If you know the music of Arvo Pärt, chances are you like it. A lot. In fact, chances are, you connect with it on a very deep level, perhaps a “spiritual” one. But love him or not, the fact is that Arvo Pärt is the most widely performed living composer in the world today. He is a big deal.
He is also an Orthodox Christian, who draws on texts from the Eastern and Western Christian traditions for most of his music.
So it would make sense that St. Vladimir’s Seminary, whose vocation rests in making theology and spirituality something real in people’s lives, would be interested in exploring the connections between the cultural phenomenon of Arvo Pärt and his Orthodox Christian roots. One of the seminary’s latest and most potent tag-lines is “Engaging the world with Orthodox Christianity.” The seminary’s Arvo Pärt Project fits perfectly with that.
Doesn’t it?
I would think so. But we’ve heard some puzzlement about this endeavor. Here are two objections:
“The seminary needs to do more for the parishes, for the Church on the ground, rather than hobnob with the cultural elite. That isn’t going to reach our people.”
and
“What does this have to do with the seminary’s mission?”
In response to both of these, I’d say that the seminary’s mission impels it to operate on a lot of different levels at once, both internally and externally. We prepare clergy and lay ministry for the Church, in the parishes, on the ground. We train scholars. We train church musicians. We form our students into the life in Christ. As for the wider constituency, the seminary maintains a schedule of events that seeks to reach audiences from many walks of life and of diverse views. We host conferences, we perform choral music. In all of this, we are seeking to bring people into a deeper relationship with Jesus Christ, specifically through the tradition of the Orthodox Christian Church.
The Arvo Pärt project itself operates internally and externally. We have always had a music program that has emphasized beautiful Church singing. Through this project our students and the Church that they serve can see all the more that the Church is more than a cultural artifact, it is more than a typikon, it is more than academic theology. It is the locus of great beauty. It is a place where the best of culture can emanate from, and where it can come back to.
Furthermore, consider the missionary possibilities. Consider an audience of people of different faiths and of no faith, the “spiritual but not religious,” who are already won over by the music of Arvo Pärt. Here is an audience who would not be the slightest bit interested in hearing about Orthodox Christianity on its own, but who will give you its undivided attention if it comes to understanding what makes Arvo Pärt’s music so spiritually potent.
We are planning concerts at places like Carnegie Hall, and lectures in venues such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art, places that don’t generally give Orthodox Christianity a close listening. These venues will be filled with audiences who will hear, sometimes for the first time, about our faith, which is also the faith of their beloved composer.
This project has such immense potential for our school, for “Engaging the world with Orthodox Christianity.” Still have doubts? Write us! But in any case we need your prayers and support to make it happen. And if you haven’t heard any music of Arvo Pärt, now’s the time to give him a listen.
Dr. Peter Bouteneff (SVOTS ’90) teaches courses in theology, patristics, and spirituality at the St. Vladimir’s Seminary, where he is Associate Professor in Systematic Theology and Director of Institutional Assessment. After taking a degree in music in 1983 he lived and worked in Japan, and traveled widely in Asia and Greece. Together with Prof. Nicholas Reeves, he is co-directing the Arvo Pärt Project, an exciting collaboration with the great Estonian Orthodox composer.
Psalm 137 is a brutal psalm. To some, it may sound more like an SEC fight song gone wrong. How on earth are we to get “good news” out of a psalm that ends talking about the murder of children? Why on earth would anyone sing this psalm as part of worship? How could they?
Well, in my tradition, we do: Orthodox Christians sing Psalm 137 as part of our worship. Now it is read every Friday morning as part of a block in which we read through the entire book of Psalms every week, but it is chanted solemnly, on the three Sundays before Great Lent, at the All-Night Vigil in preparation for the Divine Liturgy. This service commemorates the resurrection of Christ, and in this period, before we begin 40 days of fasting, penance, and prayer, we give this rather harsh psalm a key position.
But why? Why sing a spiteful song about the fall of Jerusalem and the beginning of the Babylonian exile at a service highlighting the resurrection of Christ? No matter how much you spiritualize the text or highlight the hyperbole, it’s a rough psalm; and a hard one to sing, much less pray.
I’ll be the first to admit that it isn’t one of those that you stick to the mirror or refrigerator. It’s not a mantra or a promise of God that you’ll see touted in an Evangelical bestseller. It’s not on the Royal Ambassadors Scripture Memorization list. It’s not listed in your teen reference Bible as a place to go for comfort.
But it’s one of the most powerful expressions of love for one’s city, one’s homeland, and the feeling of despair that comes when you’re separated from it, perhaps forever. The Psalm concludes in a surprisingly visceral and dramatic way. It’s pretty harsh … not something you’d expect to be sung in church. It’s about the city, sure, but what does that have to do with the Gospel? What does it have to do with Christ?
Everything… This psalm has everything to do with the Gospel. This psalm was written in the context of the destruction of Jerusalem and the Exile to Babylon in 586 B.C., but this story has more to do with the Gospels than we might think.
The Psalm opens to a scene of Jerusalemites, inhabitants of what was Zion, that great city. They are no longer there, protected by the walls of their city, the womb of their mother, Zion. But they are instead sitting on the bank of a foreign water way, the Euphrates river valley, and they’re weeping, crying rivers of their own in remembrance of the siege that they feel cursed to have survived.
They hang up their lyres, their harps, their musical instruments on the trees, like prisoners on the gallows, for they’d rather have them be silent, dead, and without movement than be used for the amusement of their captors, those who crushed their city and slaughtered their families without remorse.
