The Church of the East: Ecclesial Particularity & Contemporary Expression
Or: Being the Church of the East in the 21st Century
by Father Andrew Younan



  

Introduction: What is at Stake?

    I will begin this paper, which will propose to discuss ideas applicable to the whole Church of the East, on a very personal note. One of the most memorable days of my life was that of the consecration of St. Joseph's Chaldean Catholic Church in Troy, Michigan. It was late in 1996 and I, being somewhere between a senior altar boy and a junior shamasha, was allowed to stand behind the newly-built bema for Ramsha. Two Patriarchs of the Church of the East were sitting at that bema: Mar Raphael I Bidawid of Blessed Memory, then Patriarch of Babylon of the Chaldeans, and Mar Dinkha IV, Patriarch of the Assyrian Church of the East. That hour, historic for many reasons, will forever be burned into my memory. To hear the armies of shamashe chanting the Psalms back and forth, shaking the very walls - how similar, I wonder, is the music of the seraphim above? To count the bishops in attendance, all of whom ordained in turn by others before them, in a trail going back to the Apostles themselves, even to the very Messiah - where in the chronicles of the mightiest kings, I wonder, could there be found such a glorious genaeology? To pray with words composed ages ago by forgotten authors, words prayed by countless thousands, words heard, in all likelihood, in the courts of Genghis Kahn, near the palace of Al Mahdi, at the Synod of Mar Isaac - the words of the Lakhu Mara, chanted, according to legend, by the Patriarch Mar Shim'un Bar-Sabba'e as he marched triumphantly to his martyrdom and chanted again that day as two of his fellow Patriarchs prepared to consecrate the altar at St. Joseph's - I wonder if there is such poetry anywhere in the world, in all of history, that has seen so much, that has proven so powerful. 

    It was that day that I realized more than I ever had before - that I felt, with all my being - what it means to be a member of that segment of the Body of Christ that is called the Church of the East. This paper will discuss how we, followers in that saga living in a distant land in the 21st Century, can continue our heritage and pass it on to the ages to come. 

    A note of warning, however, before I continue: the contents of this paper will be relevant only to those who share a concern for the continuation of the spiritual heritage of the Church of the East, as it is now expressed mainly within the Chaldean Catholic Church, as well as the two Assyrian Churches and the Syro- (or Chaldeo-) Malabar Church. If someone is unconcerned with preserving this treasure or is unimpressed by this juggernaut of spirituality and prefers instead to imitate a Western mode of Faith (whether Latin, Greek, Syriac, Maronite or some other) or embrace an Arabian or Kurdish identity rather than his own, he need not trouble himself any further with what is said here. If, however, one is Chaldean and Assyrian and proud of that fact, knowing how deeply it ties him to Christ and to the roots of the whole history of Faith, he is more than welcome to proceed. 

I. Defining "The Church of the East"

    The first, and possibly hardest, task at hand is to define, or at least sufficiently describe, what we mean when we say "the spirituality of the Church of the East." "East" and "Church" are relatively easy to understand - "East" means east of the Euphrates River and (what was once) the Roman Empire, "Church" means that institution founded by Christ for the salvation of the human race. "Spirituality" is a nebulous word in itself, and when qualified with "of the Church of the East," becomes nearly indefinable. Are there distinct spiritualities within the Christian tradition? What is the value of particularity in the Catholic Church, which is meant to be Universal, for all people? Don't our differences separate us from other Christians, setting us apart as if the Faith were some sort of competition? Why is it not enough to simply be a Christian? Why be so worried about being a Chaldean or Assyrian Christian? 

    The answer to these questions is quite simple: there is no such thing as a Christian. There is only a Roman Christian, or French Christian, or tall Christian, or red-haired Christian. We bring all our particularities into everything that we do, including and especially our faith, and the most predominant reality in all of our lives, whether we admit it or not, is our culture. It is impossible for anyone to look at or think about something without carrying an immense cultural "baggage" with him. If we are to be realistic, then, about our interaction with our faith, it is best to admit from the beginning that our culture is intertwined with everything we do and are. 

    But this is not a bad thing; it is God's own plan. God always works in the particulars: he chose a certain region between the Rivers to plant his Paradise, a certain Abraham from Ur of the Chaldeans to reveal himself to, a certain Galilee of the Gentiles to be the home of the Messiah. God uses our particularity for the good of all, because he is the one who gave us that particularity. Therefore, if we repress or ignore our particularity, even in favor of some generic "Christianity" or even "humanity," we will be effectively stealing from all those around us, who need us to be who we are and nothing else. It is, indeed, the glory of the Catholic Church that there are so many particular Churches within it, showing all the ways to worship the one Lord Jesus Christ. 

