The little things that count - Spiritual Mentors - Column

Christian Century, Nov 3, 1993 by Constance J. Tarasar

FATHER ALEXANDER Schmemann, former dean of St. Vladimirs Orthodox Theological Seminary, is the person who took the disparate parts of my life and gave them shape, meaning and identity. If I am still growing it is because, even ten years after his death, he is still my friend, spiritual father and mentor.

The first time I heard Alexander Schmemann, he was commenting on the situation of the Orthodox in America, particularly on the minority status and sense of inferiority that led to their preoccupation with conforming to Western religious behavior and ethics. Warning us not to lose the treasure of the Orthodox vision and way of life, he accused us of wanting not only to be Americanized, but "homogenized" and "pasteurized."

Father Alexander lived in the reality of his time. Though speaking with a Russian-French accent, he quickly picked up the nuances of English, as well as a love of New York City--its vitality and diversity, whether expressed in the Wall Street skyscrapers or the Nedicks hotdog vendor. Wherever he was, he wanted to drive through the center of the city and to know everything, from the origin of street names to the kinds of industry that propelled the economy.

When he sent me to the Ecumenical Institute in Bossey, Switzerland, his farewell was: "Be happy... and behave!" He had pushed me into ecumenism, saying that I needed a broadening experience in Europe; yet he responded to my frustrations in Switzerland by saying of ecumenism, "Almost everything ecumenical and modern makes me 'vomit,' at least spiritually these last days. But don't you think, little Connie, that there would be in fact much more explosion, much more victory and impact if you were quiet, concentrated and charitable? Say everything and even more--but not to protest (affirmation of self), but to help (Orthodoxy). You'll see the difference." While I was in seminary, he had insisted that I embark on a study of the role of women in the church. Both of these challenges changed my life, not by making it easier, but by broadening my horizons and forcing my faith to be tested in the world.

Once, at a time when I was in conflict with my father, Father Alexander asked sternly: "My dear Connie, why must you be so proud?" With one word he knocked out all my defenses. I was devastated because I knew he was right; the only thing that stood between me and my father was pride, and we both had plenty of it. It was not the only time that Father Alexander spoke this way. In response to my account of a difficulty at Bossey he wrote, "You are of course wrong, and probably by now you know why. Dear Connie, you have all gifts: intelligence, loyalty, even--sometimes-- wisdom, but on the column of humility it is schwach, as the Germans say."

He did not hesitate to help his spiritual children confront realities, especially the reality of sin. He abhorred the tendency to make confession into a time for discussing "problems" and receiving a kind of psychological counseling. He always kept returning to ones personal accountability in facing and overcoming sin. A friend commented on what it was like to go to him for confession: "He never solved your problems; in fact, he made them bigger by focusing them more clearly; then he tossed them back to you. Somehow, though, you always felt better when you left." Still today it is not unusual to hear someone ask, "What would Father Alexander do or say now?" And the answer is probably close to what he actually would do. He taught us how to approach and solve our problems, giving us a vision of life, of reality in this world and in the kingdom of God; we had only to understand and live accordingly.

His passion for honesty and truth often led to confrontations with bishops, though he respected their ofrice. In a letter he wrote, "Everything here in America depends on whether we break through the incredible provincialism of church mentality. Everything which contributes to the widening of horizons, establishment of new contacts, bonds and dialogues, is to be welcomed. Orthodoxy as a whole must be exposed to the 20th century." In another letter he commented on his own frustrations, saying: "Everything is all right, if only one does not dissolve oneself completely in the 'surface waves' and keeps to a depth dimension. How often I think about the happiness of the laity, the real laity, all those who can live in the church without being involved in the 'kitchen.'"

Every year, early on Pascha night he would come to the church to fix things that were already prepared (moving a candlestand two inches, straightening a cloth that was already straight, then standing back to see if everything was symmetrical). One night, noticing me in a dark corner grinning at his little preparations, he said, "But Connie, its the little things that count!"

This focus on the "little things" was rooted in his love for the beauty of God's temple and for church feasts, particularly the feasts of the Mother of God whose virginity he understood to represent integrity and wholeness. Everything had to be treated with a love and care that extended to every living thing, including his dogs, Snep and Charlie, as well as the many different people who sometimes invaded his life and consumed his time.