At the Edge of Christendom

One thing the scriptures make abundantly clear is that the essential nature of the Kingdom of God is spiritual, not physical. Any effort to draw geographical boundaries around it is not only futile, but is to miss the point altogether. But for the sake of illustration in this story, I will attempt to do that very thing. One of the best days I spent in the Republic of Georgia was at the Monasteries of Davit Gareja, located smack on the border of Christian Georgia and Muslim Azerbaijan.

St. Davit Gareja was a pivotal figure in Georgian history. He led a group of 13 Syrian Fathers to Georgia in the 6th Century, establishing a series of monasteries in the remote wilderness. A story connected with the beginning of the monastery relates that Davit, along with Lukiane and Dodo, were saved from starvation. Several does and fawns came up to them, gentle as sheep, and the does allowed themselves to be milked.


The monasteries flourished, and exerted significant influence in Georgia, being a center of fresco painting and manuscript copying and translation. The monks suffered tremendously during the invasion of the Mongols, and later Tamerlane. They persevered and regrouped each time. In 1615, however, the Shah of Persia massacred the entire colony of 6,000 monks and destroyed most of the treasures of the monastery. The monks were well hidden in the caves, but one of the Persians caught sight of a solitary candle flickering in a cave, betraying their position. The monasteries were closed again during the Soviet years. Now, the community of monks is flourishing once more at Davit Gareja.

Davit Gareja is located only 60 km. (36 miles) from Tbilisi, but it might as well be a half a world away. I stood on an outcropping of rock, surveying the wide windswept valley and the rolling, treeless hills, trying to come up with an appropriate description. My son said simply, "It's Rohan." Of course, that is exactly right. LOTR aficianados will know exactly what I am talking about. In the silence, I half expected to hear the thunder of hooves as the Rohirrim crested over the summit.


It is a 2 hour drive from Tbilisi to the monastery--an 18 mph average which gives you some idea of the quality of the roads. The city of Rustavi lies halfway between. A quintessential Soviet planned city, Rustavi had 150,000 inhabitants before communism's fall. A wide boulevard divides row upon row of bleak, despressing, crumbling apartment blocks. They could have been built anywhere from Vladivostock to East Berlin, as Soviet architects seemed to have only 1 set of blueprints. On the far side of the city, the vast, rusting industrial plants--stark, unsettling and soulless--now operate at 30% of their former capacity.

Yet even amid such sterility, the human yearning for God breaks through, like flowers pushing through cracks in the concrete. I noticed between some of the apartment blocks--in the common areas and playgrounds--some noticeably new construction. These small, traditional structures were invariably neat and attractive. They were, of course, minature chapels, all built in the ageless Georgian style. I doubt that the Soviet central planners would approve of this particular change in the layout!


I took no pictures of Rustavi. Our guide, Sophie, lived there and I did not want to embarrass her by taking special note of her decaying city. Later I learned my assumptions were offbase. Although she lived in Rustavi with her parents and brother, they resided in a nice home in the old part of town that predated the Communist era. In fact, their lot is spacious enough for her brother to plan another house on the site. In addition, they maintain a family home on the Black Sea coast.

Sophie explained that in the Georgian tradition, the son always inherits the house. Daughters have the right to live in the home as long as they like, however. This was not so much a matter of law, but simply a long-established custom. She assured me that a brother would never turn his sister out of the house. I am certainly not advocating this arrangement, but what impresses me is the stability and love within the Georgian family--the fact that extra-legal arrangements like this apparently work. I wonder how many American families--without legal safeguards--could pass a test like this.


Just past Rustavi lies a scraggly, hardscrabble village. There was nothing particularly unique about it, except for one noticeable building. At the edge of the village is a 6-story stone tower. For this is a village of Svans. Years earlier, an avalanche destroyed one of the Svanetian villages deep in the Caucasus Mountains. The government relocated them here, where some could engage in herding, and others could work in the Rustavi foundaries. I was incredulous that these fiercely independent mountain dwellers would be relocated here. And yet, the first thing they did was to build a traditional Svanetian tower, like the multitude that dot their Caucasian mountainsides. I saw the tower--and the adjoining church--as a testimony to the human spirit.

Soon, this village is left far behind, and nothing is left but miles of rolling hills and valleys. When we reach a small makeshift carpark, we are surprised to see the number of vehicles there. Packed marshrutkas from Tbilisi are unloading in front of us. We park and walk up the trail to Lavra Monastery--a compound of churches, cells and caves clustered around a central courtyard on three levels. There seemed to be a lot of activity around the courtyard, so we opt to visit the Udabno Monastery, a series of cave churches on the other side of the mountain. We follow a twisting trail past the watchtower that snakes up to the summit. Perhaps it was the altitude. Or perhaps I am just kidding myself about being in good physical shape. All I know is that going up the hill, I felt every one of the 15 lbs. I have put on in the last year. My dignity suffered further when a group of Italian seniors trotted past me on one of my many rest breaks.


At last I was able to join Sophie and my son on the summit, which afforded a breath-taking view south and east. The valley far below was Azerbaijan. So, in this sense, we were standing on the very edge of Christendom. In fact, much of the southern slope of the moutain was Azeri as well. The trail continued slightly down the hill and then eastward. A low iron railing ran for hundreds of feet near the path. Sometimes we were on one side, and sometimes the other. Only later did I learn that this demarcated the Georgian/Azerbaijan border. So I was able to "do" Azerbaijan on the cheap, without bothering with those tiresome border crossings. In the far distance, we heard an explosion, and then saw a plume of smoke lingering in the air. Sophie explained that the Azeris were exploding munitions. Okaaay.



The Udabno monasteries are heartbreaking. During the 1980s, the Russians used the valley below as training ground for the troops being sent to Afghanistan. The explosions caused most of the cave fronts to collapse. Even so, a number of the cave churches still have beautiful, but fading frescoes. I have retained the image in my mind of one of the frescoes in particular, of Christ Pantocrator. This haunting and sublime icon is still distinct, but with the eyes gouged out. The desecration was done not by marauding Turks, Persians or Monguls of ages past, but by Communist Russian soldiers in the 1980s.


The trail continues past dozens of cave churches. Sophie explained that monks had installed doors on some of the Udabno caves and were now staying in the cells permanently. So, the monastic life is reborn once more in the caves of Udabno.


The trail leads to a promentory, the site of a reconstructed chapel. Sophie explained that a Tbilisi businessman funded the project. Workers and supplies were brought to the site by helicopter. While we sat on a bench and talked, Sophie learned that I was Orthodox. She was pleased, and not a little surprised. She wanted to know if there were many Orthodox in America. I told her there were not so many of us, but that I was hopeful of growth. A young Georgian man was there and heard us conversing in English. He spoke to Sophie. I learned that he wanted to make sure that she told me about the 6,000 martyrs.


From here, the trail doubled back, down the north slope to Lavra Monastery. By the time we returned to the monastery we found even more people there than before. In fact, crowds covered the place. Sophie discovered that this was the feast day of St. Davit Gareja. This was the one time during the year when the Catholicos of the Georgian Orthodox Church, Ilya II, comes to this particular monastery and conducts the liturgy. The Church of the Transfiguration was packed, with the crowd spilling out into the courtyard. I took up a position on the 3rd floor gallery and waited. After a while, the worshippers, along with the monks and priests, and finally the Catholicos, filed out of the church, the crowds in the courtyard swarming around their shepherd.


And so ended my journey to the monasteries of Davit Gareja. I retain a number of memories, not the least of which is the joy and simple faith I saw in the faces of the crowd that day. I also remember the story of the 6,000 martyrs. And the monks now returning to the caves. And perhaps more than anything, the now eyeless icon of Christ. And the ultimate utter futility of those who try to stamp out the message of He who sees all in all.

Dark Grace

A week or so ago, Rod Dreher at Crunchy Con had a link to this excellent article on Flannery O'Connor. The writer laments the fact that the author is not more widely read these days. I agree. In my opinion, she is quite simply one of the greatest theologians of the 20th century, who masqueraded as the greatest American short story writer of the 20th century. The article observes that all of her stories are about grace, but not the kind we Americans would picture. We tend to think of grace as something warm and fuzzy and cuddly. The truth is, more often than not, it hits us like a Zidane head-butt. Go read the article.

Views of Svaneti

Blogspot has apparently fixed the photo upload problem, so here are a few views of Svaneti.