    What, then, is the particularity of the Church of the East? Are we merely, for example, Roman Catholics who sing the Lakhu Mara and eat dolma? That is, are we just "what others are, plus this or that?" Or, similarly, are we Roman Catholics who do not have rosaries or statues in our Churches? That is, are we just "what others are, minus this or that?" Is it fair to define a Tradition hearkening back to the Apostles only in terms of others, or must a tradition so deep and rich be understood on its own terms? It is obviously the latter, which explains why the most irritating question can be "What's the difference between the Chaldean Mass and the Roman Rite Mass?" It is (quite literally) like asking what is the difference between Asia and Europe, and expecting a single sentence in reply. It is not any single element, or even combination of many elements, that makes the Church of the East what it is. Even asking the question in that way frames all the concepts unfairly. Again, it is like asking which part of Christ's Body defines who he is. Christ is not defined by his parts. He is not defined even as the sum of all his parts. His identity is beyond all of them and deeper. In other words, the Church of the East, like all particular Churches, is not a mechanical structure pieced together of other things. She is an organic, living being with a true living soul - the Holy Spirit. We know her not by analyzing her parts, like a machine, but by watching how she lives, like a person. 

    I realize that this makes our already-difficult question much more difficult, but a realistic exposition of the matter has no choice but to look at things in this way. Let us, then, take one example from the heart of the Church of the East as our starting-point. The Lakhu Mara referred to earlier is as ancient a hymn as any, and is prayed in practically every liturgical service in the Church:

By some standards, this is an odd prayer. There are no petitions; there is no doxology to the Trinity at the end (indeed, there is a reference to the Father and the Son, but none to the Holy Spirit); it is quite short; it simply thanks and glorifies the Lord of all and the Messiah and gives the reasons why. 

    This is, of course, only one example of one hymn from an ancient, yet undeveloped stage of the Church of the East. Still, the reverence in which it has always been held can justify some simple observations about the Church that produced it and prays it:

    - This is a Church that is serious about the Bible and satisfied with it, since the relationship between the Father and the Son is the focal point (cf. the Gospel of John), along with their activity in human history, rather than the Trinitarian formulas preferred after the Council of Nicea. 

    - This is a Church that is simple and straightforward in its spirituality, rather than ornamental or sentimental. 

   - This is a Church that is quite happy praising God, and does not need always to ask for something. 

    - That is, this is a Church that is serious about prayer for its own sake. 

    - This is a Church that cares about the human body and looks forward to its resurrection. 

   - This is a Church that looks immediately to the depths of the interaction between God and man, and gets straight to the point in describing their relationship. 

    This must suffice as a bare-bones example of what I mean by the spirituality of the Church of the East. Going further in this endeavor would be to go well beyond the scope of this paper. Our next task is to examine the the problems and difficulties of continuing this tradition. 

II. The Problem: A Distant Tradition

    We stand at a hinge in history. We are at the edge of the generation of priests who stood for hours every morning reciting the Hulale from memory, the generation of shamashe whose greatest pride in life was their knowledge of the melodies of hymns, the generation of laypeople whose Aramaic is greater and purer than that of all the "Syriac scholars" of the world combined and multiplied a thousand times over. What comes after us is entirely in our hands. Whether the next generation will be the one whose parents knew Aramaic or will know it themselves; whether their parents used to go to the Chaldean Church or whether they go themselves, and happily; whether they have vague and distant ideas of what it means to be Chaldean and Assyrian, or whether they feel it in their bones and their blood and live it every day of their lives; all of this will be determined by the choices we make today. 

    But there is a problem. Previous generations retained their language, their culture and their liturgy as a matter of necessity and with hardly any conscious effort. It is a different story for us today, especially us in the Western world. If we are to continue what was handed on to us, we must both choose it and make a concerted effort. This means that we must realize that our tradition is worth choosing and fighting for. 

    What are the difficulties before us? We must understand them deeply if we are to overcome them and, ideally, use them as stepping-stones to our next stage of cultural and spiritual development. 

    First and most intimidating is the problem of language. Retaining Aramaic as a spoken tongue, even as difficult as that is, is only part of the problem. The fact is that nearly all of the Tradition is in the Classical, not the Vernacular, dialect, which means that those among our people who speak mainly English are two degrees separated from their Tradition before they even begin. 

