Saturday, April 5, 2014

The little things

'That's the trouble with your generation,' said Grandpa. 'Bill, I'm ashamed of you, you a newspaperman. All the things in life that were put here to savor, you eliminate. Save time, save work, you say. ... Bill, when you're my age, you'll find out it's the little savors and little things that count more than the big ones. A walk on a spring morning is better than an eighty-mile ride in a hopped-up car, you know why? Because it's full of flavors, full of a lot of things growing. You've time to seek and find. I know -- you're after the broad effect now, and I suppose that's fit and proper. But for a young man working on a newspaper, you got to look for grapes as well as watermelons. You greatly admire skeletons and I like fingerprints; well and good. Right now such things are bothersome to you, and I wonder if it isn't because you've never learned to use them. If you had your way you'd pass a law to abolish all the little jobs, the little things. But then you'd leave yourselves nothing to do between the big jobs and you'd have a devil of a time thinking up things to do so you wouldn't go crazy. Instead of that, why not let nature show you a few things? Cutting grass and pulling weeds can be a way of life, son.' 
Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine, p. 64

Thursday, April 3, 2014

My struggle with PTSD and the existence of evil

On November 5, 2009, I was assigned as the Non-Commissioned Officer in charge of the 24-hour staff duty at my unit's barracks on Fort Hood, Texas. Typically, this duty is one of the most mundane activities of military service. Your job is, in essence, to sit, along with two junior enlisted soldiers, for 24 hours straight, occasionally making rounds in the barracks area to pick up cigarette butts and, on the weekend, corral drunk young soldiers. Your biggest challenge is simply staying awake for the duration of it. That night, however, was different. That was the day Major Nidal Hasan opened fire on a group of soldiers in a building across the street from my unit's barracks.

We could hear the gunshots from where we stood in my unit's barracks area. The sound of a firing weapon is no novelty on the United States' largest military base. Eventually, the sounds of weapons, humvees, helicopters and other loud military equipment becomes mere background noise to most soldiers. There is a sense of security that envelops you when you are on a stateside post. You are surrounded by the finest men and women you have ever met, men and women you trust with your life and well being. There is no sense of community quite like the sacred bond between uniformed service members. That is precisely why these particular gunshots were so disturbing. They were different. They were closer than they should have been, nowhere near a firing range. And the sense of uneasiness they at first sent through us was quickly validated by a call from our superiors, ordering us to place the soldiers in the barracks on lock down and informing us that there had been a shooting on post. The sacred bond had been violated; a soldier had attacked his fellow soldiers at their most vulnerable moment, sitting in a waiting room waiting to be medically cleared to deploy and fight for their country, side-by-side with their comrades.

We spent the afternoon in a haze of rumor and worry. Each of us struggled, in spite of clogged phone lines, to get through to our friends and family in and around Fort Hood, verifying one at a time that each was safe. While we waited for more information from those in the know, we did our jobs to secure our own area and speculated on what might be happening. There was talk of a team of shooters. There were rumors that the shooting had continued in a housing area, a particularly nasty rumor given that soldiers' wives and children were home alone in those housing areas.

Finally, in the evening, we sat outside of the barracks and watched the miles-long traffic as soldiers, who had spent their entire day locked down on post, headed home to their worried families in the on-post housing areas and the neighborhoods in the surrounding community. It was perhaps the only night we spent on staff duty in which none of us nodded off to sleep. We stayed up the whole night pondering the motives and the consequences of the atrocity we had been so near. Even when I drove home the following morning, after nearly 30 hours without sleep, I found it difficult to lay in my bed and rest.

The shooting yesterday at Fort Hood brought back the vivid memories of that afternoon and evening nearly five years ago. I stayed awake much later than I should have, watching the online live feed of the Killeen, Texas, television news station, reading over and over again the meager details of what had occurred on the post at which I had spent the majority of my military career. What affected me most as I watched and read was the frequent reference to the possibility that the shooter may have had post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The agenda of the media was obvious from very early. At the initial press briefing by Fort Hood's commanding general, Lieutenant General Mark Milley, reporters asked ridiculous questions about soldiers carrying concealed weapons on post and, again and again, about the mental health history of the shooter.

