Here are two columns to get you started on Lent -- the first one is new, the
second is "recycled" from last year. I don't have a lot in the way of
editorial notes this time, except to say that I thought this first column was
going to be serious and when I sat down to write it it came out funny.
Sometimes they trick you that way.
We've had a very beautiful first week of Lent at Holy Cross, with portions of
the Canon of St. Andrew every night (last night ending about 11 pm, since the
Liturgy of the PreSanctified came first). If you haven't visited an Orthodox
church before, Lent is the time to do it, because these these evening
services are some of our most beautiful, tranquil, haunting, and ancient. At
Holy Cross we have something most every night, with "big" services on Weds
and Fri, but as they say, check local listings.
I'm spending this week doing the polish-up rewrite on my next book, due from
Paraclete Press in the fall. It'll be a small one, for their "Pocket Faith"
series, and my goal is to introduce people to the spirituality of the early
church, not just understanding it but giving some tools to begin practicing
it (constant prayer, fasting). Title is in flux; we've thought about "Sweet
Sorrow: Repentance, Humility, and Divine Transformation" (but that sounds
like it's my own devotional thoughts, and not a summary of the early church's
approach) and "The Illuminated Heart: The Transforming Spirituality of the
Early Church" (clearer, but not as lovely). I think my editor leans toward
the first, but I'm trying to picture one guy saying to another, "Hey, did you
read that book, 'Sweet Sorrow'"? It sounds like a romance novel. Hmmm,
romance spirituality, maybe there's a niche for me...cowboy on the cover,
next to a church with an onion dome...
FREDERICA MATHEWES-GREEN
Ancient Faith, Modern Life
The Joy of Filboid Stuge
I could squeak through fasting rules with a 'Virtue Cookie,' but should I try
to?
A person can only hope to accomplish so much in a lifetime, and of course
many of the better discoveries (fire, the wheel, the home Jeopardy game) have
already been taken. But I can rest easier now that my own contribution to
mankind has been perfected. I have discovered the moral equivalent of
oatmeal.
It goes like this. You know that eating oatmeal is the most noble act a human
can perform in the course of food consumption. It's the right thing to do, as
some wise man (Copernicus?) once said. This is because, face it, oatmeal is
not very appealing. Once in a bowl, it transitions quickly from homey to
homely, and in bright morning light is a soggy, depressing mess. What better
sight to thrill our sense of duty?
H.H. Munro (pen name: Saki) played with this theme a century ago in his short
story "Filboid Studge." Sales for this mushy cereal boomed when bland, cheery
ads were replaced with a depiction of the damned in hell reaching for bowls
held just out of reach by fiends. The new slogan ran, "They cannot buy it
now."
Orthodox Christians are quite familiar with oatmeal, since it's one of the
few foods indisputably allowed during the fast. We fast frequently, about
half the year in all, including nearly every Wednesday and Friday, seven
weeks before Pascha (Easter), six weeks before Nativity (Christmas), and two
shorter periods in summer. For us, fasting means abstaining from certain
foods: meat, fish, dairy, alcoholic beverages, and olive oil (some say all
oils). Oatmeal for breakfast, spaghetti marinara for dinner, and a peanut
butter sandwich for lunch. Over and over again.
So it was on a fast evening not long ago that I was languishing while
thoughts of cookies--or better yet, cookie dough–-danced in my head. Then
inspiration struck. What if I made oatmeal, but left out most of the water?
Added a little flour? Put in salt, brown sugar, and the pat of margarine I
usually would? A few seconds in the microwave, and then a sprinkle of
semi-sweet chocolate chips (they're non-dairy). Voila–-cookie dough.
Basically, it's still oatmeal. Anybody who says otherwise can just step
outside. And it's totally fast-worthy. I call it "Virtue Cookies."
Now, even I knew there was something wrong with this picture. This,
naturally, did not stop me from making up a bowlful of Virtue Cookies every
night for a week. But somehow I knew it violated the spirit of the fast, that
maddeningly amorphous standard that is so clear in hindsight and so foggy
when viewed from the front. Technically, the dish contained no forbidden
items. What nibbled at my conscience is that it was a treat.
