This morning, I was asked to describe where Prospect is, where I’m living for the time being. “It’s on the edge of nowhere,” was my response, which resulted in a few chuckles. And it is. The drive from Medford takes about an hour, my phone quits working about halfway up, and the population of the town is a few hundred. There is nothing much other than forest and state parks farther up the road. To be honest, there really is not much in Prospect, either.

There have been the occasional moments when I would have preferred stopping at El Pollo Loco to cooking, but there is no fast food. There have been times when I have felt like I might scream, I’m so far from everything. Mostly, though, I love the comparative silence. I do not miss the insanity that is suburban Southern California. I do not miss the constant noise, the hammering of “Do these kinds of things,” “Be this kind of person,” “This product/look/value/ideal/goal/lifestyle will make you a better person, and it is possible that without it you are not worth much.” No, I do not miss the poison that oozes from the culture of Los Angeles.

I do, however, miss my Church. I miss the rhythm of being there almost every time there was a service. I miss my adopted family there. I miss chanting, however clumsy a chanter I may have been. The nearest Orthodox Church to Prospect is an hour or more away.

There are two parishes in the Medford area. To the west, in Rogue River, there is a small ROCOR parish. To the south, in Ashland, there is an equally small OCA mission. I visited both this weekend, since I was in Medford for my bimonthly time off. There is another, even smaller, Greek parish, two hours away in Roseburg, that I will eventually get to, because I actually know people there.

The distance, the cost of gas, my income, and the simple reality of my life right now, all taken together mean that I cannot get to any of these parishes anywhere near as often as I would like. I have concluded, though, that this is ok. It certainly is not what I prefer, but it is where God has me for the moment, so it must be for my salvation. Perhaps I feel like an accidental hermit out in the wilderness, but God knew what He was doing. This is an encouraging truth! It means that while this is certainly not home, it is, for now, where I belong.

The Ashland parish is in a similarly uncomfortable position, and they are coming to the same realization. Their priest is transitioning out, and a new priest has not been found. Someone from the diocese came today to discuss the situation with the members, and I was struck by the similarities of our situations. They would like to have services more frequently than they currently can, but there is little they can do about it. They could be frustrated and anxious over it, or they can let go of the “But I want…”, use the opportunity to learn and grow, and go with what they have in front of them.

And what they have is quite nice! The priest, though he is on his way out, seems a kind man. The people have been warm and welcoming the two Sundays that I have been there. All in all, this parish feels, in the important ways, as much like my home parish as a parish could. They even have a few specific and not exactly ubiquitous saints’ icons on the walls that reminded me of home.

More than the “feeling,” though, is the way they are choosing to face their uncomfortable situation. Several times in the discussion today, members voiced the sentiment, “We don’t like it. We want a priest. But we can’t force that to happen. God is in control, and we’re trusting Him.” They have concluded that while it is not an ideal situation, it is where they are, and so, for now, it is where they belong.

May I learn well from them, as I face my situation as a seemingly accidental hermit!

I moved to Oregon three weeks ago.

It was rather sudden, really. One Saturday, toward the end of May, I was unemployed and increasingly dejected, with nothing on the horizon. That night I dreamed that a monk I didn’t know, but who I was going to hear speak in a few days, told me, “Christina, your answer will come tomorrow.” I promptly forgot about it. But Sunday evening, my dad had a message from his sister that their cousin was looking for someone to take care of her mother, Dad’s aunt. Monday and Tuesday were a flood of phone calls discussing details and informing the necessary people. Wednesday night, while I was at the monk’s presentation, my flight was booked. I said goodbye to my home parish on Sunday and flew out early Monday, Memorial day.

And the following Sunday, my grandma died. In my hometown. This would be the older sister of the great-aunt I’m looking after. So, after being in Oregon for not quite three weeks, I found myself driving back into California last Wednesday.

