anxiety over you, Tom, Dave and Dad nearly “got me down.” But once more, and more truly than ever before, having obeyed the Lord (as hard for me) and having “cast my burdens” upon Him—help and restoration has been coming in from every hand.

I was shown, in a most emphatic way (in the night-watches) that there is no substitute for plain, old-fashioned courage and that if we have little of that by nature, we may have all we need by simply asking for it and believing it will be given…..

I read, somewhere, such a good slant on the verse “ask and it shall be given you, seek and you shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you.” The writer said that asking is primary, simple, effective only so far; seeking is asking plus effort; knocking is asking plus effort plus persistence. “Pay without ceasing,” St. Paul said. And I like to remember that he, too, had to be literally thrown, prostrated, knocked down before he could say “Lord, what wilt Thou have me do” and later that wonderful “I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, to be content”…..

Dear one, do not despair of receiving answers to your problems. The answers are all there, just tune in on them. This is not Pollyanna stuff. It is tried and true. Remember we are not promised “joy without sorrow, peace without pain.” Even our Lord Himself was not given that. Be we are promised comfort, sympathy, courage, and the “peace which passeth understanding”—if we believe and obey.

Never be ashamed of your tears and tensions, dear—only if you hang on to them as I’ve seen many do. Even our Lord was “agitated” (Moffat…) at Gethsemane, and in anguish. But after the cross, the resurrection!

I couldn’t offer a person like you pious platitudes. These are truths—the “word made flesh”…

P.S. Do not worry about the $500. Don’t need it now, anyway. The “way did not open” (Quaker) for the apt…..Glad you are going to get part-time job. You need to get out of house and be active.

PSS I’m so proud of you how you have taken your “low blow” and anxiety. It pears you have already “tuned in” or whatever analogy you like!

For Christian Unity

Tonight I am filled with emotion. Tonight my daughter received her first communion as an Orthodox Christian, after having been in the Orthodox Church for eight years. And tonight a bishop who is beloved to me received his last communion for the forseeable future.

This will be incomprehensible for my friends who are not Orthodox, and I have tried to avoid this kind of controversy in my writings. But the fact remains that Orthodox Christians, particularly in the United States, use the denial of communion as a weapon against each other. This beloved bishop has had enough. He feels that, as a bishop, if he is not taking a stand against this kind of disunity, he is part the problem.

I have never understood the Orthodox Communion Litmus Test, but it goes something like this: An Orthodox Christian visiting another Orthodox church approaches the chalice for communion. The priest has been instructed by his bishop to stop the communicant and ask, "What church do you go to?" By this he means, "What jurisdiction of the Orthodox Church are you a part of?" If the communicant answers with the "right" jurisdiction -- that is, one whose bishop his bishop likes and approves of, the communicant is allowed to receive. If not, the communicant is denied.

For a group of Christians that calls itself the True Church, this is pretty disappointing. The True Church can't even share communion with other members of the True Church? What can the "heretics" be thinking about us?

The word "canonical" is often bandied about and this has always left me even more confused. "Canonical," as far as I've always understood, means "according to canon." And we do have canons in the Church -- ancient traditions that bind us together (or at least, are supposed to.) After 2,000 years, none of us is completely "canonical." In the United States, we violate the canons by, for example, having two Orthodox bishops in the same city. Nevertheless, this word "canonical" is used to mean "my bishop doesn't like your bishop." The "canonicity" of said bishop is not actually in question. It's not about how scrupulously his group follows Church Tradition. It's about whether said bishop is on the approved "list" put together by the bishops with the most money, turf and power.

I will anger people by saying these things. And to be honest, this makes me nervous. But, as this beloved bishop pointed out, just before receiving his last communion, Jesus was scourged and mocked and crucified, while modern Christians tend to dislike being inconvenienced or made unpopular for the sake of speaking out.

This does not mean that I have courage. I don't. I grieve every day about the rift between me and many of my Orthodox friends. We don't talk about it because we do care about each other, and it hurts to talk about. Saying these things will create even more distance between us.

But watching this bishop, who is beloved to me, (and has been since I was a troubled teenager), receive his last communion broke my heart. I know how to write. And it is not for me to remain silent any more.

And even amid all the sorrow and disunity,

CHRIST HAS RISEN FROM THE DEAD, TRAMPLING DOWN DEATH BY DEATH, AND UPON THOSE IN THE TOMBS BESTOWING LIFE.

Holy Week

Thomas and his dad, Fr. Andrew.

A blessed Holy Week and Pascha to all!

Faith and Skepticism

Today I'm pondering my last post and noticing that it was a lot different in tone from my previous posts, which were written two or more years ago. This is partly a matter of audience -- it was originally written to a Christian online forum of which I am a part, and I think I've directed other posts to a somewhat more diverse group of readers.

But I'm also thinking about how much I've "settled in" to my faith in the past several years. And that this isn't a bad thing.

When I decided to come back to Christianity after having had a bit of a tiff with the Christian God and His people, it was because I'd figured out I can't do spirituality any other way. I need the Christian story and I need my faith to be Jesus-centered and I need for Jesus to be the God-Man, who was interested enough in relationships with people that He'd come in a form we can understand.

So as much as I had come to admire aspects of Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Neo-Paganism and other faiths, I realized that I had to have Jesus as God or I'd be miserable.