    Secondly is what I call the "spiritual barrier." The modern mind is imbued with commercialism, especially in America, whose Puritan founders equated financial success with God's approval, and our devotional life has been affected by this as a consequence. Equally predominant in our world is the insistence on what is blandly called "instant gratification" of desire, and a generally impatience and "marketplace" attitude when it comes to getting what we want. It is no surprise at all, then, to note the near-universal appeal of devotions based on sentimentality (such as the Imitation of Christ), those tied to promises or guarantees of spiritual or physical benefit (such as the Chaplet of Divine Mercy), and those that are simply wish-lists of what we want God to do for us (such as many litanies). I am certainly not saying that there is anything wrong with any of these devotions. I only note that these are the defining characteristics of our spiritual atmosphere within the Catholic world today, and that simply praising God because he deserves to be praised, which our tradition loves to do, or telling the story of salvation simply to meditate on it, or praying the Psalms daily not because of any promise given to those who pray them, but only because that is what the Church does, are seen as increasingly odd activities. Moreover, when we add to this the fact that a spirituality with any depth, including our own, requires patient, daily consistency and not a single, intense effort, makes the very idea of appreciating the Liturgy of the Hours a near impossibility. Canon 15 of the Synod of Isaac condemned any priest, deacon or subdeacon for missing Sapra or Ramsha. Today we wonder what the point of these prayers is, what we "get" out of them.  This is our second obstacle to continuing to live the spiritual life of the Church of the East. 

    Quite similar is the difficulty of music. Ever since the Romantic Period, we have grown more and more accustomed to our music being sentimental, showy and intense. Music has become like a drug, used to elicit and manipulate our emotions, rather than a tool used to form our souls, as it was in the classical world. This misunderstanding of the purpose of music is what has caused the apparent belief, found in many parishes today, that loud music is good, but louder music is better. In any case, this cultural prejudice leaves us musically numb, and unable to tell the difference between the Beautiful and the Boring. 

    Finally, and maybe most sadly, there is much in our world that makes it difficult to truly love the Bible, and our Tradition is perhaps most perfectly defined as one that loves the Bible. On the one hand is a simplistic understanding of modern Biblical scholarship, which might tempt one not to take the Bible seriously due to the fragmentary nature of its own history. On the other hand, especially in America, is the ignorant assumption that the Bible somehow belongs to Protestants and is not the business of Catholics. Alongside this all is the silent feeling that a spirituality based upon systematic theology or on some spiritual writer would be more sophisticated than one based on the Bible, as if all these elements were in contradiction to each other. The fallout of this intellectual battle is that the Scriptures are cast to the very edge of our spiritual spectrum, and a liturgy built so closely upon them as ours begins to be seen as primitive and backwards, rather than as near and dear to the heart of the Messiah. 

    Before discussing the possible solutions, satisfactory and unsatisfactory, to these problems, I will make a passing note about a different kind of reaction: despair. Many of our people, seeing these difficulties and not realizing the treasure behind them, or dazzled by the seemingly greener grass on the other side, forget their roots entirely in favor of some other identity. These self-hating Chaldeans and Assyrians, as I call them, come in many flavors, from Arab to Kurdish to Latin to Maronite, and their story is perhaps the saddest of all, for they are the kings who left their thrones to chase a shadow, not knowing who they were, and ended up as slaves of lesser men. 

III. Bad Solutions

    Having reviewed in detail the obstacles that stand in our way, our next task is to discuss the various solutions that either fail to accomplish their goal or fail to see the problems as they are. These failed attempts at solution are three: two that fail at the extremes and one that fails in the middle. 

    At one extreme is the attitude that there is nothing wrong. This comes from the true observation that our churches are indeed full - especially at Christmas and Easter. To those of this attitude, the difficulties I listed above are paranoid fantasies and nothing else. The flaw in this way of thinking is that it fails to see a limit to the power of inertia. How many of the people in the pews are there only out of habit, or because of their parents, or because of some social dynamic? And how long will this inertia last? If their children or grandchildren do not know Surath, how long will they feel the attraction of Aramaic, or tolerate our often sub-par English translations? Are our pews full because people feel and love to feel Chaldean and Assyrian, or because they are used to going to the same place every Sunday? Or, worse, are the pews really being filled because our Americanized parishioners are leaving and are merely being replaced by new refugees? No, my brethren, there is a real problem, and if we are to face the enormous force of absorption into Western culture, we must work with all our hearts, now, before it is too late. 

    At the other extreme is what I call the "sinking ship" philosophy. Seeing both the beauty of our tradition and its precarious position in the West, many feel as if the battle is already lost, that the ship is already sinking, and that we must scramble to save whatever we can. This attitude is certainly more helpful than the first, since it tends to produce recordings and other means of preservation, but it also misses the mark. In its desperation, it fails to see two things: first, that not everything in the Tradition is of equal value, and that our feeling need not be "all or nothing;" second, that the Tradition belongs not only to us but to our children, and our duty is not only to preserve it but to live it and develop it. The Church of the East is a living Tradition, not a dead one: it is a family, not an archive. 

