Standing, Still

DING! Round 27....

Today is Lazarus Saturday, the liturgical 26th anniversary of my being received into the Orthodox Church.

Well….. It was kind of a reception, but it was also partly I had a battering ram of theological knowledge and broke the door of the house down to get in. I’d read about the history and construction of the house in journals and seen some family pictures of it, but I had no idea who was living in it and what I’d find in the house once I got through the door.

Twenty seven years ago in Phoenix there were no “convert parishes”. There wasn’t even a “convert priest”. I’d heard of one but by the time I arrived he’d been laicized for some indiscretions. So it was a choice of Greeks, Serbians, Romanians, Russians, or Arabs. The Arabs (Antiochian Archdiocese) was the convert-friendliest having brought in 2,000 Evangelicals en-masse, except right when we were at the door there was some buyer’s remorse going on with some California convert parishes who were more Orthodox than their bishop. The Russians (OCA) were, in principle, friendly… except for the old, cranky Carpatho-Russian cartel that ran the parish and ran people out. The Greeks were at the train station but hadn’t quite decided to buy a ticket to get on board yet. The Romanians and Serbs didn’t speak English at coffee hour.

We were received at the large Antiochian parish under the guidance of Fr. Peter Gillquist (of blessed memory), one of the 2,000 Evangelicals. We assumed he was representative of what was behind “Door #1”. After all, he was Orthodox and a priest. (Put on the Morgan Freeman voice-over here): “…but, he was not representative.”

I can summarize the mutual culture shock, ours and theirs, over the next few years pretty succinctly: They didn’t know why we were so serious about Orthodoxy and we didn’t know why they weren’t. We had zeal with a little knowledge and no experience, they had some knowledge, a lifetime of experience, and little zeal (at least for the things WE thought “real Christians” should be zealous about). And for all of our decades of zealous “Christianity” we brought to the table, we didn’t know what love looked like.

So, the momentum of the zeal, energy and speed with which I came at the front door of the church almost carried me through the house and out the back door. Several times. Almost. You can read the long version of the “almosts” in an older post: Staying Orthodox

The thing is, even when I was a Protestant I had to manage my expectations of my pastor, elders, congregation, and work through disillusionment, conflict, disagreements, theological/pastoral issues, and levels of confrontation and disengagement. You’d think I would know that I would encounter the same kind of issues and experiences in Orthodoxy that I had in my Protestant ministries.

(Morgan Freeman voice): “…but he did not.”

I didn’t come to the church for more of the same conflicts. I came to the Church for respite and healing of my evangelical battle scars. After all, it is “the hospital for sinners” originally founded by The Great Physician, who organized and staffed it with his own hand picked specialists who were guided by an inspired Mission Statement.

But as patients flowed in, franchise clinics opened. There were more and more staff meetings to hammer out organizational issues and refine the treatment programs and procedures, staff training, qualifications, and communication.

And, like all franchises that grow, eventually there are locations that have bought into the brand name, have the logo, the mission, the marketing, the supervision, management training and corporate guidelines, but each clinic location has its own appointed physician. He could be a gifted family practitioner who works miracles or he might be incompetent, poorly trained, lacking management skills and is unsupervised until there is a threat of a malpractice lawsuit. It’s just reality because the hospital is staffed by human beings.

I think of all I have learned in twenty six years, perhaps this is the most important: The Hospital is also The Arena. It is a place of a brutal, to the death cage fight with my demons and I will not finish the battle un-scarred. The Hospital treats my wounds with the sacramental medicine of immortality and arms me with the gifts of the Holy Spirit, sometimes in spite of the attending physician. I cannot pick only one wing of the building, they co-exist in the same place.

I have been beaten and healed.

Humbled and humiliated.

Included and marginalized.

Enlightened and left alone in the dark.

Lost and found.

Fed and starved.

Protected and abandoned.

I have been driven to my knees.

I have been lifted up.

... here I stand, still.

Until I am dead.

And, like Lazarus, I will be resurrected.