I try to clear $1200 a day ($2500 for weekends) plus travel costs. Some hosts can manage more; sometimes I agree on less. While my default setting is yes, keep in mind the biblical injunction: “The laborer is worthy of his hire.” Also bear in mind that it isn’t just the time I’m speaking. A great many hours of preparation go into these trips. (Travel costs are shared out between hosts.)
At least a few weeks beforehand, place an order with Orbis so that copies of my recent books can be on hand: The Road to Emmaus: Pilgrimage as a Way of Life, The Ladder of the Beatitudes, Praying With Icons, Living With Wisdom, and Love is the Measure. Orbis will send them at a bookseller discount with the right to return unsold books. To place an order, call the marketing department at Orbis: (914) 941-7636, ext. 2575. (For details about ordering my book on the resurrection of the Church in Albania, see the corresponding article.)
If you need a speaker photo and/or a biography, two are available on this web site: “Jim Forest: an alphabet of his own design” — a short biography, and “Getting From There to Here” — a longer biography of Jim Forest.
What sort of accommodation is required?
I try to avoid hotels and, even more, motels, preferring to stay in a host family’s guest room.
Special dietary needs?
Apart from being on a low salt diet, I am not a fussy eater.
It is helpful to have some quiet times for prayer, reading and correspondence between speaking events. If an art museum is not too distant, and there is time to visit it, I always welcome such opportunities.
My parents were people radically out of step with the America of the cold-war fifties. In those days they both belonged to the Communist Party. This made me a “red-diaper baby.” Yet religious inspiration played a major part in the lives of my parents as long as I can remember.
An orphan raised by a Catholic farming family in Massachusetts, my father became active in the local Catholic parish, serving as an altar boy. Inspired by a saintly pastor, he was preparing to become a priest. But the old priest was sent to another parish and his successor was a rigid man who ordered my father to resign from the local Protestant-sponsored Boy Scout troop. His strict eyes picking out my father at Mass on Sunday, he preached against Catholic engagement with those who were not in communion with Rome. My father walked out on Mass that day and never returned. Yet I gradually became aware that underneath the bitterness he had acquired toward Catholicism was grief at having lost contact with a Church which, in many ways, had shaped his conscience. Far from objecting to my own religious awakenings, he cheered me along.
My mother had been raised in a devout Methodist household but was also disengaged from religion. When I was eight, I recall asking her if there was a God and was impressed by the remarkable sadness in her voice when she said there wasn’t. Some years later she told me she had lost her faith while a student at Smith College when a professor she admired told her that religions were only a patchwork of myths but were nonetheless fascinating to study. Again, as she related the story, I was struck by the sadness in her voice. Why such sadness?
I wonder if my parents’ love of wild life and wilderness areas had to do with a sense of God’s nearness in places of natural beauty? For their honeymoon, they had walked a long stretch of the Appalachian Trail. Our scrap books were full of photos Dad had taken of national parks, camps sites, and forest animals. Mother used to say that Dad was a wonderful hunter, except the only thing he could aim at an animal was a camera. The idea of owning a gun was anathema to both of them.
They had a similar reverence for human beings, especially those in need or in trouble. In this regard they were more attentive to the Gospel than many who are regularly in church. Christ taught that what you do for the least person you do for him even though you may not realize it or believe in him. In this regard, my parents were high on the list of those doing what God wants us to do even if their concern for the poor had led them away from churches and into the political left. A great deal of their time went into helping people.
While I often felt embarrassed coming from a family so different from others in the neighborhood, my spiritual life was influenced by my parents’ social conscience far more than I realized at the time. They helped make me aware that I was accountable not only for myself, my family, and friends, but for the down-and-out, the persecuted, and the unwelcome.
My parents were divorced when I was four. Afterward my mother, younger brother and I moved from Colorado to New Jersey. Our new home was in the town in which my mother had grown up, Red Bank,though not the same neighborhood as her wealthy parents had lived. (Both were dead by the time of her return.)
Mother’s identification with people on the other side of the tracks had brought us to live on the other side of the tracks, in a small house in a mainly black neighborhood where indoor plumbing was still unusual and many local roads still unpaved. One neighbor, Libby, old as the hills and black as coal, had been born in slavery days. Earlier in her life she had worked in my grandparents’ house.
Among my childhood memories is going door-to-door with my mother when she was attempting to sell subscriptions to the Communist paper, The Daily Worker. I don’t recall her having any success. This experience left me with an abiding sympathy for all doorbell ringers.
We received The Daily Worker ourselves. It came in a plain wrapper without a return address. Occasionally Mother read aloud articles that a child might find interesting. But as the cold winds of the “McCarthy period” began to blow, the time came when, far from attempting to sell subscriptions, the fact that we were on its mailing list began to worry Mother. It was no longer thrown away with the garbage like other newspapers but was saved in drawers until autumn, then burned bit by bit with the fall leaves.
One of the nightmare experiences of my childhood was the trial and electrocution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, the couple accused of helping the Soviet Union obtain US atomic secrets. My mother was convinced that the Rosenbergs were scapegoats whose real crimes were being Jews and Communists. Their conviction, she felt, was meant to further marginalize American Communists, along with other groups critical of US structures, for the government wasn’t only after “reds” but also “pinkos,” as anyone slightly to the left was labeled. The letters the Rosenbergs sent to their children from prison were published in The Daily Worker and these Mother read to my brother and me. How we wept the morning after their death as she read the newspaper accounts of their last minutes of life.
Music was part of our upbringing. Mother hadn’t much of a voice, but from time to time sang with great feeling such songs as “This Land is Your Land,” “Joe Hill” and “The Internationale” with its line, “Arise ye prisoners of starvation, arise ye wretched of the earth, for justice thunders condemnation, a better’s world’s in birth.” On our small wind-up 78 rpm record player, we played records of Paul Robeson, the Weavers, Burl Ives (who was a bit to the left in those days), and, of course, Pete Seeger. From these recordings I also learned many black spirituals. The music of the black church was the one acceptable source of religion in the American left. I also sometimes heard spirituals when I walked past a nearby black church.
Despite my mother’s alienation from religion, she missed the Methodist Church in which she had been raised. During the weeks surrounding Easter and Christmas, her religious homesickness got the best of her and so we attended services, sitting up in the church balcony. One year she sent my brother and me to the church’s summer school. While this was a help for her as a working mother (she was a psychiatric social worker at a mental hospital), I have no doubt she hoped my brother and I would soak up the kind of information about the deeper meaning of life that she had received as a child.
The minister of the church, Roger Squire, was an exceptional man whose qualities included a gift for noticing people in balconies and connecting with children. His occasional visits to our house were delightful events. Only as an adult did it cross my mind how remarkable it was that he would make it a point to come into our neighborhood to knock on the kitchen door of a home that contained not members of his parish or even church-goers but a Communist mother and her two sons.