Last night, I believe I felt much as people with Asperger syndrome must have when the media collectively felt the need to mention again and again that Adam Lanza, who opened fire at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, in 2012, had been diagnosed with Asperger's. There was talk about how people with Asperger's are incapable of feeling empathy, how this might have been the reason he did what he did. This was the preconceived narrative reporters were already concocting only minutes after the shooting at Fort Hood. He had PTSD and PTSD makes you a stone-cold killer.

I was diagnosed with PTSD a little over two years ago. My tours in Iraq had taken a toll on me. I found myself unable to deal with or control my anger, at times, or my sadness, at others. I had trouble sleeping and when I did finally sleep it was fitful and filled with nightmare images of things I had seen, people I had known and lost. I still struggle with this. The nightmares are less frequent, but they have not gone away. I still cannot watch movies with much violence. If I find myself in a crowded place, I enter a state of hyper-awareness in which I can hardly manage to think or breathe. While driving to work through downtown Savannah, Georgia, I scan the roadside for improved explosive devices (IEDs/roadside bombs); my fists tighten into a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel when I get caught in rush hour traffic. I struggle with all of this. But I am not a murderer. I am not an "active shooter incident" waiting to happen. I am a soldier who, like most other soldiers I know, deals the best he can with what he has seen, knowing that I was there for the right reasons, even if few Americans appreciate it and even fewer understand it.

At the heart of the media's agenda in the aftermath of shootings like that which occurred yesterday at Fort Hood is a distorted approach to ethics in the modern world. In an America now almost 50 years after the upheavals of the 1960's and the imposition of radically different ways of viewing human being and activity, we have lost our moral compass. The rapist is "sick" and the murderer is "psychotic." For a short time after I left the military, I worked in a prison where I saw this approach up close and personal. Men who had murdered in cold blood, men who had sexually molested young children and others of a similar moral caliber were "treated" as if what they had done were the unavoidable symptoms of a disease. The result was that the men themselves came to believe this. Rather than seeking forgiveness and redemption, they instead sought a "cure" for their "sickness." Of course, this cure was entirely personal. It did not involve begging those they had harmed to forgive them, nor did it involve repentance before a just yet merciful God. Instead, more often than not, it involved medication that numbed their senses and meetings in which they prattled on about their feelings for hours, shortly before they went back to their cell blocks to watch hours of television, much of which celebrated the very crimes they had committed.

The man who committed that horrible atrocity at Fort Hood yesterday was not sick. He was not insane. He did not do what he did because he had PTSD. American news media: the word you are looking for is "evil." What he did was evil and, just as virtuous men do virtuous things, it is evil men who do evil things. The victims here are the three soldiers he murdered, the 16 he injured, their families and every soldier everywhere who has now had that sacred bond of trust between warriors shattered. The shooter is not a victim, whether of his own disease or of the military which gave him the orders to go to the place he acquired it. We must return to the proper language used to describe and define human activity, the language of ethics. He chose evil and so became evil.

Monday, March 31, 2014

Review: Collected Poems, 1943-2004

Collected Poems, 1943-2004
Collected Poems, 1943-2004 by Richard Wilbur

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Richard Wilbur's poetry is a breath of fresh air in a wasteland of postmodernism and neo-gnosticism. Wilbur rejects the modern movements which depreciate man, the cosmos and the creator of both. He turns instead to and continues within the tradition of the great poets of the past, clinging to traditional modes and themes of poetic expression.

Wilbur's great ability is to draw out of even the most seemingly mundane and simple experiences, from clanging elevators in modern cities to flowers in lonely rural settings, a metaphor for the greater themes of life: love, truth, time, eternity and so on. Each moment, no matter how seemingly insignificant, is redeemed in Wilbur's poetic vision of the world. Each moment becomes significant in its ability to direct us to the transcendent and permanent.

