A Journey to Tehran for Pentecost
Last week we went to Tehran again, this time to worship in an ecumenical unity service. Our taxi driver appeared at the door precisely at 9am. He was a big guy—6’3” and sturdy, with dark hair tucked neatly behind his ears. His vehicle, new and shiny, was vibrating with rap music. He is Pizza Mohammad’s brother-in-law, just out of the army.
David immediately turns on his Ipod and inserts earphones. I crank down my window a bit, hoping that air rushing in will mute our musical selections. Our driver is skilled and he quickly loops us through round-abouts, taxi stands and wandering pedestrians. We wheel under a large billboard. The faces of Ayatollah Khomeini and the Supreme Leader look down on us with disapproval as our decibel level reaches them. “I love the way you make me feeeeeeel” boom boom boom.
There is a parallel road to the west, for trucks only. To the east appears the enormous salt lake that stretches off into the horizon. It is a pasty white sheet, devoid of life. The day is hot and dry, our afternoons now approaching 100 degrees. (Trust me, said a young friend, it will be 116 degrees by mid-summer). In two hours we are in downtown Tehran. It is still hot.
The Unity Service has excellent attendance and a fine cross section of Tehran’s Christian community. Two dozen clergy are here—Armenian Orthodox, Chaldean Catholics, Sisters of Charity, Pentecostals, Baptists, Presbyterians, Assembly of God, Anglicans, and Assyrian Christians. The Russian Orthodox priest had a conflict, but would have gladly attended. People have been filling the pews for 45 minutes.
I have been in this church before. The first time many of us laid hands on Toby and prayed for him, a grade school boy with acute leukemia. His face was terribly swollen, his gaze stoical and patient. Toby died just before Easter. I sit in the pew and remember him and his mom. A boy about Toby’s age (7) is sitting behind us. His tee shirt says “Jesus is Family.” I am one of only two women whom I notice have removed their head scarves. An Armenian woman is playing the piano to help center us, but the pastors are late coming in. She plays through the many hymns she knows, sighs, closes the hymnal, and goes to see what’s taking so long.
The preacher for the occasion is a priest in shirtsleeves. His delivery is clear and inviting. The church’s first priority, he says, is to see the needs of the suffering, especially those who cry in silence, those who have lost their dignity, the marginalized. Our service to them is the highest priority. Secondly, he goes on, the church is not a social organization. It is sent by Jesus to heal the world, beginning with ourselves. (I like this guy). And third, he winds up, Jesus is not for any elite group or for people whose lives are already cleaned up. He is for all of us, no exceptions.
We rise for the Confession of Sin —asking forgiveness for divisions within the body of Christ, for neglecting the suffering, for indifference in obeying the commands of the Gospel to love one another. It is a short and painful list.
Noor comes to my mind (See Blog from March 26, paragraphs 4 and 5). She and her family are back in Karbala, assuming that the two day bus trip from Qom was successful (i.e. didn’t get blown up). Noor's family was not able to find any medical help for her in Qom (she sustained brain damage four years ago), nor any new options for themselves. “We want,” said her dad, “to emigrate. Anywhere.” He drives a truck from Karbala into Baghdad most days, the only job he can find. I think of the whole family, five kids, full of promise. My eyes blur and my heart aches.
We are singing now, up on our feet. Some in Armenian, some in Persian, David and I in English. “Jesus, you are our shepherd, you will protect us from all danger.” The pastors process out, David and I at the tail end. As Christians generally do, we wind up drinking tea and chatting outside as evening falls.
Max is an Armenian Christian in his 70s, fully at home in Tehran and its Christian community. A widower, he will be leaving as a religious refugee in a few weeks, with his younger son. Home, extended family, church community and 90% of his earthly treasures will be left behind. His roots will be severed. Next stop out of Tehran is Vienna—for several months. Then on to California where, as Max puts it, “my big girl lives.” Max is one of many Christians who are moving away. He is getting older and doesn’t want to be alone as he becomes less able. He is also leaving the context that has given him identity, purpose and happiness for most of his life. Max is so sad. “Are you remembering to pray for me everyday?” he asks us. “I really need it.”
The church season is now Pentecost, originally a Jewish festival, fifty days after Passover. Christians remember Luke’s description of believers together in prayerful unity as tongues of fire descended, empowering them to speak in languages from all over the known world...a koinoinia of partnership in co-creating the Peaceable Commonwealth. We stand outside the church and talk and laugh and hug. Over Max’s head the sun is sinking, a flaming red host on the horizon.
