2010 Travel Notes #3: My Cousin, the Istanbulli

I have been to Istanbul so many times, I am a bit ashamed to mention that I tagged it once more. I have been there for extended stays every year since 2003, save 2005 and 2009. My excuse this year is as follows: A young parishioner in our mission teaches history at a local private college. He initiated the study-abroad program there, and this was the year he carried his students to Greece. After shipping his students back home, his intention was to remain there a bit longer and visit Thessaloniki and Mount Athos. His younger brother, also a parishioner, was along for the ride. These two siblings also form a web of connectiveness with my family. One is my godson, and my son is the godson of the other. I told them that they couldn't get that close to Istanbul without seeing the city. So, they tacked-on another 4 days to their trip, providing me with an opportunity to play tour guide.

We Orthodox Christians tend to romanticize "Constantinople." I like to consider myself an amateur Byzantinist and am guilty of half-believing that history more or less stopped in 1453. But I've seen enough of the city to temper this tendency with a strong dose of reality. For Constantinople is long gone. I never refer to it as such, unless making an historical reference or speaking specifically of the Patriarchate. And much of our posturing about the EP itself is often nothing more than a polite fiction. What one finds, on the ground, is a vibrant Turkish metropolis approaching 15 million. A good friend sent me a link reviewing what appears to be an excellent book on the city, Streets of Memory, found here. I agree wholeheartedly with the book's premise--the city is no longer the cosmopolitan melting pot it always was before. Istanbul has not been such since the anti-Greek riots of 1955, and any pretense otherwise is just so much nostalgic posturing. The presence of the old minorities--Greeks, Armenians, Jews, etc.--is now so infinitesimally small as to have no discernible influence (and of course, until the formation of the Turkish Republic, they were not minorities in the city.) Istanbul is thoroughly Turkish, not necessarily a bad thing. But Orthodox travelers need to come to terms with this, for if they arrive here seeking a scent of old Constantinople they are apt to be disappointed. As much as I love the city, my stays are always bittersweet, and even a bit melancholy at times.

Originally, I was to arrive a day before Zach and Taylor, and they were to meet me at my friend Hakan's hotel in Sultanhamet. As things turned out, we all arrived the same day, and I immediately saw I would have to revise my itinerary. Greece had not been an altogether good experience for them, and they were exhausted, coming off Mount Athos and a 10-hour bus ride from Thessaloniki. I had anticipated as much, as their study-abroad itinerary (of which they had no control) spent too much time in and around Athens, and the following week on Mount Athos might have been a little too much, too soon. I mentally discarded about a third of what I intended to show them, focusing on a more relaxed experience of what the city had to offer. As it turned out, this was by far the best plan. Both brothers enjoyed Istanbul, and much preferred it to Athens (with which there is no real comparison.) They remarked in particular about how courteous everyone is here, which I also find to be a hallmark of the city.

I will not go into any great detail about Istanbul. I have written at length in years past of my experiences, found here, here, here, here, here, and here for starters. Suffice to say, we tagged the must-sees in Sultanhamet. Haghia Sophia never fails to impress, and every time I visit, it seems yet another fresco has been uncovered. We tried (unsuccessfully) to sneak into Haghia Eirene. No one was terribly interested in being jostled by Turkish tourists from the hinterland straining to see a strand of Muhammed's beard, or his footprint, and so we skipped Topkapi Palace. The Blue Mosque should be seen so one can say they've been to a mosque. The site of the Hippodrome was close by, and I explained its lay-out, monuments and connection with the Great Palace. The cool and quiet of the Basilica Cistern, followed by a relaxing glass of apple cay in the underground cafe there was a big hit. We walked from the Milion down the Divanyolu Caddesi, past the Monument of Constantine to the Grand Bazaar. As long as one realizes that this has long been a totally touristic enterprise, and in no way resembling a traditional Middle Eastern souq, then it can be great fun, particularly if you like to play the game with the touts. We did not linger long here, as Zach purchased some trinkets for his young sons, and we were on our way out.

Walking back, I introduced them to one of the great joys of the city, a nargile cafe. The place was packed with men and women, as it had been every time I had been there before. The waiter ushered us to a couch in the back, and in short order, we each were fitted with nargile and a cup of cay. The late afternoon drifted by slowly, and we must have spent 2 hours thus occupied. And along the way, I think each realized the wonderful thing about being in any great city--and is, in effect what defines a "great" city--and that involves not rushing to this museum or that site, but the mere being there itself (think Central Park in NYC, any cafe in Buenos Aires, standing on a bridge over the Seine in Paris, etc.) In my reckoning, if a city cannot evoke this sentiment (think Dallas for example,) then it cannot make no claim on greatness.


The younger of the brothers is preparing to embark upon matrimony, so this relaxed setting provided me ample opportunity to pass along my best "relationship" advice. This wisdom centers around two items: First, I recounted the scene from Shenandoah when Lt. Sam (Doug McClure) was asking for the hand of Charlie Anderson's (Jimmy Stewart) daughter. The nervous suitor was proclaiming his ardent love for the young lady, but her father was having none of it. He asked the young man if he liked his daughter. McClure adamantly reasserted his love for the young lady. Then Stewart told him that that was not what he asked him. He went on the explain what he meant by talking of his late wife Martha, and how they came to love one another, over time, but what got them through was the fact that they liked one another. I think that advice is valid. And as "Shenandoah" is the only movie that can still make me tear-up, I place great store by it. The other bit of advice was for Taylor to take a clear-eyed appraisal of his future mother-in-law. For chances are, that is very much who he will find himself married to in 25 to 30 years. The advice seemed well-received--of course, having a captive audience who depend on you to lead then home always helps.

The next day I carried them to the far side of the old city. The Chora church, out by the old Theodosian walls, contains the most exquisite frescoes surviving from the Byzantine world. Too far out to walk, and far away from the tram line, the only option is to put yourself at the mercy of Istanbul taxi system. The trek out there was well worth the effort. From Chora, we walked southeast, paralleling the Golden Horn. This takes us through a portion of the city seldom visited by tourists. This area is home to immigrants from some very conservative areas of Anatolia. It is in this part of the city that one will see bearded men in skull caps, women completely covered in black burquas, and medrassas. Our destination was the Church of the Pammakaristos. Actually it has been a mosque for the last 500 years or so, but in recent years they have opened the old south chapel as a tourist attraction. The frescoes here are as exquisite as those in Chora, just not as extensive. One wonders what treasures lie underneath the whitewash in the main part of the old church. From there, we walked down the hill into the old Greek Phanar.



The Phanar is not one of my favorite parts of the city. The derelict old Greek houses have some interest, and there is a bit of gentrification underway, but by and large, this is a depressing area--again, perhaps for knowing what it once was. We made our way down to the lower regions of the district, and located the Armenian cathedral,
Surp Hirestagabet (Holy Archangels.) The large church is completely hidden behind compound walls, as is the norm in Turkey. A Divine Liturgy was underway, so we stayed for part of it. My companions were a bit surprised at how Roman Catholic it all seemed--the altar, pews, statues, no real iconography, etc. I had been to Armenian churches before, so was more accustomed to it. I will say, however, that the full-throated chanting was pretty impressive. We left there and wandered back up to the hill and around the gargantuan old 1885 Greek School, where now about 45 students remain. We were searching for the Church of St. Mary of the Mongols, the only pre-1453 church in Constantinople that was never closed or turned into a mosque. I remembered it being behind a red-walled compound somewhere in the neighborhood, but we still had trouble locating it. In Istanbul, churches do not call attention to themselves. We rang the doorbell, and in time, a Greek woman allowed us entrance into the compound. We motioned to the church and she unlocked it and turned on the lights for us. The church itself was rather small, historical to be sure, but not particularly impressive in the way of some. Two gi-normous and gaudy electric candle stands dominated the front of the iconostasis (for some reason, Greeks seem to love these things.) I noticed a copy of the charter on the back wall where Sultan Mehmet II guaranteed protection to this church whose patroness, the Byzantine princess Mary, had once been married-off to a Khan to placate the advancing Mongol army. The narthex boasted a framed portrait of the Ecumenical Patriarch and Kemal Ataturk. The lady barked at us in Greek the entire time we were inside, clearly anxious for us to move on. My traveling companions said this reminded them of their time in Greece (which was not at all my experience, to be recounted in following posts.) I saved the Ecumenical Patriarchate itself as our last stop in the Phanar. There is less here than one would expect--perhaps a 1/4 block, a narrow compound hemming in the 18th-century Church of St. George. My friends, no great admirers of the EP, found the church overly "westernized." I suppose it is, but I always like to pray here. And the bishop's throne which predates the Fall (1453) always takes my attention. After eating a bite and hailing a taxi thief, we make our way back to our headquarters in Sultanhamet.

