One other thing about Hebrews 6:4-6 perplexes me. The NAS has “again crucify,” and the NIV says, “they are crucifying the Son of God all over agin.” The Vulgate has the “again,” too: “rursum crucifigentes.” But where is this “again” in the Greek? There is only ἀνασταυροῦντος. Liddel & Scott give the meaning “affix to a cross, crucify,” with a second definition “crucify afresh.” They cite Hebrews 6:6 as an example. Are there any other examples? How many people are “crucified afresh?” Why do the translations add the “again” here? Is it the “ἀνα-“? Although this can mean “again,” it seems more natural to read it as “up,” as in “hang up.” I almost wrote the English version as just “who crucify,” but in the face of all these witnesses, I left the “again.” What do I know?

Those who have been once illumined and have tasted of the heavenly gift and have been made partakers of the Holy Spirit, and have tasted the good word of God and the powers of the coming age, and have fallen away—it is impossible to renew them again to repentance who again crucify to themselves the Son of God and put Him to open shame.

inpossibile est enim eos qui semel sunt inluminati
gustaverunt etiam donum caeleste
et participes sunt facti Spiritus Sancti
gustaverunt nihilominus bonum Dei verbum
virtutesque saeculi venturi
et prolapsi sunt
renovari rursus ad paenitentiam
rursum crucifigentes sibimet ipsis Filium Dei et ostentui habentes

Ἀδύντον γὰρ τοὺς ἅπαξ φωτισθέντας, γευσαμένους τε τῆς δωρεᾶς τῆς ἐπουρανίου καὶ μετόχους γενηθέντας πνεύματος ἁγίου καὶ καλὸν γευσαμένους θεοῦ ῥῆμα δυνάμεις τε μέλλοντος αἰῶνος καὶ παραπεσόντας, τάλιν ἀνακαινίζειν εϊς μετάνοιαν, ἀνασταυροῦντας ἑαυτοῖς τὸν ὑιὸν τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ παραδειγματίζοντας.

A friend mentioned this passage to me last night and said how troubling it was to many people. I remember being troubled by it in college. Here is the note from my Ryrie Study Bible:

This much-debated passage has been understood in several ways. (1) Arminians hold that the people described in these verses are Christians who actually lose their salvation. If this be so, notice that the passage also teaches that it is impossible to be saved a second time. (2) Some hold that the passage refers not to genuine believers but to those who only profess to be believers. Thus the phrases in vv. 4-5 are understood to refer to experiences short of salvation (cf. v. 9). The “falling away” is from the knowledge of the truth, not personal possession of it. (3) Others understand the passage to be a warning to genuine believers to urge them on in Christian growth and maturity. To “fall away” is impossible (since, according to this view, true believers are eternally secure), but the phrase is placed in the sentence to strengthen the warning. It is similar to saying something like this to a class of students: “It is impossible for a student, once enrolled in this course, if he turns the clock back [which cannot be done], to start the course over. Therefore, let all students go on to deeper knowledge.” In this view the phrases in vv. 4-5 are understood to refer to the conversion experience. Notice how the words “enlightened” (10:32), “taste” (2:9), and “shared” (12:8) are used elsewhere in Hebrews.

I read that note now and recall the knots in evangelical theology that used to drive me to despair, especially the preoccupation with finding a theory of God’s judgment. It seems to me that if “judge not” means anything, it means don’t enthrone ourselves in God’s seat of final reckoning. But that is precisely the Protestant project behind sola fidei: to specify the exact requirements for salvation. “Christians who lose their salvation,” “saved a second time,” “experiences short of salvation”—it all now seems like words unmoored from right premises. How frustrated I was by these strained readings and dubious claims like, “If he falls away, he never had faith in the first place.”

But even to Orthodox, the passage must still trouble. Can we finally cut ourselves off from God? There were early schisms over how to treat lapsed Christians. Were the Montanists right? We can comfort ourselves with the many passages elsewhere that discuss repentence of believers. John writes, “If we say we have no sins, we deceive ourselves.” Paul turned someone out of the church and then accepted him back in. We ought to interpret unusual and difficult passages in the light of common, plain ones. That gives me some relief. But how then shall I understand these words?