“Sing us one of the songs of Zion!” they laugh, but the captives cry out, “How can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land…?”[1] For the song of Zion is the song of the Lord for the psalmist, that holy city that couldn’t fall, for God was with it. Or so they thought…
The psalmist then makes a series of remembrances. He calls to mind his memory of Jerusalem, invoking a curse on himself if he forgets Jerusalem, if it doesn’t remain his highest joy and the pinnacle of his highest hope. But his calls for recollection take a darker turn; he calls out to God: “Remember O Lord, how the Edomites, the descendants of the supplanted Esau, on the day of Jerusalem said, ‘Raze it! Raze it down to its foundations!'”[2] He concludes in a roar, lashing out at the great city of Babylon: “O daughter of Babylon, You devastator! You destroyer of our life; Happy shall he be who requites you with what you have done to us! Happy shall he be who takes your little ones; and dashes them against the rock!”[3]
Whoa… There is of course a bit of a revenge fantasy here, but there’s more than just a desire for the attackers to be paid back in spades; it’s more than just the well-worn tit-for-tat of the Middle East. It’s hyperbole, but it’s hyperbole that is used to make a specific point and to make it abundantly clear. This is about the destruction of a city, the end of existence, at least for the psalmist. This exile and its scriptural component in Jeremiah and Ezekiel is unlike anything else in history. The story of God’s destruction of Jerusalem is unique. It’s not just any city. But then, what is a city? What is its purpose?
In the Ancient Near East, any government, nation, or tribal coalition had a city, the center of that people’s universe. People went out during the day, farming the land outside the city, grazing their animals, fishing and felling trees; but at night, they came back to the city and the gates were shut. The walls, the gates, were about protection. But even more powerful than the stone walls was the temple of stone that housed your god, the god that protected your city. He was the creator of your world.
That God brought you rain, kept your women and cattle fertile, and kept the storm and sickness at bay. Now that God is the Father of your City. And God placed a person in charge, a king, and the king became his son, for lack of a better term. He was his emissary. This king’s job is to uphold the God-given laws; he issues decrees and enforces them. At the palace you bow before the king, but everyone, the king leading the congregation, bows down to God. So this is your world: your city, your king, your God.
And in the story of Judah, the king and the people get lax. They pay lip service to the deity. When their prayer isn’t answered, they try something else. The king focuses not on the law given to him by God, but on the regional politics. And slowly, God is forgotten, a vestige of our cultural milieu. But when a neighboring king leads his army from another city to your city and sacks it, tears down your idols and your temple and places the idol of his own god, your world is turned upside down.
You rationalize: obviously their god was stronger than mine. But with Israel, it’s different. Scripture tells us that the destruction of Jerusalem is not a battle that God has lost to Marduk or any other Babylonian idol. No, the desecration of his temple wasn’t proof of God’s weakness to protect his people, but rather was a show of his strength.
God destroyed his city. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob sent the Babylonians to desecrate his temple and to devastate his people. God did that to his people, because they forgot God. They forgot that their God was The God, the God of heaven and earth, the Most High, the God over Jew and Gentile. Instead of living according to the Law, and being a light to the Gentiles, a glory to God and an example to the nations, they became just like the nations.
God says of them: “my people have forgotten me, they burn incense to false gods.”[4] Jeremiah warns, “You have eyes and heart only for dishonest gain, for shedding blood and for practicing oppression and violence.”[5] And in Lamentations: “The Lord has done what he purposed, has carried out his threat, as he ordained long ago.”[6] Still, no one expected it or knew how to cope. And this story of God getting our attention with the unexpected, the unthinkable, continues.
Jesus, tells his disciples about the coming destruction of Jerusalem and after it happens, the writers of the New Testament reflect on it: the utter shock of Jerusalem being wiped away, the order that they knew, gone. This is not what they expected. Where was this Messiah that was to bring an end to Roman oppression? What of this Messiah that was to bring the Kingdom of God? Now what they thought was his throne is shattered: no more.
The people of Israel in Psalm 137 are blinded by rage and pain; they’re lost. They had an ideal, an expectation, in their head, one of unending peace and prosperity (despite their lack of love for God and their neighbor), and it’s shattered. Similarly, the disciples in Acts, who ask Christ at His ascension, “Lord, will you at this time restore the kingdom to Israel?,” had built up a city in their own minds with a throne and a king of their own making—a palace and a temple of their own design.
Scripture is at times like a mirror held up to our human condition. We see our fears, our doubts, our deepest and darkest thoughts. In Psalm 137, though we may look away at the ending, we are not so far from the exilic writer.
That desire to feel safe, to believe that God is somehow on our side, is in our corner, is there for us, is just as strong today in this great, pluralistic, democratic nation. We’re still worried, stressed, and scared about our future. And the reality of revenge, of anger, against those we see as Babylonians, our perceived enemies, can still drive us to hate those we are called to love.
Increasingly, I hear from other Christians, across denominational and geographical lines, about a perceived war against them, that they are victims of bigotry, prejudice, and intolerance, that there’s a war on Christianity and family values.
And these “evil” people, fighting against God’s chosen ones (us, of course), become the targets of our anger, of our vitriol, of our contempt, and we think we’re doing God a favor. We feel that we somehow have to defend God and His Church; that He needs us to save everyone else and get them to start acting right; that we’ll somehow save the day. We spend millions of dollars supporting this candidate, or that cause, or this ministry, but forget that Christ has overcome the world.
