Since at least two of the regular readers of this blog are my friends who served the United States military in the ongoing crisis in Iraq, I felt the need to clarify my statements in two previous posts on nonviolence as well as in the Comments section.

Yes, I believe that nonviolence is the Christian ideal to which Jesus Christ called his disciples in the Sermon on the Mount. I also believe that the posture of nonviolence is anchored in the New Testament as a whole and, following John Howard Yoder, that it finds its germ already in the Old.

But we live in a broken world that has very little space for ideals. In this broken world, shit happens. Mothers miscarry, parents divorce, bad men rise to power, governments turn racist. And while I still believe that nonviolence lies at the core of the Christian commitment to peace, by no means do I think that every situation comes in a clear black-and-white package. While I still believe that the suffering which comes from our nonviolent strategies is always redemptive, I confess that the consequences of such nonviolent choices are often disruptive and destructive not only for ourselves but, perhaps more importantly, for those affected by our choices.

I say this because I do not wish to dishonor the service of men and women who’ve sacrificed their lives to defend the citizens of their nation or strangers in others. Every war is a disaster whether its cause is reckoned just or not, and I respect the decisions of men and women who make sacrifices to attempt to alleviate it. I admire their bravery and greatness of spirit which I so seldom find in others, much less in myself.

And as for those among them who are Christians, I do not hesitate for a moment to call them my brothers and sisters in the one Lord. I am not yet so confident of my own exegetical conclusions as to criticize their sacrifice or stem my deep admiration for their heroic generosity.

Moriyo rahemelain oovadarain.

WordPress informs me that someone found this blog using the search terms “malankara orthodox church crazy”.

Whether you’re yurodivyi or just the normal kind of crazy, welcome.

I started reading Henry Chadwick’s The Early Church (Penguin, 1993) a year ago and only finished it last month. I feel as though this book has kept me company on a journey this past year, waking me up in stages to what I can best describe as the real Church.

The facts of history have a way of scattering illusions and smashing false absolutisms. I suppose one could say that my view of church history until recently resembled something of the Enlightenment hermeneutic of inevitable progress that’s charmed so many. I once saw the pilgrimage of the Church as a kind of steady, unbounded triumph of the Gospel over the many obstacles that were strewn along her path. Indeed, as I recall there is a popular work of church history that bears the title Triumph. I never read it and don’t intend to, but nevertheless the title was sufficient to sum up the views I once held.

It is not that I’ve lost hope in the Church. I’m not–at least I don’t think I am–a cynic by any stretch. It’s just that, the more I learn about church history, the more difficult it is for me to see the pilgrimage of the Church as an unstoppable victory march of any sort. There have simply been too many setbacks, lost battles and tragedies for any Christian to sum up the journey thus far with a word like “triumph”.

There is, for example, a thesis out there that the First Council of Nicea was a Constantinian machination to homogenize Christianity (or rather, “Christianities”) and thereby forge creedal unity that would safeguard the unity of the Empire. The (naive) counter-thesis, I suppose, would be that Council was nothing other than a genuinely spiritual event necessitated by the heresy of Arianism that threatened the very core of the Gospel.

The historical evidence, it seems to me, suggests that both theses hold some truth (perhaps one more than the other, though I don’t know enough to draw that conclusion just yet). I am not, by any means, suggesting a historical synthesis of the Hegelian kind. What seems to be the case is that the political and theological motivations for Nicea were fused, like two pieces of wax melted together. The outcome wasn’t so much a harmonious blend of two forces as much as it was an indelicate, indiscernible swirl.

But so what Nicea was in fact a political move of some sort? Does it invalidate the Creed? I don’t think so, though I used to fear that it would. I think the doctrine of the Incarnation stands on grounds more solid than the pure intentions of any emperor, bishop or deacon of Alexandria. I think it rests quite firmly on the witness of Scripture and the apostolic tradition. St. Athanasius, at least, seems to have thought the same.

