It's simple

Orthodoxy is complicated, for sure.  There is a lot to learn, and with a 2000 plus year history, you will never learn all of it.  The theological formulations are such that converts have to "un-learn" as much as they have to learn, because we carry so many presuppositions into the Church with us, it often takes time to let go of them and let the Church speak to us and through us.

But in a very real sense, Orthodoxy is simple.  Simple to the point that the very word "Orthodoxy" is not really accurate.  "Orthodoxy" might be bound up in a set of beliefs, an ideology, things we think about Christ and His Church.  The truth is, the Orthodox faith is not simply believed, it is lived.  And the simple fact is, being Orthodox means living life as an Orthodox Christian, simply.

When I was about to be chrismated, an internet "friend" gave me some great advice.  He said "don't be a weirdo."  He didn't mean "don't act like an Orthodox Christian," because most people think we are weird enough as it is and he was aware of that.  What he meant was don't wear a cassock to cut the grass and swing a censer as you walk around the house.  That is, be as normal as an Orthodox Christian can be and still authentically live the faith.

As Orthodox Christians, many of the habits we have, the things we do, the things we wear, how we pray -- the "externals" to use a word my priest tends to disfavor because it carries some baggage with it -- ARE weird.  Objectively.  The world sees us doing them and wearing them and saying them and thinks "well, that's odd."  Or, too often, "they're odd."  But there is a balance between being a "normal" Orthodox Christian (which is to say, to be a baseline level of weirdo), and being what one famous Orthodox meme-maker refers to as "hyperdox."  I teach my children that the world already thinks we're weirdos.  And yet, I also teach them, by word and example, to take the faith seriously.  They often cover their heads in Church.  They own and use prayer ropes.  They attend the services.  They say their prayers.  And they live out the faith and identify in the world as Orthodox Christians.  And that is more than enough.  

Something the Orthodox Church offers that too many other traditions lack is authenticity.  So it seems to me that we ought to own the things that are of the Church and not shy away from them.  Wear your cross.  Own, use, and, if you wish, wear your prayer rope.  Go to the services.  Keep the fasts.  Keep the feasts.  Say your prayers.  Have your priest come and bless your house and your automobiles and your office and whatever else you would like to have blessed.  But own it.  Live it authentically.  We should neither shy away from the things of the Church, nor try to amplify them beyond the norm.  Having an Orthodox identity is a good thing.  But the faith is not merely something to which we assent, much less put on as a costume.  It is something we live.  We should live it authentically, humbly, and simply.

In the World, but not Of the World

 As Orthodox Christians, we are called to be in the world, but not of the world.  In discussions with some close friends recently, we had occasion to ponder some of the hyper-ascetical movements in modern Orthodoxy, primarily on the internet.  I will decline to discuss the particulars of those movements or the persons who are part of them, as I am not trying to slander anyone or hurt any feelings, and I also have no desire to draw further attention to that sort of thing nor draw their attention to me.  I would like to focus instead on some of the issues we discussed.  

One thing we all noticed was a very narrow focus on canonical rigidity and what they perceive as a "return" to a very strict and vigorous liturgical life.  One bemoaned the loss of daily Orthros and Vespers, claiming these used to be commanded, but then citing to a 6th century decree by the Emperor Justinian.  The concern here is not with the offering of daily offices, obviously.  It is with the denigration of those who either do not or cannot offer them, or attend them.  But even that is not the issue.  To all of us in the discussion, this rigorist insistence on what strikes us as something closer to a monastic-type Christian life came across not as a desire for greater and deeper spirituality, but as a self-righteous means to judge others as insufficiently ascetic. 