And too often we describe ourselves, our life in Christ, by using negatives instead of positives: we don’t do this, we don’t support this, and we’re “pro-this” (when the opposite is meant), we’re against this or that segment of the population. They just won’t fit in our city.
We too build up a city for ourselves, a city made up of us and ours, with walls and gates built not as a sanctuary for all who seek life, but as a bunker for those we think deserve to live. But when this shelter is threatened, when disaster strikes, when crisis comes into our live, and that illusion of a calm haven is shattered, we despair, or worse, we lash out and fight to protect what’s ours.
Just before the armies of Babylon arrived, Jerusalem, the walled city, was happy in their comfort zone, and they didn’t feel the need to uphold or share the Law they’d been given. They became insular, greedy, and distrusting of anyone who wasn’t them. And only when God smashed their very foundations were they forced, or perhaps given the opportunity, to live amongst those they had despised, those whom they’d hated—those whom they didn’t know.
We are so focused on our ministry or our cause, we’ve hijacked the Gospel as a vehicle, forgetting our first love.
We are so riled up about this or that issue in society that we have forgotten that, no matter what their sins or proclivities, their soapbox or political party, They, the people we don’t agree with, are made in the image of God, sinners just like us.
We’re just plain scared. We’ve been beaten and bruised, hurt by so many horrible events in our lives, that we just want to be safe, even if it means staying inside our fortress: our church, our circle, our home, our own mind.
But there’s so much more that God has in store for us. Remember what God spoke to those in exile through his prophet Jeremiah: “…build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce. … Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.”[7] It is in seeking the welfare of our neighbors, of those who hate us, our enemies (whether real or imagined), that we find our peace, not in any elaborate make-believe Christian bubble that we create for ourselves, to protect us from “the world.”
St. Paul, the persecutor turned preacher, writes to new exiles, the Diaspora: “So Jesus also suffered outside the gate in order to sanctify the people through his own blood. Therefore let us go forth to him outside the camp, and bear the abuse he endured. For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city which is to come.”[8]
Our Lord suffered outside the gate; he was hung upon a cross and died. He was buried and was raised to life by his Father, so that we might become heirs to his Kingdom, his everlasting city; that we might be able to live forever with His Father, as our Father, co-heirs of this inheritance. However, it means suffering outside the gate of our city, today; it means bearing the abuse he endured in order to enter into that city which is to come. We can’t build it ourselves, but must rather heed the Shepherd’s voice and enter the door that He has opened: the door of the Cross.
Today, deconstruct the city that you’ve built with your own stones. Better yet, leave it behind and sit down by the waters of Babylon—The World, the seductive world, that we love and desire, yet hate and fear—and sob, cry, weep, and wail. They won’t know that you’re weeping over your lost castle of pride, of self-satisfaction, of religiosity. Indeed, they might not notice at all; there are a lot of tears out here in Babylon.
But once you catch your breath, get to know the people of Babylon, outside your city walls. And instead of dreaming of their destruction, fantasizing about their failure, or hoping for their harm, let go! Instead of boycotting and bullying this group or that, befriend them and be a blessing to them, not in order to trick or convince them, but because it is an opportunity for you. You can encounter Christ where you least expect it. Be around them; get to know them; learn to love them.
Because only by suffering with them, outside the gate of your city, will you find Jesus Christ.
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Fr. James Parnell is a third year seminarian at St. Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary.
Our alumnus, Priest Gregory Brent Gilbert (M.A. in Theology, 2004), presiding priest atSs. Mary Magdalene and Markella Greek Orthodox Church, Darlington, Maryland, was featured in a cover story ofThe Baltimore Sun, June 24, 2017. The article tells of Fr. Gregory’s conversion to the Orthodox Christian faith and also describes his parish and the changing demographics of membership among Orthodox Christians in America.
Father Gregory grew up as a Southern Baptist in eastern Tennessee, but encountered the ancient faith of the Orthodox Church while attending Davidson College in North Carolina. He majored in the classics and found himself fascinated with the writings of the early church fathers and the descriptions of Christianity in their day, which he could read in Koine Greek, their native tongue.
After college, as a teacher of Latin at a school in Nashville, Tennessee, Fr. Gregory began attending services at Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church. There, he observed church practices that he now recalls as "shocking” to him: seeing believers venerating objects, hearing chants from the first millennium, and listening to sermons that lasted a mere 15 minutes (instead of the usual hour!).
As he began tentatively practicing Orthodox rituals and learning more about church history, he felt his faith growing. He eventually came to believe in the Orthodox Church's authenticity. Then, he came St. Vladimir's Seminary, but mainly as an intellectual pursuit, since he still planned to become a college professor.
During his first day here on our seminary campus, he surprised himself by kissing an icon in Three Hierarchs Chapel. "That was the moment,” he said, “that I knew I'dcrossed the Rubicon.” Eventually, Fr. Gregory converted to the Orthodox faith, along with his wife, Rachel; they were chrismated in 2002, on the Feast of St. Nicholas in the Seminary’s Three Hierarchs Chapel.
After completing his seminary studies, Fr. Gregory traveled throughout Greece and then earned a doctorate in Greek and Latin studies at the Catholic University of America. He was ordained a deacon, and then elevated to the priesthood in 2015. Father Gregory and Presvytera Rachel are raising their five children to speak Greek and English.
At his current parish of Ss. Mary Magdalene and Markella, more than 80 percent of the 100 families who are his parishioners trace their religious roots back to the three oldest Greek Orthodox parishes in Baltimore: the Greek Orthodox Cathedral of the Annunciation, St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church, and St. Demetrios Greek Orthodox Church. Needless to say, as a convert to the faith, Father Gregory stands out in his parish.
