Orthodox Writers and Readers Series: Fr. Lawrence Farley

Writers are not like eggs in a carton, each one identical and interchangeable, the same inside and out.  They are more like snowflakes in the sky, no two of them the same.  We are each one of us very different from the other.

Take for example Melinda, the author of this blog. Reading on her blog about her writing life, she seems to be a Watcher, someone who stares with a child’s wonder at the wide world around her, watching every raised eyebrow, every subtle gesture, every misapplied make-up stroke, and then strives to make artistic sense of it all.  (As a child of the sixties, I think she would make a great spy:  Melinda Johnson, the Writer from U.N.C.L.E.)  I, however, am not as keen an observer of God’s world. I am not so much a Watcher as a Preacher.  Don’t get me wrong.  I like watching people (with the exception of daytime television).  But ever since my conversion to Christ through the Jesus People movement, I have been seized (some would say “afflicted”) with a desire to preach.

Early on in that movement, I learned about the power of God’s Word, the Holy Scriptures, and this has left its mark on me. (I could’ve learned it from the Orthodox Church back then too, I suppose, but it kept itself pretty invisible, as if as well as wearing a phelon, each priest also wore Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility.) And being marked by the Holy Scriptures, I needed to keep delving deeper into them. It was like an addiction, except that it led to freedom, not bondage, and I had no desire to recover.  I still suffer from the addiction, so that every year at Orthodox Writers Week in Rockaway Beach, Oregon, I drag down there a suitcase full of Bible commentaries and Greek and Hebrew interlinears, and spend the week reading, chewing, pondering, and then putting the results into the margins of my Bible. It means that each evening I have nothing to share with the assembled group, but I have fun, and they are very understanding.  Such addictions are not totally fruitless however.  Conciliar Press has published ten of my New Testament commentaries so far, the so-called “Orthodox Bible Study Companion Series”.  (Note:  this is a plug.)

Writing then, for me, is like preaching, except that I use my keyboard, not my voice.  (It also means that I can polish it up some, and erase and redo any verbal missteps, which luxury I am not allowed in a homily.)  My experience of producing words feels like what is described in Jer. 20:9:  “If I say I will not speak any more in His Name, there is in my heart a burning fire, shut up in my bones, and I am weary with holding it in.”  For me, reading the Word produces this fire in my bones, and the result has to come forth from my mouth—or my keyboard.  The challenge as a writer or preacher is to reproduce in others the same excitement I experience when reading the Scriptures; my goal, to be a clear conduit for the power of the Word.  People don’t need to hear from Fr.
Lawrence (they can get their podvigs elsewhere)—they need to hear from God.  Like Jeremiah and every preacher throughout the centuries, my task is simply faithful transmission of what I have heard.

It is not automatic, or easy, and sometimes I mess it up, so that people hear more of Fr. Lawrence and less of God than I would like them to.  This is where the so-called “creative writing process” comes in.  For me, this involves seeking God, usually while taking a long walk. Having absorbed the Scriptures, I start a process of pondering and chewing, a kind of inner groping after what God would have me say, rather like feeling your way in your own home in the middle of the night when the lights are out.  When I have found it, that’s when I hit the keyboard.

C.S. Lewis once described the process of writing as being “in book” (i.e., like being in labour), and compared book-writing to childbirth.  I appreciate the comparison.  Finishing a written piece, or a sermon, brings a certain relief.  But the preacher’s addiction to the Word is a strong one, and soon enough I find myself back at it again.

Fr. Lawrence is the pastor of St. Herman of Alaska Orthodox Church, in Langley, B.C., Canada. He is the author of a number of New Testament commentaries and a commentary on the Divine Liturgy, published by Conciliar Press, and an number of Akathists, published by Alexander Press. He lives in Surrey, B.C. with his beautiful wife Donna (who is also a published writer), two daughters, one son-in-law, two grandchildren, and one beloved but useless cat.

Orthodox Writers and Readers Series: Jonathan Kotinek, “One thing is needful.”

On a recent Saturday morning, I was riding through dusty-brown rural Texas with the priest from a neighboring Orthodox parish; we were on our way to look at a piece of land to see if it might be a good spot for an Orthodox eco-village (it turned out not to be). We shared small bits of news with each other along the way: new members, new catechumens, new visitors. He told me about a young man, an avowed athiest, who had started attending Divine Liturgy intermittently. The reason the young man gave was that he loved the beauty of our prayers.

I was quiet for a moment, captured by the simple and powerful testimony of this man I did not know. I responded, halfway meaning the comment as a prayer, that given our cultural milieu in 21st-century America, perhaps that love of the Liturgy would prove to be somehow salvific. Reflecting on the conversation later, I realized that I was drawing on a few key perspectives to inform my hope:

•  The content of our prayers in the Eastern Orthodox tradition gives direct insight to our theology; we pray what we believe.
•  The certainty expressed by Dostoyevsky in his bold statement, “Beauty will save the world.”
•  St. Seraphim of Sarov’s saying that if we acquire peace, thousands around us will be saved.

