Here in my second post about the book In the Spirit of Happiness by the Monks of New Skete, I want to focus my comments and reflections on Chapter 2, “First Fervor.”
First Fervor to True Fervor
In Chapter 2, “First Fervor,” the focus is on the importance for a Spiritual Seeker to move beyond that initial “honeymoon phase,” when they first come to the faith, and the need to truly accept the reality that much of one’s Spiritual journey will be spent “in the wilderness,” so to speak, much like Moses and the Israelites were in the wilderness.
One of the problematic things within much of modern-day American Evangelicalism is the tendency to turn Christianity into a slick ad campaign, with simplistic promises that if you just say you’re a sinner and accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior, then you will be happy and content. The focus is always on that initial acceptance, but then not much is addressed after that. In addition, altar calls in many churches are often accompanied with singing and music and very emotional appeals. And although it isn’t necessarily said this way, the clear implication many new believers get is that their Spiritual life should always feel this emotional and powerful.
The cold, hard truth, though, is that simply isn’t the case. I have known plenty of former Christians who have left the faith because they really just didn’t “feel it” anymore. Things became dry and mundane, and the services and singing just didn’t really do it for them anymore. There might have been an initial change of churches, then a little more church-hopping, looking to find that new “religious high” feeling. But eventually, they just drifted away. The basis for their faith was an emotional, albeit sincere, feeling. And, just like B.B. King, eventually the feeling faded, and they found themselves saying, “the thrill is gone.”
Of course, in Chapter 2, it is stated that monks always try to maintain “a healthy skepticism of our spiritual motives,” because they realize that we, as human beings, do a really good job of deceiving even ourselves. For too long, the message in many churches is that the Spiritual life should always be easy, but in reality, it will always (emphasize ALWAYS) be a struggle. If it isn’t a struggle, it cannot remain authentic.
That is why, for example, whenever prospective monks came to Saint Benedict at his monastery hoping to become monks, he would make them wait outside at the door to the monastery for several days to see just how serious they really were. From today’s Evangelical perspective, that might seem harsh—it is…that’s the point. A successful marriage is not one that stays exactly the same as when a couple first goes on their honeymoon. It is one in which the couple endure the hardships of life together and grow stronger in their commitment to each other in the process of their lives together. Perhaps that’s why so many marriages today end in divorce—everything is focused on the “big wedding day” and the honeymoon, but little thought is given to the life that has to be lived after that. Many obviously aren’t ready for that, and the relationship falls apart when things get tough, and they find “the thrill is gone.”
That isn’t to say that all the initial, emotional feelings one might have when one first comes to the faith are bad. They’re obviously genuine and good. But, as the book says, “The temptation here is to think that we have finally arrived when actually we are just beginning” (35).
So what keeps a Spiritual relationship strong during one’s Spiritual journey? In a word, routine. And this, I’ve found, is something that Orthodoxy does really well. Every week, the Divine Liturgy is the same, the only real “difference” being the priest’s homily after the reading from the Scripture. Overall, though, the liturgy contains the same prayers, the same hymns, the same routine, week in and week out. That is one of the things that appealed to me. When I was younger and still in Evangelicalism, although the Sunday Service tended to follow the same pattern, I was always looking for a “new thing” to be done: What songs will we sing this week? Will I like them? Can I relate to them? Who is going sing the solo? Oh no, not that guy—ugh, I don’t like it when he sings. I came to the Sunday Church Service with an extremely self-centered mindset, and I would unthinkingly judge the service based on how clever the sermon was, or how well-done the choir sang, or basically just on whether or not I liked it.
In the Orthodox Divine Liturgy, though, it isn’t about me. I’m not judging whether or not it meets my approval. The Liturgy is set. It isn’t catered to me. Instead, I am faced with the challenge to allow myself to be molded and shaped by that liturgical routine. Despite whatever I went through that week, I am to take all of that and let my response to all that be shaped by that liturgical routine. And I don’t always do that too well, but every week, it’s there—and that’s the Spiritual program. That’s the routine—take it or leave it. It’s not about catering the service to my needs and wants. It’s about me allowing that liturgical routine shape and mold my Spiritual life as I continue on my Spiritual journey.