One of the incidents that marked me as a child was the hospitality of the Squire family to two young women from Hiroshima and Nagasaki who had survived the nuclear bombing but were badly scarred. American religious peace groups had brought them and others to the United States for plastic surgery and found them temporary homes in and near New York City, not an easy undertaking for the hosts in the fifties when the word “peace” was a suspect word and when many people had no desire to think about, not to say see with their own eyes, what American nuclear bombs had done to actual people. In fact, I could only guess at the results myself, as the two women’s faces were hidden behind silk veils. I had the idea that their faces were partly melted. Thanks to the Squires’ hospitality, I learned about the human cost of war and the effects of nuclear weapons, and through the Squire family I had a sturdy idea of what it meant to conform one’s life to the Gospel rather than to politics and the opinions of neighbors.
Yet the Methodist Church as such didn’t excite me. While I prized time with Rev. Squire and enjoyed the jokes he sprinkled in sermons to underline his points, long-time sitting was hard work for a child. I felt no urge to be baptized. Neither was I won over by the nearby Dutch Reformed Church which for some forgotten reason I attended for a few weeks or months and which I remember best for its unsuccessful attempt to get me to memorize the Ten Commandments.
The big event in my early religious development was thanks to a school friend inviting me to his church in Shrewsbury. It was among the oldest buildings in our region, its white clapboard scarred with musket balls fired in the Revolutionary war. The blood of dying soldiers had stained the church’s pews and floor, and though the stains could no longer be seen, it stirred me to think about what had happened there.
What engaged me still more was the form of worship, which centered on the altar rather than the pulpit. It was an Episcopal parish in which sacraments and ritual activity were the main events. (Being a parent has helped me realize that ritual is something that children naturally like; for all the experiments we make as children, we are born conservatives who want our parents to operate in predictable, patterned, reliable ways. We want meals to be on the table at a certain time and in a specific way, and in general like to know what to expect. We want the ordinary events of life to have what I think of now as a liturgical shape.)
The parish was relatively “high church” — vestments, acolytes, candles, processions, incense, liturgical seasons with their special colors, fast times, plain chant, communion every Sunday. I got a taste of a far more ancient form of Christianity than I had found among Methodists. I loved it and for the first time in my life wanted not just to watch but to be part of it. It was in this church that, age ten, I was baptized. I became an acolyte, thus getting to wear a bright red robe with crisp white surplice, and learned to assist the pastor, Father Lavant, at the altar. I learned much of the Book of Common Prayer by heart and rang a bell when the bread and wine were being consecrated. In Sunday school after the service I learned something of the history of Christianity, its sources and traditions, with much attention to Greek words. I remember Father Lavant writing “Eucharist” on the blackboard, explaining it meant thanksgiving, and that it was made up of smaller Greek words that meant “well” and “grace.” The Eucharist was a well of grace. He was the sort of man who put the ancient world in reaching distance.
But the friendship which had brought me to the church in the first place disintegrated sometime the following year. I no longer felt welcome in my friend’s car, and felt awkward about coming to their church under my own steam though it would have been possible to get there by bike. Perhaps the reason the car-door no longer opened to me so readily was my friend’s parents became aware of our family’s political color. Given the times, it would have been hard not to know.
I had little grasp of the intense political pressures Americans were under, though I saw the same anti-communist films and television programs other kids saw and was painfully aware that my parents were “the enemy” — the people who were trying to subvert America — though I couldn’t see a trace of this happening among the actual Communists I happened to know.
It was about that time that the FBI began to openly exhibit its interest in us, interviewing many of the neighbors. One day, while Mother was out, two FBI agents came into our house and finger-printed my brother and me. “Say hello to your mom,” one of them said on leaving. Such were the times.
My father’s arrest in 1952 in St. Louis, where he was then living, was page-one news across America. Dad faced the usual charge against Communists: “conspiracy to advocate the overthrow of the United States government by force and violence.” I doubt many read this hair-raising assembly of phrases closely enough to notice that in fact the accused were not being charged with any violent or revolutionary actions or even with planning, preparing or advocating such activities, but with being part of a conspiracy to advocate them sometime in the future.
The afternoon of Dad’s arrest, my Uncle Charles drove up to our house, came to the door, and yelled at my mother while waving a newspaper that had the banner headline: Ten Top Reds Arrested in Missouri. He stormed off the porch, got back into his car, a black Buick, and drove away. I never saw him again. Until then he had been a frequent visitor though I was aware Mother took pains to avoid political topics when we were with him.
Dad was to spend half a year in prison before being bailed out. Several years passed before the charges against him were finally dropped by the Justice Department.
While it was never nearly as bad for dissenters in the US as it was in the USSR — no gulag, no summary executions, no Stalin — nonetheless I came to feel a sense of connection with the children of religious believers in Communist countries; they too know what it is like to have their parents vilified by the mass media and imprisoned by the government.
Though it was bad enough that Dad was in prison, I was still more aware of the pressures my mother was facing. The FBI had talked with her employers. Many Communists were losing or had lost their jobs; she took it for granted it would happen to her as well. This expectation was a factor in her not buying a car until well after my brother and I were full-grown, even though we lived pretty far off the beaten track and really needed one. Mother took the bus to work and back again or found colleagues who would give her a lift. When I pleaded with her to get a car, she explained we shouldn’t develop needs that we might not be able afford in the future.
Her only hope of keeping her job was to give her employers no hook on which to justify dismissal. Night after night she worked at her desk writing case histories of patients with whom she was involved. No matter how sick she might be, she never missed a day of work, never arrived late, never left early. I doubt that the State of New Jersey ever got more from an employee than they got from her. And it worked. She wasn’t fired.
My religious interest went into recess. Within a year or two I was trying to make up my mind whether I was an atheist or an agnostic. I decided on the latter, because I couldn’t dismiss the sense I often had of God being real. Like my parents, I loved nature, and nature is full of news about God. Wherever I looked, whether at ants with a magnifying glass or at the moon with a telescope, everything in the natural order was awe-inspiring, and awe is a religious state of mind. Creation made it impossible to dismiss God. But it was a rather impersonal God — God as prime mover rather than God among us.
It wasn’t until late in 1959, when I was turning 18, that I began to think deeply about religion and what God might mean in my life.
At the turning point in his life, St. Paul was struck blind on the road to Damascus. The equivalent moment in my own life is linked to a more prosaic setting: Saturday night at the movies. Just out of Navy boot camp, I was studying meteorology at the Navy Weather School at Lakehurst, New Jersey. The film at the base theater happened to be “The Nun’s Story,” based on the autobiography of a young Belgian woman who entered a convent and later worked at a missionary hospital in the African Congo. In the end, the nun (played by Audrey Hepburn) became an ex-nun. Conscience was at the heart of the story: conscience leading a young woman into the convent and eventually leading her elsewhere, but never away from her faith. I later discovered the film was much criticized in the mainstream Catholic press for its portrayal both of loneliness and of the abuse of authority in religious community.
If it had been Hollywood’s usual religious movie of “The Bells of St. Mary’s” variety, it would have had no impact on my life. But this was a true story, well-acted, honestly told, and without a happy ending, though in the woman’s apparent failure as a nun one found both integrity and faith. Against the rough surface of the story, I had a compelling glimpse of the Catholic Church with its rich and complex structures of worship and community.
After the film I went for a walk, heading away from the buildings and sidewalks. It was a clear September evening. Gazing at the stars, I felt an uncomplicated and overwhelming happiness such as I had never known. This seemed to rise up through the grass and to shower down on me in the starlight. I was floating on God’s love like a leaf on water, deeply aware that everything that is or was or ever will be is joined together in God. For the first time in my life, the incomprehensible blackness beyond the stars wasn’t terrifying.