We did not conclude this lightly.  One particular comment claimed that the very use of words like "rigorist" or "legalism" is itself indicative of a desire to eschew ANY spiritual work. When the truth is, I own and use a prayer rope, I try to keep up with my daily prayers, I try to read the Scriptures daily, and I try to read something from the life of the saints or other works from prominent Orthodox authors.  Somewhat ironically, given the stereotypes surrounding certain internet personalities, I am currently reading "The Soul After Death" by Father Seraphim Rose.  There are certainly those who are able to draw nearer to the Church, doing far more than I do, and they are to be commended for their labors.  But to make those efforts normative over others, to insist that we "approximate monastics" as one fellow did, and to denigrate those who are unable or unwilling to adopt such strict asceticism, is not a deeper Christian spirituality.  It is Pharisaical. If you wish others to follow your example, you should start by humbly doing your own labors and not judging others.

In addition, it seemed to all of us in the discussion that there was an implicit desire to withdraw from the world, not as monastics per se, but as those who are emphatically not monastics and yet endeavoring to live as if they were.  This struck us as a sort of monastic fetishism, a covetous desiring of that to which one has not been called.  Part of that is what I note above -- the judgment of others who do not follow suit.  But part of it is that there also seems to be a spirit at work here that suggests that the world taints us, as if the world is itself unclean.  And while I agree that Orthodox Christians ought not embrace the world and all its worldly temptations, we are explicitly called by our Lord to go out into the world, taking the light of Christ with us.  In the High Priestly Prayer, Christ said:

I have given them Your word; and the world has hated them because they are not of the world, just as I am not of the world. I do not pray that You should take them out of the world, but that You should keep them from the evil one. They are not of the world, just as I am not of the world. Sanctify them by Your truth.

So it is not that we are to withdraw from the world and all its temptations.  Certainly those temptations existed during our Lord's time on this earth, as St. Paul's letters to the Corinthians, the story of St. Photini, and other Scriptures attest.  No, we are called to go into the world with all its temptations (as our Lord Himself did), and we pray that the Father would "keep us from the evil one" as we go.  In this way, Christ sanctifies the world not because of us, but through Himself working in us.  As my priest said in a homily a while back, "even pumping gas becomes a holy act." So the desire to withdraw from the world and its temptations comes across at least like a fantasy, something that goes against that which our Lord Himself called us to do. And that is not to mention, if anything monastics face far greater temptation than those of us in the world.  They have chosen a life of constant spiritual warfare, and they withdraw out of the world precisely to focus on that battle.  Their prayer for the life of the world allows us to enter into the world, girded in battle, to face worldly temptations.  But their life is not ours, and ours is not theirs.  And one ought not pine after the other.

As we were discussing all of this, it occurred to me that what is missing from those who would seek the deepest possible ascetical life and withdraw from all earthly temptation, as best they are able, while simultaneously judging others who live a more normal parish life, is virtue.  And while there is good to be found in limiting temptation within reason, especially those temptations we know ourselves to be most susceptible to, trying to withdraw from the world in order to avoid temptation strikes me as folly.  First, it is impossible.  Even if you try to live in a Christian commune, venturing into the world only to do as little as possible while shielding your eyes, temptation will find you.  Second, it is not truly virtuous.  There is no virtue in never being tempted.  We are called to change our habituation to sin by habituating ourselves to the virtues instead.  And that is done not by avoiding all temptation, but by actively rejecting temptation when it finds us and striving to make the good habitual.

As normal, everyday Orthodox Christians, then, we are to follow the sacramental life of the Church as best we are able, keep the fasts to the best of our ability, pray, read spiritually edifying works, and do good works.  But we are to take those actions into the world, normalizing them, and thereby showing forth Christ, and seeing Christ in our neighbor.  We are not to hide away from the world, nor make a show of our piety as the Pharisees did.  Which is not to say we do not carry our Christian lives into the world.  By all means, wear your cross.  Wear your prayer rope.  Say your prayers.  Carry your well worn copy of Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church.  Read it on the bus or at lunch.  But wear them and say them and carry them and read them because you make use of them, authentically.  And above all, try to see your own sin and not judge your brother.  

It is the authentic Christian life that sanctifies the world.  And for most of us, it is enough of a struggle to simply try and live that life authentically.  That is where you will find virtue.  In the world, but not of the world.

