Second Week of Advent: Peace
The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together and a little child shall lead them. (Isaiah 11: 6, NRSV)
The second Sunday of Advent started on Friday: this is the week of peace. We traveled back to Tehran to be part of the festivities—worship, a church wide luncheon and bazaar to benefit the Armenian poor. We brought home two fabulous cakes (one pound, one apricot ) that we have been sharing with Qom friends over tea in the evenings.
It was pouring rain in Tehran, causing amazing effects on traffic in this mega city which has twice the population of London. Our Farsi is still a little vague. As we piled into a taxi, David pointed to the battering rain drops on the windshield and said with feeling, “ice cream.” (Earlier I had been describing a recent layover at the Doha Airport. We had several hours to ourselves and I, in Qatar, put my feet in the Persian Gulf. Evidently what I said was “On the train I put my feet in carrot juice.”). From taxi to metro to bus took about 45 minutes. Back to Qom in the rain and periodic thick fog our bus went, with the headlights off, of course, to save them from burning out too quickly. Many drivers follow this principle after dark.
On Saturday evening the family of our Farsi teacher came to visit. Ali (age 7) had drawn a bright Christmas picture for us. A carefully ornamented Christmas tree with a star on top hosts seven wrapped and bowed presents underneath. Santa and three elves stand at attention, facing the artist. Fireworks are going off in the sky. A large “real star” glows from the top of the page. It is THE star that stood over the Christ child. Of course the magi, as most any Iranian will tell you, came from here in Persia to offer their gifts to the holy baby in Bethlehem.
Ali’s mom had a bouquet of flowers— 5 red roses, 4 Asiastic lilies, carnations and mums in a sea of fine ferns. “Christmas mubarak, Christmas murbarak.” Christmas blessings surround us as we eat good Armenian cake and chat. Teacher Mohammad decides that I should recite aloud the children’s story I am memorizing—a riveting account of the friendship of a pigeon and an ant. I launch forth and Ali looks at me, puzzled, wondering perhaps what language this might be. He takes the script and reads it perfectly. I try again and he alternates between gentle corrections and shaking his head sadly. He does some gymnastic routines to take my mind off my linguistic challenges.
Sunday morning found us in class at the Imam Khomeini Institute. We are studying Axiology—the study of values. Our teacher, a Dr. Talebei (as in “Taleban” – it means “student”) is a fine teacher who did his doctorate in the UK. We began with Hume and Adam Smith, compared moral actions with moral aims, identified inherent values from non-inherent value. Dr. T has been involved in Muslim-Catholic dialogue, is thoughtful and well read.
After class we walked downtown. Storefronts sport school pencils with Santa Claus on top. One toy store features a 12 inch plastic camel. On top sits a man in a uniform, playing a guitar. A 20 inch troll (I called them “wishniks” as a child) was decorated in a police uniform, complete with sunglasses. (I wanted it). Native American dolls stood in small beaded dresses. Taxis and buses roared by. A woman sat in the backseat of a taxi, her chador caught in the door, fluttering like a flag as she went by. One bus had only women on it. The next had only men. (I’ve never understood where these single sex buses originate and terminate). We got on one with both genders and went home for lunch
The little grocery three doors down from us has been closed off and on for a week. Turns out that the owner and his family have been on pilgrimage to Karbala and Najaf—Shiite holy cities in Iraq. He is glowing from the experience, a two day bus trip over and back to the holy shrines. His little boy, Mohammad Reza (3) is so glad to see us that he comes running, pulls his gum out of his mouth and offers it as a gift. It seems miraculous to me that they have all come and gone to Iraq by bus and survived.
I recently read that one third of the US Navy is now in the Persian Gulf. The Iranian newspapers daily report crises in surrounding Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, and Turkey. The greatest current fear among Iranians is what our country might do to them. And yet we are loved and trusted and cared for. “Christmas mubarak; Christmas blessings,” they say. “We love your prophet, Jesus. You are welcome.”