I was reminded, too, of a statement given by Met. Kallistos Ware in Sobornost and quoted in Madeleine L’Engle’s Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art: “…an abstract composition by Kandinsky or Van Gogh’s landscape of the cornfield with birds…is a real instance of divine transfiguration, in which we see matter rendered spiritual and entering into the ‘glorious liberty of the children of God.’ This remains true, even when the artist does not personally believe in God. Provided he is an artist of integrity, he is a genuine servant of the glory which he does not recognize, and unknown to himself there is ‘something divine’ about his work. We may rest confident that at the last judgment the angels will produce his works of art as testimony on his behalf.”

A link on Facebook last week led me to read Melinda Johnson’s post “Poets and artists…” at St. Lydia’s Book Club, where I found a similar quote from St. Barsanuphius: “Poets and artists who are satisfied only by the delights experienced through art are like people who arrive at the doors of the Royal Palace, but do not go into the bridal feast, although they are invited to do so.”

I wrote to Melinda, thanking her for the post and inviting her to read a blog post I had written recently about my experience working with a group of university students who were exploring the idea of transcendence in art. That interaction led to Melinda’s invitation for this guest blog.

Before anyone else has the opportunity to do so, I should accuse myself of being a dilettante. I have not given enough time or effort to be considered an artist, though I enjoy photography, painting, and singing. Perhaps the athiest asthete mentioned earlier felt a little like I do in engaging these things: that I might apprehend some truth serendipitously by doing what little I can.

As an adult convert to the Eastern Orthodox faith, I’ve discovered that I want a faith perspective that provides a robust and coherent explanatory framework for my subjective experience. The Orthodox emphasis on the coherence of the faith, of engaging all the senses in experiential worship and understanding that theology is something lived, not just contemplated, underscores for me that the feeling of belonging and completeness I feel when moved by a particularly well-written piece of literature or well-composed piece of art may just be part of the Divine plan.

The genius of art, I think, is that it distills a particular person’s perspective and renders it in language accessible to and resonant with others. Following Met. Kallistos and St. Barnasuphius, when this art points toward the source of all beauty it becomes a vector for grace. I think this is true for secular art in the same way (though perhaps not in the same intensity) as it is for icons of Christ and the Saints. These icons which intentionally represent a spiritual and physical reality simultaneously give us some insight to all of our sacraments by demonstrating “matter rendered spiritual.” In this sense, we who have the privilege of worshipping in the Eastern Orthodox tradition are not only surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses when we sing the Divine Liturgy, we are also immersed in a spiritual treasure trove.

I wonder if I don’t sometimes become so habituated to the beauty of Christian worship that I fail to see the treasure in front of me. I read a story recently about the discovery of a $22 billion treasure in a temple vault in India. There are 500 million people living in poverty in India, many of them passing right by this temple, or even adding to the treasure through their offerings. There is some talk of accounting for the treasure, but no apparent plans to use it to alleviate the poverty outside the walls of the temple. Clearly, proximity is not enough for treasure to have an affect. Likewise, the treasure of our faith will not enliven me through osmosis. Every Sunday I have the opportunity (and the obligation) to approach the chalice with fear and trembling, having prepared myself for the most mind-boggling of all transcendent events: the soul-quickening, evil-vanquishing, illuminating, healing, sanctifying entrance of the body and blood of Christ into my person. And I fail, every time.

Christ told Martha, “One thing is needful.” If I took this to heart I would arrange my whole life around this weekly judgment. I would live a coherently Christian faith. I would order my thoughts, my actions, my interactions with others so that I would prepare prayerfully and fully, instead of distractedly and in haste. God, in His grace, grants me to grow a little in this manner every week, every month, every year. The Church is not only a spiritual hospital, it is also a school of repentance. I am learning how to want and need that one thing: communion with God.

I determined last year that I have been working in education too long when I decided I needed learning objectives for parenting my two boys, now aged four and two. I decided that I would feel successful as a parent if they learned to love, to trust, and to wonder. The first, love, seems to me to be the groundwork for all of Christian living: seeing and loving Christ in the face of every person we see. Trust is an exercise of faith: trusting that God will bless that love with a protecting hand. The last, wonder, is an act of living gratitude: as the Psalmist says, “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” In this endeavor, I am hoping to establish for my whole family a coherence between the life we live and the faith we profess, despite the daily distractions of television, toys, and video games.

I am an early-adopter of technology and I fear that my boys will have to struggle past their genetics in this respect. I am fond of Arthur C. Clarke’s statement that “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” However wonderful technology might be, though, I hope that my children are more often in awe of their direct experience of God’s creation. I hope, too, that they will find ways to share that wonder by developing talents to distill their experience through a lens, or a paintbrush, or a pen and let the love, trust, and wonder they cultivate in church permeate their whole lives.

Jonathan Kotinek is a convert to Orthodoxy, father of two, and constantly in awe of his veterinarian wife. An educator, amateur artist, and writer who likes to ponder the intersection of faith, social issues, and education, Jonathan blogs occasionally at http://jkotinek.blogspot.com.