However, say his parishioners, he’s alsooutstanding. With his fluency in the Greek language (both ancient and modern), his down-to-earth personality, his commitment to the faith, his deep knowledge of church history, and his empathy for parishioners of all ages, he has quickly won over the mostly ethnic Greek congregation.
"I believe this is exactly what Fr. Gregory was intended to do," says parishioner Deanna Karkoulas Mojarrad. "And I believe his success here is good overall from a big-picture perspective: it starts to solidify the idea that you don't have to be a certain nationality to be a Greek Orthodox priest."
Statistical Note:Almost half the nearly 1 million Orthodox Christians in the U.S. today are converts, theAssembly of Canonical Orthodox Bishops of the United States of Americareported in 2015. The majority of these married into the church, but a growing number are joining simply out of an affinity for the faith. More than 70 percent of the roughly 75,000 Antiochian Orthodox Christians in the United States are converts. The Orthodox Church in America, which has roots in the Russian Orthodox Church and has about 85,000 adherents, reports a 50 percent figure. The Greek Orthodox Archdiocese, representing by far the largest jurisdiction of Orthodox Christians in the U.S., with almost 480,000 members, reports a 25 percent figure.
Like many of our alumni, Archpriest Kirill Sokolov (M.Div. 2007) holds down a full-time job while contributing hundreds of hours per year to church service. Weekends and church holy days he’s serving as Associate Priest atHoly Trinity Cathedral in San Francisco; but during weekdays, students call him “Dr. Sokolov” in his role as director of Technology & 21st Century Learning at San Francisco Day School.
Additionally, this summer, his time will be split between professional job duties and church ministry: he’ll be working as an adjunct professor at the University of San Francisco School of Education, teaching a seminar for masters and doctoral education students titled, "Coding for Educators”; andhe’s coordinating the 11thAnnual Diaconal Practicumon our campus, June 25–28.
Speaking about this year’s Practicum, Fr. Kirill remarked: “It’s such a blessing to gather deacons and diaconal candidates from all over North America to be with each other at St. Vladimir’s. We are strengthened by the number of Divine Liturgy we serve together, and we get to develop—in a small way—the kind camaraderie and fellowship that will nourish the ministries of these deacons.”
Father Kirill is actually the designer of the diaconal practicum, which is part of theDiaconal Vocations Program(DVP) of the Orthodox Church in America (OCA). The goal of the DVP is to use a process of clergy-guided and mentored reading and studying to teach candidates a foundation of Orthodox theology and to prepare them for the practical liturgical service of the Holy Diaconate.
Father Kirill was himself ordained to the Holy Diaconate in 2004, in our Seminary’s Three Hierarchs Chapel. He had come from his home in California to St. Vladimir’s at the behest of Protopresbyter Thomas Hopko, of blessed memory, to bring his technology skills to the Seminary. As Fr. Thomas predicted, Kirill worked with the seminary’s systems, took divinity classes, and eventually met his future wife, Sophia. Sophia, a native of Nevada, was baptized while studying at St. John’s College in Santa Fe, NM, and she too had come to St. Vladimir’s to study theology.
The Holy Synod of Bishops elevated Deacon Kirill to the dignity of Protodeacon in 2007, and in 2009, to the office of Archdeacon of the OCA. By 2009 Archdeacon Kirill and Matushka Sophia had both graduated from the Seminary, and he served as an administrator and lecturer at the Seminary, while Sophia regularly directed the chapel choirs and taught church school and adult education classes.
In 2010 Archdeacon Kirill, Matushka Sophia, and their sons, Nicholas and Gregory, moved back to the Bay Area to be closer to family. In 2011 the Sokolovs’ daughter, Juliana, was born (“making our family and the world a more beautiful place” noted Fr. Kirill). Father Kirill noted that during his years in the Bay Area, he had been “honored to continue serving as a deacon with Archbishop Benjamin and throughout the Diocese of the West, especially at Holy Trinity and in the inspiring nearby parishes of St. Nicholas in San Anselmo and Protection of the Virgin in Santa Rosa.”
On Bright Saturday, April 22, 2017, His Eminence, Archbishop Benjamin ordained Archdeacon Kirill to the Holy Priesthood at Holy Trinity Cathedral, San Francisco, CA. The historic cathedral was filled with worshippers from the parish and the diocese, and beyond, for the Paschal Divine Liturgy, including our seminary President Archpriest Chad Hatfield.
In his address to the newly ordained Archpriest Kirill and his wife, Matushka Sophia, His Eminence spoke about the centrality of love for one’s flock in priestly service. His Eminence noted that Fr. Kirill is the second “native son” of the Cathedral to be ordained to the priesthood (the first having been St. Sebastian of Jackson and San Francisco). Father Kirill was vested in the paschal vestments worn by his father, Archpriest Victor (Dean of Holy Trinity from 1991 until his repose in 2006), who had also been ordained on Bright Saturday.
His Eminence has indicated his intention to assign Fr. Kirill as Dean of Holy Trinity in 2018, succeeding long-serving current Dean, Archpriest John Takahashi, another SVOTS alumnus.