For as long as I can remember, any time the subject of death came up, Grandma made whomever happened to be present promise that we would sing a certain song at her funeral. We always responded with the smile and nod. “Sure, Grandma.” Not one of us ever found out why she wanted this, but she made sure we knew she wanted it.

The trouble is, how on earth do you sing “Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead” at a funeral, without it being thoroughly tacky and dishonoring of the departed?

My brother, the musician of the family, had been mulling this over, pretty much since Grandpa died in 2004. In the days following Grandma’s death, though, Scott and I shot a number of emails between us, and we made it a song-within-a-song. Once the words were basically settled, he wrangled some music together, and the final product was pretty decent, based on the responses from the rest of the family.

Most of the jokes in our little song would mean nothing to those who didn’t really know her, but they were the stuff of legend for our family. On the trip home, I sang the song for some relatives who could not get to the funeral, and they knew most of the stories referred to, which led to a few moments of laughter. I think both Grandma and Grandpa would have rather enjoyed it.

What a strange juxtaposition of events. One day we were singing joyously “Christ is risen!” and only a week later came the news “bin Laden is dead.” I wonder if I am the only one who feels the tension of that contradiction, or even sees the contradiction at all. Surely I cannot be alone in this.

It is not that I am denying death. I know too well that death is still something we all must face. The contradiction I see is in self-styled Christians announcing in the media that this was a necessary outcome. The contradiction is in the celebrations that broke out after the news came. O Judgement! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason! How can we shout “Christ is risen,” then in the next breath celebrate the death of a man- any man?

Some may argue that by bin Laden’s death countless others may be saved from his plots. Maybe, but al-Qaeda will not go away. No doubt several others, his sons perhaps, have already risen up in his place, preaching the same hate, the same violence. How can we know anyone has truly been spared?

Some may argue that he deserved it. No doubt, he did. I cannot help but question the sufficiency of that argument, though.

Tolkien deals with this question in the mines of Moria through the mouth of Frodo, when he discovers the evil Gollum is following him. The wisdom of Gandalf is worth repeating.

FRODO
It’s a pity Bilbo didn’t kill him when he had the chance.

GANDALF
Pity? It was pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand. Many that live deserve death, and some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Frodo?

Do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment… even the very wise cannot see all ends. My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play yet, for good or ill, before this is over. The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many.

I cannot shake the feeling that we as a nation are walking around like Lady MacBeth with blood on our hands, and that this is a stain we will not be able to wash out. Can we give life to the dead? No? Then what business do we have taking it from the living? How dare we play God, deciding who lives or dies, setting ourselves up as judge, jury, and executioner. Did this man deserve to die? Sure, but by the standards of righteousness, so do we.

It has been a week and a half, and still there is the sting of it shouldn’t have happened this way. Rational arguments say we had to do something. It is expedient for one man to die for the people. (Funny, that sounds familiar.) The trouble with rational arguments is that faith is not rational. It is most decidedly not based on the rational. Faith is, always has been, and always will be spiritual, and the spiritual life is often counter-intuitive.

Do not ask me what we should have done instead. I have little interest in political discussions, nor do I think they would be at all productive at this point. What I do know is we “deal out death in judgement” at the risk of our own souls.

The question, I suppose, is whether I really want to follow Jesus or not. If not, then I am free to plaster the internet and airwaves with my hatred for another human being. If, however, I honestly want to follow Jesus, if, like Paul, I wish to be a slave to righteousness, then I must deny myself, take up my cross, and follow Jesus. I must see every man, even the most monstrous, as a living breathing image of God and treat him as such. Rather than wish him dead or rejoice at his demise, I must pray for his salvation. And I must continue this even if it costs me my own life. This, after all, is what Jesus would do. This is what Jesus, his apostles, and countless others through the ages have done. If I wish to be counted among God’s friends, I must act like one of God’s friends.

Yes, it is irrational. Yes, it is counter-intuitive. But it is neither if I remember that this life is not all there is, and that my goal is not to last as long as possible here and somehow maybe cheat death. No, if my goal is Christ, then this makes all the sense in the world.