This has been a point of confusion for me ever since I started keeping the
fast. Nowhere do the guidelines forbid sweets. But there had to be something
wrong when I'd stand in the grocery line and think, "I can't have a chocolate
bar, so I'll just grab that bag of jelly beans." Or the time I left a service
station with a Moon Pie, delighted that it had no dairy ingredients. (In
fact, a Moon Pie probably has no natural ingredients. The whole thing may be
a kind of hologram.)
Over the years, I've gone back and forth. Surely these letter-of-the-law
squeakers can't be right. But on the other hand, who am I to make up the
rules? Do I think I'm smarter than centuries of Orthodox believers before me?
Don't the stories of the Desert Fathers warn against adopting heightened
spiritual disciplines, and spurning the humble, communal norm? If the
seventh-century authority on asceticism St. John Climacus says that Moon Pies
are OK (well, not in so many words), they're OK.
All this got clearer for me the other night when a non-Orthodox friend was
urging us to try her homemade meatballs. "Would God really mind if we had
one?" my friend whispered to me. That's when it hit me: Of course God doesn't
mind. We're not doing the fasting for God anyway. We do it for ourselves.
We Orthodox routinely use the image of athletics as the analogy for spiritual
discipline but don't always think it through. Like other disciplines, the
fast should make us stronger. It should help us peel away our attachment to
pet, controllable pleasures that substitute for entering the bracing presence
of God.
All joys and pleasures on this earth are hors d'oeuvres, provided as a
foretaste of the banquet to come. They let us glimpse where we're ultimately
bound. Only a bad party guest would grab the tray from a passing waiter and
hunker in a corner, stuffing every last mushroom cap in her mouth. Yet that's
what we're tempted to do in this life, because although food, sex,
entertainment, and such give only passing pleasure, at least they are under
our control. We'd rather chew those crusts than enter the ravishing joy we
were made for because, to tell the truth, it's frightening. In the brilliant
light of God, the shadows stand out sharply, and we cannot avoid seeing our
own failings and weakness. We see his overwhelming love and know it will not
rest until we are wholly transformed, strengthened to endure that consuming
fire.
In the end, that is the only real joy there is. In the present, it can seem
pretty scary. I'll take the jelly beans, thank you, and think about all that
another time.
Fasting is to transformation as exercise is to an athlete. We try to peel our
fingers off certain food favorites and so gain more control over all our
greedy impulses. An athlete who lifts weights does so not just to lift
weights but to make himself stronger in all circumstances. While other
religious traditions restrict certain foods as unclean, that's not the case
for us. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with meat, fish, and dairy foods,
or we wouldn't start eating them again on the holiest days of the year. So
you don't have to scrutinize bread labels for trace elements of dairy whey
(unless you find whey a particular temptation).
Fussiness about the letter of the fast can backfire, turning into prideful
self-congratulation on one hand and pursuit of yummy loopholes on the other.
Unnecessary, non-nutritious treats don't suit the fast, even if they are
dairy-free. The spirit of the fast, I'm coming to think, is met best by
eating simply, eating less, and trying meal by meal to be obedient to the
guidelines. Some circumstances may require flexibility, and that is not a
catastrophe–-just a missed opportunity to exercise. Of course, too many "just
this onces" make for a roly-poly athlete.
So I can't really defend Virtue Cookies, even though they technically fit the
fast. Perhaps if I left out the flour and chocolate chips, and added more
water, and cooked it longer. A bowl of that might be just right for
breakfast. Yeah! Nope, sorry. It's not working. I just can't work up much
enthusiasm anymore for oatmeal. Maybe if I thought of it as "filboid studge."
****************************
FREDERICA MATHEWES-GREEN
Ancient Faith, Modern Life
Journey Into Orthodox Christian Lent
The Orthodox Church's 'Rite of Forgiveness' is an exhilarating kick-start for
a time that just gets harder.
I am going to have to apologize to someone Sunday night (Feb. 25). In fact,
I am going to have to apologize to about a hundred people--one at a time,
face to face.
I'm looking forward to it.
For Orthodox Christians, Lent begins differently than it does for Protestants
and Catholics. The observance of Ash Wednesday is dramatic and beautiful but
is not in the Eastern tradition. For us, Lent comes in gradually over a
period of weeks, like a cello line subtly weaving itself into our lives.
Ten Sundays, Feb. 4 this year, before Easter (or, as we call it, Pascha), we
heard the Gospel lesson of the Publican and the Pharisee; before we begin the
season of self-denial, we recall that it is futile to boast of self-denial.