Situation Hopeless, But Not Serious

This comic line from a favorite movie--One, Two, Three with James Cagney--often comes to mind these days. Of course, I have reference to the situation in the Middle East. I am saddened, and alarmed by recent developments.

I hesitate to comment at all, for fear of being misunderstood. I am certainly no apologist for the ascendent radical Islam, or even Islam in general, and probably worry about it as much as anyone. And clearly, Israel has a right to defend itself against Hezbollah; no question about it. I don't believe they have a right to level Beirut and Lebanon in the process, however. As is always the case in the Jew vs. Muslim saga, the local Christians get caught in the crossfire. I wonder if the American evangelicals rooting so strongly for the Israeli offensive believe that the substantial Lebanese Christian community is somehow immune from these attacks? I really wonder if they even know they are there.

I am also not so naive as to believe that a resolution of the Israel question would suddenly solve our problems in the Middle East, or make radical Islam go away. It would not. But I do know that our polices of the last 60 years, by all administrations, have fed the growing, and now raging, discontent within Islam. We inherited an already flawed and discredited policy from the British after WWII. And we have stuck with it. We are joined to Israel at the hip (I would add for better or for worse, but there is no better). A friend of mine overheard former Secretary of State James Baker quip (off the record), "America has no foreign policy. Ariel Sharon has a foreign policy." All too true, I am afraid. The only out for us may lie in the growing alarm among Sunni Muslims (Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Egypt, Turkey, etc.) of their Shiite co-religionists (Iran, Iraq, Hezbollah, etc.). We'll see.

In the meantime, I have been following the on-going commentary. Douglas Ian, over at the Scrivener has some good things to say in 2 recent posts on the subject. Rod Dreher at Crunchy Con has linked two articles I consider to be "must reads:" one by George Will and the other by Spengler. I also recommend Jim's comments over at neepeople under "Catch Up," and the article regarding Robert Fisk here. Finally, Sand Monkey (an excellent, pro-Western Egyptian blogger) vents his frustation over the now-famous picture that is making the rounds; the one of the Israeli schoolgirls writing messages to Hezbollah on missiles. I did a little research, and the scene is somewhat contrived; but still, that is no excuse. It just shows how deep the sickness is on both sides. Check it out here, if you wish. He notes that "they [the Israelis]view us as if we were a headache. We view them as if they are a cancer. And this is why there will never really be any peace in the middle-east."

40 Martyrs of Sebaste

I saw this large icon of the 40 Martyrs of Sebaste in the Ethnographic Museum in Mestia, Svanetia, Georgia. It is 12th Century, painted in the Svanetian style, and one of my favorites.

Genora's House

Genora's "Guesthouse Nika" became my home-away-from-home in Tbilisi. The neighborhood was fairly typical for the city, but what we might call "transitional" over here. Grimy Soviet-style flats, sleek new high-rise apartments and overgrown, tumbledown lots made for an odd mix. Then there were the older homes, like Genora's, built prior to the Communist-era apartments. They were all 2-story, either brick or stuccoed, and were built flush with the sidewalk. As is typical in the east, whether Christian or Muslim, little is revealed streetside. The life of the family and the beauty of the home is always hidden in the courtyard behind the gate. Such was the case with Genora's home. The gate opened onto a small, pleasant courtyard with daylillies in bloom in one corner, and a grape arbor providing shade. A passageway led to a rear courtyard, which appeared overgrown at first glance. Actually, the family utilized the small area to its limit, but also with an eye for beauty, as apple, fig and pomegranate trees, grape arbors, roses and daylillies all vied for space.

This was the home of Genora's parents, and she had always lived here. Her father, an engineer, had built the house decades ago. Genora graduated from the university, trained as a classical pianist. In Soviet days, Georgia was perhaps the most affluent of the old republics, enjoying a relatively high standard of living. That all changed upon the fall of Communism and the regaining of independence. The market for Georgia's goods suddenly dried up. The security offered by the state was gone. And few had any real concept of what we call "business." Genora taught piano lessons (and still does at a local school), but this was not enough to survive. The family silver had to be sold, and then her piano. She said she was not going to sit around and wait for the government to provide for her. so, for the last 7 years she has operated a a pension in her home. While perhaps wistful for their former standard of living, she is not bitter and does not want to go back. She smiles, shrugs and says, "And so we live."

Genora's guesthouse is the unofficial headquarters for Peace Corps volunteers in Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan. The PC's office in nearby, and whenever the volunteers come into the city from their various postings, either on break, to take care of bookkeeping or to pick up their mail, they always stay at Genora's. It's a good arrangement on both sides--she speaks of them as "her children" and they view her house as a home-away-from-home.

I suppose my son and I--mere travelers and not connected with the PC--were something of oddity to the volunteers. No matter, they pulled us right in to their fellowship. I have never met a friendlier bunch of people, all eager to talk. And I might add, that I have rarely felt better about my own country that I did with these young people. Two years in a remote Georgian village is rarely seen as a savvy career move. And yet here they were. Graduate school and careers could wait. Right now, they were just trying to make a difference.

A covered patio connected the two courtyards. A cheap plastic table and chairs, coupled with an old refrigerator wedged in on the opposite wall made for a perfect hangout. I will never forget our first full night there. The two of us, and anywhere from 6 to 9 of our new PC friends, sat around shooting the bull, drinking Kazbegi beer and smoking too many cigarettes until 4:30 in the morning. One of the young men commented on my staying up with them. I told him I was delusional. He asked what I meant and I told him that I thought I was still young. He said he hoped he could be delusional one day. The next night, however, I was somewhat less delusional and had to give it up at 3:00 AM.

Anyway, these wide-ranging discussions touched on a number of subjects. I found their insight into the country invaluable, as they were eager to talk about Georgia and Georgians. I remember one anecodote,in particular. It seems in the old Soviet days, the other "republics" would simply do as Moscow dictated. The Georgians, however, would simply shrug, ask, "why?" and then go about doing as they wanted. I certainly saw evidence of this in my travels. But then Georgia has always been a dangerous neighborhood--a small country wedged between powerful ones. This attitude has less to do with obstinacy than it does with the preservation of Georgian culture in the face of a long history of invasions.

I have always been a little amused that when people sit around and drink, the subject of religion will often come into the conversation. We were no exception. First of all, I had an immediate connection with one of the older young men. He was out of the Peace Corps, but remained in Georgia, working for another humanitarian organization. He was from Texas and he had belonged to the same heritage church as mine. He was currently engaged to a Georgian Orthodox girl. And while he had left his old church far behind, he was not yet ready to cross the Bosphorus as I had. I believe he wanted to, but was looking for a narrower place to cross. He would go with her to the Orthodox Church, but was put off by some of the claims Orthodoxy makes for itself. She would accompany him to a "nondenominational" Bible study, but would become angry over their evangelical condescension--the idea that they were bringing "the gospel" to a country that, in fact, has a rich, 1700 year old Christian history. Anyway, in coming months, they are to have a Georgian wedding with a priest, and then a few months later, a Texas ceremony for his family. He and I shared a laugh over his mother's concern--whether the girl could be rebaptized and whether or not she could be "saved." Lord have mercy!

They were all intrigued when they discovered that I was Orthodox, which of course led the discussion into new areas. Many of these intelligent young people had been in Georgia for 2 years, working daily as members of Georgia society. It would be the heighth of presumption for me to lecture them about Georgians; for me to conclude that I had better insight into the culture after only a brief stay than they did. And yet, except for the one young man, I believe many of them had missed a key element of Georgian society. They were overlooking, or rather, dismissing the church. Partly this is due to the fact that they were Americans. We are still probably the most religiously observant folks around, statistically, but like the old saying goes, our American popular religion is 3,000 miles wide and 2 inches deep. Many, many Americans have only a superficial interest and/or understanding of matters of faith--of whatever stripe. And like our European kinsmen, it is becoming increasingly irrelevant to our society as a whole. Trained to help developing countries move into the modern world, I suspect that they failed to consider that a country's faith could/would/does continue to define the culture. For example, I had to explain to one of the young men from New England what I meant by the word "evangelical." He wasn't being obtuse, he actually didn't know.

