Traditionalism

NB*** - Look further down for photos. Because I post in chronological order, the posts are displayed in reverse order. Ish. This is a reflective "what's on John's mind these days" piece. Read on if that sounds like fun to you. I make no apologies for my long-windedness. Part of the appeal of blogging is the creeping sense that no one really reads what you write anyway.

A while back, at an NCCF winter retreat, a speaker (and I'm ashamed I don't remember which one or which year. My 2nd or 3rd year of Uni, I think. Maybe the one who brought the cup of drink downstairs and broke the rules) had us look through a survey or something, but with the goal of talking about our preferred worship and discipleship styles. I came out strongly "traditionalist". I wasn't sure exactly what this meant but the only other person in my group was Evan and so we chatted about our roots; mine Anglican and his Presbyterian. Supposedly we found meaning in being connected to other believers around the world and in time by tradition, and that the structure and ritual of liturgy was a useful way for us to experience God. At the time it settled on me a little uncomfortably, but the more time I put between then and now the more I think I understand.
Being in London, attending a COE (albeit a mite unconventional) church and seeing some of the oldest places and practices in English Christianity has been exposing me to something I never really got or saw back home: traditionalism. Feeling like you're a part of the body of Christ not just all over the world but in 2000 years of Church history, each era like its own distinct member of the body of Christ as much as the regions of the world in this one moment. I've been reflecting on this a lot, especially this morning (as you can likely tell from the timestamp, I finally got a day off) and I would submit that I am coming to recognize a number of benefits I've been gleaning from this way of relating to God, but also a couple distinct dangers and weaknesses of traditionalism.
Before I really get going, I should clarify. There are a couple things I think of when I refer to traditional Christianity. One is structured liturgy, especially the oft-maligned  'stand-up, sit-down, repeat after me' service structure found often in the Catholic, Anglican, Lutheran, Presbyterian... the list goes on. Lets just say 'old' denominations. Along with this comes something quite foreign to my evangelical protestant and baptist experiences: written and composed prayers. Recitation of certain prayers, be they the Lord's Prayer, Eucharistic Prayers, The Magnificat and Nunc et Dimitis, Hail Mary, etc. And finally, it's mostly safe to add aesthetics to the list: robes, candles, incense, icons, stained glass, organs, cloisters, flying buttresses and the like.
I think, especially among young evangelicals like the people I went to school and youth group with, the reasons they find it harder to worship in these kinds of traditions are fairly obvious. The rigidity of the liturgy can make it difficult to express your worship more personally. Or maybe it's better to say that the uniformity of the structure makes it difficult to internalize and personalize your worship. Some have gone so far as to tell me that they think it's easier to play church and religion in a more structured denomination than in less-controlled ones. I'm afraid our Catholic brothers and sisters usually end up on the receiving end of these kinds of observations, and that hurts my heart a bit. I understand it, but it hurts.
When I first started steeping myself in this long-dormant side of my worship life (which wasn't as deliberate as you may think, and just sorta happened where God planted us), I felt myself growing more and more disquieted by that kind of thinking I'd heard all too much. I confess I even entertained the very uncharitable thought that this line of thinking was arrogant and sinful. I repent of this thinking now; knowing that it's just as prideful if not more so for me to pass judgement on those who I think are judgemental. I'm growing to believe quite strongly that the road to intellectual and spiritual maturity in this area is about balance and openness; not finding the correct entrenchment so much as realizing the trenches aren't important.
Thus, I've been reaping some really unexpected benefits from throwing myself, albeit cautiously, into more traditional worship forms. I think I've already detailed in a previous post the experience Alyssa and I had going to an choral evensong service at Westminster Abbey. Standing in that place that's housed 1000 years of praise to God, and listening to the beautifully orchestrated voices of the choir rising unamplified into the great stone arching ceiling made me feel a kinship with the medieval peasants and nobles who have stood in the same place, looking up into the same ceiling, trying to look through it to the majesty of God and listening to the same lilting song. It was something else. I had a similar feeling this past trip; we stepped into a small Byzantine Church in the northwest corner of the Agora. For around 700 years that little chapel had been there; the worship space only big enough for a few people at a time to come in, kneel and pray in front of the painted icons and pictures of Christ, using his image and other imagery to help them draw more tangibly into God's presence as they prayed.