    Between the cold and the hot are the lukewarm, those who have some awareness of the problem and some love for the tradition but only to a certain degree. The slogan of this school of thought is "good enough," and it applies universally to Church art and architecture, to English (and any other) translation, to music, and even to the extent to which we should live out our identity. The effects of this mindset are beginning to show, however, and what was acceptable a generation ago is no longer "good enough." The people have spoken, and have demanded nothing but our best. They, acting in Christ's Name, have spit us out of their mouth. 

IV. Conclusion: True Love

    Having examined our obstacles and shown the wrong ways to overcome them, we come now to our final question: How can we continue our spiritual heritage in the 21st Century? 

    The first point to be made absolutely clear is this: we cannot pass on something we do not have. That is, if we are to teach it to our children, we must first learn it ourselves. Just as importantly, if we are to teach our children to love their tradition, we must first love it ourselves, and love it truly, by living it out day after day. The kind of effort required to form ourselves in a tradition going back to Christ takes a tremendous effort - one that is impossible unless we truly love what we are doing, and know that it is worth doing. 

    As far as language, our first obstacle, is concerned, our war is on two fronts. Learning and teaching Aramaic must always be among our highest priorities, and it should always be our reference-point even in a translated liturgy. "Pride of place" is the phrase used in the Catholic Church to describe the status of classical languages in the liturgy. There is no reason, for example, that the Lakhu Mara and many other hymns could not be sung in their original form, even a hundred generations from now. On the other hand, we would be blind not to see the dire need for good translations as well. This is a harder task than one might think. To render a translation that communicates the original meaning clearly, beautifully and even musically is an enormous challenge even for those well-versed in both Aramaic and English. Again, we must always return to the question of whether this treasure is worth the effort to uncover and share with others. The answer is always Yes.

    Regarding the "spirit of the age" that is within us and around us, several notes should be made. First and most importantly, we must allow ourselves to be formed by our liturgy, more than by any other force. When we arise in the morning, for example, and begin worrying about the tasks of the day, our temptation might be to begin asking God for help with this or that problem. But that is not how we should pray at that first moment in the morning. We should thank God for the gift of creation and light, for the breath of life he breathes into us at every moment. We should pray this way because this is how our liturgy tells us to pray; we should feel this way because this is how it feels; and we should never tire of thanking God every morning because he never tires of creating us. For us to proceed, morning after morning, praying the hundredth Psalm, until it finally sinks in that this is not only the way we should pray but the way we should feel, is to allow our liturgy to form us rather than the spirit of the age - to eventually sense that ancient spirit of the Scriptures in every one of our moods, in every twist and turn of our day. Only when we are thus formed by our liturgy are we are able to form our lives accordingly. Secondly, regarding the inclusion of Western devotions into our spiritual canon, it seems right to retain the same spirit that moved Mar Abba the Great to insert the Qaddysha Alaha, the Greek Trisagion, into the liturgy: having been formed by his Church already, he found there a prayer that expressed his own faith very beautifully; he neither rejected it because it was Greek nor loved it only because it was different. He examined it according to its own value, through the eyes of his own tradition. 

    Music has every capacity to form the soul hearing it, and indeed that should be music's main purpose. Again, to allow ourselves to be molded by those ancient melodies, to submit our emotions to their power, is to take a step out of our closed-minded age into the sands of time, into the rivers of history which begin their course between the Tigris and Euphrates. Having then been formed by the music of our past, we can then - and only then - develop it and add to its richness. 

    Re-claiming the Bible as our deepest guide and re-asserting its power to change our lives as Catholics, and especially as Catholics of the Church of the East, is not simply a matter of words. It is not enough to say we love the Bible. We must actually read and understand it, and here we will return again to our liturgy as the greatest lens through which we may see the Bible's beauty. 

     Finally, I must say again that continuing our Tradition is not a dead, mechanical process but a real, living step toward the future. But if the Church of the East is alive, then it must grow. The Reform of the liturgy taking place in our lifetime is the single greatest sign of life in the last several centuries of our Church. Being formed by our liturgy, then forming it; allowing it to make us more ourselves, then making it more itself. My grandfather woke his children up every morning by singing the hymn B-madnahay Sapra. He formed them with a force greater than himself, one stretching back to the hand of the Messiah and back further to the dawn of history: the Mesopotamian Tradition. But his children and grandchildren are not inheritors of a dead fortune. You and I stand at the hinge of history. We are the Church of the East. Now is our time.