I think the messes of history are many: the formation of the New Testament canon, the development of various liturgies, the controversy and aftermath of Chalcedon (nearer to my heart now than ever before), the condemnation of Origen, the Crusades, the Galileo incident (which, even after a more sober consideration of the facts, still shows Christians in pretty bad light)…. All these challenge the notion of church history as the record of a progressive triumph.

And what of absolutes? I’m not a relativist just yet, but many of things that I considered absolute, I no longer regard as such. The boundaries of the Old Testament canon, for example. Though my ecclesial affiliation is Syrian I find the the generosity of the Ethiopians quite intriguing, to say the least. The unchanging-ness of the liturgy is another. About time I gave up my idyllic notions about a “liturgy of the ages”, no? And if, I suppose, someone unearthed some strong evidence that Phoebe and Junia were more than deaconnesses then I’d say maybe it’s time we all re-thought a few certainties (but until then, I’m staying put)….

At times I wonder if I’m just slipping into a historicism of some sort—allowing history to absolutely shape, or rather reshape, my vision of the Church. (This, after all, has been suggested by some Catholic friends lately.) I’d like to think not. I’d like to think that I’m just learning to do what a teacher taught me to do some years ago—to read dogma historically rather than read history dogmatically. After all, the true Church must also be the real Church, no? Kyrie eleison.

Life must not be a preparation for death, but victory over death, so that, in Christ, death becomes the triumph of life…. When it considers life only as a preparation for death, Christianity makes life meaningless, and reduces death to “the other world,” which does not exist, because God has created only one world, one life.

Fr. Alexander Schmemann, Journals, Entry for September 16, 1974

καὶ μὴ εἰσενέγκῃς ἡμᾶς εἰς πειρασμόν,
ἀλλὰ ῥῦσαι ἡμᾶς ἀπὸ τοῦ πονηροῦ.

And do not lead us into Tribulation
but deliver us from the one who is evil.

Matthew 6.13

Who is “the one who is evil” and what are we to do if we cannot use aggression against him? More recycling from an archived post:

Finally, the disciples must pray to be spared of the eschatological trial (peirasmos, usually translated “temptation”) that will precede Israel’s restoration, and to be delivered “from the evil one” (apo tou ponērou) (Matthew 6.13). It is important to note that these two statements are linguistically joined together in the Greek by the adversative alla (”but”). The pairing of peirasmos and ho ponēros is highly significant when viewed within the context of the Sermon. “The evil one” (ho ponēros) has already been identified as a potential provoker of the forbidden oaths (Matthew 5.33). More importantly, the ponēros is the enemy who strikes on the right cheek (Matthew 5.39), takes the disciple’s coat (Matthew 5.40), and commandeers him for one mile (Matthew 5.41).

For those who have ears to hear, he is none other than the Roman aggressor! Little wonder, then, that he is linked to the eschatological trial (peirasmos) which Israel must undergo as a prelude to redemption–”the evil one” is, in essence, the most tangible “obstacle” to national restoration! And from this “evil one” the disciples must pray to be delivered, for they have already been forbidden from the use of force: “Do not resist the one who is evil (ho ponēros)” (Matthew 5.39)! They must trust rather in the power of God to change even these enemies by the witness of the light of their good works (Matthew 5.16).

Does this interpretation of ho ponēros necessarily contradict the traditional Christian reading in which “the evil one” is thought to be Satan himself?  I don’t think so.  Although I think the primary historical meaning of “the evil one” is the Roman soldier, the heritage of Christian (especially patristic) exegesis warrants a polyvalent understanding that is still rooted in Jesus’ concrete, historical context.

We can say, for instance, that “the evil one” is someone who stands in the way of the kingdom.  Satan would of course be the chief contender for this title from a Christian perspective, but his work of deception and rebellion finds concrete expressions in the world—in real people and real institutions governed by his lies.  This is why the Book of Revelation did not hesitate to depict the Roman Empire of the first century as a terrifying beast (see Revelation 17), an instrument of Satan.

