"Giving It Back to God" -- Models of Faith in the Movie "Pilgrimage" -- Pt. IV: The Abba

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CW/TW: Mentions of blood/gore

In this piece I hope to touch on the final monastic character I intend to talk about in this series. (There is one other named monk, Brother Cathal, but he has very few lines and as such doesn’t leave enough of an impression for me to feel like I have much to say about him).

Brother Ciaran, the abbot of the monastery, is truly an abbot in the ancient sense of the word. The word Abbot comes to English from Latin and Greek, who borrowed it from Aramaic. The Aramaic word “Abba” roughly means “my father”. In the early days of monasticism, holy men (and women, who were called “Amma” (my mother)) fled civilization to cultivate a life with God in the wilderness. Gradually, these hermits were sought out by faithful laity, many of whom became monks in association with them. And thus a movement was born. These Abbas were often known for giving a word of wisdom for their students to ponder in hopes that it would lead them closer to God.

Brother Ciaran, existing many centuries after the mold of the Desert Fathers and Mothers, nevertheless is a strong example of this archetype. Like St. Antony, the founder of monasticism, he left a well-traveled life to serve God in stillness and simplicity. It is implied early on in the film that Ciaran has traveled across the known world, and may have even participated in the Crusades. Shunning glory and worldly authority, Ciaran becomes a shining example of monastic devotion and communion with God. When the Normans question him on his travels, it seems clear that Ciaran doesn’t want to talk about it. He has, in a sense, died to his old self and put on the new life in Christ. Diarmuid exemplifies integrity and purity of heart, but there is a sense in which it is easier for him because he has known nothing different. Ciaran, on the other hand, has followed the example of the apostles, to leave everything and follow Christ.

This life of prayer and holy community manifests its fruits in the way Ciaran approaches power, violence, and war, and peace. Ciaran rebukes Geraldus for being so naive and out of touch as to believe that allying with the Normans will bring anything but death and destruction to their faith and their community. Geraldus wants to use empire as a weapon of faith, but Ciaran is part of “an army that sheds no blood” (St. Clement of Alexandria). The death to self that is core to the monastic and Christian life also means a death to the ego which believes that those outside the faith are obstacles to be destroyed rather than people to be loved.

When Diarmuid asks Ciaran if there was ever peace in the Irish lands, Ciaran responds “not since the Fall.” Rather than leave Diarmuid in despair, though, he offers “a word” that is both a comfort and a challenge. (Note: I’m paraphrasing). “Peace takes time to grow. It must be cared for. And there are not many men in these times willing to care for it.”

When the brigands have captured Ciaran at the behest of the Normans, the young lord Raymond de Merville tortures Ciaran with the intent of getting him to tell them where the relic has been taken. Ciaran refuses, but says no word of hatred or rebuke towards Raymond. Even when his guts are being torn out by a Crusader torture device, he repeats only prayers of forgiveness for himself and his killer, and he invokes the name of Jesus. This can speak to a number of facets of faith. First, there is the true meaning of martyrdom. Ciaran is not seeking to die. He is not a Crusader, looking for reward for killing “infidels” or dying in battle. This ideal of “martyrdom” is clearly exposed as the falsehood that it is, in that all the Crusader characters except for the Mute (who we’ll get to later) display nothing but contempt for gentleness, love, humility, true piety and all the things that the Irish monks seek. But Ciaran witnesses to his faith by not betraying the relic into the hands of those who would seek to abuse it. Ultimately, his silence is not about the relic itself. It is about one kind of faith versus another. Ciaran will not allow the Normans to twist the message of Christ into one of war and conquest, whether physical or spiritual. And so he commits to silence, even at the cost of his own life. As he dies, he exemplifies the spirit of the monastic lifestyle: praying for the forgiveness of all, and having the name and presence of Christ constantly on one’s lips and in one’s heart. The fact that he can do this while being literally disemboweled is a testament to how God dwells within him and has transformed Ciaran from the image of God into the likeness of God.

