Not Another Convert Story

Recent travels and work demands have preventing me from keeping up with the blogs I like to frequent. I've tried to remedy that situation this long holiday weekend. Over at Fr. James Early's excellent blog, I discovered that I had completely missed an on-going series, detailing one couple's conversion to the Orthodox faith. I heartily recommend the blog in general, this narrative in particular, and have links to each section of the story at the end of this post.

That said, conversion stories can be a bit tricky, and should come with lots of cautionary admonitions. Even the word convert comes with some baggage, but until someone comes up with a better descriptor, it will have to suffice. First, each account is obviously particular to the person affected, and their reaction will not be exactly replicated by anyone else. In 2003, I walked into a Bulgarian Orthodox church with my good friend and travelling companion. When I walked out, the course of my life had changed (though I didn't realize it at that moment). My friend was right beside me the entire time, but walked out thinking it merely quaint and colorful. That is how it works--our life-changing experience will go unnoticed by our neighbor.

Second, we are often too quick to broadcast our experiences, either out of genuine excitement about the course we have embarked upon, or perhaps exhibiting some need to validate our decision. When I first started blogging, I posted some accounts of my experience. Today, I would probably leave them unwritten. And while I have often alluded to what happened in my case, I have never given a full-throated, complete account of what actually transpired. I can tell my story--but even after 6 years, am reluctant to pontificate upon Orthodoxy itself, and am careful to steer the narrative away from that angle.

And finally, a bit of perspective often changes our narrative somewhat. As we are first constructing the story, it is hard to resist the temptation to portray ourselves always as "Noble Truth-seekers," and those from whom we come out from amongst as "hidebound and pig-headed traditionalists." In time, we come to better appreciate the foundations we received in our former communions, and the part it played in our becoming Orthodox. In time, we realize that our conversion was probably messier and less noble than our telling of it suggests. In time, we can see the part that pride played in our actions, often even to a greater degree than in the church we left behind.

But these "convert stories" are part and parcel of the American Orthodox landscape, perhaps as in no where else. Maybe this is because the change is or should be so removed from what is normative for our culture. What I have noticed is that while each story is unique, one aspect holds true for most: namely, the catalyst for pursuing Orthodoxy is some exposure to and/or experience of Orthodox worship. That is certainly the case with the story I have linked, my story, and most others I can recall. Those conversions based solely on intellectual inquiry, be it theological or historical, do not seem to hold, in my experience. Clearly this is not due to any deficiency within Orthodoxy itself, but lies rather in the motives and approach of the convert. When someone becomes Orthodox as a mere intellectual choice, one made between competing ideologies and based on their own understanding, then they are free to choose something else later on. And they often do. Simply put, the Orthodox faith is infinitely bigger than that, and choices made under those assumptions may fail to account for the cosmic dimensions of what is actually happening.

Another reason this particular story resonates with me is the fact that this couple came out of the Church of Christ, my former religious affiliation. The young man was a missionary to Estonia, where he bumped-up into Orthodoxy. Leaving the Church of Christ can be traumatic, and not at all the same as switching say from Baptist to Methodist to Assembly of God, etc. For the Church of Christ is a restorationist sect, as are the Mormons and the Jehovah's Witnesses. Unlike the other two, the Church of Christ has mainstream Protestant Trinitarian beliefs (though they wouldn't use the word), but they believe that they "restored" the New Testament church in the early years of the 19th century. For them, church history begins at Pentecost and then stops cold at the end of the 1st Century, going underground (I suppose) until the early 1500s when the Reformation started out right but just didn't go far enough, and then picks back up in the early 1800s with Alexander Campbell finally figured out the correct interpretation of Scripture, thus "restoring" the church. [The irony is that the Church of Christ is distinctly ahistorical in tone, and has failed to instruct its members in even its own particular history. Consequently, modern members are uninformed, unconcerned and/or dismissive of their heritage, causing something of an existential crisis within the church. For without adherence to this narrative, the "distinctive plea," as they used to say, of the Churches of Christ becomes meaningless.] So, when one leaves the Church of Christ, the thinking is (or used to be) that one is not merely going from one Christian denomination to another, but one has in fact left the church. This understanding is not nearly as universal as it was a generation or two ago, but the thinking does persist. When one becomes Orthodox from this kind of background, it can become messy. Such was the case with me. So, this couple's story is of particular interest to me.

I now have very few remaining associations with my old Church of Christ friends (and family). Undoubtedly, there is enough blame to go around on both sides. But I do know some of them used to check out this blog to see just how far I had fallen. Perhaps some still do. It is my prayer that they read this couple's story.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

Part 19

Part 20

Part 21 (the podcast)

Reflections of a Road Trip: Orthodoxy in the Heartland

On my recent loop through the Midwest and upper South, I took opportunity, whenever possible, to visit Orthodox churches and institutions along the way. While I have been fortunate to visit Orthodox churches and monasteries in the Balkans, the Levant and the Caucasus region, my experience with American Orthodoxy has heretofore been limited to our mission in East Texas, the Dallas-Fort Worth churches, and churches and monasteries around Austin and San Antonio. So, the opportunity to connect with like-minded folk in Missouri, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania and Tennessee was of great appeal to me. In every locale, I was reminded of what a small world we American Orthodox inhabit. Everywhere I went, I met people who knew Orthodox Christians in Texas that were also known to me. While on one level, this speaks to our meager numbers relative to the general population, on another level it speaks to the tightness, if I can use that word, among American Orthodox believers. And it is this last factor, rather than large numbers, that I believe will stand us well in the years ahead. Please bear in mind that these observations are those of a layman who first stumbled into an Orthodox church only 6 years ago, and was received into the faith some 2 ½ years after that.


I stayed for two nights in the remote, unoccupied home of an Orthodox friend. In time, this house and a considerable amount of surrounding acreage may very well become a monastery. There are still some jurisdictional issues to resolve, so for now, I will not venture any further about the specifics of this prospect. To my delight, an Orthodox library was already well underway, with a 1,000 plus books on the shelves, and several hundred more still in boxes. With a full kitchen and my only companions being the rabbits in the front yard, and the wild turkeys in the back, I could have lost myself amidst these books for days. But, I was expected in Minneapolis, so I restricted my stay to one day and two nights.

Remembering my time in this library, as well as a recent post by Owen, has started me thinking about the role of "intellectual inquiry" among those on the road to Orthodoxy. It seems to be a common component in the construction our conversion narratives, if you will. I have likened it to being at a beach resort, then leaving the hotel pool and wading out into the ocean. Or as I have noted to friends familiar with my previous religious affiliation, “I no longer have to check my brain at the foyer.” The danger here, though, is that by so doing we reduce the Faith to an intellectual construct, and one that merely competes with all the other intellectual constructs. Owen has wisely observed that what is often going on here is not so much a feeding of true intellectual hunger, but of ideological hunger—a desire to validate that which we have already decided to believe.




