I didn’t think much about the film itself that night, except for a few words of Jesus that had been read to the novices during their first period of formation and which seemed to recite themselves within me as I walked: “If you would be perfect, go, sell what you have, and give it to the poor, and you will have great treasure in heaven, and come, follow me.”
I went to sleep that night eager to go to Mass. I knew I wanted to be a Christian and was strongly drawn to Catholicism.
The next morning I went to a nearby Catholic church but found the Mass disappointing. I felt like an anthropologist observing a strange tribal rite. I had only a vague idea what was happening. There seemed little connection between the priest and the congregation. Most of the worship was in mumbled, hurried Latin, except for the sermon, which probably I would have preferred had it been in Latin. People in the pews seemed either bored or were concentrating on their rosaries. At least they knew when to sit, stand, and kneel. I struggled awkwardly to keep up with them. At the end of Mass, there was no exchange of greetings or further contact between people who had been praying together. Catholic worship seemed to have all the intimacy of supermarket shopping.
Still resolved to become a Christian, I started looking for a church where there was engagement and beauty and at least something of what I had hoped to find in Catholicism. The Anglo-Catholic segment of the Episcopal Church, which I had begun to know as a child, seemed the obvious choice, and it happened that another sailor at the Weather School had been part of a “high church” parish. He shared his Book of Common Prayer with me and in the weeks that followed we occasionally read its services of morning and evening prayer together.
After graduating, I spent a two-week Christmas leave in an Episcopal monastery on the Hudson River, Holy Cross, not far from West Point. It was a joyous experience in which I thought I had found everything I was hoping for in the Catholic Church: liturgy, the sacraments, and a religious community that combined prayer, study and service. I was now part a Navy unit at the U.S. Weather Bureau just outside Washington, DC. I joined an Episcopal parish in downtown Washington, St. Paul’s, which the monks had told me about.
Those months were full of grace. So why am I not writing an essay on “Why I am an Episcopalian”? One piece of the answer is that I had never quite let go of the Catholic Church. I could never walk past a Catholic church without stopping in to pray. A hallmark of the Catholic Church was that the Blessed Sacrament was reserved on or near the altar awaiting anyone who came in. Its presence meant this wasn’t just a room that came to life from time to time but a place where many of the curtains that usually hide God are lifted, even if you were the only person present. In those days the doors of Catholic churches always seemed open.
Another factor were Catholic books that found their way into my hands, including Thomas Merton’s autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain, G.K. Chesterton’s Orthodoxy, and The Long Loneliness by Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker movement.
But there were negative elements as well. One of these was an experience at the Episcopal monastery I occasionally visited. On the last day of an Easter stay one of the monks asked to see me. Once in the visiting room, he aggressively embraced me. I struggled free and later in the day left the monastery in great confusion. Back in Washington, I wrote to the prior of the community, telling him what had happened. His reply wasn’t helpful. He might have pointed out that monks, like everyone else, suffer loneliness and have sexual longings of one sort or another and sometimes don’t manage them very well. Instead the prior commented that homosexuality was often an indication of a monastic vocation. As my own sexual orientation was of the more common variety, I wondered if the prior meant I wasn’t the right sort of person to be visiting. After his letter, I had no desire to return. The experience underscored my growing doubts about remaining in the Episcopal Church.
Yet I still had reservations about becoming Catholic and so began to explore the varieties of Christianity in Washington, visiting every sort of church, black and white, high and low. Among them was a Greek Orthodox cathedral, but it seemed a cool, unwelcoming place; I sensed one had to be Greek to be a part of it. I returned several times to the black church on the campus of Howard University, a friendly place with wonderful singing, but felt that, as a white person, I would always be an outsider. If I could have changed skin color by wishing, I would have turned black in the Howard chapel.
As the weeks went by I came to realize that the Catholic churches I so often stopped in to pray were places in which I felt an at-homeness I hadn’t found anywhere else. On November 26, 1960, after several months of instruction, I was received into the Catholic Church.
What had most attracted me to Catholicism was the Liturgy. Though in some parishes it was a dry, mechanical affair, there were other parishes where the care taken in every aspect of worship was profound. While for some people worship in an ancient language was a barrier, in my own case I came to love the Latin. I was happy to be participating in a language of worship that was being used simultaneously in every part of the world and which also was a bridge of connection with past generations spanning many centuries. I learned the principal Latin prayers by heart, especially anything that could be sung, and still sometimes sing Latin prayers and hymns. “To sing is to pray twice,” one of the Church Fathers says. How true!
In the early stages of liturgical change following the Second Vatican Council, I felt a complex mixture of expectation and anxiety. Despite my private love of Latin, I could hardly disagree with the many arguments put forward for scrapping it. I didn’t want to hang onto what got in the way for others.
Unfortunately the Englishing of the Liturgy was not carried out by poets. We ended up with the English language in its flattest state. We also lost not only Latin but Gregorian chant, a great pity. Most of the music that took its place was fit for shopping malls and elevators. The sand blasting of ritual life had also removed incense. The body language of prayer was in retreat. The holy water fonts were dry. Many bridges linking body and soul were abandoned.
Yet, like most Catholics, I uttered few words of complaint. I knew that change is not a comfortable experience. And I thought of myself as a modern person; I was embarrassed by my difficulties adjusting to change. Also I had no sense of connection with those who were protesting the changes. These tended to be the rigid Catholics of the sort who were more papal than the Pope. (I had never been attracted to that arctic wing of Catholicism that argued one must be a Catholic, and a most obedient Catholic, in order to be saved.)
If one has experienced only the modern “fast-food” liturgy of the Catholic Church, perhaps the typical modern Mass isn’t so disappointing. But for me there was a deep sense of loss. For many years I often left Mass feeling let down.
All this said, there was a positive side to Catholicism that in many ways compensated for what was missing in the Liturgy. For all its problems, which no church is without, the Catholic Church has the strength of being a world community in which most members see themselves as being on the same footing as fellow Catholics on the other side of the globe; in contrast many Protestant and Orthodox Christians see their church, even Christ himself, primarily in national terms. The Catholic Church also possesses a strong sense of co-responsibility for the social order, and a relatively high degree of independence from all political and economic structures.
This aspect of the Catholic Church finds many expressions. After receiving a conscientious objector discharge from the Navy in 1960, I joined one of them, the Catholic Worker movement.
Founded by Dorothy Day in 1933, the Catholic Worker is well known for its “houses of hospitality” — places of welcome in run-down urban areas where those in need can receive food, clothing, and shelter. It is a movement not unlike the early Franciscans, attempting to live out the Gospels in a simple, literal way. Jesus said to be poor; those involved in the Catholic Worker struggle to have as little as possible, embracing voluntary poverty. Jesus said to do good to and pray for those who curse you, to love your enemies, to put away the sword; and Catholic Workers try to do this as well, refusing to take part in war or violence. The Catholic Worker view of the world is no less critical than that of the Prophets and the Gospel. There was a remarkable interest in the writings of the Church Fathers, the principal theologians of the early Church. One often found quotations from St. John Chrysostom, St. Gregory Nazianzen, Saint Basil and other voices of the early Church in the movement’s widely read publication, The Catholic Worker.