And another thing it certainly is not is that it isn’t always an emotional high. In fact, ever since I’ve been able to attend an Orthodox Church again, Sunday liturgies have been a struggle because I have to try to control my 11-year-old son who is on the spectrum and who doesn’t want to sit still during the Liturgy. Most of the time, I’m in the back, near the entrance, completely frustrated. Why? Because I can’t sit and enjoy it. But I keep going anyway, because I realize that attending the Liturgy isn’t about me “enjoying it” all the time. Even in my frustration, it continues to shape me.
Case in point, when I was younger, most of the time when I took communion at the church I attended as a kid, or as a young adult into my 20s and early 30s—if I am being honest—most of the time it seemed kind of silly. I felt that it was built up to be some kind of emotional moment you were supposed to “feel.” (The fact I grew up in an Assemblies of God church probably amplified this). But I very rarely “felt” anything, therefore the cynical side of me thought so many people trying to “get emotional” over it was, well, kind of silly. Now, though, I find the routine of the Divine Liturgy, culminating in the taking of the Mystical Supper, has filled the taking of the bread and wine with a deeper meaning. It is hard to explain. It isn’t an “emotional high.” Often times, I’m taking it completely frustrated, but because I’m doing it anyway. And it’s precisely because I’m taking while I’m frustrated and drained that it somehow nourishes my soul. My spirit hungers for it. Why? Because the routine of the Liturgy takes in my life, whether I’m happy or frustrated, and it molds it into being part of the Body of Christ, to where the taking of the bread and wine isn’t a shallow emotional act but rather a deep (and often painful) Spiritual act.
The fact is that an important part of Christian spirituality is the recognition that much of one’s Spiritual journey is going to be characterized by spiritual dryness. More importantly, it is the realization that that is not a problem. Why? Because the more you mature in your faith, you realize “there is no place where God is not present. His presence is not contingent upon our feeling it” (42).
For that reason, we are reminded that “we must habitually let go of our spiritual experiences and not cling to them. When we happen to be feeling good, monastic tradition tells us to focus on what has yet to be done. Should we be caught in the throes of boredom and discouragement, we need to look patiently toward our goal” (42). Indeed, learning to give up that inclination to judge things according to our preferences is a sign of true spiritual maturity.
Near the end of the chapter, two quotes have always stood out to me. First, there is this: “Throughout the spiritual journey we are required to let go of our preoccupation with ‘what we can get out of it’” (45). In the course of the last 25 years or so of my life, I’ve had to go through quite a lot of difficult times in order for this truth to really get pounded into my head. If I can put it this way, my experience in the Orthodox Church (and particularly the past 15 years of being Orthodox without an Orthodox Church to attend), has taught me to give up, indeed crucify, that preoccupation with judging things according to what I can get out of it, because the fact is, the “I” that I’m seeking to be impressed and catered to is the false self, the “old man,” if you will, that I need to let die. And it is the Orthodox Liturgy, as well as my own study of the Bible, that helps me realize that God, in His Sovereignty, is using the trials I’ve gone through to crucify that old man, so that I can experience resurrection within Christ.
Second: “Paradoxical as it may seem, this weaning away from the craving for consolations is an essential spiritual process, one that develops in us an inner freedom allowing us to live and love ever more authentically. In this way, the spiritual life is teaching us to give of ourselves regardless of what we feel. Through this process of stripping, the bonds of selfishness that enslave us are being steadily transmuted into bonds of union with God and our fellow human beings” (46). Translation? It is in the times of spiritual dryness that our self-centered false selves wither up like chaff in the wind so that our true selves can be truly wedded to God and united together in Christ.
We just need to remember that it takes that spiritual journey must go through the wilderness, as well as death on a cross, to achieve that.