In the library

I was undergoing no particular religious crisis or existential meltdown prior to being found by the Orthodox faith. While recognizing the limitations of my sect, I nevertheless believed we had the best take possible on things. I believe it was Fr. Stephen Freeman who said something to the effect that the only reason to become Orthodox is to find Christ (if it wasn’t Fr. Stephen, then it sounds like something he would say.) This I have found to be true. On June 9th and 10th, 2003, I caught a glimpse of a relationship with Christ (and the Trinity) that I never knew possible. Looking back now, I recognize that all my subsequent actions were in pursuit of appropriating that vision in my own life. And part of that process was the immersion into the literature, beginning with the writings of St. Ignatius, which irretrievably weakened my existing theological presuppositions. Subsequent readings, if I am to be completely honest with myself, were less of a honest comparison of Orthodoxy up against Protestantism, but rather a quest for knowledge about the decision I had more or less already made. With no access to Orthodox worship, these readings were invaluable in answering my questions and doubts. But that said, my first impetus towards Orthodoxy, my resolve to pursue it, and my commitment to stay the course came from standing in worship, not from my reading. Once Orthodox, I can now swim out into that ocean as far as I can manage. But like I often advised my son, there is a time to “step away from the books.” As we mature and become more sure of our footing on the American continent, I suppose we can engage in the requisite discussions of methodology and missiology--that is, as long as we do not lose sight of the fact that the Orthodox faith is experiential, and that the old "come and see" approach will trump all others.

I had the great privilege to attend Divine Liturgy at the Theotokos (Unexpected Joy) Mission in Ash Grove, Missouri, a small, struggling old town about 15 miles northwest of Springfield. Fr. Moses Berry is the well-known priest (and native son of the area). Without directions, the church would be a bit hard to find, located on a little-traveled country road, on the outskirts of town. The day before, the church had hosted the 2nd annual Southwest Missouri Folk Music Festival. I understand it was quite a success, lots of music and food, with plenty of visitors to the church and grounds. I think Fr. Moses even sang a bit. The temple itself is not large, just a modest log structure with attached hall. I asked Fr. Moses about the size, and he replied that it was “just right.” The parish contributed much of the labor during construction, and as I result, I believe the building is paid for. The iconography was well-done and appropriate for the space. The iconostasis was of Missouri red oak.






















Theotokos (Unexpected Joy) Orthodox Mission, Ash Grove, Missouri

I arrived in time for the Hours, and observed that most everyone was in line for Confession before services. All of the women wore headscarves. By the time everyone finally filtered in, we were about 35 in number. Most seemed to be local converts, though I did detect a Serbian (though married to a Missourian), and Asian Indian and a couple of Russian dancers (who had driven up from their Branson gig.) Additionally, there were 3 or 4 nuns, and I have no idea where they were from. This was Pentecost Sunday and Fr. Moses' homily was a memorable one. I have not yet lost my amazement at the shepherdic tone of Orthodox homilies. I spent the better part of my adult life being "preached at" and sitting through Sunday morning sermonizings. Fr. Moses even referred to us as "children." A nice touch, that. Coffee hour talk centered around the events of the day before and the work that went into that endeavor. Despite the onion dome, I came away with the impression that here was a group of Orthodox Christians thoroughly integrated into the rhythm of their particular local culture. There is much "a doing" these days among our hierarchs, both within and between jurisdictions. Important speeches are being given, new scandals are unfolding, significant conferences and seminars are transpiring--all focusing on the future of Orthodoxy in America. As fascinating as these developments are (and they are), I believe the real story is right here, in places like Ash Grove, Missouri.






















Theotokos (Unexpected Joy) Orthodox Mission, Ash Grove, Missouri

While in Springfield, I stopped in at a Barnes and Noble, in search of a Sunday newspaper. While there, I made a quick swath through the religion section. I was surprised to see, there on the top shelf, a nice stack of Orthodox Study Bibles. I do not know if this is commonplace in other parts of the country, but it is definitely not yet so in Texas. I suppose I have mixed feelings about this. I have to recognize the role the OSB played early on with me. Mainly it was the back of the Bible that helped me along--the lectionary, learning the basics of morning and evening prayers, the psalms as prayer, etc. And even some of the commentary was helpful in getting me over some obstacles. And while the OSB has received criticism, I must say that I still use it. The criticism, though, is not what worries me here. My reservations involve the marketing of Orthodoxy as a boutique, niche religion, with the OSB presented in a collection of other niche Bibles, from which the American religious consumer can choose. Even so, I suppose I am more glad they were on the shelf than not. I pray that they will sell quickly, and that they will cause their readers on the path to enlightenment.























St. Nicholas Orthodox Church, St. Isaac the Syrian Skete, Boscobel, Wisconsin

Upon leaving my friends in Minneapolis, I had a long drive in store to reach my cousin's in St. Joseph, Michigan. Even so, I made time to enjoy some of the beautiful back roads of Wisconsin, including a stop at the St. Isaac of Syria Skete near Boscobel. This skete is well known among American Orthodox, being one of the premier suppliers of icons. The Church of St. Nicholas there was a log structure also, though much larger in size than Ash Grove. I was particularly impressed with the the interior of the church, and the use they had made of the space. Quite a few relics were on display, as well. The abbot was gone when I made my visit, so I was not able to visit with him. Instead, I talked with the nice lady who manages the bookstore and takes all the phone orders. She gave me a short tour of the compound, letting me see the iconography studio, as well as pointing out the other buildings on the site. I have to admit, the rest of the site did not compare with the church. For while the Church of St. Nicholas was pristine, the rest of the grounds looked like a mobile home park that had seen its better days long ago. All the other buildings were modest, aging mobile homes—often cobbled together in odd arrangements. Only later, when visiting with Owen, did I learn the reason for this. The skete apparently does a good business with its icons. But the money is not necessarily plowed back into their skete, but generously distributed among 20+ other monastic institutions. In short, they are doing exactly what should be done. Why should I think that monastics, having renounced the world, would live in anything other than humble dwellings? So, the problem was all in my view of things. I have found this to often be the case.
























Christ the Savior Orthodox Church, Harrisburg

After Michigan, I found myself in the Amish country of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. When Sunday rolled around, I drove up to Harrisburg and attended Christ the Savior Orthodox Church, an long-established OCA parish. The temple itself was a bit modernish, with lots of light. The church seemed to have a large ethnic component, as I would expect to be the case. The service was all in English, however. There were certainly older members present, but the church had a sizable number of younger couples, with children of all ages. I suppose there were 150 or more in attendance (eventually.) About a dozen or so Ethiopian or Eritrean members were in attendance. None of the women wore headscarves. The service was somewhat more abbeviated than those to which I am accustomed. And of course, there was the whole pew thing. Of course, I have been in "pewed" Orthodox churches before, but I have noticed that often worshippers are hesitant to use them. Everyone seemed pretty settled-in to them here, which of course is the danger, I suppose. In looking over their church bulletin, they seemed to have quite a few outreach programs and that sort of thing. And I found people to be quite friendly to this visitor. They have an excellent and energetic young priest in Fr. Stephen. I hung around for the Slavic Food Festival following services. Here, I ate my first perogie (sp.) I have heard a lot about this ethnic staple from our priest, a Pittsburgh native. I found them to be nothing more than a somewhat more greasier Georgian kinkhale, with cheese substituted for meat! My best memory of Christ the Savior was from the food festival: one one picnic table under the trees sat 3 old men in caps, animatedly conversing in Russian while at the table right next to them were 3 Ethiopian men doing the same in their language. While Orthodox parish life can be very localized, one never looses sight the global (and cosmic) reach of our faith, which helps temper our innate Americanism.




















