An Akathist for Jesus Christ, and my Dad

In the Eastern Orthodox tradition and practice, those mourning a departed loved one often pray the "Akathist to Jesus Christ for a Loved One Who has Fallen Asleep."

A long title, and a long prayer, too, begun on the day of death and continued through 40 days. It is intended as comfort for the departed, but it is also that for those mourning, as I am learning.

And, it is beautiful; its imagery poetic, its words both emotionally and spiritually direct as its intentions are simple. It embraces the bitter and the sweet with arms of compassion, and hope.
Being Orthodox for less than two years, this is all new to me. But I'm trying to fulfill this for my father, who passed away on Thursday last . . . and for myself, at 65 still an infant in this ancient, predenominational Christian faith.

There are many phrases, petitions and praises within the Akathist that are moving and beautiful. But this following portion continues to stand out as I say it, watching candles flicker and incense drift past the crucifix on my wall and out a window:

"When earthly sojourning is ended, how graceful is 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!"

Certainly, there are many such prayers for the dead in our various faiths. Years ago, I joined in the Mourner's Kaddish in support of a Jewish friend who had lost her father. And as a reporter many years ago, I participated in a Ute sweat lodge ceremony in which a native friend blessed his ancestors.

People in every culture seem to have the innate desire to seek comfort from a compassionate, loving realm of the holy.

It is not for me to judge the effectiveness of anyone's acts of faith, nor need I accept, even if I respect, the cosmos-view behind them. I have, and firmly hold my own; I trust in God's love and compassion to judge me, and them, by what Truth we have and honor.

Love, and our common humanity, should mean something precious to all of us -- no matter how convinced we are of our particular path.

The rest of it is a mystery, and if we say we believe in God, then that should come with the humility of admitting we do not know it all when it comes to such things as eternity, infinity, and immortality -- not even a crumb of it.

The true arena of faith, then, is in our hearts. We each struggle with our own shortcomings and pray/strive to improve and grow, or we surrender and excuse our flaws in self-delusion.
So, if faith rules within, it is expressed without.

My Dad showed me much, by example, in how to do that -- without judging the recipients of God's grace and ours, and in trying to love without conditions.

Now that he has passed, it seems little enough to pray for him. How it plays out "there," I don't know.

But at the very least, I am comforted that the ancient words of an ancient faith we shared are another way to say again, "I love you. I miss you. I will see you again."

Lessons from a mountain hike: The earth, friends and faith abide

It has been a long time since I have been able to go hiking with another guy of my generation.

Last time, in fact, was when I was just 20 years old. That three-week excursion was with my best friend, Clark, and we backpacked all over northern Idaho's Kaniksu National Forest, sleeping on the ground next to a campfire with our rifles nearby, in case the occasional bear, coyote or cougar should happen by.

We shot (well, I shot) and skinned, cooked and ate a squirrel, and had quite a collection of marmot skins we hunted in a logging slash high above Priest Lake. (Clark's dog mauled the skins, which had been scraped, salted and stretched to dry . . . but since that springer spaniel also chased off a big brown bear we surprised on the trail, all was forgiven).

We bathed in lakes and icy mountain streams. We slept under the stars, and a couple nights under pup tents as thunderstorms rocked the mountains with sheet lightning and torrents of rain, only to rise at dawn, shoulder our packs and head higher.

Now, I'm 60. Old knees and a repaired aortic heart valve have slowed me down, but that just means it takes longer to get up the scrub oak-dotted slopes of the Wasatch Front to the firs along the ridges. The elevation is higher and the air thinner in Utah's mountains, the rivers, streams and lakes not as numerous as the lush pine mountains of my youth; my boots now crunch on dry undergrowth rather than spring from a moist carpet of moss and evergreen needles of the Pacific Northwest.

What has not changed, though, is the pure, simple joy of a hike with a friend. The smell of fresh air and wild flowers, the thumping of your heart, pulsing of the blood in your legs, the tightening of muscles, even the aching of your feet and rivulets of gritty sweat soaking into your shirt, are serendipitous companions to discovery.

Here, a new view of the Great Salt Lake Valley and Western Desert; there snow-capped peaks above Emigration Canyon and the highlands to the east. Or, following a game trail that leaks into an arbor of trees and a shady alcove, you catch your breath, sip warm water from a canteen and share a few words, a laugh and the moment with a friend.

Tuesday's excursion, a rare day off during the week for me, was with such a friend, Rich. Obstensively, the purpose was to sight in his new pistol, and for me to inaugurate my own compact 9mm "conceal carry" and sight it in as well. We hiked into a likely area, a couple miles away from the road, found a safe place with a good bank of dirt, and did that.

The hike was the thing, though. Blue wildflowers were bursting from the greenery erupting from recent rains, and a stream along the trail was full with spring runoff. Birds flitted through the branches, seemingly frantic in their nesting, food gathering and the exercise of territorial imperative.

After walking back to his truck and safely storing the weaponry, we trekked up the side of another slope, perhaps half an hour or so, to check the condition of Rich's archery tree stand.

It was a good spot. Elk and moose tracks, some less than a couple weeks old judging by the most recent rainfall and the slippage evident from the hoof prints, were everywhere. I listened to Rich's observations, picking up on his knowledge -- and respect for -- wildlife, the terrain, and the unspoken joy of sharing the outdoors.

One more, important thing my friend and I share is an understated, yet resilient faith in God. We talked a bit about that, too. Simple faith, perhaps, but it has grown profound and deep with decades of pain, joy, grief, triumph and most of all, trust in and acceptance of our Creator.

And in those moments we climbed the trails and smiled and drank in the vistas where northern Utah's high deserts blend into forests, I better understood the musings of an ancient king who wrote of things temporal and eternal.

"One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth for ever." (Ecclesiastes 1:4 KJV)