This brings us to a small note on the nature of nonviolence. To justify or condemn nonviolence wholeheartedly in all cases is beyond the scope of this essay. It’s also worth noting that Ciaran, being tied to a post, is not really in a position to fight his captor. However, it is true to the monastic way of life to shed no blood, and I would argue that this film makes a strong case that nonviolence is integral to all Christian life. The characters who are sympathetic and relatable are those who shun violence wherever possible, and the ones who are hypocritical and unsympathetic are generally those who idolize violence. This is a filmmaking decision, but I do think it speaks to the truth that nonviolence is a Christian value, one which has been too often neglected in our society. There are, of course, different approaches to nonviolence. Diarmuid, a young monastic tasked with caring for the relic on its journey, mostly stays out of fights but occasionally will use nonlethal force in self defense. Ciaran takes up a course of absolute nonviolence throughout the film, and sees in this perhaps a small way of witnessing to the absurdity and injustice of the violence around him. Neither are wrong, and the approach varies based on one’s station in life and responsibilities. But nonviolence is clearly depicted as a value to strive towards, with the ultimate example being Christ, who forgave His enemies even on the cross. Not everyone is called to the same method of resistance, which is why it is valuable to analyze the different archetypes of faith in this and other films (some positive, some negative) and consider how they may be useful for application in daily life. Regardless, Ciaran does embody well the tradition of Desert spirituality and the core of monasticism, to cut off all ties to “the sin that so easily entangles” (Hebrews 12:1) and live simply, in harmony with God and all creation.

"Giving It Back To God" -- Models of Faith in the Movie "Pilgrimage" -- Pt. III: The Rich Ruler

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This piece will likely be a bit shorter than the others, as this character has a smaller role in the film and is out of the movie by about halfway through. Still, I wanted to briefly touch on Baron De Merville, the aging Norman lord, as his particular relationship to faith is sadly all too common. Baron de Merville first appears when the monks are led to the Norman camp. The Baron appears in many ways to be more pious than his son, Raymond (see later in this series). He expresses a genuine desire to see and venerate the relic, and he commissions the monks to offer Mass to his troops before he leads them into battle. Unlike Geraldus, he is less interested in appearing righteous so much as in using the language of faith to give sanction to the power and violence he already commits. Faith becomes a means to the end of legitimizing political power, rather than a means to self-righteousness (as in Geraldus’ case) or an end in itself (Diarmuid and Ciaran).

Geraldus makes it clear that the Baron sees the monks as “sin-eaters,” in a sense, doing the spiritual work to clear the ledger of sin that the Baron and his men accrue in doing violence. In a way, his faith is more orthopraxic than orthodoxic, but not in a way that matters. Faith to the Baron is a series of rituals that legitimize and sanctify his everyday actions, whether those actions be for good or for ill. When they are viewing the relic, the Baron rebukes his son for speaking in a flippant way about the power of the relic, but it seems clear that this is more for the sake of form, as in all his actions, than out of any concern for humility.

The Baron echoes the rich young ruler that Jesus speaks to in the Gospel According to St. Luke (Luke 18:18-30, and in the other Synoptics). When this wealthy man of authority asks Christ what he must do to inherit eternal life, Christ asks him about the Torah and its ethical injunctions. When the ruler insists he has done these things, Christ gives him a stronger commandment: not merely to perform some religious ritual, but to actively divest from the wealth and authority he has been given. Jesus makes it clear that the way of discipleship involves sacrifice and the giving up of temporal power for the sake of love, humility and faithfulness to God. Baron de Merville, like the rich young ruler, is interested in discipleship only to the extent that it benefits him. Were he forced to consider what truly following the Prince of Peace would require, he would likely choose to retain his power at the cost of violence and subjugation rather than relinquish it to lose power but gain his soul.

All judgment aside, this mentality exists to varying degrees across human society. It seems most entrenched among the rich and powerful, and this makes sense. Those who have the most to lose in terms of worldly agency/puissance from following Jesus are often the most reluctant, while the lowly have little to lose and everything to gain from a God who imbues them with dignity, synergistic authority, community and grace. “Blessed are the poor,” not only because God’s love is especially for the poor and the marginalized (though this is certainly true), but because the poor are not as easily caught up in the desire for self-interest that the rich fall prey to. As mentioned though, this mentality can affect anyone. Whenever we seek our own well-being at the cost of another, whenever we decide to do the easy thing rather than the right thing, we risk losing touch with God and with one another. The Baron serves as a warning to those in power and authority, but also to everyone, to keep one’s sight on what is truly important. To remember that no earthly power is worth the cost of human dignity, life, or divine communion.