The Ethiopians and the Russians, Fr. Gregory



Three days later, I found myself in Nashville, Tennessee. I decided to look up my old friend, Fr. Gregory, who chrismated me at Holy Trinity Cathedral in Dallas in November, 2005. He is now with Holy Trinity in Nashville. I must say, the church is impressive, setting atop 10-15 acres of the most prime real estate along the Franklin Pike. When I walked into the hall, he recognized me immediately, and introduced me to his friends around the table as "the Church of Christ elder who started reading St. Ignatius." He showed me around the church and we talked of the differences between Nashville and Dallas. The church there had not the wealth of his former parish, but was a working church where everyone seeming to chip in. I was surprised to learn that the church had no debt.

























Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church, Nashville

Before leaving Nashville, I stopped off at the Alektor Cafe and Door of Paradise Book Store, near Vanderbilt. This combination cafe/coffee house/book and icon store should be a required stop for all Orthodox travelers through middle Tennessee. I do not know all the particulars, but believe it is the effort of a Greek Orthodox priest and his family. I know there is a Greek Orthodox mission nearby. The establishment seems to attract quite a following--from students to women on luncheons to coffee shop habituties to the inquisitive of all sorts. For most, the icons are just quaint, pretty decorations. But for some customers, who knows? I wish them all the best. And I highly recommend their Russian spiced tea.


























Alektor Cafe and Door of Paradise Books, Nashville



I stayed in Memphis my last night before the drive home. I suppose this was the most satisfying of all my Orthodox encounters. I attended Vespers at St. John's, an Antiochian parish in that city. St. John's has its roots in an old EOC group that came into the Antiochian archdiocese back in the day. They were able to purchase a Presbyterian church whose membership had dwindled and were ready to decamp to the suburbs. Consequently, St. John's is located in the leafy, established neighborhood around Rhodes College and Overton Park. In fact, the church is unique in that it remains very much a neighborhood church, where members walk to services. Many of the founding member bought homes in the area, and this emphasis has persisted. Today the church averages about 325 in attendance. After services, I met a St. Tikhon's Seminary student returning to Texas, who just happened to be a good friend of one of our parishioners. Again, that small world thing. This was a old-fashioned friendly church, in the way in which we Southerners are accustomed. After Vespers, a meal was served in the hall below, before class that night. I talked with a young lawyer who was a member there. He had been Southern Baptist before becoming Orthodox. As it turns out, he had been to Lebanon and Syria, as well. It seems his sister lives in Beirut. I inquired about this and he told me that she was a Southern Baptist missionary to Lebanon. Sometimes being too cynical by half, I replied, "don't they have enough problems?" He went on to explain that there were actually Baptists in Lebanon, but from his sister's au currant evangelical perspective, they were still stuck in the 40s, singing those old standby Baptist hymns, etc. Consequently, these Southern Baptist missionaries were bypassing these established groups, seeking to introduce Chinese-style house churches to the Lebanese. Like they say, you cannot make this stuff up.


























St. John's Orthodox Church, Memphis

I left before class due to an appointment I had with my friend Owen, also a member there. Babysitting detail prevented him from being at church himself. After his wife got off work and relieved him, we met at the Poor & Hungry on Madison Avenue. The P&H was my kind of joint, with a clientele you'd never see in the line at Luby's. Smoke still hung heavy in the place, as the smoking Nazis have not yet taken Memphis. Years earlier, someone had drawn caricatures of the corrupt political establishment (but I repeat myself) in the city, and stapled the likenesses to the ceiling of the P&H. We sat right underneath one depicting of Harold Ford and his "Harold Ford Mortuary and Machine Shop." I enjoy watching his son on MSNBC's Morning Joe. In Memphis, this sort of thing is all taken in good stride. The proprietress of the establishment reminded me of my Aunt Polly. And I know my aunt would have been right at home on a barstool here, as she was in the ice houses on the north side of Houston. I learned that the owner was the sister of the original owner, a well-known local trasvestite, who before he died had the surgery and crossed over, you might say. Anyway, a few hours spent here, over a couple of pitchers of Yuengling lager, with my friend Owen, discussing things of a decidedly ochlophobic nature, was the perfect cap to my road trip. I'm not sure, but I believe we solved all the Orthodox Church's jurisdictional problems before we left. I don't exactly remember, now. All the best, Owen.



























At the P & H

Reflections from a Road Trip: At My Aunt's

First stop on my recent road trip was the state of Arkansas. We Texans tend to give our neighbors a bad time of it. But this state offers up surprises that do not fit our stereotypes. Much of the eastern portion of the state is part and parcel of the Delta and all that implies culturally. Little Rock, despite the Clinton Library, is not bad for a medium-sized Southern city. In the north and east, one finds rich agricultural lands, as pretty as you please. Towns such as Booneville and Brinkley are as picture-perfect an example of pristine small town Americana as one would hope to find anywhere. But my destination, however, was in the very heart of the traditionally poor and remote Ozarks, fittingly only a few miles from the creepy ruins of the now-defunct “Dogpatch, U.S.A.”




















I visited my aunt, who lives here with her husband, on 40 acres about ¼ of a mile off the Buffalo River. Perhaps only 3 acres of this tract lies in the narrow vale, and of that maybe 1/2 of an acre is cleared. Bears and elk come down the mountain into their back yard. Aunt Sis, my dad’s only sister, is the last surviving sibling on either side. As such, she is also my last window into the now lost world of my father’s youth in the Hill Country of central Texas. She and my uncle are holding on at age 85, in the mountain cabin they have shared for the last 35 years or so, since retiring from St. Louis. The area is now very much a tourist destination, popular with kayakers and canoeists. But it was not always so, and poverty is still close at hand here.





















My aunt and I have a close rapport. She knows I enjoy hearing the old stories, and she enjoys retelling them. I listened intently to the anecdotes that came to my aunt’s recollection. I heard the story of my dad and his younger brother, left at home while my aunt and the grandparents went to town. The boys found their mother’s cutting shears and gave each other mohawks, then stripped down (a bit) and rode bareback all over the neighborhood, whooping and hollering, pretending to be wild Indians. There was the interesting story of my great-aunt’s parrot who “spoke” Portuguese. But mainly we talked much of a neighboring Coryell County family from the 1920s and 1930s. The warm associations of these people have carried forward in the collective memory of my family to this day. The Falkenbergs were German. My aunt remembers him as a giant of a man, but a gentle patriarch. He liked to sit in a rocking chair on their front porch, puffing on an enormous hard-carved pipe. She was noted for her thick German bread and homemade cheese. Mr. Falkenberg brewed his own beer, Prohibition or no. He and my granddad, whom he called "Enri," were best friends. Both were “Ferguson men,” which while putting them on the opposite side from Prohibition and the Klan did not necessarily put them on the opposite side of the political corruption of the day. The two families were in and out of one another’s homes. My aunt recalls getting a little “tight” from Mr. Falkenberg’s home brew that they passed around. She also remembers him saying grace in German before meals: “Mein Vater der kunst in Himmel…” Seventy-five years later, she still expresses regret that her oldest brother did not marry Selma, one of the Falkenberg girls. This led to another story that was entirely new to me. During the late Edwardian years, my granddad’s oldest sister was supposed to marry a young man of the community (stay with me here), the brother of grandmother’s youngest aunt’s husband. Both families were well-acquainted with one another and everyone approved of the match. But something happened and they did not marry. In fact, the young man never married and died an old bachelor. In time, my great-aunt married the brother of her sister’s husband. There were no children, and by all accounts, the marriage was not a happy one. There is an untold story here, somewhere…a tale of heartache, disappointment and resignation. I believe that there is a secret, hidden narrative—the true one—to all our lives. It is borne and acknowledged only by us, unless we are fortunate enough to slay our pride and pour it out in our tears before our God.





