The second Sunday of Advent started on Friday: this is the week of peace. We traveled back to Tehran to be part of the festivities—worship, a church wide luncheon and bazaar to benefit the Armenian poor. We brought home two fabulous cakes (one pound, one apricot ) that we have been sharing with Qom friends over tea in the evenings.
It was pouring rain in Tehran, causing amazing effects on traffic in this mega city which has twice the population of London. Our Farsi is still a little vague. As we piled into a taxi, David pointed to the battering rain drops on the windshield and said with feeling, “ice cream.” (Earlier I had been describing a recent layover at the Doha Airport. We had several hours to ourselves and I, in Qatar, put my feet in the Persian Gulf. Evidently what I said was “On the train I put my feet in carrot juice.”). From taxi to metro to bus took about 45 minutes. Back to Qom in the rain and periodic thick fog our bus went, with the headlights off, of course, to save them from burning out too quickly. Many drivers follow this principle after dark.
On Saturday evening the family of our Farsi teacher came to visit. Ali (age 7) had drawn a bright Christmas picture for us. A carefully ornamented Christmas tree with a star on top hosts seven wrapped and bowed presents underneath. Santa and three elves stand at attention, facing the artist. Fireworks are going off in the sky. A large “real star” glows from the top of the page. It is THE star that stood over the Christ child. Of course the magi, as most any Iranian will tell you, came from here in Persia to offer their gifts to the holy baby in Bethlehem.
Ali’s mom had a bouquet of flowers— 5 red roses, 4 Asiastic lilies, carnations and mums in a sea of fine ferns. “Christmas mubarak, Christmas murbarak.” Christmas blessings surround us as we eat good Armenian cake and chat. Teacher Mohammad decides that I should recite aloud the children’s story I am memorizing—a riveting account of the friendship of a pigeon and an ant. I launch forth and Ali looks at me, puzzled, wondering perhaps what language this might be. He takes the script and reads it perfectly. I try again and he alternates between gentle corrections and shaking his head sadly. He does some gymnastic routines to take my mind off my linguistic challenges.
Sunday morning found us in class at the Imam Khomeini Institute. We are studying Axiology—the study of values. Our teacher, a Dr. Talebei (as in “Taleban” – it means “student”) is a fine teacher who did his doctorate in the UK. We began with Hume and Adam Smith, compared moral actions with moral aims, identified inherent values from non-inherent value. Dr. T has been involved in Muslim-Catholic dialogue, is thoughtful and well read.
After class we walked downtown. Storefronts sport school pencils with Santa Claus on top. One toy store features a 12 inch plastic camel. On top sits a man in a uniform, playing a guitar. A 20 inch troll (I called them “wishniks” as a child) was decorated in a police uniform, complete with sunglasses. (I wanted it). Native American dolls stood in small beaded dresses. Taxis and buses roared by. A woman sat in the backseat of a taxi, her chador caught in the door, fluttering like a flag as she went by. One bus had only women on it. The next had only men. (I’ve never understood where these single sex buses originate and terminate). We got on one with both genders and went home for lunch
The little grocery three doors down from us has been closed off and on for a week. Turns out that the owner and his family have been on pilgrimage to Karbala and Najaf—Shiite holy cities in Iraq. He is glowing from the experience, a two day bus trip over and back to the holy shrines. His little boy, Mohammad Reza (3) is so glad to see us that he comes running, pulls his gum out of his mouth and offers it as a gift. It seems miraculous to me that they have all come and gone to Iraq by bus and survived.
I recently read that one third of the US Navy is now in the Persian Gulf. The Iranian newspapers daily report crises in surrounding Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, and Turkey. The greatest current fear among Iranians is what our country might do to them. And yet we are loved and trusted and cared for. “Christmas mubarak; Christmas blessings,” they say. “We love your prophet, Jesus. You are welcome.”
posted by Quakers in Qom at 1:40 PM
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