"Practicing Prayer: A Daily Workbook" is a 28-day Orthodox Christian pilgrimmage of learning, revelation and devotional practice

 

At just 112 pages and a mere quarter-inch thick, "Practicing Prayer: A Daily Workbook," by Alexander Goussetis, might tempt you, at first blush, to underestimate its true spiritual weight.

Packed inside its pages, however, this is indeed a "workbook" for regular, daily prayer and devotion. Rev. Dr. Goussetis, a veteran parish priest and Ancient Faith Radio podcaster who currently serves as director of the Center for Family Care of the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America, guides the reader through a 28-day, step-by-step journey to a richer and deeper relationship with God.

From its first step of "Creating a Sacred Space," an area of the home featuring such spiritual aids as icons, candles, incense, a Bible and prayer books and a prayer rope, "Practicing Prayer" takes practitioners through an array of physical and spiritual lessons -- from making the sign of the cross, prayer postures, prostrations, and veneration of icons to the Orthodox Christian's treasured "Jesus Prayer."

The ancient prayer is both simple and short, but profound in its meaning, and beyond comprehension in its spiritual power. "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me," in partnership with a knotted prayer rope, is far more than a "Christian mantra," Goussetis writes, and it goes far beyond a "rhythmic incantation but implies a personal relationship . . . an expression of love between ourselves and God."

This book's value does not end with the 28th and final lesson. You will not master its lessons nor plumb the depths of its spiritual insights in a month, a year, or even a lifetime.

But like breathing itself, so is daily prayer to the soul of the Christian. "Practicing Prayer" will be invaluable to filling your spiritual lungs now, and preparing you for that life of the world to come.

A year later, a candle, incense, an ancient prayer of mourning -- and hope

So, it's been a year since I received that call from the Cheney (Wash.) Care Center telling me my father, Robert Sr., had passed away.

On Friday, I woke up, showered, dressed and went to my icon corner. Lit candles, set incense aflame, and recited the morning prayers of the Orthodox Christian. Then, placing a portrait of Dad on the ledge under an icon of the Theotokos, I opened a booklet containing the Akathist for the Departed and began to repeat the ancient words.

For the 40 days following Dad's death on Jan. 17, 2019, this is the prayer I offered for his "repose." Though he was not Orthodox (Dad was a retired Pentecostal Evangelical pastor), I had the blessing of my parish priest to do this;  and I found in the prayer's ancient prose and, to me truth, comfort as the tears flowed then.

It was the same on Friday.

The emotions were sweeter, a year later. Oh, still grief, but with less emotional guilt baggage. Time does not heal all wounds, you see -- that's a well-intentioned lie we tell each other. But Time does lessen the pain of the scars of loss. . . and memories can flow of loving moments shared.

There were more tears of the former kind, than the latter. 

In six months, I'll be turning again to the Akathist prayer for Mom, who died six months after Dad, also at Cheney Care Center. Alzheimer's had robbed her of speech, memory and mobility long before she passed away. But there are also precious memories left to me of her better days, her loving moments.

Does it sound delusional to say I felt Dad's presence during Friday's prayers? OK, but I did, and he was like a sweet perfume born on the cloud of Light warming my heart. I glowed within as I breathed the words of devotion and petition repeated from the lips of millions of mourners, by ancestors in faith, over the past two millennia, in languages both current and lost.

I anticipate that comfort, and mystical assurance of faith, when I pray again for Mom's soul, and our future reunion.

"At Thy breath flowers come to life, the river Nile is resurrected and a multitude

 of tiny creatures awakens. 

"Thy glance is brighter than the spring sky; and Thy love, O Jesus, 

is warmer than the rays of the sun. 

Thou didst raise our mortal human flesh

 from the dust of the earth unto the blossoming of the eternal spring

 of incorruptible life.

 Do Thou then illumine also Thy servant Robert Sr. with the light of Thy mercy."