The stories of these farming families are fading fast. If I survive my aunt, I may be able to pass them along, but only imperfectly. It will not be my recollection, but only my impression of her remembrance. The stories I coaxed from my dad are no longer as fresh as I thought they would always be. To the extent that any are passed to my son, he will not have the context that even I had, hearing them from my dad. This is the way of all things. David Bentley Hart has recently written that “the past is a fiction of the present.” Undoubtedly so, but hopefully the fiction will not be too fanciful.

The only subject I shy away from with my aunt is that of religion. For you see, she is a Jehovah’s Witness (or in the garbled English of my Greek Orthodox friend, “Jehovian Witnesses.”) Certainly there was no tradition of such in my family. My cousins explain that whoever knocked on her door that particular day would have got her, and it just so happened that it was the Witnesses. Her children were raised Episcopalian and were largely grown at the time. Neither they nor my uncle would have any truck with it. So, this has been a solitary road for my aunt (though seemingly the Witness community provide her with the social interaction she craves.) I have been told that perhaps my uncle moved to Arkansas, at least in part, to get away from the Witnesses. The joke was on him, however. For when they pulled up to the property, the yard was full of Witnesses, there to help them unload. Apparently the hills are full of them. I would never argue with her, but there is little in the way of common ground here, other than just a general agreement about the folly of modernity. I get a bit uneasy when the conversation turns in this direction, as I know that I am being “witnessed” to. We are all seeking, and at least she admits so honestly. Lord have mercy on us all.

Their oldest daughter lives in the county seat, about 16 miles away. In my mind, she was always the glamorous one of us cousins. As a long-time flight attendant, she flew the Atlanta-Dublin route twice a week. With this profession, my cousin was able to jet here and there around Europe with ease. I now know this to be a demanding job, physically and emotionally taxing, and hardly glamorous. But even as a youngster, I looked with awe on those who traveled the world. Upon her retirement from Delta, she sold her condo outside of Atlanta, and relocated, somewhat incongruously, to the Arkansas Ozarks. While a cheaper lifestyle was certainly part of the equation, the primary motivation was to attend to her aging parents. My cousin purchased a home that is something right out of a Norman Rockwall painting. Her back yard, full of fruit trees and flowers, is home to 2 dogs, 3 cats, 7 chickens, a duck and 2 birds. To support herself, she purchased a little mercantile establishment in the nearby crossroads of Parthenon. Here, she is the sole proprietress of the Parthenon General Store, which she describes as a Mom-and-Pop operation, but without the Pop. She makes all the purchases and stocks the store herself, working 6 ½ days a week. Often she is too exhausted to attend Mass, as the nearest Catholic Church is over in the next county. Along the way, she hovers around the periphery of her parent’s lives, running interference and doing those things which permit them the luxury of living their “independent” lives. My uncle can still drive my aunt to the doctor’s office, but if a hospital visit occurs, then my cousin shutters her store and takes off to do whatever is necessary. At times this life can be incredibly frustrating, and she becomes impatient with the petty, small bickering that goes on, as a matter of course, between two people who have grown old together. But this is not for their ears, and she continues to be a daughter to her aged parents.

I contemplated these things while sitting in a rocking chair in her store. Life takes funny turns. My cousin, who spent a lot of time in Europe, with friends and acquaintances from all over, surely never imagined she would be working the counter of a store in Parthenon, Arkansas, bantering and joking with the hay-haulers coming in to replenish their supply of Levi Garrett snuff. Once, the course she has chosen in life would have not been remarkable at all, when “doing the right thing” as they say, was instinctive and commonplace. Not so, these days. But a life well-lived has its consolations, and abounds with small graces.

Road Trip

In light of the economic realities of 2009, there will be no overseas adventures for me this year. Instead, I am leaving on a rambling back road trip through the Midwest and upper South. I am excited to see some regions of the country yet unfamiliar to me. Strategically-placed friends and cousins in Arkansas, Missouri, Minnesota and Michigan help ease the financial impact of such an undertaking. Visits to monasteries and sketes along the way are planned, and a brewery or two are on tap. Any driving I do is liable to include a genealogical side road, so I will probably find myself wandering through a cemetery or two, as well. To the extent that I have opportunity--and have something to say--I will try to post from time to time.

Spengler

For a number of years I have enjoyed the essays written under the nom de plume "Spengler" at the Asia Times site. This continues to be an excellent source of information, from a perspective beyond our shores. The irony of his appropriation of Oswald Spengler, author of The Decline of the West, in a premier Asian news source was not lost on me. Spengler has recently revealed his identity. He is, in fact, Donald P. Goldman. His story is an interesting one: a former bureaucrat at the National Security Council, musicologist , successful but disaffected Wall Street financier, a disciple of Franz Rosenzweig, who at last rediscovered Judaism. Goldman revealed his identity after recently assuming a position as associate editor of First Things. There was a time when I read every issue from cover to cover, but in recent years have given them a pass. The magazine have been a bit too triumphalist for my taste, too clearly identified with partisan American politics and have never really owned-up to their complicity in neocon misadventures in the Middle East and elsewhere. But who knows, with Spengler now associated, I may give them a look from time to time.

Goldman made a number of important points in his revelatory essay, below:

Youth culture...was an oxymoron, for culture itself was a bridge across generations, a means of cheating mortality. The old and angry cultures of the world, fighting for room to breathe against the onset of globalization, would not go quietly into the homogenizer. Many of them would fight to survive, but fight in vain, for the tide of modernity could not be rolled back….The end of the old ethnicities, I believed, would dominate the cultural and strategic agenda of the next several decades. Great countries were failing of their will to live, and it was easy to imagine a world in which Japanese, German, Italian and Russian would turn into dying languages only a century hence. Modernity taxed the Muslim world even more severely, although the results sometimes were less obvious.

Goldman explains his use of the pseudonym in this way:

To inform a culture that it is going to die does not necessarily win friends, and what I needed to say would be hurtful to many readers. I needed to tell the Europeans that their post-national, secular dystopia was a death-trap whence no-one would get out alive. I needed to tell the Muslims that nothing would alleviate the unbearable sense of humiliation and loss that globalization inflicted on a civilization that once had pretensions to world dominance. I needed to tell Asians that materialism leads only to despair. And I needed to tell the Americans that their smugness would be their undoing….And it was not hard to show that the remnants of the tribal world lurking under the cover of Islam were not living, but only undead, incapable of withstanding the onslaught of modernity, throwing a tantrum against their inevitable end.

Spengler references a prescient quote from Benedict XVI, made in 1996 when he was a Cardinal:

"Perhaps we have to abandon the idea of the popular Church. Possibly, we stand before a new epoch of Church history with quite different conditions, in which Christianity will stand under the sign of the mustard seed, in small and apparently insignificant groups, which nonetheless oppose evil intensively and bring the Good into the world." The best mind in the Catholic Church squarely considered the possibility that Christianity itself might shrink into seeming insignificance….The wells of culture had run dry, because they derived from faith to begin with….Art doesn’t exist for art’s sake.

The essay can be found here.

The House of Death

The House of Death by William Blake

It is the ceaseless labour of our life to build the house of death.
Michel de Montaigne

The extent to which one contemplates death is as accurate a barometer as any, I would think, of how out-of-step one is with our prevailing culture. I tend to think about death, a lot. And having just re-read Alexander Schmemann's For the Life of the World, I am struck by how prescient his observations from 1963 are, in this regard, for our contemporary secular society.

