May, 2006

Christ is risen! Truly He is risen!

As Bright Week draws to a close, my mind is drawn back to the journey of Holy Week, a time of walking with Christ through his last week on earth, remembering soberly all the events leading to his crucifixion and burial, and rejoicing at his glorious resurrection.

God showered me with grace this year, enabling me to feel well enough to attend almost all of the services of Holy Week, beginning with the Bridegroom Matins and ending with Agape Vespers. The services were quiet, meaningful, blessed, and marked all week by anticipation of that great moment when Fr. Nick would announce, “Christ is risen.”

When the vigil of Pascha came we were ready, for we had been building our expectations all week. Christ arose, breaking the chains of death, and our joy was immense for we knew that the work of our redemption had been completed. At last, we were free from the stranglehold of sin and misery.

Several things struck me this year. First, the extravagant love of the woman who anointed the feet of Jesus with precious ointment then wiped it off with her hair. This woman had experienced Jesus' love and goodness first hand and wanted to reciprocate in the only way she knew how—by giving without reservation that which she treasured most. She was not trying to gain something from Jesus. She poured out her treasure because she wanted to show him how deeply she loved him. The ointment was worth more than a year's wages and probably couldn't be replaced. There were some present for this demonstration who were horrified by what they perceived to be wastefulness. These rebuked the woman, but Jesus corrected them and called the anointing “a beautiful thing.” This is what I so long for in myself: to love Jesus because he is good, not because I want him to be pleased with me, not so that he'll provide what I think I need, not out of a sense of duty. I want to love him for himself alone and to give unstintingly that which I most treasure, whatever that may be.

In each Divine Liturgy, we are invited to come to the Eucharist “with the fear of God, with faith, and with love.” It seems to me that this is how we should approach God at all times. The “fear of God” implies that we ought to tremble before him for he is terribly Good, and no one can stand before him. We forget this and get casual and careless in our approach to him. We need to come in humility, remembering that it is only because of his grace and mercy that we can approach him at all. But “fear” is tempered by love, and this makes us bold because we know that he loves us excruciatingly and has given all so that we might come to him.

As I look back over the past year, I wish I could say that I have made leaps and bounds in the area of loving God more deeply. I don't even know how one measures such things, but I do know that loving God demands a detachment from things. So does service to him. There is a profound prayer that the priest prays in the liturgy during the cherubic hymn that most of us never hear because it is said silently, but I have seen it written in a service book and have been struck by it often. It reads, “No one bound by worldly desires and pleasures is worthy to approach, draw near or minister to You, the King of glory. To serve You is great and awesome even for the heavenly powers.” Though this applies specifically to priests serving the liturgy, I think it can apply more broadly to anyone in the service of Christ. I have thought of it often with regard to missionary service. We cannot be bound by worldly desires and pleasures and expect to be able to give love and devotion to our Lord. The world will always win. This fits also with loving God moment by moment. I cannot be caught up in the love of things and expect to love God at the same time.

You'd think with my illness that a detachment from this life would have come automatically, but this has not been the case. I have had to struggle with this and to be intentional about it. Let me give an example. Last year, I began to feel strongly that I ought not to put too much attention on my appearance, especially on my hair. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I used to go to the hairdresser almost every week in Albania . It was inexpensive, and the results were wonderful. I wanted to look good, and so I put a lot of emphasis on my hair. I think that is why, in my quest last year for healing of soul as well as body, God convicted about this emphasis. It wasn't that I began to think it was wrong to go to the hairdresser or to color my hair. These are neutral things. The problem was with my focus. For me, then, healing of soul meant that I needed to be free from excessive concern about my appearance.

As a result, I stopped coloring my hair and let the natural color grow out—a rather long process with a lot of unattractive steps in between. My hair came in quite gray and really didn't look very good. In those first six months, I was tempted many times to go back to coloring my hair. I resisted, however, because of my desire to keep battling my vanity. Fortunately, I have gotten to the point where it doesn't matter any more. My body is perishing—not just because I am dying, but because life is brief--and it seems ridiculous to me now to put too much emphasis on it. I have to say that there is a great deal of liberty in being detached from one's appearance.

I've tried to detach myself from other things, as well—material possessions and such—that I have wanted to hold close. It's a long process of letting go, but by the grace of God, it is possible.

I was struck by something else during Holy Week this year, and that was the contrast drawn between Peter's repentance and Judas' regret. Both were guilty of terrible sins against Jesus, but whereas Peter wept and repented, coming back to Jesus and seeking his forgiveness, Judas regretted bitterly his betrayal but did not repent. He chose instead to take his own life. Regret is unproductive unless it turns into repentance. One of the things I have done as I face death is to reflect on my life, and I have spent many hours regretting certain things that I have done, and certain things that I have not done. This has not always been a positive exercise, as I have tended to dwell on regret and a sense of failure. I have had to learn to turn my regret into repentance, seeking God's forgiveness for my failures and sins, but then moving on from that to embrace God's love. To harbor regret and never repent and accept forgiveness is to deny the efficacy of Jesus' work on the cross. I can be forgiven of my sins because Jesus died for them. If I live in regret, unable to accept forgiveness, I make God out to be a liar, saying, in effect, that God does not love me and did not give his son for me.

I take great comfort in the tale of the prodigal son, who comes to his senses after a terribly wasteful life and runs home to his father, seeking his forgiveness. The father, who has been waiting anxiously for his son's return, embraces him with love. Without a doubt, that prodigal son loved his father much more than the older son who had never led a dissipated life, for the younger knew how much he had been forgiven. I often visualize myself as that prodigal running home to the father, begging for his forgiveness and basking in his overwhelming love.