In the quip commonly attributed to George Bernard Shaw, it is said that Americans and Brits are “two peoples divided by a common language.”  Whilst the division between us is not as sharp as it might be if we did indeed speak unrelated languages (say, Welsh and Japanese), the fact of my sharing a mother tongue with most of my colleagues here at the seminary does mask some of the real differences of culture, experience, and perspective which exist between subjects of the Crown and citizens of the United States in the 21^st century.

On the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, as I sat in an unconvincingly-appointed “typically British” restaurant in the departure lounge of London Heathrow’s Terminal 4, with a large plate of chips (= fries) and a gin and tonic for company, I pondered how my time at SVOTS would be.  What will the other seminarians be like?  How will it feel to make the transition from the diverse intellectual hot-house of Oxford to the more cohesive and prayerful environment of the seminary?  What will it be like living so close to one of the most exciting, most cosmopolitan cities in the world?  Will I be able to get a decent drop of Earl Grey in a china cup?

One thing I had not fully anticipated was a language barrier—but that there was.  The way we communicate—how we express ourselves idiomatically, what we take for granted as common experience, the particularities of our local dialect, even what we call things (“eggplant” = “aubergine”)—is a complex matter, which goes far beyond merely the sounds we make to one another.  In the few months I have been living “across the Pond,” as we like to say, I have learned much about conscious interpretation and contextualisation, considered clarity, and filtering colloquialisms, in order that we may speak without offense or confusion, building relationships founded on genuine understanding and integrity.

Whilst this has been an experience peculiar to me and my context (though one shared analogously by those other seminarians coming from further afield—Mexico, Bosnia, even Canada!), in some ways it is paradigmatic of the experience of all seminarians at SVOTS.  One of the ways in which I have come to understand our purpose here, as we learn what it is to love Jesus Christ above all things, and by extension, to love and serve his Church, is by likening it to mastering a language.  Of course, this is true in a literal sense: we may learn Greek and Hebrew, Slavonic or Arabic, and we learn to speak in the mode and within the matrix of academic theology.  But the language which is more important, indispensable in fact, is the language of the love of God.

As Orthodox Christians, we stand as the inheritors of the most profound tradition known (and unknown) to the world.  Yet it is not enough for us only to receive the truth of the Faith—we must also be missionaries, martyrs, and confessors, spreading the good news of salvation to the ends of the earth, passing on the truth of Jesus Christ to our descendants.  As we look around us at a world which, in so many ways, barely knows the Gospel, we must learn to speak anew the language of the Word made flesh, crucified and risen for us.  We are called to understand how to articulate and interpret that truth afresh, to engage our partners in dialogue in meaningful conversation, stripped of presumption and circumlocution and jargon.

I pray that, as we each walk the narrow path to salvation set before us, our conversations on the way may be truthful and so transformative, not only for those who join us on the journey but also for ourselves; and that the Holy Spirit may enliven us with the gift of Pentecost to speak the language of the love of Christ to those around us who are yet to confess him.

Icon of Christ in Three Hierarchs Chapel (Photo: Leanne Parrott Photography)

Gregory Tucker is a Master of Arts student at SVOTS. Raised in a village 25 miles east of London, England, he is a graduate of the University of Oxford, having studied at Keble College for his bachelor’s degree in theology and at St Stephen’s House for his master’s degree in Patristics. He came to Christianity as a teenager and was confirmed in the Church of England, and subsequently converted to Orthodoxy. Gregory is a frequent pilgrim to the Holy Land, a passionate foodie, and a devotee of the fine arts. After family and friends, he misses oblique conversation and unpasteurised dairy products most of all.

He is also an Orthodox Christian, who draws on texts from the Eastern and Western Christian traditions for most of his music.

So it would make sense that St. Vladimir’s Seminary, whose vocation rests in making theology and spirituality something real in people’s lives, would be interested in exploring the connections between the cultural phenomenon of Arvo Pärt and his Orthodox Christian roots. One of the seminary’s latest and most potent tag-lines is “Engaging the world with Orthodox Christianity.” The seminary’s Arvo Pärt Project fits perfectly with that.

Doesn’t it?

I would think so. But we’ve heard some puzzlement about this endeavor. Here are two objections:

“The seminary needs to do more for the parishes, for the Church on the ground, rather than hobnob with the cultural elite. That isn’t going to reach our people.”

and

“What does this have to do with the seminary’s mission?”

In response to both of these, I’d say that the seminary’s mission impels it to operate on a lot of different levels at once, both internally and externally. We prepare clergy and lay ministry for the Church, in the parishes, on the ground. We train scholars. We train church musicians. We form our students into the life in Christ. As for the wider constituency, the seminary maintains a schedule of events that seeks to reach audiences from many walks of life and of diverse views. We host conferences, we perform choral music. In all of this, we are seeking to bring people into a deeper relationship with Jesus Christ, specifically through the tradition of the Orthodox Christian Church.

Dr. Peter Boutneff with Arvo and Nora Pärt

The Arvo Pärt project itself operates internally and externally. We have always had a music program that has emphasized beautiful Church singing. Through this project our students and the Church that they serve can see all the more that the Church is more than a cultural artifact, it is more than a typikon, it is more than academic theology. It is the locus of great beauty. It is a place where the best of culture can emanate from, and where it can come back to.

Furthermore, consider the missionary possibilities. Consider an audience of people of different faiths and of no faith, the “spiritual but not religious,” who are already won over by the music of Arvo Pärt. Here is an audience who would not be the slightest bit interested in hearing about Orthodox Christianity on its own, but who will give you its undivided attention if it comes to understanding what makes Arvo Pärt’s music so spiritually potent.

We are planning concerts at places like Carnegie Hall, and lectures in venues such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art, places that don’t generally give Orthodox Christianity a close listening. These venues will be filled with audiences who will hear, sometimes for the first time, about our faith, which is also the faith of their beloved composer.

This project has such immense potential for our school, for “Engaging the world with Orthodox Christianity.” Still have doubts? Write us! But in any case we need your prayers and support to make it happen. And if you haven’t heard any music of Arvo Pärt, now’s the time to give him a listen.