When I was young, I would get to watch some great TV cartoons during the Christmas season. Waiting to devour a bowl of popcorn, I would anxiously anticipate the appearance of the “special presentation” logo and with abandon throw myself into the stories of Frosty, Kris Kringle, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Nowadays, kids can watch these cartoons any time, through iTunes, Hulu, and Netflix, but in my day kids could only watch them around Christmas time, which added to the excitement of the season. These shows reminded me that soon we would be celebrating the birth of Jesus—and that soon I would be opening my presents.
However, at my young age I usually “reversed” that order. If my parents or my priest were to have asked me what Christmas meant, I would have had quite a bit to say about what Santa might bring me for Christmas. If I had remembered—and that is a big “if”—I might have mentioned that Christmas is also about the birth of Jesus and the salvation of the world. In my youth, I had offered Jesus a backseat to Star Wars, and I had displaced the truly wonderful gift that I had received from God with opening my own Christmas gifts.
I could easily excuse my behavior as youthful exuberance, blame my immaturity, or point to the commercialization of the season. What I could not get around (even now) is that Linus—the character from Charles Schulz’s “Charlie Brown” comic strip—taught me better; he taught me what Christmas is really about.
Most of us probably recall “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” a TV cartoon special that debuted in 1965 and has been aired every year since. In the cartoon Charlie Brown—the main character in Schulz’s strip—laments the commercialization of Christmas and falls into an emotional depression. Acting as the resident psychiatrist, Lucy (Charlie’s ever-present antagonist) suggests that Charlie Brown direct the school Christmas play, and in so doing find some peace within the Christmas season. However, rather than finding peace, Charlie Brown instead finds greater frustration: the Peanuts gang wants to modernize the Nativity story rather than highlight Jesus’ birth.
Seeking to create a more appropriate mood, Charlie Brown and Linus (Lucy’s gentler and kinder younger brother) set off to find a Christmas tree for the play. As they leave, Lucy requests that they get a “big, shiny aluminum tree.” However, in the midst of the many extravagant and fake trees in the lot, Charlie Brown finds and chooses a humble, unassuming evergreen—the only real tree available.
Despite Linus’s misgivings, Charlie Brown returns with this tree to rehearsal, where the Peanuts gang promptly laughs at him for his seemingly poor decision. Shaken by their response, Charlie Brown cries out, “Will somebody tell me what Christmas is all about?” Responding to his question, Linus takes center stage and recites six verses from the Gospel of Luke:
And the angel said unto them: “Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you this day is born in the City of Bethlehem a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good will toward men.” (Luke 2:10–15)
After recounting the Gospel’s “infancy narrative,” Linus states, “That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”
Inspired, Charlie Brown decides to take his tree home to decorate it, to show the rest of the gang its true beauty. Charlie Brown borrows an ornament from the prize-winning Christmas display created by his own dog, Snoopy, only to watch the little tree droop from its weight. After crying out “I’ve killed it!”, he flees in despair.
Now sorry for their rough treatment of Charlie Brown, the Peanuts gang (inspired by Linus), follow after him, only to discover the humble tree bowed down by the weight of the ornament. Linus lovingly props up the tree to give it strength, and wraps his security blanket around its base. The gang decorates the tree with the rest of Snoopy’s ornaments as they sing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” Upon returning, Charlie Brown is stunned as his friends shout, “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!”
Charlie Brown learned something valuable that day: the joyful gift of our salvation comes wrapped not in worldly glory but in humility. The Messiah comes not in earthly splendor but in heavenly glory, wrapped in swaddling clothes rather than royal garments. The small tree chosen by Charlie Brown symbolizes the truth of the Incarnation of the Word of God: our salvation resides in an outpouring of love, not in self-glorification.
We can perhaps find even deeper symbolism in Linus’s security blanket (usually an ever-present fixture; he does not leave home with out it!). As Linus recites the gospel verse, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,” he lets go of his security blanket. Linus has always depended on his blanket to have peace of mind, to feel protected, to feel safe. Yet, in this dramatic moment, he lets his blanket drop, symbolically reaching for the Savior to find true peace, protection, and safety.
Linus also wraps his security blanket around the tree after Charlie Brown flees in despair. This hopeful act suggests that Linus wrapped his fears around the Christmas tree, because perfect love casts out fear (1 John 4:18). In the light of Jesus’ birth, anxiety loses its grasp upon humanity; our security is no longer in earthly vessels but in the Lord Himself. Like Linus, we might consider letting go of our own security blankets in order to offer the same gratitude.
The brilliant Charles Schulz, through his thought-provoking and heart-warming characters, tried to convey to the world the true meaning of Christmas. Although I now enter into the Advent Season through the rich services of the Orthodox Church, I still carry in my heart the simple but profound lessons taught to me by the Peanuts gang.
And, now, when considering my “Christmas presents” I muse: Am I presenting the Lord with gold, frankincense, and myrrh, like the Magi? Or, am I offering him pride, covetousness, envy, and judgment?
A homily delivered in the Three Hierarchs Chapel at St. Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary on the Feast of St. John Chrysostom (Tuesday, November 13, 2012).
At night, the shepherds would have heard the wolves. The shepherds in the time of Jesus took their flocks out into the countryside to find pasture and water. Journeying far from the safety of the village or the city, settling down for the night, they could hear the hungry wolves that prowled in the distance. Remember, this was not the Wild West; shepherds did not carry lever action Winchester rifles to fend off predators. The shepherds in Jesus’ day would have had a wooden staff, a sling, and a bag of small round stones. Shepherds had to be brave folks who could face danger. But at night, as the small fire would have been dying down to embers, and as the sheep settled down, they would have heard the wolves, and it would have sent a chill up the spine of the bravest shepherd.