The Journey of Faith: Beyond 'Convertitis,' hopefully deeper in love and humility

It's been a couple years now since I left the Evangelical/Pentecostal upbringing of by childhood, and indeed, the faith foundation of most of my life, and was baptized an Orthodox Christian.

It was not a decision taken in haste, but after much introspection, study, and yes, prayer. The ensuing years since that life-altering choice has been glorious, painful, lonely, and also wonderful in the sense of a new family I've found at Sts. Peter and Paul Orthodox Church.

Like new convert to any faith, there is an initial period of zealous commitment. That is both good -- a joyful, all-in commitment to suddenly exploded horizons of belief and understanding -- and not so good, i.e. the temptation to vigorously "defend" one's new revelation of truth as not just closer to fully right, but to blithely dismiss anything "less" to be heretical, or at least inferior.

The late Fr. Seraphim Rose

The late Fr. Seraphim Rose, likely to someday be glorified as an Orthodox saint, called it "Convertitis."  He was particularly aware of the tendency toward criticism and self-righteousness. In summary, Rose saw such an attitude as a potentially fatal poison to the newly-acquired, precious ancient faith of the apostles.

From his notes for a proposed, but never published (that I could find) “Manual for Orthodox Converts," there is this pearl:

"Such attitudes are spiritually extremely dangerous. The person holding them is invariably in grave spiritual danger himself, and by uttering his mistaken, self-centered words he spreads the poison of rationalist criticism to others in the Church."

Thankfully, my experience with that new convert attitude faded quickly (but still too long, and yes, I confessed it). In a nutshell, I have known, in my 66 years on this planet, too many people of genuine intent and faith for me to presume to judge anything about their relationship with God. 

One can be convinced of one's faith, and its potential to grow in knowledge of the Truth, without judging another's journey.

To so the latter is to usurp the domain of the Divine, an error of ignorance, and a grievous sin. I've learned that the moment I presume to judge anyone's journey of faith, that is the time to confess, repent, and love. I know that . . . but I remain imperfect, and only more convinced of my shortfalls in love and humility whenever I even flirt with judgment.

Lord have mercy, indeed.

The point? Focus on your own faults, working out your own salvation. The best "witness" of the gospel for most of us is to simply live it, to love others . . . and to trust God to touch every heart where it happens to be on its unique journey -- whether dormant, just beginning, lost, or clinging to what they know, through pain, experience and love, to be the Truth.

Do I believe, with all my heart and soul, that the ancient church of Christ is preserved in its purest earthly, yet still imperfect form within Orthodoxy? I do.

But there is one judge of humankind's soul.

It ain't me. Or you.

Questions? Rather than arguments or theological debates, if you are interested in the ancient faith of Christ, I can only offer the advice I once received -- Come and See.

A prayer for Zelda, a feline friend of brief acquaintance, a fellow creation

It was an old cat, and, the owners said before leaving her with us while they vacationed, a blind one.

Zelda was her name. She was affectionate; her charcoal and silver fur still soft and beautiful, though stretched over a thin, frail frame.

Monday night, my wife Barbara and I went over for the twice-daily check of our neighbor's condo, to play a bit with, and feed and replenish water, for Zelda and her companion feline. But when called, Zelda didn't come. As silence continued to our calls, a frantic search began.

Finally, we found her, unmoving, stuck between some fallen objects in a bookcase. The poor creature was barely conscious, and drenched in its own urine . . . but breathing. Rushed to the vet's office, she seemed to recover a bit, groggy but responsive.

The vet said Zelda has suffered seizures, but appeared to be coming out of it. Watch her through the night, she said, and bring her back in the morning. Nothing more to be done until then, just keep her comfortable, she said.

And so we did. Zelda got a sponge bath and was cuddled through the evening. But as night fell, she became more lethargic. Her legs stiffened in another seizure. 

Barbara wept. I had some tears, too. No one wants to see an animal suffer, and especially one that depends on human companionship for comfort in times of fear. So, bundled in towels to keep her comfortable and warm, I took Zelda gently from Barbara's arms, and into my own.