I get that not everyone in Westminster has gone there with an open heart to praise God in spirit and truth. I really do. But If I was there to do it, then someone else must have been, and the numbers of people who had been over the building's history begins to stagger the imagination. In a big way, I think common liturgy and ancient practice isn't about clinging to tradition. It's about connecting us in the atemporal body of Christ. Keeping perspective. Today is not more important than yesterday or tomorrow. Sure, it can create a culture less responsive to change and it also makes its fair share of entrenched and stubborn older folks who refuse to let young and zealous Christians change anything. As the old joke goes: "how many Anglicans does it take to change a Lightbulb? Change? Change!? My grandfather installed the lightbulb 63 years ago and I won't let you trod on his legacy by undoing his labours!" But I think this is a side effect of some really useful medicine.
Also, I've been experimenting with ancient prayers and meditative practice. Everyone goes through spells where regular bible reading and prayer is difficult. Sometimes I feel like I go through more spells than non-spells. This is why people pray a rosary. Turns out that someone ran into the same problem 800 years ago. I don't use a rosary, but I've been trying to open my morning prayer time reading through Mary's song of praise: the Magnificat. Like a front door to time with God. It helps bring my sleepy and unwilling mind and heart into a place of focus. It helps. It's a tool. I know it's not magic, and I'd never say someone was less holy for not doing it. That's the overextension of the practice. But it helps. Take a careful look at the words:
My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,
for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant.
From now on all generations will call me blessed;
for he who is mighty has done great things for me,
and holy is his name.
And his mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
he has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts;
he has brought down the mighty from their thrones
and exalted those of humble estate;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich he has sent away empty.
he has helped his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy,
as he spoke to our fathers,
to Abraham and to his offspring forever.
Isn't it something else? It gets me in a different way each time I read it. It's honest and it's praise. It gives all the glory to God but it includes us in the action. That was the bit that got me the first time. "my soul", "my spirit", "call me blessed", and "great things for me,". I need this in the mornings. I need to know that not only is God great and the God with a plan much bigger than me, but that He in His inscrutable benevolence and care chooses to include me in His plan. He is faithful in the big and the small. And He is just as well as loving.
And then, in mid day when I can or on the train, I try to meditate and read slowly through Zechariah's prophecy right in the same chapter; remembering God's covenant and its fulfillment in Christ. Uniting my prayers and praise with this holy man of God and this holy woman who both loved Him so much. Protestants get a bit down on mary because we think catholics are a little intense about her, but this lady was a big deal. And her song is like a model. Is it the entirety of my worship and prayer and study? No. But it's a front door. It's a tool to bring me into focus and to connect myself to the bigger story.
Now, for every good idea that a man comes up with, and that's what liturgy is, there's a way it can be corrupted and misapplied. Sure. The newsflash, and I think this is especially important for those of us who like to hero-worship the Puritans, is that men cannot create the kingdom of God on Earth. We cannot make a church or a society or a country whose systems are sufficiently well-governed, benevolent, straight-forward, adaptable, or whatever that they cannot and will not be used for spiritual harm. I started my morning watching an old Mark Driscoll sermon from 2009 (I'm really behind on my podcasts) where he stands on the temple steps in Jerusalem and finished with a blow that caught me in the gut. Why did Jesus prophecy and then allow/effect the destruction of the temple? Why? It was an idol. It was the biggest idol of them all. And when we look at the Dome of the Roc or the Jews at the wailing wall, we see it, don't we? The temple of God is now in the people of God. Our great high priest is Jesus, and he fulfills every purpose that the temple once did. The space isn't magical. The space helps, but a prayer from my little flat carries the same power and promise as one uttered on the mount of Olives. And the moment that we allow the structure and place and ritual and tool - that a caring and God-fearing person once designed to help us into His presence - to become the object and not the tool or our praise, we become idolaters, too. The moment we let a creed or doctrine, which though abstract are still created things, become a block in our praise for God, it is an idol. An old-old podcast from Bruxy Cavey I heard last week said the same thing. It doesn't matter if you are a Calvinist or an Armenian (what he was talking about). It really doesn't. The moment you allow a created thing, even if that created thing is a logically consistent systematic theology, to occupy the space that god is supposed to occupy, you are in error. If we attach what we build to the gospel like it's a package deal, we are idolaters, we are in sin and we need a rebuke.