I was assured that "Georgians didn't really go to church;" the impression being that they did not take it all that seriously. One young man related his experience at an Orthodox church. He observed that "the priest didn't even face the congregation. He has his back to them the whole time. It was like he was doing his own thing and wasn't even aware that the congregation was even there." Also, he saw a young man talking on his cell phone during the service. Oh, dear. Where to begin? I wondered how one could be trained for work in a traditional Orthodox country and not learn the bare rudiments of how they worship? How could one live there for 2 years and not pick up on this?

I quickly gathered that the problem was with their perception of "church." Broadly speaking, in America, church is a place where you fill up the parking lot on Sunday, go in and settle in to a comfortable pew, hear some nice uplifting songs and listen to an upbeat, feel-good sermon from the pastor and then go out to eat. And even if you are not a regular church-goer, you know that is what happens when Americans "go to church." Unknowingly, this was the prism through which they viewed Georgian religiosity. With this perception of "church," no wonder they dismissed Georgian spirituality. This is a shame, for in so doing, they missed a key, if not the very key, to understanding this people.

I began by addressing the experience of the one young man in the Orthodox church. I told him that, by and large, he was exactly right--the priest was not talking to the congregation. He was talking to God. I tried to explain how it differed from American Protestantism; how the "sermon" was not the thing at all; that an Orthodox church was not a place to go and hear a nice lesson. It was a temple; a place to pray; a place to experience God. Worshippers in an Orthodox church are not an audience, they are participants. I couldn't excuse the cell-phone guy, as Georgians seem more enamored with them than even we are, but I did try to convey that the Orthodox have a different conception of "church."

Admittedly, I am hardly an unbiased observer. Yet, over the course of my stay in Georgia, I suppose I was in at least 15 churches--from a mere 4 years old to 1500 years old--and found myself encouraged and edified by what I saw. Georgian churches are far from the museum pieces of western Europe. You might even say some literally churn with activity. As expected, people were coming in an out, lighting candles and praying before the icons. Yet they were not just the faithful old, the bow-legged old peasant women, as some mught presume. In fact, the demographics I saw tended towards the young, both women and men. The sight of young men, even soldiers, praying and crossing themselves before the icons is a healthy thing. For Orthodoxy is still a manly religion. At Sioni Cathedral I chanced upon a priest striding across the courtyard to the church. He was singing--bellowing actually--in a rich, strong bass. Yes, there's still plenty of room for men in Orthodoxy.

The spectacular new Sameba Cathedral dominates the Tbilisi skyline, billed as the third largest Orthodox church in the world. My PC friends told me that the building of this church generated some local controversy. Eyebrows were raised at such a lavish building in a struggling country. Others worried that it was erected largely from contributions of a businessman with questionable connections. Then part of the courtyard supposedly covered an old Armenian cemetery. So much for the naysayers. I found it magnificent and full of worshippers. I also witnessed 2 baptisms and 1 wedding in the short time I was there.

Taxi drivers in Tbilisi habitually cross themselves 3 times whenever they pass in sight of a church. Pedestrians stop on the pavement and do the same thing. Icon stores dot the city. New chapels and churches can be seen on the highway from Tbilisi to the coast--all in the beautiful Georgian style. Even in the bleak apartment flats of decaying Rustavi, chapels have been constructed next to the playgrounds in the common areas.

My PC friends complain that the Orthodox Church has been slow to build churches where the people are located. For example, my friend's fiancee lives in a neighborhood of 50,000 people, that until very recently, had no church. Perhaps this is true. But then convenience has never been a watchword in Orthodoxy. Georgians are much more likely to build a church on a rocky cragg overlooking all of God's creation than they are to erect it down on the crossroads.

I have to conclude that Orthodoxy in Georgia is vibrant, perhaps even resurgent. 80% of the populace identify themselves as Orthodox. Admittedly, some of this allegiance may be tilted more to their nationalistic identity as Georgians. But after 70 years of Communism, the re-emergence of Orthodox Christianity seems fresh and alive and invigorating.

The Treasure of Iperi

During my recent journey in the Republic of Georgia, I spent the better part of 4 days getting to, traversing across, and returning from the Province of Svaneti. In fact, I ventured as far as Ushguli, an almost surreal village nestled high in the Caucasus Mountains--the most remote village in the most remote province of a fairly remote country. It is quite literally the end of the road in Europe (that is if you play along with the Georgian insistence that that their country is in Europe). Svaneti's main draw for visitors--beyond its isolation--is its almost other-worldly look; an alpine terrain dotted with the unique 900 year-old defensive towers, 5 to 6 stories in heighth (see picture below on "Sabbatical" post).

Obviously, one doesn't go to Svaneti on the way to anywhere. From Zugdidi, a sometimes harrowing 5-hour jeep ride--on a twisting trail which hugs mountain ridges along the raging Enguri River far below--will eventually bring you as far as Mestia. The road is blocked by snow much of the year. And during the rest of the year, a road crew is clearing away the rock slides and bracing the road here and there to keep it from sluffing-off into the river.

The town of 2,300 is the provincial capital. We stayed with a nice lady named Nino, who is, in fact, the governor of the province. So, I guess you can say we boarded at the "Governor's Mansion." But before you go too far with that imagery, however, I might add that there was a clothes line in the front yard and the cows were stabled right below our bedroom window. But there were indoor "facilities." Nino and her husband were pilgrims to the Holy Land during Pascha and witnessed the Holy Fire. She set her laptop on the dining room table and we all gathered around and watched her home movie DVD of the miracle.

Svaneti, while Georgian, has always maintained a fierce independence. Among themselves, they continue to speak Svan and hold to the many of their old ways. While Orthodox Christian, many still hold to some pre-Christian traditions. On major feast days, some villagers will sacrifice a bull (but then prepare the meat for a feast). Remarkably, the towers are generally owned by the same families who built them 900 years earlier. In the bad old days of Communism, bureaucrats were shipped in to whip the region into line. Many simply never returned and the Svans went about their business as usual. Family feuds can still flare up from time to time, and the village elders are looked to for mediation. In fact, the defensive towers were as much a protection against adversarial clans as they were against foreign invaders and rockslides.

Good-natured banditry, while diminishing, can still be a problem. I say "good-natured," because the Svan highwaymen may relieve you of your money and your wine, but they are not going to hurt you. And they will probably share the wine with you, as well. On our journey there, my son and I traveled with a guide and a car and driver. Unbeknownst to us, the package price included an accompanying jeep with 3 commandos in camouflage gear and submachine guns. The tour company hired them as our protection, just in case. I appreciated them being there, even if their presence was a little off-putting. I retain an image of them, squatting on their haunches, eyeing us with curiosity, while pulling on a cigarette held between thumb and forefinger. I got the feeling that any one of them could have been on the other side, had that been where the money was.


This perception of Svaneti, however, can obscure the region's rich cultural heritage. During invasions, the Georgian monarchs of old would send their treasures there for safe-keeping. And at times, the mountain strongholds provided protection for the rulers themselves. When invaders, whether they be Turks, Persians or Communists would penetrate into the region, the villagers would take down the icons and other treasures and hide them in their homes. This has continued down to the present day, so much so that many Svanetians are still hesitant to relinquish them. Some have been gathered together and displayed in the excellent Ethnographic Museum in Mestia. Gospel books dating from the late 800s are on display, as well as beautiful icons from the 11th and 12th centuries. One of my favorites was a unique 12th Century Svanetian icon of the 40 Martyrs of Sebaste.

After Mestia, you leave the "good" road behind, and travel another 3 1/2 hours along the Enguri River to reach Ushguli. The first automobile only made it here in 1964. The road ends here. The small power line which provides sporadic electricity to the village ends here. The achingly beautiful Church of LaMaria crowns the last knoll in the valley. There, you are face to face with Mt. Shkhara, its summit hidden in clouds. On the other side--Russian Chechnya--which makes it an ideal place to turn around.

On the return journey, we stopped at the village of Iperi, about 1 1/2 hours from Ushguli and 2 hours from Mestia. Our guide, Sophie, wanted us to visit the Church of St. George there. We parked in front of the churchyard while she went to find the caretaker.