Can you hear the wolves?
When Hurricane Sandy knocked us off the grid and devastated the Tri-State Area, could you hear the wolves?
As the national election shook the country and inflamed passions of anger and bitterness between brothers and sisters, could you hear the wolves?
Hearing about scandals and controversy within the Church on the national level, in the parish, or between friends and family, can you hear the wolves?
It is awfully tempting to run for it, isn’t it? Just give up the whole thing and run for your life. Today Jesus tells us that if the shepherd was a hired hand, if the sheep weren’t his own and if he caught a glimpse of those ravenous wolves advancing towards the sheep, he’d abandon the flock and run for his life. And the sheep scatter, and the wolves attack at will. Now, if we are merely talking about livestock, then a shepherd might fare pretty well if he ran for his life. There are only so many wolves, maybe a dozen or so, and odds are that a pack of wolves would much rather go after a young lamb, a slow pregnant female, or an old feeble sheep.
But here is the problem.
Jesus is not giving advice on caring for livestock; he is speaking of a spiritual reality.
And the wolves that Jesus is talking about are not of this world. They are demons, intent on dividing the Body of Christ and devouring human souls. So, if the shepherd runs away and leaves the flock of Christ to the demonic wolves, there is no safety for anyone. The demonic powers of Satan will not only hunt down every last one of the sheep but also go after every shepherd that runs and tries to save his own life.
But our shepherd is not a hired hand.
Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ lays down His life for His reason-endowed flock. He offers His life as He is suspended on the Cross so that we would know, without a doubt, that He loves us and that we belong to Him. Jesus Christ is the Good Shepherd. He knows His own flock, and His flock knows Him. We hear His voice and we follow Him.
Today we celebrate the life of St. John Chrysostom, a man who listened to the voice of the Good Shepherd, a man who followed in the footsteps of Christ, a man who did the work of the Gospel. He served the flock of Christ in the midst of a wilderness of sin: Constantinople, with its spectacles and games, its greed and its wealth, its lust and its passion. The demonic wolves in that capital city threatened the flock of Christ more than any predators in the Jordan Valley ever threatened a flock of sheep. In the midst of that danger, St. John stood by the poor, the weak, and the vulnerable, constantly providing for spiritual and material needs. Ravening wolves attacked him from every side. On one side, strict disciplinarians said that he was too soft in his merciful appeal to sinners. He would say, “If you have fallen a second time, or even a thousand times into sin, come and you shall be healed.” On the other side, influential and wealthy bishops and priests mocked him for his austere lifestyle and publicly accused him of mismanagement, claiming that his care of the poor was a “waste” of Church money. Finally, he was attacked head-on by a vain and decadent empress and her imperial court, who did not feel it was right for a bishop to criticize their public spectacles.
Yet in spite of it all St. John stood by his flock and never ran for his life. Facing the imperial threat he said, “Though the sea roar and the wave rise high, they cannot overwhelm the ship of Jesus Christ. I fear not death which is my gain, nor exile for the whole earth is the Lord’s, nor the loss of goods for I came naked into the world and I can carry nothing out of it.”He stood by his flock until armed guards dragged him out of the city into exile. But even in exile, he wrote letters and exhorted his friends and spiritual children, reminding them of the love of God and the mercy of Christ. And in his death, out in the lonely, harsh place where he had been literally dragged in chains, he completed his course by laying down his life, in emulation of Christ the Good Shepherd. And with his last breath, saying, “Glory be to God for all things.”
Hearing the Word of God, preaching the Gospel and standing by the weak and the vulnerable, even when it costs you your life: this is the legacy of St. John Chrysostom.
This is our life. This is our work. This is our calling.
Today we follow Christ the Good Shepherd. When a stranger is hungry, we feed him. When a sister is lonely, we sit by her side. When a brother is angry, we patiently listen to him, just like God always patiently listens to us. We follow Christ the Good Shepherd; we hear His word and know that we belong to Him. And we lay down our life for others, just like He laid down His life for us.
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The Rev. Dr. J. Sergius Halvorsen (SVOTS ’96) received his M.Div. from St. Vladimir’s Seminary and completed his doctoral dissertation at Drew University in 2002. From 2000 to 2011 he taught at Holy Apostles College and Seminary in Cromwell Connecticut, where he also served as Director of Distance Learning. He was ordained to the priesthood in February 2004, and currently serves on the faculty of SVOTS as Associate Professor of Homiletics and Rhetoric and Director of Field Education.
Our alumnus,Father Sergei Glagolev(Class of 1949), on Pentecost, June 4, 2017, was elevated to the dignity ofMitered Archpriestby His Beatitude Metropolitan Tikhon, primate of the Orthodox Church in America. The elevation occurred during the Divine Liturgy in Holy Trinity Church, East Meadow, Long Island, a parish in which Fr. Sergei at one time had served as pastor.
Father Sergei—a graduate not only of our Seminary but also of New York University, where he earned a Bachelor of Science degree in music—is best known for spreading God’s Word throughout North America via his liturgical music settings in the English language—a radical idea in the mid-twentieth century, when he began this ministry!
He coupled his musical ministry with his work as the pastor of Ss. Peter and Paul Church, Lorain, Ohio, and St. Innocent Church, Encino-Tarzana, California; and then as Dean of Holy Trinity Cathedral, San Francisco; and finally as pastor of Holy Trinity Church. He also gave presentations at numerous workshops and conferences throughout North America for decades, and taught at St. Vladimir’s Seminary, as Lecturer in Liturgical Music.