Some links to explore:

• The Arvo Pärt Project website
• New York Times article

Dr. Peter Bouteneff (SVOTS ’90) teaches courses in theology, patristics, and spirituality at the St. Vladimir’s Seminary, where he is Associate Professor in Systematic Theology and Director of Institutional Assessment. After taking a degree in music in 1983 he lived and worked in Japan, and traveled widely in Asia and Greece. Together with Prof. Nicholas Reeves, he is co-directing the Arvo Pärt Project, an exciting collaboration with the great Estonian Orthodox composer. Tune in to his podcast on Ancient Faith Radio, Sweeter than Honey.

Fr. James Parnell delivering his sermon at the 2013 Festival of Young Preachers

Psalm 137 is a brutal psalm. To some, it may sound more like an SEC fight song gone wrong. How on earth are we to get “good news” out of a psalm that ends talking about the murder of children? Why on earth would anyone sing this psalm as part of worship? How could they?

Well, in my tradition, we do: Orthodox Christians sing Psalm 137 as part of our worship. Now it is read every Friday morning as part of a block in which we read through the entire book of Psalms every week, but it is chanted solemnly, on the three Sundays before Great Lent, at the All-Night Vigil in preparation for the Divine Liturgy. This service commemorates the resurrection of Christ, and in this period, before we begin 40 days of fasting, penance, and prayer, we give this rather harsh psalm a key position.

But why? Why sing a spiteful song about the fall of Jerusalem and the beginning of the Babylonian exile at a service highlighting the resurrection of Christ? No matter how much you spiritualize the text or highlight the hyperbole, it’s a rough psalm; and a hard one to sing, much less pray.

I’ll be the first to admit that it isn’t one of those that you stick to the mirror or refrigerator. It’s not a mantra or a promise of God that you’ll see touted in an Evangelical bestseller. It’s not on the Royal Ambassadors Scripture Memorization list. It’s not listed in your teen reference Bible as a place to go for comfort.

But it’s one of the most powerful expressions of love for one’s city, one’s homeland, and the feeling of despair that comes when you’re separated from it, perhaps forever. The Psalm concludes in a surprisingly visceral and dramatic way. It’s pretty harsh … not something you’d expect to be sung in church. It’s about the city, sure, but what does that have to do with the Gospel? What does it have to do with Christ?

Everything… This psalm has everything to do with the Gospel. This psalm was written in the context of the destruction of Jerusalem and the Exile to Babylon in 586 B.C., but this story has more to do with the Gospels than we might think.

The Psalm opens to a scene of Jerusalemites, inhabitants of what was Zion, that great city. They are no longer there, protected by the walls of their city, the womb of their mother, Zion. But they are instead sitting on the bank of a foreign water way, the Euphrates river valley, and they’re weeping, crying rivers of their own in remembrance of the siege that they feel cursed to have survived.

They hang up their lyres, their harps, their musical instruments on the trees, like prisoners on the gallows, for they’d rather have them be silent, dead, and without movement than be used for the amusement of their captors, those who crushed their city and slaughtered their families without remorse.

“Sing us one of the songs of Zion!” they laugh, but the captives cry out, “How can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land…?”[1] For the song of Zion is the song of the Lord for the psalmist, that holy city that couldn’t fall, for God was with it. Or so they thought…

The psalmist then makes a series of remembrances. He calls to mind his memory of Jerusalem, invoking a curse on himself if he forgets Jerusalem, if it doesn’t remain his highest joy and the pinnacle of his highest hope. But his calls for recollection take a darker turn; he calls out to God: “Remember O Lord, how the Edomites, the descendants of the supplanted Esau, on the day of Jerusalem said, ‘Raze it! Raze it down to its foundations!’”[2] He concludes in a roar, lashing out at the great city of Babylon: “O daughter of Babylon, You devastator! You destroyer of our life; Happy shall he be who requites you with what you have done to us! Happy shall he be who takes your little ones; and dashes them against the rock!”[3]

Whoa… There is of course a bit of a revenge fantasy here, but there’s more than just a desire for the attackers to be paid back in spades; it’s more than just the well-worn tit-for-tat of the Middle East. It’s hyperbole, but it’s hyperbole that is used to make a specific point and to make it abundantly clear. This is about the destruction of a city, the end of existence, at least for the psalmist. This exile and its scriptural component in Jeremiah and Ezekiel is unlike anything else in history. The story of God’s destruction of Jerusalem is unique. It’s not just any city. But then, what is a city? What is its purpose?

In the Ancient Near East, any government, nation, or tribal coalition had a city, the center of that people’s universe. People went out during the day, farming the land outside the city, grazing their animals, fishing and felling trees; but at night, they came back to the city and the gates were shut. The walls, the gates, were about protection. But even more powerful than the stone walls was the temple of stone that housed your god, the god that protected your city. He was the creator of your world.

That God brought you rain, kept your women and cattle fertile, and kept the storm and sickness at bay. Now that God is the Father of your City. And God placed a person in charge, a king, and the king became his son, for lack of a better term. He was his emissary. This king’s job is to uphold the God-given laws; he issues decrees and enforces them. At the palace you bow before the king, but everyone, the king leading the congregation, bows down to God. So this is your world: your city, your king, your God.

And in the story of Judah, the king and the people get lax. They pay lip service to the deity. When their prayer isn’t answered, they try something else. The king focuses not on the law given to him by God, but on the regional politics. And slowly, God is forgotten, a vestige of our cultural milieu. But when a neighboring king leads his army from another city to your city and sacks it, tears down your idols and your temple and places the idol of his own god, your world is turned upside down.

You rationalize: obviously their god was stronger than mine. But with Israel, it’s different. Scripture tells us that the destruction of Jerusalem is not a battle that God has lost to Marduk or any other Babylonian idol. No, the desecration of his temple wasn’t proof of God’s weakness to protect his people, but rather was a show of his strength.

God destroyed his city. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob sent the Babylonians to desecrate his temple and to devastate his people. God did that to his people, because they forgot God. They forgot that their God was The God, the God of heaven and earth, the Most High, the God over Jew and Gentile. Instead of living according to the Law, and being a light to the Gentiles, a glory to God and an example to the nations, they became just like the nations.

