I expect that this post will be a little less directly theological and a little more personal. But I also hope to address some thoughts and concerns that have been on my mind lately with regards to faith and practice.
As I continue day by day in my walk with God (both the lifelong pursuit of God’s presence and this shorter walk of my journey to a new religious community), I find that I often continue to fall into the same trap of control and traditionalism. To clarify, I should explain what I mean by traditionalism. I’m not referring solely or even primarily to tradition itself (sometimes called holy tradition, or Tradition with a capital “T”). I recognize the value of retaining insight and the spiritual inheritance of those who came before. The saying that we stand on the shoulders of giants is perhaps a bit cliche, but in the case of living the religious life, it’s an apt saying. Indeed, the word “religion” has multiple etymologies having to do with reverence for the truth, truth that has been passed down to us from generation to generation. One of these meanings is the idea of binding or creating a tie between the individual and that which is holy (which includes the holy community and its practice as well as the source of all holiness, God Themself). Another etymology comes from a root word that has to do with paying attention, observance, to notice. By participating in shared attention directed towards the Truth, we are more deeply drawn into a sacred awareness that all Creation shares in the divine life and sanctity.
When I refer to traditionalism, I refer to a mentality and mindset that takes tradition (which is supposed to be a signpost towards God) and elevates it to the status of God. I think we all may be guilty of this at times, and it’s a phenomenon that can occur in varying degrees, with some being less egregious than others. However, regardless of intensity, traditionalism is a habit present in all communities of faith. When I had more or less discarded the Evangelical tradition of my early youth, I thought that I was leaving traditionalism behind. I loved the story and thread of God’s presence that ran through Scripture, but I rejected the idea that God did not speak outside of its pages. I was touched in foundational, indescribable ways by the mystery of Jesus on the cross, but I rejected the theology that spoke of a wrathful God who could only be appeased by the blood of His own Son. I admired the Evangelical commitment to worshipping God in humility and simplicity, but I rejected the idea that artistic beauty and sensory elegance were not also valid pathways to God.
And yet, when I began to walk towards the Orthodox tradition, I found that traditionalism continued to haunt me. I took up the Divine Office and liturgical daily prayer with all the zeal of a monastic novice, only to find that I had forgotten how to truly talk with God and listen. I studied the meaning and majesty of the Divine Liturgy, only to find that in trying to understand and observe every facet of its meaning, the Liturgy began to look more and more like a carefully constructed platform to keep God at arm’s length, rather than an intentional space and state where mind and senses glorify the Lord. I tried to conform and tame my speculations about who God was to the strictest letter of Orthodox teaching and law, only to find that I failed to do justice to the wondrous depths of God’s love and holiness, and to the image of Christ in myself and others. These are all good things, good traditions. But I was too concerned with the outward forms of them and not with their inner content, which points to God.
I have slowly begun to realize that all of these mistaken efforts towards deep religion have been at least partly about control. I sought to be able to put God in a box, so that if only I said and did and believed the right things in the right combinations and rituals, I would be in charge of my life and God would be my source of personal stability and security. Safe. Unchallenged. Uncomplicated. I had forgotten the One who has held me together even as They have shaken the very foundations of who I am. I had forgotten the Mystery, the wonder, the essential wildness of God.
During my years of wandering in and out of the Christian faith, I was often frustrated by what felt like God’s absence in my life. And yet, while I have no desire to live through that same wilderness again, I think I was in touch with something I have since lost: that God is everywhere, and that the life in faith is an adventure, not an exercise in control.
That’s not to say I reject the importance of being in community with others, in the context of a tradition. The citation eludes me at the moment, but I’m reminded of a conversation between a layperson and one of the Church Fathers. The layperson asks the Father, “If God is everywhere, why do we need to attend church?” and the Father responds with, “Water can be found everywhere, but if you want a drink of water, you go to a well.” It’s one thing to try and stay open to the motion of the Holy Spirit in all places, it’s another to reject fellowship and community (even if the relationship between the believer and the divine is ultimately a unique and personal one). Going to church, drawing from the beliefs, prayers and practices of a tradition, these are all good things. But without the openness of the individual to the voice of God speaking through our lives and the lives of others, they are ultimately fruitless.
I am slowly learning to appreciate the wildness of God. To be reminded over and over again that my joys and pains, my time alone and my time in community, my prayer and my silence are all manifestations of God’s movement in the world. To draw from the well of tradition, but to remember that God Himself is the water. To be open to new directions in worship, in service, in my relationships with others. To be open to correction from wise mentors and spiritual friends. All in all, just to be open. Because God is the Lover, and we are the eternal recipients of His love. We are the dancers, but God is the Lord of the Dance.
I sense I’ve rambled on a bit, so I think this is a good stopping place. I’ll close with the words of another seeker, St. Symeon the New Theologian, in his invocation to the Holy Spirit:
Come, true light.
Come, life eternal.
Come, hidden mystery.
Come, treasure without name.
Come, reality beyond all words.
Come, person beyond all understanding.
Come, rejoicing without end.
Come, light that knows no evening.
Come, unfailing expectation of the saved.
Come, raising of the fallen.
Come, resurrection of the dead.
Come, all-powerful, for unceasingly you create, refashion and change all things by your will alone.
Come, invisible whom none may touch and handle.
Come, for you continue always unmoved, yet at every instant you are wholly in movement; you draw near to us who lie in hell, yet you remain higher than the heavens.
Come, for your name fills our hearts with longing and is ever on our lips; yet who you are and what your nature is, we cannot say or know.
Come, Alone to the alone.
Come, for you are yourself the desire that is within me.
Come, my breath and my life.
Come, the consolation of my humble soul.
Come, my joy, my glory, my endless delight.