I found in Dorothy Day a deep appreciation of the richness and way of worship of the Eastern Church. She also had a special love for Russian literature, most of all the work of Dostoevsky. At times she recited passages from The Brothers Karamazov that had shaped her understanding of Christianity; mainly these had to do with the saintly staretz Father Zosima (a figure modeled in part on Father Amvrosi who was canonized by the Russian Church in 1988) and his teaching on active love. Dorothy inspired me to read Dostoevsky. It was Dorothy who first took me into a Russian Orthodox Church, a cathedral in upper Manhattan where I met a priest who, many years later, I was to meet again in Moscow, Father Matvay Stadniuk. (In 1988, back in Moscow, he launched the first public project of voluntary service by Church members since Soviet power had launched its war on religion.) At a Liturgy Dorothy took me to I first learned to sing the Old Slavonic words, “Gospodi pomiloi” (Lord have mercy), one of the main prayers of Orthodoxy.
One evening Dorothy brought me to a Manhattan apartment for meeting of the Third Hour, a small Christian ecumenical group founded by a Russian émigré, Helene Iswolsky. The conversation was in part about the Russian word for spirituality, dukhovnost. The Russian understanding of spiritual life, it was explained, not only suggests a private relationship between the praying person and God but has profound social content: moral capacity, social responsibility, courage, wisdom, mercy, a readiness to forgive, a way of life centered in love. I recall talk about iurodivi, the “holy fools” who revealed Christ in ways that would be regarded as insanity in the west, and stralniki, those who wandered Russia in continuous pilgrimage, begging for bread and reciting with every breath and step the silent prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” But much of the discussion flew over my head. At times I was more attentive to the remarkable face of the poet W.H. Auden and the wavy hair of Alexander Kerensky, prime minister of Russia between the abdication of the last czar and the Bolshevik revolution; both were members of the Third Hour group.
One of the people Dorothy was in touch with was the famous Trappist monk and author, Thomas Merton, whose autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain, had been a factor in my becoming a Catholic. Through Dorothy I came to be one of his correspondents and later his guest at the Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemani in Kentucky. Besides many letters, Merton used to send me postcard photographs of Russian and Greek icons. Icons had played an important part in his conversion to Christianity and, as I was to discover in writing a book about him, in his continuing spiritual life.
Thanks to Merton and Dorothy Day, I was more aware than many western Christians of the eastern Church, but Orthodoxy seemed to me more an ethnic club than a place for a multi-ethnic American, more a living museum than a living Church. My eyes were slow in opening to icons, which for a long time I regarded as merely primitive. While the music in Russian churches was amazingly beautiful, Orthodox services seemed too long and the ritual too ornate. I was in a typical American hurry about most things, even worship, and had the usual American aversion to trimmings. Orthodoxy seemed excessive.
As much of my adult life has been spent editing peace movement publications, one might imagine such peace work would have opened many east-west doors for me. Ironically, however, through most of the Cold War the peace movement in the United States was notable for its avoidance of contact with the Soviet Union. Perhaps because we were so routinely accused of being “tools of the Kremlin,” peace activists tended to steer clear of the USSR and rarely knew more about it than anyone else. Even to visit the Soviet Union was to be convicted of everything the Reader’s Digest had ever said about KGB direction of peace groups in the west.
In the spring of 1980, after three years heading the staff of the International Fellowship of Reconciliation in Holland, I was on a speaking trip that took me to twenty American cities. While in Cambridge, after seeing a Russian-made romantic movie called “Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears,” it occurred to me, as an American active in the peace movement, how odd it was that people like myself knew more about nuclear weapons and intercontinental ballistic missiles than about the people at whom such weapons were targeted. The question arose in my mind: Might not the world be a slightly less dangerous place if we had more face-to-face contact with those whom we regarded as mortal enemies and whom we were prepared to kill by the millions? If we saw them as human beings instead of as gray political objects?
At the time the Nuclear Freeze movement was gathering strength. It advocated a bilateral end to nuclear testing, freezing the manufacture of nuclear weapons, and halting development of new weapons systems. Millions of people, both Democrat and Republican, supported the Freeze. Yet I came back to Holland convinced that its prospects for success were slight. The Freeze, like many peace campaigns during the Cold War, was built mainly on fear of nuclear weapons. Practically nothing was being done to respond to relationship issues or fear of the Soviet Union. All that was needed was one nasty incident to burst the balloon, and that came when a Soviet pilot shot down a South Korean 747 passenger plane flying across Soviet air space. The image of the west facing a barbaric and ruthless enemy was instantly revived. The Freeze movement crashed with the 747 jet.
I began to look for an opportunity to visit the Soviet Union.
At the time it wasn’t easy to find an opening. The Soviet Union was then at war in Afghanistan, an event condemned by the organization I was working for. A seminar we had arranged in Moscow was abruptly canceled on the Soviet side. An editor of Izvestia whom I met in Amsterdam candidly explained that Kremlin was guarding itself from western pacifists unveiling protest signs in Red Square.
In October 1983, a few representatives of the International Fellowship of Reconciliation joined with several leaders of the Christian Peace Conference for a dialogue on the subject of “Violence, Nonviolence and Liberation.” We met in Moscow in an old one-story wooden building used at that time by the External Church Affairs Department of the Russian Orthodox Church.
The meeting would have been useful no matter where it had happened. But for me it had an unexpected spiritual significance because it was in Russia. I experienced a particular sense of connection with the Russian Orthodox believers and longed to have the chance for more prolonged contact. (A year later I was in Moscow once again, this time for an exchange, sadly not real dialogue, with hardline Communists in the Soviet Peace Committee.)
For me the primary significance of the first trip was the contact I was able to arrange with Orthodox believers.
The high point was the Liturgy at the Epiphany Cathedral. This isn’t one of the city’s oldest or most beautiful churches, though it has an outstanding choir. The icons, coming from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, were a far cry from those by Rublev and Theofan the Greek. And yet being in that throng of devout worshipers was a more illuminating experience than I have had in far more beautiful churches. The place became beautiful for me simply because it was such a grace to be there.
The church was crowded as a church in the west would be only on a major feast day. As is usual in the Russian Orthodox Church, there were no pews. There were a few benches and chairs along the walls for those who needed them, but I found it freeing to be on my feet. Though at times it was uncomfortable to be standing up for so long, being upright made me more attentive. It was like a move from the bleachers to the field. (I’d like one day to learn how chairs and benches made their way into churches. Is it connected with the Reformation’s re-centering of services around never-ending sermons?)
I was fascinated by the knitting together of spiritual and physical activity. Making the sign of the cross and half bows were ordinary elements of prayer. Orthodox believers seemed to cross themselves and bow almost continually. As I watched the rippling of bowing heads in the tightly packed congregation, I was reminded of the patterns the wind makes blowing across a field of wheat.
All the while two choirs, in balconies on either side of the huge cupola, were singing. For the Creed and Our Father, the congregation joined with the choirs, singing with hurricane force.
At first I stood like a statue, though wanting to do what those around me were doing. It seemed so appropriate for an incarnational religion to link body and soul through these simple gestures. It must have taken me most of an hour before I began to pray in the Russian style.