We can also say that, today, “the evil one” is “incarnated” in those who perpetuate what Shane Claibourne calls “the myth of redemptive violence” (the belief that violence can be ended with more violence) as the Jewish rebels did, as well as the many governments that tout their political ideals and economic progress as means by which human beings can find security, wealth, justice and freedom, much like the Roman Caesars who promised these benefits under the name of σωτηρια—”salvation”.  From these, too, we must pray to be delivered.

The Gospel for the Malankara lectionary this Sunday is Matthew 5.38-48. I posted the following commentary on this text over a year ago and thought to let it air a little bit more. Once again, your thoughts and comments are welcome.

*****

“Do not resist one who is evil” (Matthew 5.39). The verb for “resist”, antistēnai, is frequently used by Josephus to describe the military resistance against Roman rule, connoting violence in 15 out of its 17 uses by the Jewish historian. Israel is thus called to renounce not only strategies of violence, but the resistance itself—a departure from the many popular movements of the day. Rather, she must respond with “good works” so that the Roman aggressors might glorify her heavenly Father (Matthew 5.16).

When struck on the right cheek—an act of humiliation, since it is done with the back of the aggressor’s hand—, the disciple must offer his left. If the aggressor were to strike again, he must at least use the front of his hand, thereby recognizing at least to some degree the worth of his victim. By assuming a posture of vulnerability, the disciple thus draws to himself further opportunity to actually serve the offender.

If the aggressor sues him for his coat, the disciple must offer his cloak as well (Matthew 5.40), and if requisitioned by Roman military personnel to go “one thousand paces” (Matthew 5.41), he must go two instead. The word agareusei in Matthew 5.41 (translated “forces” by the RSV) means “presses into service”. Roman soldiers had the right in the first century to forcibly recruit a Jew for an operation. The classic example of this is Simon of Cyrene’s being “compelled” (Matthew 27.32) to bear Jesus’ cross.

For Jesus, Israel must break the cycle of violence that has been imposed upon her whether from within (by the resistance movements) or from without—that is, from Roman occupiers. She is called, not merely to non-resistance, but to go beyond non-resistance to love. In encapsulating his own words, Jesus presents the new perspective that Israel must adopt: the aggressor who takes her coat and commandeers her into forced labor is re-cast as “one who begs from you” and “him who would borrow from you” (Matthew 5.42)! Although commentators often see these sayings about generosity in monetary terms, thus necessitating a sudden shift in Jesus’ stream of thought, I think it is far better to read them as words which invite the hearer to see “the one who is evil” in new light—that is, God’s light—under which the Roman aggressor emerges as a fellow human being who is likewise caught in the drama of sin and violence. He, too, is a beggar and a borrower in need of mercy.

It is this radical perspective one’s enemy as a fellow human being in need—indeed, a “beggar” and a “borrower” to whom one must “give” and “lend”—that is the underlies Jesus’ invitation, not only to a passive non-resistance, but to meet brutality and force with abounding goodness. Only in this way could Israel’s light shine before others for their sake, that they might glorify her heavenly Father.

Jesus’ teaching concerning Israel’s relationship with “outsiders” reaches its climax in his command to love and pray for one’s enemies (Matthew 5.44). In doing so, the disciple will realize his divine sonship—”that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven” (Matthew 5.45) since God, too, gives to all without discrimination. This, then, is what it means to be one of the “peacemakers” whom Jesus blessed earlier and whom he promised would be called “sons of God” (Matthew 5.9). Unless Israel does this, she is no better than her enemies, be they tax collectors (Matthew 5.46) or “Gentiles”, that is, Roman occupiers (Matthew 5.47).

The conclusion, marked clearly with in the Greek with “therefore” (oun), cannot and must not be missed: it is in loving his enemies and in praying for them, not resisting them with violence, that Jesus’ followers will show themselves to be true sons of God. Indeed, they will then become like God—”perfect” just as he is “perfect” (teleios, Matthew 5.48). The Greek teleios designates not some kind of moral perfection or flawlessness (an interpretation which has sometimes led Christians to a despair induced by perfectionism). In the Septuagint, teleios translates the Hebrew word tamim, which has the basic meaning of “whole”, “complete”, or even “all-encompassing”. This last meaning of tamim fits excellently with the context of Matthew 5.48. The disciples’ love must be all-encompassing, just as their heavenly Father’s love is all-encompassing: “for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust” (Matthew 5.45).