St. John Chrysostom addressed this passage in his Homily IX on Hebrews. He takes “renew again to repentence” to mean baptism, not repentence generally. He says that although we can repent, we cannot be baptized a second time. The newness of baptism is lost, though we can still acquire the fruits of repentence.

The word “illumined” does suggest baptism. Illumination was a common name for baptism in the early church, and even now during Lent we pray for catechumens and “those preparing for illumination.” We might understand this beginning to set the context for the rest of the passage. St. John doesn’t use that argument; it is just my thought. He does teach that “renew” pertains uniquely to baptism, because only baptism “makes new.” Repentence frees us from the “old age” of sin and makes us strong, but it cannot restore the newness of baptism, when “the whole was Grace.” He also takes “crucify again” to mean baptism, because in baptism we are crucified with Christ. To crucify Him again by a second baptism would be to “put Him to open shame.” If He has overcome death by His resurrection and is yet crucified again, the victory over death is “a fable and a mockery.” Therefore there is only one crucifixion, and it is our first baptism. I admit I don’t naturally read this passage and think baptism, but here are three textual arguments why that reading makes sense.

I looked up this homily to see how a great Father of the Church understood this passage, and I ended up with a sermon on repentence, just the thing for as we undertake the final struggle before Pascha:

What then (you say)? Is there no repentence? There is repentence, but there is no second baptism: but repentence there is, and it has great force, and is able to set free from the burden of his sins, if he will, even him that hath been baptized much in sins, and to establish in safety him who is in danger, even though he should have come unto the very depth of wickedness. And this is evident from many places. “For,” says one, “doth not he that falleth rise again? or he that turneth away, doth not he turn back to [God]?” (Jeremiah 8:4). It is possible, if we will, that Christ should be formed in us again: for hear Paul saying, “My little children of whom I travail in birth again, until Christ be formed in you” (Galatians 4:19). Only let us lay hold on repentence.

I received a letter Monday evening from St. Tikhon’s. I am accepted to the M.Div. program starting this fall. I sent an email to twenty or thirty people sharing the news, and I was touched that almost everyone replied with congratulations, good wishes, and generous words. What support I have! My heart is strengthened thinking that all these people are praying for me. I should print out those emails, and then when seminary becomes dull I can read them and recollect my purpose.

What is my purpose? First and foremost, it is to learn how to pray. One person said seminary is the first step to becoming a bogoslov, a theologian. (”Blogoslov,” by the way, would be a great name for a blog, if anyone should dare take it.) My friend meant “one who knows words about God.” That is the common use of “theologian,” and it’s good to use words in the common way. But still, my first thought was that a theologian is one who prays, and one who prays is a theologian, and therefore neither should seminary be the beginning of my prayers, nor would the degree certify my prayfulness. Alas, I should have just accepted his compliment graciously!

One person asked what I would do with an M.Div. Another offered a simple blessing: “May you pray well there.” I think one answers the other pretty well.

Of course there are many other reasons for seminary. I want to learn about God, the Orthodox Church, her saints, her liturgy, the Bible, the work of a servant of God. (“τοῦτό ἐστιν τὸ ἔργον τοῦ θεοῦ, ἵνα πιστεύητε εἰς ὃν ἀπέστειλεν ἐκεῖνος.”) I am not too worried about what to do afterward. God will take care of me, and already I can think of four specific things, all good, or perhaps it will be something new and unexpected.

If you have stumbled across this blog, please pray for me.

I’ve been a few weeks in the blogosphere now, writing an occasional post, making my own template, learning CSS layout techniques, and discovering other blogs out there. I like how this blog encourages me to reflect more deeply more often. I like how it helps me put some long-thought thoughts to paper and explore their relations. There are still many topics I’d like to write about. I don’t like how much time I’ve given it, especially in the evenings. I’ve even skipped prayer a few times to go on surfing the web. I don’t like the vanity I find springing up in my heart. That will only grow worse at seminary. The last few years, doing computer programming and speaking little at church, have been a dear respite from vanity, but I know how I dream of recognition, greatness. This blog—though it must surely be still wholly unknown, and though it merits no praise anyway—yet enflames my vanity. And finally, I find that all these thoughts, directed outward, distract me from a prayerful mind and heart. How the devil—how we ourselves—can use even holy thoughts to neglect the Lord! I will have to watch the good and bad of this writing, to pray, and decide whether to stop or continue.