Executing Death

 

Father Paul is the sort of priest people gather around when he speaks.  Part of this may be his British accent, hearkening back to his place of birth.  This means he sounds smarter than everyone else in the room every time he speaks.  Part of it is he is a seasoned homilist, able to distill complex theological thoughts into easily understandable statements.  And part of it is, well, we love him and enjoy listening to him speak.

I think most of it, though, is that he tends to see the obvious things about Orthodox theology that are easy for most of us to miss.  Such was the case this past Sunday, Palm Sunday for us in the Eastern Church.  

The homily was really amazing from top to bottom. The topic, of course, was our Lord's entrance into Jerusalem, where He will, this coming Friday (liturgically speaking), meet His death.  Father Paul dealt with the abandonment of Christ on the cross, by the same followers that were cheering Him as He entered the city.  He dealt with the palm branches as symbols of victory, and how those waving them had no idea what sort of victory that entailed.  But there was one thing he said that really struck me.  He said that Jesus' entrance into Jerusalem would not end in the execution of some barbarian king, as was common in ancient Rome, but "in the execution of death itself."

The Christian life is so easy to distill into the wrong sorts of quips and pithy sayings.  "Jesus loves me."  Well, sure.  He loves those who are not united to Him as well.  Or "God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life."  That one is a bit more dangerous.  He loved the martyrs too.  He loves those stricken with illness or injury too.  He loves the poor, certainly as much as any.  He loves the imprisoned.  God is not a self-help director.  God loving you is no guarantee that you will not suffer.  In fact, for the Christian, quite the opposite.  It is often in our suffering that we most vividly meet Christ, as He warned us would be the case.

Which brings us to this beautiful statement: Christ entered Jerusalem to "execute death itself"  

That one says a mouthful.  And in so few words.  Christ did not come to end our suffering, but to enter it, and by so doing, end the hold that death and suffering would otherwise have over us.  It isn't that it is such an original thought.  The Church, as you will see below, sings about it quite a lot.  But I certainly have never articulated it in word or thought as neatly as that.  The Christian suffers.  The Christian mourns.  The Christian doubts.  But the Christian has hope.  Because Christ has gone to the tomb before us to pave the way to eternity.  Death to the Orthodox Christian is not the end.  It is not even a new beginning.  It is a transformation, for Christ has transformed death.  Death cannot hold the author of life.  And so He entered it, and as the Resurrectional Troparion in Tone 7 reminds us, "shattered" it.  

Thou didst shatter death by Thy cross, Thou hast opened paradise to the thief!  Thou didst turn the sadness of the myrhhbearing women into joy!

Death is no longer what it was.  It is now something new, a passage into eternity that is welcomed by the Christian.  Not something to be sought after in a nihilistic or suicidal fashion, but neither something to fear and avoid at all costs.  Death is our eternal rest.  And we rest in the arms of a God Who, as Father Paul reminded us at the close of his homily, and as the Church reminds us at every dismissal "is good and loves mankind."  It is that statement, obviously, that inspired the title of this blog way back in 2010.

Similarly, in the Paschal Canon, we sing:

Thou didst descend into the deepest parts of the earth, 

and didst shatter the ever-lasting bars that held fast those that were fettered, O Christ. 

And on the third day, like Jonah from the sea monster, Thou didst arise from the grave.

Death is shattered.  It could not hold the author of life, and it can no longer hold us.  And in a few short days, the Church will sing "Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life!"  This is the Gospel, distilled into the shortest of sentences.  In a few short days, Christ will take up His cross, and execute death itself.  Glory to God.

To my single Orthodox friends.....it's okay......

 

There seems to be a lot of discussion on the internet recently about "marriage or monasticism."  Some of this is healthy and good, and some of it is destructive and dangerous.  In particular, the rigorist approach that suggests there are only these two paths to salvation is, in my opinion, anachronistic, narrow and wrong. This post, I pray, will detail the short version of why that is.