God says of them: “my people have forgotten me, they burn incense to false gods.”[4] Jeremiah warns, “You have eyes and heart only for dishonest gain, for shedding blood and for practicing oppression and violence.”[5] And in Lamentations: “The Lord has done what he purposed, has carried out his threat, as he ordained long ago.”[6] Still, no one expected it or knew how to cope. And this story of God getting our attention with the unexpected, the unthinkable, continues.

Jesus, tells his disciples about the coming destruction of Jerusalem and after it happens, the writers of the New Testament reflect on it: the utter shock of Jerusalem being wiped away, the order that they knew, gone. This is not what they expected. Where was this Messiah that was to bring an end to Roman oppression? What of this Messiah that was to bring the Kingdom of God? Now what they thought was his throne is shattered: no more.

The people of Israel in Psalm 137 are blinded by rage and pain; they’re lost. They had an ideal, an expectation, in their head, one of unending peace and prosperity (despite their lack of love for God and their neighbor), and it’s shattered. Similarly, the disciples in Acts, who ask Christ at His ascension, “Lord, will you at this time restore the kingdom to Israel?,” had built up a city in their own minds with a throne and a king of their own making—a palace and a temple of their own design.

Scripture is at times like a mirror held up to our human condition. We see our fears, our doubts, our deepest and darkest thoughts. In Psalm 137, though we may look away at the ending, we are not so far from the exilic writer.

That desire to feel safe, to believe that God is somehow on our side, is in our corner, is there for us, is just as strong today in this great, pluralistic, democratic nation. We’re still worried, stressed, and scared about our future. And the reality of revenge, of anger, against those we see as Babylonians, our perceived enemies, can still drive us to hate those we are called to love.

Increasingly, I hear from other Christians, across denominational and geographical lines, about a perceived war against them, that they are victims of bigotry, prejudice, and intolerance, that there’s a war on Christianity and family values.

And these “evil” people, fighting against God’s chosen ones (us, of course), become the targets of our anger, of our vitriol, of our contempt, and we think we’re doing God a favor. We feel that we somehow have to defend God and His Church; that He needs us to save everyone else and get them to start acting right; that we’ll somehow save the day. We spend millions of dollars supporting this candidate, or that cause, or this ministry, but forget that Christ has overcome the world.

And too often we describe ourselves, our life in Christ, by using negatives instead of positives: we don’t do this, we don’t support this, and we’re “pro-this” (when the opposite is meant), we’re against this or that segment of the population. They just won’t fit in our city.

We too build up a city for ourselves, a city made up of us and ours, with walls and gates built not as a sanctuary for all who seek life, but as a bunker for those we think deserve to live. But when this shelter is threatened, when disaster strikes, when crisis comes into our live, and that illusion of a calm haven is shattered, we despair, or worse, we lash out and fight to protect what’s ours.

Just before the armies of Babylon arrived, Jerusalem, the walled city, was happy in their comfort zone, and they didn’t feel the need to uphold or share the Law they’d been given. They became insular, greedy, and distrusting of anyone who wasn’t them. And only when God smashed their very foundations were they forced, or perhaps given the opportunity, to live amongst those they had despised, those whom they’d hated—those whom they didn’t know.

We are so focused on our ministry or our cause, we’ve hijacked the Gospel as a vehicle, forgetting our first love.

We are so riled up about this or that issue in society that we have forgotten that, no matter what their sins or proclivities, their soapbox or political party, They, the people we don’t agree with, are made in the image of God, sinners just like us.

We’re just plain scared. We’ve been beaten and bruised, hurt by so many horrible events in our lives, that we just want to be safe, even if it means staying inside our fortress: our church, our circle, our home, our own mind.

But there’s so much more that God has in store for us. Remember what God spoke to those in exile through his prophet Jeremiah: “…build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce. … Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.”[7] It is in seeking the welfare of our neighbors, of those who hate us, our enemies (whether real or imagined), that we find our peace, not in any elaborate make-believe Christian bubble that we create for ourselves, to protect us from “the world.”

St. Paul, the persecutor turned preacher, writes to new exiles, the Diaspora: “So Jesus also suffered outside the gate in order to sanctify the people through his own blood. Therefore let us go forth to him outside the camp, and bear the abuse he endured. For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city which is to come.”[8]

Fr. James Parnell with the other Orthodox participants at the Festival (L to R): Anna Vander Wall, Harrison Russin (SVOTS senior), Andrew Boyd (SVOTS ’12), and Fr. Sergius Halvorsen (SVOTS ’96 and Assistant Professor of Homiletics and Rhetoric)

Our Lord suffered outside the gate; he was hung upon a cross and died. He was buried and was raised to life by his Father, so that we might become heirs to his Kingdom, his everlasting city; that we might be able to live forever with His Father, as our Father, co-heirs of this inheritance. However, it means suffering outside the gate of our city, today; it means bearing the abuse he endured in order to enter into that city which is to come. We can’t build it ourselves, but must rather heed the Shepherd’s voice and enter the door that He has opened: the door of the Cross.

Today, deconstruct the city that you’ve built with your own stones. Better yet, leave it behind and sit down by the waters of Babylon—The World, the seductive world, that we love and desire, yet hate and fear—and sob, cry, weep, and wail. They won’t know that you’re weeping over your lost castle of pride, of self-satisfaction, of religiosity. Indeed, they might not notice at all; there are a lot of tears out here in Babylon.

But once you catch your breath, get to know the people of Babylon, outside your city walls. And instead of dreaming of their destruction, fantasizing about their failure, or hoping for their harm, let go! Instead of boycotting and bullying this group or that, befriend them and be a blessing to them, not in order to trick or convince them, but because it is an opportunity for you. You can encounter Christ where you least expect it. Be around them; get to know them; learn to love them.

Because only by suffering with them, outside the gate of your city, will you find Jesus Christ.

Editorial from the St. Vladimir’s Seminary Quarterly, Winter 1952, Vol. 1, No. 2

That we begin our reckoning of time with Christ’s birth is a fact which has long been but a mere convention for many. Seldom does one recall and recognize the great event from which we count time. So do we betray our ignorance and insensitivity. In ancient days, time was computed from the Incarnation of God the Word. It signifies that we live in a world which has been renewed and redeemed already, that even now we live in the realm of grace and already reckon the years of the new creature. Time itself has been illumined by the light which the darkness cannot consume. In a new and higher sense God is with us from that mysterious day forward, from that mysterious night in Bethlehem. “God was manifest in the flesh.” (I Tim. 3: 16) Since then we worship God who came down from heaven.