The sense of people being deeply at prayer was as tangible as Russian black bread. I felt that if the walls and pillars of the church were taken away, the roof would rest securely on the prayers of the congregation below. I have very rarely experienced this kind of intense spiritual presence. Though there are many superficial differences, in its intensity I can only compare it to the black church in America.
The experience led me to write Pilgrim to the Russian Church, a book which required a number of Russian trips; on one of these I was joined by my wife, Nancy.
In the course of my travels I came to love the slow, unhurried tradition of prayer in Orthodoxy, deeply appreciating its absent-mindedness about the clock. The Liturgy rarely started on time, never ended on time, and lasted two hours, or even three on great feasts — five at the all-night Pascha service. I discovered that Orthodox believers are willing to give to worship the kind of time and devotion that Italians give to their evening meals.
I became increasingly aware of how deep and mindful is Orthodox preparation for communion, with stress on forgiveness of others as a precondition for reception of the sacrament.
I enjoyed watching confession in Orthodox churches. The penitent and priest weren’t tucked away in confessional closets but stood on the side of the church in sight of one and all, faces nearly touching. There is a tenderness and intimacy about it that never ceases to amaze me. (While I still don’t find confession easy, I don’t envy those forms of Christianity that do without it.)
I quickly came to appreciate Orthodoxy for taking literally Jesus’ teaching, “Let the children come to me and hinder them not.” In our Catholic parish in Holland, our daughter Anne had gone from confusion and hurt to pain and anger after many attempts to receive communion with Nancy and me. She hadn’t reached “the age of reason” and therefore couldn’t receive the instruction that was considered a prerequisite to sacramental life. Does anyone ever reach the age of reason? A child in an Orthodox parish is at the front of the communion line.
I came to esteem the married clergy of Orthodoxy. While there are many Orthodox monks and nuns, and celibacy is an honored state, I found that marriage is more valued in Orthodoxy than Catholicism. Sexual discipline is taken no less seriously, yet one isn’t left feeling that the main sins are sexual or that sex is innately sinful.
I came to cherish the relative darkness usual in many Orthodox churches, where the main light source is candles. Candlelight creates a climate of intimacy. Icons are intended for candlelight.
Praying with icons was an aspect of Orthodox spirituality that opened its doors to us even though we weren’t yet Orthodox. During a three-month sabbatical in 1985, when we were living near Jerusalem while I taught at the Ecumenical Institute at Tantur, we bought a small hand-painted Russian “Vladimirskaya” icon of Mary and Jesus and began praying before it. The icon itself proved to be a school of prayer. We learned much about prayer by simply standing in front of our icon.
Not least significant, I learned a great deal from Russian Christians about love of enemies. I will never forget a conversation with an elderly priest, Father Mikhail, whom I met in the ancient city of Novgorod in 1987. Mikhail Gorbachev was then in his second year as Soviet head of state. To his everlasting credit, he had brought religious persecution to a halt. Ruined churches and monasteries were being given back to the Church. Many thousands of people were seeking baptism. It was truly a time of miracles. A long winter of persecution was ending, a springtime of religious rebirth was occurring. Over supper with Father Mikhail, I asked, “Aren’t you surprised?” ”Not at all,” he replied. “All believers have been praying for this every day of our lives. We knew God would answer our prayers, only we did not know when. I am only surprised that our prayers have been answered while I am still alive.” I thought of the countless people who had been shot or were taken to labor camps where they froze to death or died of disease or exhaustion. I had visited places of mass execution. I said to Father Mikhail, “But surely you must hate those who caused so much suffering and who killed so many people.” Father Mikhail gave me an answer that I did not expect. “Christ doesn’t hate them,” he said. “Why should I? How will they find the way to belief unless we love them? And if I refuse to love them, I too am not a believer.”
Back in Holland, Nancy and I continued our frustrating search for a Catholic parish that we could be fully a part of. On the one hand there were parishes that seemed linked to the larger Church only by frayed threads; parishes were abandoning ritual, traditions and lines of connection which seemed to us worth preserving, and going their own way. There were other parishes that, in ritual life, were clearly part of a larger church but where there was no sense of welcome or warmth.
Finally we became part of a parish where, by joining the choir, we felt more a part of a church community, though we were far and away the youngest members of the choir. Apart from Anne, none of our children were willing to come, and Anne became increasingly upset about her exclusion from communion
How I envied the Orthodox believers I had met in Russia! Oddly enough it didn’t occur to me that there might be a similar quality of worship in Orthodox churches in the west. I thought that Orthodoxy was like certain wines that must be sipped at the vineyard. I also had the idea that Russian parishes in the west must mainly be populated by bitter refugees preoccupied with hating Communists.
Then in January 1988, at the invitation of Father Alexis Voogd, pastor of the St. Nicholas of Myra Church in Amsterdam, Nancy and I took part in a special ecumenical service to mark the beginning of the Orthodox Church in Russia and Ukraine’s millennium celebration: a thousand years since the baptism of the citizens of Kiev in the Dnieper River. Catholics, Protestants and Orthodox, we were packed into the tiny church for a service that was a hodge-podge of speeches by clergy from various local churches interspersed with beautiful Russian hymns sung by the parish choir.
If it was just that ecumenical service, perhaps we would not have returned. But at the reception in the parish hall that followed, we were startled to experience a kind of interaction that I had rarely found in any church in any country, not to say in, restrained, understated, neo-Calvinist Holland.
Walking to the train station afterward, we decided to come back next week and see what the Liturgy was like. The following Sunday we discovered it was every bit as profound as it was in Russia. And that was that. We managed only once or twice to return to Mass in our former Catholic parish. Before a month had passed we realized that a prayer we had been living with a long time had been answered: we had found a church we wholeheartedly could belong to and couldn’t bear not going to even if it meant getting out of bed early and traveling by train and tram to Amsterdam every week.
On Palm Sunday 1988, I was received into the Orthodox Church by chrismation; Nancy made the same step on Pentecost.
In many ways it wasn’t such a big step from where we had been. Orthodoxy and Catholicism have so much in common: sacraments, apostolic succession, the calendar of feasts and fasts, devotion to the Mother of God, and much more. Yet in Orthodoxy we found an even deeper sense of connection with the early Church and a far more vital form of liturgical life. Much that has been neglected in Catholicism and abandoned in Protestant churches, especially confession and fasting, remain central in Orthodox life. We quickly found what positive, life-renewing gifts they were, and saw that they were faring better in a climate that was less legalistic but more demanding.
Postscript: The religious movement in my life, which from the beginning was influenced by my parents, also influenced them. While neither followed me into Catholicism or Orthodoxy, in the early sixties, after reading The Seven Storey Mountain, my mother returned to the Methodist Church and remained active in it for the rest of her life. (She had resigned from the Communist Party at the time the Soviets put down the Hungarian uprising.) Despite her age and failing eyesight, she continued in her struggle for the poor, often to the consternation of local politicians. Dad eventually became a Unitarian. He enjoyed the joke about Unitarians believing at most in one God. In the last two decades of his life he was especially active in developing low-income and inter-racial housing projects in California. A cooperative he helped found in Santa Rosa was singled out for several honors, including the Certificate of National Merit from the US Department of Housing and Urban Development. Always deeply supportive of my religious commitment, I recall with particular happiness hearing him reading aloud to my stepmother from my book, Pilgrim to the Russian Church. On his deathbed in the spring of 1990, he borrowed the small crucifix I normally wear around my neck. It was in his hands when he died.