First, let us be clear, monasticism and marriage are two paths to salvation that are specifically and liturgically blessed by the Church.  That much is true.  One might say they are the norms.  That is, what we tend to expect is that those who have no plans to get married because they have chosen not to be married should probably, and normally, seek out a monastic community.  So far, so good.

The reasons for this are multitude, but briefly include the idea that we are to seek out our salvation in community with others, learning to give to others of ourselves.  Marriage in this sense is neither a sex-based nor power-based institution as it perhaps was in medieval times, but a true martyrdom where we die to our spouse every day of our lives.  In a monastery, the brothers do the same to each other, and obviously a monastic community thrives neither on sex nor power.  So there are some obvious parallels.  And a person who is open to neither marriage nor monastic life may have legitimate spiritual issues that raise concerns and ought to be addressed. 

It is also true that the so-called "single life" is not something that was known in Christian antiquity, or even until recently.  So searching the Fathers for quotes on how to be a chaste single person is not as likely to bear fruit as quote mining them for thoughts on monasticism versus marriage.  That is not to say the Scriptures do not speak of this, because monasticism was unknown to the Apostles, and yet St. Paul has much to say about the celibate life.  The point is, a person who is single and not open to marriage, and also single and not open to a monastic life, may struggle with selfishness, self-centeredness, inability to give of himself to others, etc.  

The key word in both of these statements above is "may."  Because as we know, there are those who are open to marriage, but simply waiting for God to present them a proper spouse.  There are those who are open to marriage who, for various reasons, may struggle to find a partner.  And there are those who fall into other categories for whom marriage may be undesirable at present or unlikely for whatever reason.  That does not mean those people should become monastics, and it certainly does not mean they must become monastics.

Despite this, of late, I have seen multiple internet personalities (I will not name them because I do not wish to draw attention to what I think is their error), who suggest that marriage and monasticism are not merely two paths to salvation blessed by the Church, but in fact they are the only paths blessed by the Church, such that unmarried, non-monastics must be seeking to either get married or join a monastery.  It is my opinion that this is a flawed understanding of the history of the Church, the Holy Scriptures, the writings of the Fathers and the Orthodox life.

As a matter of history, monasticism developed in the late 3rd century.  It grew out of the peasant class and was based on a desire to separate from society.  The movement was concerning to bishops, who felt it threatened the unity of the Church; however, over time a greater appreciation for monasticism began to develop as the bishops witnessed the fruits of this life.  Early monasticism was eremitic (the word "monastic" derives from the Greek word μόναρχος, meaning "solitary."  That is, early monastics were not living in monastic communities, but were hermits.  So right away we can see that this notion that one must be married or monastic because salvation requires community ignores the very history of monasticism itself.  St. Anthony of Egypt went into solitude in the desert, and came out able to heal and reconcile enemies, which showed forth the fruits of his solitary engagement in the spiritual warfare.  Around the same time, cenobitic monasticism began to develop.  When people say "there are two paths," they typically mean marriage versus cenobitic monasticism.  They do not typically mean wandering off into the desert without a tonsure, as St. Anthony did (or as St. Mary of Egypt, as another example, did).  So the attempt to limit the Christian life to these two narrow forms is historically flawed.

Moreover, as noted, monasticism developed in the late 3rd century.  This means for more than a quarter millennium, there was no Christian monasticism.  There were earlier Christian ascetics, but none who lived a formal monastic life, either eremitic or cenobitic.  There was an actual order of widows in the early Church, but they did not live as a monastic community as we think of today.  There were almost certainly unmarried Christians who were not widows. What to make of this?  Well, for starters, unless we are willing to say those people are damned because God had not yet created the monastic life, we must assume there is at least one other path to salvation.  So it is hard to suggest that monasticism is required by our God, but for nearly 300 years He hid that path from His people so that those who preceded the advent of monasticism are outside salvation.

