A winter of discontent, a spring of hope and new life

When my wife, children, aunts and uncles and cousins gather Friday in Spokane, Washington to remember and bury my father, lilacs and other spring flowers should be in early bloom under a partly cloudy sky pierced by the rays of a freshening sun.

Saying goodbye to Robert Mims Sr., who died January 17 at age 96, while holding the hand of his wife, 91-year-old Katherine, will seem so much more appropriate as springtime unfolds rather than in the depths of winter, when his sojourn here ended.

It has been a tough year. Lost a job I loved, at the Salt Lake Tribune, after a mass layoff ended 20 years at the newspaper last May. Depression, a frantic search for meaning and purpose, followed. But gradually, buoyed by faith, family and friends, I once more began to move forward.

Then, Dad died. Not unexpectedly, but . . . still. 

This farewell comes after 40 days of the Akathist to Jesus Christ for the Departed prayer, as is the practice of my new Orthodox Christian faith. Dozens of candles have been lit for him, joining other remembrances of beeswax, wick and flame in the narthex shrine of Sts. Peter and Paul Church, adding their light to those lit for other beloved and mourned. . . their light flickering off the shiny surfaces of that "great cloud of witnesses" Paul wrote about, the saints, or at least their icons adorning the walls and ceilings of the temple.

Mom won't be at the memorial. In a wheelchair, on oxygen, unable attend to the most basic physical functions, her memories, ability to speak or understand have long since been robbed as late-stage Alzheimer's disease ushers her toward an end in increasing unconsciousness.

Neither will my "big sister," barely able to walk due to her age, cerebral palsy, and unable to comprehend Daddy's death so directly, given cognitive abilities of a 3-4 year old child. Dad is "with Jesus," my sister Carolyn knows, and that is enough.

I will see them both, my mother and sister, before I fly back to Utah. Likely it will be a final goodbye to the shell of what my once-vibrant, sharp-witted and quick-to-laugh mother was, yearning for a second of recognition. Regardless, she will get my love, a caress, a kiss and a prayer.

In college, I briefly wrote poetry. A professor liked it enough to give me an "A." A collection of those poems, scribbled on white lined paper and stuffed into a three-hole punch binder, have long since been lost, likely tossed during one of many moves over the past decades.

And while I have no delusions about reprising any abilities in that form, here, however flawed, is an attempt, for Dad's sake:

We live, we die
We give, we fly
Leaving in winter
Returning in spring
Flowers and resurrection
We bring

Grief in short
Mourning long
Death comes in ice and snow
Life rides equinoctial song
Memories precious, bitter, sweet
gathered in time short, and long

Father has passed
Buried in soil
Dad is immortal
In dreams nocturnal
A being of love and light
Memories eternal

----------------------------------------

History: Are we doomed to repeat it, after all?

Philosopher/writer George Santayana is famously (infamously, on a deeper level) credited with the quote, “Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it.”

Well, he sort of said that. Like so many popular aphorisms, the “doomed to repeat” statement is more of a paraphrase/variant. To quibble, the genesis quotation actually is this:

“Progress, far from consisting in change, depends on retentiveness. When change is absolute there remains no being to improve and no direction is set for possible improvement: and when experience is not retained, as among savages, infancy is perpetual. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

I like to know from whence things came, and how they came to be. I also like to occasionally show off the results of inquiry. Forgive me.

All a tortured, too-long means of saying that however the more pithy version of Santayana’s observations developed, it remains true, nearly 67 years after his death.

We have a new generation, “informed” by the predominantly “progressive” worldviews of their public school teachers and university professors, that can weep for endangered whales and desert tortoise (good causes, don’t get me wrong), yet cheer abortion, and most recently even extending it to infanticide in cases of unwanted or genetically/intellectually “imperfect” babies who survive birth.

Various forms of socialism, some as potentially extreme in usurping individual freedoms as anything the failed USSR, Mao’s China, Castro’s Cuba or the chaotic disaster of modern Venezuela wrought, are being pushed by the extreme left (and currently loudest) wing of the Democratic Party.