Annunciation, end of the 12th century, St. Catherine’s Monastery, Mt. Sinai.

In the fullness of time God sent into the world his Son born of a woman. The Son of God became the Son of the Virgin. Here is the assurance and the beginning of salvation, the guarantee and source of eternal life. This is the reason for both, those on earth and those in heaven, to rejoice—the mystery of Godmanhood, the glory of the divine Incarnation. The kingdom of God then began and was truly revealed in history itself; in the meekness and humility of a simple life. The star of the eternal covenant stopped and shone over the cavern in Bethlehem. The humiliation of the cavern testifies that the kingdom then revealed is not of this world. Although it happened then, in the days of King Herod, in the city of Bethlehem, this “then” is, in the true sense of the word, an everlasting “now.” It was truly a beginning, the beginning of something new—of the Gospel history: It was then the New Covenant was revealed. The prophecies came true.

Virgin Kardiotissa, 1st half of the 15th century.

The divine descent is not only divine condescension, but at the same time it is the revelation of glory. Then was human nature healed through the ineffable divine assumption, and was reintroduced into communion with everlasting life. The action of grace reentered the world where it had been stopped by human sin. “Christ is born and earth and heaven are united: today God came down to earth, and man ascended into heaven.” From now on human nature is inseparably united with the Godhead in the indivisible unity of the hypostasis [=Person] of the Incarnate Word. Everything became new. Thus was accomplished the pre-eternal mystery and council of love divine. “He, who established the being of every creature, visible and invisible, by a sole act of will, before all ages and before the existence of the creaturely world, determined ineffably that He himself should truly become united with human nature in the true unity of his hypostasis [=Person], thus making man God through union with him.” So spoke St. Maximus the Confessor about the pre-eternal council of God. God creates the world and reveals himself in order to become a man in this world. Man is created in order that god may become man and it is by this union that man is deified. Or as St. Irenaeus of Lyons expressed it: “The Son of God became the Son of man in order that man would become the Son of God.” This purpose was realized in the mystery of Christ’s birth, when the foundation of the Church was already prefigured.

The Virgin of the Burning Bush, tempera and gold on wood, ca. 1598. The four corners illustrate the prophetic visions of Moses, Isaiah, Ezekiel, and Jacob. In the center is the Virgin of the Burning Bush; the Unburnt Bush is understood as a prefiguring of the virgin birth of Christ. The Theotokos gave birth to the Incarnate God without suffering harm, just as the bush was burnt without being consumed.

But the road from Bethlehem to Zion is long, and is leading us through Gethsemane and Golgotha. Already in Bethlehem the newborn Godchild is presented with funeral offerings by the Wise Men from the East. “Today God leads the Wise Men to worship through the star, prefiguring His three-day burial in gold, frankincense, and myrrh.” The very doors of the Bethlehem cavern are nearly stained with the innocent blood of the children who were killed for Christ’s sake. The way of the Cross is mysteriously foreshown. The Lord is born for this very hour of the Cross, “For this cause came I unto this hour.” (John 12:27) The Lord is born for death and crucifixion: “He had a body that he might take death upon himself.” So wrote St. Athanasius the Great. Through the voluntary passion and death is the Christmas joy transfigured into Resurrection joy. This is the second and higher victory of life. In the very birth of Christ the order of nature is potentially overcome. It is not so much that the natural birth is sanctified as that the higher is prefigured and revealed. “The tongue cannot tell the mystery of thy birth.”

The Tree of Jesse, Michael Damaskinos, ca. 16th century, St. Catherine’s Monastery, Mt. Sinai. The Theotokos is depicted with the Lord held in her arms, surrounded by the thirteen ancestors of Christ.

In the birth of Christ is revealed not only the glory of Godmanhood, but also the mystery of Godmotherhood. The Church testifies to the mystery of the Incarnation in very precise and vigorous terms, calling us to a responsible firmness and exactness in our confession of faith. Through the use of the important name “Theotokos” the Church confesses the glory of the divine Incarnation, the glory of the Only Begotten who was then born of the Virgin, according to his humanity. St. John of Damascus said: “This name includes the whole mystery of salvation.” For this glorious name testifies to the oneness of the divine human personality. We contemplate the duality of natures in the inseparable unity within the indivisible hypostasis [=Person] of the Incarnate Word. To the Indivisible One are ascribed both glory and humiliation. “If the one who gave birth is the Mother of God, then the One who is born of her is a true God and a true man. For how could God, having existed before all ages, be born of a woman without becoming man!”

Theotokos and the Christ Child, ca. 13th century, St. Catherine’s Monastery, Mt. Sinai.

The incomprehensible mystery of Godmotherhood is not exhausted by birth only, even as natural motherhood is not exhausted by the fact of physical birth. The fulfillment of motherhood lies in sacrificial love. By this love for the one born the passive self-centeredness of the heart is broken. In this love is shown the natural image of love for another person, for the neighbor. “As thou lovest thyself.” In its depth and its fulfillment motherhood has not only a physical, but also a spiritual meaning. These features of the true natural motherhood are transcended in the ineffable virginal Godmotherhood. The love of the Virgin for the one who was born of her can be neither transient nor limited.

Flight into Egypt, Guida da Siena, gold and tempera on panel, ca. 1275- 1280, Altenburg, Lindenau-Museum.

In the pure love of the Mother of God there is nothing arbitrary, nothing casual, there is no partiality. This love includes the Cross; it is crucified with the redeeming love of the Son. Actually one cannot truly love Christ if one does not follow him in his love of the Cross; if one does not love the whole human race with Christ and in Christ. The love of the Mother of God receives its fulfillment in that it becomes our protection and intercession for us. The word mother always indicates love, especially the name of the Mother of Light. “Great is the power of the Mother’s prayer to the merciful Lord.”

Resurrection of Christ, tempera on wood with gilding, ca. 1350-1375, Walters Art Museum.

In the mystery of Incarnation the Divine Love is disclosed as descending and bringing peace and goodwill into the world. But human love is also disclosed as answering the Divine Revelation in meekness and obedience.

