Bearing God: The life and works of St. Ignatius of Antioch (A.S. Damick)


One of the things I gained as I entered into Orthodox Christianity is a fuller sense of the history of the Christian church. As a Protestant, I considered the 14 centuries between the 1st century church of Acts, and then Luther’s reformation in the 16th century as something of a black hole,where nothing of significance happened. In hindsight, this point of view was absurd.  Christ declared of the church he built, that the “gates of hell shall not prevail against it”- how could it just die for 1400 years to be revived by Luther? And to ignore this period of history, the transition between the time of Acts and our time, ignores an age when the Christian faith was spreading like wildfire despite intense persecution, ignores the works and sacrifices of many righteous martyrs, and ignores some of the most profound and influential theological writings.

Bearing God: The life and works of St. Ignatius of Antioch  was written by Father Andrew Stephen Damick, a prominent Orthodox Christian author and an American priest under the Antiochian tradition. For Father Damick, learning of this “lost history” of the Christian church was the impetus for him discovering the Orthodox Christian faith. The epistles written by St. Ignatius of Antioch were especially significant for him, for reasons he explains in great detail in this preview of the book.

St. Ignatius was a prominent figure in the early Christian church in the 1st and early 2nd centuries. He was bishop of Antioch and a disciple of the Apostle John. Father Damick’s book discusses several letters St. Ignatius wrote to the churches of his time, as he was being taken to Rome to die for his faith (the texts of the letters can be found here). As someone brought up in the faith by Jesus’ disciples, St. Ignatius serves as a bridge between the church of Acts and our church today.

Father Damick writes his book not as a historical or theological treatise, rather, he discusses the letters of St. Ignatius in a pastoral, devotional manner- very focused on what these letters say about how we should live our lives today. The book is a very easy read: I finished the whole thing in a few hours. The source material, the epistles of St. Ignatius, are also very short and easy to understand.

The main themes of St. Ignatius’ letters are that of sacrifice and of community. St. Ignatius was condemned to die in faith, and he wrote these letters when as he was taken from Syria to Rome for his execution. We see how much St. Ignatius is looking forward to his martyrdom, and Father Damick explains masterfully how this ties in to Ignatius’ theology, and how even for us in modern times the attitude and practice of self-sacrifice is essential in our Christian faith.

The letters also explain at length how St. Ignatius saw the church, and how important Christian unity was to him. He writes at length about the role of the bishop, and how important it was for Christians to respect their city’s bishop, and to be united under his leadership. Father Damick emphasizes how the individualism of our day contrasts with St. Ignatius’ description of the 1st-century church.

There have been so many movements in Christianity seeking to re-establish the 1st Century Christian church- and so much ink spent on speculating what that Acts church to be like. St. Ignatius is uniquely positioned in this regard. To best understand how the church of the Apostles worked, it makes sense to consult someone who grew up in the first century, under the direct guidance of the Apostles. We see that the church that emerges from St. Ignatius’ letters it not very different from the Orthodox church today.






Three years Orthodox

I was received into Orthodoxy through the Antiochian Orthodox Christian Archdiocese of North America on the Sunday after Theophany, 2015 (new Calendar).  I have thus completed my third year in the orthodox church.  I suppose this is a good time as any for some reflection.

I came across this thoughtful quote by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn:

“If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”

-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Gulag Archipelago

I feel that this quote encapsulates the most important ways my thinking has shifted, having lived in the orthodox way for these three years. Contemporary secular morality defaults to dividing between “good people” and “bad people” (prompting the Solzhenitsyn quote above) and protestant thinking divides between “saved” and “unsaved” in a similar way. The “lifeboat analogy” is a very common part of protestant teaching: the idea that Christians are on a lifeboat, and our calling is to convince the rest of the world to get on.

In Orthodoxy,  the line between good and evil, between saved and unsaved is not between one person and another,  but within each person’s heart. For these first three years, the most influential lines of the liturgy for me has been these words in the prayer before communion, taken from 1 Timothy 1:15:

I believe, O Lord, and I confess that Thou art truly the Christ, the Son of the Living God, Who came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief…

I am very grateful how the Orthodox faith has such a healthy attitude toward guilt. We talk of sin as if it were a sickness, and the work of overcoming sin as if it were therapy. Whereas as a Protestant I believed that Christ simply and immediately removes the sin of the Christian, in the Orthodox faith Christ’s work of salvation in us is slow, gradual, and happens with our participation. We participate by being alert to our failings and repenting continually from our sins. If we do this right, we are too focused on our own faults to have time to judge the wrongs of other people. Why do you look at the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? A lot better to regard your own sins as much worse than the sins of those around you.