The church was unprepossessing from the outside, what I describe as the simple Georgian style with steep pitched roof, but without the soaring effect of the high Georgian style. A small village cemetery lay in front of the church. Georgians prefer black stones with the portraits of the deceased etched on the marble. So as I faced the church, the faces of the deceased village stared out at me! Americans would probably consider the graveyard an overgrown mess. Yet it was not neglected and a far cry from the sterile lawnscapes characteristic of modern American cemeteries. For the markers had bottles stacked around them. Families return to the graves periodically--and especially on the anniversary of the death--and drink toasts to the deceased. (Toasts are big in Georgia, by the way. In Ushguli, I survived 7 vodka toasts at supper...but that's another story.) The bottles are of water, soda, wine or vodka--but never beer--and the bottles are left there, for whatever reason. I see the practice as a hearty, earthy affirmation of belief in the victory over death through Christ. The separation with the deceased is not real, and at worst, is only temporary. Though totally foreign to my experience, I found the custom oddly comforting, and smiled when I speculated how some of my uptight Protestant forebears would react to a vodka toast being offered over their graves!

Eventually, Sophie returned with the caretaker. It seems that it was still one of the feast days for St. George and somewhere in the village they were boiling a bull. The caretaker unlocked the door and admitted us into the small sanctuary. There was little to see at first, as it took a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. There was one candlestand, and Sophie and I each lit a candle. Gradually, the panoply began to unfold before me.

Meanwhile, the caretaker talked of his church. The building dated back to the 11th century. The frescoes inside were painted by the court painter of King David the Builder. King David is a Georgian saint, who along with his descendant, Queen Tamar, ruled during Georgia's glory days of the 10th throught 13th centuries. During the Soviet era, the local Communists commandeered the church as a stable, and defaced all the frescos on the lower level. But since Communism's fall, the church had been reconsecrated, and a priest conducts liturgies there from time to time. The caretaker said that there would be many baptisms whenever he came. He went on to explain that his nephew was a deacon in Tbilisi, and he had hopes of him returning to the village one day as a priest.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I was bowled over by the beauty of the frescoes! Of course, Christ Pantocrator was seated above and behind the altar, with the Theotokos on the left and John the Baptist on the right. Scenes from the life of Christ filled-out the front of the church. Depictions of the life of St. George (and St. Theodore)lined the sides and rear of the sanctuary.

But I had not yet seen everything. A safe sat at the rear of the church. The caretaker carefully worked the combination and opened the door. An incredible silver icon of St. George sat on display on the the top shelf. The Svanetians often depict St. George spearing the Emperor Diocletian (as this one did), instead of a dragon. Of course, they know that St. George didn't really kill Diocletian, but by his martyrdom he symbolically slew the emperor and all that he stood for. The caretaker explained that this icon was hidden in the village during the long, dark years of Communism.

He pulled other treasures from the safe--ancient silver chain necklaces for both men and women. We held them in our hands and admired their weight and craftsmanship. He then extracted a golden bowl; not a gold-rimmed bowl, not a gold-plated bowl, but a golden bowl donated to the church by benefactors centuries earlier. As we stood there, holding this priceless golden bowl, the caretaker reached over to a table and picked up an unmarked (and open) bottle. He poured a clear liquid into the bowl. Not being real quick on the take, I looked at him questioningly. He said, "Wodka!" We smiled our approval. I put the bowl to my lips and took a long draught of vodka. I passed the bowl to my son, who finished it off. I briefly contemplated the strange, unfathomable providence and mercy of God--that would bring a formerly Protestant boy from East Texas to an obscure 11th Century Orthdox Church in the Caucasus Mountains, drinking vodka from a golden bowl.

The treasures were locked securely back in the safe, and began to exit the church. As I did, I was touched by what I glimpsed. Our hardened, young commandos were approaching--perhaps to see what we were up to--all the while, crossing themselves in the wide, sweeping Georgian manner as they neared the church. Western Protestants may pooh-pooh this as meaningless ritualism, but I am assured that it is not.

The caretaker charged a nominal fee to show the church, and a little more for picture-taking. It was really a pittance and we were glad to help support its maintenance. Through out guide and interpreter, I told him to keep the change as a contribution to the church. It amounted to, I believe, something like $14 more. The caretaker was overcome with emotion. He invited us to his home, to share a meal with his family. My "western" sensibilities took over. I didn't want to "impose," and then we did have something of an entourage--the 2 of us, our driver, our guide and our 3 rent-a-toughs. Then, of course, we did need to get on to Mestia. Anyway, I thanked him profusely, and I believe he understood. Before we left, he shook our hands firmly, bowed low to us, and then kissed us on each cheek. And so we left Iperi and its treasures behind, except of course for the one I was nurturing in my own heart.

Tech Help Needed

I am working on some travel stories to post. Unfortunately, Blogspot is not allowing me to upload pictures as before. Anyone ran into this problem before, or have any suggestions?

I Saw Dolphins

I spent the last few days of my journey in Istanbul before heading home on Monday. On Friday, I went out to the Princes Islands. The 4 inhabited islands--Kuniliada, Burgazada, Heybeliada and Buyukada--lie out into the Sea of Marmara, though within sight of the Asiatic side of İstanbul. They have a rich history. Back in the days of the East Roman Empire, the islands were used as a place of exıle (excuse my being pedantic here, but if you called a resident of old Costantinople a "Byzantine" they would not know what you were talking about. They considered themselves to be Romans.) Displaced royalty were dispatched here while the new emperor figured out what to do with them. Theologians out of favor at court also found their way to the islands. Frankly, there are worse things than being sentenced to these beautiful islands.

İn the last half of the 1800s, the islands began taking on a new character. The wealthy Greek and Armenian merchant class of Constantinople built expansive villas on the islands. And what villas they are!

As everyone knows, the Greek and Armenian presence in İstanbul is now little more than a memory. There are a few small cafes and shops clustered around the Ecumenical Patrıarchate (Church of St. George), but that is about all. Walking around the old Greek district--the Phanar--is a real eye-opener. The old Greek mansions and townhouses are now decrepit. An occasional one remains maintained and you wonder if it houses a Greek family behind the locked doors. But as the Greeks were pushed out, the area has been taken over by some of the poorest and most conservative Muslims immigrating from eastern Turkey. Frankly, this area reminds one of pictures of Afghanistan, as most women are in the black burka with only eyes and perhaps nose exposed, and the men with beards and woolen skullcaps. While this is NOT representative of İstanbul, it does describe what has happened to the old Greek district.

But the Christians have held on to the islands. Kuniliada is just a big Armenian social club. Burgazada is mostly Greek. Heybeliada is majority Turkish, but also contains the now-closed Greek Orthodox Theological Seminary (of much controversy) and several monasteries. Buyukada is supposed mostly Jewish, though it is hard to tell (Funny, the island doesn't look Jewish.)

Buyukada is the largest, and farthest away. As the ferry stops in turn at each of the islands, it takes a good hour and a half to reach Buyukada from the Eminonu docks. But İ enjoyed every minute of it. The sight of several pairs of dolphins along the way was a special treat.

An unique aspect of island life is the fact that vehicles are banned. You can walk. You can ride a bicycle. Or you can hire a horse-drawn carriage. These buggies are a big hit with the day-trippers from İstanbul who descend on the islands in droves during the summer. The pungent aroma of horse manure mingles with the fragrance of the lush, flowering shrubs Upon arrival, İ chose the cycling option and rented a bicycle in the Meydan (town square). My goal was the Monastery of St. George.

Buyukada has been rightly called the Turkish Hamptons. The homes are elegant and are usually surrounded by lush tropical landscaping. İ was unfamiliar with most of the flowering shrubs, save the hydrangeas. Whatever they were, they were all in full bloom. The residents were not easily spotted. İ suspect they like to sit on their back terraces which overlook their private beaches. But İ did catch glimpses of older non-Turkish men (whether Greek or Jewish) in sailing caps (think Thurston Howell, III) and henna-haired matrons in their garden chairs giving directions to the gardener, and of handsome young people who perhaps spend a little too much time laying around the pool. İ spotted several churches. Only saw one very small mosque with an aluminum mınaret. İt looked as out of place as you know what.

İ leasurely pedaled my way though these residential areas and on towards the monastery. The Church of St. George is located on the highest hill on the island. A cobbled road leads from the main road up to the summit. İ was already huffing and puffing by the time İ reached the monastery road. This was one steep hill! İ am not sure even Lance Armstrong could have ridden up it (Yeah, he could). Anyway, İ started pushing the bicycle up the hill. Actually, this worked out to my advantage as I was bent over double and used the bicycle seat to rest my head as I trudged along.