“If one should ask what we are worshipping and adoring, the answer is ready: we are honoring love.” (St. Gregory of Nazianzus) “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son…” (John 3:16)

This is the mystery of Christmas—and now in the days of sacred memories we sing and solemnize it. We are remembering not only what has already happened and passed, but that which was fulfilled.

We are now reckoning the years of grace, the years of our Lord. For so has God loved the world.

Father Georges Florovsky (1893–1979), renowned theologian, served as dean of St. Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary from 1949–1955. Under his leadership the school acquired a definite pan-Orthodox orientation, and the faculty and curriculum developed to the point where the Seminary was granted an Absolute Charter from the Board of Regents of the University of the State of New York. 

Fr. Alexander with Met. Kallistos Ware and Prof. David Drillock

Father Schmemann strongly argues that there is no special or unique vocation of the priesthood other than to reveal to others the common vocation of the entire people of God: to always offer thanksgiving to God. He was adamant that any theological or doctrinal separation between the vocations of the clergy and the laity is a false one, which reduces the priesthood to a separate caste of people, much like the Levites in the Old Testament, and thereby encourages clericalism. According to Schmemann, “If there are priests in the Church, if there is the priestly vocation in it, it is precisely in order to make the whole life of all the liturgy of the Kingdom, to reveal the Church as the royal priesthood of the redeemed world.” Thus the priest fulfills the calling of everyone who is a member of the royal priesthood, to offer prayer and praise to God and become fully a priest over creation, always giving thanks for everything.

Schmemann begins his discussion on the ordained priesthood by speaking about what is asked of all Christians as stated by Jesus, “So be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matt. 5:48). Likewise he regards the spiritual life as not something separate from daily existence, but something that organically flows from within, “In short, spiritual preparation of future priests consists in deepening by all possible means the Christian faith and life, in making religion not something added to life—as it is understood in our nominally Christian societies—but as life itself.”

Fr. Alexander Schmemann

When speaking about spiritual preparation for the priesthood, Schmemann also emphasizes the need for intellectual training and preparation as well. The candidate should read and pray the Scriptures, regularly attend worship, and practice the basic tenants of the Gospel: love, mercy, peace, forgiveness, humility, and generosity. He also emphasized that the priest must have a well-rounded theological education. He often fought against minimalism in the Church, especially in theological training. Since the priest is the main liturgical celebrant, as well as the primary teacher and preacher, he needs to be well versed in the doctrines of the faith, and needs to know intimately the Christian faith and teachings.

He also contends that since we work out our salvation in a specific culture and society, the priestly candidate should be well versed in contemporary ethical, moral, and political struggles and temptations, so that he can adequately address these issues and concerns in his sermons and teachings. He points out that in the age of the ecumenical councils, even the great theologians such as Basil the Great and John Chrysostom were aware of the culture and society around them. The priest is called to engage the world in which he lives. In his journals, Schmemann frequently reflected on the current events of the day, always rooting them within the larger framework of the Gospel and salvation. At one point in his personal notes on pastoral theology, he says:

“All the great Fathers of the Church were well instructed in the “culture” of their time and it is evident that the proper understanding of Orthodox theology is simply impossible without good philosophical, historical, and literary preparation. One can memorize the catechism and decisions of the Ecumenical Councils but unless one’s mind is trained to understand them, this knowledge will remain dead and fruitless…”

Furthermore, Father Alexander identifies the need for practical preparation of the priestly candidate. Practical preparation includes knowledge of the outline of forms and services, the customs and traditions, practice and conduct of the local Church administration—which includes keeping parish records, and maintaining correspondence with bishops and other priests—as well as the ability to perform marriages, funerals, and memorial services. This liturgical element is especially important, as the congregation will themselves feel the tension and anxiety of a priest who does not feel comfortable at the altar. This also extends to delivering homilies. If a priest is not well prepared, the congregation will certainly know. This does not mean that the priest has to be the perfect liturgical celebrant, but he really ought to have enough understanding of the rites and rituals to perform the liturgy in a way that is prayerful and smooth, and can be understood by his parishioners.

Fr. Alexander Schmemann

Ultimately, priestly service is a ministry of love, founded on Love itself, Jesus Christ, who was sent into this world in order to show us how to love (emphasis added). A priest cannot be a priest apart from love. His only example is Christ himself, who repeatedly demonstrates his long-suffering love through his acceptance of the stranger and outsider, through his miracles, through acts of kindness such as the washing of the feet of his disciples, and ultimately through his own sacrifice on the cross. At Golgotha we see the greatest gift of love, the giving of oneself for the neighbor, a theme that comes up throughout the Scriptures. Golgotha is where Christ affirmed his role as the High Priest for us, where the unblemished Lamb was slain. Christ became the high priest so that we could continue his priestly ministry from generation to generation, as expressed in the Eucharistic offering. It is here in the Eucharist that the entire Church, clergy and laity, is seen side by side, fulfilling their priestly roles in different ways. The same Eucharist provides a lens through which we can re-envision pastoral care for the contemporary Church.

Fr. William C. Mills (SVOTS ‘97) is the rector of Nativity of the Holy Virgin Orthodox Church in Charlotte, NC and is also the author of A 30 Day Retreat: A Personal Guide to Spiritual Renewal (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 2010). 

However, at my young age I usually “reversed” that order. If my parents or my priest were to have asked me what Christmas meant, I would have had quite a bit to say about what Santa might bring me for Christmas. If I had remembered—and that is a big “if”—I might have mentioned that Christmas is also about the birth of Jesus and the salvation of the world. In my youth, I had offered Jesus a backseat to Star Wars, and I had displaced the truly wonderful gift that I had received from God with opening my own Christmas gifts.

I could easily excuse my behavior as youthful exuberance, blame my immaturity, or point to the commercialization of the season. What I could not get around (even now) is that Linus—the character from Charles Schulz’s “Charlie Brown” comic strip—taught me better; he taught me what Christmas is really about.

Most of us probably recall “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” a TV cartoon special that debuted in 1965 and has been aired every year since. In the cartoon Charlie Brown—the main character in Schulz’s strip—laments the commercialization of Christmas and falls into an emotional depression. Acting as the resident psychiatrist, Lucy (Charlie’s ever-present antagonist) suggests that Charlie Brown direct the school Christmas play, and in so doing find some peace within the Christmas season. However, rather than finding peace, Charlie Brown instead finds greater frustration: the Peanuts gang wants to modernize the Nativity story rather than highlight Jesus’ birth.