Perhaps the biggest problem with this approach, however, is that not all are called to the monastic life, and you do not discern that calling merely in opposition to marriage.  That is, just because you are not married, and not likely to become married, does not mean you have been called to live out your days in a monastery.  For one, nobody is entitled to live in a monastery.  One must be blessed by the Abbot or Abbess, and one must be received.  One who joins a monastery and is deemed unfit for monastic life may be asked to leave.  So what are people who are unable to find a marriage partner and also unable to find a monastery that will have them to do?  

I hope I have made clear above, I have no issue whatsoever with marriage (I am, after all, married) or monasticism.  I do think it is worth noting that this notion that there are only two paths, and that single Orthodox Christians who are open to marriage but for whatever reason find it unlikely they will find a spouse must rush off to be tonsured or lower their standards drastically to find a spouse, is nonsense.  If you are Orthodox and single, it's okay.  If you want to join a monastery, you should.  But you don't have to, nor do you have to rush into marriage simply to "pick a path."  There are two paths that are liturgically blessed, but those who are not on a liturgically blessed path are still on a path to salvation.  Please don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Standing in the Light

 

In the Orthodox Church, we speak a lot about "light."  We refer to those received into the Church as having been "illumined" in baptism and/or chrismation.  We sing about the "Gladsome Light" during the Vespers service.  During the Presanctified Liturgy during Great Lent the priest intones "the light of Christ illumines all," and at Pascha we sing "come ye, take light, that is never overtaken by night, glorify the Christ, risen from the dead."  Monastics speak a lot about the "uncreated light," which we and they long to experience.

The significance of this light is sometimes misunderstood, both within and without the Church.  When we stand in the light of Christ, we are illumined, this is true.  But what does that illumination achieve?  Why is it that the saints, on their deathbeds, so often pray for more time to repent.  And like the goats, their faithful followers ask "what do you have to repent of?"  And the saints so often respond, "I have not yet begun to repent."  Why do those closest to God become so utterly aware of their own unworthiness and frailty, and seemingly unaware of their own glorification?

I would submit that it is because when we say "the light of Christ illumines all," as a dear friend once said, we begin to see ourselves for who we really are.  That is, the light of Christ illumines us in the same way we are illumined in His eyes.  We see all of the things we hide away from the world.  We see how very dark and sinful we really are.  And it is because of that illumination that we can begin to heal, as He would have us healed.  Remembrance of sin is prolific in the Fathers.  St. John Climacus devotes large portions of The Ladder to discussing it.  The Prayer of St. Ephraim, which we pray at pretty much every Lenten service, is along these lines as well.  "Grant me to see my own sin, and not to judge my brother . . . ."  This is not to say that we should sulk around mourning our sins all the time and be joyless self-scolds or, worse, bask in a prideful false humility.  It is to say that a proper Orthodox outlook on standing in the light of Christ is one of mortification, not glorification.  We are not to bathe in this light as if it speaks anything good of us.  Rather, we are to show it forth as we see our own sin clearly and learn to show humility and deference and temperance and forgiveness toward all others, who are sinners, yes, but no worse than we are.  The light does not belong to us.  It is not of us.  It is ours only in the sense it is given to us by Him in Whose possession it properly resides.  And so we have no right to claim it as ours, and pridefully stand in it as if we have no sin.

We fail at this, obviously.  Yet we struggle, because in the end, to stand in the light means being willing to face our own iniquities and renounce our own pride and embrace the virtues of selflessness, humility and meekness.  Being illumined is not being set above.  It is, in a very real sense, becoming truly self-aware, truly human, and learning slowly to take on the light of Him Who gives it, and in that way, learning to view humanity as He does, with perfect love, submission, and self-sacrifice.  The light does not show us forth as we would like to be seen.  It shows us forth as we really are.  That we might see our own sin and not judge our brother.

Encountering God

 

I've had a lot of thoughts lately about Orthodox distinctives, and what qualifies as such, and what such distinctives are foundationally Orthodox versus what distinctives qualify more as theologoumena or pious opinion.  And in terms of Orthodox distinctives, I think one that escapes most people, including certain Orthodox Christians, is the idea that in Orthodox Christianity, we are not merely trying to do the right things to get reward or avoid punishment.  Rather, the point of the Orthodox Christian life is to encounter God.

