I watched this vid from Religion & Ethics News Weekly this morning and it reminded me of the work I did when studying at Oxford on the features and functions of “Sacred Space”.

What constitutes “Sacred Space” will vary from one person to the next – from one group to the next – I realised this when doing a comparative study during my course-work. Part of the project was to visit two radically different Anglican communities, in this case St. Ebbs, and Pusey House for a service to see how the space was used, how the two services in the same communion compared, and so on; then to compare that with my own experience as an Eastern rite OC/IC believer. The whole experience was fascinating – and allowed me to explore and experience various elements of “Sacred Space” I’d never previously considered.

Because we are Indie folk, because we are people of faith, I think we often take sacred spaces for granted – we “know” them, but we don’t often stop to consider them, because they are so very familiar to us.

And yet – for many of our communities – “sacred space” is something that we must improvise. Many of our communities do not meet in an “established” sacred space (borrowed, rented, or even “owned”) – we meet in living rooms, sitting rooms, kitchens, pubs, and parks. So how do we, in our context, create and envisage sacred spaces? There is a custom in Chaldean communities – that emerged under the Ottomans, where the space is consecrated and de-consecrated at the beginning and end of each liturgy. What steps do our communities take when meeting in non-religious spaces, or even non-indie spaces to consciously be aware of this thing we call “Sacred Space”?

This piece from the Guardian Belief section is rather timely given my recent experiment in posting the saint for the day – sometimes with a touch of irony, sometimes with a few related ideas.

Remembering back to my childhood, listening to older OC relatives talking about (Marian) devotional practice in particular taking pains to point out that the “roman” customs are excessive. Hmmm . . . interesting.

So how do we indie folk view the saints now, in this modern world of ours. Do we expect a saint to be a miracle worker or can a saint simply be an exemplar of faith and wisdom? How do the feastal commemorations of the saints “fit” in our contemporary sacramental life?

Seeing this one out – I offer you a few lines from St. Proklos . . . . on the saints (grin):

All martyr festivals are wonderful, they resemble  the brilliance of the stars. Just as the stars in heaven are fixed in place and distinct from one another, they are all well known, and they shine upon the whole sphere of the earth;  and the same one Indians see, is not hidden from Scythians; on land it flashes and illuminates the sea, and guides those who sail; on account of the multitude we do not know the names of all of them, but because of their beauty, we are amazed at their brilliance. It is this way with each of the saints; for although their relics are enclosed in graves, their power is not circumscribed under heaven.  It is possible for you to learn from these same things, and what is said is true. Palestine has the relics of Abraham, and his hut rivals Paradise. For there God was the one who spoke against Adam,  here he was entertained as a stranger by the patriarch.  One grave envelops the bones of Joseph,  and the limits of the inhabited world are astonished at the battle against the Egyptian woman.  To Moses, no monument is found,  and after death he proclaims Him who through the staff divided the Red Sea.  We do not know where Isaiah is interred, and the whole church declares through his prophecy: “Behold the virgin will have in the womb, and will bear a son.”  Daniel was buried in Babylon, and through the whole earth he proclaims: “Behold upon the cloud of heaven, one comes as the Son of Man.”  Ananias and the youths with him fell asleep in Babylon, and through them the whole inhabited world each day shouts: “All the works of the Lord, praise the Lord!”  Ezekiel is buried with the Persians, and along with the Cherubim proclaims: “Blessed is the glory of the Lord from his [dwelling] place.”  Thus, the Devil profited nothing in Paradise by killing Adam  for, through death, God opened the gates of freedom to the just.

- Proklos Homily 5.1, my translation

This is the door full of love,

and within it is love.

Enter, sinner, pray [much] for love from your Lord,

full of love.

For centuries pilgrims (Pagan and Christian) have left their mark on shrines and holy places – grafitti is just one method. Today we think of it as a marring, a desecration – but to many, such as the author of the above inscription, it was an act of devotion.

This inscription is found just inside the entrance to the church of St. Antony in the Monastary of St. Antony in Egypt. It is the only known Syriac grafitti and very much reflects the style of Syriac spirituality.

It caught my eye – and made me take a moment and reflect on the cause of our relationship with Christ, and through him, one another.

If you’d like to read more of the grafitti at St. Antony’s, as well as the wall paintings, history, and conservation of the monastary, check out the book “Monastic Visions: Wall Paintings in the Monastery of St. Antony at the Red Sea (ISBN 0300092245).

Jas Elsner points out that in the late antique period people engaged in devotional and cult activity without necessarily concerning themselves with the fine points of belief or dogma. Right now I’m working on an edit of a section of my PhD thesis exploring issues of early Marian cult and devotion. One of the more interesting elements that is emerging is that late antique bishops and theologians were sometimes anxious about the consequences of the devotional practices of people. The author of the Martyrdom of Polycarp (2nd century) for example makes it a point to instruct the reader in the appropriate attitude to have toward the martyrs. Epiphanius of Salamis, writing around 375 is positively scandalised at the devotions he hears about directed toward Mary. Nestorius who briefly held the arch-episcopal throne complained to Celestine, then Bishop of Rome that people were treating Mary as though she were herself divine.

Devotional practice and “belief” has a way of changing, shifting, and developing theology – doctrine. This is certainly the case with Mary – “Theotokos” is a unique Christian devotional title which emerged in the early 3rd century but was not developed theologically before the fifth, and there are enough hints in the archaeological, and textual record to suggest that devotion to Mary thrived long before the first shrine, and feast day were established in the late fourth century.