Orthodox Writers and Readers Series: Christy Pessemier

Years ago, as a teenager, I became disillusioned with the Orthodox Church and decided to stop attending. When certain events led me back to the church as a young mother, I was hungry to learn more about the faith I took for granted. I devoured as many books as I could find. One of them was Father Arseny.

Part of the reason I left the Church was because I couldn’t find that personal connection of what Orthodoxy meant to me. I wanted to do more than just show up on Sunday and go through the motions. I needed something more, and somehow I just wasn’t finding it.

When I came back to the Church, Father Arseny was a comfort to me. Added to the icons and the hymns and sacraments of the Church, the book gave me a sense of the life and sufferings and amazing selflessness of a not-yet-canonized saint. I read in awe about a highly educated man who became a priest and was imprisoned in the Russian labor camps during the Communist regime under Stalin. Somehow, Father Arseny managed to stay alive by the grace of God while dodging starvation, bitter cold temperatures, regular beatings, and an inhuman workload designed to kill prisoners. In the midst of all this, he often gave up his food rations to other prisoners, cared for the sick, and never stopped praying and glorifying God.

Crossing myself openly in church, or anywhere for that matter, took on new meaning. Kissing the icons hanging throughout my house brought me a new sense of gratitude.  I didn’t have to worry about Communist prison guards beating me, or about being turned in by someone who I thought was a friend. Instead of skimming a collection of short paragraphs on saints, I was reading about real-life accounts of an amazing man who turned to God under the worst circumstances, and blessed and touched countless other lives. Suddenly, I felt so much more aware of how blessed I was to pray and live freely as an Orthodox Christian in this country.

Reading Father Arseny was a part of my journey back to Orthodoxy. It made everything so much more meaningful for me. Recently, though it had been many years since I had read it, I found myself referring to it often when talking with my children about spiritual miracles. One day, I picked it up off the shelf and started reading it to my thirteen-year-old daughter. Soon, the stories started coming back to me. The hardship, the struggles, and the amazing Christ-like love that Father Arseny shared with so many.

Now, when I go upstairs to kiss my daughter goodnight, she gives me that familiar inquisitive look and asks, “Father Arseny?” which means she wants to read another chapter. And so I read one chapter, and then I find myself turning to the next page and saying, “OK, just one more chapter.”

Christy Pessemier is an award-winning freelance writer who has written numerous articles for South Sound Home | Garden | Life magazine.  She also worked as a reporter for the Eatonville Dispatch Newspaper, and continues to work as a copywriter for local businesses as well as 425 Magazine. Christy lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, two daughters, and their Beagle-Basset, Scout.

Keep an eye out in Western Washington bookstores for Christy’s latest article on an eco-friendly home in Issaquah in Premier Media Group’s 425 Magazine. You can find some of Christy’s articles at: http://christypessemier.wordpress.com/christys-published-articles/

“Poets and artists…”

Our friend Bill gave us a beautiful little book called Living Without Hypocrisy: Spiritual Counsels of the Holy Elders of Optina.  It is full of the words of saints, organized by topic. Tonight I went looking in this book for anything the fathers might have to say about writers or writing. Here is what I found.

St. Barsanuphius says, “Poets and artists who are satisfied only by the delights experienced through art are like people who arrive at the doors of the Royal Palace, but do not go into the bridal feast, although they are invited to do so.”

At first, I saw this statement in the negative sense. Those who remain in the physical or intellectual delights of art and writing are missing the soul of the experience. By extension, those who seek to create beauty that takes no notice of its own spiritual life or death are also falling short.

But then the other side of the statement struck me. The ”delights experienced through art” bring us to the “doors of the Royal Palace.” By these miracles, we are “invited” to go in to the “bridal feast.” We have only to recognize the source of the beauty. Our invitation will bring us through the doors as soon as we realize that it is an invitation and begin to seek the real beauty, the feast to which we are being invited.

Last week, the Orthodox Writers and Readers series launched with Molly Sabourin’s thoughtful reflection on why and how she writes. Responding to her post, Keith Massey (who will be a guest poster later in this series) noted that Molly’s words contained the seeds of a “theology of writing.” Molly’s “theology” centers on the experience of writing as “a means of communion with the living God.” In my opinion, this sense of the written art helps foster the union of the “delights experienced” and their divine origin. Perhaps the human urge to create is one of those glimmers of the divine image that remain visible to us through the tarnish of life in the fallen world. Something of the writer’s quest for communion remains in the final product, the written record of the journey and its findings.

Next week, we will begin exploring the other side of the equation, the Orthodox “reading life.” Our guest, Christy Pessemier, is a freelance journalist who will share her experience with an Orthodox book that touched her life. This is the other side of the coin, the relationship of the reader and the book when the writer and his or her journey are no longer physically present.  With so much spiritual life present in the creation of the book, what remains in the finished product, the story itself?