I've said before that the faith of my youth had an enormous emphasis on prooving itself to skeptics. Since I grew up with a skeptic, it seemed very important to me to prove that Christianity was rational, factual and ultimately impervious to argument.

But when I came back to faith, I did so with the realization that I can't prove any of this stuff -- I just need it. So I more-or-less "special-ordered" my faith:

• God is Mystery (check)


• God is "everywhere present and fills all things" (check)


• God loves and is a befriending God (check)


• God came in the flesh to save us from death (check)


• Jesus, who is God Incarnate, died and then came back to life (check)


• We are never, at any time, without hope (check)

But a funny thing happened on the way to the altar. The first few years, I was more a skeptic-with-hope; now I seem not to need the skepticism anymore. And this is a strange realization -- that skepticism was as much a need for me as faith was. Skepticism was my safety-net, just in case I ended up being a fool. If, at the end of all things, my beliefs about Jesus turned out to be a fantasy, I wanted to be able to say, "Yeah, but I wasn't absolutely sure. I wasn't operating on blind faith. I STILL HAVE A BRAIN, ya know."

Of course, I wasn't sure who it was I'd be saying this to, because if the atheists are right, I won't exist anymore, anyway.

Am I simply more psychologically invested in my faith? Yes, definitely. But it's more than that. It's a kind of caution-to-the-wind thing -- a lack of concern over whether others find me foolish. And what happens now is that I encounter God more frequently, now that I don't hold back. There's a freedom in this -- in being able to light the candles in the chapel and not second-guess myself in the middle of the night, but to simply know that Christ is present with me. It is, I think, something like the stages of falling in love. At first, we are unsure of the beloved -- we don't know whether we can trust him, even though we are attracted and he seems attracted back. But after some time goes by, the relationship develops a surety. I've noticed this in 26 years of marriage. And I notice it in my faith.

So I find I am at a new phase now. One that fills me with wonder.

Thinking 'bout the Saints

And what more shall I say? I do not have time to tell about Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, David, Samuel and the prophets, who through faith conquered kingdoms, administered justice, and gained what was promised; who shut the mouths of lions, quenched the fury of the flames, and escaped the edge of the sword; whose weakness was turned to strength; and who became powerful in battle and routed foreign armies. Women received back their dead, raised to life again. Others were tortured and refused to be released, so that they might gain a better resurrection. Some faced jeers and flogging, while still others were chained and put in prison. They were stoned; they were sawed in two; they were put to death by the sword. They went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted and mistreated— the world was not worthy of them. They wandered in deserts and mountains, and in caves and holes in the ground. Hebrews 11:32-38

I know a man who, when it is his turn to read this passage, cannot get through it without tears. I wonder if it is because after years of not only studying, but celebrating daily the lives of the Saints, these events do not seem to him like something that only happened in Biblical times, but at all times in our history as the Church.

Today's my birthday and I'm thinking about Saints. (I wish there was a connection, but there's not). On this day (in the Gregorian calendar) we celebrate The Hieromartyr Charalampus, Bishop of Magnesia, the Martyrs Porphyrius and Baptus and Three Women Martyrs, who suffered in the year 202, The Holy Virgin Martyrs Ennatha, Valentina and Paula, who suffered in the year 308, and Saint Prochorus of the Caves, who was a native of Smolensk, and entered the Kiev Caves monastery under the igumen John (1089-1103). (For more go to www.oca.org and click Feasts and Saints)

In looking at the Saints listed above, I would note that only one of them, St. Prochurus, could be called specifically an "Orthodox" Saint. This is because the Church split in 1054. Up to then, we were one Church. (There were no Protestants until the Reformation, several hundred years later.) So it begs the question -- if these Saints are our great-grandparents in the faith, why don't most American Christians know about them?

That's how I've felt as a convert to Orthodoxy. And I grew up in a liturgical church. While the Saints are not God, neither are they ordinary. They are the ones who have, at great expense, pressed into God to the point that His light shined through them. Here's just one example from Scripture of their not-ordinariness:

And I saw the souls of those who had been beheaded because of their testimony for Jesus and because of the word of God. They had not worshiped the beast or his image and had not received his mark on their foreheads or their hands. They came to life and reigned with Christ a thousand years.Revelation 20:4

I first began reading hagiographies before I was Orthodox. I was writing a book about St. Vaclav ("King Wenceslas"), who was a 10th century saint. The things said about him seemed so fanciful to me that I despaired of finding some "real history" to read about him. All the miraculous stuff was thrown right in with the "real" stuff. I read hagiographies that way for several years, kind of winking and snickering, even at the gruesome deaths of martyrs. It seemed so over-the-top.

Now it occurs to me that I never winked and snickered at the crucifixion, nor at the story of the youths in the fiery furnace, nor at the beheading of John the Baptist. Those stories seemed "real" to me because they were in the Bible. And the fact that Jesus rose from the dead and that he previously walked around with Shadrach, Mishak and Abednigo in the flames was easy for me to swallow because I'd been told those stories since childhood. Yet I'd discount as fanciful the stories of the Christians who followed over the 2000 years since the Resurrection and gave their lives wholly to Christ. They gave themselves way, way, way more than I have, and many are doing the same today.

So I think it is at our peril that we discount the Saints. Without them, we would have no Bible, no Church, no Good News. It would have been lost to the ages, just as many of their lives have been to generations of Christians.