"Giving It Back To God" -- Models of Faith in the Movie "Pilgrimage" -- Pt II: The Fundamentalist

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After examining the purity of heart exemplified by Brother Diarmuid, I want to take a look at the character who serves as Diarmuid’s most direct foil, Brother Geraldus (left). Geraldus enters the film appearing to be a man of faith. He is a Cistercian monk, an order following the ancient pre-Schism teachings of St. Benedict of Nursia. He also seems to be well educated in the history and workings of the Church. For all this, however, there is a disconnect between his word and his action. He does not display the integrity that the Irish monks embody, especially that of Diarmuid. His fatal flaw seems to be a kind of hubris, and a lack of love for the Other. Geraldus thinks he knows God’s will at all times, that God desires to crush “infidels”, heretics and all who oppose the sociopolitical will of the Catholic Church. More on this later.

Early on in their journey, the monks encounter a brook where Geraldus wishes to draw water. The locals warn him that it contains a fairy fort, and that those who drink the water may be cursed by the fey. Geraldus berates the Irish monks for supporting this “superstition” and performs an on-the-spot exorcism, casting out “demons” from the water in the name of Christ. In the context of humble faithfulness, this could be a positive action. However, it is done with a disdain for the lived experience and wisdom of both the local laity and Geraldus’ traveling companions, the Irish brethren. Furthermore, even at this early stage Geraldus displays his very rigid, fundamentalist understanding of faith. Anything that gets in the way of his goals (in this case, drinking the water to prove a point/prove his superior wisdom/constitution) is an enemy of Christ that must be destroyed. He upholds this militant Christianity to stroke his own ego, rather than praying in true humility and in fellowship with those around him. Later, it turns out that the stream is in fact polluted by the corpse of a dead animal further up stream. Brother Diarmuid offers healing herbs to everyone who drank the water, and the crisis is averted. This scene is not written to an ideal payoff, but there is an implication that Geraldus’ pride almost gets the party seriously ill. The Irish monks, by contrast, trust the inherited wisdom of their community and that all truth is God’s truth.

When the monks make camp with the Normans, Geraldus has a conversation with Brother Ciaran about the intentions of their new benefactors. Ciaran is very wary of partnering with these warriors from the mainland. “Surely, you are under no illusions as to what kind of men these are,” he tells Geraldus. Geraldus’ fundamentalist hubris is unable to see the wisdom in Ciaran’s caution. Indeed, Geraldus goes as far as to offer a kind of clerical blessing on the violence and conquest of the Normans. He tells Ciaran that these men need someone to intercede on their behalf at the Judgment Day, to bless them for the blood they’ve shed. In a sense, he excuses the sin of violence when he believes that it serves the greater purposes of the Church (to drive out pagans and heretics from the British Isles). A healthy theology of grace suggests that the authority entrusted to clergy is an extension of the grace of God which seeks to heal human brokenness and make all things new. Geraldus sanctioning bloodshed is a cheapening of grace, not only in terms of honor, but in terms of purpose. It misunderstands that grace is not merely forgiveness, but light and life which drives out the darkness of sin, violence and hatred. For “God is light, and in Him there is no darkness at all.” (1 Jn. 1:5).

We’ve already talked in the last section about Geraldus’ priorities when the brothers go to rescue Ciaran. As mentioned before, the sign of God’s power and the church’s authority in the relic is more important to him than the living icon of God, Geraldus’ human brother in faith. This again reveals an interest in the forms and trappings of spirituality without an investment in the true heart of it. It is missing the forest for the trees.

Towards the end of the film, Geraldus’ true nature is revealed. It is discovered that his father was condemned as a heretic, and Geraldus oversaw the preparations to have him burned at the stake. Geraldus shows no remorse for this heinous act throughout the course of the film that remains, saying that he did his duty to God and the church, and that heretics deserve no mercy. To him, God is not interested in love or mercy but in conquest, which is of course a fundamental misunderstanding of Christ who came “not to be served, but to serve” and who offered Himself up for the life of the world, trampling death not by murder but by His own death.

In the end, as mentioned before, Geraldus forces the Mute to shed blood on their behalf. He does not see this as an unfortunate necessity, but delights in it, rambling to Diarmuid about the coming conquest of the Church over the world. He is impressed by power and thinks that God is as well. The deathly nature of pride is illustrated very literally at the end of the film when Geraldus falls into the sea pursuing the relic, the instrument of power which would give him and the church the strength to conquer. Diarmuid, by contrast, values life, and is willing to relinquish all power if it will end the bloodshed that the relic has wrought. Geraldus’ role is a cautionary one, that pride often drives self-righteousness and the judgment of others. Whenever our religion and faith seem to be more focused on externals and the appearance of holiness rather than humility, gentleness and the fruits of the Spirit, we are in a state of spiritual illness. Instead, we should focus on Christ, and on His greatest commandment, to love the Lord our God, and to love our neighbor as ourselves.