At long last, I reached the summit. The church was closed until 2:30, so I settled in and made myself at home on a park bench nearby. I carried a small backpack throughout my travels--ideal for my hat, water, camera, batteries and journal. For many years, I have kept a small journal on me when I travel. I make note of names and places and events, make observations, and draw small maps. I dug around around in the backpack and discovered that the journal was missing! I briefly panicked. Almost a month's worth of writing--gone! But then I remembered what I had written not many days before--about worry and fretting about things that could not be changed. So, I concluded that there were 3 options: 1. The journal had fallen out of my backpack when I was scrambling around in it for my water bottle. I would retrace my steps on the island and find it. 2. The journal had fallen out of my backpack. I would retrace my steps on the island and not find it. In such case, I would reconstruct my journal and this would be a good test of my memory--and a good test of my being able to "walk the walk" about not fretting over transitory things. 3. The journal was on the nightstand in my hotel room and I would find it that night. I took stock of where I was: I was at a monastery on the top of a mountain, with a cool breeze blowing, a view of sailboats bobbing in the harbor below, and I was worried about a damn journal! I took a deep breath, said a prayer and put it out of my mind.

Frankly, I was a little disappointed in the monastery church. There were no priests around (gee, shouldn't they be on hand to provide photo-ops for us tourists???); the church had no gift shop as I had been lead to believe; and no photographs were allowed inside. This may give you real insight into my spirituality that day! I guess I was a little tired and cranky by this time. I have to laugh at myself now, though.

The bicycle ride back into the town was a breeze, being mostly downhill this time. And what luck! There was a ferry right there on the dock preparing to leave. I jumped aboard for the ride back to Istanbul. Perceptive readers will here recognize a marked similarity between this scenario and my "wrong train out of Zurich scenario." The ferry was not going back to where I had come from. Just because a ferry brought me to Buyukada, did not mean that it was the only ferry stopping there. This ferry, I learned, was headed for a dock on the far southern end of Asiatic Istanbul. Well, it's still Istanbul, you say. With 14 million people, this would be similar to aiming for Washington DC and getting off in Baltimore. Some nice Greek tourists consulted a ferry schedule (which apparently everybody but me picked up when they first bought their tickets) and put me back on the ferry to Buyukada. So, once more, with the kindness of strangers, I backtracked and eventually made my way home.

The best part of the day? I saw dolphins.

Oh yeah, and the journal--I never found it. But I did reconstruct the whole thing.

Traveling Stupid

İ like to fancy myself a sophistocated, informed and urbane citizen of the world--at ease in whatever continent İ happen to find myself. An unsettling number of incidents (5, actually) on my current journeying suggests a contrary conclusion. A standard daily prayer of mine is to beseech God to "humble, chastain and dscipline me; to keep me from pride, arrogance and greed." So why am İ still surprised when He does that very thing? İ offer these cautionary tales for your edification and amusement at my expense. Enjoy.

1. WRONG TRAİN OUT OF ZURİCH

İf you fly American Airlines to Eastern Europe or the Middle East, chances are good that you will have a day's layover in Zurich. İf the weather is nice and it is not a Sunday when all the shops are closed this is not such a bad thing at all. A train will whisk you from the airport to the center of the old city where one can stroll around and perhaps even take a dinner cruise on the Zurich Zee. Such was not the case for us on this cold, wet Sunday. Perhaps İ was not on top of my game due to lack of sleep. İ cannot sleep on flights, even with pills. With 45 minutes to an hour sleep under my belt İ was nevertheless ready to tackle Zurich at 8:30 that morning. We stashed our luggage and proceded to the train ticket booth.

İn line in front of us were Mr. and Mrs. American-Evangelical-in-Europe-for-the-first-tıme. Large build, flowery shirt, denim shorts, white sneakers and baseball cap--you get the picture. He hesitatingly asked the agent if she spoke English. (Meanwhile İ was trying to decide whether to just do it in English or whip out a "deux billet a' Zurich, s'il vous plait.") Anyway, she politely nodded yes and he exhaled loudly and exclaimed "Thank the Looorduh" in his best Trinity Broadcasting Network accent, as if to thank God for directing him to the one agent in this heathen land who could accomodate him in God's own English. İ am thinking "Good Lord! Yes she speaks English. And German. And French. And İtalian. And can probably make do in Portuguese or Serbo-Croatian if need be. This is Switzerland, for goodness sake!"

İ note this only because what happened next was undoubtedly pay-back for my arrogance and condescensıon. My son and İ took the flight of stairs down to the train landing. And what luck! There was a train just about to leave. We jumped aboard and settled in for the quick run into Zurich. Except this train was not going to Zurich. İn fact, it was heading in the opposite direction. For the airport train station does not just provide a commuter link into downtown, but rather is a major stop on the extensive Swiss railway system, with trains departing in every direction. Actually, I knew that. So why, like a doofus, did İ just assume this train would take us to Zurich? We rode the train until it stopped at a place called Winterthur. İ suppose İ can add this to my travel tips: When in Winterthur be sure and visit the charming railway station. We sheepishly bought new tickets back to the airport where we eventually boarded the right train. And yes, in the back of my mind, İ knew that the aforementioned couple from the ticket counter--wherever they were--were undoubtedly on the right train!

2. THE TBİLİSİ SULPHUR BATH İNCİDENT

All the Georgian travel guidebooks (actually, İ think there is only one) urge tourists to visit the Tbilisi sulphur baths. İn fact, that was the original reason for the city even being there. A bunch of medieval hedonists started hanging out around the warm mineral springs along the river and before long--Tbilisi! After spending a hot day walking all over the city, a nice long soak sounded like just the ticket.

You go into one of the establishments and pay for a private room. For just a little more money, a "massage man" will come in and work you over. I figure--why not? So İ go into my own private little ante-room and undress and change into the towel thing. İ then go into the main room containing my own private mineral bath and a marble slab to sit or lay on. İ swim around in the pool for a while and İ am beginning to feel very, very relaxed. Then the "massage man" comes in and does his thing. He scrubs me down and then beats on my back and shoulders. İt feels much better than it sounds! Anyway, by the time he was finished working on me, İ was feeling as relaxed as İ have ever felt. İ lay around and swam around a while longer and then tried to get dressed. İt was an effort.

When İ left the baths, fortune continued to shine on me, as there was a taxi waiting right in front (and not a scruffy little Lada but a late model Mercedes). İ jump in and we head off across town to Miskevitch Street. We had gone a little ways and İ began to have a strange uneasiness. Something just did not feel right. İ felt at my waist and there was an empty spot where my money belt was supposed to be. Oh crap! Apparently İ was so very relaxed getting dressed that İ did not even notice that my money belt (containing my passport and 2200 US dollars) had slipped off my belt. İ started gesturing wildly to the taxi driver to "Go Back! Go Back!" Eventually he understood and every second spent stalled in traffic was painful to me. When we reached the sulphur baths, İ jumped out and ran in, startling the little woman manning the front desk. İ went straight back to my room and thankfully they had not yet thought about cleaning up the room for another customer. There was my money belt laying on the floor. İ was so relieved, İ gave the lady a 20.

İ am a big one to preach to others that your passport stays on your body at ALL times when traveling overseas. There is a lesson in here somewhere, but İ am not sure what it is. İ do know that people that do things like this should not be allowed to cross the county line--much less go overseas--without a guardian!

3. ROBBERY BY İSTANBUL TAXİ DRİVER NO. 1

Let me just say upfront that İstanbul taxi drivers are the worst in the world. Their driving stinks, but İ am referring to their thievery. They have no equals. Despite their cheerful demeanor, whenever you get into the back of a İstanbul taxi, you have just hitched a ride with a modern-day Jesse James, but without the social conscıousness. Avoid them at all costs, but especially never, ever get a taxi anywhere near the main plaza in the Sultanhamet District. This İ knew. But like Dad used to say, "Well son, some people live and learn. Some people just live."

Actually, the day did not start out very propitiously. İt was Wednesday, June 15th and we were flying from Tbilisi to İstanbul. Outside of British Airways, all international flights arrive and depart Tbilisi in the wee hours of the morning. They seem fine with this crazy system. Our flight was to leave Tbilisi at 5:00 in the morning. This meant we left our pension at 3:00 in the morning, which of course meant that we did not go to bed that night. We thought that there would be few people on a 5:00 AM flight to İstanbul and we would use that 2 1/2 hours to catch up on our sleep. Such fools! Actually the flight was completely full, a large component consisting of an excited group of Georgian middle schoolers and their chaperones. Any hope of sleep soon faded. Once the plane was in the air, the Georgian schoolchidren being, well, Georgian, were all over the seats and in the aisles, chattering non-stop. The chaperones? Just as bad. Any hope that the little darlings would drift off to sleep was dashed when we realized that they were not running back to the rear of the plane to use the restroom, but rather to get little cups of black coffee. These kids were wired and ready to go! The young boy wearing the hat shaped like a soccer ball in the seat behind me was apparently practicing some athletic stretching exercizes with the back of my seat.