On their last day, I took the boys out to Buyukada (formerly Pricipe), the last island in the Prince's island chain. Getting there is half the fun--a ferry ride out into the Sea of Marmara with spectacular views of the city on both shores, as well as dolphins leaping alongside ship. Back in the Byzantine era these islands served as places of banishment for out-of-favor nobility where they could cause no mischief, but still be kept close at hand (hence the moniker "Princes" Islands.) Later, the island filled with the summer homes of wealthy Constantinopolitan Greeks. They are largely gone now, and the residents are, oddly enough, mainly Jewish, with some wealthy Turks thrown in as well. While the harbor side town and the lush villas are of some interest, our main attraction was the Monastery of St. George, atop the island's highest peak. Several monasteries continue on the island, but this one is the most visited--by Christian, Muslim and tourist alike. We rented bicycles and began our journey out to the far end of the island. Upon reaching the base of the hill, the bicycles become useless.. Climbing this peak took everything I had, and I repeatedly vowed that this was my last trudge up. My traveling companions were all rested by the time I finally joined them at the top. As the picture clearly shows, I was, as they say, dog-tired.






















In time, I regained my strength and entered the church, lit a few candles and venerated the icons. A small outdoor cafe adjoins the monastery grounds. I savored a meal of french fries, watermelon and an Efes and enjoyed the view out over Asiatic Istanbul. This was enough of an outing for us, so by the time we made it back to shore, we took the tram straight back to our hotel.

That night, we had opportunity to visit with Hakan, the owner of the hotel. I look forward to visiting with him every time. He is, as I see it, as good a face of modern Turkey as any I know. Not at all religious, funny as all get-out, a bit profane and secular to a fault, he nevertheless votes AKP and takes pride in the recent circumcism of his 6-year old son. I find no contradiction in all this. He is also a classic entrepreneur, always looking for an opportunity to get-ahead, so to speak. And I will say, that he has done quite well for himself. His latest venture involves becoming the American distributor for a stone quarry outside of Istanbul. This quarry supplied the material for the construction of the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace and other Ottoman monuments. He is seeking to introduce this product in very select American venues. This led to a very speculative conversation about our church building program back home. Hakan said that the stone could be shipped in containers and cut to size over here and that any building could be built with these stone blocks themselves, not a stick-building with stone veneer. While fascinating to contemplate, there are obviously hurdles to overcome, of which cost would probably be the most substantial. Nevertheless, it made for an invigorating late-nigh bull session.






















Of the four nights, we ate twice nearby in Sultanhamet, and twice off Istikllal Caddesi over in Beyoglu. The first night there, we dined on turbot and aubergines and watermelon in a little cafe on Nevizade Street. Two young Turks, accompanied by two older German women, sat down at an adjoining table (one can make some conjectures, here.) Later, a group of musicians came by and started playing traditional Turkish melodies. One of the Turks pulled one of the German women to her feet and they started dancing in the aisle. His was something similar to what we might term a belly dance, and she just tried to keep up. It was great fun to watch and a good example of the sort of thing that seems to just happen sometimes in this place.

But it was the second night we ate in Beyoglu that finally brings me around to the title of this post, and my most meaningful experience in Istanbul. A younger cousin of mine (the son of my first cousin) now lives in Istanbul where he is studying Turkish and teaching English. Earlier this year, I wrote a little of my immediate maternal family, entitled Ruth's House. This cousin springs from that side of my family, and the things I alluded to there apply to his family as much as any--abuse, suicide, alcoholism, death by alcoholism, serial divorce, and since this is that side of my family, the hint of mental instability always lurking just in the background. I saw him last over 20 years ago, when he was living for a while with his dad and granddad, who had set up house-keeping in a vacant house on my mother's property. It was not a good situation. In fairly quick succession, the boy had left and his father simply disappeared. We handled the arrangements when his grandfather soon after succumbed to the cancer he had been denying for years. From the boy's aunts--my first cousins that I had not previously seen in over 30 years--I learned that their nephew was now in Arizona. Then not long afterwards, I received a call from the coroner's office in Fort Worth. His dad had been found dead, and they discovered my phone number in his wallet. I had no way to contact the son. From very occasional contacts with two of the sisters in the last fifteen years, I would inquire about him, and would hear nothing more than that he was fine, living in Arizona. Then last year, with the magic of Facebook, I reconnected with the young man who was now in his mid 30s. I visit Facebook perhaps once a week, and just happened to notice in mid April that he was making plans to leave for Istanbul. Needless to say, this was something of a shocker, and we immediately made plans to meet when I arrived.

My cousin met us at Taksim Square, and we walked and reminisced as we strolled down Istikllal. He led us down a side street just past Galatasaray, and we made our way down twisting passageways to a secluded restaurant that only a local would know. My friends were great sports, as my cousin and I caught up on 20 years of family stories. It seems he has lived in Tucson for many years, worked and attended college when he could. He graduated with a major in History and a minor in Near Eastern Studies. While contemplating which graduate school route to take, he decided to relocate to Istanbul and learn Turkish. He has taken to the city like a duck to water, and has quickly qualified to teach English to Turkish professionals (in which he makes very good money, by the way.) In a year's time, he may be back in the States, or he may remain in Istanbul. The presence of a Turkish girlfriend may factor into the equation as well. The lesson here for me is an important one. Yes, blood will tell, as the old saying goes. But one should not be too quick to judge another's prospects. Life has a way of surprising one and confounding our smug assumptions. Knowing this family story all too well, I was simply amazed at this young man. In a roundabout way, he seems to be redeeming something from the wreckage of our family. Needless to say, I am inordinately proud of my newly-reconnected cousin.

2010 Travel Notes #2: Of Minoans and Mormons

The need for flexibility on my recent trip became all too apparent before I ever even left Texas. My flight plan was to fly from DFW to JFK, with an easy 2-hour layover before going on to Istanbul. Bad weather that morning in New York caused the air traffic controllers to delay incoming flights from all over the county. Under clear blue skies, my flight out of Dallas was delayed 2 hours. Inexplicably, my out-going flight from JFK left right on time. And so, my arrival in Istanbul had to be delayed a day. This turned out to be a fortuitous turn of events.

As a consequence, I spent the first night away from home in a Comfort Inn on edge of the Ozone Park area of Queens, NY. My only exposure to this borough has been from the backseat of a cab while riding from one of the airports into Manhattan, so I looked forward to doing a bit of exploring.

But more importantly, this provided opportunity to become acquainted with 2 other stranded travelers being shuttled out to the Comfort Inn. One was a Mr. Chi, a 70ish Chinese-American from Buffalo, returning from a 12-day European trip. His wife was now mobility-impaired, and so his occasional trips were now made solo. Although Mr. Chi was anxious to return home to her, he seemed nonplussed by this delay in his final leg of the journey. The other traveler was a fellow Texan, an easy-going lady a few years older than myself that I will call Deb. She had already experienced her second missed flight, being delayed a day flying out of Texas. Deb was on her way to Greece, where she planned to pursue research on the ancient Minoan civilization. She and her husband operated a bed-and-breakfast in a popular Texas watering hole. Having no consuming interest in the Minoans, he was more than happy to stay home and mind the store. I was struck by our similarities--3 married travelers, all journeying alone. But more to the point, none of us were complaining, or seemed the least bit put-out by our predicament. Those who submit to being transported in metal tubes hurtling 500+ miles per hour over 6 miles above the earth's surface must ultimately realize how really not in control they are of any part of the process. Delays and diversions are to be expected. Complaining about it seems juvenile. The manner in which this is dealt with, as much as anything, separates a traveler from a tourist. I saw a prayer and cross myself whenever the wheels leave or touch the tarmac, and do not worry about any of the rest of it.