I recommend this collection of Wilbur's poetry for anyone who loves poetry, truth or beauty. The perfect place to read it: in a city park, surrounded by the beauties of nature, of our fellow man and of our urban constructs, all at once -- the way Wilbur presents it to you.

View all my reviews

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Like Noah, but different ...

The first time the story of the universal deluge was told in the version that has come down to us in Genesis, there must have been a great deal of perplexity, no doubt at least a few guffaws, and perhaps even some outrage. The story was well known in the ancient world. The gods had wiped out humankind, save one man and his family, in a worldwide flood. In the earliest versions, the reason seems to have been that the gods were annoyed with man. This clay thing they had created to serve them and work on their behalf had grown too numerous, too proud, and too loud. The man who was spared was spared not because of the mercy of the gods generally or for some special higher purpose but because the god he served warned him in secret.

The author of Genesis, or perhaps someone he heard the story from, took the story and, keeping the framework, turned it on its head. Humans were not clay things made to serve the slothful and severe deities, but the children, made from clay no doubt but clay infused with God's own spirit, of a just and merciful God created to be his heirs and co-creators, his image and likeness. The deluge was not sent because man had annoyed God but because of man's own inhumanity to his fellow man, because his moral shortcomings had grown so severe that if God did not destroy him and save only a small remnant, he would destroy himself altogether and the rest of the world as well. And the man who was saved was not saved by some chance and subterfuge, but because of God's greater plan for mankind. The effect must have been stunning. It was, at least, to make of the story something that would last through the ages, being given a variety of fascinating interpretations by its various readers, inspired by the enduring and timeless nature of the tale, a tale which conveys a powerful message about God, about man, about stewardship, about the world, about mercy, about sin and about much else.

The effect of seeing the new movie about this story is similar in many ways. It is an interesting and surprising twist on the old story. Even living, as we do, in a post-Christian wasteland, surely the general moviegoer is familiar with the story of Noah according to the biblical tradition. He therefore approaches this movie with certain expectations which, when defied, might leave him delighted at the surprise or perhaps disappointed at the alterations of the beloved tale. I left the movie theater early this evening carrying a bit of each.

The story told in this movie is a good one, but it simply is not the story of Noah. The creators of this movie have done with the biblical tale of Noah the equal and opposite of what the biblical author did the Babylonian story. Whereas the biblical author adopted the framework of the earlier story and altered its meaning, the creators of this movie have maintained the essence of the biblical story in much of its meaning while altering the tale. This is defensible, given that it serves to create a certain sense of suspense even among viewers who would almost certainly be familiar with the story.

To be honest, I found it rather a positive point that God is not present in the movie in a direct thunderous-voice-from-heaven sort of way. Instead, Noah is forced to grappled with the unapparent presence of God in the same way that we all are. He must discern the will of his creator without the creator coming down from heaven and spelling it out for him. In addition, given that the special effects were not what I would expect from a movie in 2014 (the Watchers, angelic beings trapped in bodies of rock, for example, seemed a bit cheesy and out of date in their appearance), I would happy not to see the kind of cheese I was expecting from the depiction of God.

That said, unlike the transformation of Babylonian myth to biblical story, I think the majority of the modifications of the Noah story did not move it in a positive direction. Instead, the twists and modifications made for a more convoluted telling which ended up with the same and expected ending anyway. The addition of the Watchers might have been done better, but might also have been left out altogether, and the story line involving the birth of Shem's twin daughters should have ended up on the cutting room floor. There were surely better ways to make the point that Noah was given the choice by God to decide whether mankind would continue. It was a good point (and not too far a step outside of the biblical tradition when the stories of the Torah are taken together) to add, but added in the wrong way.

