“Bringing into captivity every thought to Christ”

This is from St. Gregory the Theologian’s Funeral Oration for St. Basil, whose perspective I shared yesterday.  St. Gregory says:

I take it all intelligent men agree that among human advantages, education holds first place. I refer not only to our nobler form of it, which disdains all the ambitious ornaments of rhetoric and attaches itself only to salvation and the beauty of spiritual contemplation, but also that external culture which many Christians by an error of judgment scorn as treacherous and dangerous and as turning away from God.

Hmmm.

I believe it’s safe to say that one ingredient that should not be included in an “Orthodox culture” is judgment. I’m not referring to the type of judgment also called “good sense” or “discernment.” I’m referring to the type which seeks corroboration in all details for its conviction that its own way is bettter than the other person’s way.

Culture Perspectives: St. Basil the Great

In my on-going quest for Orthodox perspective on culture, I ran across the following excerpt from St. Basil the Great’s “Advice to Young Men on the Right Use of Greek Literature.” This is an Orthodox perspective on the non-Christian “culture” of the time.

“For just as bees know how to extract honey from flowers, which to men are agreeable only for their fragrance and color, even so here also those who look for something more than pleasure and enjoyment in such writers may derive profit for their souls…For the bees do not visit all the flowers without discrimination, nor indeed do they seek to carry away entire those upon which they light, but rather, having taken so much as is adapted to their needs, they let the rest go. So we, if wise, shall take from heathen books whatever befits us and is allied to the truth, and shall pass over the rest. And just as in culling roses we avoid the thorns, from such writings as these we will gather everything useful, and guard against the noxious. So, from the very beginning, we must examine each of their teachings, to harmonize it with our ultimate purpose.”

What’s Coming Next

Today was a wonderful day, thundery and changeable, and crowned with a rushing shower of enormous silver raindrops. The air smelled like rain, which means that it smelled like memories of other long-ago summers, good moments curled up next to the doorway in my childhood house, watching the raindrops bounce off the driveway and surge down the roadside in impromptu rivers.

I made a decision today, about what to do with my second novel. I’m excited and full of brainstorms and curiosity. Because every time I put one thing in motion, life adds other motions and everything begins to move in new ways, like all the colored particles in a kaleidoscope. Shifting.

Hello! It’s me again.

Promoting books, mine and other people's, at the OCA All American Conference

I’m breaking in on the “Orthodox Writers, Readers, and Artists” series to say hello and tell you how it’s going. When I first visualized the series, I thought I’d have one guest each month. After some preliminary research, I thought maybe I’d have two. Shortly after the series launched, I realized I should abandon this measured approach and just stuff guests in wherever they fit.

My guest list is growing like a slinky rolling downstairs. You can meet someone new on this blog every week between now and next summer.  Or perhaps fall.  Or winter.

In my adventures searching for creative Orthodox people, I have confirmed my suspicion that there are many of us, that we would love to be connected to each other, and that we all hope to see a robust support system in the Orthodox writing world equivalent to what is available to secular writers.

So far, it seems to me that Orthodox artists are slightly better off. Iconographers, for example, seem more likely to be featured in local newspapers. Iconography is an art form known by the secular world. It may be valued only as art, but people know what it is.

No such luck for Orthodox writers, it seems. Why is this? Why is an icon accessible to the general public, but an Orthodox book is likely to be read only by the Orthodox? Perhaps looking is not as demanding as reading. Or (allowing my less cynical self some air time) the spiritual content of an icon has the power to attract people.

Orthodox illustrators seem to fall somewhere in the middle, perhaps because their artistic skills can be used for secular or sacred purposes. In their Orthodox lives, however, they share many experiences with Orthodox writers.

To date, this series has been enormously fun for me. I love finding new writers and artists, I love learning about what they do, and I love talking to other people about it. Much of the networking I did at the OCA conference a few weeks ago centered on this blog series. It was such a high to move from one end of the conference hall to the other, talking to people about my guest posters and how great they are. Way better than champagne. As good as chocolate. As good as having the whole box of Godiva TO YOURSELF.

I’m currently working on some new features for the blog, and continuing to ponder ways to water our Orthodox creative world and admire its blossoms. I look forward to being in touch with you as this project grows.