The Publican's model of repentance is our aim.
To reinforce that lesson, during the following week there is no fasting. The
Orthodox pattern is to abstain from meat, fish, and dairy products on
Wednesdays and Fridays year round, but this is one of the few weeks that is
suspended and feasting is the rule.
The next Sunday (Feb. 11) we heard the story of the Prodigal Son, perhaps the
most beloved parable. The icon of this scene shows the son in worn clothing,
with his feet in rags; he cradles his sorry head in one hand, while
stretching the other tentatively toward Jesus. There is nothing tentative
about Jesus' response--he is running toward the son, his arms open to
embrace, and a scroll tumbles from his hand: "For this my son was dead and is
alive again; he was lost and is found."
Orthodox confess their sins in the presence of a priest year round, but
everyone must make a confession in Lent before receiving the Eucharist on
Pascha. The awkward pain and embarrassment of admitting our wrongs is the
necessary condition for release and joy. Being thoroughly known, yet loved
anyway, is life's greatest joy. But you must allow yourself to be thoroughly
known.
By the third Sunday, we have reached a watershed. The Gospel readings concern
the Last Judgment, and pull no punches. Here is the choice: humility, or the
cataclysmic rewards of stubborn pride. This Sunday (Feb. 18) is also called
"Meatfare Sunday"--you eat meat this day, because you won't be eating any for
a long time.
During all of Lent, Orthodox strive to abstain from eating certain foods. Our
refraining from these foods does not somehow benefit God or make him like us
more. Fasting is a form of self-discipline, like lifting weights or jogging.
It builds the muscle of self-control. If we can master the temptation to
reach for a cheeseburger, we can resist other daily temptations as they come
along.
Some people find this fast so taxing it would sour them spiritually, and they
must do less. Others find it not stringent enough. No one is to judge anyone
else's fast, or even notice it. But it helps that we all look to a common
standard. Since we all fast from the same things at the same time, we can
trade recipes and commiserate.
With the following Sunday, seven weeks before Pascha, Lent begins in earnest.
This is called "Cheesefare Sunday," and from now until Pascha we will abstain
from meat, fish, dairy products, wine and olive oil. At the evening Vespers
service we trade the bright chant melodies for more sober ones, and say the
prayer of Ephrem the Syrian, a fourth century hermit: "O Lord and Master of
my life, take from me the spirit of sloth, faint-heartedness, lust of power,
and idle talk."
If you were in our church on this Sunday evening you would see us fall to our
knees and then place the palms of our hands on the floor, and touch our
foreheads down between them. This is called "making a prostration." You may
have seen Muslims praying this way toward Mecca. This traditional Middle
Eastern worship expression was used by Christians for centuries before the
founding of Islam.
At last we reach the Rite of Forgiveness. As vespers come to a close,
parishioners form a large circle. Nearest the altar the two ends overlap, as
a deacon turns to face the priest. The priest bows to the ground, then stands
to say, "Forgive me, my brother, for any way I have offended you." After the
deacon says "I forgive you," he bows to the ground, and asks for and receives
the same forgiveness. Then the two embrace. Each of them moves to the next
person in line.
Over the course of an hour or so, every single person will stand face-to-face
with every other person. Each will bow to the ground and ask for forgiveness;
each will bestow forgiveness on the other.
As my husband says, "When we do this, we do something the devil hates."
Teenage brothers and sisters forgive each other. Small children solemnly tell
their mothers, "I forgive you." Folks who have been arguing about the church
budget for months embrace with tears.
In fact, tears are the common coin of the evening. Some weep hard as they
look in each face and think how they have slighted, ignored, or resented this
person during the year--a person now revealed as bearing the face of Christ.
Some weep as they are forgiven, over and over, in an overwhelming rush of
love and acceptance. Some weep and hug so much they hold up the line. A
toddler ignores the line and goes from person to person, tugging on a skirt
hem or trouser leg and looking up to ask, "Forgive?"
This is how Lent begins for us. It's an exhilarating kick-start for a time
that will get much harder. The number of required services during Lent
increase dramatically--during Holy Week there are 11--and they get longer as
well. Food simultaneously gets shorter. Old knees don't like prostrations.
In all this, though, we rejoice; in the company of our friends we can run
this race. It is good that it begins with forgiveness.
*******************************
Frederica Mathewes-Green
www.frederica.com