Lit candles, burned some incense. Before my icon corner, prayed for mercy for this creation of the God we each, in our own way, worshipped.

The old cat relaxed and slept, occasionally moving its legs from time to time, its tail slowly swaying to some unheard music as we settled her into her bed, next to our own.

Our two small dogs sniffed her, then settled in a short but respectful distance away, as if on guard against the night.

Every now and then, through the night, a flashlight beam revealed Zelda fast asleep. But at dawn, she was still. She was gone.

Mercy had come in the moments before sunrise.

Barbara broke the sad news by video chat with Zelda's "companion human," still overseas. She was sad, but grateful.

As for Zelda, and all those beloved pets we share love and wonder with for too brief a time, why not "heaven"?

Orthodox Christian thought does not rule it out for these icons of "unfallen nature." They share with us the "breath of life," and also have souls specific to their intended created natures.

Animals are not just part of the planet's furniture, but special, unique expressions of the Ultimate Love that bursts forth in life, beauty and joy from the void.

I had felt a kinship, the fallen man with the innocent creature, as I held Zelda for those moments, both of us in the presence of Our Creator.

Orthodox Christians seem to have a prayer for all of life's moments, those of joy and sadness alike. And I found one for Zelda, and for all those animals we love, and are loved by, during our sojourn in this mortal dimension:

Prayer at the death of companion animals

Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us. Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and to the ages of ages.  Amen.

O God of all spirits and of every flesh, everything that has breath praises you both in this world and the next.  Heaven is full of the sounds of creaturely voices in a great cacophony of praise and thanksgiving.  Day and night your creatures praise you, without ceasing and with joy.

In your all-encompassing mercy, O God, we now commit the life of this our beloved friend and companion to eternal fellowship with you. Create within us a spirit of gratitude for the life of (name). Give rest, O God, to (name) who lived among us and gave us freely of (his/her) love.

Holy Father, your Son Jesus Christ taught us that not one sparrow is forgotten in your sight. We ask therefore for you to provide a place of green pasture where (his/her) praises will be heard in your presence and where (he/she) shall be free from suffering and pain.

God our Creator, hear our prayer and let our praise unite with those in heaven into one long song of eternal thanksgiving:

Glory to You, O Christ our God, the source and destiny of all living things. Glory to You, O Christ our God, Who bears the wounds of all suffering creatures. Glory to You, O Christ our God, Who transforms all suffering into joy.

St. John saw the new heaven and earth; a place without pain, sorrow or crying; for the same God who creates, is the same God who reconciles and redeems all creation.

Glory to You, O Christ our God and Saviour of the Universe: in Christ shall all be made alive.

___________

Grief: A sneaky, relentless foe, demands to be heard and felt

Grief is a sneaky, relentless foe. It fades, then suddenly reappears, trumpeting its arrival in emotional cacophony . . . demanding to be recognized, to be felt, to be heard.

I buried my father’s ashes last Friday on a sunny spring day in Spokane, Washington. I blessed his grave, a 2.5-foot deep hole in the dark, damp earth, with holy water from my church, Sts. Peter & Paul. Said prayers of the Trisagion.

Lord have mercy, we Orthodox Christians plead repeatedly. Glory to the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, both now and ever and unto ages of ages, amen.

 Dad was not Orthodox, but I am. And so, I prayed for him from my new tradition. Somehow, I know he appreciated it.

Heavenly king. Comforter. Spirit of truth. Everywhere present, filling all things. . . . . Save our souls, O Good One.

We mourners offered our words to Dad, each other. Memories were shared. Tears shed. Hugs given, and received. Farewells. The urn was placed in the ground, freshly turned earth packed over it, leaving a rich, dark brown mound interspersed with grass blades and pine needles.

Goodbye, Dad. But not goodbye to the grief.