Jim Forest is international secretary of the Orthodox Peace Fellowship. His books include All Is Grace (a biography of Dorothy Day), Living With Wisdom (a biography of Thomas Merton), The Root of War is Fear: Thomas Merton’s Advice to Peacemakers, Loving Our Enemies: Reflections on the Hardest Commandment, Praying With Icons, The Road to Emmaus, The Wormwood File, Confession: Doorway to Forgiveness, and The Ladder of the Beatitudes. Earlier books include Religion in the New Russia and Pilgrim to the Russian Church. His most recent children’s book is Saint Nicholas and the Nine Gold Coins. He has lived in the Netherlands since 1977 and is a member of the St. Nicholas of Myra Russian Orthodox Church in Amsterdam.
Jim Forest’s activity as a writer began in New Jersey at age five, in 1946, when he produced a handwritten family newspaper using an alphabet of his own design. It was an excellent publication whose only shortcoming was that no one could read it.
A few years after achieving literacy, he was often found hanging around the office of the town’s weekly newspaper, watching linotypers set type from molten zinc, a form of typesetting now associated with Age of Gutenberg. Before long he was hawking The Red Bank Register on Broad Street, delivering newspapers door to door, and starting his own mimeographed publication, now using an alphabet accessible to others.
His engagement in Christianity began about the same time that he was selling newspapers. At age ten he was baptized in an Episcopal parish in Shrewsbury, New Jersey, though it wasn’t until he was in the U.S. Navy that he began to see his vocation in religious terms.
In 1960, while working at the U.S. Weather Service headquarters near Washington as part of a Navy meteorological unit, he joined the Catholic Church.
In 1961, after obtaining an early discharge from the Navy on grounds of conscientious objection, he joined the Catholic Worker community, led by Dorothy Day, in New York City; during that period he became managing editor of The Catholic Worker.
Later he was a reporter a New York City daily newspaper, The Staten Island Advance, and worked for Religious News Service, a press bureau.
Jim is the author of many books, including The Root of War is Fear: Thomas Merton’s Advice to Peacemakers, Loving Our Enemies: Reflections on the Hardest Commandment, Living With Wisdom: a biography of Thomas Merton, All Is Grace: a biography of Dorothy Day, At Play in the Lions’ Den: a biography and memoir of Daniel Berrigan, The Road to Emmaus: Pilgrimage as a Way of Life, Praying with Icons, The Ladder of the Beatitudes, The Wormwood File: E-Mail from Hell, and Confession: Doorway to Forgiveness. Earlier books include Religion in the New Russia and Pilgrim to the Russian Church. He has written several children’s books, most recently Saint Nicholas and the Nine Golden Coins, Saint George and the Dragon and Silent as a Stone: Mother Maria of Paris and the Trash Can Rescue (a story set in Nazi-occupied France). With Fr Hildo Bos, he co-edited For the Peace from Above: an Orthodox Resource Book on War, Peace and Nationalism. With Tom Cornell and Robert Ellsberg, he co-edited A Penny a Copy: Readings from The Catholic Worker. Translations of his books have been published in Greek, Dutch, Italian, Spanish, Russian, Swedish, Danish, Polish, Korean, Japanese, and Romanian.
Another dimension of Jim’s life has been peace work.
In 1965, he founded the Catholic Peace Fellowship, a group whose work in making known the option of conscientious objection was a factor in the remarkable fact that no religious community produced so many conscientious objectors during the Vietnam War as the Catholic Church.
In connection with work on two books about Russian religious life, in the 1980s Jim traveled widely throughout the former Soviet Union and was a witness to the final days of the USSR. His experiences in Russia were a factor in his becoming, in 1988, an Orthodox Christian. He is an ordained Reader and belongs to St. Nicholas of Myra Russian Orthodox Church in Amsterdam.
Jim is international secretary of the Orthodox Peace Fellowship and, for 21 years, edited its quarterly journal, In Communion. He is now Associate Editor. The journal is archived at http://incommunion.org .
In the late sixties, Jim was responsible for Vietnam program activities of the Fellowship of Reconciliation. One aspect of his work was to travel with and assist Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Buddhist monk and poet.
In 1969-70, Jim was imprisoned for thirteen months as a consequence of his involvement in the “Milwaukee Fourteen,” a group of Catholic priests and lay people who burned draft records.
After leaving prison, he was a member of the Emmaus Community in East Harlem, New York.
In 1973, he was appointed editor of Fellowship, the magazine of the Fellowship of Reconciliation.
In 1977, he moved to Holland to head the staff of the International Fellowship of Reconciliation. He was IFOR’s General Secretary for twelve years.
An influential factor in Jim’s life was his friendship with Thomas Merton, who dedicated Faith and Violence to Jim. Merton’s letters to Jim have been published in The Hidden Ground of Love.
Jim has led retreats in the USA and England and has lectured at hundreds of parishes, theological schools, colleges and universities.
In 1989, he received the Peacemaker Award from Notre Dame University’s Institute for International Peace Studies. In 2007, he was the recipient of the St. Marcellus Award presented annually by the Catholic Peace Fellowship. In 2011, at the University of Wroclaw in Poland, he was presented with the Prince Constantine Ostrogsky Award for “promotion of peace and justice and efforts to safeguard life and creation through life-protecting methods.” In 2014 he was honored with the Esse Non Videri (“to be and not to seem”) Award by St. Joseph’s College on Long Island, NY. In 2015 he was given the Peace and Justice Award of the Thomas Merton Center in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In 2017 he received the “Louie” award from the International Thomas Merton Society.
Regarding his academic credentials, Jim is an auto-didact. He dropped out of high school when he was seventeen. The only formal education he has had since then were meteorology studies while in the Navy (he graduated first in his class from the Navy Weather School) and occasional classes (English literature and art history) at two colleges in New York City, Hunter and the New School for Social Research.
An occasional teacher, in the early seventies, Jim taught at New York Theological Seminary and the College of New Rochelle. In 1985, during a sabbatical, he taught at the Ecumenical Institute, Tantur, near Jerusalem, and in 1999 was part of the summer faculty of the Department of Religion at the University of Dayton.
After several years of being treated for kidney illness, in October 2007 Jim received a transplanted kidney donated by his wife, Nancy.
He is the father of six children and grandfather of ten.
Since 1977 his home has been in Alkmaar, Holland, a city northwest of Amsterdam.
These paragraphs are suggestive. Feel free to propose alternative titles or to suggest other themes. There are different ways of presenting each theme or to connect one with another, depending on the needs and experience of the audience and the time available — an hour, an evening, a day-long seminar, or a weekend retreat.
Loving Our Enemies
Jesus insisted on the love of enemies and provided a life-giving witness to what it meant. How do we practice aspect of Jesus’ teaching? Who is my enemy? Whose enemy am I? What does it mean to love, in the sense the word is used in the New Testament? What does it mean to forgive? Can one forgive those who have committed grave crimes and show no sign of repentance? Jim Forest relies on stories that bring principles to life. When there is time for extended group discussion, participants have time to share personal stories about forgiveness and overcoming enmity.
