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by Rev. Dr. John Chryssavgis, Public Orthodoxy
I’ve always admired the early monks and nuns of the desert
literature. Not because they discovered ways of escaping the reality of
paying taxes. Not only because their words were inspirational and their
prayer transformative. And not primarily because they withstood the
power of the empire and the test of time. But because they prevail as
symbols of an alternative course of action. While their ideal is often
mythologized or romanticized, even manipulated and exploited in many
church circles, it nevertheless remains an image of the value of
silence. Of doing less or doing nothing. Of wordlessness and
inconspicuousness. Of praying instead of producing. Quite simply: of
being.
In contrast, the global pandemic of the Coronavirus Disease 2019
(COVID-19) has exposed a great deal about priorities and weaknesses as a
society—an extraordinarily complex community, a tangle of political,
financial, health, educational, and religious institutions that affect
every person worldwide. Each of these institutions is today desperately
trying to come up with answers on how to restore life and save the world
as we knew these. No one is immune, even the “asymptomatic”—even the
most powerful nations, the most secure economies, and the most righteous
believers.
Here in America, our Orthodox hierarchs have largely demonstrated
solemn leadership. They have heeded the scientific research, adhered to
state regulations, and advocated compassion for their parishes and
congregations. On the level of the Assembly of Bishops, they have
manifested and articulated an unusual and exceptional solidarity,
displaying an admirable sense of unity and urgency conspicuously absent
in these times of discord and division.
But what if our bishops said nothing “religious” but only focused on
serving their people? What if our priests did nothing “liturgical” but
only revealed absolute oneness with their parishioners? What if I didn’t
write these lines? Why are we so afraid not simply of not having the right answers, but of not having any answers at all?
Why are we so obstinate in mandating that our faithful stay home and
watch a live-stream—with all the experts explaining how this cannot
possibly replace worship—when we clergy feel somehow compelled by our
clerical uniqueness or otherness to observe the letter of the law? Why
do we spend so much effort and time defining the incorruptibility of the
Body and Blood of Christ instead of defending the safety and well-being
of the church as the Body and Blood of Christ? Would the entire
structure collapse if clergy, too, were obliged to share in the
sacrifice, while their bishop assigned the services to one (or
different) churches?
Why are we so allergic to the value of silence and stillness, to the
power of prayer and inactivity? Perhaps because they are uncomfortable
and inconvenient. In fact, the desert fathers and mothers recognized
that silence and stillness can feel like death. I spend my daily
exercise walking through my neighborhood cemetery. Remembrance of death
is a vital technique, a daily and tangible reminder of imperfection.
Living life to the full comes only when we face the ultimate questions,
namely meaninglessness and death. If we want to come out of life
seasoned and polished, we need simply think of death. There is hardly an
outwardly sense of perfection in nursing homes and hospitals filled
with those stricken by COVID-19. Still, most of us tend to deny the
relationship between death and stillness by entering a whirl of
activity—of frantic purchasing or panic commotion—that ostensibly
renders death either improbable or else impossible, or at the very least
controllable. This is why I was surprised when the monks of Mount Athos
announced they were holding vigils in light of the coronavirus. Wasn’t
this what they are supposed to do?
The early desert taught its inhabitants what to let go of and what to
hold on to—ultimately, how to share instead of being separate. “Sitting
in the cell” was their equivalent to “self-isolation” and “social
distancing.” It was there that they learned what mattered on earth, but
also what mattered for heaven. It was there that they recognized how
even alleged religious and ritual priorities could become a pretext for
avoiding the inner work of the heart. It was there that they discovered
how intimacy and communion are grounded in silence and stillness. It was
there that they understood and embraced their spiritual temptations and
tensions—that they had to stop defending or justifying themselves and
stop judging or blaming others.
People have been wondering what sort of an Easter we can possibly
celebrate this year. In the Sinaite desert, one hermit spoke of “a small
resurrection before the final resurrection.” Perhaps our battle with
the novel coronavirus corresponds to “a small death” before the final
curtain falls. Silence and stillness resemble the moment when the scene
from a film freezes, and we ask ourselves: Whom did we feed, whom did we
clothe, whom did we visit? When I had the chance, how did I respond,
react, or reciprocate? Silence and stillness represent a singular
opportunity for reckoning with our self, with external obligation, and
with power. And at any given moment of reckoning, will our greatest
regret be that we didn’t make it to church? The power of the
resurrection is not the word of a jubilant victory, but the icon of an
empty tomb. Silence and stillness reflect the value of nothing,
revealing that nothing matters more than the way we attend to and tend
to “the least of these.” They are the skills whereby we acknowledge that
what is going on in the world (and in the world of others) matters. And
that’s something.
Rev. Dr. John Chryssavgis is a deacon of the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America.
Public Orthodoxy seeks to promote conversation by providing a forum for diverse perspectives on contemporary issues related to Orthodox Christianity. The positions expressed in this essay are solely the author’s and do not necessarily represent the views of the editors or the Orthodox Christian Studies Center.