It would be a great mistake, however, to think of secularism as simply an "absence of religion." It is, in fact, itself a religion, and as such, an explanation of death and a reconciliation with it....Secularism is an "explanation" of death in terms of life. The only world we know is this world, the only life given to us is this life-so thinks a secularist-and it is up to us men to make it as meaningful, as rich, as happy as possible. Life ends with death. This is unpleasant, but since it is natural, since death is a universal phenomenon, the best thing man can do about it is simply to accept it as something natural. As long as he lives, however, he need not think about it, but should live as though death did not exist. The best way to forget about death is to be busy, to be useful, to be dedicated to great and noble things, to build an always better world. If God exists...and if He, in His love and mercy...wants to reward us for our busy, useful and righteous life with eternal vacations, traditionally called "immortality," it is strictly His gracious business. But immortality is an appendix (however eternal) to this life, in which all real interest, all true values are to be found.

Living "as though death did not exist" does indeed seem the way of the modern world. Not without irony, it is the American funeral industry itself (and the funereal habits/customs that have grown up around it) that perhaps best exemplifies our death-denying culture. And, as in most things, we have a unique take on death and dying here in the South. My wife and I have sometimes found humor in the funeral fetishes of her extended clan. "Visitations" are just that--a time to catch up with relatives and neighbors, perhaps to see who was "laid-out" in the next room and, of course, to critique the handiwork of the particular funeral home. These gatherings are carried off with all the solemnity of a backyard barbecue. At all costs, no one ever talks about the reality of the body in the next room. One great-aunt whose limited mobility eventually prohibited her from attending these events, used to minutely question those who did, sometimes asking if the deceased, ahem, "laid a good corpse." Two contemporary cousins--not at all aged--carry on the silliness. One, to my knowledge, has been planning her last rites for years, having chosen her funeral hymns 20 years ago. Unfortunately, she suffers from robust health, the age-old curse of hypochondriacs. Another spent all last year trying to convince family and friends, as well as a host of doctors, nurses and emergency room technicians in 4 hospitals that she was near death and in need of constant support and sympathy. Having failed at a memorable death, she has shifted tactics. This year is devoted to angling for the absolute best deal on her funeral "pre-need" policy, described as the "last thread hanging" in her life. One assumes that after this is arranged, she will lie down on her bed, fold her arms and await death...or the housekeeper, whichever comes first. Such ridiculous behavior is, of course, silly, self-absorbed, and ultimately sad. But even these antics prove Schmemann's point: all of this noise is merely avoidance and denial of the oncoming reality of death.

Several factors have converged to turn my thoughts in this direction. My readings these days come more and more from the Orthodox ascetical writers--St. Isaac, St. Silouan, Archimandrite Sophrony, Elder Ephrem, Elder Paisios, etc.--and this clearly is a factor. Participation in my first Orthodox funeral, recounted here and here also plays a part. A post by Rod Dreher regarding the recent loss of his grandmother, here put me in mind of my own mother's death. Gabriel's posts about the loss of his grandfather, here and here reminded me of the emptiness I felt, at age 8, of the loss of my granddad. Finally, Christopher Buckley recent article on the loss of parents Bill and Pat Buckley in 2007 and 2008, here, gave me pause for thought, as well as the lead quotation from Montaigne.

Christopher Buckley is a gifted writer, whose father was a genius and mother a flamboyant and outrageous grand dame. His account offers a fascinating peek into this rarefied atmosphere. Interestingly, his story generated not the least bit of envy on my part. Stringing lights on your yacht anchored in the Caribbean does not a Christmas make. I recall watching an interview in which he described his parents--not at all critically--as really two impossible people. I suspect they were indeed. But for all his father's literary and intellectual acclaim, and the social set over which his mother presided, the estate in Greenwich, the Swiss chalet and the salon on the Upper East Side--it made no difference in the end. From their son's account, their deaths were altogether pedestrian--empty hospital rooms, monitors, I.V.s, ventilators, oxygen tanks--and ultimately, quite sad. Going through life high, wide and handsome means less than nothing on that day. Christopher Buckley, son of the very observant Catholic Bill Buckley, is himself non croyant, which adds a further layer of melancholy to the account.

This is in sharp contrast to the stories told by Rod and Gabriel in their recent losses. I have quoted from Rod's post at length, below.

She "talked" silently with someone no one else could see for some time. She told my mother, "God tells me he will take care of me, and will take care of y'all." And then: "He wants me to go with him. Tell him I don't want to go yet." My mother told her that it was fine for her to leave, to go in peace. The old lady said no, it's not yet time, and to please let God know. So that's what my mother did. And then Helen's pain went away....I found myself thinking about the poor thing, lying in that bed, scared out of her wits, in excruciating pain, knowing her life was coming to an end -- and then God came, and ministered to her. Was it really Him? I don't know. But this afternoon, the presence of the Almighty, if only in her mind, eased the suffering of a dying woman. And one day, we will all be like she is tonight. Whether my grandmother had a hidden faith, or only this afternoon acknowledged her Creator, praise His holy name for coming to her at the hour of her death, and showing mercy....But that's not all that happened today in that hospital room. A greater miracle occurred, one that really touches me....This afternoon in that hospital room, my mother and her mother talked at length of old times, of happy things from her childhood. Helen never brought up the meanness of those days, and my mother wouldn't have wanted her to, not now. As it happened, Helen was baptized as a young woman in a Baptist church in small-town Mississippi, and had been active in the congregation with my mother as a little girl, until her husband put a stop to it. They talked about that, and all kinds of memories. Somehow, it made my mom (and, hearing her tell the story, me) see her mother in a new light, as a fellow sufferer in that household who was frightened and confused and powerless and desperately, achingly poor. I could hear in my mother's voice as she told the story of events in the hospital room today that her heart -- and my mom has a good heart -- was full of mercy and forgiveness for past wrongs, and what she had to bear alone. None of what happened back then mattered anymore. The past was past. No words of reconciliation were spoken, but they didn't have to be. The circle is complete. My mom is at peace, and so is my grandmother. Mercy won the day.

On some level, Helen's story reminded me of my mother, and her last hours on earth. Lucy was a complex woman. Her early life was harsh and brutal, and her marriage to my dad was very much an escape. My mother had many admirable qualities. She was thrifty, hard-working, fastidious, disciplined, strong-willed and plain-spoken. She was ferociously loyal to her blood kin. Mother did not gossip; she minded her own business and expected others to mind theirs. She was the most stoic person I ever met, never complaining about her plight in life, or feeling sorry for herself.

But as with all of us, there was a flip side. Her thriftiness bordered on miserliness. She never understood that there could be differences in opinion, only contradictions to what was right, which happened to be whatever she thought on a particular subject. In a similar vein, she never understood that being blunt was not always a virtue. Mother was suspicious of everyone beyond her immediate family connections, and she made few friends. She was not in the least bit sentimental. And like Christopher Buckley said about his mother, "I [n]ever once heard [her]utter a religious or spiritual sentiment."

Lucy came from a family of the most nominal of nominal Baptists, and of them I would say, with Montaigne, "nothing is so firmly believed as what we least know." She did have a Bible, but I never saw her open it. Her bedstead was purchased in 1954, when the style was to have cabinets with sliding doors built into the headboard. The Bible stayed in the right-hand cabinet, in the box it came in. To leave it out, would have meant just one more thing to dust. When I was young, I would sneak into her bedroom, get the Bible out of the box and look at the pictures. My sister has it now, perhaps still in its presentation box.