For these three years, Orthodox living has been a patient, painful process of spiritual growth: “destroying a piece of my heart” as Solzhenitsyn put it, or “dying to myself” as the New Testament says. I have slowly recognized the many ways in which I have been callous and hurtful to other people, and forced myself to confront the flimsy justifications I have made for awful behavior. I am beginning to see how I am often coldly dismissive of others’ hopes, needs and vulnerabilities,   and how my desire to correct others’ faults comes not from a place of love, but self-righteousness and judgment. Lord have mercy on me, a sinner!

But these realizations do not lead to despair, but to hope. I continually repent, I continually surrender my broken self, I continually acknowledge my helplessness before the God who can do all things, and today I look forward to  Christ’s victory over my yesterday failings.

It is not that I was unaware of these unhealthy tendencies before I became Orthodox. But as a Protestant my spiritual focus was outward- towards the unforgiven sin in the non-believers around me, towards the wickedness and injustice in society. I mostly saw repentance as something I did in the past, and I considered continually dwelling on my own sin after accepting Christ as something pathological.

I think I am in a healthier place now, but I am still very new to the Orthodox faith, and there is still a lot I don’t understand, and a lot that I am probably doing wrong. In particular, I hope in the next few years I will learn what it means to live an Orthodox Christian life in an unjust society. As a Protestant, I felt that I was more in tune with the plight of the poor and suffering. Now, all my energy and attention is focused towards my sin and my spiritual growth, and in building up the church in Malaysia. The author of Ecclesiastes writes that “in everything there is a season”, and perhaps my attention is focused inward just for this time. But in the lives of the Orthodox saints I see how so many of them sacrificed a great deal for the sake of the poor and oppressed, and how there was harmony, not contradiction between their inward spiritual formation and their outward action. I haven’t figured that out yet. By God’s grace maybe I will.


The Brothers Karamazov (F. Dostoevsky)

“… we are of a broad, Karamazovian nature- capable of containing all possible opposites and of contemplating both abysses at once, the abyss above us, an abyss of lofty ideals, and the abyss beneath us, an abyss of the lowest and foulest degradation.”

The first time I had heard of this literary classic was from the leader of my college small group when I was going to a protestant church. Having read it, I am a little surprised at the wide appeal of the Brothers Karamazov- I thought it was a thoroughly Orthodox Christian book, and a lot of its themes resonate most deeply to someone fully immersed in Orthodox life. It speaks to the author’s skill that this book has become an enduring favorite nevertheless, even for people completely unfamiliar with Eastern Orthodoxy.

The Brothers Karamazov is a story set in late 19th century Russia, centered around the dysfunctions of the titular Karamazov family.  The main driver of the plot is a dispute between the father, Fyodor and his eldest son Dmitri, a tussle that escalates quickly into tragedy.


I enjoyed greatly the strong characterization in this book. In particular, the four Karamazovs are very different people, and Dostoyevsky fleshes them all out beautifully. The patriarch, Fyodor is an amoral old rascal. His eldest son, Dmitri, is a hot-tempered and passionate young man bound by a quixotic sense of honour. The middle child, Ivan is a reserved, cynical intellectual coping with some deep neuroses. Alyosha, the youngest Karamazov, is a sensitive, thoughtful novice at the local monastery. The interactions between these four thoroughly different people create some delightfully memorable scenes.

Alyosha Karamazov is the main character of the story, and we see the events of the story mostly through his eyes. This works a little strangely, since he is the Karamazov brother least directly involved with the central conflict of the book. He influences the story in subtle but decisive ways, and his interactions with the elderly monk Zosima form the spiritual heart of the novel.

The scenes at Alyosha’s monastery are based on Dostoevsky’s visits to the real-life Optina monastery, and Elder Zosima is based loosely on Saint Tikhon of Zadonsk. My favorite passages in the book are Elder Zosima’s homilies, which delve rather deeply into Orthodox thought and theology. These, at the surface rather unrelated to the principal plot of the book, but we see later how they drive Alysoha’s actions in important ways. The monastery scenes contain beautiful discourses on love, forgiveness, refraining from judging others. These discourses are ever more beautiful and necessary given how dark other parts of the book can be.