"Giving It Back to God" -- Models of Faith in the Movie "Pilgrimage" -- Pt I: The Pure In Heart

So this is hopefully going to be a short series of essays looking at faith as it is portrayed in different archetypal ways by the main characters in the 2017 Irish film, “Pilgrimage.” If you haven’t seen it, go check it out. It’s fairly bloody, but emotionally and theologically rich. And it has Tom Holland in it, so that’s a plus.

If you haven’t seen the film, the premise is roughly as follows (Spoilers): a group of Irish monks in the 13th century are visited by a French Cistercian monk, who charges them with orders from the Pope to bring the monastery’s relic (a stone which was used to kill St. Matthias) to Rome. Along the way, they must deal with (eventually treacherous) Normans, Celtic brigands, and the gradual erosion of the Cistercian’s character. For this first entry, I want to discuss Tom Holland’s character, Brother Diarmuid, a young novice who serves as the film’s primary protagonist/point of view character.

In Matthew 5:8, Jesus says, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” This “purity of heart” has a few different complimentary meanings. In the first place, it means an absence of evil intent or tendency. But in the broader context of the Gospel according to St. Matthew, “purity of heart” and “perfection” often have to do with a kind of consistent integrity. The idea is that the believer is encouraged to form intention and action into a unified whole. Rather than being double-minded, doing one thing while saying or thinking another, Christ desires that the heart, mind and hands are unified in thinking and doing good. There is precedent for this in the Jewish Scriptures as well. Compare, for instance, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul and all your strength” (Deut. 6:5).

More than most characters in the film, Brother Diarmuid embodies this kind of integrity. Early in the film, Diarmuid asks his mentor, Brother Ciaran, if there has ever been peace in the Irish lands, before the coming of the Normans. Though Ciaran says no, it’s clear that he is not dismissive of Diarmuid’s question. Diarmuid truly embraces the spirit of monastic life, not to be a sacred accomplice to war or violence, but to “live at peace with everyone, so much as it depends on you” (Romans 12:18). He does not desire that the Church gain political power, but that the isles might live in peace and harmony. His desire reminds one of the words of St. Seraphim of Sarov, “Acquire the spirit of peace, and thousands around you will be saved.”

When the elder monk, Brother Ciaran, is captured by brigands along with the relic, Geraldus (the Cistercian) opines that they only have time to save the relic or Ciaran, but not both. Geraldus insists that Diarmuid save the relic, but Diarmuid instead goes directly to cut Ciaran free from the post where he is tied up. While this is certainly an act of love towards his mentor, Diarmuid’s choice also reveals an understanding of holiness. The relic is meaningful not as an abstract container of divine power, but because it serves as a reminder of the witness and holiness of St. Matthias, of his faith in the gospel to the end. Likewise, holiness in this moment is not saving a cultic object (valuable though it may be), but living the holiness of the gospel (preserving life even at the cost of valuable, holy things). Diarmuid’s priorities are to preserve life and to keep his community together against those who would seek to tear it apart for power or fortune.

Holiness is also grounded in humility. When the monks reclaim the relic towards the end of the film, Diarmuid agrees to carry it now that they’ve lost the reliquary to the brigands. Before placing the rock in his bag, he kneels and prays. There is a practical dimension to this, as the relic has been said to strike down people and that “only the pure in heart may carry it”, but I get the sense that Diarmuid’s piety is genuine here as well. There’s no words, but I imagine him asking to be made worthy to carry the stone. Diarmuid does not rush to claim ownership, to possess the relic as others in the narrative do. Rather, he accepts the responsibility of bearing it “with fear and trembling” and asks for God’s help to handle it responsibly while it is in his possession.