Unlike my background, my wife came from a church-going family. Soon after our marriage, we attended a family meal at my parent's house. I never remember saying grace over meals growing up, and my dad, perceptive as always, was sensitive to his new daughter-in-law's sensibilities. Before the meal, he asked my mother, somewhat rhetorically, if we shouldn't say grace before eating. My mother shot back with "Well why should we do that? We raised every bit of it ourselves." Technically, my mother was right; the vegetables came from our garden, and the beef from our cattle. Aside from the butter, flour, sugar, and tea, nothing was purchased. For that was my mother's religion--the old American canard that "the Lord helps those who help themselves." But my dad, raised in a Christian home, was rightfully shocked, recognizing the impart of my mother's words. She just looked at him, as if to say "well?" That is another similarity my mother shared with Mrs. Buckley--she never apologized for anything.

Time ran down for my mother, as it does for all. She outlived her husband, a son, a grandson, all five of her siblings and several nieces and nephews. I remember being with her in the doctor's office in September before her death in March. He told her what she already knew, namely that all that could be done, had been done, and any treatments thereafter would be sacrificing quality of life to quantity of life. She looked straight ahead at him and simply said, "Well, I'm not going to give up. And I'm not going to fall to pieces." And she didn't. In her last hospital stay before death, she told me that she loved all of us. That was her only real acknowledgment to us that her time was short. My wife and I brought her to her own bed, at her own home, where we watched over her for that last week. The morning before her death that night, Mother was a bit delirious, not in great pain, but drifting in and out of consciousness. She raised both of her arms, as if trying to wave, it seemed. And then she said "I just want to tell everybody hello." My sister had stopped by, and said, "we're right here, Mamma," or something to that effect. My mother did not really acknowledge that, but repeated, "I just want to tell everybody hello."

Who she was seeing, we could not see. But I had witnessed this before. About 15 years earlier, I was with her nephew--my cousin--at his death. We were not close; for he was much older, and while my maternal cousins were always close at hand, there was never much interaction between us. But we shared, I think, an unspoken understanding of the great tragedy and desolation that had befallen our common family. My cousin was soft-spoken and introspective, and I was told that in his youth he liked to be alone and read, as did his dad. But he went to Vietnam, and that changed things...as did a string of marriages. Finally, he succumbed to lung cancer while only in his mid 40s. At the time, my mother was undergoing her first round of chemotherapy, and my wife was staying with her. On the day of his death, I was alone with my cousin and his nurse. By that time he was a gaunt and hollow-eyed shadow of his former self. His 3rd wife, and his children from the 2nd wife, had gone to the funeral home to make arrangements. (For the life of me, I still cannot understand this. Could they not wait?) My cousin was no longer able to speak, and he had a wild-eyed look about him. But then he raised both arms above his head, slightly bent at the elbow. His nurse conjectured that he probably needed to have a bowel movement and was motioning for us to raise him from the bed. Following her lead, we linked hands and began to lift him up for that purpose. While doing so, his spirit left his body and he died in our arms.

I have thought often of this episode. I now believe the nurse was wrong as could be. For when my cousin raised his hands, I believe he was seeing/experiencing much the same thing as my mother, and Rod's grandmother. Even if only in their minds, it was a great mercy, an ease to their suffering and a consolation to those of us yet constructing our house of death.

The Torment of St. Anthony

Michelangelo's artistic output was extraordinary, but I never realized that he produced only 4 known easel paintings. Two are in London's National Gallery, one is in the Uffizi in Florence, and come this autumn, the other with be in Fort Worth, Texas. The Kimbell Museum has pulled off a major coup in the acquisition of The Torment of Saint Anthony, painted in about 1487 or 1488, when Michelangelo was 12 or 13 years old. I found it interesting, obviously, because of the subject matter, but also as it provided more proof of the treasure that is the Kimbell Museum. Read about it here.

Better Go While You Can

Today's New York Times Travel Section carries a good article on Tbilisi., here.

Unfortunately, they are touting the city as the next big destination; not exactly Paris or Prague, but on a par with St. Petersburg or Moscow.

So, visit while there is still time, before this diamond in the rough gets all dressed up with tourist infrastructure and high-rise hotels.

"To solve our problems requires that we see ourselves as we really are"

Driving home from church on Sunday, I like to listen to a bit of Fareed Zakaria on the radio. This last week, he was interviewing Defense Secretary Gates. Fareed asked if the US is falling into an "imperial trap" -- spending too much time and energy putting out all of the fires of the world, while countries like China concentrate on building a great prosperous industrial machine." I found Gates' answer to be instructive. He denied that the U.S. was an imperial power, but utilized the now-familiar bromide that America was an indispensable power (This, of course, from President Clinton's Second Inaugural Address. Thanks, Bill.) Gates concluded that "If you look around the world, nothing ever gets done without American leadership at the end of the day."

This is as self-serving a myth as there is. But this view of American exceptionalism--our "indispensability," if you will, is not confined to the upper echelons of power. This self-perception, coupled with an exalted view of individualism and our unique take on liberty forms the very foundation of American society. This is the creed of our public religion. At a recent prayer breakfast in my city, a Methodist minister offered the following (as a prayer, mind you):

"Wherever there is injustice and wherever there is an abuse of civil rights, American military personnel is there. We get bad mouthed by other nations for sticking our nose where it doesn't belong, but our nose belongs where we go because God has commissioned us to be the caretakers, the protectors of the world."

This is a jingoistic perspective, with little thought to its implications, to be sure--but hardly unique in my part of the nation. For this reason, it is all the more important that the viewpoints expressed in Andrew Bacevich's The Limits of Power: The End of American Exceptionalism receive wider circulation. I have been reading about the book for months now, but put off actually reading it until after Great Lent. In my estimation, this is an essential book that should take its place on the shelf with Huntington, Lukacs and Kennan.

A few quotes from Bacevich (a retired military man who lost his son in Iraq):

Seeing themselves as a peaceful people, Americans remain wedded to the conviction that the conflicts in which they find themselves embroiled are not of their own making. The global war on terror is no exception. Certain of our own benign intentions, we reflexively assign responsibility for war to others, typically malignant Hitler-like figures inexplicable bent on denying us the peace that is our fondest wish.


Freedom is the altar at which Americans worship, whatever their nominal religious persuasion. "No one sings odes to liberty as the final end of life with greater fervor than Americans," the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr once observed. Yet even as they celebrate freedom, Americans exempt the object of their veneration from critical examination.


Niebuhr once wrote disapprovingly of Americans, their "culture soft and vulgar, equating joy with happiness and happiness with comfort."


Centered on consumption and individual autonomy...as individuals, American never cease to expect more.


Crediting the United States with a "great liberating tradition" distorts the past and obscures the actual motive force behind American politics and U. S. foreign policy. It transforms history into a morality tale, thereby providing a rationale for dodging serious moral analysis.


Accept the proposition that America is freedom's tribune, and it becomes a small step to believing that the "peace process" aims to achieve peace, that Iraq qualifies as a sovereign state, and that Providence has summoned the United States to wage an all-out war against "terrorism."


The Big Lies are the truths that remain unspoken: that freedom has an underside; that nations, like households, must ultimately live within their means; that history's purpose, the subject of so many confident pronouncements, remains inscrutable."