I suppose in some sense every Christian could say this.  After all, if you believe God forgives your transgressions for the sake of His Son, and this is the goal of the Christian life, to receive that forgiveness, in a sense you have "encountered God."  And obviously, more sacramental communions (Lutherans, Anglicans and, obviously, Catholics) have a more tangible understanding of encountering God, even if all they believe they receive from the sacraments is forgiveness through some direct or indirect connection with God.  But that is not what we mean in the Orthodox Church. 

As Orthodox Christians, when we receive any sacrament, and in fact in the Sacramental Life (which is not limited to a strict numbering of sacraments), we believe God works in and through us.  For the Orthodox Christian, grace is not, as some of our Protestant friends suggest, merely "God's unmerited favor." Part of this is, for us, merit doesn't really enter into the equation formally.  Rather, for us, grace is the operation of the Holy Spirit in the life of the Christian. We receive this first and foremost in our baptism, then we receive the seal of the gift of the Holy Spirit in chrismation, then we receive God's Divine Energies through His Body and Blood in the Eucharist.  The Eucharist is the central act of the Christian Church for this reason -- it is the Sacrament to which the others point.  We are baptized so that we might be chrismated, and chrismated so that we might commune.  We are married so that we might receive the Eucharist together, strengthening the bonds of love between us.  We are ordained so that we might assist in serving or even ourselves serve the Eucharist.  We are given repentance that we might return to the Eucharist.  And we are given Holy Unction that we might be restored to full bodily and spiritual health, that we might receive the Eucharist to the greatest benefit.  This is the point of the Christian life.  All else leads us to this moment where we receive Christ's own immaculate Body, and His own precious Blood.  This encounter with God is tangible.  It is real.  And it is powerful.

This is why mere Christian ideologies are so vapid and empty.  What we believe about God is not nearly as important as how we encounter Him.  That is not to say what we believe about God is unimportant.  Only that our beliefs about God ought to point us to union with Christ, Who is God for us.  God with us.  God in us.  Belief about God that does not lead to an encounter with God is a belief that cannot save.  The Orthodox Church is not an ideology, or a set of beliefs about the Holy Trinity.  The Orthodox Church is a pathway to encounter the Holy Trinity.  More, belief in an intellectual sense does not really capture what the Church means by "faith."  Faith, in a Christian sense, is more akin to trust, as a child trusts his parent.  It is not merely saying the words, or even believing them truly, really in your heart.  Rather, it is clinging to the object of faith.  Faith is not something we do, or even something we try to attain.  Faith is something we live by, trusting in the Creator, the promise-giver, the life-giver.  This is true even when our faith is shaken.  As I've said here before, I don't trust me.  I trust Christ.

This is why efforts to narrow the Orthodox faith to a particular set of beliefs, especially in those areas where the Church has not dogmatized those beliefs, is doomed to fail. It isn't just that those beliefs are not exclusive or required or dogmatized.  It's that belief itself is not salvific.  Faith is, but belief is not.  What you believe cannot save you.  But trusting in the One Who saves?  That is where salvation lies.  And while this trust requires a certain set of beliefs, that requirement is not found in the particularities of Orthodox little "t" tradition.  It is found in the Scriptures and the Ecumenical Councils and the big "T" Holy Tradition of the Church, and not beyond those.  

This is not to say that pious opinions are invalid or improper.  It is only to say they are no more than what the word suggests -- opinions.  Orthodox Christians are free to believe them or reject them.  Orthodoxy is not found in the tightening of the noose around the neck of believers.  The faith is not a yoke.  The Orthodox faith is trusting in the One Who removes the yoke, freeing us from all worldly opinion and imprisonment.  Belief doesn't save.  Christ does.  We believe in Him, not in our own believing.  And we believe in Him, that we might encounter Him.