Seeking to create a more appropriate mood, Charlie Brown and Linus (Lucy’s gentler and kinder younger brother) set off to find a Christmas tree for the play. As they leave, Lucy requests that they get a “big, shiny aluminum tree.” However, in the midst of the many extravagant and fake trees in the lot, Charlie Brown finds and chooses a humble, unassuming evergreen—the only real tree available.

Despite Linus’s misgivings, Charlie Brown returns with this tree to rehearsal, where the Peanuts gang promptly laughs at him for his seemingly poor decision. Shaken by their response, Charlie Brown cries out, “Will somebody tell me what Christmas is all about?” Responding to his question, Linus takes center stage and recites six verses from the Gospel of Luke:

And the angel said unto them: “Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you this day is born in the City of Bethlehem a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good will toward men.” (Luke 2:10–15)

After recounting the Gospel’s “infancy narrative,” Linus states, “That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

Inspired, Charlie Brown decides to take his tree home to decorate it, to show the rest of the gang its true beauty. Charlie Brown borrows an ornament from the prize-winning Christmas display created by his own dog, Snoopy, only to watch the little tree droop from its weight. After crying out “I’ve killed it!”, he flees in despair.

Now sorry for their rough treatment of Charlie Brown, the Peanuts gang (inspired by Linus), follow after him, only to discover the humble tree bowed down by the weight of the ornament. Linus lovingly props up the tree to give it strength, and wraps his security blanket around its base. The gang decorates the tree with the rest of Snoopy’s ornaments as they sing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” Upon returning, Charlie Brown is stunned as his friends shout, “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!”

Charlie Brown learned something valuable that day: the joyful gift of our salvation comes wrapped not in worldly glory but in humility. The Messiah comes not in earthly splendor but in heavenly glory, wrapped in swaddling clothes rather than royal garments. The small tree chosen by Charlie Brown symbolizes the truth of the Incarnation of the Word of God: our salvation resides in an outpouring of love, not in self-glorification.

We can perhaps find even deeper symbolism in Linus’s security blanket (usually an ever-present fixture; he does not leave home with out it!). As Linus recites the gospel verse, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,” he lets go of his security blanket. Linus has always depended on his blanket to have peace of mind, to feel protected, to feel safe. Yet, in this dramatic moment, he lets his blanket drop, symbolically reaching for the Savior to find true peace, protection, and safety.

Linus also wraps his security blanket around the tree after Charlie Brown flees in despair. This hopeful act suggests that Linus wrapped his fears around the Christmas tree, because perfect love casts out fear (1 John 4:18). In the light of Jesus’ birth, anxiety loses its grasp upon humanity; our security is no longer in earthly vessels but in the Lord Himself. Like Linus, we might consider letting go of our own security blankets in order to offer the same gratitude.

The brilliant Charles Schulz, through his thought-provoking and heart-warming characters, tried to convey to the world the true meaning of Christmas. Although I now enter into the Advent Season through the rich services of the Orthodox Church, I still carry in my heart the simple but profound lessons taught to me by the Peanuts gang.

And, now, when considering my “Christmas presents” I muse: Am I presenting the Lord with gold, frankincense, and myrrh, like the Magi? Or, am I offering him pride, covetousness, envy, and judgment?

What do I really want for Christmas?

The Rev. Dr. David Mezynski currently serves as the Associate Dean for Student Affairs at St. Vladimir’s Seminary. From 2004-05 Fr. David served as Assistant to the Dean, and from 2005-09 as Director of Student Affairs, at St. Tikhon’s Orthodox Theological Seminary, South Canaan, PA, before joining the staff at St. Vladimir’s.

At night, the shepherds would have heard the wolves. The shepherds in the time of Jesus took their flocks out into the countryside to find pasture and water. Journeying far from the safety of the village or the city, settling down for the night, they could hear the hungry wolves that prowled in the distance. Remember, this was not the Wild West; shepherds did not carry lever action Winchester rifles to fend off predators. The shepherds in Jesus’ day would have had a wooden staff, a sling, and a bag of small round stones. Shepherds had to be brave folks who could face danger. But at night, as the small fire would have been dying down to embers, and as the sheep settled down, they would have heard the wolves, and it would have sent a chill up the spine of the bravest shepherd.

Can you hear the wolves?

When Hurricane Sandy knocked us off the grid and devastated the Tri-State Area, could you hear the wolves?

As the national election shook the country and inflamed passions of anger and bitterness between brothers and sisters, could you hear the wolves?

Hearing about scandals and controversy within the Church on the national level, in the parish, or between friends and family, can you hear the wolves?

It is awfully tempting to run for it, isn’t it? Just give up the whole thing and run for your life. Today Jesus tells us that if the shepherd was a hired hand, if the sheep weren’t his own and if he caught a glimpse of those ravenous wolves advancing towards the sheep, he’d abandon the flock and run for his life. And the sheep scatter, and the wolves attack at will. Now, if we are merely talking about livestock, then a shepherd might fare pretty well if he ran for his life. There are only so many wolves, maybe a dozen or so, and odds are that a pack of wolves would much rather go after a young lamb, a slow pregnant female, or an old feeble sheep.

But here is the problem.

Jesus is not giving advice on caring for livestock; he is speaking of a spiritual reality.

And the wolves that Jesus is talking about are not of this world. They are demons, intent on dividing the Body of Christ and devouring human souls. So, if the shepherd runs away and leaves the flock of Christ to the demonic wolves, there is no safety for anyone. The demonic powers of Satan will not only hunt down every last one of the sheep but also go after every shepherd that runs and tries to save his own life.

But our shepherd is not a hired hand.

Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ lays down His life for His reason-endowed flock. He offers His life as He is suspended on the Cross so that we would know, without a doubt, that He loves us and that we belong to Him. Jesus Christ is the Good Shepherd. He knows His own flock, and His flock knows Him. We hear His voice and we follow Him.