By extension, Americans ought to give up the presumptuous notion that they are called upon to tutor Muslims in matters relating to freedom and the proper relationship between politics and religion. The principle informing policy should be this: let Islam be Islam. In the end, Muslims will have to discover for themselves the shortcomings of political Islam, much as Russians discovered the defect of Marxist-Leninism and the Chinese came to appreciate the flaws of Maoism--perhaps even as we ourselves will one day begin to recognize the snares embedded in American exceptionalism."

As is the case on most topics, Daniel Larison has some cogent comments on the pernicious influence of American exceptionalism (this from a post deconstructing a particularly sophomoric article by Dallas Morning News columnist Mark Davis in defense of the concept.)

There are good reasons to push back against the idea of American exceptionalism, if only because it does seem to encourage tired jingoism far too often, but we should do this mainly to show that there is the possibility of an admiring respect that need not devolve into arrogant triumphalism that American exceptionalism tends to encourage....Confidence in America and respect for our actual, genuinely considerable accomplishments as a people are natural and worthy attitudes to have. Understanding the full scope of our history, neither airbrushing out the crimes nor dishonoring and forgetting our heroes, is the proper tribute we owe to our country and our ancestors. Exaggeration and bluster betray a lack of confidence in America, and strangely this lack of confidence seems concentrated among those most certain that mostly imaginary “declinists” are ruining everything. More humble confidence and less horror that our President is not engaged in stupid demonstrations of machismo might be the appropriate response to present realities.

He also links a recent excellent article by Bacevich, here.

There was a time in my life (in the not so very distant past) when I accepted such views unquestioningly, as I suppose most people do. Obviously, my conversion to Orthodoxy signaled a marked change in attitude. My self-perception and my relationship to others as fellow-citizens of a particular nation have undergone a thorough-going and much-need overhaul. I would be curious how other Orthodox see this evolution of thought in their own lives.

Watch on the Bosphorus

Halki Seminary on Heybeliada


I am currently reading George Friedman's The Next 100 Years: A Forecast for the 21st Century. His is an interesting take on what this century may hold for us. I appreciate the fact that he is a clear-eyed realist who takes a really long view of things, seemingly little concerned with any ideological presuppositions.

In short, he sees the 21st Century, not the one just past, as the "American Century." His forecasts run counter to today's conventional wisdom. Friedman does not see turmoil within the Islamic world as an existential threat to the West, nor does he believe our present contretemps to be of any great duration. Western Europe will fade, with or without Muslim immigration. He sees China's influence as limited, and ultimately waning. Russia will undergo a brief resurgence before collapsing once more. Nor does he see much influence arising out of India. I find him irritatingly matter-of-fact about the transformation of the traditional family, but even this is part and parcel of his dispassionate analytical style. Friedman attributes our continued dominance not to any sort of American exceptionalism, but rather to simple geographic, demographic, cultural and military factors. In other words, America will prevail not because we are right, or better than others, but simply because we are fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time with enough resources and a navy that controls the sea lanes. I do take issue with some bothersome sloppiness in the book. A map of the Muslim world should not include Serbia, Armenia, Ethiopia, the Philippines (as a whole) and this howler--Sri Lanka.

As they say, only time will tell. Personally, I am not at all assured that America will stride through the century as others nations stumble; nor am I convinced that it would be a particularly good thing if we did. And yet, for the most part, Friedman does not engage in wild speculations, but forecasts based on the long history of how particular nations and peoples are prone to act. Of particular interest is his prediction of the rise of new powers in this century. That Japan makes this short list is not surprising, but one does not expect the inclusion of Mexico, Turkey and Poland.

Of course, my interest lies with Turkey, and I find Friedman's prognostications to be eminently realistic. Basically, he sees Turkey resuming the role it has traditionally played in the region. The Turks will fill the gaping leadership void in the Muslim world, and act as a counterweight to Russian revanchism in the Caucusus region and the Balkans.

With this in mind, I was interested to read a recent post by Mustafa Akyol, here, on the Orthodox seminary at Halki. Akyol writes for the Hurriyat Daily News, a major Turkish newspaper, where this article first appeared. There are no breaking developments on the reopening of the seminary, though Akyol does present a good synopsis of the who and why of the Halki closure. What is of note, however, is that the issue is being publicly discussed at all. The fact that a noted Muslim writer would address the issue, and call for the reopening of this Orthodox institution, in an editorial of a major Turkish newspaper (and even quoting St. Augustine to boot) is of no little significance. He notes that "the Turkish citizens of the Greek Orthodox persuasion are our citizens, for God's sake, not the fifth column of someone else." This hearkens back to the old Ottoman approach, and not the secular Kemalist view. So maybe Friedman is onto something. At the very least, it speaks to the rapid transformation underway within this nation. Unlike Friedman, I am making no predictions here, but as my old dad used to say, "it'll do to watch" this Turkish transition into the big leagues.

Pascha in East Texas, 2009

On Pork-pie Hats, Nigerian Evangelists and Baptists in Boots

Sunday was one of those busy days. It being Palm Sunday, the day began with Divine Liturgy marking the Triumphal Entry of Christ into Jerusalem. At coffee hour, I enjoyed visiting with new friends visiting from St. Barbara’s in Fort Worth. He is a fellow Georgiaphile and she is Syrian, so there was much to talk about. For my wife and all the in-laws, however, it was Easter Sunday, which meant going home to host the traditional spread at our house. My son and I were able, however, to successfully maneuver this unLenten minefield of meats and buttery dishes, without calling undue attention to ourselves. Then that night, it was back to the mission for Bridegroom Matins. I really get into the services of Holy Week, but that is not the subject of this post.

Before heading home from church, I stopped by Starbucks to pick up some Sunday newspapers, it being the only place in town to find a NYTimes. I have, of necessity, drastically curbed this habit of late, but I still splurge about once a month on a Sunday Times. Three young people, of the sort that hang around Starbucks (musician-types, if you will) were standing outside smoking. I went in, picked up the Dallas and New York papers, visited briefly with my friend Matt behind the counter, and then left. As I walked out, only one of the young people was still hanging about, a man/boy wearing a yellow pork-pie hat. We spoke in passing, the typical “how’s it going,” and I walked on towards my truck. He called out to me as I passed, saying “so you didn’t go to church today, either?” I stopped and turned around, because I understood what he meant, and took it as a high compliment. I was in faded jeans, although my shirt was tucked-in, which is not always the case. I gather that he assumed that I had not done the “Easter-thing” because I was not suited-up. I turned back, and answered “well actually, I have.” I stood there and talked with him for probably 10 minutes or so. As he finished his cigarette, I listened to a convoluted tale of how he was originally from Indiana, had come down here because of a girl and because God was telling him it was the right thing to do, was involved in a band, had a job, lost it but had hopes of another, and was now living out in the country somewhere. Grant had been raised Pentecostal, and had actually been to church that morning, thinking that he needed to do so that day. He had gone with a friend to a local Metro Church, but found the Easter service so lame he could not stay, and so left and found his way to Starbucks. Mainly I just listened, but at one point I asked if he was thinking (about the service) that “there had to be more to it than this.” He agreed. I told him what I was and he had never heard of such, first assuming I was Orthodox Jewish. I explained very briefly—for this was not a time for a history lecture. I gave him a card from our mission, told him to contact us if we could ever be of any help, and offered up some variation of the standard Orthodox “come and see” approach. I asked Grant if he had any cash, and he said he didn’t and didn’t want any, but I gave him some anyway. We said goodbye and God bless and I went on my way, and he into Starbucks. There are worse ways to spend your cash. There is something about a chance encounter like this. It is not as if the spotlight has been suddenly turned on us, but rather, it is as if we have been in training, and in training for times such time as these--and you come away hoping you didn’t blow it too bad. For me, these are the times when I really have a sense of the spiritual world all around us in which we live and breathe and move--the cosmic drama in which we play our part.

