The Death of a Sinner

I guess it's not surprising that the American news media seem so excited to report on the demise of Osama bin Laden.  After all, he is responsible for a great deal of damage to the United States, and we've been hunting him for quite some time.  It's understandable that this important news would take over the air waves.  News of a military victory is something that Americans would want to know during a time of war.

But what does surprise me (though it shouldn't, since I can remember how we reacted to the execution of Saddam Hussein not that long ago) is the unabashed jubilation over another man's death.  And for this to happen in the world--for an enemy's death to be considered a victory to be celebrated--well, I guess even that isn't terribly shocking.  But it's happening among those who profess to follow Christ.  It's happening among even the Orthodox.  And that should not be so.

In the Church, we are given daily reminders of what the attitude of the Most Holy Trinity is toward people like Mr. bin Laden.  For example, every Sunday, as we prepare to unite ourselves to Christ through the Mystical Supper, we recite certain prayers.  And they are not meant to provide only a transient state of repentance, preparing us only for that single spoonful of sanctity, but also for an eternity of union with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

St. Basil the Great gives us one of these prayers, in which he uses the words of the prophet Ezekiel and the Apostle St. Paul:

. . . For, O Thou who lovest mankind, thou hast said, by thy Prophet, that thou hast no pleasure in the death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live. Thou dost not desire, O Master, to destroy the works of thy hands or that they should perish, but willest that all men should be saved and come to the knowledge of the Truth. . .

So, how is it then, that any of us, knowing this, could be glad that another human is dead?  It does not please his Maker, Whom we claim to love.  Likewise, it should not please us.

St. John Chrysostom gives us another preparatory prayer, which begins:

I believe, O Lord, and I confess that thou art truly the Christ, the Son of the living God, who didst come into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief[emphasis mine]. . .

It's that last part where most of us stumble.  It's easy to recognize that Christ Jesus loves mankind, and even not too terribly hard to see that we are all sinners.  But when it comes to saying that I am the chief of sinners--the worst of the worst--more despicable than Adolf Hitler, more wicked than Osama bin Laden...well, that's difficult, to say the least.  But if I am willing to adopt that attitude, it will be possible for me to learn the mercy of Christ Jesus, who died for us even while we were still sinners (Rom. 5:8).

This mercy teaches us to love our enemies, to pray for those who persecute us (St.Matt. 5:44).   Heaven does not rejoice at death; heaven rejoices at repentance (St.Luke 15:10).  Death is never a good thing.  No one who claims to follow Christ should ever celebrate it.  Instead, we must pray.  We must pray for the souls of those who suffer death.  We must pray for those whom they leave behind.  We must pray for the state of the whole world, that we may all be moved to repent.  Whether he brought his death upon himself, or whether it was somehow necessary in order to prevent him from committing future devastating acts, is irrelevant.  The first thought of any Christian, upon hearing the news of Mr. bin Laden's death, ought to have been, "Lord, have mercy on his soul."

But, even if it wasn't, it's not too late to start.

Greetings and Explanations

It surprises me a little bit that I'm entering the blog-o-sphere.  There is already such a cacophony of voices out here, and I don't really need to contribute to the noise.  But, the idea of having a place to write a little and have some focused conversations with friends is appealing, so I decided to take the plunge. 

To kick things off, I'll try to explain why I chose this blog title.  I was racking my brain for inspiration when I thought of the passage from St. Matthew's gospel that I quoted at the top of the page.  It describes a woman of remarkable faith and humility.  She was filled with compassion for her child, probably desperately fed-up with and exhausted by her daughter's condition, and knew Christ Jesus had the power to help her.  I want to be like her--the kind of person who perseveres in prayer;  the kind who is patient enough to let the Lord work in His time;  the kind who sees herself as completely unworthy and undeserving of miracles but who can persist in the battle against the demons anyway.  I want to be the kind of woman who trusts Christ Jesus with all of her own pain and problems, and who loves others enough to pray for them consistently and fervently. 

This Gentile woman was begging even for the Jews' "leftover" miracles.  And that got me to thinking a little about prosphora (the bread we offer at the Divine Liturgy, our Eucharistic service).  The whole loaf is blessed, but only a very small portion actually makes it into the chalice.   After communion, the priest and the deacon take the chalice back into the altar and eat up all that is left.  They do this with great care, making sure none is spilled or left behind.  The rest of the bread, the antidoron--the part that did not become the Lord's body--is distributed to the faithful at the end of the Liturgy.  Extra antidoron might be sent home with a person who needs extra blessings during the week, such as a pregnant woman or someone in poor health.  Even though it is still bread, it is blessed bread, and it is important not to let any crumbs fall to the floor; ideally, it should be eaten outdoors so that any crumbs that do fall may be consumed by the birds or other creatures.  Even the leftovers of the leftovers are important when it comes to such miracles and blessings, and should not be taken lightly.  I think I need the reminder to treasure even the smallest ones.