So we arrived in Istanbul somewhat "dazed and confused." Originally, we were to have a short 2-hour layover and then catch a flight directly to Sanliurfa. But after those arrangements were made, our airline went out of business and İ got word right before leaving Georgia that we would now fly Turkish Airways to Urfa. This was fine, except that our flight did not leave until 4:30 that afternoon. That is okay. I know what to do with a day in İstanbul. First stop, Apricot Hotel. The taxi drive from the airport was without incident--22 lira and a 3 lira tip (they never have change). He was happy. İ was happy. My friend Hakan owns the Apricot Hotel and in addition to running a great little establishment, serves up the best breakfast in İstanbul outside of the Pera Palace. We regrouped with a leasurely breakfast on the fifth-floor terrace overlooking the Sea of Marmara, savoring our real, brewed coffee (not that skanky Georgian Nescafe'). Then we strolled up the hill to the plaza between the Blue Mosque and the Haghia Sophia. Although early, the tour buses were already disgorging--and the hawkers were there ready. We waded through these hordes over to the far side and decided on a plan of action. İ wanted to view some of the lesser visited monuments from the Byzantine era. İ charted a sensible path, starting at the Aqueduct of Valens--located maybe a half to 3/4 mile away to the west. İn the interest of time, İ decided to catch a taxi. We were not going to Begolyu or the airport, just down the street a bit. What could go wrong?

İ hailed a cab and took out a map and pointed and said AQUEDUCT. He nodded and seemed to assure me he knew exactly where İ wanted to go. He started off traveling east. Okay, İ thought, he needs to turn around somewhere. But he never did. He kept on east until he came out on John F. Kennedy Blvd. just past the Galata bridge. İ am beginning to be concerned. At least he is heading west now on JFK Blvd. Any moment now İ am sure he will turn back north towards the Aqueduct. İn fact, İ pick out on the map the perfect street for him to do so. We pass that street. İ start trying to let him know that İ know where we are on the map. He is jabbering to me in Turkish--İ think that at one point he tells me there are 27 km. around the old city walls of Constantinople. And İ'm thinking, "yeah, but we don't have to drive them all!" Before long we are actually outside of the Theodosian walls! İ can only assume that our cab ride includes a mini-tour of Thrace. We head north on a major thoroughfare that follows the Theodosian walls. By this time, İ just put my head in my hands and take the Clayton Williams advice (Native Texans will know what İ am talking about. He was a candidate for governor who lost to Ann Richards due to an intemperate remark. İf you don't know, İ'm not about to tell it!) After a while he takes another street east, then one north and finally parks in front of the Aqueduct with a satisfied look on his face. İ give the bandit the 27 lira (18 dollars) and send him on his way to his next victim. Or after this run, maybe he just quit early for the day.

4. DOUBLE ROBBERY BY ISTANBUL TAXİ DRİVER NO. 2

İ am a persıstently optomistic person--even in the face of all evidence to the contrary. I refuse to let these minor annoyances ruin my day in İstanbul. We procede to carry out our plan. We walk west from the aqueduct up to the 4th hill of old Constantinople, dominated today by the Fetih Cami. İ have no particular interest in thıs big old barn of mosque. Frankly, they are all much the same. But it occupies the spot of one of the glories of Byzantium--the Church of the Holy Apostles, and the burial place for generations of emperors of the East Roman Empire. After the Muslim conquest, they tore it down and used the stones from the church to build the current mosque. From there, we walked east towards the 3rd hill and then on past towards the Suleymani mosque, the big daddy of all İstanbul mosques. Along the way, we visited a stunning 12th century church (now Zeyrik mosque), stopped and had tea, tagged the old Church of St. Theodore (now a mosque), saw 2 other Byzantine churches İ recognized from my Byzantine Monuments of İstanbul, looked in on the Suleymani mosque (ho-hum) and stopped for a leasurely smoke on a nargile.

We decided it was time to head back towards the airport. We work our way through the maze of narrow streets in old İstanbul. İ really do not know exactly where we are, but if we just keep walking down the hill we will eventually come out at the Golden Horn. My instincts for direction are better than İ imagine, as we come out at the Spice Bazaar. The SB is a major tourist trap, but at least İ knew exactly where we are. İt is starting to rain and there are a few taxis parked right in front. One man in particular seems very eager to take us to the cleaners (oops, I mean airport). The ride to the airport supposedly costs 34 lira (this being the same ride that cost 22 lira coming from the airport earlier that day). But the scam ıs only beginning. İ hand him some money and he starts saying, "No! No!" and then handed me back the money which is not enough for the ride. I am starting to get a little flustered. İ decide to hand him a 50 and get the change. He hands a 5 back to me and says "No. No. Not 5. 50." İ did not mean to give him a 5, so İ reach in my money belt and give him a 50. He gives me change and İ get free of this man as quickly as İ can. Standing on the curb I suddenly realize what just happened. Taking advantage of foreigner's unfamiliarity with Turkish currency (which all looks pretty much the same), he was taking the bill İ gave him and doing the old switcheroo with a smaller bill, claiming İ gave him the smaller bill. İ know because İ didn't have any 5s. He did it to me twice, and İ am still unsure of just how much he fleeced from me--at least 50 lira and probably much more, in addition to the inflated taxi fare. Also, in my change he gives me an old 250,000 lira note. Last year, Turkey lopped off the last 6 zeros in their currency. So, this was a note that was really no longer in cırculation. But it did have some value. Under the new currency it was worth .25 of a lira, or about 17 cents.

İ refuse to be defeated by this. İ fall back on my old "que sera, sera" attitude and say that if the scoundrel can live with it, İ can certainly live without it. The next day İ was relating the incident to my Turkish friend, Turan. He said they did the same thing to him at the airport. İt is a little comforting to realize that they put the screws to their own people just like they do visıtors. A little, but not much.

5. CELL PHONE SACRİFİCE

İ prided myself on the amount of planning and research İ did for this journey. İ even purchased a "global mobile" phone that would enable me, say, to call my friend Bill from the most remote village in the Caucasus Mountains or to call my nephew with the news of how İ survived a 7 vodka toast at the home of my Sventian hosts. And the phone served me well--what time İ had it.

Once İ was free from the taxi-thief, İ began to worry about our flight connections. The company İ was using to make my eastern Turkey arrangements had booked a flight to Ankara, with a 35 minute lay-over, and then a flight on to Urfa. A 35 mınute lay-over? There is no such thing in America. That just means you miss your connecting flight. So, İ was beginning to fret about that. İ envisioned an unscheduled night's stay in Ankara. The city is not exactly a tourist destination. The only thing to see there is Ataturk' Mauseleum. With his picture in every home, offıce and business and at least one stature in every town and his words inscribed with big white rocks on the sides of mountains, İ didn't feel particularly ınclined to visit his tomb.

And so İ fretted. And then our flight out of İstanbul was delayed 20 minutes. I fretted some more. We finally board and then İ fret all the way to Ankara. The Ankara airport is not as big as you might imagine. Actually, it is about the size of our little airport back home. There is one plane parked in front of the terminal. Hopefully it is our flight to Urfa and maybe, just maybe, we can make it. We make a mad dash through the airport and get to the security check. We know the drill. We unload everything and put them in the little baskets to go throw the scanner. İ walk through and set off the machine. I then remembered that İ had my cell phone in one of the side pockets of my cargo pants. So İ take it out and put it in a separate basket and send it through. (Perceptive readers can see where this is going). İ load everything back into my pockets, heft my backpack up and off we go again. We have to go down some stairs and through a few hallways before we come to another security check. We go through the same drill again. But finally we are at the waiting room for the Urfa flight, and it is still on the ground! İ start doing a check to make sure İ still have my passport, ımportant papers, etc. İ do not find my cell phone, but believe İ had put it in backpack. Anyway. our flight was boarding.