This humility pays off at the end of the film. Geraldus has whipped up the Mute, a presumed former Crusader traveling with them, into a blood frenzy. The Mute goes to do battle with the monks’ enemies, perhaps seeking to atone for his sins. As the monks row away from the shore, the Mute sacrifices his life to save them, and one of the monks, Brother Cathal, has been shot by an arrow. Geraldus seems unfazed by this, and begins to wax poetic about how the relic’s return to Rome will signify a new age of conquest and holy war against the “heretics and infidels”. Brother Diarmuid realizes that the relic cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of the Roman church authorities. Whether its power will serve them or not, the sense of self-righteous xenophobia displayed by Geraldus and his kin will only be heightened when they possess a legitimizing apostolic relic. The relic has protected the Irish monks during times of attack, but they have never sought to conquer nations. Only to continue to love and serve God and their community.

Diarmuid reaches for the rock. Geraldus warns him, “The relic belongs to God.” Diarmuid responds, “I’m giving it back to Him,” and after a struggle the rock is thrown into the sea, causing Geraldus to go in after it and likely drown. Diarmuid, though not intending to harm Geraldus, understands that the power represented by the relic will corrupt the purity of his church’s faith. Rather than being an asset to the witness of the gospel, it will serve as a symbol of pride and disdain for those seen as “lesser than.” And no relic, no matter how sacred, is worth that cost. Diarmuid knows this, because he is deeply in touch with what it means to be a man of faith. He is a novice in the monastic order, and knows little of scholastic theology. But he shows love for his kinsmen, and a deep intuition of what God desires of humanity. Whenever he acts, he refrains from violence where possible. Where situations force him to use violence, he uses it only to protect, and there as little as possible.* In all things, his intention and his action flow into each other, and all for the purposes of love and for peace. He is one of “the pure in heart” and at the end of the film, the final shot reveals a quasi-celestial light shining through the Irish cloud layer on Diarmuid’s boat. It seems that in the film’s language, he has indeed, “seen God.”

*Note: We will talk more about monasticism and absolute nonviolence later, in my essay on Brother Ciaran. For now, it suffices to say that Diarmuid eschews violence whenever possible, and only acts in self-defense with non-lethal force in the instances he does fight.

Pedagogy, Mystagogy and Orthodoxy in the Modern Era: A Brief Hot Take

Note: This is adapted from an introduction I wrote to my practicum project, which is a Lenten teaching curriculum for Orthodox Christian adult laity in a “Sunday school” or devotional context.

In the present time, there is a need for more in-depth educational resources for adult lay learners to deepen their understanding of Orthodox Christian faith and praxis. I say this not as an alarmist. I am not concerned about “encroachment” from ecumenical dialogue, nor am I worried about congregations being “led astray” by priests who in pursuing the creative spirit of Orthodoxy sometimes forgo the “letter of the law” that an overly rigid interpretation of the canons demands.

I notice this need rather as a convert to the Orthodox Church who often feels that our pedagogy is lacking in two areas. First, there is a lack of interest or familiarity with the practical theology of our tradition. As a convert, I was invested in understanding what makes Orthodoxy unique, how it coheres as an entire thought system and way of life, and how it can offer unique contributions to the entire Body of Christ. I felt compelled to understand my newfound faith, and the ways it could be life-giving. I want other people to be able to experience this joy I have found, and to be able to apply the riches of our tradition to their own lives.  I try to make my writings and work accessible, but I believe that laity are capable and in need of a deeper understanding of these currents of our faith.

 Second, I feel that there is often a lack of willingness in Orthodox pedagogy to engage with modernity. There is some understandable cause for skittishness. As Orthodox Christians, we place a high value on Holy Tradition, and the preserving of the good things that have been handed down to us from the undivided Church and from our later Eastern Christian heritage. In the midst of certain modern Christian distortions of a vibrant Christian faith (prosperity gospel teachings, fundamentalism, white supremacist “Christian” movements of all stripes), there is certainly value in holding on to what is good. But good teachings can only serve God’s good purposes if they are able to meet the challenges modernity brings. And no set of ideas can meet a challenge it is not made to face. We are told to trust that our faith and tradition is able to stand the test of time. It is my hope that Orthodox teaching in the present can be made to engage creatively with modernity, in hopes that the wisdom of God’s saints will be able to offer enlightenment and perspective on the matter. This includes engaging ecumenically with non-Orthodox theologies and resources, and at times applying what is useful within them to the already rich system of Orthodoxy. In all things, an attempt should be made to take an irenic tone that is “seasoned with salt,” while also making no peace with the systems of sin and death (both individual and collective) which pervade human society.