What to Do with our Pain

The online journal my priest kept several years ago has recently been published in book form.  (You can order a copy online at  www.conciliarpress.com/aidans-song.html.)  I used to look forward to reading the new posts every month, and now that I have it in my hands, it is easy to remember why.  There are a couple of passages on suffering that have stood out especially so far. Like this one on the transformation of our sufferings, written on the eve of Theophany (all emphasis in the quotes here is mine):

“In the presence of the Most Holy Trinity, it is always Today; it is always Now. So, in the fullness of time, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit behold the entire history of humanity and my whole life… . But this experience of time’s plentitude doesn’t shield us from pain or sorrow. If anything, pain and sorrow are intensified by this experience…..So the fullness of time is not a refuge. It’s not a pain-free zone that we can step into in order to escape from this life. If anything, it’s where we can take on the full significance of sorrow and the raw agonies of pain. And I think that is one of the greatest gifts we Orthodox can give to the world. We can take upon ourselves all the horrors and heartaches of this world without minimizing any of it, without attempting to explain it away, without holding it at arm’s length through abstraction or argument. We can take it upon ourselves, and we can take it all, through prayer, into the fullness of time, into the presence of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and it will all be healed. It will all be transformed just as surely as the waters were Today made holy.”

And just precisely how do we do that? Why does he say this is something that Orthodox do? One of the most significant ways we can do this is by praying at the Divine Liturgy. When we step through the doors of the nave, it’s like entering a different time zone. We are stepping into Heavenly Time, the “Today” Father Aidan mentions above. And when we offer to God the Father the fruits of our labors, our crudely transformed version of creation (His wheat in the form of bread, His grapes in the form of wine), The Most Holy Trinity offer them back to us perfectly transformed (the body of Christ Jesus broken for us, His blood shed for us). When we present, through prayer, our hurts and our joys and our despondency and our hopes alongside our gifts at the Divine Liturgy, The Most Holy Trinity transfigures them for us, too; they also become filled with the work of Divine Grace. 

Here is how Father Aidan describes this work in a passage on preparing the gifts:

“Thus, what the offering of bread and wine symbolizes is our opportunity to be united with Christ Jesus in His birth and His death, an opportunity to unite our suffering with His and thereby join with Him in redeeming the world….But the service becomes even more compelling and even more poignant when we begin the commemorations. We pray for hundreds of people at this point in the service, and each time, with each name, as I thrust the spear into the soft crust of the bread, I physically evoke the suffering of our Lord and Master, and I pray that the life of each person may be united with the Life of the One who is ‘alive for evermore and who holds the keys of Death and Hades.’

“But--and this is the most wondrous thing of all--it is precisely through suffering that this union takes place. It’s through our suffering--and there’s hardly anything noble about it. It’s ordinary, everyday misery. A lot of it is self-inflicted; hardly any of it makes sense. But as I remember each person and every situation--the girl who just survived her second suicide attempt, the woman who’s so worried that she’s having trouble sleeping, the man who’s not sure he can continue to stay married, the young man who can’t stop looking at pornography, the woman who’s just now coming to grips with how abusive her mother is; as I place crumb after crumb on the diskos plate--for the woman who isn’t sure how much longer her husband is going to hang around, for the father who is going to be traveling abroad this week, for the widowers who miss their wives, for the grandmother who wonders what will happen to her autistic granddaughter, for the man who’s recovering from a stroke and scared that he’s going to have another one, for the women who have cancer, for the young woman who is waiting for someone to tell her what she does have--all of it is transformed. It’s transformed because it has become an offering, an offering that we make in union with the sacrifice Christ Jesus has made to God the Father on behalf of each of us.


“And through this offering, we are also transformed. Through this offering, we become the Church…And with that, a new creation, an new heaven and a new earth called the Church is present in the world, and Fr. Deacon and I finish the prayers; we bless this new world and offer it back up to the Most Holy Trinity….It’s the same day, but it’s also different. It’s Sunday morning, but it’s also the Eighth Day. It’s Cedar Park, but it’s also the Kingdom of Heaven. Because we are the Church, and the bread and the wine are ready, and we are about to join together in the Great Marriage Supper of the Lamb.”

So if any of you have asked for prayers, know that this is what I mean when I say I will pray for you: Not only will I remember you at home, but I will take your needs with me when I step into the fullness of time at the Divine Liturgy. You are not suffering alone; your pain will be mystically united to the suffering of Christ Jesus, and transformed by His glorious Resurrection.