Dorothy Day: A Saint for Our Time?
Dorothy Day was a person of contradictions: activist and contemplative, political radical and a theological conservative. Intending to found a newspaper, The Catholic Worker, she ended up founding a movement. The most important monuments to her are the many houses of hospitality that stretch from Los Angeles to Amsterdam, places of welcome for many who have been treated as throwaways, but also centers of work for a nonviolent, sharing society. Dorothy Day continues to open doors for many, in terms of spiritual life, community building, the healing of division, service of the poor, and the renewal of churches. Many regard her as one of the saints of our time; her official canonization process is now underway. Jim Forest worked closely with Dorothy Day during the last 20 years of her life. Soon after her death in 1980, he wrote a biography of her, Love is the Measure. Drawing on her diaries and letters, this has now been greatly expanded and given a new title, All is Grace. It was published by Orbis Books in April 2011.
Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton: A Special Friendship
Their autobiographies reveal that Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton had a great deal in common. Both had lived bohemian lives before becoming Catholics. Like Dorothy, Merton had wrestled with the issue of war, deciding that, if Christ had given an example of a nonviolent life, he would attempt to do the same. Both had thought long and hard about the sin of racism. Both were writers. Both were unburdened by any attraction to economic achievement. Merton, like any monk, had taken a vow of poverty — there were things he had use of but nothing he actually owned — while Dorothy was committed to what she called “voluntary poverty.” Though in different circumstances, they both lived very disciplined religious lives — Merton’s day beginning with Mass before dawn and ending not long after sunset with Compline, Dorothy’s including daily Mass, daily rosary, daily periods of prayer and intercession and weekly confession. Both had a marked interest in “eastern” — or Orthodox — Christianity. Both had a degree of pastoral care for others. Both were black sheep. It wasn’t only Merton who was a contemplative. Jim Forest had the good fortune to work closely with both of them.
The Road to Emmaus: Pilgrimage as a Way of Life
In an age of tourism, the great challenge is to see ourselves at a deeper level: the dimension of pilgrimage. Being a pilgrim might involve a journey to distant places associated with God-revealing events at the end of a well-trodden pilgrim path, but it has still more to do with simply living day by day in a God-attentive way. How do we come see one’s life as an opportunity for pilgrimage, whether in places as familiar as your kitchen or walking to Santiago de Compostela? Drawing on the wisdom of the saints and his own wide-ranging travels, Jim Forest talks about both “thin places” and “dark places” that have helped make him a pilgrim, including Jerusalem, Iona, the secret annex of Anne Frank, the experience of illness, the practice of hospitality — occasions of being surprised by grace.
The Pilgrimage of Illness
Any trip has the potential of becoming a pilgrimage, whether to Jerusalem or to your kitchen sink. In my own case in recent years, one of the most ordinary pilgrimages has been going to the hospital.
A routine blood test had indicated my kidneys were failing. In January 2005, dialysis became essential — three, three-hour sessions a week. This kept me alive for two years. Then in the fall of 2007, thanks to a kidney donation made by my wife, I had a kidney transplant. The operation was successful, but follow-up hospital visits remain a standard part of my life.
I’ve learned that far worse things can happen than being chronically ill. Unlike people burdened with the illusions that come with good health, the sick are well aware that they are unable to survive on their own. We’re intensely conscious of our dependence on the care of others. It’s hard to be seriously ill and not be poor in spirit, the first of Christ’s Beatitudes. Because of that, the sick are by definition on the ladder of the Beatitudes. Each of us may still have quite some climbing still to do, but, thanks to illness, at least we’ve made a start.
In a culture which prizes individuality and independence, most of us are reluctant to realize how much we depend on others, though in reality there has never been a day of our lives when this wasn’t the case. We started that dependence the instant we were conceived and it continues without interruption until we take our last breath. We depended on others for love, for encouragement, for inspiration. We depended on others for food. We depended on others for the words and gestures that make communication possible. We depended on others for all the skills we slowly acquired while growing up. We depended on others for wisdom. And yet for much of our lives we managed to nourish the illusion that we were independent and had the right to pat ourselves on the back for whatever good things came our way. The phrase “thank you,” however often it was said out of social necessity, didn’t necessarily reflect a deeply felt attitude. Being sick changes that. The words “thank you” begin to rise from the depths of the heart. In the community of the sick, there aren’t many people unaware how much they depend on the care of others, even if they don’t know most of these others by name.
The Ladder of the Beatitudes
If we recognize the last two verses of the Beatitudes as one, we find there are eight Beatitudes, each of them an aspect of being in communion with God, and each of which we are need to think about again and again as we make progress in our lifelong conversion to Christ. They are like rungs on a ladder — each leads to the next and is placed in a particular order. To reach the second step, we need to make the first step. The idea isn’t that I’ll be a peacemaker while somebody else specializes in poverty of spirit or being pure of heart. The presentation of the Beatitudes links text with stories.
Praying with Icons
An icon may seem to the casual viewer as little more than a primitive painting done by anonymous artisans unaware of techniques that can make a flat surface seem three-dimensional. In fact the icon is intentionally two-dimensional, avoiding the rules of perspective in order to reveal through line, color and symbol what is invisible to a camera. While having an illustrative and also theological function, the icon creates a motionless and silent space in which it is easier to pray. For icons to fulfill their function, we have to learn the art of seeing them and understanding the tradition they come from. This talk is an introduction to a tradition of prayer that has deepened the spiritual lives of millions of people. (Slides available.)
Prayer for Busy People
A vital spiritual life involves a deep sense of the sacred, a readiness to forgive, social responsibility, a way of life centered in love, and a daily rhythm of prayer. While the spiritual life has never been easy, living in a society moving at high speed has made it more difficult to find time for prayer and contemplation. It also involves learning to pray. We will be discussing the foundations and traditions of prayer, looking at our daily life to see where unrecognized opportunities for prayer may exist, discussing the Jesus Prayer and use of the prayer rope or rosary, and the creation of a special place for prayer in daily life.
In Peace Let Us Pray to the Lord
The seventh beatitude is “Blessed are the peacemakers.” Peace is a primary theme of Christian life. It is also central in the Liturgy. In the Orthodox tradition, after the priest announces that “Blessed is the kingdom of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit,” the very next words are, “In peace let us pray to the Lord.” Peace is the precondition of worship. At the end of the Liturgy, the priest tells us “to depart in peace.” We are to take Christ’s peace into the world, to be ourselves a sign of Christ’s peace among those who, in many cases, hardly know who Christ is. We learn from the Liturgy as from the Gospel that peace is not a principle but it is Christ himself: Christ who heals, Christ who forgives, Christ who reaches out to the very people, if we follow the advice of the world, we should avoid, condemn and hate. But how do we live that peace? What does it mean to practice the beatitude of peacemaking?