Rational discussion about sexual identity, gender and all that goes with that has gone by the wayside. It’s not how you are born physically, but what you imagine. Put on a blindfold, it seems, and genitalia disappear. Question any aspect of that “self identity,” and you become a bigot, someone guilty of “hate speech” for stating the obvious:

You may be gay, but you are still male. You may be lesbian, but you are still a female. If you are transsexual, you can undergo operations to physically change to what you believe, perhaps, should have been born to be. Beyond that, it gets rather complicated;  a few years ago, for example, Facebook added no less than 50 “gender options” for its users.

The popular saying goes, “Sex is a matter of the body, while gender occurs in the mind.”

Well, OK. Let’s just say I question that. I think my skepticism about this, informed by both my faith and reason, is solid. That said, I will not condone treating anyone as less of a human being (after all, we all are created to bear the image of God) because their struggle for meaning takes them on, to me, are bizarre journeys.

I’m much too busy, as I should be, fighting to subdue and root out from my own mind and life the frailties and sins of my fallen, broken humanity.

So, back to history. I grew up in the Cold War period, the ashes of Nazi Germany’s crematoria and destruction of multiple millions of Jews, Slavs, Roma and others deemed undeserving of existence by Hitler. Millions more innocents died in the decades following WWII, among them many condemned for holding to their Christian faith in the purported Soviet socialist paradises of the USSR and China.

Yet here we are, well into the 21st century, and antisemitism, religious persecution, and philosophies and political movements dedicated to eradicating freedom of thought, belief and action all are on the rise.

Truly, we do not seem to learn from history, because we ignore it. Intellectual sloth and intentional concessions to political correctness gone mad, the kind of thing warned about (predicted?) by George Orwell – “Newspeak,” “thoughtcrime,” “Doublethink” all come to mind as hauntingly familiar today, in intent and application if not precise terminology.

In light of all this, let's return to Santayana, where we started – and some of his other thoughts seemingly applicable today?

“Fanaticism consists in redoubling your effort when you have forgotten your aim.”

“The truth is cruel, but it can be loved, and it makes free those who have loved it.”

And, this: “All living souls welcome whatever they are ready to cope with; all else they ignore, or pronounce to be monstrous and wrong, or deny to be possible.”

---

*Santayana defined himself as atheist, but he was no hater of God nor faith; a benign skeptic, he sometimes saw religion as poetry. Indeed, he spent his last decade of life in the care of nuns, He was a flawed human being, as are we all; for example, he held views about racial superiority and toying with eugenics.

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!"

A simple truth: For a developmentally disabled older sister, Daddy's death is not complicated

How do you explain Daddy's death to your" big sister," who has the intellect of a 4-year-old due to oxygen deprivation in the womb?

Keep it simple. And, keep it true.

The alleged "simple of mind" recognize truth, perhaps better than the rest of us. I have become convinced of that.

You see, ego plays no part in their judgments and acknowledgement of reality.

It was enough for my 67-year-old sister, Carolyn -- a group home resident in Washington, with the intellectual age of 4, and crippled by cerebral palsy -- to know that Dad was "with Jesus, and praying for us."

Indeed, that sums up Orthodox Christianity rather well, too. And, it sums up the Pentecostal/evangelical faith we were raised in, too (in my case, prior to my conversion to Orthodoxy last year).

Today, through shared tears, it was enough for my big sister, Carolyn. And today, that was all that mattered.

Daddy was dead, but like always, he was watching out for us, his children.

Well, of course he was.

After all, what would make more sense?

You don't have to be a genius to grasp such a simple truth, however complicated your metaphysics may be.

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."

Dad, I love you. We'll meet again in the Light and Love of Our Lord

On Jan. 17, 7:15 a.m. Pacific Time, my father, the Rev. Robert E. Mims Sr., passed away.

The staff at Cheney Care Center had put him next to my mother, who is also at the facility; they were holding hands, both asleep when he passed.

Dad was 96, and had declined rapidly in the past few months due to stroke-induced dementia and congestive heart failure.

He died peacefully, without pain or struggle.

He and Mom, who is in the last stage of Alzheimer's disease, were married 71 years.

I last saw my father in late November. He was unable to carry on conversation of more than short, simple sentences, but he remembered how to hug, and how to say he loved me. And when we prayed together before parting, he cried a little.