Orthodox Writers, Readers, and Artists: Magnus Frangipani

Prayer and poetry arise from the unspeakable, mirroring the soul’s appetite for beauty, unity and wholeness.

In the Orthodox understanding/experience of the world, the interior world, of which the exterior is but a reflection, man was created in a state of pristine innocence, the nous clear as windows. As hieromonk Damascene writes in Christ the Eternal Tao, and St Gregory of Sinai, quoted in The Philokalia, he knew no mental distraction, following the principle of the universe, the Logos, God’s Word.

This universe is ordered, it is liturgical. The earth resolves by revolving in ordered patterns, we experience seasons, pulls, a silent drawing forth – again, internally as well as externally. The universe is one verse of God’s breath invigorating life, from mountaintops down to vibrating photons and electrons. And so good poetry, I think, reflects this natural, even musical process of becoming.

Poems, like icons in the Orthodox Church, signify something of greater, even timeless, value. The Greek word for poetry is poiesis, which is a verb meaning to transform or continue the world. It is an action, a movement beyond death. This movement is experienced both individually as well as communally through the Church, in her cycles, liturgically in liturgies of Saints John Chrysostom, Basil and James as well as the psalms.

Words are vessels through which we share ideas, emotions and experiences in attempts to express and glorify the uncreated. St Nicodemus of Mount Athos writes that “God has placed man to be a sort of macrocosmos – a ‘greater world’ within the small one,” elucidating that man is a sort of bridge between the visible and invisible worlds. Poetry is a gate into this mystery.

Translator Tony Barnstone notes how in classical Chinese painting, the white space defines what forms emerge. The way a sky’s negative space in painting defines mountains and trees, so too a mind polished of thoughts and passions by prayer and fasting mirrors the light shining before it. Like apostolic fishermen, some poets – - and the poems of Saints Romanos and Symeon, in particular – - cast nets over the whole of the universe for nourishment. Like prayer, good poems arise from the unspeakable and reflect the soul’s appetite for wholeness, unity, beauty. Barnstone is right. If we place an ear against our heart, while reading poetry one discovers not only what the poem says but what it does.

Magnus Frangipani writes children novels, poetry and non-fiction. On a pilgrimage to India, he found Christ in a Himalayan cave and converted to Orthodoxy in Alaska upon his return to America. Magnus lives and prays in Port Townsend, Washington, where he attends St Herman’s Orthodox Church. Glory to Christ our God for all things.

Orthodox Writers, Readers, and Artists: Barbara Shukin

When Melinda asked me if I would be interested in writing a blog post about writing, I thought, “Well, I am an author, I self-publish my books… Oh! Sure. I’d be glad to contribute.” But then it occurred to me, “Oh, she wants writers: people who ‘write.’ But, I don’t really ‘write.”’

You see, my background is in art. I have a Master’s degree in sculpture, and furthermore, my experience lies along the lines of conceptual art. After all, I went to the University of Illinois at Chicago during the ‘80’s. That’s what we did there and then. I have ideas.I make things. Making art and teaching is what I am “qualified” for. But, regardless, the truth is, over the past 10 years I have found myself doing quite a lot of writing.

What got me into this position, where I needed to express myself this way, is that I had an idea for a series of history notebooks: the History Portfolio books. These are books which the children build by adding written work and images according to the provided outline, and in the end function as a record of their history studies and a keepsake. Part of this original vision included publishing books for Orthodox Christian children as well, and so several years ago, I published a book called Journaling Throughout the Liturgical Year, which is a notebook as well. You see the theme? Making things. The initial idea and the production of the Portfolios didn’t require much writing, just the original vision, tons of research, and artistic decisions. Concepts, researching, making. These were areas I was familiar and comfortable with. But what happened next was that I needed to explain how to use the books, write introductions, web content, etc.  And, further down the line, I wrote Teacher’s Guides for each of the books. So, it’s snowballed.

But, “how did I get here” is not what I want to write about today. I want to write about “here I am,” and how to make the best of it. One of the first things that came to mind when gathering my thoughts about this blog post was sharing a couple of revelations I’ve had about “here I am.” About 11 years ago, I became very involved with a consuming project with our church. With the blessing of our Bishop, our group had just purchased a temple which needed to be remodeled. At this time, I had just my two oldest children.  Nearly every day from May – September, for some part of the day, we went to work on the church. I remember, one day, sitting in the church in the mess of lumber and dust and half-painted projects, and the letters of St. Theophan the Recluse came to mind. In this book, The Spiritual Life: And How to Be Attuned to It, St. Theophan replies to a young woman’s recent letter.