What was best about the movie was what was true to the biblical tradition. I very much enjoyed, for example, the scene in which Noah tells the creation story of Genesis to his sons (though I wish they would have just used the text of Genesis 1 rather than summarizing it) while a beautiful scene showing the cosmos, the creation of the earth, and the evolution of animal life plays. Similarly, I think the film did a wonderful job of emphasizing the triumph of mercy and love over sin, of presenting faith in a positive way and of reinforcing the place of man as steward of the created world and responsible for either its flourishing or its destruction. Ultimately, the creators of the movie should have stuck much closer to the original story or just told a different story altogether.

In spite of my objections, I do recommend the movie. It is worth one view, but I would not go back for seconds. Plus, let's be honest, the book is always better.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Orthodoxy Among the Pragmatists (a response to the Ochlophobist)

Owen White, the author of a once-popular once-Orthodox Christian blog The Ochlophobist, has returned to blogging after a long hiatus with a post detailing his reasons for leaving Orthodoxy. He asserts, in addition, that he believes his reasons for leaving Orthodoxy are in concert with those of other apostates with whom he has communicated. Although, of course, his post should be read in full if one desires to most completely understand his reasoning and his articulation of that reasoning in his attempts to create a narrative framework for the fairly frequent movement of Americans into and out of the Orthodox Church, he does offer this succinct summary, upon which my own commentary will focus, in the course of his explanations:
I left because I came to believe that the practices and peculiar beliefs it [the Orthodox Church] espouses simply do not achieve the results it asserts correspond to those right beliefs and practices.  I witnessed, and eventually acknowledged, that the vast majority of people I saw attempting to embrace Orthodox asceticism in good faith did not become more holy, more human, better people, etc. 
In his recent (and wonderful) book The Cave and the Light, Arthur Herman points out that it was specifically American philosophers who developed the peculiarly American philosophy of pragmatism and that this movement in many ways embodies thought processes already present in the American mindset well before its explication by William James and others. The central assertion of pragmatism is its position on epistemology: in short, that which is useful is that which is true. This is, as Herman correctly identifies, precisely the American mindset, exhibited in the adventurous and innovative American spirit. We are, and long have been, a nation of go-getters with can-do attitudes. If something works, we pick it up; if something doesn't work, we drop it. What matters is what works. I believe this is a positive character trait incubated within those raised in the context of American culture and society. It allowed us to break free of the stale and decrepit political and economic systems of our European and African homelands long before those European and African homelands were able to do so. It created a nation which leads the world in invention, discovery, and production.

I am myself, as an American, very much a pragmatist. This applies in matters of faith as well. As an American in the pragmatic tradition, I think it very important to understand and examine the stated goals of a particular religious system and whether those goals are attained through the faith and practice therein prescribed. One obvious example might be Transcendental Meditation, which makes the easily verifiable (or, rather, easily dismiss-able) claim that its most advanced practitioners achieve the ability to levitate, an ability they refer to as "Yogic Flying." American that I am, when I encounter a claim such as this, I investigate. I want to see scientific studies which corroborate such claims. Even more importantly, I want to see this for myself. The result, in the case Yogic Flying, is that one sees (and so the scientists also concluded that it is) little more than jumping with one's legs crossed. It may be a great way to gain leg muscle, but it is, alas, far from the acquisition of a special spiritual state or miraculous powers.

Before and while coming into Orthodoxy, I, generally unconsciously, applied these same principles to the Orthodox Church. Any philosophy has a certain sort of ideal man in mind, into whose mold it seeks to shape its adherents. Islam has the obvious example of wishing all to become like the perfect man, Muhammad. The Hadith include not only his sayings, but even information about Muhammad's daily habits from how he talked and walked to how he relieved himself, all to serve as an example for the Muslim to imitate. The first question that must be asked, then, of any philosophy is: what sort of man does this philosophy wish me to become? And, of course, the related question without which the answer to the previous question is incomplete: Why?