Today’s reading from Isaiah reminds us how we should fast. Here we are almost at Lazarus Saturday, and still the Church calls us to take up the fast, renew our efforts, purify our practice. “And if any has tarried even until the eleventh hour, let him, also, be not alarmed at his tardiness.” Isaiah has strong words for how we should fast. Even those who “seek Me day by day and delight to know My ways” do not fast rightly if their fast is not unto righteousness. Even acts of humility do not win favor. We find the same language as in Jesus’ parable of the sheep and the goats, the same concern for the poor:

“Cry loudly, do not hold back;
Raise your voice like a trumpet,
And declare to My people their transgression,
And to the house of Jacob their sins.
Yet they seek Me day by day, And delight to know My ways,
As a nation that has done righteousness,
And has not forsaken the ordinance of their God.
They ask Me for just decisions,
They delight in the nearness of God.
‘Why have we fasted and Thou dost not see?
Why have we humbled ourselves and Thou does not notice?’
Behold, on the day of your fast you find your desire,
And drive hard all your workers.
Behold, you fast for contention and strife and to strike with a wicked fist.
You do not fast like you do today to make your voice heard on high.
Is it a fast like this which I choose, a day for a man to humble himself?
Is it for bowing one’s head like a reed,
And for spreading out sackcloth and ashes as a bed?
Will you call this a fast, even an acceptable day to the Lord?
Is this not the fast which I choose,
To loosen the bonds of wickedness,
To undo the bands of the yoke,
And to let the oppressed go free,
And break every yoke?
Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry?
And bring the homeless poor into the house;
When you see the naked, to cover him;
And not to hide yourself from your own flesh?
Then your light will break out like the dawn,
And your recovery will speedily spring forth;
And your righteousness will go before you;
The glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.
Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;
You will cry, and He will say, ‘Here I am.’
If you remove the yoke from your midst,
The pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness,
And if you give yourself to the hungry,
And satisfy the desire of the afflicted,
Then your light will rise in darkness,
And your gloom will become like midday.
And the Lord will continually guide you,
And satisfy your desire in scorched places,
And give strength to your bones;
And you will be like a watered garden,
And like a spring of water whose waters do not fail.”

My breath verse for the week is John 3:19-21:

The light is come into the world,
and men loved the darkness more than the light;
for their deeds were evil.
For everyone who does evil hates the light,
and does not come into the light,
lest his deeds be exposed.
But he who practices the truth comes to the light,
that his deeds may be shown to be wrought in God.

τὸ φῶς ἐλήλυθεν εἰς τὸν κόσμον
καὶ ἠγάπησαν οἱ ἄνθρωποι μᾶλλον τὸ σκότος ἤ τὸ φῶς·
ἦν γὰρ αὐτῶν πονηρὰ τὰ ἔργα.
πᾶς γὰρ ὁ φαῦλα πράσσων μισεῖ τὸ φῶς
καὶ οῦκ ἔρχεται πρὸς τὸ φῶς,
ἵνα μὴ ἐλεγχθῇ τὰ ἔργα αὐτοῦ·
ὁ δὲ ποιῶν τὴν ἀλήθειαν ἔρχεται πρὸς τὸ φῶς,
ἵνα φανερωθῇ αὐτοῦ τὰ ἔργα
ὅτι ἐν θεῷ ἐστιν εἰργασμένα.

How difficult is repentence! When I stumble, I make my fall worse by turning in shame into myself, shutting out God. This is not the inward turning of a prayerful heart, entering the heart to open it to God, but I enter myself to shut out God and neighbor. I fortify my will against accusation and correction. It is easy to feel how selfish it is, yet I “hate the light, because my deeds are evil.” God, shine Thy light into the dark corners of my heart. Illuminate the sins I hide from Thee and even from myself.

These thoughts remind me of the wisdom of confession. When we make our confession before a priest, we must truly come into the light. There is no hiding, no fooling ourselves that we have confessed and opened our will to God. Sadly, God is to us more shadowy, more imaginary than a living man. In consideration of our weakness, then, He invites us to this sacrament to let light and air into our dark places. If we saw God clearly, perhaps there would be no need of confession. But then would there be need of any sacrament?