“Brothers, do not be afraid of men’s sin, love man also in his sin, for this likeness of God’s love is the height of love on earth. Love all of God’s creation, both the whole of it and every grain of sand. Love every leaf, every ray of God’s light. Love animals, love plants, love each thing. If you love each thing, you will perceive the mystery of God in things. Once you have perceived it, you will begin tirelessly to perceive more and more of it every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an entire, universal love…”

“Brothers, love is a teacher, but one must know how to acquire it, for it is difficult to acquire, it is dearly bought, by long work over a long time, for one ought to love not for a chance moment but for all time. Anyone, even a wicked man, can love by chance.”

There are other very strong philosophical discourses in the book.  A chapter where Ivan Karamazov explains his objections to Christianity, the Grand Inquisitor, is prominent enough to get its own Wikipedia page. It is a credit to the author that he is able to articulate compellingly both Ivan’s arguments against the existence of a benevolent God, and Zosima’s stirring homilies on the necessity of Christian faith.

The story itself feels a little incomplete however, and most of the character arcs seem unfinished.  Apparently people think that this book was supposed to be the first in a series that Dostoevsky was unable to continue before he died. But this is not to say that the novel ends without resolution. We are treated to a wonderful epilogue at the end, at the funeral of a young child, where Alyosha and the dead boy’s friends talk of the hope that they will see him again in the resurrection. This hopeful ending, rather unrelated to the main events of the book, nevertheless ties all the themes of the book together.

This novel is a classic, with a very profound portrayal of Orthodox thinking, and of Christian lives lived well. I think Orthodox Christians especially would get a lot out of the Brothers Karamazov.





Small church

Photo by Natacha Pisarenko/AP. Source

For most Orthodox Christians living outside traditionally Orthodox countries, the reality of church life is the mission church. These are small communities, perhaps as small as a dozen or so people, some with full-time priests and some without, with shaky finances and a skeleton staff.

For me this took some getting used to I have always been a big city boy. Church was always this enormous, powerful institution with hundreds or thousands of people. The nice thing about being in a large church is that you got to pick what to invest yourself in. There are all sort of groups, classes, ministries, and other activities, and you can just choose whatever you are passionate about.

Life in a small church is very different. Literally four months after I was charismated, my church ended up in need of a chanter. Either I had to do it, or we would have no music at all for our vespers and matins services. The trouble is, I had the shallowest understanding of Byzantine chant, to the point that I did not know what the eight tones are. But with the blessing of the priest, I became the chanter for our tiny church, and quite possibly the worst chanter in all of Orthodoxy! Thankfully, a few months after, someone a lot more competent came along to take over./

But this is the reality of life in a small church. You want an outreach to the poor? Then raise the money. You want there to be food after service? Then cook and bake. You want the church grounds to look nice? Then mow and plant. If you do not do something, it just does not get done. There is no one else who can step up if you do not serve.

There is a stressful, anxious, and draining side to this sort of church life. But it has been incredibly rewarding as well. You learn a lot about obedience, about self-sacrifice, about trusting in others and trusting in God. When your church has a large congregation and a lot of resources, your individual contribution becomes less crucial, so church involvement can become more about self-satisfaction than servanthood. In a small church, strapped for resources,  it doesn’t matter what you are passionate in, or where your comfort zone is. If something needs to get done we have to do your best, and trust and hope that God in his mercy can make something of our meager efforts.




Pentecost is the celebration of the coming of the Holy Spirit, seven weeks after Easter. Pentecost Sunday is a very important feast in Orthodoxy, and one of the longest services of the year. In one sense, Pentecost marks the beginning of the New Testament church. The Holy Spirit entering the followers of Jesus Christ enabled them to continue his work in the world.

One theme God often works in such a way that requires our participation.  In the creation, Adam participates by naming the animals. In the Exodus, God’s plan to free Israel involves Moses, Aaron and Joshua. And in the New Testament, Jesus does not save the world without our involvement, but rather  sends the Holy Spirit to enable us to finish what he started.


One interesting feature of the Pentecost icon is this strange figure in the middle surrounded by blackness. He represents “Cosmos”: the world shrouded in darkness. Upon receiving the Holy Spirit, the followers of Christ were to set forth into the cosmos and make right all that is broken. This Holy Spirit is a gift not just for our benefit, but for us to bless the whole world.

When tragedy strikes, it is a natural response for people to ask “where is God?”. Why isn’t God intervening when terrible things happen? Pentecost gives us a rather difficult answer. One reason that God does not appear to act in this world is that we Christians have, in our weakness, not been faithful to the charge given us. Lord have mercy!