Mr. White avers that Orthodoxy wishes us to become "more holy, more human, better people, etc." Most of his terminology is too vague to work with, and I believe the vagueness in his statements is the result of Mr. White's own mental vagueness on the point, implied by the unnecessary "etc." at the close of the sentence. Let us first dismiss the most easily dismissed: Orthodoxy emphatically does not wish us to become "better people." C.S. Lewis once, with his usual erudition, made the same point about Christianity more generally. The purpose of the Christian life is not to become a "better person." The purpose of the Boy Scouts is to make you a "better person." While you may (and hopefully will) become a better person through your practice of Christianity, this is largely incidental.

To be honest, one might wonder just what a "better person" is anyhow. Is a "better person" a nicer person? A person with better manners? A more polite person? While the Enlightenment fixation on politeness and the Victorian preoccupation with etiquette are charming (even when I eat alone I conscientiously avoid putting my elbows on the table, sucker that I am for decorum), they are hardly the sort of thing which leads one to turn to any particular religious system. Enough on this.

Mr. White comes much closer to the truth of Orthodoxy's claims in his assertion that it desires of us to become "more holy, more human." These words seem to me to be accurate summaries of the statements of two outstanding Orthodox theologians of the past two centuries. St. Seraphim of Sarov once famously summarized the purpose of the Christian life thus: "The true aim of our Christian life consists in the acquisition of the Holy Spirit of God." In other words, it is to become, in Mr. White's words, "more holy." And Fr. Dumitru Staniloae echoes Mr. White's contention that the purpose of Orthodoxy is to make us "more human" in his own summary of the purpose of the Christian life: "The glory to which man is called is that he should grow more godlike by growing ever more human." We have, then, discerned Orthodoxy's stated purpose for the lives of its adherents. The sort of man into which Orthodoxy would like to mold us is one who is "more holy, more human" -- who has acquired the Holy Spirit and who has grown more like God in becoming more human. This goal, in the technical terminology of Orthodox theology, is called theosis, or deification. It is to attain unity with God and to "become partakers of the divine nature" (2 Pet. 1:4).

In the world of professional pragmatists (as opposed to us amateurs-via-American-identity), perhaps the best-known and most important application of the pragmatic epistemological principle to the world of religion is Willliam James' Varieties of Religous Experience. In that book, James examines the reports of mystical experiences of the divine by adherents of certain faiths. His conclusions are helpful here. If, as most of the major religious traditions of the world claim, the direct experience of God is the highest end of man, the most important experience that any individual can attain and the intended purpose of mankind as a whole, all other considerations are secondary.

In his short article "Why I ditched Buddhism," John Hogan explains that he abandoned Zen Buddhism because of the wild behavior of so many Zen masters, a tradition which Zen adherents celebrate. Bodhidharma, the founding figure of Zen Buddhism, for example, is famous for having cut off his own eyelids to prevent himself from falling asleep while meditating. Zen literature is rife with stories of masters who behaved in excessively immoral ways, abused their students, and otherwise acted bizarrely and, so to speak, impolitely. Hogan, unable to digest all of this, left the Buddhist practice he had adopted. The proper pragmatist, however, would praise the Zen Buddhists' nirvana-or-nothin' attitude, if indeed these practices, in spite of their apparent abrasiveness, do accomplish their stated goal (enlightenment/nirvana) and this goal is what we (should) desire.

So, should we desire the goal of Orthodoxy? Should we desire theosis? I believe so, and the proof seems to be in the human experience itself. Human beings seem to universally desire a connection with the transcendent. One can see this not only in the great mystical traditions of the world, present in nearly every culture of every time period, but also in the production and appreciation of art and poetry. Humans seek the sublime. Even science and mathematics begin with awe at the wonders of the created order, and, therefore, one with a coherent metaphysics might argue, at the wonders of its supreme author. The highest function and end of the human being is mystical experience, unity with the divine. 

And Christianity, and Orthodoxy in particular, is the mystical religion par excellence. The other great religious traditions of the world (with, perhaps, the exception of Buddhism) have developed their mystical systems incidentally. Hinduism, for example, began as a set of disparate but related tribal religious systems. Hindu mysticism arose within the context of a widespread dissatisfaction with the established formalities of these religions and the vision of man and the cosmos offered by them. The result was a complex mystical tradition later integrated, often haphazardly and often as a means by which to establish official control over this mystical element, into the framework of the tribal religious systems. Christianity, on the other hand, was a mystical religion from its inception, emphatically asserting as its central truth claim that "God became man that man might become God." 