There were still a couple of hours of daylight after I checked into the motel, so I set out to explore a bit of Ozone Park. A major thoroughfare cut through the district, with convenience stores, pawn shops, Italian deli/groceries, lotto stores, pizza joints and car-repair establishments strung-out along either side. But a half a block off the busy street, the area quickly resorted to solidly residential on each side. Neighborhoods, and by this I mean real ones, fascinate me. This was an Italian-American enclave right out of central casting. The homes were high and narrow--one-room wide, 2 floors above a basement, with dormers hinting at something of an attic. The lots themselves were no wider than 25', with room for one car to maneuver between the homes before angling into a rear garage. Each house had a little spit of a yard in front. With some, this area was completely concreted-in, with table and chairs. Others covered this area in plantings--hydrangeas, roses, peonies and day lillies. Many had statues of the Virgin or of St. Joseph. Others were more creative--plastic geese in luau gear, complete with an Italian flag.


What was readily apparent was that these front stoops allowed for an expression of individuality in what is an otherwise uniform block of homes. More importantly, this was where families gathered in the late afternoon after work, and where neighbors interacted with one another. A local corner grocery lay on the next block, as did the barbershop, and Aldo's Pizzeria transitioned into the larger business district. The streets were not crammed with automobiles, but with people actually walking here and there. It would be easy for me to romanticize this scenario. Deb told of her conversation with a sales clerk in the local Verizon store. He talked of how hard it was to make a living there, and how he could only dream of living in a place like Texas. My nephew lives in a ranch-style brick home in a leafy 1970s subdivision in Tyler, Texas. His is a wide lot with a board fence enclosing the back yard and pool area. He has lived there almost 2 years now, and does not know a single one of his neighbors. I could live here (Ozone Park.) I could not live there, like that. I am fortunate to live in one of those real neighborhoods, with a mix of housing and a web of connectiveness extending 3 blocks (There are exceptions, of course, even in old neighborhoods like ours....



Passage removed by author 9/20/2010




) The goal for many in my part of the world is to buy 5 or 10 acres of land and build on the back side of the acreage so has to have as little contact with neighbors as possible. I could have don this on our farm, but have never been tempted to do so. I love my neighborhood.

But enough of that, and back to Queens. For supper, I checked out Aldo's joint. And this is as good a place as any to comment on my faithfulness to the Apostle's Fast during the course of my travels. One might charitably characterize it as "sporadic." Enough said. Aldo's was a local Italian eatery with a clientele that looked straight out of Mickey Blue Eyes, the Sopranos, or even worse, Jersey Shore ( As our President likes to say, let me be clear--I have never watched an episode of Jersey Shore. But I am an aficionado of Morning Joe, in which Willie Geist occasionally teases prissy co-host Mika Brzezinski with clips from this, the most godawful of reality shows.) Sitting back in Aldo's, listening to the locals was a delight, far better than anything I would have experienced had I made my flight.

The next day, we all arrived at JFK hours in advance, just in case. Deb and I left from nearby gates, which gave us considerable time to talk beforehand. While I knew the general outlines of the Minoan civilization, my knowledge scarcely extended beyond the superficial. I remembered them to be a trading and sea-faring people, and if their artistry is to be believed, an incredibly beautiful race. Deb enlightened me beyond that, in that there was no great disparity in living standards among the Minoans, that they were probably a matrilineal society, and were not at all warlike. After their sudden disappeance (either from volcanic activity or Mycenean attack), Greek civilization did not reach their levels for nearly a 1,000 years.


The discovery of the ruins of a Minoan ship (3 times the size of Columbus') led to a wide-ranging discussion about the extent of their trading forays. Before long we were talking about inscriptions found in the Indian mounds of Illinois, the ancient copper mines of Kitchi-Gummi, and (thanks to Milton), the transition from Minoan bull-jumping to eastern Iberian bull-jumping to bull blood-drinking cults of northern Mexico as described in J. Frank Dobie's classic Tongues of the Monte. Typical conversational fare, I would say, for a couple of shade tree historians. Deb is writing an historical novel about the Minoans. While she has the historical back story down pat, she was a little concerned about character and plot development, etc. I suggested she contact the aforementioned Milton, who knows about such things.

An off-handed comment by me, led our conversation into a completely different area. I was asking about any DNA studies that might suggest their connection to other, and later Mediterranean populations. Even though it is one of those "science things," and I try to avoid science at all costs, I do know a bit about DNA. (I have contributed samples to our family DNA group. In doing so, I have discovered that, despite all the Scottish clan hype and marketing, I am no more related to most others of my relatively uncommon Scots surname than any other person one might happen to meet on the street. And "our" group can be pinpointed to southeastern Scotland, on the border between Berwickshire and Northumbria, which side of the border probably depending upon which county they were not wanted in at the time.) I made the comment that advances in DNA science had demolished the old Mormon claim of American Indians being descended from the Israelites of old. Of course, the church hierarchy is changing the narrative now, claiming that only some of the American Indians were so-descended--the ones that are now conveniently extinct. Deb then confided to me that she had been a faithful Mormon wife for 19 years. She had not been raised such, but her first husband was something like 5th-generation. They had 4 children together, all raised in that religion. Deb reached a point where she could not take it anymore, and simply left the Mormons. Divorce, shunning, ostracism and estrangement from her family followed in quick suite. Over the years, however, each of her children has also left Mormonism and has returned to her. The first was her youngest son. She met him right after his 2-year compulsory missionary service. Deb maintained that many of these young missionaries came back severely emotionally damaged. She went away with her son for 2 weeks and, in effect, deprogrammed him. The last of her children finally left last year, in wake of revelations coming out of the Warren Jeffs debacle. She wrote a book about her experience, but never published it out of deference to this last remaining son in Mormonism. I encouraged her to publish, and she may do so, if only online. All of her scattered children and 10 grandchildren were home with her for the Christmas holidays, and she expressed great thankfulness that not one of the grandchildren will grow up in the cult (her words, not mine.)

And so, we wished each other safe travels and boarded our respective flights. I am confident our paths will cross again. My wife and I enjoy visiting to bed-and-breakfasts, and I am sure I will have additional questions about the Minoans by then.

2010 Travel Notes #1: In Defense of Travel (while there is yet time)

With the economy in the doldrums, and my own business struggling, there seemed only one thing to do. That's right--it was time to take a trip. From a strictly financial statement point of view, I had less business going anywhere this June than I ever had before. But in some ways, the timing was right: since last year, I had paid off my credit cards, my business partner was more than able to watch over things in my absence, and I had been squirreling-away a little money here and there for this very possibility. So, I jumped at the opportunity.

My itinerary involved meeting friends in Istanbul for a few days, then flying to Athens where I would rent a car and drive through Greece and the Balkans. I chose this region particularly. As Orthodoxy seeks to find its footing on this continent, I wanted to travel among lands where the Faith is long-established. I had no pre-conceived notions as to what I would learn, and no plan other than to stand back, be quiet, observe and listen.

Along the way, I was reminded of a number of truths. First, I realized how incredibly out of shape I am. For a brief period of time--from about 2004 through 2006--I was in excellent physical condition. Surgery on my ankle late in 2006, followed by cancer surgery early in 2007, followed by 39 rounds of radiation, put the breaks on all that. I have never regained my stamina since. As an Orthodox Christian, I realize that we are to live each day with a vision of the day of our death before us. On at least 3 occasions during this trip, that day was all too real for me. Also, a series of bothersome physical ailments dogged me throughout the trip, adding to a sense of general weariness. Second, I was reminded of the need for flexibility when traveling. The logistics of what I hoped to accomplish were simply not practical, particularly when added to my physical complaints. And so, I quickly resolved to take things as they came and not fret about what I was unable to do. Third, I was pleasantly surprised at how inexpensive travel can still be, that is, if you go places where tourists are not. Except for the last few nights in Thessaloniki, where I splurged at bit, I only paid between $24 and $50 a night for a room--and this always included breakfast. The rental car and fuel were my largest expenditures. Fourth, I learned that I was wrong in my former smug assertion that "everybody speaks a little English." Most assuredly, they do not. Finally, despite the slim backpack pictured in the previous post, I still packed too much. The dress shoes and belt and socks went totally unused, and I could have made it just fine with one less pair of pants and two fewer shirts.

Travel for travel's sake is very much a product of the modern age. Certainly the wealthy elite have always gone where they wished, but for the rest of us, travel was an unobtainable luxury until recent times. Perhaps it was different elsewhere, but I have the very real sense of mass recreational travel becoming commonplace only after World War II. Before then, any "vacations" were generally confined to visiting relatives.

