Abba

Notes on Patriarchy, 1

In 2019, a wise man I knew died. I’ve written about him before here. He was a Chaldean, spoke Aramaic - Jesus’ language-, and likely one of the last Magi in the world. A rare and dying people, especially since the Syrian Civil war. He was born in the States and was a mix of Syrian, East European, and Tennessee American. He was also a divorcee, and for a long time hated by his children. He eventually restored his relationship with a daughter, which he often described as the greatest joy in his late life. The restoration of fatherhood, and the regaining of a lost crown. He loved being a father.

I did not know the Magi that well. I had a few passing conversations with him. He knew my name, and my curiosities, though not much more. The Magi was wise. Full of quotations, Syriac poetry, and ancient oral wisdom you couldn’t find in a book. I loved his words because I loved his wisdom. They were something departed from the Hellaphilia of modern philosophy. Syriac philosophy is nearly extinct now, but it is a truly complex beast with deep wisdom for its students. Much of the art of Assyrian Wit comes in the capacity to nail short, poignant, sayings. If wit were a martial art, Assyrian arts focus primarily on stunning and disarming your opponent to open them up to verbal assault. Syrians in ancient times were well known for their rebellious sons. Wisdom was considered a prize tool for a successful father.

A saying of the Magi, my favorite, goes:

He who declares “My Fathers are fools!” proves his dynasty!

I have often abbreviated this to simply “He who calls his father’s fools, proves his lineage”, which I find to be a more English-friendly flow. I have spent much time trying to find where this saying is from. It appears most similar to a saying in Sirach 3, but suffice to say, it seems to be a truly ancient oral tradition.

Fatherhood has been on my mind quite a lot recently. I am turning Thirty, thirty days from writing this. I am not a Father, yet at least. My own Father did not become one until his forties. I do hope to beat his record, though.

One of the positives of having children late in life, is that you have a great deal more wisdom to impart upon your children. For this reason, my oldest memory of my own father is also my oldest memory of Christianity. I was something of three years old, and instead of the usual story time, my father taught me The Lord’s Prayer. I do not know if I even knew what prayer was at that age. I have no memories of religion from before that, nor memories of my father from before that. In fact, I am not sure I have any memories at all from before that. I may have one very hazy memory of being 2, and my mother washing me in the shower. But I am not sure. So it is likely that my oldest memory of my father, my oldest memory of Christianity, and my oldest memory of all memories, are all the same event: Learning the Lord’s Prayer.

One of the negatives of having children late in life, is that you become a very old man early in your child’s life. My own father is aging - rapidly. His slouched back is getting worse, and he needs more help moving things. I find if I do not see him for even a few weeks, he has demonstrably ages in a very visible way. My father is also my barber, often. It was something he liked to do when I was young: shape a comely youth to be a gentleman. In recent weeks, he has had difficulty holding the Flowbee kit he has cut my hair with since I was a child. He still uses the same cold-war era Danish Vacuum cleaner which I am not entirely sure is in production anymore. This moment was very hard to notice. Truth be told, after the haircut I walked outside and cried. It was a turning point. Something which has been since my childhood was ending. Perhaps this was the last - or one of the last - times my father will cut my hair. I realized I was witnessing one of many signs that I can no longer inhabit the spaces and experiences of my childhood. That the inescapable pursuit of time was closing off the past, and that I must start behaving more as a man. As my father’s little mistakes add up - making wrong turns on roads he’s traveled thirty years on, and forgetting simple things - I find myself asking myself if I have ever proved my lineage a foolish one, or a wise one. As my father ages, I find myself asking: Where have I called him a fool? How can I recant the cruel words? I was quite a brat growing up, and only in recent years have I sought to emphasize how much I learned from my father when I see him. I find this is a due homage, as what does he know how much I appreciate his wisdom, if he never hears it?

The writing in Sirach 3 is very hard hitting, and I think deserves meditation on:

Children, listen to me, your father; act accordingly, that you may be safe. For the Lord sets a father in honor over his children and confirms a mother’s authority over her sons. Those who honor their father atone for sins; they store up riches who respect their mother. Those who honor their father will have joy in their own children, and when they pray they are heard. Those who respect their father will live a long life; those who obey the Lord honor their mother. Those who fear the Lord honor their father, and serve their parents as masters. In word and deed honor your father, that all blessings may come to you. A father’s blessing gives a person firm roots, but a mother’s curse uproots the growing plant. Do not glory in your father’s disgrace, for that is no glory to you! A father’s glory is glory also for oneself; they multiply sin who demean their mother. My son, be steadfast in honoring your father; do not grieve him as long as he lives. Even if his mind fails, be considerate of him; do not revile him because you are in your prime. Kindness to a father will not be forgotten; it will serve as a sin offering—it will take lasting root. In time of trouble it will be recalled to your advantage, like warmth upon frost it will melt away your sins. Those who neglect their father are like blasphemers; those who provoke their mother are accursed by their Creator.

There’s a lot there to unpack, but I bolded the likely textual cousin of the Magi’s oral wisdom.

Thinking about my father makes me cry now, and quite often. I am not ashamed to admit it, though I won’t let him see it just right now. I hope I can give him grand children some day soon, though. I want him to see that his lineage is one of wisdom, not fools. I want him to know - and see - that I value the heritage he gave me.