If theosis, then, is what a human being should desire, the next question that must be answered is do the practices of Orthodox Christianity actually lead to this goal? Mr. White claims they do not. He says that his experience, which he spends some time elucidating in his blog post, is that the practices prescribed for Orthodox Christians to attain their goal do not lead to this goal and even sometimes seem to lead those who practice them further away from this goal. He also exhibits an aversion to many of these practices in themselves, echoing John Hogan in his condemnation of the eccentricities of the Zen masters. The proper pragmatist, however, balks at the statements of Mr. White and Mr. Hogan on this point. The proper pragmatist is not deterred by the strangeness or impoliteness of the method; he is interested only in its ability to attain the desire results. If a friend were to tell you in all seriousness that jumping off of certain cliff will magically make you young again, the rational response is not to immediately scoff at the notion; the rational response is to invite him to demonstrate. 

Does the Orthodox Church, then, provide such demonstrations? Does it have examples or case studies which one may investigate to confirm its claims? Indeed, this is precisely what the many saints of the Orthodox Church are. They are the examples, the demonstrations, and the case studies, painted on the walls of every Orthodox temple for each of us to examine and choose to imitate (or not). The saints are those who attained the goal which we all desire to attain. They are those who have experienced theosis. The cases are too numerous and the nuances and intricacies of each case too personal (dare I say peculiar?) to examine at any length here. The short of it, however, is this: many of the saints were not "better people" in the modern sense of the phrase as used by Mr. White as a result of their immersion in the ascetic practices of Orthodoxy. There were saints who were cantankerous, saints who were bizarre, saints who were rude, and, yes, even saints who were sinners (in fact, they all were -- and recognizing such of oneself is the first step to sainthood). What each of them experienced, however, is the unsurpassable experience of the presence of the living God. While this might not have made them "better people," it undoubtedly made them "more holy, more human." I leave it to the reader to investigate for himself and discover whether this is affirmed in the plethora of accounts of their lives and deeds. In his recent masterpiece of modern philosophical-religious thinking within the context of Orthodox Christianity, David Bentley Hart eloquently articulated an observation I have made, though less eloquently, on many occasions: "In my experience," he says, "those who make the most theatrical display of demanding 'proof' of God are also those least willing to undertake the specific kinds of mental and spiritual discipline that all the great religious traditions say are required to find God." When pressed by the Holy Inquisition to deny his claims concerning the discovery of hitherto unobserved heavenly bodies and the implications of the motions of these bodies for cosmology more generally, Galileo invited his accusers to take a look through his "perspicillum" (that is, his telescope) and so see for themselves. They refused and condemned him as a liar. Do not be among them. If what you desire is to confirm or deny the claims of the Orthodox Church, observe the models and, like the mad scientist who drinks the vial of his own experimental solution, try them for yourself. The Buddha once told his disciples (as recorded in the Kalama Sutta):
Now, ... don’t go by reports, by legends, by traditions, by scripture, by logical conjecture, by inference, by analogies, by agreement through pondering views, by probability, or by the thought, ‘This contemplative is our teacher.’ When you know for yourselves that, ‘These qualities are skillful; these qualities are blameless; these qualities are praised by the wise; these qualities, when adopted and carried out, lead to welfare and to happiness’ — then you should enter and remain in them.
The sentiments of the Buddha in this wise statement are quite similar to those of St. Thomas Aquinas, that monumental figure in the history of European thought. There are two ways (here Aquinas followed an early Christian tradition first evidenced in the Didache and almost certainly borrowed from its Jewish forebears): there is a way that is out of harmony with the divine will and its imprint upon the cosmos (natural law) and there is a way that is in harmony with this divine will and its imprinted in the created order. The means by which one might discern which of these paths one is strolling down is to use the gauge of his own happiness. This is happiness, not in the modern senses of giddiness or delight in bodily well being, but in a more complete and full sense. It is the joy of the many martyrs throughout history who have sung hymns, prayed beautiful prayers, and even danced in the midst of their sufferings. "Taste and see that the Lord is good" (Ps. 34:8).