I recall my dad telling the story of his family's 150-mile trek in 1927. Traveling all day on dirt track, in a 1924 Model A, my grandad, grandmother and their then 5 children journeyed to the Fort Worth area. My granddad's two sisters lived side by side in two-story houses out on Lake Worth, west of the city. The sisters were college-educated, prim and proper ladies, so this was something of a trip "uptown" for my family. But there were cousins to play with, a lake to swim in, and a parrot that spoke in Portuguese, so my dad and his siblings viewed the outing with considerable excitement. My grandmother spent most of the journey there exacting promises from her boys that they would not fight with their twin cousins--promises broken within 5 minutes of their arrival. My point is that this "vacation" was such a novelty that it entered the annals of our family lore.

During my youth, my family took one vacation trip. The post-World War II years were profitable ones for my dad. He built a nice home, and in 1963 he bought a white Coupe de Ville. Neither he nor my mother ever felt comfortable in this role, however, for they still kept a milk cow, raised chickens, and my dad insisted on plowing his garden with a mule. But in that summer of 1963, for some reason my dad thought taking a "vacation" was something we were supposed to do. My mother had recently suffered through a near complete physical and mental breakdown, so perhaps this entered into the equation, as well. I was still a young child, and my siblings were already grown and away. So, the three of us loaded up in the new car and headed to Colorado. I can still remember that I spent most of the trip leaning over the front seat, asking questions of my dad. We did the whole Colorado thing--Pike's Peak, Garden of the Gods, Royal Gorge, and a cabin in Estes Park. We even ventured as far north as Cheyenne, Wyoming. If I were ever to construct an idealized mythology of my childhood, I think it would be centered around the 4 or 5 snapshots of my parents and myself in Estes Park. As my dad was anxious to return to work, the return trip was something of a blur. The "vacation" was never repeated. My dad had just bought a large farm, and the cattle and haying took all of his spare time for the rest of his life. Any trips we took were quick jaunts to visit some of his family here and there (my mother's family never left us alone long enough that there was ever any need to go and see them.)

So, I did not grow up traveling much at all, which may in part explain my fascination with it now. But I do not take it for granted. It is no "right," but rather a option available to our time. As the Age of Cheap Fuel sputters to a close, I am not at all sure how available this option will be for future generations.

I have always made a great distinction between being a tourist and a traveler. Sometimes this is a distinction without a difference, an exercise in my own vanity. But I do try to be engaged--interested and observant of whatever culture I find myself in. I am not journeying to be "entertained" or to relax, which are the sole goals of tourism. In fact, my travels can sometimes be quite arduous. William T. Cavanaugh, in Being Consumed: Economics and Christian Desire, identifies tourism as just one more manifestation of our culture's quest for the new.

The tourist stands detached from all particular times and places and surveys them all from above, as it were. The tourist craves what is different and authentic, but when particular locations make themselves available to the tourist, authenticity and difference are lost. Particularities, especially from the past, are invented for the tourist, but the tourist cannot participate in them. The tourist can go anywhere, but is always nowhere.

The tourist is a type of consumer, a consumer of places. Consumerism is marked by desire with not telos other than consumption itself....rather than being drawn ecstatically into a larger drama, the consumer empties things into the self. Both the tourist and the consumer try to transcend their own limits and particularities by adopting a universal stance detached from and consuming particularities. But when they do so, the self becomes a kind of empty shell, itself dependent on the constant novelty of the particularity for its being, yet itself simultaneously destroying the particularity of the many, and thus negating its own being.

I would have to agree with Cavanaugh, and certainly what he describes is that which I try to avoid. Perhaps this explains why I have had trouble talking about the trip to those who have been kind enough to enquire. There was no entertainment or "fun," as understood in the touristic sense. How do I describe a trip where my most vivid memories were of things like a young Bulgarian father lifting each of his three children up so that they could light their candles and kiss the icon; or of visiting with the Serbian monk who described the beheading of one of their priests a mere 10 years ago; or of praying over the relics of my patron saint; or of standing at the Byzantine double eagle in the center of the Church of St. Demetrius in Mistra, the very spot where in 1449 the last emperor, Constantine XI, was crowned; or of the Macedonian woman who stood at the doorway of the narthex of the Church of St. Panteleimon, so that she could look in to observe the wedding, but still puff on her cigarette and blow her smoke rings outside; or of the old Greek lady in black, hobbling into the Church of St. John the Russian in Prokopio, knowing that she was old enough to have been born before her people were ripped from Cappadocia in 1923?

Such things defy any quick, easy or flippant retelling. I do plan to start posting soon. There may be as many as 20 posts before I finish. And at the rate I am going, that will take me the better part of the summer to do so.

All Packed Up

My backpack is zipped-up and ready to go: 3 pairs of pants, 4 shirts, a few pairs of socks, my walking sandals, my brown belt, my black belt and shoes (in a nod to vanity,) camera, phone, minimal toiletries, some moolah, my prayer book and psalter, and my pocket journal. Yep, I'm ready to go. I'll be reporting back in early July.

On Our Real Problem with the Oil Spill

In other words, our experience and belief in “control” is little different in the end than our current felt condition of “helplessness.” The only real difference at the moment is the concentrated visibility of the disaster, one that makes visible what is usually hidden – that our civilization exists by poisoning our world, by a concerted and organized effort to release toxic substances from confines where they are relatively sequestered for life to flourish, to a condition where we must come to mistrust the food that we eat, the air that we breath, the water that we drink. Rather than dispersed throughout the world – including the very molecular composition of our bodies – the spew allows us to see with unusual clarity the nature of our civilization. Yet we treat it as an exception, a momentary and controllable lapse, the fault of nefarious oil profiteers, rather than the rule, our “way of life.”

Rest of the excellent article, here.

Modern Day Drifters

I would like to recommend this site-- Modern Day Drifters. The young man on the right is a friend and co-worker. The guy on the left is a former student of mine. Each are about 22-years old. They decided to hitch-hike across America this summer. Dillon and Paul are both committed evangelical Christians, and plan to use this as an opportunity to minister to those they come in contact with along the way.


As long-time readers of this blog well know, I have been, you might say, a bit critical of American evangelicalism. That has not changed. But these are good guys. And as Dillon has told me, he refuses to be spoon-fed what many of the evangelical churches are dishing out. No doubt about it, this will be a learning experience for both of them--probably in ways they cannot yet imagine. And I admire the hell out of them. There's an old expression--"Youth is wasted on the young." Well, not on these guys.


Today (Day 1), Paul and Dillon hitch-hiked from Lubbock to Amarillo, with plans to get out of Texas as soon as possible. Check out their progress, and drop them a line along the way. Be sure and tell them I sent you (they know me not by John, but by my work name--TC) And if you see these boys on the highway, stop and give them a lift. You'll be glad you did.

In the Footsteps of Patrick Leigh Fermor

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Good travel writing, here, following the footsteps of Patrick Leigh Fermor.

"The mosque is not the church"

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The mosque is not the church.

Interesting interview with Ayaan Hirsi Ali, here.

Country Wedding

A couple of weeks back, the wife and I attended a neighbor’s wedding at a rural bed and breakfast complex about 35 miles away. The ceremony itself took place in an outdoor pavilion, nestled amongst the rental cabins. The weather was perfect, the wildflowers in bloom, and the grounds awash in yellow snapdragons. I am acquainted with the Baptist preacher who performed the ceremony—a decent guy who played it straight. For these times, I would have to say that this is what passes for a traditional wedding (regular vows and no previous marriages, children or shacking-up involved.) The only kitschy element during the ceremony was the “unity sand.” Earlier, both mothers poured sand into a fluted glass. Then while a young man was singing something and strumming a guitar, the bride and groom each poured their sand into the glass. I get the symbolism and all, but it is was still silly. All in all, however, the whole affair was very nicely done, and the couple--she in her late 20s and he in his early 30s--make a handsome pair. I think they will do just fine.

The back roads drive down there and back was pleasant and gave my wife and I time to catch up on some things. We talked of a number of people who are close to us and whose current situations give cause for concern. (There’s the old joke: Southerners are not gossiping, they are just concerned.) But seriously, my wife and I were in complete agreement as to the particulars of the several problem situations. Of interest to me, however, was that we each arrived there following completely different paths.

The fact that I am Orthodox and she is Protestant is certainly part of it, but it really goes beyond that. I would say that my wife is perhaps too quick to resort to moralizing, just as she would likely say I am too quick to assert that morality has little or nothing to do with it. The older I get, the more I am convinced that morality, as currently defined, is only incidentally, or at most tangentially, connected to the Faith--and is certainly not the way one approaches Christianity. But I am equally guilty of overstating the case on most anything. My wife is the daughter of an old-time Church of Christ preacher, so the moralizing comes naturally to her. Our differing approaches came to the forefront in the discussion over one particular man whom we both regard as something of a creep. My wife starts with his alcoholism and his accompanying vulgarity, and then builds the case against him from there. I agree that the guy is a cad, but I begin with this and conclude that this makes him a sloppy, rather than happy, drunk. My wife contends that he needs to stop drinking. This is probably true, but I conclude that were he to join AA and never touch another drop of demon alcohol, it would still not address his basic jerkitude.