A short film for the 15Malaysia project by a bold Malaysian filmmaker, the late Yasmin Ahmad. This is my favorite in the series so far.

“People like us don’t get opportunities here. If you go there you’ll have opportunities. This land is only for their kind [i.e. Malays].” The unceasing mantra of my parents’ generation. Here, I think, it closes a door that could’ve led to new possibilities.

For more, visit the 15Malaysia website. Again, happy Independence Day, Malaysia.

The Malay Peninsula, with the climate of a perpetual Turkish bath.

Sir Frank Swettenham, British Malaya, 1906

The Malayan countryside is rather like a rich feast, with a little too much of everything good.

George Woodcock, Asia, Gods and Cities, 1966

Eve of Independence Day.

It’s been over a year since my return to Malaysia, and still the same:

“Why did you come back? Why didn’t you just stay in the US?”

“Life is so much better there.”

“There are more opportunities there.”

Let’s be clear: I’m no patriot. I came back, not for any noble reason but because my mom died and the only way to attend her funeral involved chucking my chances at a green card out the window. Besides, I’d been in a deadlock with the United States immigration for over 3 years anyway and it was time to throw in the towel.

My homeland, like all other countries, has its own set of problems—unique in some ways, but fairly standard for a Third World nation trying to get to First. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve alternated between hope and despair about our future since my return last May, so I guess at this point it depends on what day one catches me.

What I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, though, is how much my students here–past and present–seem to think of the United States as a Promised Land of sorts. In this they are merely indicative of a widespread sentiment among Malaysians, especially non-Malay Malaysians, that a better life is to be found elsewhere, which is to say, just about anywhere except here.

I lived for 11 years in what is undoubtedly one of the freest, most powerful, wealthiest, and most opportunity-filled nation in the world. Like it or not, the US has got to be doing something right to have so many clamoring to get through its borders. Yet even after all those years, it’s very clear to me that America the Great is not without its ailments. Whether its problems are better or worse than those here in Malaysia I cannot say, but what I do know is that the America imagined by my students, friends and relatives is not quite the America I’ve known. They imagine that its citizens are uniformly supermodel-like (thanks to Hollywood), that everyone can get a job and get rich if they only worked hard enough, that anyone can climb the ceiling-less socio-economic pyramid. The cars are bigger, the air is cleaner and the laws are more just. This is the America they imagine.

Perhaps it is simply the case that in my view the grapes have turned sour, but when I look back to my time in the United States, I don’t feel as though I’ve left the third heaven. What I do feel is that I’ve left one beautiful country for another.

I love Malaysia. I don’t think or say that enough.

It’s not perfect–not by a long shot. There’s ethnic discrimination both de facto and de jure. Corruption permeates every level of its bureaucratic political and economic structures. We breed all manner of lies and stereotypes about the very immigrants who are the backbone of our economy, shortchange them on the paycheck and make them work like dogs round the clock. Just to name a few.

But there is also beauty. People still have time for each other here. Our coffee shops open till the wee hours of the morning to serve tea and roti canai to chatty locals. Our social mix is a storehouse of innumerable traditions. We’re obsessed with food the way I imagine some other ancient peoples might’ve been. We have rainforests and rivers and beaches and mountains. Many people here still remember what a simple life was or can be. Without too much trouble, one can still find a village complete with fruit orchards, fire ants and goats. Just to name a few.

My American friends often ask me, “When are you coming back?” I’m not sure I can or want to. There is much that I love and like here. Though I miss my friends in the US very much and every day, this has become my home again. A strange twist in God’s plan—but a happy one, I think, and I feel no need to alter its course. So, even on days when I border on thinking that this country is going to hell in a handbasket, I’m content—maybe even thankful—to be here.

I love you, Malaysia. I don’t think or say that enough.

And happy Independence Day.

Eritrean Orthodox Morning Prayer

Hat tip: Steve Kurian via Orthodukso on Facebook