Finishing The Course

It was a gray, chilly evening in October of 1999, and my husband and I stood at the threshold of the Eastern Orthodox Church. Literally. Positioned at the entrance of Holy Trinity Cathedral on Leavitt Street in Chicago, we were attended by Fr. Joseph, a black robed, heavily bearded priest and an impressive figure who I would have sworn was a transplant straight from "Holy Russia." (We later found out that he was an ex-Lutheran from Ohio.) On this night, following a series of professions, we would officially be recognized as catechumens in the Orthodox Church. After asking us our full names, (yes, mine is really just Beth), Fr. Joseph authoritatively and I believe prophetically declared, "You are now Elizabeth after the mother of St. John the Baptist." In less than twenty minutes, prayers were offered on our behalf; the devil exorcised and spit upon (once again, literally); the Nicene Creed professed; and a series of "Lord have mercies," chanted by the choir. Behind me stood two figures that I remember: my dear friend Molly who would later serve as my sponsor and His Grace, then Bishop JOB. While there is little else I recall about this particular evening, I do remember receiving Bishop JOB's blessing at the conclusion of the service. Meeting at the rear of the cathedral, near the icon of the priest-martyr and individual primarily responsible for the construction of the building in which I now stood, St. John of Chicago, Bishop JOB quoting from the Psalms, raised his right hand and bestowed his blessing upon me and my bowed head, "May the Lord God bless you from Zion. May you see the good things of Jerusalem all the days of your life."

Last Friday, as I was cutting up pieces of fudge and crafting packages to be sent later that day to our precious friends in Chesterton and Indianapolis, the phone rang. Our family was in a bit of a rush, attempting to get on the road for a journey to Pontiac, Illinois, for a visit with my father-in-law. I let the machine pick it up. On the other end of the receiver was a friend and former parishoner from our church in Chicago now living in New York. Bad news clung to his voice; instantly I knew someone had died. "An hour and a half ago," Steve related, "Archbishop JOB died unexpectedly while on route back to Chicago from Ohio."

It was another gray, chilly day as we pulled our van up to the Archbishop's chapel and our former parish, Christ the Savior, last Monday afternoon. With an assortment of people, friends and strangers, we awaited the arrival of the Archbishop. And in typical Orthodox fashion, he was late - held up in traffic. After nearly a half hour, word began to spread in hushed whispers that Archbishop JOB was home. An awed silence permeated the sacred space until black robed clergy and Metropolitan JONAH entered the temple singing "Holy God" and bearing the body of our beloved Vladyka into his own chapel. As his coffin was censed, the lid was opened and Archbishop JOB received his crown on his head and his familiar purple vestment initialed in gold at his feet. His cross was placed in his right hand. Prayers were offered; "Lord have mercies" chanted; and then the official visitation. As my youngest son and I stood at the body of Archbishop JOB, we paused, prayed, bowed our heads, kissing the cross and the Archbishop's right hand for a final blessing.

There is much I could tell you about Archbishop JOB. He was a caring, compassionate, generous individual committed to the truth even when it made him unpopular. He loved children and, like His Lord, never wanted the little ones pushed aside. And sensing his genuineness and love, children loved him right back. He was down-to-earth, never one to flaunt his authority or the power that came with it, but always leading His flock as a true Shepherd by serving them. He was wise and his words, I believe, inspired, always encouraging those around him to love first and not allow zeal or lethargy to take hold of them. "Be grateful for where you came from," he would relate to converts. Do not harbor animosity towards your former religious background for that is not Orthodoxy, not the way of Christ. Go to the work parties or the parties held by non-Orthodox friends, he urged, even during the periods of fasting, and enjoy them. Just don't wind up being the one with "the lamp shade on your head." Glory in the incense, the icons, the magnificent colors, sounds, and rich smells of the Orthodox church. Let them permeate your being for they are the gifts of God to draw you closer to Him, but remember never to mistake them for the true object of worship. Never tire of hearing the Gospel accounts of Christ's passion. Listen, even when it seems we have read them over and over "for my brothers and sisters, it is never enough. It is never enough." Undoubtedly for Archbishop JOB "to live was Christ and to die was gain." Collectively Orthodox Christians throughout America and the world mourn the premature loss of a beloved Shepherd. We will miss you Vladkyka. May His Memory Be Eternal!

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It is poetry Wednesday. I came to love this poem of Houseman's my freshman year of college. Archbishop JOB looked forward to his upcoming retirement and probably even longed for it so he could slip into obscurity and to paraphrase his own words, work on his own salvation. God did not want it that way and took him while still young and greatly revered. Click here to read others' poems for today. A blessed Christmas to you all!