Here is another thought about this passage. The verb for doing evil is πράττω, but the verb for doing good is ποιέω. Later, in John 5:29, we see the same verbs:

καὶ ἐκπορεύσονται οἱ τὰ ἀγαθὰ ποιήσαντες εἰς ἀνάστασιν ζωῆς,
οἱ δὲ τὰ φαῦλα πράξαντες εἰς ἀνάστασιν κρίσεως.

Once might just be for variety, but the repetition makes me wonder if something is meant. My Greek isn’t good enough to really appreciate the distinction between πράττω and ποιέω, but I offer my thoughts nonetheless. πράττω is “to practice,” which suggests a habit. The word translated “evil” is important here: φαῦλα. This is not the same as κακός, but means light, vain, trivial, careless, worthless. It reminds me of worldiness, petty selfishness, small-mindedness. It is failing to raise our eyes to God; it is failing to accept our natural happiness, which is to see God. πράττω, then, is the practice of these things. It means we have lived our life for vanities. The whole thing reminds me of ἀκήδεια, which is often called “sloth,” but is less laziness than carelessness and indifference. Aquinas wrote that while some sins are happiness about false goods, sloth is sadness about the true good. I think ἀκήδεια is the real opposite of love. I know that it is the source of the greater part of my failings.

ποιέω, on the other hand, can mean either to do or to create. It is the word in Genesis 1:1 of the Septuagint: “Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἐποίησεν ὁ θεὸς τὸν οὐρανὸν καὶ τὴν γήν.” John uses it in both passages. πράττω would have served, I think, since virtues are also habits. But I like ποιέω, because it implies something constructive—the doing is also a making. And the making is the likeness of God within ourselves. Those who are fashioning a good soul come to the light—Christ—because He is their end; their works are “in God.”

And Zacharias said to the angel, “How shall I know this for certain? For I am an old man, and my wife is advanced in years.” And the angel answered and said to him, “I am Gabriel, who stands in the presence of God; and I have been sent to speak to you, and to bring you this good news. And behold, you shall be silent and unable to speak until the day when these things take place, because you did not believe my words, which shall be fulfilled in their proper time.

Zacharias and Elizabeth were “righteous in the sight of God,” yet Zacharias, a priest of Israel, was made mute for his unbelief. The visit intended for a blessing became a punishment. But God, so severe with His friends, never punishes but to bless.

Zacharias believed. He was “righteous in the sight of God.” The atheist’s unbelief isn’t what brought down God’s hand. Zacharias’ unbelief was perhaps much like our own: abstract, an opinion. He did his duty faithfully, but he was not prepared to fall into the hands of the living God. His fault was a failure of trust, not a failure of opinion. I think God has patience on any who comes by his opinions honestly, because as long as we are seeking the truth, we will find the One who is truth. But God doesn’t want us to be opinionated; He want us to know Him. And if we say we believe in Him, we must believe His word.

Zacharias became a walking symbol. Lacking faith, he could not instruct with his words; God gave him to instruct with his silence. Onlookers whispering among themselves learned he lacked faith and was silenced, become a sign of the power of God. We, too, are onlookers. We, too, might learn that he who lacks faith is a blind guide. We should recall that judgment is greater if we presume to teach. How shall the teacher teach who does not believe? How shall we help our friends or raise our children? How shall we approach the mysteries of God?

I think many of us want faith, yet we cannot find it. We pray with the father of the demon-possessed boy: “I believe; help Thou my unbelief.” Where shall we find faith? I don’t claim to know, since my faith is poor and will move no mountains, but perhaps the punishment of Zacharias offers a hint.

Notice that later, those at John’s circumcision “made signs to his father, as to what he wanted him called.” Now the angel didn’t say that Zacharias would be deaf, but here they are making signs to him. The mute man needs signs to speak, but not to hear. So let us look again. When Zacharias left the temple, he was “κωφός.” My Bible calls that “mute,” but it can also mean deaf. Here we see the mercy in God’s severity. There is a relation between silence and faith. Silence is the language of prayer. God wrapped Zacharias in nine months of silence: neither to speak nor to hear.

Silence is akin to stillness. In silence we cannot flee to our distractions. We are left alone with ourselves. In silence also we meet God. Elijah heard God in the “gentle blowing.” If we don’t like to look into ourselves, and we are terrified to approach God, how frightful must the two look together! Anthony Bloom wrote that boredom is the threshold of prayer. We fear boredom because it is nakedness, a disquiet in the absence of distraction. If we had peace, we would not fear silence, for in silence we face God. If in silence we face Him, then perhaps in silence we might learn to trust Him.