I remember having these same frustrating conversations with my mother. Unlike my wife, she was not at all religious, but could still engage in some heavy-duty moralizing. In her country way, she would often say that she just wished someone would learn to “do right.” For my mother, this involved working hard, frugality, minding your own business, and abstinence from alcohol. Not a bad To-Do List, apart from the last item. More often than not, her concern centered on a close family member; in later years, a granddaughter in particular. If there was ever a more forlorn hope, it was this. I would wager that the GOP will sweep Vermont before this girl ever learns to "do right.”

Personally, I never wasted much time with this approach, with no expectations that people will learn to “do right.” Given enough rein and unlimited options, most everyone will choose wrong. And I know this because I would be leading the pack. So, my expectations are pretty low, to begin with. But with my wife, the rules of living which always gave meaning to her world are quickly falling away. I do sympathize with her, for this must be heart-rending at times.

We talked on, speculating about when everything changed and why. But here again, we were coming at it from different directions. First, I doubt that the past she misses was ever really all that grand, for I have never entertained any idealized image of my own childhood world. But beyond that, (and here is where the Orthodox view enters in) I find that things are only playing out much as one would expect them to, given the particulars of our society--our rampant materialism/consumerism, our notions of progress and technology, the inherent flaws within our Americanized Protestant/evangelical culture, and the adaptation of Americanism as a near religion itself. Why would we think that things would be any different? Events are taking their natural course. I am neither surprised nor alarmed at it—“situation hopeless, but not serious.” Between the two of us, I feel I got the better deal—she gets the angst, I settle for a "love among the ruins" resignation.

During the conversation, I brought in the review I recently read of George Barna's The Seven Faith Tribes: Who They Are, What They Believe, and Why They Matter. I don't plan on reading the book, as there doesn't seem to be any new ground broken here. His analysis, however, does strip away some of the remaining veneer on our popular self-delusions. Barna, a noted evangelical writer/pollster breaks the country up into 7 tribes: Casual Christians (67%), Captive Christians (16%), Skeptics (11%), Jews (2%), Mormons-who Barna identifies as the "Rodney Dangerfield of the Christian world" (just under 2%), pantheists (1.5%) and Muslims (less than 1%.) According to the review I read, Barna described "Captive Christians" as those who see their faith as making a demand on them, a demand they accept....it touches every aspect of their lives, every moment of their living. The category of "Casual Christians" needs little explanation. Barna found that this group believed tolerance, liberty, and happiness are the defining touchstones for them...comfortable picking and choosing the principles from the Bible that they believe are literally accurate. Scripture is seen as something to provide "encouragement," and Christianity is a place of comfort in their lives. Well, yes. My only observation is that maybe the 16% figure for the Captive Christians may in fact be wildly overstated.

I'm sure my wife was wondering what in the world I was babbling on about. But the point, to me at least, was obvious. None of the people we were talking about seemed to fall in Barna's "Captive" camp. Indeed, all were feel-good Christians. Returning home on the darkened country lane, I had to swerve to miss a herd of wild hogs crossing the road. This brought the conversation back to a more immediate, if no less remediable, form of ruination on our land.

Conversations with Metropolitan Jonah

A recent (Spring 2010) interview with Met. Jonah can be found here. The entire discussion is good, but I particularly recommend the first 3 minutes 50 seconds, in which Met. Jonah talks of his recent visit to the Republic of Georgia.

Small Steps

Very gradually and without much publicity, the Russian government has begun to replace the red stars that top the towers of the Kremlin and neighboring buildings with the double-headed eagles of old.

h/t to Andrew Cusack, here.

Too Funny. Too True.

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Sunday's Coming.

h/t to John Medaille at Front Porch Republic.

Shards of Culture

If for no other reason, I enjoy checking in at the Ochlophobist because it keeps me abreast of all those books that I should have already read. One case in point is Faded Mosaic: The Emergence of Post-Cultural America, referenced by Owen a few posts back. This volume was published by Christopher Clausen back in 2000. The only thing that dates the book is the author's persistent capitalization of "Internet." It's funny to think back to what a relatively new thing that was at that time.

I certainly know better than to do so, but I waste considerable time fretting about the sorry state of American culture. I would recommend the book to those similarly afflicted. But the first thing the author teaches is that the usage of the term "American culture" has no real meaning. I am guiltier than most in the sloppy usage of the phrase (but no longer.) Clausen contends not just that we are past all that, but rather we never really had it to begin with. We have always been a place that shredded cultures, seeking a "mass individualism," that he describes as being "an individualism without much individuality."

Nor are we in any way "multicultural," that is, if one defines multiculturalism as a society where differing cultures flourish and coexist with one another. The peculiarly American take on the concept is that the sharp edges of cultures get worn down, and then bits and pieces of varying cultures are cherry-picked as an individual's choice. In so doing, the true culture which once was determinative, loses all real meaning. In a telling example, he chronicles the Schandler-Wong family of Hawaii. The Jewish-American Schandler bride marries the Chinese-American Wong groom. The newlyweds construct a life with carefully selected bits of each heritage. When the Chinese groom eventually converted to Judaism, his mother was ecstatic, concluding that now he was truly American. The couple had woven Jewish, Chinese and Hawaiian cultures into their home like a bird building a nest from twigs, mud and foil....Any influence that Jewish, Chinese or Hawaiian cultures have on this family is purely residual, a matter of individual preference, and individual preference is the opposite of culture as traditionally understood. [As an aside, one wonders how Clausen would analyze a similar Hawaiian family of the same era, combining the heritage of Kansas with Kenya.]

Clausen posits that multiculturalism is, and has always been, an agenda or a program, and never a condition or state of affairs. He labels our real condition as "post-cultural." The best line in the book, in my opinion is this: Post-culturalism turns everything, whether sacred or profane, into twigs and foil from which any breed of bird can try to build a nest. The real meat of our cultures has been ground down to mush, from which emerges not a "multicultural" society, but one in which for all our vaunted "diversity," we are all very much the same. No other country has so undermined through its founding ideals and actual ways of life, the identities of those who lived there. By gradually turning more and more categories of outsiders into insiders, a process without logical limit, America began to solve some of the oldest problems of humanity while systematically dismantling the whole basis of traditional cultures.

Clausen finds similarities between the diversity Leftists and Right-wing groups. In the contest suburbs of social ideology, multiculturalism on the left and monoculturalism on the right flourish deceptively as expressions of longing for a past--differently interpreted, of course-- that has drifted beyond recovery. At bottom they both mean living in a museum.

In conclusion, Clausen asks:

Now that most of the old guide posts have rotted away, will individuals who have been emancipated from every authority but their own personalities start to rediscover some stronger basis for harmony and mutual respect than a bland refusal to judge.?"

And:

...the negative qualities of the post-cultural condition are a deformed version of the good ones--the sentimental narcissism of those who recognize no demand but self-satisfaction, emotional exhibitionism, a substitute religion of products and celebrities, a smug indifference to the cause of conflict in the world.

In his concluding paragraph, Clausen tacks-on a hopeful note--something of a well, this is just who we are, and as shallow as it is, it sure beats the alternative rationalization. Personally, I find this to be unconvincing--he did too good a job convincing me otherwise.

Three from the Times

Several articles caught my attention in today's New York Times.

First, there is this on my favorite television program, Morning Joe, the only show I try to watch with regularity.

And this is why I tune in:

Some guests, used to the formulaic structure of other programs, have been confused by the program’s improvisational format. “We had one guest that kept coming on the set, saying ‘What are we talking about today, I didn’t get my talking points?’ ” Joe recalled. “And finally Mika turned to her and said, ‘It’s in the damn newspaper, and if you read it, you’ll know what we’ll be talking about.’ ”


Then there is The Ghosts of Gandamak, on the first Anglo-Afghan War. The writer is William Dalrymple, author of From the Holy Mountain. He is a great favorite of mine and, I suspect, of many other visitors here as well. He is researching for an upcoming work on the history of the First Anglo-Afghan War. An excerpt that speaks for itself:

The course of that distant Victorian war followed a trajectory that is beginning to seem distinctly familiar. In 1839, the British invaded Afghanistan on the basis of dubious intelligence about a nonexistent threat: information about a single Russian envoy to Kabul, the Afghan capital, was manipulated by a group of ambitious hawks to create a scare about a phantom Russian invasion, thus bringing about an unnecessary, expensive and wholly avoidable conflict.