If the problem, then, is not that the practice of Orthodoxy fails to live up to the theory, why did Mr. White leave the Orthodox Faith? Why did he not experience the joy of the martyrs? Why did he not make headway down the river to theosis? The answer lies in the statement which precedes the statements from his blog post I quoted at the beginning of this post. He says there: 
I still have no problem communing in an Orthodox parish, though I also commune in Catholic parishes, on the very rare event that I commune ...
I believe that the issues which divide the Eastern Orthodox and Oriental Orthodox communions are insignificant, trivial and easily resolved. I am in the camp, a rather large camp within Orthodoxy, which believes that a union could be accomplished tomorrow between the two sets of churches without the need for either to change its faith or practice. For that matter, I believe the same is true of unity between the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches, with only a few exceptions. With that said, I would never dream of communing in an Oriental Orthodox parish until such a union is accomplished. My bishop, Archbishop Nikon, the locum tenens of the Diocese of the South in the Orthodox Church in America, is not in communion with the bishops of the Oriental Orthodox Church. I am, therefore, not in communion with them. In other words, I have submitted myself to the Church and the hierarch she has placed over me. Mr. White, on the other hand, even having "left" Orthodoxy, and condemning essential elements of its faith and practice, here admits communing at Orthodox parishes as well as at Roman Catholic parishes. Who is his bishop? Who is his spiritual father? To whom has he submitted himself and entrusted the care of his soul? Only to himself. At the heart of Mr. White's apostasy, as with all apostasy, is self-will.

St. Augustine of Hippo, in his On Christian Doctrine (Bk. II, Ch. 7) explains the movement of a soul from unbelief to unity with God as a seven step process. He begins with this:
First of all, then, it is necessary that we should be led by the fear of God to seek the knowledge of His will, what He commands us to desire and what to avoid. Now this fear will of necessity excite in us the thought of our mortality and of the death that is before us, and crucify all the motions of pride as if our flesh were nailed to the tree. Next it is necessary to have our hearts subdued by piety, and not to run in the face of Holy Scripture, whether when understood it strikes at some of our sins, or, when not understood, we feel as if we could be wiser and give better commands ourselves. We must rather think and believe that whatever is there written, even though it be hidden, is better and truer than anything we could devise by our own wisdom.
The first step, then, according to St. Augustine is precisely what we have identified. It is the existential thirst for meaning, transcendence and fulfillment. The second step is to be "subdued by piety," to submit oneself and not "feel as if we could be wiser and give better commands ourselves." Until this preliminary step into the Christian life is accomplished, no further progress is possible. Self-will blocks the entrance deeper in and further up to God because it demands control. Until this control is relinquished, one is unable to cooperate with God. Though he might fast and pray and attend the liturgies of the Church, he does this all out of a sense of his own duty rather than being motivated by authentic submission to the will of God. This is the reason that the Orthodox Church prescribes that those entering upon the spiritual life must seek the guidance of an elder, one who is more experienced than themselves, and must submit themselves to the will of their elder and their bishop.

Before I joined the Army, I had never shot a rifle. During Basic Training, one of the greatest challenges I faced was learning how to shoot properly. I did what seemed right to me, based on my own sense of things, and failed miserably each time. It was only when I finally gave up and began to apply the counterintuitive guidance of my drill sergeant that I finally found myself hitting target after target. For the rest of my eight years in the military, I never qualified anything less than expert (hitting 36 or more out of 40 targets) on rifle marksmanship.

If theosis is what we desire, the way has been demonstrated to us and is open for us to follow. We must, however, be willing to follow.