Fear and Self-Righteousness

Something occurred to me today while having lunch with a friend.  Christian rigorists tend to have two things in common.  First, a desire to be set apart from others, which inevitably tends to lead to self-righteousness.  Second, operating predominately from a position of fear.  

As to the first of these observations, at least in my own experience, those who embrace theological rigorism tend to have a very inflated view of their own group, at least those who are sufficiently rigorist as they are, and a very low view of those outside their group, and often even those within their group who they view as insufficiently serious or devoted or correct.  It seems to me that this stems from a Pharisaical desire for certainty, which will be discussed more below, and the remedy for this desire is to ensure that one's self is set apart, distinguished, separated from those for whom such certainty is absent.  This, it seems to me, has the commensurate effect of leading the rigorist to believe he is more righteous than he really is.  The desire to define Orthodoxy not by what we believe, nor even apophatically by what we cannot know, but predominately in opposition to others we deem to be inadequate, ends up putting us in the place of judgement over our brother's perceived failings.  And as we know, judgment stems from pride, and pride is mother of all the passions.  So rather than ending up in a place that authentically satisfies the rigorist's desire for certainty, we end up in a place that has us committing the greater sin in order to separate ourselves from those who would never judge us in return.  Such self-righteousness damages not only our neighbor and the Church, it also damages us.

As to the second observation, it seems to me that this desire for certainty stems from a position of fear before God.  Not the healthy fear of God that every Christian should have, but rather a fear-centered Christian life that results from a misunderstanding of Who God is and how God relates to His creation.  The Pharisees were not unholy people, at least to the extent externals allow one to claim to be holy.  The Pharisees, to the contrary, were the most holy people in terms of law keeping and rule keeping.  The Pharisees did not simply build a fence, but like Eve in the Garden, built a fence around the fence.  They were not satisfied with "do not eat of the fruit."  No, they had to go a step further -- "do not eat of the fruit, nor touch it."  In this way, their fear of punishment was allayed by the certainty that they had kept the rules, because the rules they kept were stricter than those God had given them.  Our Lord had harsh words for them.  They kept the Law, often perfectly, as far as anyone observing could tell.  But God said "I desire mercy, not sacrifice."  And thus they did not keep the Law in their hearts.  Instead, they wielded the Law as a sword against their neighbor, and even against their Savior.

This approach does not produce mature Christians.  If I tell you you must do this thing or else, then you will do only the minimum required to assuage me and no more.  That is, you will do only that which is needed to get "past the post" and avoid the punishment.  Even if the rules are made by setting fences around fences, as the Pharisees did, you still will not do more than required to stay on the correct side of the second fence.  Because your goal is not to seek the good, but rather to avoid the punishment.  As a former pastor once told me, "those who live by the Law are always looking for loopholes."  This is not a proper Christian outlook toward God.  God does not desire us to obey rules to avoid punishment.  He does not desire to punish us at all.  God desires that we enter into His life, encounter Him, and find Him in our neighbor.  That is not to say rules are unimportant, or canons ought to be disregarded, or that prayer and fasting disciplines are bad in and of themselves.  None of those things is true. Rather, we keep the Law because it is good for us to do so.  We forgive because it is good for us.  We pray and fast because those things are good for us.  We follow the canons because the Church has put them in place for our benefit. But that obedience, that desire to do good and follow the rules, must come first from a place of love and trust in the One Who gave them to us to begin with.  We obey because He is good, and just, and merciful, as the Psalmist said, "I follow the thing that good is."  We love because He first loved us.

The Christian lives to encounter God.  God is not found in fear and despair, nor in self-glorification and self-righteousness.  God is found first and foremost on the cross, and through the cross, we find God in our neighbor and our selves.  And so we pray not because we fear God will abandon us if we do not, but rather because we desire to encounter Him.  We fast and attend services and do good not to avoid His punishment, but to live in His glory.  God forgives.  He does not need us to keep His rules for His benefit.  We need to keep them simply because they are good.  Not because the end is worth the means, but because the means are an end in themselves.