"To An Athlete Dying Young"

A.E. Houseman

The time you won your town the race

We chaired you through the market-place;

Man and boy stood cheering by,

And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,

Shoulder-high we bring you home,

And set you at your threshold down,

Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away

From fields where glory does not stay

And early though the laurel grows

It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut

Cannot see the record cut,

And silence sounds no worse than cheers

After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout

Of lads that wore their honors out,

Runners whom renown outran

And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,

The fleet foot on the sill of shade,

And hold to the low lintel up

The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head

Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,

And find unwithered on its curls

The garland briefer than a girl's.

For The Beauty Of You

Considered one of the German language's greatest 20th-century poet, Rainer Maria Rilke wrote what is now known as The Book of Hours following a trip to Russia during his early twenties. Rilke's Book is broken down into three parts: "The Book of a Monastic Life," "The Book of Pilgrimage," and "The Book of Poverty and Death." Though Poetry Wednesday is nearly over, my three offerings for this bitter cold Iowa day are taken from "The Book of Pilgrimage." And you can click here to enjoy what others have shared today. Enjoy!

Ich bete wider, du Erlauchter

I am praying again, Awesome One.

You hear me again, as words

from the depths of me

rush toward you in the wind.

I've been scattered in pieces,

torn by conflict,

mocked by laughter,

washed down in drink.

In alleyways I sweep myself up

out of garbage and broken glass.

With my half-mouth I stammer you,

who are eternal in you symmetry.

I lift to you my half-hands

in wordless beseeching, that I may find again

the eyes with which I once beheld you.

I am a house gutted by fire

where only the guilty sometimes sleep

before the punishment that devours them

hounds them out into the open.

I am a city by the sea

sinking into a toxic tide.

I am strange to myself, as though someone unknown

had poisoned my mother as she carried me.

It's here in all the pieces of my shame

that now I find myself again.

I yearn to belong to something, to be contained

in an all-embracing mind that sees me

as a single thing.

I yearn to be held

in the great hands of your heart-

oh let them take me now.

Into them I place these fragments, my life,

and you, God- spend them however you want.

Losch mir die Augen aus: ich kann dich sehen

Extinguish my eyes, I'll go on seeing you.

Seal my ears, I'll go on hearing you.

And without feet I can make my way to you,

without a mouth I can swear your name.

Break off my arms, I'll take hold of you

with my heart as with a hand.

Stop my heart, and my brain will start to beat.

And if you consume my brain with fire,

I'll feel you burn in every drop of my blood.

In tiefen Nachten grab ich dich, du Schatz

In deep nights I dig for you like treasure.

For all I have seen

that clutters the surface of my world

is poor and paltry substitute

for the beauty of you

that has not happened yet.

My hands are bloody from digging.

I lift them, hold them open in the wind,

so they can branch like a tree.

Reaching, these hands would pull you out of the sky

as if you had shattered there,

dashed yourself to pieces in some wild impatience.

What is this I feel falling now,

falling on this parched earth,

softly,

like a spring rain?

How Lovely Are Thy Branches

Pictures? You want pictures, Mrs. Sabourin? Well, these are a week old, but they will have to do. With a day off of work for Jared and our first winter storm in the forecast, we ventured out last Tuesday for our annual trip to Mumma's Tree Farm in Port Byron. Due to cold temperatures during our trip last year, Russell, Elliot, and I never left the van. We hoped that the above freezing temps this year would allow all of us to participate in our tree excursion, but after Elliot fell out of the sled into the snow, the three of us retreated back to the van while Jared and Thomas completed the task at hand once again.

My two guys did a fabulous job - the tree is perfect and smells great. Nothing quite like the smell of fresh pine greeting me first thing in the morning. (Well, maybe a fresh cup of coffee. Picky. Picky. Picky.) And while I would love to have a picture of it now, decorated and shining in our living room, at this point, that is impossible due to my youngest son's launching of our camera into a sink full of water later that afternoon. Oh Elliot. Just know that as Thomas and I unwrapped ornaments from the tissue paper in which they were stored, he cooed at nearly each one of them like a mother to her young infant. "Oh mommy. Look at this one. Isn't it cute?" And isn't he just precious? I think so.

Saint of Light

Baptized into the Lutheran church at four months of age on Easter Sunday 1973, I was marked in more ways than one. Entrusted to my godparents, parents, and members of the church community, I was to be raised according to the Lutheran beliefs. And with the last name Swanson, I joined an elect group of people with names like Patterson, Anderson, Johnson, and Townsend, because half of my gene pool could be traced back to the motherland, Sweden.