So God silenced Zacharias. For nine months he silenced him. We don’t know how he spent that time, whether in peace or struggle, but at the end, at the loosening of his tongue, Zacharias spoke forth prophecy.

Now here is something else about Zacharias that long troubled me. Didn’t Mary ask the same question? In this very chapter, Gabriel visits Mary, bringing news of Jesus. She asks, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” Why was there no punishment for her? Well, God judges hearts that are dark to us, but it seems to me we can find some differences after all. Zacharias and Elizabeth had no doubt been praying for a child for decades. The angel says, “Your petition has been heard.” Perhaps they had even given up their prayer, being advanced in years. Perhaps they had quietly exchanged faith for resignation. Or perhaps they prayed still, but they no longer believed it was heard, and they had scarcely noticed their faith slipping away. To Mary, the angel comes unbidden, but to Zacharias he brings the long-awaited answer to prayer, perhaps at times his only prayer. And now, in the shocking moment of miracle, Zacharias can’t quite believe it.

How often do we pray thus? We tell God our desires, but we don’t really expect an answer. We hedge our bets. Instead of praying for healing, we pray for the family’s comfort. We figure our prayers should be “spiritual,” anyway. Or if we ask for healing, we ask it only for certain ailments, ones which are known for mysterious recoveries. It is good to end our prayers with “Thy will be done,” but it is good, too, to give God no rest, like the widow beseeching the judge. Jesus said it was faith that healed the sick. In Nazareth, “He did not do many miracles because of their unbelief.”

I am as unbelieving as anyone; I have not a mustard seed of faith; and perhaps I believe in miracles only in theory. I wonder, is that how Zacharias believed? Yet God works miracles. He worked miracles then, and all through the history of the Church He has worked miracles. He works miracles now, for those who believe. My words here aren’t worth much, I confess, but here is what I’m trying to do: I am trying to pray as if I had faith. If I had faith, I would not be afraid to ask God for healing. James says we are sick because we do not ask for help. I might wind up like Zacharias, shocked to get an answer, but I think the first step is to pray.

George MacDonald objects to the common rendering of Hebrews 11:1: “Faith is the evidence of things not seen.” That word “evidence” is “ἔλεγχος”: trial, testing. It does not mean evidence. It means that faith is risk, faith is hearing the promises of God and giving them a chance. Faith is not credulity. Faith is the unbeliever praying, “God, hear me if Thou art there.” Faith is Augustine saying, “Credo ut intellegam.” If we lack faith, let us pray as if we had it—not as an experiment, not as they asked Jesus, “What sign do you do, that we may see and believe?” Many asked Him for signs and got only rebukes. “An evil and adulterous generation craves for a sign,” He said. And to the Devil He replied, “Thou shalt not test the Lord thy God.” So let us not make our prayers into tests. But rather, let us lay aside our unbelief and take the risk of hope, of foolishness, of disappointment. I wonder if we won’t find that in so doing, we have discovered faith.

That, anyway, was Zacharias: praying without belief. Mary, on the other hand, had no prayer. She had no reason to expect angelic visitors. “She wondered what sort of greeting this might be.” This was no answer to prayer. In the icons, we see her spinning yarn. Had it been me, I might have been a little put off. Mary had plans of her own, hadn’t she? Wasn’t she engaged? And now some angel is telling her she must carry God’s son. That does complicate matters. But Mary, clear-eyed and pure in heart, has such a simple answer: “γένοιτο,” “May it be done.”

There is another difference. John’s birth was miraculous, but there were still a man and a woman. It no doubt came about in the natural way. This wasn’t the first time God had brought a child to a couple in their old age. You might say there was precedent. But Mary was a virgin. She had no husband. This was something the world had never seen. John was a prophet, of whom “none greater has arisen,” yet Jesus is the Son of God. Zacharias was getting a son, but it was his son. Mary was getting a son, and it was God’s. No wonder she was troubled. The Incarnation has offended philosophers for two thousand years, so we might allow a girl at her yarn to be a little bewildered.

