In my previous post, I relayed a story about a Baptist blogger who recently accused a distinguished Orthodox Christian scholar of not being a Christian. The ensuing "dialogue" between the two was distinctly one-sided, the Orthodox Christian asking his accuser to dialogue with him, and the accuser refusing to do so on the assumption that he already understood enough about Orthodoxy. I don't think I've ever been quite as cocky as that blogger, but I do know what it's like to encounter people of differing views online, realize I'm not equipped to dialogue with them, then panic. And there's really no better word than panic for when people take the time to accuse strangers, but walk away when those accused presume to defend themselves.
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On April 16, 2002, I was in the living area of my dorm watching something stupid on TV when I heard my phone ring down the hall. It was my Dad. "Hey Dad," I casually answered. My dad has never stood on ceremony for much of anything, and this moment was no exception. "I have some bad news," he said. "Nani came home from running errands this morning and found Papa dead in his armchair." I was instantly breathless. "Oh, wow. Oh my goodness," I managed. In the moment, I was as stunned by the news as I was confused about how to converse with my Dad about his father having just died. I quickly resorted to logistics. "When is the funeral? Where is it? Do I need to fly to Corpus Christi?" I asked. My Dad responded with some details about plans that were in the works, but I was beginning to glaze over. I was having a vision of Papa greeting me as a little boy in his driveway when we'd arrive for summer vacation. I was thinking of his hugs (they were way too tight and always painful). I was thinking of his voice and the gap in his front teeth when he smiled. Then Death whispered to me: "He doesn't exist anymore." Mentally I rejoined the phone conversation at that point, but only to tell my Dad that I needed to take some time to myself. "I gotta go, Dad," I interrupted, my voice clearly faltering. "Ok," he replied, his own voice no longer strong. I hung up the phone, then fell on my face in my bed and wept aloud like I hadn't since I was a toddler.
When I was in college, I went to a bar in downtown Chattanooga, TN to see Derek Webb in concert, he of Caedmon's Call fame. That night he introduced a new, as-yet-unreleased song that immediately became a favorite of mine. It was called "Wedding Dress," and it pulled from repeated themes in the scriptures of harlotry. One thinks of Hosea's wife, various other Biblical allusions to the nation of Israel and her prostitution of herself, and also a few notable courtesans of the New Testament. If you're unfamiliar with the song, have a look at it here:
![]() My Orthodox journey to this point can be divided into two phases. The first and longest phase was the theological exploration. The second, and which I find myself in now, is coming to a greater understanding of Orthodox worship. Even as someone deeply inclined toward Orthodoxy, some of the finer points of the Divine Liturgy (their weekly, Sunday morning service) have prompted personal skepticism as to whether the ritual sprung from the meaning or vice versa. I still have volumes to learn in that area however, and the purpose of this post isn't to examine the development of any one liturgical aspect. The objective is simply to relay some recent thoughts of mine on what is probably the most repeated phrase in the Orthodox worship economy: "Lord, have mercy." |
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