Jerome, writing against Vigilantius, says: so what if the uneducated, the un-refined, are ignorant of the fine points of doctrine and theology, they respond to the martyrs in love and admiration. They bring their offerings to the tombs, and shrines in the same way that the woman anointed Christ with the costly oil, and wept as she dried his feet with her own hair. This was not an intellectual response to the teachings of the Master – rather it was a deep emotional response to the personal presence of God.

Very often when perusing the many web sites, blogs, and the occasional chat-room of our OC/IC community I am very much aware of the emphasis placed on doctrine – not theology, but doctrine. In addition to the obligatory run down of “aposotolic lineages” and the painfully “researched” demonstrations of how “Church X” acknowledges or “recognises” the “validity” of our orders and tradition, there is also the section titled “what we believe” (or something similar).

The seemingly heavy emphasis on “belief” is I think grounded largely in the fact that many OC/IC communities are borne out of a reaction to Church X, or synod Y – borne out of a reaction to some central tenet of “doctrine” or “belief” and thus, it is necessary to firmly assert that “we” believe differently.

As an “academic theologian” and an OC/IC bishop, I cannot say that we ought not clearly state our beliefs – indeed I think its good that we do. But, what is interesting is that in all of this talk about belief – I’m often left asking, or wondering, what is it that you do? “Orthodoxy” without “orthopraxis” is lop-sided, and unfulfilled.

Our worship of God ought not to be the mere regurgitation of canned doctrine. Nor should it consist merely of perfected liturgical “form” – I think many of us have seen too much of this particular white-washed tomb. And yet – the emphasis of “orthodoxy” and “ortho-liturgia” abounds on the net (and, it should be said, not just in OC/IC circles). To me it seems that these lead to a “faith” that is a mere intellectual exercise and not a lived experience of the presence of the divine.

Devotion – such as that of the woman with the costly ointment in the Gospels, or the offerings late antique believers left at shrines, is an active, heartfelt response to God. Devotion in many respects abandons the restraint of the intellect – the woman paid no attention to scandalised onlookers as she anointed Christ and wept at his feet; likewise one can even today in our jaded world witness such devotion in shrines and worship services across the faith spectrum – and in the moment of devotion the devotee becomes free.

Devotion is problematic for theologians and hierarchs because it does not easily fit the “structure” the “rule” the “expectation” of others; the spontaneity of devotion cannot be ordered. It is an intensely personal, immediate, response to God. Devotion too is a call to action – the devotee “acts” out of love and zeal. Ion Bria talks about the “liturgy after the liturgy” in the sense that the mystery of the Eucharist is a call to action – it is a re-charging of our devotion to Christ and one that feeds our devotional activity throughout the time we are away from the assembly.

I wonder then – if we invested more in sharing our devotional practices individually, and collectively, it it would break through the often contancorous barriers of “orthodoxy” and “ortho-liturgia” in OC/IC circles?

Many of us – inspired perhaps by the Declaration of Utrecht – cite the teaching of St. Vincent that to know what they believe, simply watch them pray. Notice that his axiom is not – if you wish to know what they believe ask them for a summary of their doctrine, or a copy of their creedal statement. In this we see the two elements of orthodoxy and orthopraxis come together – the words of our prayer say something about our theology, but the way in which we pray, the imagery we use, and the bodily engagement with that prayer speaks of our devotion to Christ.

It has been my experience that when presented with new people interested in our community the question that arises first is not “what do you believe” but “what is it you do”. Perhaps its time we break the mould and in our dealings both with one another, and with those outside the community, to talk more about what it is we do, and invest less effort in carefully presenting our “orthodoxy” – in this way we let our devotion to Christ speak more accurately about us and all we have to do is extend the invitation: “come and see”.

Living in Europe you can’t stumble for falling into a church, and many contain the shrines and relics of the saints. When I lived in the States there were a few shrines but these were scattered far and wide and you had often had to plan well in advance to see them. This past month I was in Paris, Rome, Vienna, and Brussels; in each place I either sought out or fell into a shrine or reliquary, and it got me thinking about relics, pilgrimage, and context.

While visiting the shrine of St. Peter in Rome I was struck by the sense of sterility it presented the visitor; behind a protective glass wall, almost two metres away from me I found myself disappointed – this after all was a designed to be touched, to be seen up close, experienced. I felt very much the visitor to a museum or exhibition. There is something in visiting a shrine that urges the tactile experience, sensuality even. The experience is somehow incomplete otherwise.

Standing briefly before St. Peter’s shrine silent, sparkling clean, and sterile behind its protective glass wall I recalled the enthusiasm of late antique pilgrims who in touching and seeing the sites and relics of our faith experienced the events and personalities as though they were witnessing them in real time. These places, their objects, it seems even now represent the living faith, they urge us to appropriate and experience the Gospel first hand, in real time in ways that cannot perhaps be conveyed through the “formal” study of theology.

Shrines it seems are meant to be “messy” places; they are the bastions of devotion and cult, rather than the refined rhetoric of theologians. These are the points of holiness that erupt into our very secularised “profane” world challenging us to think differently, to see, and touch the sacred. These places are to be experienced and not merely gawked at from afar.