Initially, the British conquest proved remarkably easy and bloodless; Kabul was captured within a few months and a pliable monarch, Shah Shuja, placed on the throne. Then an insurgency began which unraveled that first heady success, first among the Pashtuns of Kandahar and Helmand, then slowly moving northward until it reached the capital.

What happened next is a warning of how bad things could yet become: a full-scale rebellion against the British broke out in Kabul, and the two most senior British envoys were murdered, making the British occupation impossible to sustain. On the disastrous retreat that followed, as many as 18,000 East India Company troops and maybe half again as many Indian camp followers (estimates vary), were slaughtered by Afghan marksmen waiting in ambush amid the snow drifts and high passes, shot down as they trudged through the icy depths of the Afghan winter.

The last 50 or so survivors made their final stand at Gandamak. As late as the 1970s, fragments of Victorian weaponry could be found lying in the screes above the village; even today, the hill is covered with bleached British bones. Only one man, Thomas Souter, lived to tell the tale. It is a measure of the increasingly pertinent parallels between the events of 1842 and today’s that one of the main NATO bases in Afghanistan is named Camp Souter.


And finally, there is the article on Julian Castro, the squeaky-clean, 35-year old, Harvard educated mayor of San Antonio, Texas. Some tout him as our future First Hispanic President (sorry, George P.) He is the son of longtime La Raza Unida activist Rosie Castro. His advisers see the path to national prominence as going through the Texas Governor's Mansion (its been done before.) While our demographics are changing, Texas is still very much a GOP stronghold, at least for the next 6 to 8 years. To break through, the Democratic candidate will need every vote in the Rio Grande Valley. To assist in this, Castro's advisers have quietly arranged for him to be tutored in...ahem...Spanish. That's right, the Latino son of a La Raza Unida leader is taking Spanish lessons from a Ms. Bronstein so he could pursue his national aspirations. Only in America, folks!

Orthodox Turks

Notes on Arab Orthodoxy is a favorite blog of mine. I was interested to see a recent post there concerning Turkish converts to Orthodoxy, found here. From all accounts, there have been a number of Turks who have become Orthodox Christians in recent years--perhaps a thousand or so. This has been occurring below the radar screen, as can be well imagined. To be sure, this is not a major trend in Turkish society, but the fact that it is happening at all, given the nature of Turkish nationalism, is itself noteworthy. As I have noted time and again, interesting things are taking place in Turkey--a country which defies simplistic categorization. An excerpt from the interview with 2 Orthodox Turks:


—Ahmet, probably your desire to become a Christian arose while you were living and working in a Christian country?

A.: No, the ground had been cultivated much earlier. Unfortunately, Christianity in Turkey is viewed as something that comes from the ”outside.” This is a mistake, because Orthodoxy is a part of our land's history. This can be seen from the privileges that Mehmet the Conqueror gave to the Constantinople Patriarchate.

I had some idea of Christianity from childhood, although it was through the prism of Islam. Many Moslems have great respect for Christians, which is bound up with the fact that the Koran accepts Jesus as a prophet. In general, Moslems also respect the Most Holy Mother of God. I think that you have seen the crowds of faithful Moslems who gather in the Romeian churches of Istanbul in order to venerate the holy shrines, and ask for help. In Turkey, we are prepared to accept the message of Christianity.

If there are problems, they are bound up with the education that both sides receive, and with ignorance. For example, many Moslems do not understand the meaning of the teaching on the Holy Trinity and think that we worship three gods, and that Christianity is a political religion. I do not say this as a criticism of Islam, but only present the fact as an example to show how uninformed they are.

—Necla, did your search also begin in Turkey?

N.: Yes, when I was studying in the university. My family was on the whole religious, but without following all the precepts of Islam to the letter. I considered myself a Moslem until I began to distance myself from Islam during my studies in Ankara. My parents allowed me the freedom to decide my relationship to religion. While I was in Islam, I felt an emptiness that demanded fulfillment. I read, and searched. I entered upon a path that led me to Orthodoxy.

—It would follow that your path to Orthodoxy was the result of ”local” experience, without any influence from outside of Turkey?

A.: Any influence from American or European Christianity can only do harm. I never felt comfortable with the Christians there. They repelled me from Christianity by turning it into psychotherapy. They go to church on Sundays to talk. However, religion has an aim of filling a certain other emptiness. In Europe, Christianity has been relegated to holidays without any connection to religion. Take the Nativity of Christ, for example. Many people greet each other with the words, ”Happy holidays,” instead of Happy Nativity.” In Europe, people have a superficial connection to Christianity, without an understanding of its spiritual meaning.

The post also has great links to Orthodox churches in the Hatay, that region around Antakya (Antioch) that was part of Syria until 1939.

And while the subject of Turkey is at hand, a young Turkish writer reflects on the Armenian Genocide (really), here. This is a must-read.

Tarnished Silver

Mary, a good friend and member of our little mission here, is back in the blogging business, I am happy to say. I particularly enjoy her latest posting, found here. Sitting at the kitchen table late at night, while polishing an old silver service, triggers memories of Kentucky and a difficult grandfather. I find it to be very well done. If you like that sort of thing, be sure and visit her blog.

Me and ZZ

Last Friday night, I attended a ZZTop concert. I offer up the same excuse as did Adam--it was my wife's idea. There are few people less likely to attend a rock concert than myself. I have not been to one since...well, actually I have never been to one. I guess I am just not much of a music person. And while several of their songs are clever, I was never interested enough to actually buy any of their music. In short, this is nothing that I would have ever, ever done on my own initiative. I would have been just fine, sitting at home with a good book.

My wife is much more of a music person than I am, and was enthused about seeing ZZTop's performance. The venue was a local auditorium known as "The Oil Palace" (how Texan is that?) Her enthusiasm aside, my wife is not exactly rock concert material, either. I suspect that she was the only woman there in pearls, wearing Merle Norman cosmetics. Also, as she is a absolute teetotaller, I was the one who was more in sync with the, ahem, festive nature of the crowd (and yes, you do meet the friendliest people in a beer line.) We both enjoyed ourselves--as much from people-watching, as from the music. And it's kind of like the opera--after you've done it once, you don't ever have to do it again.

A good friend of mine likes to lament the downward trajectory of our nation ever since LBJ, Vietnam and the 60s. I suspect this crowd would supply ample ammunition for his premise. But I thoroughly enjoyed this crowd--friendly, fun-loving and gregarious. There are worse things.

I do not like to be in a crush of people, so we waited until most had left the auditorium before we started to leave. The clean-up crew was already at work, sweeping the aisles clean of the hundreds of beer bottles laying about. They had their work cut out for them, as everything had to be spic-and-span for the next day's event. Our local tea-partiers--Grassroots America--We the People (GAWTP for short, and yes, they use that acronym themselves.) had a big rally planned at 4:30 Saturday. Then at 6, Governor Rick, local Rep. Leo "Birther" Berman, U.S. Rep. Louie Gohmert were expected to fire up the crowd in anticipation of the headliner, none other than Glenn Beck himself.

I would venture to guess that there was virtually zero overlap between the Friday night partiers and the Saturday night patriots. The GAWTPers were a well-scrubbed bunch decked out in red, white, and blue, fervently worshipping the Trinity of Freedom, Faith and Free-Enterprise, rared-up and ready to "take their country back." The coverage in the Sunday morning paper did not disappoint. Rep. Berman told the crowd that "Obama was God's punishment" on America. Glenn Beck challenged these latter-day Patriots to ask themselves some searching questions, such as : "Do you believe this is God's land?" and "Do you believe our Constitution was divinely inspired?" He reminded the 4,500 in attendance that "the American flag is a symbol of God's Freedom." In my little corner of the world, it is craziness such as this that passes for conventional wisdom.

I am afraid that as a nation, we are beyond saving. And as a culture...well, I think we are pretty much screwed, as well. But as John Lukacs has noted, living at the end of an age is not such a bad thing, if you are aware of it: So living during the decline of the West--and being much aware of it--is not at all that hopeless and terrible. If I have to go down with the ship, I think I will cast my lot with those Friday night rockers, rather than the Saturday night patriots.