Confession: the rediscovery of a lost sacrament
The tradition of confession, once ordinary practice among Christians, fell on hard times in recent centuries but is today making a comeback. While most easily found in the Orthodox Church, Christians in other churches are gradually rediscovering a lost sacrament. Perhaps for the next generation, sacramental confession will not be so rare an event as it is today in the life of an ordinary Christian. But for confession to make sense we need to have a better idea of what the much-avoided word “sin” actually means, and to understand that — while God knows all about our sins long before we confess them — the act of a witnessed confession helps strengthen us in the hidden warfare that goes on in each person’s life.
The purpose of this talk (or, on occasion, series of talks) is to help revive confession where it has been abandoned or neglected, to help those present prepare a better confession, and to help those who hear confessions to better serve as Christ’s witness, taking care not to impede the sacrament’s healing strength. Depending on time available, we can consider what sin really means, preparation for confession, what confession involves, the history of the sacrament, confession’s social context, the role of the priest, the question of finding a good confessor, and what can actually happen in confession.
Cleanse Us from All Impurity
The title comes from a prayer widely used by Orthodox Christians and is linked with the beatitude, “Blessed are the pure in heart.” To be cleansed from all impurity is to be given a pure heart. In our brain-centered society, we ought to be scandalized that Christ didn’t say, “Blessed are the pure in mind,” or better yet, “Blessed are the brilliant in mind.” We are, after all, a people who tend to regard not the heart but the brain as the core of self. It’s high praise to be described as bright. No one aspires to be labeled “slow” or “dense.” But what is a pure heart? A heart free of possessiveness, a heart capable of mourning, a heart which thirsts for what is right, a merciful heart, a loving heart, a heart not ruled by passions, an undivided heart, a heart aware of the image of God in others, a heart aware of God’s presence in creation. “A person is truly pure of heart when he considers all human beings as good and no created thing appears impure or defiled to him,” wrote Saint Isaac of Syria….
Treasures of Eastern Christianity
Eastern and western Christianity, though having much in common, in some important respects developed on quite different lines. Easter is to the Orthodox Church what Christmas is in most western churches, a difference which highlights more subtle contrasts. The word “orthodoxy” itself means “right praise,” not “rigid thinking,” the sense the word often has in general western usage. The Orthodox Church in countless ways seeks to strengthen the connection between spiritual and physical activity. It is also the Church that has changed least over the centuries — proof to some that it is a museum Church, confirmation to others that the traditions and resources of Orthodoxy (the Jesus Prayer, prayer with icons, days and seasons of fasting, the “icon” of the church year, etc.) are deep and rich enough not to be swept away by short-lived fads and ideologies. What can we in the west learn from Orthodoxy to deepen our own spiritual lives?
The French poet Leon Bloy wrote: “Joy is the most infallible sign of the presence of God.” Many people think of mystical experiences — meaning vivid encounters with God — as being granted to the occasional saint who has fasted half way to heaven. Yet there is not a single person whom God doesn’t know intimately and love, nor anyone who hasn’t experienced in some way God’s presence. The only problem is that often we don’t recognize the deeper meaning and significance of those moments — moments in which God gives us a glimpse of our true selves and at the same time places us, even if only for a flash, in a state of communion with all of creation, visible and invisible. Thomas Merton occasionally referred to such moments as “kisses from God.” Ideally, if there is enough time, those present take some time alone to identify an experience of joy in their lives, to try to see God’s presence in that event, and write about it — then come back to share with each other.
Few taunts are sharper than those that call into question someone’s sanity or intelligence. Yet in the calendars of the Church both east and west, there are saints whose way of life flies in the face of what most of us regard as sanity. The Orthodox Church refers to them as holy fools, or fools for Christ’s sake. These are people in whom Christ wears the disguise of madness. They are people who in most parts of the developed world would be locked away in asylums or ignored until the elements silenced them. While never harming anyone, holy fools raise their voices against those who lie and cheat and do violence to others, but at the same time they are always ready to embrace these same greedy and ruthless people. They take everyone seriously. For them no one is unimportant. Their dramatic gestures always have to do with revealing the person of Christ and his mercy. Forest describes several holy fools — St. Francis of Assisi, St. Basil of Moscow, St. Xenia of St. Petersburg — and explores the meaning of holy fools for those of us trying hard not to be called foolish or crazy.
Thomas Merton: Living with Wisdom
Few people have touched so many lives as the Trappist monk Thomas Merton. The Seven Storey Mountain, his autobiography, is one of the great conversion stories. He died in 1968, yet his books remain in print in many languages while new books about Merton appear each year. In the last decade of his life, Merton became deeply engaged in efforts to end racism and find nonviolent alternatives to war. Through correspondence and visits, he was in touch with many artists and poets, two popes, Christians of other churches, and prominent figures in other religions, including Thich Nhat Hanh and the Dalai Lama. During the last seven years of his life, Jim and Merton often corresponded and Jim was twice Merton’s guest at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky. One of Merton’s books, Faith and Violence, was dedicated to Jim. Jim is the author of a biography of Merton, Living With Wisdom, published by Orbis Books. Various stresses are possible in the talk depending on the background and special interests of the audience: an overview of his life, the evolution of his understanding of Christianity, his engagement with eastern religions, his involvement in the peace movement, and methods he recommended for prayer and meditation.
Thomas Merton and the 21st Century
Not many monks become famous — it’s the opposite of what a monk is looking for. Thomas Merton was an exception. When his autobiography was published soon after World War II, to everyone’s surprise it not only sold well but became a major best-seller. It’s one of those rare books that has never gone out of print. Though Merton died in 1968, age 54, his books are still widely read. What makes him someone who was important not just in the 20th century, but in the 21st? Forest will be looking at Merton’s insights on such issues as technology, consumerism, inter-faith tensions (especially with Islam), the role of compassion and mercy in human affairs, the necessity of interiority in a culture of “weapons of mass distraction,” and the “God question” in a time of renewed promotion of atheism. One of Merton’s books, “Faith and Violence,” was dedicated to Jim. Jim is the author of a biography of Merton, “Living With Wisdom,” published by Orbis Books.
Thomas Merton: Bridge to the Christian East
For all that has been written about him, it is remarkable how little attention is paid to Merton’s debt to Orthodoxy. From the icons his dying father was drawing when Merton was a teenager to the hand-painted icon Merton had with him at the end of his own life, Merton was profoundly influenced by Eastern Christianity. At the heart of his spiritual life was the Jesus Prayer and the “apophatic” tradition associated with Mount Athos. He became a bridge linking east and west, living reunion in the depths of his spiritual life. What drew him to “the Christ of the icons” in contrast to “the historical Jesus” sought in much of the western Church? What did he learn from eastern Orthodoxy? What doors can his discoveries open for us?
Thomas Merton’s Advice to Peacemakers
The key events of Merton’s life were marked by war: He was born in France during the First World War, was nearly killed by young Nazis in Germany in the early 1930s, entered the monastic life just a few weeks after Pearl Harbor, and died in Asia while the Vietnam war was raging. While critical of “all movements and causes,” through frequent letters to peace activists, Jim Forest among them, he played a crucial pastoral role in the peace movement during the Vietnam war. He considered Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Buddhist monk, “more my brother than many who are nearer to me in race and nationality.” For his outspoken opposition to war and the arms rare, he was silenced for a time by his superiors but finally was vindicated.
See also “Practical questions…”
Contact Jim Forest at [email protected] if you want to set a date or need more information.