His last, halting words, along with expressing his love, were that when alone, he sometimes felt a presence standing next to him. Watching over him, he believed.

In my faith, there are angels. I pray, and also believe, that presence was with him this morning, too, for a journey into the Light and Love of Our Lord.

Dad, your humor, love for music, love for a simple gospel of forgiveness, compassion and personal sacrifice, are what I treasure most. You were a great father, in an age when so many children have none.

We will meet again and embrace where memories are perfect, understanding complete, and Love eternal.

Seeing God: The Liturgy of the Human Heart

 I grew up an Evangelical/Pentecostal preacher's kid, ignorant of the vast depths of faith beyond my own tiny, insular, sectarian island.

 If I saw a priest, they were strange creatures, distant in their vestments and attitude. . . somehow not human beings at all.

 There comes a realization, perhaps with age and hopefully experience, that the kingdom of God truly does dwell within any humbled human heart.

 I see it now in the liturgy that my childhood mentors dismissed as dead ritual. But for me, now, there is nothing more alive.

 I find myself bathed in incense; caressed by prayers sung and chanted in millennia-old tones; illumined by flickering candles or winter morning sunlight through the windows of the nave that whisper light, love and hope; tasting the warm mystery of the Eucharist on my tongue and throat; and the myriad icons that are reminders of the communion of saints known, and unknown, of faith bridging dimensions material and spiritual.

 Yes, Orthodox Christian worship incorporates all the senses, to be sure. But for all that, I feel God most intensely in the eyes of a child, the embrace of a parent, and this morning Ss. Peter & Paul, the unapologetic humanity of a priest for his tired offspring.

 Suffer the little children to come, indeed.

A subdued 45th anniversary, yes, but also one of the most precious

Tomorrow is Barbara's and my 45th wedding anniversary.

This will be a subdued affair. She had eye surgery earlier this week and is making an aching, sometimes painful recovery. She is, thank God, recovering, though.

This week has given me the opportunity to explore that "in sickness and health" bit from our vows in 1973, when I was barely 20 and she was 18. 

When you are that young, you say the words, meaning them, but likely not apprehending them. In the years since, both of us have come to understand them a bit more.

It has been my honor this week to keep her on her post-op med schedule, help her bathe (rrrruff!), and fix (not nearly as good as her's) meals and serve her in whatever other ways come up.

This is a fractional payback for all the times she has nursed me, during two major operations, a few minor ones, double-pnemonia, and more recently, the post-layoff blues.

So, usually we celebrate. Flowers, dinner or show, a nice trip, etc. This year, I have the privilege and the blessing of giving my best friend, lover and much better half a tiny bit of grace, love and I hope, comfort.

In that way, it might, at least from my part of this lifetime together, be the most loving of our share milestones.

It has been a tough year, in terms of changes and expectations. But that's life. And, we have been blessed with adequate financial prep, fortuitous (providential?) timing on retirement and medical coverage benefits when the employment hammer landed in May.

Yes, this quiet, understated 45th anniversary may be the most precious ever.

I know this: gray, wrinkled as I am, when I look in Barbara's eyes (yes, even the red one with bruising around the eye socket), I see the girl I married Sept. 1, 1973, in Spokane, Wash.

And I never stop marveling that she actually said, "I will."

I love you, Barbara!

Faith and science: Same coin, different sides in search for the Truth, and the truth

An Orthodox Christian perspective on the "conflict" between faith and science.

If you were raised Protestant, and especially the son of an Evangelical/Pentecostal preacher as I was, this is an irreconcilable issue. (And I would add, likely a major factor in people ditching "faith" altogether in many cases).

Generally, this not so in Orthodoxy, which realizes cultural influences and limits of human understanding are mixed into the Bible, as much "words about God" as they are the "Word of God." 

Faith and science, at their roots, both seek truth -- ultimate Truth, on one hand, and empirical truth on the other.

This has been an important element of my new faith for me, ending the former spiritual/intellectual schizophrenia of my upbringing.  This article, from an Orthodox worldview, to me, is remarkably understanding of this search for Truth, and truth:

https://souloftheeast.org/2016/05/13/orthodoxy-evolution/