Do-It-Yourself Theology

Quick question to wet your cyber-whistle (on this continued topic of theology):

What do Thomas Jefferson and Leo Tolstoy have in common? (Answer at the end of this post.)

I was walking to class this morning and as I came around the corner into a hallway with a couple of large potted trees/shrubs, the one pictured with the lone bright yellow bloom caught my attention (as if that was its plan). I stopped and looked at it-- the picture doesn't do it justice-- and wondered how a tree/shrub in a pot left to its own devices on the second floor of a poorly ventilated old building could generate the kind of natural beauty that could stop me in my tracks. Perhaps that bloom was sign or a message or something... Maybe from God? Maybe the plant itself is trying to speak the only way it knows how? Maybe...well, there are a lot of maybes, which brings me to the undercurrent of this post (as a continuation from the previous one): that inner theologian in all of us (even the hapless atheist has to ponder a yellow bloom from time to time)...

As I sat through my classes today, mentally batting at (like a cat, I suppose) such ponderables as "emergent churches," "living in the Not Yet," "fides quae," and "who killed Bill Malloy?" (we were catching up on the old tv soap opera Dark Shadows last night...), I felt a renewed appreciation for the nearly infinite (?) things the people of this planet believe and believe in-- it really fascinates me! For some, when a belief is at odds with a tenet or dogma, the simplest remedy is to either rework (re-interpret) a teaching or create a more palatable replacement. (In the world today, science, history, politics, and ESPECIALLY religion function for so many as a cafeteria line-- if the price is right, we get in the line and take what we want.)

In the late 1800s, the renowned Russian writer, Leo Tolstoy, took issue with some facets of Russian Orthodox theology and the practices of the church; he became an outspoken thorn in the side of Tsar Nicholas II upon whom the church had bestowed near-deity status. He was quieted only by the pneumonia that took his life in 1910. Before he died, had put together his own "bible" and even had a cult-like following of morally austere pacifists ("Tolstoyans") who believed that non-violent resistance to authority was mandated by Jesus and true faith manifests itself in anarchy. 

He may have been a religious renegade and he certainly had no use for monarchy; however, Tolstoy was an interesting character and a gifted writer. Much of his work contains a thread of piety. A great example of this is his short story Three Hermits, which I found to be an unorthodox (pun intended), but very effective conversation-starter in my high school Russian classroom:

“And in praying use not vain repetitions, as the Gentiles do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking. Be not therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask Him.” -- Matt. vi. 7, 8.

A bishop was sailing from Archangel to the Solovetsk Monastery; and on the same vessel were a number of pilgrims on their way to visit the shrines at that place. The voyage was a smooth one. The wind favorable, and the weather fair. The pilgrims lay on deck, eating, or sat in groups talking to one another. The Bishop, too, came on deck, and as he was pacing up and down, he noticed a group of men standing near the prow and listening to a fisherman who was pointing to the sea and telling them something. The Bishop stopped, and looked in the direction in which the man was pointing. He could see nothing however, but the sea glistening in the sunshine. He drew nearer to listen, but when the man saw him, he took off his cap and was silent. The rest of the people also took off their caps, and bowed.

“Do not let me disturb you, friends,” said the Bishop. “I came to hear what this good man was saying.”

“The fisherman was telling us about the hermits,” replied one, a tradesman, rather bolder than the rest.

“What hermits?” asked the Bishop, going to the side of the vessel and seating himself on a box. “Tell me about them. I should like to hear. What were you pointing at?”

“Why, that little island you can just see over there,” answered the man, pointing to a spot ahead and a little to the right. “That is the island where the hermits live for the salvation of their souls.”

“Where is the island?” asked the Bishop. “I see nothing.”

“There, in the distance, if you will please look along my hand. Do you see that little cloud? Below it and a bit to the left, there is just a faint streak. That is the island.”

The Bishop looked carefully, but his unaccustomed eyes could make out nothing but the water shimmering in the sun.

“I cannot see it,” he said. “But who are the hermits that live there?”

“They are holy men,” answered the fisherman. “I had long heard tell of them, but never chanced to see them myself till the year before last.”

And the fisherman related how once, when he was out fishing, he had been stranded at night upon that island, not knowing where he was. In the morning, as he wandered about the island, he came across an earth hut, and met an old man standing near it. Presently two others came out, and after having fed him, and dried his things, they helped him mend his boat...

You can read the rest of the story here. (Go ahead-- you'll like it!)

So. I've decided that the one-bloomed shrub-tree, a paean to the brick-and-mortar captor that shelters it from a disordered and fragmented world, is simply relaying the instructions of its God.

С Богом.

P.S. Jefferson, like Tolstoy, took what he liked from Christian doctrine and assembled his own "bible."