And finally, I think Mary didn’t ask the same question. Zacharias asked for proof: “How shall I know for certain?” Mary asked for an explanation: “How shall these things be?” Zacharias shows us skepticism; Mary shows us wonder. Gabriel’s answer to Zacharias reveals how silly the question is: “I am Gabriel.” Perhaps we mistrust one another; perhaps we have learned to test good news, lest it disappoint. But we know how distrust can hurt, how it can be an insult. Shall we distrust God and His messengers? If there is anyone we may trust, it is the Lord. Not a swallow dies, but He knows it. He knows the hair on our heads. Though we lose faith in all else, let us keep faith in Him, even as, with Mary, we wonder.

The Pharisee asks Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus doesn’t really answer. Have you noticed? He inverts the question. He tells a long parable, and at the end, He asks, “Which of these was a neighbor to the man who fell into the robbers’ hands?” He acts as if the parable has given the Pharisee an answer. It has, but not an answer to the original question. The Pharisee’s neighbor is the one whom he must love; Jesus’ neighbor is the one who loves. When the Pharisee calls the Samaritan the neighbor, Jesus says, “Go and do likewise.” He has answered a new question: “How do I be a neighbor?” The conversation is over; the Pharisee has been answered. But does he realize that Jesus has swindled him? Perhaps he realizes only later, resting on his bed and thinking over his strange day, the way we find witty retorts too late to use them, the way it always is with successful swindles, as when the grocer sells us a bag of potatoes, and we take it home and find inside a cat. Yet Jesus’ swindle is a curious sort. We take home the bag of potatoes, and inside we find gold. Jesus’ sleight-of-hand teaches the Pharisee to ask a better question. If you are trying to love your neighbor, don’t ask, “Who is my neighbor?” Rather ask, “How do I be a neighbor?”

Still, Jesus’ answer puzzles me. Is there an answer to the Pharisee’s question after all? Perhaps the reflection in Jesus’ answer mirrors the reflection in the very commandment: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” The Pharisee asked, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus showed him that the Samaritan was the neighbor. But that makes the Pharisee–”who is my neighbor?”–the man beset by robbers. That is me. I am overcome by my sins and lie helpless on the road. I need God to lift me up and heal my wounds. The Fathers make this identification: we are the robbed man; the Good Samaritan is Christ. He washes our wounds (baptism), anoints us with oil (chrismation), delivers us to the inn (the Church), and writes a blank check for our further healing (confession, the Eucharist).

I know this is the salvation I need. It is the treatment I would choose for myself, if I loved myself rightly. So now I have a picture of what this “as yourself” means. We are to love our neighbor as if we were the man in the ditch, because we are. When we meet our neighbor, we should recall the man who is robbed and bleeding. Don’t imagine that the man we meet is the robbed man–understand the robbed man is yourself. Understand your poverty and hurt, and your need. This image immediately explains “as yourself.” With such a thought, what help can you deny your neighbor? And how can your help be supercilious, because you know that you truly are in greater need than the man you meet.

To take it one step further, consider that the man you meet–your neighbor–is the Good Samaritan. How will you treat this person? Kierkegaard writes that to love someone is to believe that they are loving. (”Love believes all things.”) If so, then it is loving to consider your neighbor the Good Samaritan. You believe the best of your neighbor. Any help you give is only what you know your neighbor would give–or no doubt less.

I have found the week’s verse: from tomorrow’s Gospel, Mark 8:34 - 9:1:

“If anyone wishes to come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me. For whoever wishes to save his life shall lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake and the Gospel’s shall save it. For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world, and forfeit his soul? For what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?”

How shall I pray for the Pope? Last night I had no idea. Usually when someone dies, we ask God to have mercy on him. I suppose even John-Paul needs mercy, but that the petitioner be me seems like the height of arrogance. I wanted to pray to the Pope to ask him to pray for me, but of course he isn’t dead yet. This morning I laugh and think that he won’t have a minute’s peace when he gets to heaven before we are all clamoring for his blessing again. The wonder is that such a thing will please him. Anyway, I don’t know what to ask of God. I asked that God would ease his pain, but that is a “low” prayer. Finally I just asked God to be with Him, whatever that means. Even this seems arrogant. Is this Pope ever without God? I can think of many, many prayers for us who will sorely miss him, but I am ashamed to say I could find nothing fitting to ask for him. John-Paul, when you get to heaven, have mercy on me.