“What has happened to you? What kinds of questions are these? ‘I do not know what to do with my life. Should I be doing something in particular? Should I define some particular purpose for myself?’  I read this and I was dumbfounded; where could such odd thoughts have come from?” (87)

The chapter continues, and he makes it clear that she is not to waste time on these questions, but to do the work which God has put before her! This resonated with me because at this time I was personally a little conflicted because I had left other projects at home. But I looked around and thought, I did not look for this, I did not choose it, but it was put before me. And, I was so thankful for the work which had been put before me, and thankful that I didn’t have to choose between projects or be the navigator.

Earlier this year, I had another experience which reminds me of the experience I just described. I was listening to the radio, while alone in the car. As a homeschool mom, let me tell you, this occurrence is rare!  But, I heard the story of a man involved in some charitable organization, who was working in a faraway land bringing roads and, as I remember, communication capabilities. I thought, “Oh, I’d love to do something like that! It’s so meaningful!” For just a moment or two I contemplated this. But, I quickly turned my mind to something more constructive and thought, “Well, what would I do, if I could?” And, I thought, envisioning a faraway land, “I would like to teach… to work with children… to somehow touch their lives with books, good books…” and as I narrowed it down, I realized… “That’s what I do! I’m doing it! I am living my dream!” It was a very delightful surprise. And, again, I was so thankful for the work which has been put before me.

Sometimes, I clearly have jobs before me, and the work is rich and full of challenges. But, there are plenty of times that I flounder in my work. I recently heard a Russian proverb, “Pray to God, but keep rowing to shore.” In the lull between projects, or in the middle of a project which seems to be feebly coming along, I feel the need to gather some kindling to get the fire going. Back in my art school days, we had a guest visit by a curator of a gallery, and she gave some advice which I think is applicable here. She said, “Everyday, you need to be with your art, working and thinking to some degree. Some days will not be as productive or creative, and on those days you need to at least be in your studio cleaning your brushes or preparing your work space.” With my writing, I may not have the same tools of the trade as a painter or sculptor, but I do find that the more I stay away from my craft, the more distant I feel from it, a chasm opens up, and the less inclined I am to plunge in as soon as an idea strikes me.

To keep moving along, or stoke the fire, it has proven to be a good thing for me to take up small projects which are just above my comfort level. This forces me to keep learning new things. Many of these projects are teaching opportunities, giving me the reason, and deadline, to create new activities along the lines of the Portfolio and the Liturgical Year Journal. Speaking or presenting workshops has been an area which has given me the opportunity to collect my thoughts, and write. Definitely outside my comfort zone, but good for me. Deadlines and accountability can be good.  I just take each opportunity as a challenge to develop.

To really keep a good fire burning, I have found that, for me, a good length of time for a big project is about 5 or 6 months. I love to really live in a project for a while, immersing myself as much as I can, and then gaining that sense of completeness when it is done. Once I get some distance on a finished project, I find that if I can look back at my year and know I’ve finished something, it seems to provide a semblance of order, and satisfaction. Of course, completing a project… raising the curtain on the show, presenting myself and my work as if saying “this is the best I can do,” has its own problems. It can be hair-raising at worst, and humbling at best. I have repeatedly watched myself delay the end of a project, not wanting that creative fire to end. Apparently, my thinking was, “It was safe working on this project. I have a job to do, I have a clear direction, I know what I’m doing. And… when this project is over, what am I going to do?! Oh no, I’ll have to come up with something all over again, and it’s going to be messy!”

Mess or not, writing or building, it can’t be helped. It’s what I do. I make things.

Barbara Shukin is an Orthodox Christian mother of five children from ages 21 down to 4, and has homeschooled since the beginning. After receiving her MFA in sculpture from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, she taught for several years at the college level, and was concurrently the director of a college art gallery. She continues to teach through local homeschool co-ops, and by offering art classes for homeschoolers. Barbara is the author and publisher of the History Portfolio Series, the Nature Portfolio, and Journaling Throughout the Liturgical Year, offering a notebooking approach to the study of history, nature study, and the Orthodox faith.

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?