Yesterday afternoon the Box arrived. It contained the few mementos, packets of photos, this and that saved from Dad’s nursing home room and shipped to me in Utah from Washington by UPS. I opened it, and with it, once more, opened the grave. Or so it seemed.

Having contemplated it once more, I will try again to close the grave with the soft soil of my heart. Not to forget, but to honor. Grief does not end, I’m learning.

It is, however, transformed. And transforming. Grief will take me where it will, and with prayer serving as my hand touching paradise, I will step ahead through the miles left in my own life.

I will do so with, I pray always, more and more love, and less sadness.

A Lenten prayer: 'Grant me to see my own errors and not to judge my brother'

Lent is upon us. 

My first experience of this season of simplifying life, recommitting to spiritual growth, prayer, fasting (both from certain foods and from negative attitudes expressed internally and externally alike) was this time last year as a new Orthodox Christian.

Looking to go deeper this time around. People say, "I'm giving this or that up for Lent," etc. But really, its not what we "give up," but what we open up to receive in terms of love for others, focus on what's really important, and resting from the chaos around us.

I fell in love with this prayer of the season, attributed to St. Ephrem the Syrian, last year.

This year, it is more than mere recitation. It has become a prayer of my heart.

For me, and other seekers of Christ, what could better sum up what we should hope for from Lent, and the life of a believer?

An Akathist for Dad: How an ancient prayer erased the barrier between my life and his death

 For forty days after my father's death, I believe we communicated on a level not just more precious and succinct than we had for many years, but deeper and more meaningfully than ever before.

 I'm not talking about spiritualist seances, ghostly apparitions or any other "new age" self-delusions so popular, or even the "near death experience" crowd and its money-making exaggerations of, or fabrications about the hereafter.

 No. But Orthodox Christians do pray for the dead -- their own, and ultimately ALL those who have passed from this life, believers or not. We do that at every liturgy, and at length during specially designated services throughout the year like the most recent "Souls Saturday."

 We especially pray for our loved ones, following a practice as ancient as our 2,000-year-old faith. So, offering me solace after my father, Robert Mims Sr. died at 96 in mid-January, my "spiritual father" -- Fr. Justin Havens, who ironically is a couple years younger than my own son -- suggested I pray the "Akathist for a Loved One who has Fallen Asleep" during my 40-day period of mourning.

 There's a lot of theology, tradition and pure poetry within this prayer. And certainly, it is first a prayer of intercession on behalf of the departed.

 Intercession, in that it seeks to support and bless a loved one who has passed in much the same way we do when they are physically present with us -- and for with Orthodox Christians, there is no separation between the living and those who have died.

 We pray for them, they pray for us; the circle is NOT broken; in the Eucharist and liturgy we enter heaven in worship, the church corporeal and the church spiritual becoming one in time and space.

 But it is more than this intercessory act of love for the dead. It is also meant as a spiritual balm and therapy for those who mourn. And THAT is what I meant by my opening comment.

 During those forty days of prayer, there was a photograph of my father on a shelf below icons of Christ, His Mother, several saints, and the cross, I communed with the Holy Mystery, and my dad, too. Often tears halted me, and at those times it seemed the piercing eyes of my father and his knowing smile literally shown with love. . . and encouragement.

 The last of the forty days of the akathist came on a Sunday, so I had arrived a bit early to have time in a small chapel off the narthex of Sts. Peter & Paul in downtown Salt Lake City. It was the toughest of the prayers for me, as if I was finally saying goodbye.

 I sobbed through much of the prayer, but as I neared its end there was peace; the bittersweet was somehow, well, sweeter.

 One of many of the prayer's kontakions that echo in my mind still was this one:

 "When earthly sojourning is ended, how grace-filled in the passing to the world of the Spirit; what contemplation of new things, unknown to the earthly world, and of heavenly beauties.

 "The soul returns to its fatherland, where the bright sun, the righteousness of God, enlightens those who sing: Alleluia!"