After the feast, we have a time of fasting, known as the “Fast of the Apostles”. This fast represents our preparation where, upon receiving the Holy Spirit we set forth into the world to continue Jesus’ work of healing and redemption. This Pentecost, may we be reminded of how God does remarkable things through unremarkable people. As goes the Troparion hymn for the day:

Blessed art You O Christ Our God / You have revealed the fishermen as most wise / By sending down upon them the Holy Spirit / Through them You drew the world into Your net / O Lover of Man, Glory to You!



During Holy Eucharist, there is a red cloth that we use to make sure none of the bread or wine spills to the ground when it is administered. It looks something like this:

Pciture taken from the Mendeleyev Journal

I had the privilege once of helping my priest when he was cleaning the communion cloths. It was quite an experience! First of all, the priest had to wash it himself and by hand, despite the fact that we had a washing machine and dryer at church. Secondly, I had to dig a large hole in the church courtyard where we would pour the soap water after he was done washing, because it was improper for water that had touched the body and blood of Christ to go down the drain.

These traditions may seem to the outsider to be strange and archaic, and all the effort we put in may seem to be a big waste of time. But I appreciated the great degree of reverence that Orthodox practice confers on things that are sacred, even in the washing of communion cloths when nobody is watching. This is a big contrast to churches I have been to in the past, where I have seen breadcrumbs from communion littering the church floor, and being stepped on by the congregation!

I think I appreciate this reverence a lot more because I grew up in a monarchy. My mother told me this story once when a brother of the Sultan was admitted to the hospital she was working at. They had to obtain new yellow bed-sheets just for him (yellow is the color of royalty in Malaysia), and these bed-sheets had to be burned after he was discharged, so no commoner would use them and suffer the tulah. In Malay culture, the tulah is a deadly curse said to come upon someone who handles royal things improperly.


Due reverence to sacred things is deeply ingrained in both the old and new testaments, and in the tradition of the church.  Two stories come to mind. First, is the story of the anointing of Jesus in John 12:1-8

Six days before the Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus lived, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. Here a dinner was given in Jesus’ honor. Martha served, while Lazarus was among those reclining at the table with him. Then Mary took about a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus’ feet and wiped his feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.

But one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, who was later to betray him, objected, “Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? It was worth a year’s wages.” He did not say this because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief; as keeper of the money bag, he used to help himself to what was put into it.

“Leave her alone,” Jesus replied. “It was intended that she should save this perfume for the day of my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”

Second, is the story of Uzzah in 2 Samuel 6 3b-7:

Uzzah and Ahio, sons of Abinadab, were guiding the new cart with the ark of God on it, and Ahio was walking in front of it. David and all Israel were celebrating with all their might before the Lord, with castanets, harps, lyres, timbrels, sistrums and cymbals.

When they came to the threshing floor of Nakon, Uzzah reached out and took hold of the ark of God, because the oxen stumbled. The Lord’s anger burned against Uzzah because of his irreverent act; therefore God struck him down, and he died there beside the ark of God.

This incident is mentioned in the Great Canon of Saint Andrew, a prominent prayer in the Orthodox Lenten liturgy

Merely for touching the Covenant Box to prevent its falling to the ground, Uzzah was struck dead by God. Avoid His anger at such presumption, O my soul, by showing true honor to holy things.

I have noticed that friends who grew up in America tend to struggle greatly with these two passages. For one unused to the idea of reverence, it seems that Judas is right, and that the expensive perfume is better used to feed the poor, and Jesus’ statement you will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me seems awfully callous. Similarly, Uzzah’s fate seems incredibly unfair, and God’s punishment in this instance seems very arbitrary.

I understand the modern arguments against monarchy. Republics are built on the idea that all people are created equal, and that leaders should be subject to the people and answer to them, rather than the other way round. Trouble arises however when people try to apply these ideas not to kings of flesh and blood, but to the divine. You are not equal to God, and he is not accountable to you the way that a Prime Minister or a Member of Parliament is.

I am grateful for the many small Orthodox practices that remind me constantly of this reverence. We bow frequently in services, we treat icons of Christ and the saints with incredible care, and we treasure all sacred things, whether they come in the form of holy water, holy oil, or even the communion cloth. This is an important reminder that when we worship we are before a being far greater than we are, that we are a finite thing facing unbounded greatness. The things of God are beyond our comprehension, and since we cannot understand how the grace of God operates in the sacred things, we should treat them with care.

But with this caution, comes hope. For if the divine is  greater than we are, so far beyond our comprehension, then surely the intractable problems of our lives and in our world, unsolvable in our human limitations are not beyond God’s saving work. We have the courage to press on, even when it seems to us that all hope is lost, trusting in the limitless God to overcome our limitations