When you grow up in a Lutheran church composed mostly of Swedes, there are two climacteric events, besides the obvious feasts of Christmas and Easter, which are heralded and revered with gusto: Midsummer in June and St. Lucia Day in December. As a young girl, I remember the anticipation, the mystery: Which teen-aged girl would be the Lucia Bride? and Would I someday be chosen to perform this part? As a member of the children's choir, I recall walking into a darkened auditorium at my church where men, women, and children assembled to commemorate this special day. Dressed in traditional Swedish costumes, the only light driving out the darkness was that emitted from candles each of us children grasped in our hands. As we entered, we would sing verse after verse, in Swedish and English, the song tributing this Saint of Light.

Night treads with heavy step. Round yard and hearth

Woods brood in darkness now. Sun's gone from earth

But through the darkness comes. With brightness glowing

Saint of the heav'nly light. Our Savior showing

Maiden so sweet and fair, Bright candles in your hair,

Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

Child of the holy light, Banish the dark of night,

Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

And then she would appear; an adolescent girl clothed in a white gown, a crimson sash cinched around her waist, a crown of seven candles aflame upon her head, a tray of bread and coffee to serve her guests. From the eyes of a young child, it was beautiful and magical, like Christmas Day. My family left the Lutheran church when I was in eighth grade; I never was the Lucia Bride.

St. Lucia was a young, Sicilian woman who lived in the late third century. So committed was she to Christ, she desired that He alone be her Bridegroom. Although promised in marriage by her mother to a pagan man, Lucia ultimately was given permission by her mother to terminate her betrothal and give her dowry to the poor. Upon learning of Lucia's rejection, her fiance betrayed her to the governor of the island as being a Christian, which was illegal at the time. After being arrested for her faith and refusing to sacrifice to idols, St. Lucia received the crown of martyrdom when a soldier stabbed his sword into her throat. Her adoration by the Swedes stemmed from an event which occurred in the Middle Ages. According to Swedish tradition, in the midst of a horrific winter and famine in southern Sweden, a ship sailing across Lake Vannern appeared. At the prow stood a young woman dressed all in white and emanating a holy light. Once upon shore, the maiden dispersed bag after bag of wheat until the ship was empty, thus saving the people from starvation and imminent death.

Last Sunday evening, each of my sons deferred my offering that one of them play the role of St. Lucia, and so, finally, twenty years after the fact, I acquiesced and became the Lucia Bride. It was nothing fancy. There was just the five of us. There was not a white gown to don nor a crown of lighted candles to adorn. Instead, I plopped one of the boys' homemade autumn crowns - a hat cut out from a used Cheerios box decorated with disintegrating leaves and buttons - which lost most of its grandeur on my head. Rather than flaming candles, I concocted a quirkie seasonal replacement - seven pine cones strapped on with orange pipe cleaners. We did form a procession (I mean, we are Orthodox; we love to process), and with lights dimmed, lit candle in my hand, a plate full of ginger cookies precariously in Thomas' hold, our family circled our home singing "Santa Lucia."

By the third stanza, the electric mayhem duo was causing enough of a ruckus that cookies were spilling onto the floor, shouts of, "No!" were being heard, and there was laughter. We concluded our first annual St. Lucia celebration by reading a lovely book, Lucia Saint of Light by Katherine Bolger Hyde which the boys recently received from my parents. And as Russell and Elliot bumbled around our room, turning the box fan off and on, moving icons from the icon table to the bedside table, Jared, Thomas, and I snuggled on our rumpled bed. And there was more laughter as my dear husband put little Thomas into the kind of near-frenzy only possible for a five-year-old boy as he insisted on calling the governor from the story, Paschasius, "Pass Gas"-ius. Oh potty humor. I am confident, it will be the one and only thing Thomas remembers about this day.

With what wreaths of praise shall we crown Lucy, the namesake of light? What

diadem of honor befits the brow of her who willingly gave up her life for her

heavenly Bridegroom, bringing Him as dowry, as though they were priceless rubies,

the drops of her precious blood, shed by the sword for His sake?

Come, you who love the martyrs, and let us fashion wreaths of praise, glorifying

her who in her pure virginity, her blameless life and spotless death glorified above

all the Holy Trinity, the one true God, and put to shame the mindlessness of the

pagans! For having been faithful to Christ unto the end, she has truly entered into

the joy of her Lord, and abides forever in the eternal bliss of His mansions on high.

From the Aposticha for the Feast of St. Lucia

December 13