David immediately turns on his Ipod and inserts earphones. I crank down my window a bit, hoping that air rushing in will mute our musical selections. Our driver is skilled and he quickly loops us through round-abouts, taxi stands and wandering pedestrians. We wheel under a large billboard. The faces of Ayatollah Khomeini and the Supreme Leader look down on us with disapproval as our decibel level reaches them. “I love the way you make me feeeeeeel” boom boom boom.
There is a parallel road to the west, for trucks only. To the east appears the enormous salt lake that stretches off into the horizon. It is a pasty white sheet, devoid of life. The day is hot and dry, our afternoons now approaching 100 degrees. (Trust me, said a young friend, it will be 116 degrees by mid-summer). In two hours we are in downtown Tehran. It is still hot.
The Unity Service has excellent attendance and a fine cross section of Tehran’s Christian community. Two dozen clergy are here—Armenian Orthodox, Chaldean Catholics, Sisters of Charity, Pentecostals, Baptists, Presbyterians, Assembly of God, Anglicans, and Assyrian Christians. The Russian Orthodox priest had a conflict, but would have gladly attended. People have been filling the pews for 45 minutes.
I have been in this church before. The first time many of us laid hands on Toby and prayed for him, a grade school boy with acute leukemia. His face was terribly swollen, his gaze stoical and patient. Toby died just before Easter. I sit in the pew and remember him and his mom. A boy about Toby’s age (7) is sitting behind us. His tee shirt says “Jesus is Family.” I am one of only two women whom I notice have removed their head scarves. An Armenian woman is playing the piano to help center us, but the pastors are late coming in. She plays through the many hymns she knows, sighs, closes the hymnal, and goes to see what’s taking so long.
The preacher for the occasion is a priest in shirtsleeves. His delivery is clear and inviting. The church’s first priority, he says, is to see the needs of the suffering, especially those who cry in silence, those who have lost their dignity, the marginalized. Our service to them is the highest priority. Secondly, he goes on, the church is not a social organization. It is sent by Jesus to heal the world, beginning with ourselves. (I like this guy). And third, he winds up, Jesus is not for any elite group or for people whose lives are already cleaned up. He is for all of us, no exceptions.
We rise for the Confession of Sin —asking forgiveness for divisions within the body of Christ, for neglecting the suffering, for indifference in obeying the commands of the Gospel to love one another. It is a short and painful list.
Noor comes to my mind (See Blog from March 26, paragraphs 4 and 5). She and her family are back in Karbala, assuming that the two day bus trip from Qom was successful (i.e. didn’t get blown up). Noor's family was not able to find any medical help for her in Qom (she sustained brain damage four years ago), nor any new options for themselves. “We want,” said her dad, “to emigrate. Anywhere.” He drives a truck from Karbala into Baghdad most days, the only job he can find. I think of the whole family, five kids, full of promise. My eyes blur and my heart aches.
We are singing now, up on our feet. Some in Armenian, some in Persian, David and I in English. “Jesus, you are our shepherd, you will protect us from all danger.” The pastors process out, David and I at the tail end. As Christians generally do, we wind up drinking tea and chatting outside as evening falls.
Max is an Armenian Christian in his 70s, fully at home in Tehran and its Christian community. A widower, he will be leaving as a religious refugee in a few weeks, with his younger son. Home, extended family, church community and 90% of his earthly treasures will be left behind. His roots will be severed. Next stop out of Tehran is Vienna—for several months. Then on to California where, as Max puts it, “my big girl lives.” Max is one of many Christians who are moving away. He is getting older and doesn’t want to be alone as he becomes less able. He is also leaving the context that has given him identity, purpose and happiness for most of his life. Max is so sad. “Are you remembering to pray for me everyday?” he asks us. “I really need it.”
The church season is now Pentecost, originally a Jewish festival, fifty days after Passover. Christians remember Luke’s description of believers together in prayerful unity as tongues of fire descended, empowering them to speak in languages from all over the known world...a koinoinia of partnership in co-creating the Peaceable Commonwealth. We stand outside the church and talk and laugh and hug. Over Max’s head the sun is sinking, a flaming red host on the horizon.
posted by Quakers in Qom at 3:06 PM
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