St. John Chrysostom, 13th c. manuscript illumination

Today we celebrate the life of St. John Chrysostom, a man who listened to the voice of the Good Shepherd, a man who followed in the footsteps of Christ, a man who did the work of the Gospel. He served the flock of Christ in the midst of a wilderness of sin: Constantinople, with its spectacles and games, its greed and its wealth, its lust and its passion. The demonic wolves in that capital city threatened the flock of Christ more than any predators in the Jordan Valley ever threatened a flock of sheep. In the midst of that danger, St. John stood by the poor, the weak, and the vulnerable, constantly providing for spiritual and material needs. Ravening wolves attacked him from every side. On one side, strict disciplinarians said that he was too soft in his merciful appeal to sinners. He would say, “If you have fallen a second time, or even a thousand times into sin, come and you shall be healed.” On the other side, influential and wealthy bishops and priests mocked him for his austere lifestyle and publicly accused him of mismanagement, claiming that his care of the poor was a “waste” of Church money. Finally, he was attacked head-on by a vain and decadent empress and her imperial court, who did not feel it was right for a bishop to criticize their public spectacles.

Exile of St. John Chrysostom, Menologion of Basil II, ca. 1000

Yet in spite of it all St. John stood by his flock and never ran for his life. Facing the imperial threat he said, “Though the sea roar and the wave rise high, they cannot overwhelm the ship of Jesus Christ. I fear not death which is my gain, nor exile for the whole earth is the Lord’s, nor the loss of goods for I came naked into the world and I can carry nothing out of it.”He stood by his flock until armed guards dragged him out of the city into exile. But even in exile, he wrote letters and exhorted his friends and spiritual children, reminding them of the love of God and the mercy of Christ. And in his death, out in the lonely, harsh place where he had been literally dragged in chains, he completed his course by laying down his life, in emulation of Christ the Good Shepherd. And with his last breath, saying, “Glory be to God for all things.”

Hearing the Word of God, preaching the Gospel and standing by the weak and the vulnerable, even when it costs you your life: this is the legacy of St. John Chrysostom.

This is our life. This is our work. This is our calling.

Today we follow Christ the Good Shepherd. When a stranger is hungry, we feed him. When a sister is lonely, we sit by her side. When a brother is angry, we patiently listen to him, just like God always patiently listens to us. We follow Christ the Good Shepherd; we hear His word and know that we belong to Him. And we lay down our life for others, just like He laid down His life for us.

Christ the Good Shepherd, 5th c.

The Rev. Dr. J. Sergius Halvorsen (SVOTS ’96) received his M.Div. from St. Vladimir’s Seminary and completed his doctoral dissertation at Drew University in 2002. From 2000 to 2011 he taught at Holy Apostles College and Seminary in Cromwell Connecticut, where he also served as Director of Distance Learning. He was ordained to the priesthood in February 2004, and currently serves on the faculty of SVOTS as Associate Professor of Homiletics and Rhetoric and Director of Field Education.

Officers Development School fire training

How about learning how to put out fires in a burning building, or saving a ship hit by a torpedo from sinking, or getting up at 0430 every morning to run and work your muscles well before dawn, or ministering to believers and non–believers in a combat unit?

I had already completed the requirements in the first paragraph—my M.Div. at St. Vladimir’s—but that sufficed for being an Orthodox priest. I needed the second set of skills in order to embark on another path I have been blessed to tread: that of a chaplain in the United States Navy. The first part of the training by which such skills are acquired is called Officer Development School (ODS), a five–week course in military basics, officer leadership, fitness training, and disaster preparedness. Along with 60 other officers assigned to Class 12110, Uniform Company, I attended ODS at the Naval Station Newport, Rhode Island, from September 9 to October 12, 2012.

Having grown up in the military (both my parents were Marines) and having spent several years in a monastery, I was accustomed to a life marked by routine and by orders; the same was not the case for many of my shipmates when we first started our course. A large part of the ODS experience is militarization, especially important because the officers attending this school are “directly commissioned,” that is, they receive a commission not based on any prior military education or experience, but on the basis of the professional knowledge and experience they bring to the military. All of us in Class 12110 fell into this camp: chaplains, clinical psychologists, nurses, dentists, surgeons, and scientists of all sorts. The Navy needed our skills and talents, but before we could serve our nation’s sailors and Marines, we needed the Navy to show us what it means to be an officer and sailor.

Navy “Wet Training”

Our days were long and tiring: waking up at 0430 (that’s 4:30 a.m. for civilians), having an hour of PT (physical training) every morning, getting used to all the military acronyms too! Three meals a day, fifteen minutes only allotted for mealtime, no talking, lest we incur the wrath of the Marine drill instructors and Navy RDCs (recruit division commanders) watching our every bite. Wearing our uniforms and preparing them for inspection: this badge must be one quarter inch above the pocket and centered, no more, no less; your bed sheets folded just so; your shower shoes and laundry bag hung on the hook thus. All this attention to detail is important—it helps make one aware of the details in all of our lives as Naval officers, of the small things that can make or break a ship, or save or kill a life in battle or in a hospital. But to me, as a hieromonk in the Orthodox Christian tradition, the attention to detail was very welcome, a sign pointing to the present in the midst of our trials and tribulations throughout the five weeks. “Don’t worry about the inspection tomorrow,” I’d say to myself, “just worry about marching in step right now,” or: “Just focus on your thousand–yard stare right now.” Past and future fled away to reveal simply the present, and simultaneously, simply the presence of God guiding me and my shipmates in our training.

As a chaplain in the U.S. Navy, I enjoy certain privileges, but also must bear certain crosses no other officer must. As a chaplain, I can bypass the chain of command—I have direct access to the commanding officer (CO) (whether he/she be a commander, captain, admiral, depending on the type of command), and the COs confer with chaplains often about the climate of their command, and how their sailors and officers are doing. But as a chaplain, I also am the only officer who has complete confidentiality: if a sailor or Marine comes to me in confidence, I cannot tell anyone else what he or she has said. This is much like confession in the Orthodox Church, but can be a great burden at times, both in the military as well as in the parish. I am called to enter into both the joys and sufferings of others.