Larison on Un-Christian Delusions

Daniel Larison, here, takes to task Michael Novak and First Things, and their neocon-servative lunacy found here. The subject at hand is Novak's plea for a proposed pre-emptive strike on Iran. Daniel notes:

It is bad enough that Novak invokes Niebuhr (!) in support of this mad call for unprovoked, unnecessary war, but when he says that the “most dreadful war of all time is just ahead of us, is already well begun” we can safely say that he has lost all touch with reality. WWII remains the most dreadful war of all time, and nothing on the horizon even remotely compares to the loss of life and destruction that occurred in that war. So there is nothing realistic at all about Novak’s “Christian realism,” and neither is there anything Christian about it if that word is to have any connection to the teachings of Our Lord.

There is no justification for destroying what peace exists to satisfy our irrational fears of a deterrable and containable threat. There is no conceivable justification for initiating hostilities to attempt to stop the potential future acquisition of a weapon that the other state is very unlikely to use against us or our allies. To start a war for such a reason would be a crime against God and man.

The message is quite clear: if you treasure the sacred places where God revealed Himself, you will endorse my monstrous proposal, and otherwise you probably don’t really care about these places or the revelation itself. The proposal is horrible, and the manipulation being employed to advance the proposal is simply despicable.

As usual, I find myself in total agreement with Mr. Larison. The comments are of interest, as well, including the observations of David Lindsay, who writes:

Why does Zionism play so well among many (not all) Evangelicals? It is not usually because they subscribe to Dispensationalism....No, it is because they either do not know, or do not want to know, about Levantine Christianity, much as they either do not know, or do not want to know, about the Sub-Apostolic Fathers. They do not wish to be confronted with entirely matter-of-fact descriptions of all things “Romish” existing during the lifetimes of the Apostles and providing the context that the New Testament text presupposes. Nor do they wish to be confronted with the entirely matter-of-fact existence of communities of that kind which have been present continuously for two thousand years, right there in the Bible Lands.

Christian communities that go all the way back to the Day of Pentecost are problematic enough in themselves for them....Evangelical theology is increasingly looking beyond the nineteenth and twentieth centuries to its earlier and more cerebral roots, and thus to a place within the older, broader and deeper Tradition. Approaches to the Middle East are starting to reflect this shift....But most churchgoers, and indeed most clergy, are not academic theologians. So, for the most part, the attitude continues to be essentially the same as that which has since the nineteenth century maintained the completely made-up Garden Tomb because those who invented it did not like the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and did not want people to know about it.

An Oversight

Somehow, I missed the news that the Ora et Labora blog was up and going again. I have a lot of catching-up to do, it seems.

In Funky Town and Around

Every Spring I help chaperon 20-30 college students from our area on a field trip to the General Land Office in Austin, Texas. It does me good to venture beyond the Pine Curtain from time to time. This year, I took off a couple of days early to poke around in the Texas Hill Country, the absolute best region of our state.

Friday:
I left at 4:00 AM and by 8:30 I was having breakfast at the Bluebonnet Cafe in downtown Marble Falls, still going strong after 81 years. From there, I charted my path for that day: a long, sweeping, counter-clockwise loop around the edges of the Hill Country, then back to Austin for the night.

My first stop was to check out a few ghost towns northwest of Llano--Valley Mills, Pontotoc and Katemcy, and do a little bit of genealogy along the way. This stretch of road--from Llano to Mason--had the most spectacular bluebonnets I saw. This area is less frequented by bluebonnet-peepers than the areas closer in to Austin and Fredericksburg. Unfortunately the standard practice is to pull you car off to the side of the road (onto the bluebonnets), tromp out (across the bluebonnets) and sit down cross-legged (amidst the bluebonnets) to have an informal family portrait made. I feel fortunate that I saw them when I did. In another week's time, all that will remain will be smushed bluebonnets.

Nothing much remains of Valley Mills, except a modest stone school house and the picture-perfect hilltop cemetery. Two siblings of my great-granddad's lived here in last quarter of the 19th-century. The families of both moved on to Junction about 1900, but the aunt and some infants were buried here. I found the grave of one of the infants and the probable spot of my aunt's now-unmarked grave. I added her name to my list of graves to mark "one of these days."

I had no family connection with Pontotoc, the next vanishing rural community. The only reference I ever heard of the community was the the tragedy associated with my granddad's best friend and cousin, and his fiance who was from Pontotoc. Both drowned in a 1913 boating accident on the Llano River. Many of the homes and buildings here seem to be constructed from a dark stone, unique to this area. You can tell that at one time, this community was a going concern.

Nothing is left of old Katemcy except a boarded-up church. I stopped at the Bethel Chapel Cemetery nearby to visit the family plot of a distant relative. William Flemon Cowan (1808-1890) was a first cousin to my great-great-great-grandfather. They were about the same age, but chances are that they never saw each other past the time when they were very small children, for their parents' migration patterns went off in divergent directions. But, after the Civil War, my great-great-granddad settled in the same small Central Texas neighborhood as his dad's first cousin. This implies to me that these extended frontier families somehow kept in better contact than we perhaps imagine. Later, William Flemon moved out here to Katemcy, where his son had a mercantile business.

From Katemcy, it was a bit of a stretch out to Junction, but I enjoyed every mile of this new territory. Somewhere past Junction, the Hill County ends and West Texas proper begins. The brother of my great-granddad (though a generation his senior) moved out to this area at the turn of the last century. My dad remembers his aged great-uncle visiting their home in the early 1920s. The man was a rock mason by profession. He and Aunt Hester had six sons. Most of them died as bachelors and there were no grandchildren. In my mind, there was a story here to be uncovered.



Junction is the kind of town where they lock the courthouse doors during lunch hour. Except for the fact that I needed to check some deed records, I kind of liked that pace. While waiting for it to reopen, I went over to the county library. There, I made a discovery that was worth the drive. For in Volume II of the Kimble County History, I discovered an article about this uncle and his family. This made me even more curious, as there were no surviving family members to write it, though the story obviously contained material of a personal and affectionate nature. But beyond that, it contained a detailed account of the Skirmish at Cates' Flat in 1869. This uncle only barely escaped with his life in this Indian battle. His older brother, my Uncle Marion, was not so fortunate. The tragedy is old family lore, but I had never heard about the particulars as outlined here. Apparently, Uncle Marion--anxious for a fight and with the precipitousness of youth--initiated the fight. They had not yet been seen by the Indians, until Marion whooped to get their attention. Only then did they discover the party to be much more numerous than thought. From all accounts, he was dead before they fled the scene, but his cry of "Boys, don't leave me here," haunted them for the rest of their lives. When the news reached my great-great grandmother, they say her wails of grief could be heard across Backbone Valley. Later, a neighborhood party returned to retrieve the body, and of course he had been scalped.

The nice ladies at the library informed me I needed to talk with Frederica over at the County Museum. So after my courthouse run, I stepped over to the local museum to meet her. Every county seems to have someone like this--usually a woman, history-obsessed, who knows every county story and where all the bodies are buried (literally.) Her face lit up when I asked her if she knew my uncle's family. She was old enough that her life overlapped with the children of an uncle born in 1850. She was well-acquainted with the bachelor sons, who all lived together. And as a Cates descendant, she had an uncle in the Skirmish of Cates' Flat. This shared experience cemented a bond between her family and my uncle's. And it was she who penned the article on my uncle's family. I had to chuckle over the obituary of one of the bachelor sons that she had in her collection. It state that he enjoyed submitting articles to the local newspaper, usually on the weather and religion. I bet he did.