To make a very long story short:

When we come home I fully expect to return to contemporary worship, evangelical churches and likely a baptist/pentecostal/gospel - ish denomination. I have not been re-converted to Anglicanism. But I will be coming home with some perspective and some new tools to try. And truth be told, if someone had told me those were the kinds of souvenirs I could expect to bring home from my travels, I'd have been very pleasantly surprised. They sure beat the heck out of the fluffy pom-pom slippers I got in Athens.

Day 4 - The Agora

It was raining a little this morning but since it was our last full day in Athens we were not going to be dissuaded in our quest to see the last obligatory thing on our to-do list: the Ancient Agora. Cutting a path through some of the oldest parts of the city, we went looking for the ground where Socrates, Plato and the Apostle Paul trod.

Our path led us through the winding lanes of the Anafiotika, or "Little Anafi" - a place where Islanders from Anafi came to Athens and built a whole whack of white plaster houses just like in the Greek islands. The place is a small little tight-knit burrough in the middle of a busy city and nowadays is traditionally used by the rich as an island cottage without leaving the city. It's also at the very base of the Acropolis. Hard to find better real estate than that, I think.

The rain picked up enough for us to decide it would be good to stop for breakfast. I took this shot because, like many other cafes and restaurants we'd been in this week, colourful garlands and pictures of clowns were decorating everything. As if every restaurant in Athens were being used for a 6 year old's birthday party. Turns out there was some big party - one local described it as a Greek Halloween, but I think it's more masks than haunting and ghouls - that evening. We got a video of a band marching past our hostel that night, but I'm reluctant to try to post it online. We can show it around when we get back. 

 Our path took us past Hadrian's library again. In his day, the intellectual centre had moved from the Agora to this place only a few hundred metres away.

Foreground: Hadrian's Library. Background: you darn well better know by now what that is.

Mars Hill, as seen from the southern edge of the Agora. Paul could practically have shouted down at them if he'd wanted to.

 Today the Agora is largely in ruins. It's been wrecked, rebuilt and wrecked half a dozen times since Socrates' day and only in the pas 100 years did some nosy and uptight Americans seal off the place and start properly excavating. Some of the ruins have been permanently lost by the metro tracks just south of this point.

The most impressive building is, of course, not a real one. The Stoa of Attallos has been painstakingly reconstructed from ancient sources where it once stood, and now houses the Agora Museum (full of little bits and pieces they wanted to keep indoors) and the American Classical Society (or something like that. The excavation teams, anyway). In its day, the Stoa would have been like a mall, with space for a number of shops and stalls on its porches and in the walled interior.

This is an ancient Greek baby's potty. Yeah. Cool, huh?

I know these look like just any broken clay pieces, but these are genuine ostraka - broken pieces of clay with people's names scratched on them. In the newborn Athenian democracy, they were so frightened that a popular leader could rise to power and re-instate the tyranny of past days that every year they would vote using broken clay shards. Whoever's name was written down the most times was banished from the city for a year (I think). And check out who people wanted to kick out: Pericles, the leader who brought us the Parthenon. Themistokles, a major general in the Peloponesian wars.