Another one of our seminary alumni, David Lucs, recently gave a presentation about Fr. Sergei’s life and work in the field of liturgical music, titled, “Blessed are the people who know the Festal Shout,” at the Seventh International Conference on Orthodox Church Music, organized by theInternational Society for Orthodox Church Music(ISOCM) and held at the University of Eastern Finland, School of Theology, in Joensuu, June 6–11, 2017.Watch a YouTube video of that Mr. Lucs presentation here.
“Home sweet home.” “There’s no place like home.” “Home is where the heart is.”
These familiar phrases have been ingrained in American culture and society—and have been particularly meaningful for our Alumnus Priest Nicholas Andruchow, (M.Div. ’02), as he executes his duties as Chaplain and Associate Director of Project Mexico and St. Innocent Orphanage.
Our alumnus, Fr. Nicholas Andruchow, is one of the leaders who oversees the teams for these home-building projects. His main responsibility is to help the volunteers contextualize Orthodoxy and make their faith real through almsgiving. He has lived with his family in Tijuana for over seven years and this summer more than 600 volunteers are scheduled to build 26 homes starting in May and ending in August.
“To date,” noted Fr. Nicholas, “we have hosted well over 13,000 missionaries on our 16-acre ranch, and built 302 homes in total.
“The reason? The cost of land in Mexico ranges from $15,000 to $25,000 (USD) for a 200–300 meter parcel of land, and most families cannot afford to build once they save enough just to purchase land,” he continued.
“As you drive through the impoverished communities around Tijuana, you will see homes made of old garage doors, wooden pallets, tarps, tires or other materials that were, ironically enough, likely discarded from homes within the United States,” Fr. Nicholas further explained. “Our ministry is to make sure we provide a decent dwelling, with four walls, a roof, and a stucco exterior to keep families comfortable and safe in this climate and environment.”
“I receive immense joy—and so do our volunteers—when a new home is raised up, because an entire family is ‘raised up’ with it,” he remarked, “and during this Bright Season, I find great satisfaction in knowing we are acting as the hands, head, and feet of our Savior as we offer shelter to the poor.”
Alumnus Reverend Deacon Nicholas Denysenko, Ph.D. and Alumna Clio Pavlantos, M.A., C.M.A., M.Div. and B.C.C. will both be participating in a Pan-Orthodox Conference entitled, “Renewing the Male and Female Diaconate in the Orthodox Church,”October 6–October 7, 2017, at St. Paul Greek Orthodox Church, 4949 Alton Parkway, Irvine, CA.
Deacon Nicholas is Director of the Huffington Ecumenical Institute at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles, California, where he also holds the position of Associate Professor of Theological Studies, Bellarmine College of Liberal Arts. He is the author of "A Liturgical Theology of Primacy" in the volume Primacy in the Church: The Office of Primate and the Authority of Councils. Deacon Nicholas received his doctoral degree from The Catholic University of America and has taught at The Catholic University of America, George Washington University, and at Holy Cross Greek Orthodox School of Theology.
Ms. Pavlantos is currently Staff Chaplain serving the outpatient Breast and Imaging Center at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, New York City; she is the first chaplain there posted to outpatient care. She received her M.Div. from St. Vladimir's Seminary and holds a chaplain endorsement from the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese.
In four sessions, participants at the conference will hear a variety of presentations on: (1) the present state of the diaconate; (2) ways men and women are engaged in diaconal ministry today; (3) opportunities to engage with both clergy and faithful on the rejuvenation of the male and female diaconate; and (4) current challenges and future possibilities of the diaconate for the building up of the body of Christ.
Among the other presenters at the conference are two seminary faculty members, Archpriest Alexander Rentel, S.E.O.D. and Priest Anthony Gregg Roeber, and one seminary trustee, Reverend Protodeacon Peter Danilchick. For more information or to download a flier, visit the St. Phoebe Center website.
When most people think of preparation for ministry in the context of the Orthodox Church, they think of attending seminary: learning how to sing all eight tones of the Octoechos, how to preach sermons, how to swing a censer, how to minister to young and old in a parish.
How about learning how to put out fires in a burning building, or saving a ship hit by a torpedo from sinking, or getting up at 0430 every morning to run and work your muscles well before dawn, or ministering to believers and non–believers in a combat unit?
I had already completed the requirements in the first paragraph—my M.Div. at St. Vladimir’s—but that sufficed for being an Orthodox priest. I needed the second set of skills in order to embark on another path I have been blessed to tread: that of a chaplain in the United States Navy. The first part of the training by which such skills are acquired is called Officer Development School (ODS), a five–week course in military basics, officer leadership, fitness training, and disaster preparedness. Along with 60 other officers assigned to Class 12110, Uniform Company, I attended ODS at the Naval Station Newport, Rhode Island, from September 9 to October 12, 2012.
Having grown up in the military (both my parents were Marines) and having spent several years in a monastery, I was accustomed to a life marked by routine and by orders; the same was not the case for many of my shipmates when we first started our course. A large part of the ODS experience is militarization, especially important because the officers attending this school are “directly commissioned,” that is, they receive a commission not based on any prior military education or experience, but on the basis of the professional knowledge and experience they bring to the military. All of us in Class 12110 fell into this camp: chaplains, clinical psychologists, nurses, dentists, surgeons, and scientists of all sorts. The Navy needed our skills and talents, but before we could serve our nation’s sailors and Marines, we needed the Navy to show us what it means to be an officer and sailor.