From Junction, I headed down to Bandera. Traditionally known primarily as dude ranch central, and increasingly as home to the swankiendas of San Antonio's moneyed set. The city cemetery contains the lone grave of my great-great-grandfather, whose name my father and son share. Born on the Cumberland Plateau of Tennessee, he migrated to Arkansas with his family as a teenager. By the advent of the Civil War, he lived on a small farm south of Fort Smith, with his parents and siblings living on the adjoining place. The war presented a dilemma to the family, as they were all Unionists, and outspoken ones at that. My great-great-granddad's brother and brother-in-law slipped across the border into the Indian Territory where they joined up with Federal forces. My ancestor, with a with and children, decided to try and ride it out. After the Conscription Act of April 1862, he was drafted into the Confederate Army. Meanwhile, the situation back home became increasingly untenable. The family home became a refuge for those of like sentiment avoiding the Rebel authorities. His father was imprisoned and threatened with death, and their crops and livestock were raided repeatedly. His sister suffered a mental breakdown and eventually died after being raped by Confederate bushwackers. After Federal forces occupied Fort Smith, the rest of the family moved into the town for protection. On Christmas leave, in 1862, my ancestor loaded his family and slipped across the border into Indian Territory, leaving Arkansas and the Rebel Army behind forever. My great-granddad told of their crossing the Red River into Texas, when a fall into the water caused his buckskin clothes to shrink past wearing. Within a few years, the family settled on a 200-acre farm near the distant kin earlier mentioned. Some 30 years later and now elderly, they still lived on the place, along with a widowed daughter-in-law and their young grandson. Another son and his new wife lived on the other side of the farm. But all that changed in 1898, for the daughter-in-law gave birth to another child, some 5 years after her husband's death. My great-great grandparents continued to support her, and the infant bore the family name. A month later, they sold their farm and moved to a small house in Bandera, 100 miles away. The reason is not hard to ascertain. No doubt, neighborhood gossip made their continued residence in the area uncomfortable, and they sought a new home where the two young children could come of age untouched by the scandal. My great-great granddad earned money as a teamster in the area. But within two years, he was dead, and the family soon moved elsewhere, having no desire to remain in Bandera. Later on, a family member apparently planted a speria bush at the foot of his grave. Over the decades, the bush consumed the entire plot. So, every few years, I stop by, trim back the shrubbery and leave some flowers. For the first time, I noticed the inscription at the base of the stone: He is not dead, but sleepeth.

From Bandera, I skirted around the north side of San Antonio and made the long trek up the interstate to Austin. I checked in to my headquarters when in the city, the Austin Motel. This old travel court dates back to 1938. It's a quirky little place, but perhaps because of this it stays booked weeks in advance. Austin now promotes the South Congress Avenue neighborhood as "SoCo," but I just call it Funky Town.

Anyway, I quickly showered and left to meet my cousin for drinks and supper. She is another great-great grandchild of the man buried in Bandera. But we are only 3rd cousins, her granddad being a first cousin to mine. An only child who has never married, my cousin is a no-nonsense type of person. She has a distinguished nursing career, while also having cared for both parents in their declining years. My cousin also owns the last 150 acres of her great-granddad's once extensive holdings in Lampasas County. She makes the 70 mile drive twice a week to check on things at the farm. The place was always prone to rattlesnakes, and she says she puts her snake chaps on the gate, before she ever enters the property. I think we have something of a mutual admiration society, and I believe I am the executor of her will.

Saturday:

After the long day before, Saturday progressed at a somewhat slower pace. Truth be told, I did not go to bed immediately after supper with my cousin, as would befit someone of my age. So, Saturday morning found me a bit sluggish. From my motel, I walked through the back neighborhood for about 3 blocks and came out at the Bouldin Creek Coffeehouse, a makeshift affair with outside seating and hippy-dippy waiters with Phd's and tattoes--just what I needed to regroup. After several cups of strong coffee and a light breakfast, I was ready to face the day.

My first stop was the Holy Archangels Monastery in Kendalia, Texas. Over lunch today with a good friend of mine, I was reminded that the non-Orthodox do not really understand our penchant for visiting monasteries. The assumption is that if one visits a monastery, one is contemplating taking vows themselves. I assured him that this was definitely not the case. But I am not at all sure that my explanation clarified the issue any at all. I ended by simply saying it is what Orthodox people do. We go to monasteries.

Most people in the region have no idea that this incredible monastic complex even exists. Perhaps that is a good thing. But for those who seek it out, it is well worth the effort. I am pleased to see that the 40,000 sq. ft. dormitory (that can eventually house 50 monks) is nearing completion. Just as one usually doesn't expect to find an extensive Greek Orthodox monastery in the Texas Hill Country, one does not usually expect to find an Islamic cemetery on monastery grounds either. The property had once been a Sufi Muslim retreat center that ran into legal problems. The center closed, and the Orthodox acquired the property a number of years afterwards. Left behind was a 12-grave Muslim cemetery, now cared-for by this monastic community.

My primary reason for visiting the monastery was to visit the grave of my friend, little Jamie Wingerd (Memory Eternal.) I spent some time at his grave and left some flowers there. The two rows of wooden crosses, marking the resting places of about 26 of the faithful here on the monastery grounds, speaks as eloquently as any of the brick and mortar on the property that the Holy Orthodox Church is here to stay.

At different times, both Fr. Ephraim and Fr. Michael encountered me as I strolled around the grounds. Each insisted that I stay for luncheon with them. This fit my plans exactly, as this is one of those places where you linger and put off leaving as long as possible. I ate the simple, but filling meal in the back dining room with 4 or 5 of the monks and novices, and a couple of men staying there at the time. Afterwards, I helped clean up in the kitchen. Holy Archangels Monastery is one of the most peaceful spots one can imagine. I am anxious to return when I can stay longer.

From Kendalia, I headed north to Fredericksburg. This old German town is ground zero for Texas Hill Country tourism, and at no time more so than in the early Spring. No need to stop here, unless I wanted to fall in line with all the other gawkers trudging up each side on the main drag, glancing in all the shops and boutiques at all the stuff they do not need. Not interested. What I was aiming for, however, was Enchanted Rock, about 16 miles north. This is huge, rounded granite outcropping--a mountain, if you will (in the Texas sense of the word, not the Colorado sense of the word.) Enchanted Rock is something of a touchstone with me. I have been climbing it every few years or so since I was 20 years old. I tell myself that if I can still climb Enchanted Rock, then technically, at least, I am still young. Well, at least relatively so. I knew it would a tougher climb this year, as I was a bit winded by the time I reached the end of the parking lot. Thankfully, there was a concession stand just past, so I fortified myself with some Blue Bell Ice Cream before ascending the peak. I set my pace at a consistent mosey, and started my climb. I reached the summit in better time that I anticipated. I had to think, however, how something done to prove my (relative) youth had, in fact, made me feel so damn old.

A number of climbers milled around the peak. I found them to be a good cross-section of our evolving American cultural mix. Sure, there were plenty of white-bread folks like myself, but I was actually surprised to see the large number of Asian-Americans, Hispanics and Blacks doing the mountain. I am glad. My hope is that this place becomes as much a touchstone for them and their children as it is for me. The sun was beginning to set, so I laid down on the west face of the Rock and soaked-up some sun while it was still there. I had also stuck my Psalter in my back pocket, so I used this opportunity to read the kathisma for the day. If I had an overseas visitor, and I if I had to take them only one place that exemplifies Texas, this would be the spot. Standing on top of the rock, I would say, "Forget Houston. Forget Dallas. This, my friend, is Texas." On the way back, I stopped in Johnson City, hometown of perhaps our most infamous president, and had a chicken-fried steak and a beer. I allow myself 2-3 chicken-fried steaks a year. Back in the motel, I did not do anything but go.to.bed.

Sunday:

I attended Divine Liturgy at St. John the Forerunner Orthodox Church. One of our young parishioners, at school in The University, joined me there. While there were some elderly parishioners in attendance, most of the crowd of 100-110 were young people. This is an Antiochian church, so I picked up on a few differences in practice than in our OCA mission. Overall though, it was much the same. They are in their new building, though really it is just their future hall whenever they build their temple. I think this may be the wrong approach, as churches that build halls first often spend far longer in them than they intend. But then again, they didn't ask me. But I will say this--the acoustics were incredible. And for those Orthodox keeping score on these types of things--no pews.

My fellow parishioner and I had a nice lunch at the Brick Oven, and then she went back to her studies, while I found a New York Times to read. Back at the motel, I swam a few laps in the pool, and then explored the neighborhood some more. I stopped by to visit with Ed, the pot-bellied pig, who lives in the front-yard of a nearby residence. He will let you scratch him. Late in the afternoon, I drove about 15 miles south of town, to visit with another cousin and her husband. They are a generation older than me, but do not act the part. Last summer, they celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary by a trip to Venice--all on money raised from their fruit stand in their front yard. If sales are good enough this year, they'll take off for somewhere else, once the tomatoes stop making. We had a great visit. Back in Austin, I walked over to Freddie's Place, the quintessential Austin neighborhood beer garden, about 4 blocks from my motel.

And so ended my free time in the Austin area. On Monday morning, my students would be arriving and I would have to switch into responsible teacher mode for 2 days. But before they left, I made sure I had introduced some of them to Ed.