This is a clepsydra - a water clock Athenian speakers had to time-limit their speeches. Skilled orators maxed out their time by being good to the last drop.

A Spartan shield, left behind at a major battle and put on display in the Athenian agora to mock their cowardice. Because hoplite shields were so heavy, the only way to retreat was to drop your shield and run. Hence, abandoning your shield was the universal symbol of cowardice. This is why Spartan warriors were often sent to battle with the words "Come back with your shield, or on it".

The Temple of Hephaistios looks to me like it was built around the same time as the Parthenon. It has similar structural and decorative components: Doric columns, Metopes, and a frieze.

I know I keep taking photos of the Acropolis, but there are a lot of good vantage points of it and it kinda sticks out.

This is a statue of Hadrian. Check out the breastplate. Athena and two winged Nikes are standing gloriously atop the Roman she-wolf suckling the infants Romulus and Remus. This thing is a walking propaganda piece: Athens was only great and victorious when standing on the sure foundation of Rome.
Then again, Athens had a lot to be grateful to Hadrian for. The Greek-loving emperor (and I mean in more ways than one; his companion Antinous was, reportedly, a handsome young greek boy) invested huge amounts of Imperial money into building a new and great Athens in his day.

That's kinda the end of the photos. The rest of the story's a bit mundane. We grabbed some to-go gyros at a local chow stop and trekked back to the hostel. I finished my book, we played travel monopoly, and we watched a small musical parade go past our window. I think we struck a really nice balance between exploration and relaxation this trip, and though we were ready to come back to London, it was hard to say goodbye to Athens. Hopefully, it's not goodbye forever.

Day 3 - Piraeus

People told us, in the planning stages leading up to our trip to Greece, that we simply had to get to a Greek island for a couple days. As we looked into it, though, the prospect of a second hotel, the ferry ride, and a couple extra days blown in transit with all our stuff started to look a little full for our supply teacher budget and our school holiday timeline.

As a consolation prize, we decided to expose ourselves to the turquoise waters of the Aegean another way; we took a day trip on the metro down to the port of Piraeus; the port town that made Athens great., for some exploring and beach-walking.

On the recommendation of a travel guide near the hostel, we got off the metro one stop before the port to walk along the seaside with its cafes and shops towards the port. What they didn't mention was that this stop, beside two large sports arenas, wasn't exactly the touristy part of town. We weren't unsafe or anything, but we really felt the off-season nature of our visit.

Like any modern sea-side, the area around Piraeus is dotted with marinas and boathouses. It started to rain as we passed through and we ducked into a cafe for a coffee.

A word, actually, on Greek coffee. It was not, as they say, our cup of tea (ba dum pish!). It's kinda grainy and tastes funny. We elected to stick to instant and filter coffee after our first experience.

The further we walked, the nicer the area got. We decided to camp out on the beach for a while to rest our feet, and I decided to step in the icy February waters so I could say I've stepped in the Mediterranean. We also enjoyed watching a small group of older Greek men, one of whom jogged a 5 metre circuit back and forth while he talked to the others.

 
We almost ran into a much bigger marina with some truly staggering boats, many of which appeared to be British-owned.

As the day was winding up and we still had no idea how to get home, we asked newsagents to point us to the port, and we cut through the streets to the water on the other side of the peninsula.

Piraeus is the major port of Athens. In its heyday in the Golden Age, it was walled in and connected to Athens by long, guarded walls, rendering the city effectively siege-proof. Now, it's a major stoping point not only for the dozens of ferries to Greece's islands, but major Mediterranean cruise liners and lots of commercial shipping, too.

Greek letters quiz: this boat is called "Poseidon Ellas" or "Greek Poseidon (the god of the seas)".

Eventually we found our way to the Metro and made our way back to Athens before nightfall. It wasn't much of a Greek sea-side experience, but I think it was pretty good for about 2.50 euros each.