That night, İ realized that İ had not put my cellphone in my backpack. İn fact, İ had left it in the little basket at the first security check in Ankara. İ also remembered that on the last day in Tbilisi İ had added 100 dollars worth of minutes to it. Yikes! Also that night, my Turkish guide explained to me that these flights were what they called "connecting flights." İn other words, the Urfa flight wasn't going anywhere until the passengers from İstanbul disembarked and were processed and on board. İn other words, all of my worry was totally unwarranted.

The incident reminded me of something İ already knew, namely: most of the bad things we worry about never come to pass; and if they do, there was nothing we could have done about it anyway; and the bad things that come along while we are worrying about the other stuff can usually be survived as well. So, a little less fretting and a little more trust seem to be the order of the day. İ believe there is something to that effect in the Gospel of Matthew--something about "birds of the air" and "lillies of the field." İ think İ may need a refresher course.


Trabzon (Trebizond to you Greek hold-outs), Turkey 28 June 2006

İ am much relieved

İ am currently in the city of Kars in far northeastern Turkey. The last few days have been a little stressful. My son and İ left Tbilisi at 5 in the morning last Thursday. We flew to İstanbul (where we explored during a 9 hour layover) and then to Ankara (where İ lost my cell phone in the security check gauntlet in a mad dash to catch a flight) and then on to Sanli Urfa Thursday nıght. We spent Friday-Sunday in Mardin and then Monday in Diyarbakir.

By Saturday night my son had developed a worrisome medical conditıon. He thought it better on Sunday but by Monday was no better. On Tuesday he concluded that he was in no condition to travel and refused to seek local medical care and decided he needed to come home. Tuesday and Wednesday night was to find us in Van. This city is about as far as you can get in eastern Turkey without being in İran. İt has an airport with one daily flight to İstanbul.

Here is where İ tell about the hero of this story--my Turkish guide (and new friend) Turan. He got out his laptop and cell phone and started to work. The Wednesday flight from Van to İstanbul was full with 20 stand-bys already. There was a seat on the Thursday flight but no clear availability from İstanbul to Dallas. There was 1 seat remaining on a Swissair flight from İstanbul to Zurich on Wednesday afternoon--if only we could get him to İstanbul. So we reserved that seat which they would hold for us until 12 on Wednesday. İf he could make that one then he could take a Swissair flight to NYC the next day and then connect with American Airlines for a seat İ was holding for him. All of course if he could get on that 11:10 flight out of Van. We arrived at the airport at 8:15 that morning and Turan literally camped-out next to the Turkish Airlines computer. At 11:00 people were still checking in. At 11:05 the guy at the computer nodded at Turan and Turan literally leaped across airport seating over to the ticket booth and thrust my sons passport at the agent. My son got the only stand-by seat thanks to Turans perseverance. Up to 11:05 we had no idea that he would actually get a seat. İ hardly had time to say goodbye to him as he grasped my arm and said "see you on the other side."

İ emailed my contacts back home and made arrangements for him to be picked up. Now there was nothing for me to do but worry. For he actually had no tickets in hand--just some hastily scribbled instructions from me and some flight numbers. Would he make his connection at İstanbul? What would he do on his nights layover in Zurich? Would he make the connection to NYC and then on to Dallas?

İ just heard by email that he is home and is fine--full of stories about the 3 weeks we spent together. İ am sure my wife is fussing over him and fixing his favorite foods. And so the profound sense of relief. As would be expected my most intense periods of prayer have been these last few days. İ appreciate more than words can say those of you who have been praying for our safe return. Please continue!

John

Just Checking İn

Well so far so good (cannot find commas on Turkish keyboard!) İ am writing this from internet cafe in Diyarbakir Turkey. Visited Church of the Virgin Mary (Syrian Orthodox) today. Dates from 397 AD. Heard part of prayer service in Aramaic which sent shivers up my spine! Will have much to tell upon return.

John

Sabbatical

For the 3 or 4 (5 tops) of you who check out this blog from time to time, I am just letting you know that I will be away until the 3rd of July. I am taking a month off.

I suspect most of us are good at justifying those things we want to do. I know I am a master at it. My justification for this trip goes something like this: I am 51 years old, I have been at the same job for 29 years, my house is paid for, my son has graduated college and that is paid for, I have been busier at work than ever, and I need a break. How's that? Seriously though, I have been planning and saving for this journey for 2 years. Long-range planning, excellent co-workers and the miracle of frequent-flyer miles makes it all possible.

My itinerary includes 10-11 days in Georgia (see picture above), a day in Armenia, 2 weeks in eastern Turkey and a 4 days in Constantinople. My 23-year old son is my traveling companion. We are both traveling extremely light--a small backpack each.

We will appreciate your prayers for our safety, and upon return will (hopefully) have lots of stories to drone on endlessly about!

John

"From Below" Christology

I love magazines and journals. Our home has always been awash in them--home and garden magazines, historical journals (the more obscure the better), travel magazines, current events, literary journals, you name it. In an effort to discipline my spending and to get a handle on the clutter, I have begun to let some drop by the wayside, even to the point of letting my 25+ year National Geographic subscription lapse. It seems NG has become all too issue-oriented. When I open a NG, I want to read about Paraguay and Bakhara and Upper Volta, not "issues."

One journal I continue to receive is the Stone-Campbell Journal. What, you say, is the SCJ? Well, my heritage church is part of what was commonly referred to as the American "Restoration Movement." As our scholars become increasingly uneasy with the implications of "restorationism," they took to calling it the Stone-Campbell Movement, after its two leading figures from the early days (that's early 1800s, in this case!). The SCJ is actually well done, with a number of timely articles and book reviews. Of course, I have moved on, as they say, but I still enjoy reading the journal to keep up with trends in the S-C churches.

Obviously, as an Orthodox Christian, I now read the journal with different sensibilities and insights. And I do not think I am being just knee-jerk critical, as the journal is still of interest to me. Yet, I had a real problem with a lead article (written by the editor, in fact), entitled "The Chalcedon Definition, Pauline Christology and the Postmodern Ehallenge of "From Below" Christology." Huh? I read the article, and then read it again. The best I can make of it is that the professor believes that the promulgations from the Council at Chalcedon are just, well, not spiffy enough for us hip, enlightened postmodern folk, and perhaps need to be replaced with "Pauline" language "from below." Okay. He writes:

...postmodern ways to understand and relate christology, especially as it relates to how Christ's humanity and divinity work are only just beginning.

Only just beginning????? Maybe the postmoderns are "only just beginning," but it seems to me the Church Fathers covered this ground pretty thoroughly some 1600-1800 years ago. Herein lies an inherent problem with the Protestant mindset: ever so often, they feel a need to reinvent the wheel.

He continues:

Many of these hold promise and should not be shackled by Chalcedonian language, much of which is rooted in its own period of history. As important as Chalcedon has been to Christianity, parts of it may no longer be the best representatives of biblical teaching for the coming era.

And where do we find that superior representation of biblical teaching? The SCJ, I suppose. Lord have mercy.

He concludes:

Those of us from the Stone-Campbell heritage have every reason to be in the forefront of these explorations since we have always been reluctant to embrace any "creed but Christ."

The irony here is that this passes for scholarship by some.

I enjoyed the book reviews somewhat better. One S-C contributor reviewed a biography of 20th Century Orthodox theologian Sergius Bulgakov. I found his comments humorous:

Reading this volume transports one into the sometimes mysterious world of the Eastern Church. In contrast to the Lockeian simplicity of Stone-Campbell theology, Bulgakov's Russian Orthodoxy is complex and rambling. It is both speculative and richly philosophical. For spiritual descendants of Barton Stone and Alexander Campbell who celebrate the simplicity of the gospel, reading Bugakov may remind us of the sometimes complex nature of Christian doctrine.

No kidding.

One review commented on a book entitled The Jazz of Preaching. Another reviewed Rubel Shelly's The Jesus Proposal, mercifully dismissing it as an "easy-to-read volume...that will simply be placed on the shelf and forgotten because it cannot be put into practice consistently..." Finally one review tackled D. G. Hart's Deconstructing Evangelicalism:

At the heart of this book, he notes that constructed evangelicalism cannot hold its center and is heading towards "deconstructing." This study should make scholars consider whether their endeavors have favored a movement and its inadequate forms over the church and its tradition. Also, scholars in the Stone-Campbell tradition should take heed as more segments of the Restoration Movement accept this "low-church" Protestantism.