After dinner and before the Bridegroom Matins, I worked my way through the newspapers. With my talk with Grant fresh on my mind, two articles caught my attention. The first was Andrew Rice’s Mission from Africa in the Times Sunday Magazine, here. You don’t expect sympathetic treatment of religion in the Times, particularly the Sunday Magazine. Rice has spent quite some time with the Nigerian-based Redeemer Christian Church of God. Other than quoting 3 times from Philip Jenkins (usually a good indication that a particular article is not a serious inquiry), I found his story to be balanced and insightful.

Founded in the 1950s by Josiah Akindayomi, who after a vision, passed off leadership to charismatic Pastor Enoch Adeboye (known to the faithful as “Daddy G.O.”), the RCCG is at the forefront of a global religious phenomenon, emanating in the Southern Hemisphere, now washing up on our shores. The church claims adherents in 100 nations and is staking a claim on the U.S., as well. In fact, the denomination even has a Texas connection, the church’s continental headquarters on a 550 acre site in rural Hunt County, where “church officials plan to develop…a mixed-use community, with homes, stores, a university, a commercial fish farm and perhaps even a water park.”

While Rice notes the “Africanization” of the Pentecostal movement, he detects how they have adapted themselves to “the modern forces of global crosspollination,” or as Adeboye boasts: “Made in heaven, assembled in Nigeria, exported to the world.” And the church is making inroads among some groups in the U.S., where Adeboye sees “an emptiness in man that can only be filled by God.” In fact, one of their pastors notes that “everything is Americanized.” This, however, is not always a recipe for success.

Church leaders are quick to contest any suggestion that they preach the “prosperity gospel” extolled by American evangelists like Creflo Dollar, which teaches that God will grant material wealth to those he favors, but whatever distinction they’re making is small. (“I am not a prosperity preacher,” James Fadele said at one sermon I attended, “but I am rich!”) Redeemed pastors routinely petition God to transform their followers into millionaires, members are encouraged to tithe and the Sunday collection is accompanied by joyous fanfare. At various events I attended, I heard Fadele ask members to raise money to help Adeboye buy a private jet (which duly arrived in March) and to sign up to accompany the general overseer, at a cost of up to $8,500 a person, on a coming pilgrimage to Jerusalem, which is to feature luxury hotel accommodation and a re-enactment of the Last Supper.


















Indeed, the RCGG has become so Americanized that their Nigerian pastors often harken back to the founding fathers of the nation, praying that the country will return to its “old glory.” Another exhorted his congregation: “This is our Jerusalem! Father, restore the old glory back to our nation.” still another prays, "I am not an American by chance. I am in this country of plenty because you have a plan for me.”


The front page article, here, in the Sunday Dallas Morning News was also tied to religion, chronicling the continued growth of the Texas-born “Cowboy Church,” now expanding throughout the South, West and Midwest. I don’t want to continue to “beat a dead horse,” for I have commented on this group years before, here. On the surface, they appear to be on the opposite end of the American Religiosity Mall from the Redeemer Church folks, but on closer examination, appear to be selling much the same wares. Long a novelty, cowboy churches have in recent years become a bona fide, Texas-based movement, showing strong growth in congregations, attendance and baptisms even as much of denominational Christianity in the United States is losing ground.

I learned a few things I didn’t know about the Cowboy Churches. First, they are directly supported by the Baptist General Convention of Texas (the BGCT.) The Cowboy Churches are, in short, Southern Baptists in boots. They number 136 churches in Texas, with a new one opening every week. According to the writer, they offer “simple Bible-based sermons and live country music,” where “pastors further set the tone by wearing cowboy hats, doffed only for prayer.” The most disturbing bit of information however, was learning that most services concluded with that old Roy Rogers-Dale Evans chestnut, “Happy Trails.” Sermons are kept short, for as one pastor noted, “they’re not going to sit there for very long....We try to be in and out in an hour.” (Orthodox Christians, particularly here during Holy Week, are allowed one derisive snort at the unintended humor of this last remark.) These factors, and others, indicate that one has not exactly waded off into the deep end of the pool at one of these gatherings.

There are other tidbits—the writer seems to find it unique that they use horse troughs for baptisms (which are not at all unusual to this Orthodox Christian.) The more important factor, however, is that the church is in the baptizing business. Though it accounts for only 2% of the BGCT membership, it supplies 10% of new baptisms. Interestingly, 70% of these baptisms are of adult men.

Still, I have to admit that I just don’t get it. They claim to “celebrate Western culture while trying to reach both cowboys and tenderfoots with an unpretentious and nonjudgmental approach...people who have a problem with the traditional church.” As one pastor concludes that "what we’re really shooting for is to keep the riffraff in....We tell people to come as they are, and buddy they do.” These are admirable sentiments, I suppose, but what I think they have done is to build a straw man which they use as justification to fashion church the way they want it. One can always find a stuffy church in which one is not particularly welcomed. But in my 27 years as a professing evangelical Protestant, I never felt the constraints of any unreasonable dress code. Men (or women) in casual western dress would have drawn no particular attention at all.

It seems that members have largely constructed a church around the lifestyle they enjoy, or the image they wish to project. “I’m doing everything I want to do…and I am doing it as a Christian,” said one. Maybe I’m wrong, but I thought that was a big part of being a Christian, that we not get to do everything we want. Another just likes Western dress, music and movies, stating that “if there’s a Western movie on, my TV is on.”

But one of the pastors let out a secret that I have long suspected. He concluded that “of the 700 people who go to our church, there’s probably not a dozen that I could bring out to the ranch and could actually help me some....The rest I’d make sit in the truck.” Even this percentage may be as overstated as some of the old OCA membership statistics, for most are just people who like to dress western and drive a truck. In short, the church seems built upon little more than a fashion statement. I make no claims to cowboydom, but my dad was a real cowboy, from a part of the state where that was the norm (which is to say, not from around here.) I know the real thing when I see it.

If the Redeemer Church and the Cowboy Church were my only choices, I’m not exactly sure what I would do. The singing of “Happy Trails to You” would probably be an insurmountable hurdle for me, though. Chances are, I’d chuck them both and go hang out with my friend in the pork-pie hat.

More on Obama in Turkey: Meeting with the EP

Good story and photos, here:

ORA ET LABORA: Obama and Halki

File Under "You Can't Make This Stuff Up"

The BYU student newspaper recently ran a story regarding the LDS Church's leadership, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. Their caption, however, read "The Quorum of the Twelve Apostates." As they say, from the mouth of babes and college students. Read it here.

Obama Does Istanbul

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Photos of the President's visit to Turkey, here, with related stories.

One of Obama in the Haghia Sophia:



















And this one, meeting with religious leaders:




















Indeed, Obama went out of his way to reach out to religious leaders of all stripes during his visit to Turkey. Here, he meets with, from left to right, Syrian Orthodox Archbishop Yusuf Cetin, Grand Mufti of Istanbul Professor Mustafa Cagrici, Chief Rabbi of Istanbul Isak Haleva and Armenian Patriarch for all Turkey Mesrob II Archbishop Aram Stesyan.