Graduation photo of Class 12110, Uniform Company

This took place even during my training time. One night, after a long day involving me as a chaplain, after keeping my chin up and my military bearing spot on, I retired to my hatch (=my room) after chow (=dinner), shut the door, and just started to cry, and offer up the pain and sorrows that had been given to me in confidence to the one Person I can always talk to, Jesus Christ. One of my shipmates, a nuclear instructor, heard my sobs and knocked on the door, to see if I was all right. I said I would be, but that this was one of the hard parts of the chaplaincy, one of the sacrifices I and other chaplains make for our nation and those whom we serve: to bear their pain in silence and confidence, opening it only to the Lord. My shipmate had not realized until that point the real sacrifice of the Chaplain Corps, and that moment brought us together in greater understanding of how we both were serving our fellow sailors, albeit in different but equally important ways.

Chaplains in the Navy serve our country’s sailors, Marines, and Coast Guard on the spiritual front; but like any other officer or sailor, we too are full Naval officers, and must be ready to help in any way, in any emergency. Part of our training involved passing the 3rd Class Swim Test, which involves: jumping off a 10-foot tower and swimming to safety; being submerged in full khaki uniform, and inflating your trousers and blouse to be life vests; and swimming 50 meters nonstop to safety. We learned how to fight fires onboard ships, and consequently suited up completely in firefighting gear, complete with oxygen tanks and real flames, to put out fires in a simulated ship space. We also learned about water damage control on board the “SS Buttercup,” a ship simulator rigged to give us the experience of a torpedo striking the hull. We started to list about 30 degrees to starboard (=to the right), taking on water, and had to put our book knowledge into practice: bracing breached hatches, turning off valves to burst pipes, deploying hoses to drain flooded compartments. We saved the ship, we grew closer together as a team and company, and we emerged ready to serve our nation’s finest.

Bishop Michael, Fr. Kilian, Mrs. Kemper and CAPT Vernon Kemper

On October 12, 2012, we had our graduation ceremony in front of many family and friends. I was very blessed to have my diocesan bishop, The Right Rev. Bishop Michael, and my uncle and aunt, Lt. Col. David Searle, USAF, and Mrs. Jodie Searle, attend the celebrations. The commanding officer of Officer Training Command Newport, Captain Vernon Kemper, beamed at all of us, 61 officers from all parts of the United States, who had come to Newport as individuals, but were leaving as brothers and sisters in the US Navy, and welcomed our guest speaker, Rear Admiral Rebecca McCormick-Boyle, the Chief of Staff, Bureau of Medicine. RDML McCormick-Boyle, a nurse who had trodden the same path as us at ODS some 30 years prior, inspired us to hold on to that spirit of camaraderie and dedication as we embarked on our Navy careers, and our families and friends applauded as we renewed our Oaths of Office.

For me, a bit of a pause had come. Unlike the other 59 officers, I and the other chaplains have one more year of Reserve and parish service before taking up active duty service. Yet the experience of attending ODS confirmed for me the sense of vocation to this rare calling: to be an Orthodox monk, and priest, and Navy chaplain. I don’t know of many others who’ve had this particular combination – in fact, right now, I’m the only such chaplain the U.S. Navy. But by God’s grace, I hope to spend many years being a presence of love, comfort, consolation, and confidence to all who serve our nation and put their lives in harm’s way so that ours might not be exposed to such dangers.

Anchors aweigh! Hope to see you in the Fleet!

Bishop Michael congratulates Fr. Kilian

Hieromonk Kilian (Sprecher), a seminarian in the Master of Theology program at St. Vladimir’s, is a chaplain in the U.S. Navy Reserves. Father Kilian was the first monk to be tonsured to the monastic rank of “Lesser Schema” in the seminary’s Three Hierarchs Chapel in 2010 and was the first monk on campus to be inducted into the U.S. Naval Reserves as a chaplain. Father is also serving as the Acting Rector of St. Gregory of Palamas Church in Glen Gardner, NJ.

Hans Baldung Grien – Hexen (Witches; woodcut, 1508)

When I was a child, I enjoyed playing in the basement. There were nooks and crannies to hide in, and decades of accumulated stuff to explore. It was a little spooky down there, and I was convinced that witches lived down there. But as long as the lights were on, I was unafraid. When I had to go back upstairs, I had a problem. The switch for the lights was at the bottom of the stairs, so I had to turn off the lights before I was safely upstairs. When I flipped that switch and the light went off, I was sure that the witches would come grab me if I didn’t get up the stairs in about five seconds. Every time I came up from the basement, I turned off the lights and sprinted up the stairs as fast as I could, just to be safe from the witches. I must have been fast enough, because I’m still alive today!

Confession is not meant to produce guilty feelings. It is a safe place to be open about the secrets that bother us and cause sinful behavior. Honest confession cleanses us from hidden faults.

Fr. David Poling

The son of a Church of the Brethren pastor, Fr. David Chandler Poling (SVOTS ’12) grew up in rural Pennsylvania. He and his wife, Emilita, married in 2000, and moved to New York City in 2002. A few years later they joined the OCA at the Cathedral of the Holy Virgin Protection. They have three children: Elias, Mariam, and John. Fr. David is the acting rector of St. Innocent Mission in Oneonta, New York. You can read more of his writing, where this reflection originally appeared, on his blog: Fruits of the Spirit.

“Poor children, you want to manage without Me. What then will you look to for support?

Poor child, thou thinkest to escape Me by plunging into what thou dost believe to be nature, into what thou callest nature. But what thou dost clasp is not nature in its truth, in its depth.

Thou thinkest to live a fuller life by estranging thyself from the Love which goes beyond all limits and loves beyond the visible. Thou desirest to give thyself exclusively to the visible. Thou doest speak of asserting thy personality, of realising thyself. Thou dost speak of earthly foods, and expect from them harmony and joy.

But thou wilt run up against the refusal with which all the elements of creation will oppose thee. The universe gives no peace to him who professes to separate any situation or person from total Love.

Thou seekest the support of reality. Thou dost conceive of nature alone as being what is real. Thou dost want to lean on a reed, and this reed will pierce thy hand.

In a world where everything is bound by a Love that is limitless, all the creatures which thou dost desire to separate and grasp by themselves, without reference to absolute Love, will withdraw from thee, one after another. Thou wilt be left alone, wounded, lying helpless on the road. Everything will abandon thee at the moment when thou dost abandon Me.

Poor child, whom wilt thou find to save thee, if not Me? Whom wilt thou find to love thee, if not Me?”

Excerpt from In Thy Presence by Lev Gillet, St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1977, p. 25.