Our days were long and tiring: waking up at 0430 (that’s 4:30 a.m. for civilians), having an hour of PT (physical training) every morning, getting used to all the military acronyms too! Three meals a day, fifteen minutes only allotted for mealtime, no talking, lest we incur the wrath of the Marine drill instructors and Navy RDCs (recruit division commanders) watching our every bite. Wearing our uniforms and preparing them for inspection: this badge must be one quarter inch above the pocket and centered, no more, no less; your bed sheets folded just so; your shower shoes and laundry bag hung on the hook thus. All this attention to detail is important—it helps make one aware of the details in all of our lives as Naval officers, of the small things that can make or break a ship, or save or kill a life in battle or in a hospital. But to me, as a hieromonk in the Orthodox Christian tradition, the attention to detail was very welcome, a sign pointing to the present in the midst of our trials and tribulations throughout the five weeks. “Don’t worry about the inspection tomorrow,” I’d say to myself, “just worry about marching in step right now,” or: “Just focus on your thousand–yard stare right now.” Past and future fled away to reveal simply the present, and simultaneously, simply the presence of God guiding me and my shipmates in our training.
As a chaplain in the U.S. Navy, I enjoy certain privileges, but also must bear certain crosses no other officer must. As a chaplain, I can bypass the chain of command—I have direct access to the commanding officer (CO) (whether he/she be a commander, captain, admiral, depending on the type of command), and the COs confer with chaplains often about the climate of their command, and how their sailors and officers are doing. But as a chaplain, I also am the only officer who has complete confidentiality: if a sailor or Marine comes to me in confidence, I cannot tell anyone else what he or she has said. This is much like confession in the Orthodox Church, but can be a great burden at times, both in the military as well as in the parish. I am called to enter into both the joys and sufferings of others.
This took place even during my training time. One night, after a long day involving me as a chaplain, after keeping my chin up and my military bearing spot on, I retired to my hatch (=my room) after chow (=dinner), shut the door, and just started to cry, and offer up the pain and sorrows that had been given to me in confidence to the one Person I can always talk to, Jesus Christ. One of my shipmates, a nuclear instructor, heard my sobs and knocked on the door, to see if I was all right. I said I would be, but that this was one of the hard parts of the chaplaincy, one of the sacrifices I and other chaplains make for our nation and those whom we serve: to bear their pain in silence and confidence, opening it only to the Lord. My shipmate had not realized until that point the real sacrifice of the Chaplain Corps, and that moment brought us together in greater understanding of how we both were serving our fellow sailors, albeit in different but equally important ways.
Chaplains in the Navy serve our country’s sailors, Marines, and Coast Guard on the spiritual front; but like any other officer or sailor, we too are full Naval officers, and must be ready to help in any way, in any emergency. Part of our training involved passing the 3rd Class Swim Test, which involves: jumping off a 10-foot tower and swimming to safety; being submerged in full khaki uniform, and inflating your trousers and blouse to be life vests; and swimming 50 meters nonstop to safety. We learned how to fight fires onboard ships, and consequently suited up completely in firefighting gear, complete with oxygen tanks and real flames, to put out fires in a simulated ship space. We also learned about water damage control on board the “SS Buttercup,” a ship simulator rigged to give us the experience of a torpedo striking the hull. We started to list about 30 degrees to starboard (=to the right), taking on water, and had to put our book knowledge into practice: bracing breached hatches, turning off valves to burst pipes, deploying hoses to drain flooded compartments. We saved the ship, we grew closer together as a team and company, and we emerged ready to serve our nation’s finest.
On October 12, 2012, we had our graduation ceremony in front of many family and friends. I was very blessed to have my diocesan bishop, The Right Rev. Bishop Michael, and my uncle and aunt, Lt. Col. David Searle, USAF, and Mrs. Jodie Searle, attend the celebrations. The commanding officer of Officer Training Command Newport, Captain Vernon Kemper, beamed at all of us, 61 officers from all parts of the United States, who had come to Newport as individuals, but were leaving as brothers and sisters in the US Navy, and welcomed our guest speaker, Rear Admiral Rebecca McCormick-Boyle, the Chief of Staff, Bureau of Medicine. RDML McCormick-Boyle, a nurse who had trodden the same path as us at ODS some 30 years prior, inspired us to hold on to that spirit of camaraderie and dedication as we embarked on our Navy careers, and our families and friends applauded as we renewed our Oaths of Office.
For me, a bit of a pause had come. Unlike the other 59 officers, I and the other chaplains have one more year of Reserve and parish service before taking up active duty service. Yet the experience of attending ODS confirmed for me the sense of vocation to this rare calling: to be an Orthodox monk, and priest, and Navy chaplain. I don’t know of many others who’ve had this particular combination – in fact, right now, I’m the only such chaplain the U.S. Navy. But by God’s grace, I hope to spend many years being a presence of love, comfort, consolation, and confidence to all who serve our nation and put their lives in harm’s way so that ours might not be exposed to such dangers.
Anchors aweigh! Hope to see you in the Fleet!
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Hieromonk Kilian (Sprecher), a seminarian in the Master of Theology program at St. Vladimir’s, is a chaplain in the U.S. Navy Reserves. Father Kilian was the first monk to be tonsured to the monastic rank of “Lesser Schema” in the seminary’s Three Hierarchs Chapel in 2010 and was the first monk on campus to be inducted into the U.S. Naval Reserves as a chaplain. Father is also serving as the Acting Rector of St. Gregory of Palamas Church in Glen Gardner, NJ.