Indeed. I think I'll read Hart's book.

I'm still here

....barely! I've been busier than ever these last few months. I have about a half dozen ideas to blog about, but I have just not had time--that whole job, family and responsibilities thing. But I do hope to post something soon. I am leaving for a "long explore" on 3 June, so it will have to be before then! In the meantime, this is a picture of some Greek friends we made on Patmos--one of my favorite pictures.

A Little Foolishness

I have recently enjoyed re-reading from one of my favorite theologians and perhaps the greatest American writer of the 20th Century: Flannery O’Connor. To the uninitiated, her tales could be dismissed as Southern gothic grotesqueries. But as someone who has always lived in the small-town South, I find her characterizations are never far off mark. On innumerable occasions, my wife and I have found ourselves sitting around the kitchen table, discussing some situation or another, and remarking that it is something straight out of Flannery O’Connor. Her stories are all about the persistent intrusion of grace and redemption into our world, though never in ways that the protagonists would ever imagine.

I have particularly enjoyed reading her 1954 story, “The Displaced Person.” Often called “D.P.s” for short, the term refers to post-WWII European refugees. The story particular resonates in light of the current hubbub over immigration in this country. Mrs. McIntyre is a strong-willed, self sufficient Georgia farm woman. The Shortleys are the white couple who (mis)manage her operation. Several black farm workers live on the place, as well. Their world is turned upside-down when Father Flynn, an aged Irish-Catholic priest, arranges to place a refugee Polish family on the farm. These hard-working “D.P.s” soon engender jealousy and hostility from the insular farm community—exposing the racism, xenophobia, prejudice, selfishness and just plain small-mindedness of their hosts. The story ends tragically, but through suffering O’Connor forces her characters to face their own “displacedness” and to recognize, however reluctantly, the workings of God in their life. One of the clear messages of the story is that we are all “displaced persons.” None of us are in our true country.

I find two of O’Connor’s symbols of especial interest: a peacock and the priest. I believe that the peacock represents the persistent (and unwanted) presence of the Divine on the farm. In fact, the peacock is something of a rebuke to many of the characters, “his attention fixed on something no one else could see.” All try to ignore it, save the priest. Father Flynn was "glowing with pleasure" when he viewed the sublime beauty of the bird—“a vision for them all.” When the peacock spread his feathers, “the priest stood transfixed, his jaw slack,” exclaiming “Christ will come like that!” and later, “the Transfiguration!”

Of course, Mrs. Shortley will have none of that. The story actually begins with “the peacock was following Mrs. Shortley up the road…” Later, with its tail spread before her “she might have been looking at a map of the universe but she didn’t notice it any more than she did the spots of sky that cracked the dull green of the tree.” To Father Flynn’s admiration, Mrs. Shortley responded that it was “nothing but a peachicken.” Mrs. McIntyre was no better, dismissing the glorious bird as just “another mouth to feed.” She admitted that she kept it only out of superstitious fear, but “when the peachicken dies, there won’t be any replacements.”

Father Flynn represents—on an obvious level--the Church, or at least her testimony in the world, the Gospel. The Southern ladies are equally dismissive of this Church and all his talk about Christ. “Mrs. McIntyre’s face assumed a set puritanical expression and she reddened. Christ in the conversation embarrassed her the way sex had her mother.” She rebuked the priest and explained to him that she didn’t find herself “responsible for all the extra people in the world.” As he would talk to her about the doctrines of the church, she would wonder “where she had ever seen such an idiotic old man.” Yet, in the end, alone and paralyzed, only Father Flynn came to visit, talking to her about the “doctrines of the Church.”

Mrs. Shortley had even less use for the priest and “his visits irked her more and more.” She called him foolish—“He don’t look smart…kind of foolish.” She told her husband, Chancey, of the priest and the Poles, that “these people did not have an advanced religion. There was no telling what they believed since none of the foolishness had been reformed out of it.” Declaring that the priest was planning to “plant the Whore of Babylon in the midst of the righteous,” the undeceived Mrs. Shortley observed that “they’re full of crooked ways. They never have advanced or reformed. They got the same religion as a thousand years ago. It could only be the devil responsible for that.” Yet “she had never given much thought to the devil for she felt that religion was essentially for those people who didn’t have the brains to avoid evil without it. For people like herself, for people of gumption, it was a social occasion providing the opportunity to sing; but if she had ever given it much thought, she would have considered the devil the head of it and God the hanger-on.” Mrs. Shortley compared the priest and the Poles unfavorably to her son, H. C., who “was going to Bible school now and when he finished he was going to start him a church. He had a strong sweet voice for hymns and could sell anything.” She knew “that the Lord God Almighty had created the strong people to do what had to be done and she felt that she would be ready when she was called.”

Foolishness. I understand the mind of Mrs. Shortley--the self-sufficient, self-satisfied myth of “strong people,” secure in their own country. This characterizes much of my own upbringing. The priest and all he represents would have been to me and mine, foolishness. Like Mrs. Shortley noted, our religion had had all the foolishness “reformed out of it.” And the beauty. And the mystery. And the glory. And the humility. To the extent that I have had any spiritual growth at all, it is has been away from my own knowledge, my own logic, my own rationality, my own opinion, and towards foolishness. Thank God for foolishness. Even Mrs. Shortley at the last "seemed to contemplate for the first time the tremendous frontiers of her true country." We all do eventually, one way or another.

More from St. Ephraim the Syrian

Last month, I commented on my discovery of A Spiritual Psalter by St. Ephraim the Syrian. This book continues to be a blessing to me, and has really helped me through the Lenten season. The psalter contains 150 prayers and hymns. I started off bookmarking those that were especially meaningful to me, but I was soon bookmarking just about every other page.

Outside of Orthodoxy, I suspect St. Ephraim is a fairly unknown figure, and this is certainly the case within Protestant circles. Without criticizing the Prots (for I was one most of my life), it seemed we often acted as though church history began with the Reformation. My particular religious heritage did make a lot of noise about the "first century church," but there was no place in it for the writings of the 2nd, 3rd, 4th and 5th century saints and martyrs. St. Ephraim, and others such as St. Cyril, St. Athanasius, St. Gregory, St. Basil, St. John of Damascus were unknown to us (and if known, we would have never put the "St." in front of their names). Also, evangelicals have sometimes acted as if they "discovered" the concept of grace. St. Ephraim knew a thing or two about it in the 4th century, it seems.

Having thus exposed the wiles of the enemy, tell him with conviction: I have had enough of you, O devil. And leave the evil one and join yourself to the man-befriending God. Are you wounded? Despair not. Have you fallen? Get up and say bravely: now I have begun. Fall down before your merciful Master and confess your sins.

But before you say anything He will already know what you intend to say. Before you open your lips, He will see what is in your heart. You will not be able to say, "I have sinned," before you see Him stretch forth His hands to receive and embrace you.

Approach with faith and He will cleanse you straightway as He cleansed the leper, lift you from your bed as He lifted the paralytic, and raise your from the dead as He raised Lazarus.

One of my favorite old-time gospel hymns was "Marching to Zion." It still resonates with me and I love the mental picture it conveys. What I now realize is how impoverished that march is without being accompanied by, and encouraged by the likes of St. Ephraim and all the others.

More Bad News

The violence in Egypt seems to be escalating. Typically, it is receiving little press over here. A short AP story did note, however that "this attack was the first in recent memory in which Muslims attacked Christians inside the churches while they were praying" and they quoted from an official in the Orthodox Church in Alexandria, who said "these tensions are the harvest of 30 years of Muslim fundamentalists spreading hate speech from the mosques.” Go to Sand Monkey's blog here for the full story, as usual.
These pictures tell the story.

A Bad Friday in Egypt

It seems that Muslim extremists have attacked Coptic churches in Egypt (again), resulting in 1 death and at least 12 injuries. See story here. Middle East news agencies typically discount the attacks as aberrant behavior, with the attackers characterized as mentally unstable (see here). Yeah, right. For the real story and voices of sanity from Muslim Egypt, check out Big Pharoah here and Sandmonkey here. The comments to Sandmonkey's post are particularly good. Just food for thought as Americans--Catholic and Protestant this Sunday, and we Orthodox next Sunday--toddle off to Easter services at our safe and comfortable churches.

Oriana Fallaci

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